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| Destruction in Clapham. Photo courtesy of friend in Clapham |
If the media frenzy is to be believed, London has been in the clutches of violent rebels protesting against the iron grip of the British regime. While this may not be completely accurate it is certainly fair to say that there has been unparalleled levels of anger expressed at all levels of society. The question that permeates throughout is why? Why did hundreds of young people choose to go out onto the streets of our capital and wreak havoc with baseball bats and pyrotechnics? Disengagement has been cited, a generation of disaffected youths desperate to make sense of their worlds that are void of opportunity and increasingly ignored by the state. Does this justify the millions of pounds worth of damage and the shattered lives of those who have lost everything? In my opinion no it does not. A friend of mine went into Clapham the night it was raided and describes the event as one of the most exciting occasions he’s witnessed. This is unsurprising. War zones are exciting. Adrenalin is a drug and it is highly addictive. I can only imagine the atmosphere created by hundreds of hormonally fuelled teenagers surging en masse, a multi headed hydra enveloping the deserted streets. His most poignant observation was the looks of sheer joy radiating from the eyes of the masked marauders, like this was the greatest night of their short and uneventful lives. For me this is just further proof that human selfishness knows no bounds. I am a firm believer that in desperate situations people will act desperately especially if they feel they have no choice. Are we to believe that in this case a new pair of trainers will solve the supposed entrenched insufficiency of these adolescents’ lives? Or was the looting merely symbolic of a larger problem; neo liberalist consumerism being endemic within society? No I don’t believe that either. Whatever it was it was not desperation. I have seen desperation and it isn’t sated with electronics and footwear.
Potosi, Bolivia, 2009. It was two days before the general election. The people’s hero Evo Morales had thrown his hat into the ring for a second term in office. Every spare inch of concrete had his political slogan scrawled across it. Just as Pro Evo engenders every boys dream in my country, it also held within it the hopes of a nation. Hopes that the rich ruling classes may be forced to distribute their wealth more evenly, to allow a chronically poor country to provide those basic needs such food and water to its stricken population. Potosi is a silver mining town and for a small fee tourists can explore the labyrinth of tunnels whittled deep into the belly of the mountain, which was my reason for being there. As I ascended the hillside with my guide, the town was readying itself for a party. Coloured bunting was strung from balcony to balcony, the staccato rehearsals from brass bands, and everyone out on the streets in their Sunday best. Whisky bottles tucked away in breast pockets, cigarettes lazily rolled between fingers. My guide had tough, weather beaten, tan skin, and sparkling white teeth- Andean to a tee. As we walked towards the bus stop he recounted his experiences of the mines. He was an ex-miner who had seen the all-consuming nature of those who tirelessly work miles beneath the earth, carving out early graves. He explained that despite the jubilant appearance of those on the street, tensions were rising and he advised that I could do worse than get on a bus to La Paz as soon as the tour was finished. I didn’t understand and therefore didn’t listen. Instead of being dropped back off at my hotel as my guide begged me to allow him to do I headed for the main square. It was packed, the band I had seen earlier could be heard in the distance, heading up a parade that was moving away from the central plaza. I zig zagged my way through the crowd assuming the festivities had begun. I was wrong. They weren’t euphoric carnival goers this was an angry mob and I had managed to get in the middle of it. Luckily they were too busy chanting to take notice of me. People were angry. Really angry. Clenched fists in the air accompanied a fury of words. As I was swept up the street the air began to fizz. It was as if storm clouds were gathering on a blindingly hot summers day. Right on cue the thunder roared except this was not Mother Nature but dynamite being blown up in a side street. The crowd surged sideways away from the explosion which was followed by another and then another. Onlookers ducked for cover and in the commotion I found myself on the ground struggling to get up. I crawled and when I could, ran with no idea where I was going. I caught my breath up against the wall of a boarded up bakery while others whizzed past my refuge. My Spanish is minimal and my map was lost, there was nothing for it I had to go back the way I came. I tried to skirt around the edges but with the possibility of exploding buildings I wasn’t sure if this was safest option. I re-entered the main square at the same time as the band. An official looking man in a suit and sash was walking up on stage and the crowd settled. I was amazed that such a tense situation seemed to have dissipated when moments ago I thought I was witnessing the start of some sort of civil war. Then I understood. When your government isn’t listening and you’ll die before your thirtieth birthday from lung disease caused by your atrocious working conditions what can you do? Nothing. So instead you set off dynamite, shout at the top or your voice and wave your fists in the air because maybe someone will hear and maybe someone will listen. That is desperation, desperation is hopeful and hope is free.
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