Batons drawn to connect with protesters

I stepped out of the car, still in school uniform; my shinlength plaid skirt and my navy woollen jersey.

The street was flooded with protesters.

I remember feeling so fulfilled to know that the swarms of people at that protest were willing to take action for what they believed in.

The blend of passionate chants and meaningful yells were muted when the megaphone began screeching ‘‘Let’s stop this tour’’.

The sea of protesters merged into a tornado of raging citizens.

It must have been early in the evening when we started marching.

The sun dropped below the horizon. It was the last glimpse of day before the brutality set in among the darkness.

Fast forward a few hours, the moon heightened and my voice was growing tired from the (what felt like) neverending yelling, pushing and shoving.

The night was cold, but my school jersey blocked out the numbing temperatures.

Eventually, we reached the first few rows of police who were waiting for us with their flashlights.

I was extremely confused. What is that in their hands?

Why are there so many of them? Is this safe?

Outside the Parliament Building was when the first rows of cops raised their batons in hope of threatening us into backing down.

We didn’t.

Our herd of protesters linked arms and we bunched together tightly.

We continued marching closer and closer.

Then we were face to face. I could feel the officer’s infuriated breath fanning on me.

Our marching turned into pushing and shoving the police officers.

In a crack of a second, a baton swang past my side and into a fellow protester.

The chanting turned into verbal abuse and cursing began to break out around me. Everyone was outraged.

The police were swinging batons. The protesters were pushing.

I was frozen. I stood there in complete shock, it was unbelievable, impossible to comprehend.

The policemen were our protectors, our saviours.

I realised that wasn’t true when I could see the boots of the police being swung into the ribs of protesters, batons forced into our heads.

Molesworth St turned to complete anarchy.

The police were animals that night.

They hit anything and everything they could reach. Conflict was inevitable.

The crowds blended into one and were battling and beating one another.

We pushed the police halfway up Molesworth St, chanting ‘‘Shame, Shame, Shame’’.

I was losing energy and my wrist was throbbing with pain from being hit.

There was one scream that really stuck out to me.

It was a high pitch, old voice. An old lady, who seemed 60 years or older, was lying on the ground.

Her head had been hit and she was barely conscious.

The smell of cold air and blood streamed past my nose.

My cries for help were being washed away by the street wars when a middleaged Maori woman stopped to help us.

She told me, ‘‘Go home, you’re too young to be out here’’.

She was right.

I was a 14yearold.

A kid.

In the middle of absolute bloodshed.

No matter how much I wanted my voice to be heard, I was too sleepy, sore and scared to go on.