Fear and Loathing in TO... aka Reports from somewhere back of the front
Saturday, June 26, 2010 at 11:31PM 
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Fear and loathing in Toronto. I always wanted to say that. Even though I can't lay claim to a writing style anywhere near as gonzo as that of HST, today it just seems somehow appropriate.
Running on short sleep, I'm finding it hard to express in words the kind of experiences I had downtown today as the G20 really took hold. So let's begin with some attention grabbing images. (Note: a full set of my photos from the Toronto G20 can be found here.)
A lone photographer shoots through the gaps in a court building sculpture
RCMP riot police stationed outside the US Embassy on University Ave.
Troop movements flanked by civilians.
In chaos lies beauty? Discuss.
Service disruptions.
The remains of Barclay Jewelery's window.
This is why we can't have nice things.
Repairs in progress at College Park
Still life with riot
Prelude: A Short History of Civil Disobedience in TO.
It’s not every day you get home, sit down and realize that you have just witnessed some profoundly fucked up events that will probably enter the history books. So I really struggle with writing this bit, day and night, until I’m almost ready to give up.
KG: If HST were to write about this weekend, I expect he would submit a single four letter word repeated eight thousand times.
Hypersapiens: Funny, I've been trying to channel him the last three days and that's what I keep getting.
That’s it in a nutshell. Putting any kind of spin on the craziest events I’ve ever witnessed firsthand would be senseless. Not only that, amidst the shitstorm of public opinion— note to self, never read the comments— it would be counter-productive to truth. So I try to go about it in a more or less normal and objective way.
Of course, my definition of normality is pretty far from baseline reality on an average day.
“Absolute madness around here… it’s completely unprecedented. I never could have imagined I’d see this in my own city, the city of Toronto. I’m just blown away, really. I’m just shocked at what I’ve been witnessing.”
-Dan Dicks, Press for Truth, 7/27/2010
At first I’m saying that it was arguably the most eventful day in Toronto's history. Then I remember the invasion and burning of York in 1813 and the the Great Toronto Fire of 1904 and have to amend that statement. The most eventful day in recent history. But was it? I go back to history for more perspective. Repeating global summit protest history aside, I find that Toronto has had plenty of riots before, some with a suspiciously similar pattern. Let’s skim, shall we?
1875 – The Jubilee Riots, culmination of years of large scale riots between Catholics and Protestants.
1918 – Anti Greek riots. (Read the byline under the video. Does any of that sound familiar? Wait, is that the sound of history repeating itself?)
1933 - Christie Pits Race Riots
1992 – A riot on Yonge Street following the Rodney King verdict & LA riots. (Watch that linked vid. Get past the bouffant 90s hair. Once again, many elements of history repeating. Including painful ironies like this.)
Canada has a long history of riots and civil disobedience, so there’s far more in the books and on the web. These are just a few of the bigger events of mass unrest with the most similarities to those that took place during this G20. Other Toronto riots have been related to annual events, for example the CNE closing & New Year’s Eve riots in 1991. Still more were disturbances of a sports related nature. The latter are way more common considering how much energy people here have to invest in the symbolic warfare we call sports. Hockey, baseball, soccer— you name it, there’s a bunch of drunken idiots ready to run around waving flags and screaming woo. (Chief Blair talks about how much more comparative damage these “sports celebrations” do in this radio interview.)
So it’s fair to say that mob energy is often pent up and released here, as in other major cities. What then is different about events around the Toronto G20? One big point stands out.
The largest mass arrests in Canadian history. Specifically, 1105 arrests were made during the G20 weekend. (For a detailed breakdown on this, see the CCLA arrest report figures here.) This is second only to the Clayoquot Sound anti-logging protests in 1993, during which 856 arrests were made. It’s also similar to 1970’s October Crisis in scope. At that time, Prime Minister Trudeau invoked the War Measures Act, suspending the Canadian bill of rights in the wake of two kidnappings. As a result, 497 people were arrested and detained without bail.
So. It’s going on the books. And where were you when it happened?
I was there. Because— scared as I was— I refused to sit it out. Toronto is where I live; I’ve called this city home for seventeen years now. And I know when my rights are being affected. I’m all grown up and I know when it’s time to stand up for them.
But I wasn’t there as a protester, rioter, or cop. I was in no way being stupid, pushing my luck, or abusing the law— so hold the troll sauce. My only impolite behaviour was taking photographs of newsworthy people and events from public places. I obstructed nothing— not even the multiple convoys of unmarked ISU minivans that nearly ran myself and other pedestrians down while we attempted to cross with the lights. I was simply there as a Torontonian to witness and document.
