Protests

I simply felt my feet moving. Quickly. They were getting me away from there. For a split second, I wondered if my heart still pumped blood, because all I could feel was fear. 

“Viviana! Stop! You can’t run. They’ll think you’re one of them,” Oumaima’s voice broke through my thoughts. 

But her words weren’t comforting. I didn’t really see any alternative. Were we supposed to stay in the middle of all the protestors and calmly walk the other way as policemen charged us, swinging their batons furiously? Every time they charged, the crowds broke into a frantic sprint in any direction, away from the weapons. 

And she was asking me to walk?

“Okay. Tell me again. Why are the protesting? And why are the policemen hitting them?” I grabbed her arm and tried to steady my step.

She explained that they were unemployed. They had gone to university, received their diplomas and now… it had been two, three, five or even ten years, yet they didn’t have jobs. The government would create new employment opportunities, but unless you knew someone who knew someone, you never even knew about the opportunity. The whole situation stank of nepotism.

Oh, and the policemen were trying to get them away from the palace of justice and the media centers. They would yell and run towards people with cameras and cell phones out. 

And so I closed my eyes, trying to imagine that hopelessness of joblessness for years on end. As I opened my eyes, I didn’t have to look far to see what it drove them to do. The crowds roared, “We want human rights. We want jobs.” The police countered by running toward the crowds, swinging their batons. Most of the people got away, but a few injured ones lay scattered on the streets and sidewalks. 

Here and there a scream would pierce the air and a small group would gather around the next fallen protestor. 

Breathe. Walk. Breathe. Walk.

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll be one of them if I can’t get a job once I graduate…” she mused.