Paris brutality

by Gemma Stokes (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find France

Paris. The city of love, and various other clichés. A weekend-long trip managed to change my outlook on life and my career plans quicker than you can say ‘baguette’. My girlfriend Kata and I visited Paris during the Gilets Jaunes strikes, poignantly aware that we probably weren’t France’s favourite type of people: gay, vegan and British. We knew almost nothing about the widespread demonstrations, other than they were fucking annoying because they’d hindered all forms of public transport, and we definitely aren’t well-off enough to consider alternatives forms. What was even more annoying, is that the strikes had managed to load even more pressure onto our already feeble shoulders whilst battling deadlines, arguments and a poorly-timed holiday. Nonetheless; we’d reached the end of the holiday (and our tether) and meandered around the surrounding area of Gare du Nord trying to find somewhere palatable and vegan. Kata was admiring me admiring the vibrant buildings through her bulky camera lens, until I was tossed back onto the pavement like a limp croissant. I awoke to the sounds of people screaming, but not for me. A horde of 100 policemen on motorbikes courses through the veins of slim Paris streets, casting tourists (and morals) aside. It turns out we’d tiptoed onto an intersection being heavily protested and a swarm of police had arrived to control the area. I watched, dazed and confused, probably with a concussion, (but too British and too broke to miss our train to visit the hospital) as the cops descended. I was horrified as bikes were discarded and police literally leaped on protestors, punching and swearing. I watched a child that couldn’t be more than 15 years old knocked out cold onto the street like I had moments earlier. My body lurched forward and then back again as I tasted and smelt blood, perhaps my own, but was pulled back by my girlfriend: “You can’t be detained in a French prison! You have a gig next week and I’m not sure GCSE French is gonna get you out of this one.” I was devastated and we fled, along with other protestors, feeling like a imposter wolf amongst sheep. We reached a random cafe and stopped to mop up my face. I sat in silence for the next hour. I was dumbstruck. I couldn’t even enjoy my vegan burger I’d been looking to all day. I spent the entire time researching the Gilets Jaunes movement, shocked at what I was finding and even more alarmed that none of the police brutality or shortcomings of the protest were being reported in any other Western media other than French. As I sat in Starbucks, sipping an iced oat decaf latte and tasted only melancholy, I considered my privilege. And also my position in reality. It was extremely humbling. I vowed from that moment, I would become a travel writer and report on the things that other people weren’t reporting on. I want to give a voice to the disenfranchised and the unreported on, for the children being beaten for standing up for what they believe in. I wish this was a overlay positive story, about an incredible meal or a quaint village. But I didn’t expect to find a new sense of purpose in Paris. I didn’t expect that my life would change until my head hit the pavement.