I should also mention here that I have professional training for that. And— since there seems to be a lot of muckraking and suspicion about people who prefer anonymity or alternate IDs online— my name is Susan Read and you can find an image of me in the first post on this site. (The goggles are steampunk related. When it comes to tear gas, zey do nothink!)
Above board enough for you? Right, carrying on.
Abandon coffee all ye who enter here
Saturday June 26th, 11AM: Before even leaving home I had a problem. Most of the clothing I own is black, and wearing black today is probably an association to avoid. No, I’m not a goth, and nowhere near anarchist; I just have a color-challenged wardrobe. (Like a lot of people on Queen Street West, ironically… where wearing black on a daily basis is akin to, say, breathing.) The most color my average day sees is blue jeans and a black t-shirt. But I certainly don’t want to seem guilty by something as incredibly facile as color association, so I do a bit of digging until neutral colors come out. Then I realize that both my camera bag and regular backpack are black too. Crap.
The gear gets reloaded into an equally neutral bag. Then I realize my shoes and socks are black. Finally I say fuck it and go out naked.
...Just kidding. (The guy who actually did this got arrested.)
Once the color challenge gets sorted, I pick up a friend named Tam and we head to the scene, approaching up University Ave at 1:30 PM just as the speeches were wrapping up. Great timing. While protestors were massing in the rain at Queen’s Park, we quickly scouted vantage spots from which to check out the march. Alongside us were many other civilians— mostly locals, but also many photojournalists and tv crews with media passes hidden. (Once you’ve seen a few, a professional phojo is not hard to spot. Particularily not when they are carrying multiple DSLRs, helmets that have seen Afghan action, and six hundred dollar gas masks.)
The first wave
Just as we reached the foot of Queen’s Park, megaphone cries and police movements indicated the protest was about to begin. We backtracked a block and watched most of the march from median points between College and the US Consulate, taking a few shots of the groups or individual protestors but mostly marvelling at the seeming endlessness of the crowd. The projected estimate of 10,000 marchers was clearly not enough. I’d have to see aerial shots to get a better idea, but with the endless waves of people walking by for forty minutes felt like more than 20,000. (Some media outlets later estimated 25,000. Protest organizers called it 30,000.) “Every time it rains we get more people!” one gentleman told us.
People as far as the eye can see, and then some.
It’s a sea of peaceful protesters. There’s so many different messages and groups that the mood is all over the place: cheerful, happy, singing, chanting, suspicious, questioning. It goes on for a very long time. (My timestamps show the parade starting from Queen’s Park at approximately 1:37 PM. At 2:30PM, the rearguard passes our position on University Ave. Between these times, one whole side of University Ave— four lanes— is filled with people.)
Oh hai there, two camera man.
Courthouse employees on the roof where snipers loitered the day prior.
I asked this gentleman for his photo and in turn he asked me to post it "everywhere" on the internet.
The Tibetan contingent was highly organized.
In all of these masses, we only see a few individuals that signal trouble. The first is a small cluster of masked youth running down the sidewalk at 2:03 PM. Two photojournalists standing on a monument beside me swivel. “Hey, that’s our queue,” one says to the other, and both take off after the kids, joining five or six other shooters running in their wake. (Part of me wants to join these guys and chase them too, but I’m neither actively looking for trouble nor fleet of foot.)
Photogenic anarchist camera magnets?
Thousands more people go by, all peaceable marchers. Then there’s a break in the pack at 2:05PM. A tightly packed group of about thirty to forty people, all clad in black, shuffle quickly south. None of the regular marchers seem to want anything to do with them. They have pulled back and away from this group, leaving them exposed them to both sides of the street. “Black bloc,” I hear bystanders near me murmur. A lot of cameras are directed at them and people on the sidelines point out their huddle. Meanwhile protesters near them glare or generally disassociate.
Fail ninjas, we cast thee out.
It’s at this point that I get the sense that something is going to happen, but not where we are standing. My guess is that this group will challenge the police blockade to get south of Queen Street or zigzag down towards the security zone… however there are not that many of these guys and they’re mostly adolescents. Seriously, seeing this pack of mixed scrawny teens and young adults, badly outnumbered by riot police and watched by undercovers, I think— how much trouble can they put up, against thousands of tactically deployed security forces, spotter aircraft, and a network of surveillance cameras through the downtown core? Of course I am assuming that sufficient riot police have already been tactically deployed in a variety of places between the march route and the security zone; that there will be running battles at worst, with a concerted police effort to track and nab offenders the second they step out of line. (Again... too many movies.)
The rearguard
At the end of the march is a simple line of police on foot. It’s a stark contrast to the rearguard of the protest march the day before, which consisted of human cordons comprised of hundreds of helmeted riot police. This time they are not trying to herd anyone. We chalk it up to not wanting to provoke the much larger crowd.
