Stalemate

In The Eye of the Storm on Parliament's Lawn - February, 2022.

Rain hits my face like tiny darts as I stand under the intrusive lights. I stare at the line of police guarding a symbol that has no value to the people standing here. The Beehive. Now known as The Wasps’ Nest to many. Trevor Mallard’s voice booms, “You are not welcome here. Parliament Grounds are closed. Trespassers will be prosecuted.” All empty words to the thousands gathered to make the dictator see reason. For many, their worlds have crumbled. For many, she is a sickly sweet smiling Red Queen who sees her people as pawns and has taken away their careers, health and homes.

I look at the sentinels who watch the crowd with impassive eyes. Her crimson knights. Innocent blood on their hands. Those who days ago had advanced into the line of people to inflict as much damage on frail, breakable bodies as they could. Now they stand in heartless lines, their arms folded, and a blank indifference on their masked faces. The wet weather gear keeps some of the water off them, but for most people, police or protesters, there is no genuine hope that they will keep dry.

The words of the news trolls brand the people as “filth” and these undeserved labels will wash away even less easily than the sticky mud oozing up from the ground at our feet. The sodden ground made worse by Mallard turning the sprinklers on the protesters, in reaction to not getting his way. Like a child having a temper tantrum playing juvenile games. 

FUBAR nz @NzFubar

This day last year, at around 7pm Trevor Mallard decided to turn on the sprinklers in order to soak the peaceful protesters.. by 11.30pm we had trenches and irrigation sorted 🙏🏻

My umbrella is long gone, crumpled with the wind. Just an empty protection, like the lies the people were told by the mainstream media and its masters. I glance behind me to my new whānau. Those who have also suffered over the past months and who understand the misery that has bruised my heart.

Though the conditions at Parliament grounds are harsh, I smile at the new fashion for the crowd standing immobile in the rain. The poncho. An ocean of coloured plastic covers the people refusing to move as the cyclone batters us. We are becoming used to being battered. Staunch in the face of beatings from the police only days ago, and now holding the line, with the wind and torrential rain thumping down on us. For the first time in months, I have hope - instead of the heart-panicking anxiety that has crippled me since the government’s mayhem was unleashed on New Zealand.

I try to make eye contact with one of the blank-eyed pawns of the Queen who are blinded to the truth and numbed by the biased mainstream media government propaganda of the last two years. My faith in humanity is fragile. I hail out in the strongest teacher voice that I can:

“I was a teacher. I love my students and now the government will not let me teach. There are over four thousand educators who have lost their job for a mandate that makes no sense!”

I see a flicker in a couple of eyes above their sterile white duck masks. I keep going. Hammering all the knowledge I have about the fruitless use of a law that protects no one. For what seems like an eternity, I cry into the raging torrent. All my anger, and my reasons for standing with The People today, are shouted into the cyclone. But like the Red Queen’s mandates, I know my dialogue is as effective as pissing in the wind. Around me professionals, farmers, mothers are all seeking to make a stand and be heard, but the court of public opinion -shaped by the lies of legacy media- has tainted them as dangerous extremists.

The tromp of more police funnel down between the two parliament buildings. Individuals tense as more of the troopers come towards them. Memories fresh in their heads of the daughters being dragged across the concrete by their hair, youths' heads being knelt on by powerful adults, the steel capped boots kicking the old people who did not move fast enough.

There is a collective sigh of relief when the boys and girls in blue change places with those who have stood in the rain. Unlike the protesters, they get changed on the hour to go into the warmth and have a cup of milo. For the protesters, they know if they leave the ground they have bled for, it will be snatched back in an instant. I go back to projecting my voice into the storm until even my strong cry grows hoarse and starts to break.

Mallard’s orders have now been replaced with songs. For a moment the crowd thinks it’s their side which has taken control of the sound system. Joy blooms, but with a set of songs on repeat, they realise it’s just another part of the government’s pathetic, impotent attempt to chase them away. It becomes a game for The People. They are here to be heard and so they just adapt - the same way they have done from the start. Hay bales and carpet on the sodden ground, decoy ducks and signs of Lake Mallard showing the true heart of The People standing together. Now when the annoying song of The Macarena plays, people shout applause and jump onto the bollards in front of the police. Unbowed and unbroken, in the face of the horrendous conditions. They launch into the actions of the song in triumph and a rebellious show of defiance for those who have labelled them less than human.

A teenager grabs my hand, and then helps me onto the concrete blocks. My heart soars for these people. My family. With the sting of rain running rivulets down my face, my arms start to do the actions, and I dance triumphantly to the masked police watching on.

–Cassandra.

A supporter of NZTSOS.

FUBAR nz @NzFubar

And in that storm, the resilient freedom village still danced through the night 🙏🏻