March 26th saw the biggest demonstration against government policy since the Stop The War marches in 2003, when I was 10 years old. Half a million people marched from Victoria Embankment to Hyde Park to be lectured to by the likes of Ed Miliband and Brendan Barber. Meanwhile a group of activists took some more direct action against the establishment that is necessitating unprecedented cuts to public services.
We've all seen the news coverage and the videos of "anarchists running rampage around Oxford Street". We've seen the headlines of "Anarchist group UK Uncut run riot in Fortnam & Mason". Some of us may even have seen Diane Abbott's rare attempt at humour on twitter . This post is a very personal one, because on Saturday I stood with friends being beaten by police, watched friends being violently arrested for doing nothing wrong, slept in a hospital chair looking after a girl who's arm had been broken by police thuggery, and in the aftermath watched the 50p tax rate abolished, watched Vince Cable tell us that no amount of action would make a difference, watched as Theresa May informed the country that all of the violent demonstrators had been arrested and charged when this couldn't be further from the truth.
201 demonstrators were arrested on Saturday. Of those, 138 were arrested after exiting the UK Uncut sit in at Fortnam & Mason. UK Uncut is possibly the politest and most well-behaved activist collective this country has seen in a while. They're the sort who clean up as they leave, who have civil conversations with the police, who turn banks into comedy gigs. They are not the sort of people who smash up £15 easter eggs and smoke inside. They are in fact the sort of people who would trust a police officer if she told them that they would not be arrested upon leaving the store, and whose main protest to actually being arrested is chanting "you promised us you wouldn't do this. You promised".
So it shocks me that these people, these friends, were arrested and labelled as "violent anarchists" by Commander Bob Broadhurst. It is not so shocking that the police were so callous as to lie on film to the activists, nor is is so shocking that they kettled them outside the doors.
My friends have now been released, facing court dates and charges for aggravated trespass, while up and down Oxford Street banks were trashed and The Ritz smoke grenade'd. My opinion on smashing up banks and fucking up The Ritz is fairly relaxed actually. A few smashed windows are nothing by comparison to the mess the banks have created for us. I am slightly pissed that the police went for the easy, peaceful, unarmed and polite targets as they were duped straight into a kettle and claims to have dealt with "violence". But let's define what violence actually is. It's a very easy word to bandy around if your name happens to be Theresa May. The law defines physical violence as an act of harm against other persons or animals. This conflicts with the establishment's line on "violent anarchists", because I've always been fairly sure that shop windows are inanimate objects. Even if we turn to the injury figures, it's worth pointing out that far more demonstrators were injured by police, than police injured by demonstrators. That's mainly because police have batons and shields while demonstrators have placards and megaphones. The odds are stacked in favour of the boys in blue already.
I got home on Sunday morning and explained to my parents how I'd been to Trafalgar Square and their instant reaction was "you went looking for trouble". Funny how the media has so easily spread the idea that people on Trafalgar Square were there for a riot. That could not be further from the truth. There had been a peaceful occupation of the Square planned months in advance, just as there was a peaceful occupation of Hyde Park. We were aware of the presence of police snatch squads who were looking for "trouble-makers" from earlier in the day. Having found none, they attempted to arrest a young man for putting a sticker on the Olympic Clock. This was the damage Commander Bob Broadhurst spent 10 minutes raving about on BBC News 24. Attempting an arrest in this crowd was a tactful decision to spark something to make an example of. As soon as police had grabbed this lad, he was dearrested by a surge of around 20 people against 4 police officers. This was all they needed to spark a police response. Within 2 minutes there were lines of police advancing from both sides of the square. The atmosphere of partying and laughter had dissipated. People chanted "Shame on you! Shame on you!" as police used their shields to bat people back towards the southern edge of the square. I would define this as violence. Unfortunately Theresa May defines it as legitimate public order policing.
It's around 10:30 in the evening and we're being hemmed in as batons rain down on our arms and bodies. I find myself standing beside a blonde girl who must be around 19. She's on the phone to her mum and doesn't seem the baton above her head through the tears in her eyes. The next few minutes happened incredibly slowly. I see two friends about 10 metres away from me and I want go over to them. As I move away the baton comes down on the girl's shoulder and she screams and drops her phone which is immediately stepped on by police boots. The officer responsible begins kicking her and screaming at her to get up and move. I count as the kicks rain down on this defenseless girl lying in pain on the ground. 5 kicks and then I hear a scream of absolute pain as I realise that the final kick was in her arm. I know I can't pick her up without being subject to the same brutality so I push forward and stand in front of her, arms crossed over my face to defend myself from the subsequent barrage of batons and shields. I shout at the top of my voice at the officer in front of me to call an ambulance and point to the girl he's just been kicking. It takes about 8 attempts but eventually he steps back, and I bend down and drag her out. He follows us and pushes me to the ground with a swift baton to the nose as he takes a look at her arm. I remember shouting at him to apologise to her and explain why he'd done it.
He never did, but two minutes later I see an ambulance backing up to us and I help the paramedics lift the girl inside. They take a look at my nose and tell me I better come with them, and it's only at this point I realise that my face is covered in blood.
I can remember sitting in the ambulance as we wove through police trucks and vans out of the trafalgar square area, holding the girls hand (I later learnt that her name was Hannah and that she was from Bristol) and trying to comfort her while keeping a tissue pressured on my nose.
We arrived at Royal Free hospital at around 11:15pm. I wanted food, a hot drink and sleep, but all I could do was sit in the A&E ward staring in disbelief at BBC news as it propagated lie after lie about the day's events. I felt physically sick, and I'm not sure if it was from the mild concussion or the nature of what I was watching. I must've fallen asleep at some point, but I remember waking up around 6:30 as Hannah wanted a cuddle, which is difficult with a broken arm and fractured elbow. I lend her my phone to call her parents, and realise that I have to see my friends. I didn't know at this point that a lot were in various London police cells.
We say goodbye at 8:30 and I get a kiss for my efforts. I can vaguely remember zombying my way home and crashing out, dazed and confused.
All I know is that the violence yesterday was not from demonstrators. If you know me, you'll know that I wouldn't hurt a fly. Yet somehow I've been labelled a violent anarchist yob.
I woke up at 2:30pm on Sunday to a host of texts, some from unrecognized numbers, asking if I was okay and if I'd like grapes. This made me smile. I know now that some of us really are all in this together, and we genuinely care about each other, that's why I headed to Charing Cross police station to watch my friends be released. At least I know they're safe, but I'm not so sure about how safe our supposedly civil society is to live in anymore.
I'm genuinely shaken.
