A First-Person Account From A Niagara Participant On The Best And Worst At The G20 Summit

By Fiona McMurran

I’ve just returned from protesting the G20 in the streets of Toronto.

A peaceful demonstration near Queen's Park before riot police moved in. Photo courtesy of Fiona McMurran.

Soon after midday, we assembled with thousands upon thousands of other protesters in Queen’s Park, getting soaked to the skin as the heavens opened. My march with other colleagues and friends from the Council of Canadians, was uneventful – we got back to Queen’s Park in mid-afternoon – about 4:00 p.m. – and then strolled the couple of blocks to O’Grady’s pub on College Street, now full of soccer fans cheering on Ghana against the United States.

Ghana beats the U.S. There’s much cheering and as fans take their leave, the TVs are switched to news channels. From then on, the talk in the pub is all about the events taking place a few blocks away. We are getting nervous as we wait for two of our foursome from Niagara to join us.
As the scenes unfold on the screen, and as other protesters entered the pub and the discussion to give us updates, my little group of demonstrators is caught in an odd sort of suspended animation.
 
We had all been more or less of one mind: a peaceful demonstration was what was desirable to get our various messages across. Anything else would be totally unwelcome. It would simply steal the attention from what we wanted the Canadian public – never mind the leaders, who haven’t and won’t listen to us anyway – to hear. We would condemn any individual or group that attempted to put our sincere protests in the shade. Violence of any sort is always wrong. It simply re-enforces the argument that all this expensive security was entirely necessary. Etc. etc. etc.
 
But that’s not what we are feeling as we watch the events in the downtown core. The sensation is that we are witnessing a game play out, one that both sides understand. One side has the numbers, the power. The other side certainly has the upper hand when it comes to tactics. It reminds me of nothing so much as the war in Afghanistan. Guerrilla warfare.
On the screen, I watch replays of events that happened behind me less than an hour ago, on Queen Street. Those committed beforehand to using Black Bloc tactics move out of the main march, change into black with red bandanas, and form small groups. Where was I that I saw none of this?

Photo courtesy of Fiona McMurran.

At the time, I was more interested in the double rank of police ranged across the south side of every intersection. Clearly, none of those who had said they intended to go to the fence was going to get past…
 
I’m replaying my own tape in my head now. I’m marching holding a colourful banner, a Council member holding the other pole as we walk, deep in discussion of the issues that concern us, our worries about the future we will pass on to our children. On our right is a small group shielding a man with a bandaged head seated leaning against the wall of a Starbucks. We are politely ushered off the sidewalk and back onto the street, while open umbrellas and large pieces of cardboard cut off our view of the (to me) totally meaningless scene. “He’s been injured trying to attack Starbuck’s” one of the group says by way of explanation. But this particular Starbucks is entirely undamaged.

A few minutes later, at the corner of Queen and Spadina, our main group, trying to turn to go north on Spadina, is met by another group going in the opposite direction. At the same time, some of “our” group seem to be trying to go south on Spadina. My partner and I falter, then manage to turn north, making our way with some difficulty through the throngs going south or east. To the left of us, on a median, I see men and women, mostly young, are changing clothes, in full view of protesters and police. None of this is making any sense…
 
I only start to comprehend what happened in the light of what IS happening, on the screen, in the pub.
 
The same images shown over and over again. The police cars, empty, seemingly abandoned in the path of the march. No police in sight anywhere near. Then black-clad people appearing out of nowhere. One savagely shatters a window with a heavy axe. Others run up with sticks and try to enlarge the hole in the glass – often ineffectually. Men dance on the police cars, which are set on fire. It seems to take ages for the car to burst into flame.
 
Still no police come. More window-smashing. More police cars, mysteriously abandoned along the parade route, are set aflame. Still no police, and no fire trucks. as if the blazing cars are intended as set-pieces designed for maximum media attention.
 
One thing is obvious: the police are not interested in putting a stop to the destruction. Toronto police chief Bill Blair repeatedly insists that the legitimate protesters, like us, have nothing to do with the violence.
 
Violence. The word spoken in shocked tones, echoes again and again, as the burning cars dominate the screen. Destruction of property clearly shocks in a way that the death of two Canadian medical officers, killed by an IED in far off Afghanistan, does not. Doesn’t violence to people register with us any more?
 
Meanwhile, in the streets of Toronto, no violence to persons has been perpetrated by any protesters, legitimate or not. The same is increasingly shown not to apply to the police.
 
Our friends still haven’t turned up, and we are very worried. At last we reach them by cellphone—they are trying to make their way from the corner of Queen and Spadina, where confusion reigns. When they finally get back to Queen’s Park, they are trapped for what seems like hours, as massed ranks of police in riot gear push the crowd back from all sides.
 
Police are ordering people to leave the area, but are preventing them from doing so. What is going on? Our friends are not hurt, but are increasingly upset and angry.
 
At long last they stagger up the street, exhausted and overwhelmed by what has been going on around them. A cold beer and some food are welcome, and they share their impressions, and some powerful photographs of the riots, with the rest of us.
 
The discussion is intense, but the tone has changed. None of us is angry with the Black Bloc for “stealing” our protest. Even the major media commentators are awed by the police response, or the lack of it. I am slowly beginning to understand why the Toronto Mobilization Network refuses to condemn tactics including violence.
 
No, our messages, those of the various protests groups, are not getting through. They never will. The G8 and the G20 are not interested in mitigating climate change, or reducing dependence  on fossil fuels, or the death of mothers and children in the global south, or rising unemployment and food and water shortages.
 
 
The G8 and the G20 are about one thing only: the globalization of the economy, by force if necessary, in the interests of the small elite of mega-corporations and financial institutions and powerful shareholders. The Black Bloc tactics have deliberately provoked a response that shows the true nature of the entire farcical process by revealing the brute force behind it. Force in the service of power: the medium is the message. And some Canadians, shocked out of their complacency, are actually getting it.

I shiver in my still-damp clothes. The beers notwithstanding, I feel more sober than ever before in my life.
 
The images on the screen are starting to coalesce into something terribly comprehensible. Tearing ourselves away, we thank the friendly and cheerful staff at the pub, and head back to our billet, where we spend another good hour in front of the television until exhaustion forces us to bed.

(Fiona McMurran is a Welland resident and a regional represetative for the nation-wide activist group, Council of Canadians, who participated in the G20 summit demonstrations in Toronto.)

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