After the march passes we check the US Consulate, but nothing has happened there. Riot-ready RCMP officers stand and observe behind triangular lashed barricades. On the roof of the courthouse opposite, where snipers peeked the day before, are two bemused employees. There are no snipers in sight today— which only suggests that they are doing their jobs well from better positions.
Overwhelmed by the waves of people and overlapping protest messages and riot gear (and having skipped breakfast and lunch out of nerves), we retreat to find coffee and take a moment to recoup and talk about what we just saw.
…And walk for blocks. And blocks. Everything in the area is closed, even in Chinatown, which has little respect even for statutory holidays. Large parts of the city core are like a ghost town. Finally, almost at Yonge Street, we find an open Starbucks. It’s the only open place around. “I’m probably going to hell for this,” I mutter, but I’ve been walking in the rain for hours now and need a hot drink and clean bathroom and so give in to the den of capitalist coffee grounds.
(So much ironic foreshadowing. In hindsight, I can’t help but think that if we had kept walking all the way over to Yonge, we would have been in the College Park Timmy’s when the riot went past. And what, I wonder, would I have done then?)
Half an hour later we head back to Queen’s Park, arriving in time to see the returning peaceful protesters flow in. The Tibetans were the rearguard in the march; when they reappear, still organized and cheerful, I realize that there is nowhere near as many people in Queen’s Park now as there was at the start. What happened to them, I wonder, and where did they break off? Did the group that was planning to splinter off at University and Queen somehow manage to go south, past the rows of riot cops?
We check out the scene in the park for a while, trying to assess the mood and playing spot the undercover. Random men take pictures of us; we take pictures of them. Queen’s Park at the end of the march seems to comprise of a very mixed bag of messages. People have signs and banners for quite a few things I’ve never heard of. We also get handed a bunch of paper by insistent people. I recycle it dutifully later. All I can think is so many agendas, so little time.
On the fringes of the park, the atmosphere of suspicion is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Within, things are a bit warmer. Live music is being played from the back of a truck. It’s loud enough to be heard at the US Consulate many blocks away. Just a few seconds standing in close range of those loudspeakers and I have to move back to a safe distance to preserve my eardrums. I actually need to deploy my earplugs. Oh the irony.
The park is also occupied by loads of average people who seem happy that it’s over, that something was accomplished and that they can go home with a little satisfaction from the day. After returning to the park they meet in assorted groups to discuss the protest or socialize and listen to music. Just before 4PM, an announcement is made by the organizers thanking everyone and directing them to their buses, which are parked in a row on the east side of University Ave for easy loading. Many of the regular folks from out of town pack up and say goodbye to their friends and colleagues and head off. We head back down University on foot to see if we can determine where the rest of the protest went. The street is wide and almost empty, expectant.
Nothing has changed at the US Consulate: it’s the same scene, barricades and waiting RCMP in riot garb. We continue southward. It’s only when we approach Queen Street West that we get the first sign that things are about to go sideways.
A CBC minivan with smashed windows sits near the war monument at University & Queen. It looks like somebody took exception to the CBC and had a go at their vehicle in passing. One intersection south (Richmond) is a line of bike police, cordoning off southbound travel on University Ave. As we watch this blockade moves up to the south side of Queen West. The scattered public and/or protesters in the area move readily. Only one officer has to lift his bike to get his point across; there is no conflict here yet. Other people are still smiling at these cops and talking to them in passing. A group of protest clowns flap before them, gabbling in a made-up language and posing for photos. Many people don’t seem to see the smashed van just to the north.
Registering myself with the facial recognition system. (Note also the spotter plane midfield.)
We stand at the intersection for five minutes, watching people stream eastward, trying to see into the hazy distance. All we see are more of the peaceful protesters returning, stragglers and groups. Finally somebody says a cop car is burning further west. We decide not to go near that scene, as it would be the most likely place riot squads would box a crowd in… or so you’d think.
Instead we turn around and head east on Queen towards Nathan Philips Square, intending to visit the Jazz Festival. It’s at this point that— without knowing it— we take our first few steps into Toronto’s nightmare.
A second smashed CBC minivan. I had no idea people had so much hate for the CBC.
Look at your pretty face.
People are stopping to look at another CBC minivan. “Holy shit.” That's two now, smashed out and abandoned. This one is inexplicably carpeted with leaves— green tree boughs that don’t seem to match the trees above it on the boulevard. Where are the news guys? I wonder, looking around, but there’s no sign of them.
