“The Protest”
Olivia Sterling-Maisel
The bottle arched above Barbora’s tangle of golden curls, the translucent blue glass gleaming in the sunlight as it soared over the crowd. The furious chant of protesters formed a chaotic melody that reached its climax as the bottle shattered against the pavement.
“Barb we have to get out of this crowd!” I shouted, but my cry was drowned out by the yells of a violent mob. I was thrown to the ground and everything went black.
***
Earlier that morning, Barbora was picking her way through the mountains of clothing that lay crumpled on her bedroom floor. “I can’t wait to take you to the fall festival! My little American roommate will finally get a taste of Prague!”
She sauntered into the kitchen to pour herself some Lucky Charms, wearing her usual red Lifeguard tank top that was comically small around her broad shoulders and long torso.
“As long as there are pastries and apple cider, I’m there,” I said.
She finished getting cereal and paused outside her bedroom door, charting the best path back into her room. She finally settled on a route and carefully navigated around the precarious towers of dishes, clothes and books that formed a labyrinth across her floor.
As our apartment’s Czech “buddy”, Barbora’s job was to help us adjust to the city. She fully embraced this role, stumbling through it with giddy excitement and childlike delight. Her eagerness to give us the “real Czech experience” often led us anywhere except the place we wanted to be. Every adventure ended on a train going the wrong way, or on the curb after being escorted by security out of a private event.
“Liv, let’s go! We’re going to be late!” she said, grabbing my hand.
She yanked me out the apartment, managing to jam on her left shoe as she staggered down the stairs and out the front door. She dove right into the life the city, her sturdy body charging across the street without hesitation as trams slammed on their breaks and cars swerved to avoid her determined march. I unwillingly trailed behind her, at the mercy of her impulsive movements and the quick reflexes of Prague drivers. After six blocks of this relentless crusade she finally paused to look around.
“Oh no, I think we’re lost,” she sighed and slowly swiveled around, studying every direction for clues.
“You get lost more than anyone I’ve ever met, and you’re not even a tourist here.”
“I’m such a silly goose,” she said, giggling as she used her newly favorite American expression, just learned the night before from a children’s book. Her curls bounced from side to side as she swung her head around, trying to decide which way to venture next.
Several blocks later we were in a dark alleyway littered with cigarette butts and lime green Becherovka bottles. The murmur of distant voices traveled down the passage and drew us nearer.
“I knew we would find it!” Barbora exclaimed triumphantly.
We emerged in the middle of a square, expecting to see laughing children bundled in pea coats and wool scarves holding their parents’ hands as they sipped apple cider. Instead we were met by several hundred angry protesters, their faces contorted into scowls and sneers. The banners above their head were captions for their rage, and I cringed as Barbora translated the bold black words painted on arching white posters.
No Thank You Muslims
You Will Not Make This Country Home
Muslims Not Welcome
“This is not what I wanted,” Barbora shouted over the rhythmic chants. “But unfortunately this is the real Prague experience too.”
She was right. In the few weeks that we had been in the city, nationalist conflicts seemed to erupt again and again, as if this violence was simmering just below the surface, boiling over at the most unexpected times. A Roma man was beaten on the street, a Muslim tourist was followed around a bookstore. This rise of anti-immigration sentiment surprised me, given what I knew about the history of the Czech Republic. During the era of Communism many Czechs took refuge in other countries, and not until the nineties did they have a country to call their own. Their own history of immigration did not seem to hinder the widespread hatred for Muslims, as was clear from the large riot that we were now caught in the middle of.
The crowd shifted and then began to contract, squeezing us into the body of protesters we wanted to be far away from. I stood on my tiptoes to pinpoint the cause of this movement and saw a line of policemen in safety vests and helmets slowly forcing the crowd backwards. This show of force only made the crowd angrier, and they violently shoved back, waving their banners and leering at the officers. An elbow to my side sent me reeling into someone else who gave me another shove and sent me sprawling to the ground. I frantically searched in between baggy jeans and black steel-toed boots until I caught a glimpse of pink to my right that I immediately recognized as Barbora. I crawled towards this flash of color until the pair of galaxy leggings and neon pink sneakers became visible in the sea of monochromatic black and grey. I felt a sturdy hand on my back yanking me from the pavement, and I looked up to see Barbora, her eyes wide.
“We can’t be here tríshka,” she said. “It’s too dangerous. These are some very angry men and two women don’t blend in too well.”
We pushed through the bomber jackets and bald heads, all of which belonged to men who turned their bright, angry eyes at us and smirked. With one glance, it was clear that we did not belong at this nationalist gathering, and after several more steps it was clear that people did not seem happy about our presence. We came to a sudden stop as a towering man stepped directly into our path and crossed his arms over his black Lonsdale jacket. As we tried to push past, his friend stepped up beside him, effectively trapping us in place. As he saw my frightened face he curled his lips in a sneer, revealing a gaping black hole where his front tooth should have been. Almost simultaneously the two men shoved up their sleeves above their elbow, revealing bulging muscles and matching 88 tattoos, a universal nationalist symbol that we had just learned about in class. The two eights stood for the position of the letter “H” in the alphabet, so “HH” was a reference to the Nazi salute Heil Hitler. Unsure of what to do, I looked at Barbora who grinned broadly before turning back to the men. In their attempts to intimidate us the men had not even considered that someone would be brave enough to stand their ground, and they were not prepared for what happened next. I heard two grunts and the men were down, each clutching their crotch with expressions of sheer surprise as Barbora marched by without a second glance. However, our progress was impeded once more as we collided with the chaotic masses of sweaty bodies, leaving no space to escape the swarm of angry Czechs.
“Barb we have to get out of this crowd!”
A scream drowned out my words, piercing the wave of deep, guttural chants. I looked up just in time to see the glinting, iridescent bottle soar through the air. As it shattered beside me, more bottles began to fly, prompting a stampede of violent rioters to break through the wall of police and overtake the street. I was shoved to the ground and as my head hit the pavement the wall of protesters was replaced by a wall of black.
***
I woke up seconds later, curled in a ball and somehow still untouched as hundreds of boots trampled the ground around me. I peeked out from between my arms and saw Barbora above me, swinging her thick fists at every hooded figure who came too close, trying to ward off the mob.
“Get away from my American!” she screamed as she slammed her sturdy body into the bulky stomach of a man whose boot landed an inch from my face. He grunted in surprise and stumbled backwards, revealing a bold, red swastika stitched across the front of his tee shirt. After several minutes of head-butting, clawing and punching every man who got too close to my crumpled figure, a small space eventually cleared around us. I stayed down for a few more minutes, my face pressed up against the cool, smooth cobblestone until the protest disappeared down the street and the wave of shouts and chants became a faint drone in the distance.
I staggered to my feet and glanced around the square. Barbora and I stood alone on the cobblestone, panting. I spun around slowly, trying to get a grip on our surroundings. A large bronze figure stood in the center of the square, a celebration of Czech independence. An armored man seated on a rearing horse raised a flag in victory. I realized that this was a monument marking the victory of the Czech Republic. With this victory came the establishment of a place that was now safe for those who had recently identified as immigrants themselves. But now this same square had been filled with hatred for these new wanderers in need of a helping hand. The shouts and jeers of the furious nationalists echoed in my mind as I looked up at the man and his horse, and I knew that today this square was no longer the celebration of a safe space.
