Metro Pulse/Cover/Quebec: Transforming the Streets

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One protester's reflections on Quebec

by Shinara Taylor

On my way to Monday afternoon class, the UT campus appears so quiet and inactive. My mind is still dynamically surging with the fragrance of smoke, images of flying tear gas canisters, French chants, and the rhythm of thousands of people simultaneously banging on guard rails, "arrete" (stop) signs, and drums. After the twenty-some hour drive home, my experiences in Quebec City linger.

For several months, local activists had been meeting and planning for the FTAA protest in Canada. Through email and word of mouth, we had connected ourselves to a vast web of dissident voices. The plan was to converge in Quebec City where the Summit of the Americas would meet. Our goal was to announce collective outrage and resistance to the growing, unbalanced power of transnational corporations whose only concern is monetary gain. The FTAA—which is a proposed expansion of NAFTA—will make it even easier for corporations to exploit workers in the Americas, reduce environmental codes, perpetuate inequality, and garner further control over our lives. The decision to further globalize the Americas is closed to the public and will be made without the input of those it will directly affect—such as workers, indigenous people, consumers, and everyone else who doesn't have a seat with their name on it in the meeting. In the face of this encroachment, the protesters gathering in Quebec refused to accept their lack of representation.

To protect the interests of the Summit of the Americas, an extensive barricade had been erected surrounding the convention center, hotels, and extraneous buildings. On one side stood an unimaginative line of policemen in menacing riot gear—fully equipped with gas masks, batons, helmets, shields, and padding. On the other side, a rich multitude of culture and people gathered. The police behind their "democratic" wall relegated themselves to stoic stances—as patient as Venus fly traps waiting for dinner—while a large majority of the protesters used art and innovation to celebrate and demonstrate their humanity and voice. For a moment, my companions and I assisted in manually towing a makeshift catapult used to launch stuffed animals (and a bit of peaceful humor) at the police. People drew on the streets with chalk and painted on the boards covering the windows of uneasy merchants. There were sites where free food was served by the hour in mass quantities—welcoming anyone's hunger or help. We danced to the wondrous rhythm of hand drums and celebrated our unity in peaceful expression. Many were outfitted in elaborate costumes, while some simply wore a minimal carnival mask, wings, or toted a poster. Protesters who stood in audience to the tear gas action beat on anything metal, creating an incessant, undeniable rhythm of presence. There were some who chanted, "So, so, so, solidarité" or sang songs of peace. The air was woven with a colorful variety of languages including French, English, and Spanish. There was an array of opportunities to rap with the locals and those traveling from as far as New Mexico, Nova Scotia, and Ontario.

Not everyone chose to present their views via civil disobedience. The police used tear gas, fierce water cannons, noise guns, and rubber bullets at varying intervals—sometimes without apparent reason—on the surging crowd. A number of groups came prepared to aggressively respond to the intimidation of the officers. They threw stones, bottles, cement, and basketballs (or an occasional snow ball). The launch of tear gas—announced by a thunderous boom—made everyone anxiously survey the sky to locate the stream of smoke sailing through the air. With aide of protective gloves, gas masks, and the supportive cheer of the crowd, activists threw the searing hot canisters back to the cops. Billowing clouds of hideous chemicals rolled among daring people, while some yelled "Marchez, marchez, walk, walk!" to calm the rushing feet. With only a vinegar rag as my defense, the gas choked my lungs, prickled in my throat, and stung my eyes, while the pain slowly culminated as it burnt excruciatingly. Squinting and pushing toward uncontaminated air through the blurry bodies, I passed the grotesque effects of the gas. The medics poured specially treated water into the puffy and wincing eyes of kneeling protesters. The police watched without visible expression.

The enormity of such an event can generate an exhausting amount of excitement. Nearly effortlessly, one can lose sight of the things the event is contingent upon. Because of this, I have my reservations about the effectiveness of such protests. Masses of people, diverging tactics, and individual levels of commitment can make operations within such a large crowd contradictory. While we all arrived to demonstrate, each protester owned a different agenda, belief system, and strategy. What I found to be most profound, regardless of individual aims, was the cultural variety represented and embraced by the participants. When the black-clad anarchists drew together and marched through the crowd toward the wall, those standing by clapped and cheered. Though I didn't choose blatantly aggressive tactics to make my point, I respected the anarchists for their courage, anger, and solidarity. They dared to defy the wall and pull it down. I witnessed an impressive amount of group cohesion. If an officer shot someone with pepper spray at close range for being too close to the fence, a rush of anonymous people aided the assailed protester. Without discrimination, the medics assisted anyone injured. The People's Potato fed us from enormous pots of steaming, delicious food without request for compensation. After the two most important days of action, protesters walked around with garbage bags collecting debris off the streets.

All of these people came together to offer, to assist, to support without cost or fee. It was an event created by the people for the people. In the Webster's dictionary definition of democracy, it reads "the common people constitute the source of political authority in the absence of hereditary or arbitrary class distinctions or privileges." I saw more democracy on the creative side of the fence in Quebec City than was exhibited by those who were paid to put up the fence. The convergence was a celebration of identity, an inspiration for alternatives, and an opportunity to acknowledge the power of our differences.

Shinara Taylor, 21, is an art student at the University of Tennessee.