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Stephen HumphreyStephen Humphrey is a freelance writer and journalist who has lived in Toronto since 1994...
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G20A throng of protesters, most of them visibly young, faced a grim line of armoured peace officers from Toronto, York and Peel regions.
Many held signs with the usual cocktail of social messages. Just as many held video cameras, point-and-shoot cameras, SLRs, you name it.
One of the group’s chants was “the world is watching.”
There were a couple of, “Fuck you fuckin’ pigs” characters in the bunch, but no-one moving violently. Others simply taunted officers for standing in the flowers and so on.
One waifish girl, looking college-age and middle class like most G20 protesters, kept a longer going, holding up the same peace sign as her line of friends.
“I hope you know I can’t hurt you,” she was saying. “Even if you took off your clothes and dropped all your weapons I couldn’t beat you.”
The police, as you’d expect, gave no sign whether they were moved to deep thoughts, waiting for orders to kick hippy ass or simply counting the minutes until supper.
When they were instructed to act, however, police charged like a Roman legion, thundering “Move!” in slurred unison like a colony of football teams.
The psychology of this strategy seems natural. You only have time to think about retreat from a thundering kevlar-clad herd.
Instant take-downs began happening. Protesters would disappeared into the hoard of police. Sometimes line of cops, joined bunny-hop style would extrude from the general mass to strike at some kid.
Suddenly some long-haired youth streaked past, four police in lightning pursuit. He was down on the ground being restrained by officers who had him by various limbs.
Like others present I lined up my camera to shoot the tousle and managed to snap one decent picture. While framing the shot I failed to notice the line of police become a two parts of a 90-degree corner.
The upright line found me suddenly. A bluish-black blur knocked to the ground. Somehow I still had the camera.
“Move!” officers yelled.
“I get it! I get it!” I shouted, scrambling away.
It occurred to me some cops might like hurting people.
The reason for clearing Queen’s Park this Saturday isn’t yet clear.
Apparently it happened after a group of masked agitators called the Black Bloc smashed windows and torched a police using a bait-and-switch strategy to elude police.
The Black Bloc crowd gave off a tense vibe during the G20 march earlier that that afternoon, with their black outfits, black-clad ninja faces and bad attitudes. They were more hostile to photographers than the police, who knocked me down but at least didn’t say, “Fuck off!”
Police believed they had intelligence that the dark-clad anarchists were shedding their outfits and blending with the public, which prompted police to conduct mass arrests.
The first I heard was a cell-phone rumour that downtown was getting cleared south of Bloor so G20 delegates could securely dine somewhere south of us.
I wouldn’t call that info rock-solid, but it gotme thinking, isn’t that what the G20 summit is about?
Dinner, I mean.
The apparently fruitless G20 meetings (or demonically successful, depending on how much you and your website think leaders darkly conspired) could have been conducted much more cheaply through video conference, telephone or Skype, for that matter. All they had to decide, apparently, was everyone cut your deficit - if, like, you want to.
But such efficiency isn’t the approach of these VIP meetups. After a hard day’s deliberating people want a nice dinner around a big table and then chill to the Canadian Tenors.
A billion and change worth of spending, the incarceration of teenagers, journalist and joggers and a smashed Urban Outfitters display is ultimately so politicians and spouses can eat scrumptious little dainties.
The arrogance of this circumstance is its epic banality.
Bon appetit.