Repeat After Me

Chapter 41

I met Asten under the clocks on the steps at Flinders Street Station. 'Thanks for coming,' he said. 'I'm so upset about all of this. Did you watch the full version of the footage? It was horrible. I had to attend the protest. You know ... to share my emotions with others ... to feel this sickness together ...' He was holding two cardboard placards. 'What do you think?' he asked, displaying each sign in turn.

One placard had a white background with black text, 'To be silent is to be complicit' and the other said 'Anti-racism starts with education', in red text.

'Which one would you like to carry?' he asked. I thought of my dad and how he was wanting to silence the protestors' voices in the name of public health.

'To be silent is to be complicit,' I said.

'Excellent choice,' Asten replied, passing me the placard.

We began walking up Flinders Lane. 'What about all those boomers protesting about the protest?' Asten said. 'White entitlement, yet again.' He pursed his lips together. I didn't tell him that my dad was one of those men.

When we arrived at Parliament House I had to brace myself. I hadn't seen so many people all in the one place in months. It seemed surreal to see such a crowd of people. A lady on a megaphone was shouting out social distancing advice and reminding us to wear facemasks and use hand santitiser. I pulled two blue facemasks out of my backpack.

'Sorry,' I said, 'mum gave me these to wear. You don't have to ...'

'Nah, of course,' Asten said, holding out his hand. 'Seems sensible.'

He strapped his mask behind his ears. Even in a blue facemask he looked handsome, his hair was gelled high today, his sexy eyes underlined by the blue. He winked at me, and I could tell he was smiling under his mask. I put my own facemask on, feeling ridiculous and not at all attractive. Yet these were lightweight thoughts when we were at a serious protest.

An Aboriginal lady made a heartfelt welcome to country on the steps of Parliament House and I was reminded of our heritage, of the magic and mystery of this land I was standing upon. An Aboriginal man played a didgeridoo, next to him a woman with a sign on her lap saying 'Abolish Aboriginal deaths in custody.' Asten whispered in my ear, 'Aboriginal people are 2% of the population, but at least 27% of the prison population. Go figure.'

People spoke about the over policing of people of colour. I'd seen it myself, with the way those two policemen had treated Asten with absolute disrespect, the way they'd used their power to intimidate and belittle him. And when people started chanting 'Whose lives matter?' I yelled back 'Black lives matter' with conviction.

Asten slipped his hand around my hand as we marched within the throng of people to Flinders Street Station. There were people playing bongo drums, drumming against inequality, we were chanting 'I can't breathe', we were marching against the old ways, marching against apathy, marching against injustice, marching against police brutality, marching against oppression. People had signs that read 'Always was, always will be', 'silence is consent to violence', 'no pride in genocide', 'stop deaths in custody', 'racism is a pandemic', and the red and black and yellow colours, repeated over and over again, made me equally proud and ashamed of my country.

Together, we walked with our arms held out, keeping our distancing from strangers, but in solidarity, as the police stood on the sidelines, wearing white masks and blue gloves, deadpan eyes, their hands on their hips or folded in front of them, looking small, unsure and insecure.