A few feet further on are two TTC streetcars, similarily abandoned, fully intact but silent on the tracks. No TTC personnel in sight. Under their skirts is a rainshadow; I surmise they had to shut the cars down earlier and leave them on the track due to street closures for the protest. If any TTC personnel were there when the angry mob went east, they would sensibly have cleared the area for their own safety. Not a bad idea. Looking at the damage here, I can’t help but think it won’t be long before police come to secure the area and protect this property too. So we head further east, pausing only to get a shot of the Everything is OK guy in front of a line of riot cops preventing southward travel at York Street. They’ve also got the Sheraton Hotel buttoned up, but the police behind the barricades there seem a little more relaxed than the ones on the street. (We see a couple of seemingly flustered hotel guests returning. They show their room card and are politely asked to wait while an officer confirms their registration.)
There’s also some graffiti around the Nathan Philips Square area, but it's dipshit stuff; a high pressure washer or fresh coat of paint will clear it off.
You call that vandalism? I've seen worse on skateparks.
I’m starving at this point so I stop to get some street meat. Tam heads a little further up the street to check things out; we agree to meet up at the Freedom Arches in NPS in ten minutes. Somehow we’re still operating under the assumption that other than some minor vandalism, Toronto is still functioning normally. Wrong.
My phone rings, barely a minute later: Tam. “You’ve got to get over here and see this.”
“See what?”
“Just come to the corner by the Hakim.”
She waits for me on the way. “Over here.”
“What’s up? –Holy.”
A few windows along the Queen Street side of the Vision building have been penetrated lightly… but a couple panes further along is a much bigger hole that leads into an alcove holding multiple TD bank machines. Signs on the machines warn customers of an impending “disruption of service” related to the G20. Cue another ironic shot.
Some idiots are sticking their heads in. I picture the heavy, hanging remainder of the sheet dropping out of its frame onto the backs of their necks. “Um, not a good idea guys.” Then the Everything is OK guy appears and a photo frenzy ensues. Reassured again, at least for the moment, we turn towards Nathan Philips Square and the Jazz Festival.
Across the street we find the CBC decamped. They have set up a three vehicle cluster with satellite uplink and a generator humming. A light and tripod mounted camera provide the go-live. We walk past their diesel stink into NPS and once again I am surprised to find that the overhead catwalk is open to the public. Immediately we go up for a pigeon’s eye view.
In the Square behind, the Toronto Jazz Festival is still open. It had provided such a nice oasis on Friday that I’d been planning to escape the intensity there today… however it’s now 5PM and the stage is empty where the Club Django Sextet is supposed to be playing. After snapping a few more photos of the scene from this vantage point we head down to explore the Jazz Fest. Half the vendors’ tents are veiled; attendance can be measured on two hands. By 5:15, there’s still no sign of Club Django, but we stand with a few other people and watch Herbie Hancock and his band warming up in the VIP tent for their evening gig. Sound check alone is not enough to soothe the shattered soul however, so before long we’re back on Queen Street West, where new developments are unfolding.
A unit of approximately sixty RCMP in riot gear are massing on Bay just north of Queen. As we watch from an elevated walkway along the side of Old City Hall, clusters of curious onlookers form, facing them. They melt away quickly however when the staccato tap of the lead baton is heard. Hundreds of civilians follow and observe as this squad moves down Bay to bolster an existing line blocking pedestrian traffic at Richmond Street. The double line then faces in two directions. To the south, protesters with signs are visible over their heads. Standing among the bystanders to the north, I signal to Tam to stay back, not to get too close. Where we stand at that moment there are three possible avenues of retreat, including one side alley which doglegs back to Queen, and I want to keep it that way, because this troop movement makes no apparent sense whatsoever. Anyone can walk a block east and go south or north on Yonge.
Before long I’ve seen enough here. It’s 5:30 and there’s still no jazz. “Okay… do we keep going?”
Consensus sends us eastward, in the general direction of the car. En route we find that the Hudson’s Bay Company and the Eatons Centre are in lockdown. Guards stand behind the doors, shaking their heads to curious queries from the street. A few trapped customers or employees squeeze out, but it’s a none-shall-pass scenario in the other direction.
We reach Yonge Street. What follows next is the most eerie part of the day.
After a short debate whether to head home or stay out, someone walking past mentions damage at Urban Outfitters (a little ways north) and makes up our minds for us. As we set off, a column of minivans with tinted windows cuts through what little traffic there is, cruising southward on Yonge. We assume they are going to go across Queen to where other officers are massing, but are wrong again. They hold at Queen. It’s briefly amusing to watch other vehicles stop behind them, wait (thinking they are stopped for the light), and then discover the column is not moving. Some pull U-turns and head north again; others pull past.
We continue northwards. Looking back down the street I mentally frame the composition, wanting to snap it. Shortly a single rickshaw driver pulls past and I backtrack to get the contrast shot— still a little fearful that one of the vans will open up and men will jump out and drag me (or another bystander) in. On both sides of the street, people are pausing to watch. But the vans and their occupants do nothing. (Later we look back and see that they are continuing south, towards Union.)
