Rose Tyler
Stalemate
Rain hits my face like tiny darts as I stand under the blazing intrusive lights. I stare at the line of police guarding a symbol that has no value to the people standing here. 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, a smiling Red Queen who sees her people as pawns 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 to inflict as much damage on frail, breakable bodies as they could. Now, their arms folded, blank indifference on 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 branding the people as filth will not wash away as easily as the mud seeping up from the ground at our feet. The soggy ground made worse by the Speaker of the House who had turned the sprinklers on the protesters in reaction to not getting his way. Like a child having a temper tantrum doing anything to cause annoyance.
My umbrella is long gone, crumpled with the wind. Just an empty protection like the lies the people were being told by the media and its masters. I glance behind me to my new whanau. Those who had suffered over the past months and understood the misery that 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 with the cyclone battering them as they 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 them. For the first time in months, I have hope instead of the heart panicking anxiety that has crippled me. That empty hollow feeling of complete sadness alternating with a burning anger that has no end.
I try to make eye contact with one of the red knights. Just a different pawn of the Queen but blinded to that reality. My faith in humanity is fragile, but a small hope flames in my breast that a smear of compassion lives somewhere inside the strong body standing in front of me. I call out in the strongest teacher voice that I can. “I was a teacher. I love my students and now the state 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 mask. 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 why I am standing with the people today is shouted into the cyclone. But, like the Red Queen’s mandate, I know my dialogue is as effective as pissing in the wind. Around me, professionals, farmers, and mothers are all seeking to make a stand and be heard, but the court of public opinion has tainted them as dangerous extremists.
The tromp of more police funnels down between the two parliament buildings. Individuals tense as more of the troopers come toward them. Memories fresh in their heads of the daughters being dragged across the concrete by the 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 in 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 who 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 pathetic, impotent attempt to chase them away. It is now 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. Now when the annoying song of the Macarena plays, people shout applause and jump onto the bollards in front of the police. They launch into the actions of the song in triumph and a rebellious show 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. Those who just accept others. Vaxxed or unvaxxed. It makes no difference.
