# alien privilege



## psyche's release (Oct 15, 2008)

(something i wrote after a riot in the spring)

Alien Privilege

I tasted tear gas for the first time yesterday. It tasted like nothing. 

It felt like nothing, too, at first. 

We’d gone about a block and a half – from Baross Street, past a side street where people had been making fun of the dozen riot police officers who were running toward us. 

“Ha ha! We got past the police line. Stupid pigs.” 

Small, burning embers flew over our heads and landed on the ground behind us. Boots stomped out the resulting fires. And then all of the people who’d just marched with such determination down Maria Street were suddenly hurrying back up the narrow lane. 

I wondered if the police were still on the corner – or if they’d moved back up to the boulevard, afraid of being trampled. I wondered if it were possible for this gentle, polite crowd of protestors to trample anyone. I wondered why we were backtracking. 

And then I wondered why I couldn’t breathe. 

My friend pulled the scarf off his neck and wrapped it around my head, covering my mouth and nose – and very nearly my eyes. I pulled it down again. I did not want to be wearing that candy-cane striped scarf on any part of my body when we passed those riot police. Red and white are the colors of the “real” Hungarian national flag – the nationalist flag. I did not want to be arrested as an insurgent. All I wanted was to take a breath. 

I gasped once. Twice. My friend had buried his face in his coat – everyone was burying their face somewhere. The street was packed with cars pulled up onto the sidewalk that we were attempting to scuttle down, five across. We pressed forward, climbing over bumpers and sliding across car hoods. I stopped attempts at breathing – conserved oxygen and concentrated on moving with the crowd and thinking of anything other than the sting in my eyes and the vise-clamp pressure in my chest. There were tears dripping off my chin. Panic welled. I would be trampled any moment. There’s no way people will remain calm in the face of this. Etiquette will fly away – up and up on those ashes; past the tops of the four- and five-story apartment buildings, into fresh air – leaving us below to claw our way out. 

But they simply turned around and started walking in the opposite direction – their eyes streaming, hands pressed against the backs of the people in front of them. Gasping and coughing. No one trying to pass anyone – perhaps realizing that moving as one unit was the only way to escape that invisible pain. I concentrated on not breathing. On not losing my companion, my consciousness, or the scarf I’d torn from my neck that was now hanging uselessly from my right hand. I needed air. Fresh air – not some ridiculous filter facsimile. A guy just ahead was yelling something at me in Hungarian. Rather, he was speaking mostly with his hands, pointing to his own scarf-enshrouded head. “Thank you,” I mouthed back, and held my scarf up to my face long enough for him to ride the wave of people past me. “I need to not breathe, is all,” I said to myself again. “Don’t breathe.” 

I had forgotten the police by the time we flowed past that side street. I still don’t know – were they blocking it off, or allowing the protestors to use it as an escape route? 

About a half a block separated me from uncorrupted oxygen. I was light-headed and dissociated, and remembered the recurring dream I have where I am stuck underwater, in the ocean, after a tidal wave crashes over me – and when I just try to breathe, I find that I can. But surreality is not dream reality. No matter how strange it feels, it’s still real life. Misplaced for a second, I think I am under water, and take a breath. Or attempt to. Sobered and suddenly awake again, I keep walking as I choke – unable to inhale deeply enough to cough properly. 

Finally, we were able to turn a corner and feel a fresh breeze on our faces. There was a tiny shop open, with a line running out the door. Every one of those people came out with bottles of water. Some of them splashed it into their eyes, and their faces contorted again as the fine powder irritant on their skin mixed with the water and resurrected. 

Each one of the people in line waited patiently, stunned, holding their bottles. Approached the cash register. Said “hello”. Handed the cashier their money, took their change and said “Thank you. Have a good night,” as they left. 

One by one or in tiny clusters they headed back to the main boulevard in an attempt to regroup; looking for a leader or a direction; someone to tell them what they were supposed to do now. 

10 minutes in that narrow street, moving forward solemnly and then retreating as one body to escape that invisible pain – it was the only really cohesive act of that group of demonstrators. Nationalists, fascists – some of them. Shitdisturbers and agitators – a handful. Nostalgistas and old-timers unable to give up the ghost of security that communism afforded them – for sure. College students scared about their future - maybe. All of them simply fed up with the way the government runs and runs over people in the name of democracy.


----------



## Ogion (Nov 1, 2008)

Wow, captivating text to an experience prolly most of us haven't got (i at least don't).

Thanks
Ogion


----------



## snail (Oct 13, 2008)

Great writing!


----------



## jack london (Aug 27, 2010)

You are a great writer.


----------



## Voodo Chile (Jul 6, 2011)

thats really good


----------



## Quickbeam (May 21, 2011)

Simply incredible.


----------



## Blazing_Glitter (Sep 13, 2011)

Stunning writing on the experience. 
You could write like this for magazines.


----------



## Digger Blue (Dec 1, 2010)

Well written, to be sure!
You make me thankful that the groups I protest with are well organized and that we do not confront the police. We have the right to protest, and we do our own policing while the real police just watch and stop traffic for us. One foot on or over a traffic stripe and a guy with a megaphone says, "Please sir, would you please step clear of the traffic lane?!" 
One of my buddies protested with the intent of getting arrested. It was carefully planned, with legal support if needed. He got arrested with a misdemeanor of which he is very proud of. Again, this sounds like a world away from the environment you were marching in. Good luck.
Regards,
Digger Blue


----------