A short ways on is Urban Outfitters. Their displays are such a mess that it’s not until we stand in front of the windows (or lack thereof) that the damage is really noticeable. “Why would somebody do this?” I wonder, thinking: it’s a pointless consumer store, but not smash-worthy. “What’s the point?”
Fortunately for my confusion someone has handily written on one of the remaining panes of glass their apparent reason for their smash: “corp greed” (with a bodily function related suggestion. No love lost here.)
A few doors farther north is a smashed Burger King… then a store that sells sneakers. “Close sweat shops” emblazons the shoe palace. The agenda starts to become clear.
As I shoot the dramatically smashed windows of the neighbouring Popeye’s Chicken, it shifts to the comical. An older black man walks by and kisses his teeth. “Shit! Who don’t like chicken?”
Callous as it sounds, this becomes our refrain. At the Levis Store: “Shit! Who doesn’t like blue jeans?”
At Zanzibar: “Shit! Who doesn’t like titties?”
At American Apparel: “Shit! Who doesn’t… wait, that’s shit!”
Those must be good waffles.
Paradoxically, the Wanda’s Waffles next door to the Zanzibar is unscathed. They’re still doing business, tempting the drifting crowd with insanely delicious odors. (Later I see a video which shows the cooks standing outside this storefront while female vandals rip at the sign advertising G-strings in place of the G8.)
They got a Timmy’s too. Ok, I was disturbed before; now I’m really sad.
At College and Yonge, chairs from the Tim Horton’s are embedded in the windows of a Starbucks across the street. Coffee wars? It reminds me of an art project I saw not too long ago. One man standing beside us taking photos on his cel phone suddenly volunteers that he was sitting inside the Starbucks when the damage occurred. “How many people did this?” I ask. “Twelve or fifteen. All in black, you know?” “And you were inside?” “Yes, drinking my coffee.” I ask more questions, but— shaking his head— he doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate. Through the smashed windows we can see cups sitting abandoned on the tables within. I have the impulse to ask which was his, but before I can he is gone.
“Hey Dave, go fix me a frappucino,” a guy near us jokes.
An unattended Starbucks
Running on three hours sleep and scant meals, our trek around Toronto now begins to verge on the surreal. It feels like we’ve entered one of Douglas Coupland’s softly insulated visions. Much of the geography of apocalypse is in place here: empty streets interrupted by clots of dazed wanderers. Darkened shops with security guards standing behind panes of glass. Random vehicles (mostly taxis) streaking by with little regard for pedestrians or bystanders. There are no sirens. Like time, transit is suspended. The city outside us is largely silent, full of the sense of being disconnected from itself.
In many ways, Toronto is having a little fin de siecle moment. Everything is not OK. Malaise and unrest have hit home.
Debris on Yonge.
“You really don’t feel like you’re walking around a civilized, western world city. You really feel like you’re walking around some city after an apocalypse or nuclear attack.”
-Charlie Veitch, Love Police, 7/27/2010
Somewhere in the debris on Yonge Street my feelings just… curdled. For a while my recollection becomes a scattered collection of fleeting impressions and disconnected fragments: Safety glass crunching underfoot. So that’s why they said don’t wear open toed sandals. Vuvuzelas calling bzzzz. (Somehow appropriate circling the blocks at a riot; not so much for two hours straight at a game. “The soundtrack for the end of the world will be played on those,” a friend of a friend quips later, and I have to agree.)
*shakes fist*
There are hanging walls of broken safety glass. Smashed stores left unattended. From one jagged-edged cave, the unexpected scent of leather. Random whiffs of vinegar as young men pass on College Street. The holes in the coffee chain storefronts exhale coffee aromas. Down the street, a suggestive window display in the American Apparel store had been shit bombed. Away from the police front with its attendant tear gas and OC, that was the most offensive odor we encountered all day.
Say it with poo...
On Queen the crowd was mixed; dispersed protestors and bystanding civilian-observers. On Yonge, half an hour later, actual tourists mix in. Some seem dazed by the damage, but others take it in stride. Take a picture of me in front of this destruction, Mom! We alternate between eyeing the destruction and observing the reactions of others to it. For the most part people are very, very upset.
We walk further north on Yonge Street. More ugly discoveries. Before we know it, an entire hour has gone by since we left the riot squad lines near NPS. Other than one convoy of minivans, we still haven’t seen a cop.
Yonge Street north of Dundas, 6/26/2010, 6:17PM
The TTC is shut down, forcing thousands aboveground on the Yonge line. Pedestrians take over the nearly empty roads. Traffic is light in most areas, nonexistent in others— mostly taxis and tourbuses, plus the odd lost motorist. College Street is nearly empty.
