October 29, 2003 Culture ¢ the other press ©

Poetry/Fiction/Essays/etc.

The Hug

I remember the tear gas.
Through the clouds

I learned how to see, to smell
fear, communicate in silence
and how

to trust strangers

more than myself.

A young woman,

perhaps five foot at best,
stood in front of me

and spoke in another language

from behind a balaclava.

 

Her message was completely unmistakable.

She turned towards me,

reeking of toxins and dripping from water cannons,
and extended her arms

in a hug.

Her eyes,

exhausted but not sullen,
gushed pride,
self-determination

& dignity.

Dignity in tearing down the walls
that were erected to silence her,
to lock out voices,

and to protect democracy

from the people.

I still feel her arms around me

when I close my eyes

and remember the streets of Quebec,
where the shame

of our extended family

was redeemed for three days.

I feel her arms around me

when I remember being locked in prison
for the crime

of defying Bush & Blair

and wondering if it matters

what we do.

I feel her arms around me most of all
as the news plays in my small
comfortable and warm apartment,
and the images of Bolivia

stir me once again.

Bolivia,

it occurs to me,

is a five foot tall blonde woman,
tasting her own dignity.

 

But there is no balaclava
on the face of a nation,
one seen as she rightfully is:

Dignified and beautiful,
for the first time.

By Macdonald Stainsby

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