Shuffling whispers roused me from my dream-like state into the darkened room. My hips bruised from the wooden floor, eyes swollen from the anxious thoughts that stole my only chance of rest. I nudged the sleeping body beside me. “It’s time to go” Unable to wait any longer, I explored the derelict hallways alone. They were liberated by artistic expression and tainted with injustice. As I followed their colourful story through the unlawfully occupied building, my anxiety asked me: what are you doing here? I swallowed my thoughts and continued towards the murmur of voices ahead. The air was calm, despite the growing tension of the group who were exchanging glances and encouraging nods. “Ready?” asked a comrade with a nervous smile. I nodded my consent. We stepped into the moon-lit streets of Madrid in small bundles, like droplets of rain hitting the ground unnoticed before a storm. Our hearts thumped in unison as we headed towards our unknown destination. “I haven’t felt this nervous since Franco”, somebody let slip. It was true, I could feel it. A trip on the Metro, tremoring hands fumbling to buy tickets, more encouraging nods. Stepping into first light, we waited for a call-to-action. We wandered in circles, trying to act normally as the knots grew steadily tighter in our bellies. It was at that moment his familiar mop of purple hair caught my eye; our eyes met, my heart softened and, momentarily, I felt at peace. It was only the day before that I arrived from my painfully quiet retreat in the Sierra de Gredos mountains to Madrid, the same day I met Roberto. Although I enjoyed a few weeks resting in solitude, the voices of isolation haunted me, so I packed my bags and left in search of human connection. It was a long day of training, hundreds of people, and a language I barely knew. When we finally went to rest, I’d been relieved to find somebody I could communicate with, though he barely knew my language either. Roberto was just sixteen, he had taken a break from school and travelled across country to champion his right to be heard, and his story warmed my heart entirely. His father supported his actions, his mother less so, but to Roberto it didn’t matter. His entire hometown on the southwest Spanish coast would be underwater in thirty years, he had no time for moral deliberation. Even so, his familiar smile, eyes bright with youthful excitement, helped to settle my nerves. By now the city had started to awaken, the sun illuminating the sky-scraping roofs, the rush-hour traffic beginning to pollute the serenity of the sleeping highways. We waited on the corner, singing a song Roberto had written in grief for his sinking world. Trying to distract myself from my shaking limbs, I stared ahead with anticipation and my eyes met the gaze of a passenger in the rumbling queue of traffic, I hardly blinked. There was something different about him, powerful determination seemed to ignite his stare. He lifted his reflective vest to the window, and gave me a firm nod. It hit me like a brick wall. Every part of my body filled with adrenaline as I jumped to my feet. The rebellion had begun. We raced through traffic to the bridge which towered over the highway, the dusky pink glow of sunrise etched in my mind forever. We’d taken it! And with it, a moment of silence in which our voices may finally be heard. The rebel flags waved triumphantly in the sky, our nerves transformed into fury, our voices screamed truth as we relished in our victory. It wasn’t long before the cavalry appeared. Mirrored masks, guns at the waist, ready to destroy our dreams of restoring balance to the planet, our irreplaceable home. But it’s their home too, and as they tore us, weeping, from our raging counterparts, their sadness could not hide behind their hardened stares. This battle was short, a fleeting moment of friction. But the greatest of fires can be started with a single stroke of a match, and Roberto’s match, along with millions of others, is well and truly alight. The rebellion rages on.