Concerned friends are texting updates, telling us about police cars on fire to the south and west. Trying to figure out what is going on, I curse my inadequate technology: this would be so much easier and more accurate if I had a phone with internet access… Now the ultimate conflict accessory. (Here I must shamefully confess that this weekend is the first time I have ever found myself longing for access to Twitter.)
Tam’s phone rings: paradoxically, it’s a concerned parent calling from New York City, where the news shows only that Toronto is burning. While I flash back to trying to get ahold of friends in NYC, post-9/11, Tam reassures him that she’s fine. Meanwhile, just blocks away, another nightmare has begun.
All the talk about people in black in the media build-up to the G20 confuses me because they have hardly been visible: three glimpses in two days now; a little eyeflash. But from a distance way down College we can now see what appears to be a black line unfolding in blooming smoke. In the riot zone it’s hard to be sure what’s carried on the wind. I shoot with zoom then chimp on the spot to get a better idea of what’s going on a kilometer away.
What I see in this playback is disturbing. It does look like a wall of bodies and rising smoke. Soon we can whiff a bit of smoke from here, but it’s doesn’t smell offensive enough to be tear gas. Wait, it was still a perfectly peaceful protest zone there when we left at 4pm. What the hell is going on? Did the rioters run back that way and light something else on fire? Or is it crowd dispersal smoke?
We decide to get a bit closer without being stupid or risking arrest. In the process we walk past Toronto Police Headquarters and find that outside is posted a thick line of cops. Behind them I can see a pane of smashed glass; it’s clear this building also came under attack. They glare across the road at us with such palpable suspicion that I’m glad we didn’t walk down that side of the street.
We keep going, passing a smashed bus shelter (somebody didn’t like the ad, I’m guessing) and a few discarded lumps of black fabric (abandoned t-shirts). Somebody has also smashed a window in the Department of Obstetrics & Gynaecology building belonging to U of T. (Really, now? You have a problem with people learning medicine for lady parts? This is getting severely lame.)
At University Ave we find the black line is actually a blue one: a line of riot police, blocking all passage. There are more than a few bystanders milling around before them: the same mix of curious bystanders, locals on bicycles waiting to get through, and random media that we’ve seen all day. However this isn’t a simple street closure but a full-on blockade. This police line extends from the construction facades on the south-east corner of College all the way across the street and up into Queen’s Park. In fact it extends as far as we can see, encompassing the full intersection and entire south end of Queen’s Park. Within the lines are even more police and assorted support vehicles. Their lines are so thick that it’s difficult to tell what’s going on within the park. I spot a vantage point on the steps of the Banting Building nearby and we climb up for a look.
The enhanced view is easily the most terrifying thing Toronto has ever shown me. An internal perimeter of hundreds upon hundreds of riot police are pressing into the center of Queen’s Park— the free speech zone we had left, full of peaceful protesters, some two hours prior. Barely visible within their blue-black lines are a cluster of protesters. We know they are there because of a few straggling signs waving over helmeted heads. But the circle is closing on them. Buses idle to the south and block-long lineups of minivans wait at the curbs nearby for squad transports… or arrests.
Queen's Park scene - 6/26/2010, 6:56 PM.
I pride myself on my intuition, a sense carefully developed over years of navigating chaotic and hazardous environments. More times than I can count it’s led me to be in the right place at the right time— or queued a side step or swerve essential to saving my life. All day long, up to this point, I’ve been using it to read the streets and track my internal sense of danger— rating its quiet screams on a scale of one to ten. The highest it’s reached before this moment is three or four. Now— with about a hundred and fifty cops staring at me on a high point with a camera, and one even standing behind a bush photographing our position— it’s heading for ten, easily. The tension is beyond palpable. I don’t like standing here, even if there are easily forty or fifty other people, all witnesses, standing along the balustrade nearby. The cries of protesters and clacking of riot batons on shields coming from three directions seals it: it’s time to exit while we’re still free and ahead.
We retrace our approach across College and walk south on Yonge— seeing the progress of window repairs in several locations, but remarking again on the lack of police presence. At least now we know where a large portion of them are— if not what they are doing, or why. None of it makes sense now. In the vaccuum of dazed bodies and smashed glass, there’s just one lingering, repetitive question: What the fuck?
Terms we learned this week
Demo culture – Shared culture among activist groups which values protest. (It’s important to note that demo is short for demonstration here, not demolition.)
Confrontationalist – a form of protest involving confronting or challenging authority directly, frequently with methods involving attempts at thoughtful discussion of ideas. See also Love Police.
Police theatre – see also G20
Riot porn – see Rule 34.
