Al Jesteera covers our summer of crisis

“To N.D.G.,” he said. Could this be an acronym for the National Detention Gulag?

I’ve just learned that a reporter for a small Middle Eastern paper called “Al Jesteera’’ has been in town, investigating the “Quebec student crisis.’’ I’ve obtained his first report. An English translation follows:

Greetings, my revolutionary brothers!

I am thrilled to be in Montreal, latest stop in the global rebellion against dictatorship.

First came the Tunisian, Egyptian and Libyan Awakenings – and now the Great Quebec Awakening, where revolutionary students have massed to overthrow the brutal Liberal government and their strongman Charest.

As a specialist covering revolutions from Afghanistan to Zagreb, I arrived with my standard survival gear: bulletproof vest, bottled water (“Clearly Jordanian”) and freeze-dried falafel.

Before arriving today, I read numerous international news reports about Montreal – a city reportedly in chaos from protests against Bill 78 – a repressive new law that apparently makes the Mullahs of Iran seem like democrats.

Now – I’m off to the streets to see the revolution in action. My eyewitness account follows: June 24: How exciting! The very day I arrived, the city was occupied by armies of rebel protesters who marched through the streets flying Quebec flags in honour of “St. Jean” – obviously some past revolutionary hero.

Many in the crowd beat pots and pans, perhaps in reference to the tinpot dictator Charest. Or maybe it was just the hungry demanding food. I am unsure.

One young protester generously offered me his casseroles to beat but I confess it was hard – back home I have only one pot and it is very precious. June 28: Today vast throngs converged downtown to see freedomfighting artists at giant gatherings in the Quartier des Spectacles – Montreal’s Tahrir Square.

This took great courage since the area was cordoned off by plain clothes secret police in T-shirts bearing the strange English word “Jazzfest.” Given how people obeyed them, these jazz paramilitaries are as fearsome as were Gadhafi’s secret police,

They searched every knapsack, confiscating liquor like Iran’s Revolutionary Guard – but then inexplicably sold their own liquor inside the jazz area. Truly, the ways of the west are mysterious to me.

At night, great masses joined the jazz uprising – setting up temporary stages where they played revolutionary music. Over 100,000 watched rebel leader Rufus Wainwright sing freedom hymns – in the largest crush of humanity I have seen since the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Amidst the chaos I lost my water bottle and falafel rations. For nourishment I purchased something called “poutine’’ – the French spelling of Putin – evidently some tribute to Russia’s Vladimir Poutine.

The mood seemed festive, but I kept on my bulletproof vest. I remember the first innocent days of Tahrir Square.

That night, awake in my hotel, I heard the sound of loud artillery explosions. Looking out, I saw the sky over the river lit up by apparent tracer fire – all too familiar from my days covering Syria.

The Quebec army was obviously warning the rebels to abandon the “jazzfest’’ area. Yet the crowds in the streets didn’t panic – they just gazed at the illuminated sky in awe. June 29: I did not leave my hotel bed all day as I was unwell. The Russian “poutine’’ did not agree with me. July 1: Tension had mounted during my absence. downtown streets were clogged with small trucks loaded with refugees fleeing the city. Hundreds of thousands were abandoning their homes in one of the largest exoduses since the Partition of India.

Many desperate souls dragged refrigerators and stoves down the stairs. I asked one man carrying a sofa what was happening – and he said ominously it was “Moving Day.’’ This was some code I didn’t understand – so I asked where he was being relocated:

“To N.D.G,’’ he said. Could these be the initials for the National Detention Gulag? July 9: Jazzfest ended days ago, but mass gatherings continue. Today tens of thousands of African-Quebecers marched to demand their rights. Many dressed in Caribbean garb and danced while carrying incomprehensible signs saying “Carifiesta.’’

I joined in – and it was more fun than Arab Spring.

I am told another protest called Nuits d’afriques begins now, then a nihilist gathering that grimly calls itself The Comedy Festival. What a strange place this city is, where warring parties dance together instead of fight, bathed in music, not blood.

I have never seen this many nationalities coexist so happily, even in the UN assembly.

Yet we never hear about this in world press coverage.

Brothers! The “Montreal situation’’ is obviously more complex than we were led to believe. In fact, I am taking up temporary residency here in Montreal. It is far more safe and festive than any war zone – or peace zone – I have visited.

If this is Montreal during its “troubles,” imagine what it is like at peace.

P.S. I am even learning to like poutine.