Riot tourist – see below.
Real tourists. Or real protesters. Whichever, they have a right to be there.
“I’m worried about living in a town that’s full of people running around with guns.”
-CBC reporter Tim Ralfe, 1970
Filed under one of the most important things we learned this week: the mostly peaceful citizens of Toronto will not passively condone a large visible police presence in their midst. The sheer numbers of active witnesses (observing and recording in a variety of forms) attests to this. Somehow people know instinctively that this mass observation tactic is a strong recourse to the feeling of intimidation. The widespread proliferation of digital imaging technology makes it possible. The influence of that technology— and its empowerment of so-called social media— is worthy of an essay unto itself.
Yet it amazes me how many people— from protesters to mainstream media to the chief of police— are ready to complain about “curious spectators” “lookyloos” “gawkers” “thrill seekers” “self important documentarians” “riot tourists” and “naïve bystanders”— ie, both the general public and residents of Toronto who were out and about during the G20 with no intent either to protest or participate in property damage, and the non-accredited-media people who were walking around with cameras in hand.
(For those who weren’t there: masses of Toronto residents, non-participants, general bystanders and other civilians observed this weekend’s events. Pretty much anywhere police actions or protests or rioting was taking place, normal and otherwise uninvolved people were standing nearby, often with a camera or cel phone in hand, recording. Arguably this group outnumbered all the other elements combined.)
Protesters seem to want them to get off the fence and raise a voice, to swell the proverbial ranks. Cops want the public out of the way, ostensibly for their own safety, but by implication so that it’s easier to “sort out the bad guys”. Meanwhile, some members of the mainstream media seem to feel that their jobs are threatened by social media, or by ordinary people taking on the role of journalists.
But there’s another word for this fourth significant group that people seem quick to forget: witnesses.
Whether that’s translated to mean witnesses to a crime or witnesses to history is an individual opinion and largely depends on where one is standing when shit goes down.
A 60-person RCMP riot squad assembles on York Street while bystanders look on.
“…It’s insane that police have tried to characterize people who simply want to witness for themselves– rather than trust the official narrative of events– as part of the problem.”
There is much to be said about how the spread of digital imaging technology has changed the nature of media itself and massively influenced world events in the past two decades. At some point in the future I hope to write more about this. For the moment however, I’ll just direct anyone who has lingering doubts about the power of citizens armed with digital cameras to a special human rights organization called Witness.
Shock and perplexed reactions reflected in a window on Yonge.
Now… Let’s turn the coin for a moment. Yes, there were some utter fucking morons in certain spots. Although they were definetly the exceptions in the generally peaceful millieu, many of these people were far too stupid to not out themselves as such. Jen takes pictures took some pictures of them, so if you want to see some faces of rampant stupidity click here. And here. And here. And here’s even more images of people who should stick to idolizing Justin Bieber and whacking off at home. (Why is there so many of them? Stop the ride, I want to get off.)
If this sort of behaviour wasn’t bad enough, there’s also craigslist, which provides plenty of evidence that the human libido thrives in times of riot. Yes— “Lovers in a Dangerous Time” wafts through my head as I read these “missed connections” missives. Ah love, sweet love...
And the topper...
Somebody posting as “G20security” even appears to have been using the "missed connections" section of Toronto Craigslist to communicate with unknowns.
This one looked suspicious at first but actually led to a spoof ISU twitter feed full of witty G20 counter-news gems, such as:
“G20 is for people too - 20 of them.”
“Downtown is NOT 'in lockdown'. We like to use the term 'citizen-proofed'.”
“Wish international media could as least TRY to be accurate. Ontario is a 'police province', not 'police state'.”
All of which leads me to…
The Toronto Special Anti-Terrorism Humor Unit
“If they tell us to stay scared we must laugh.” -The Love Police
Toronto protests for many reasons. It also does pretty much everything with a creative and unique sense of humor. Contrary to some reports, this did not go missing during the G20. We saw plenty of examples of it and (again, trying to unwind the unrelenting intensity) started to single them out. Some favorites:
GIT DOWN! That man's got a stapler!
Seriously though, this is a reference to the death of Robert Dziekanski after tasering by RCMP officer in Vancouver in 2007. Here's a more recent article about it: www.theglobeandmail.com/news/opinions/editorials/a-taser-...
Indeed...
Why so serious? ...I mean STYLISH.
I should mention here that I deeply regret missing shots of the guy who was protesting Justin Bieber, Mr “Less G20 More 420”, and the protest clown group (think “Mump and Smoot meet the riot police”). All were walking manifestations of how well local groups and ideas adapt to protest… Of course, it’s also possible to take attention-getting too far, as in the case of Nearly Naked Guy, of whom there are photos galore, or Totally Naked Guy, of which there are too many. (No links here; I’ll spare you the graphics.)
Don’t get me wrong. I take this stuff very seriously, and I’m sure pretty much everyone else who ventured onto Toronto’s streets during the G20 does too. I’m just quick to see the value of humor in difficult situations. Not only can it help defuse tensions, the protests that mock (witness oxfam’s nekkid world leaders) tend to go down better than, say, hmm, ohhhh… throwing rocks? A sense of humor is mileage. It engages and grabs your attention. And, most importantly, it helps defeat fear.
“You can’t laugh and be afraid at the same time.” -Stephen Colbert
Speaking of memorable guys out on G20 days... One of the first people we met on the way up University was the “Everything is OK” guy. (Toronto’s own, I assume— although I found out later that this particular act of protest has been around a little while.) We were travelling in the same direction for a good part of the afternoon, so I got a number of shots of him in action, and I have to say… giant balls.
Witness these collected images:
Before the march, everything is OK on University Ave.
The same spot after the march. Everything is still OK.
Everything is OK at York Street...
With tongue planted firmly in cheek, of course...
Everything is OK at the TD bank too.
When another bystander asked him what his message was, he answered with a smile.
“I’m not saying anything. I’m perfectly happy, everything is fine,” he said— standing before a gaping maw of smashed safety glass that was a TD Bank window. “I have a high paying job, I get to wear suits every day, I live in a nice condo. My life is a sugar frosted dream.” I couldn’t detect any trace of irony.
It’s subtle and challenging acts of protest like this and the often artful spiels of the Love Police that get me thinking hardest. Come up to me in a park or on the street with a pamphlet and vocal agenda (or a sign related to psychotropic mind control) and I’ll be hard pressed to engage your message. Make me laugh and I’ll listen… a bit longer, anyhow.
Scrabble, anyone?
Postscript
“To be well adjusted to a sick world doesn’t make you well adjusted; it makes you sick as well.”
Kindly disregard the timestamp on this post and the mixed tenses within. Most of this entry was written days, even weeks later, as I continue to struggle with how best to describe these events and the aftermath. (I could never be a “real” journalist; I couldn’t file on time to save my life. Also, too much time spent doing that naughty little thing called thinking… oh, and research. Research is good too.)
I’m not the only one having difficulty finding words to fit the situation. After several days spent walking the downtown core, everything but my feet and legs has gone numb. Except for the anger. There’s an incredible, sleep-destroying, cell-bending amount of that.
For most of my adult life, I’ve thrived on navigating through innately chaotic environments (like conventions, random crowd scenes, raw wilderness, or the active city itself) and turning each passage into a creative force. Not this time. Although I navigated chaos successfully yet again, the uncertainties it has caused are still in my system. My emotions run the full spectrum— although anger largely dominates. I’m still alternating between shaking and buzzing with it long after the security zone has opened and the first fences are pushed away. The sound of a low flying helicopter gives me panic attacks. Having to walk past a single beat cop just to enter my vet’s office fills me with rage. Not his fault, but it’s manifestly clear that this entire weekend has been a nightmare on many levels. The “public trust” has been badly fractured. Politicians will try their best to whitewash this weekend, but it’s doubtful that events of this magnitude can be swept under the rug. For a lot of people the ramifications are going to linger.
Seventeen years living here and I’ve never felt unsafe in Toronto. I’ve always considered Toronto to be a green zone— not in the environmental sense but rather more like a green light district. For most of my life it’s been a place where anything goes, so long as no laws are broken and nobody gets hurt. (The same goes for most of the rest of Canada, for that matter, which has always ranked highly when discussing the “world’s freest countries”. Not so high and righteous now.) The Toronto that embraced diversity and earned its reputation as one of the cities with the most personal freedoms in the world has just been shirtsied and kneed in the gut. What a wake up call.
Somebody let me know when it’s safe to wear black again.
Weather outlook for June 27th: variable cloudiness with a 10% chance of riots. Hype: 66%.
A full set of images from the Toronto G20 can be found here.
hypersapiens
Oops. I forgot to include my shots from a trip to Pearson International on Thursday for planespotting. We watched the sun set from the public side of runway 23. Saw the Japanese Prime Minister and German Chancellor's planes arrive, as well as a trio of military helicopters flying formation. A minute after we left, police arrived and started questioning the guy who took my spot.
All images are in set here.
June 24, 2010: Military choppers fly patterns over Pearson as world leaders begin to arrive for the G8 and G20 summits.
A German Airbus A310-304 (10+22) arrives for the summit, carrying Chancellor Angela Merkel.
An atmosphere of tension pervades.
It probably wouldn't seem so tense if I stopped posting images like this.
Or this.