Last Monday evening at 5:30, demonstrators flooded Town Hall, impassioned by the arrival of Isaac Herzog, the President of Israel, on Australian soil. Prior to the assembly taking place, the NSW Police Commissioner broadened the Public Assembly Restriction Declaration (PARD), restricting areas of Sydney, such as Town Hall, from street marches. Thousands of protesters showed up in spite of the temporary ruling, including myself and my younger brother Lachlan. It was obvious that this was an indisputable time to protest. This was my first pro-Palestinian rally, and the first ever protest that Lachlan had attended.
As we approached Town Hall, officers redirected us to a side entrance away from the operating light rail. I searched the assembly for my friend who was situated 20 metres to the right of the speaker’s platform, where we stayed close to her and her family for most of the event.
A sweeping crowd circled around St Andrew’s Cathedral. Cheers and boos boomed throughout the assembly as speakers including Lizzie Jarrett, Grace Tame, Antony Loewenstein, Mehreen Faruqi, Mohamed Duar, and Raneem Emad naturally motivated the masses.
It wasn't until Emad’s speech that many from the crowd began chanting “let us march” repeatedly. By that point, we had made our way toward the light rail and in front of Town Hall. Streams of people weaved through the crowd and were stopped by officers on horses near the front steps, confining us into the space. We ducked under a banner that read “Free Palestine – Solidarity” and NTEU (National Tertiary Education Union) flags to make our way around. The rhythmic beating of drums, boos, chatters and chants drowned out all other noises. Senior Police Officer Paul Dunstan announced for us to disperse, telling us that a march would not be taking place. Who I then assumed to be Josh Lees, Palestine Action Group organiser, was noted to be negotiating with Dunstan on the steps of Town Hall.
My friend stopped a First Aid helper who gave us earplugs saying that there may have been an LRAD (long-range acoustic device) equipped for officers to use on us. Noting the helper’s goggles, I felt woefully unprepared. That was when my friend told us: “It’s gonna get violent”, and that officers were being provided with pepper spray. As much as I wanted to be a part of it all, my priority and responsibility was ensuring that Lachlan was safe from any potential violence; so we left.
We crossed the road and were about to enter the Woolworths Metro. I took one step forward and then I heard the words “pick a side”. I turned around to see a line of cops and instinctively moved away from them. Standing tall with their backs facing me, I didn’t realise that Lachlan and I were separated by the officers. He asked them if he could leave but they refused to let him; Lachlan told me later that one of them had pushed him back into the crowd.
I was ushered away by another policeman who gestured for me to go into the train station, but as I looked behind me, I saw an unbroken chain of police men stretching from Town Hall, across the street, to where I stood paralysed. They were kettling the protestors.
I reached into my pants pocket and realised that Lachlan was calling me, and we agreed to meet on the other side of the block. I instantly began walking, turning the corner only to be met with pink vested ‘Legal Observers’ filming a woman being detained and thrown into a police van. A guttural fear was setting my body alight. I couldn’t imagine anything but the worst outcome: pepper spray, brutality, and LRADs. Panic and guilt overrode any sense of logic. Once I had made it more than halfway around the block, I started breaking down; my brother was still nowhere to be seen.
Finally, he turned the corner and relief spewed out of me.
We had dinner together, and spotted people marching down George Street, so we took a detour to Central Station. The protest followed us there too. I witnessed a handful of demonstrators still chanting through the Grand Concourse, with one proudly hoisting a Palestinian flag into the air.
The train ride home was supposed to be a deserved break, and it was, until videos on social media showcased what I was fortunate enough to avoid. Protestors getting struck repeatedly whilst they were detained; being showered with capsicum spray; grabbed, shoved and forced to stop praying; charged at and intimidated. The graphic violence was overwhelming.
The day after, friends who were in attendance or saw the brutality online reached out asking if I was harmed. The aftermath of that night confirmed to me that demonstrators were not a threat to ‘social cohesion’, we did not show up to aggravate, we were not harbingers of chaos and violence. The shockwaves of this event have revealed the undeniable power that we gain when we organise.
Liberation will never occur if the public blindly follows the command of a leader who chooses to stain himself through bloodied handshakes. What we saw was a heinous abuse of power, perpetrated by police officers who released their festering hate onto innocent protestors.
Others may consider me lucky to have left early and avoided the attacks but, a week later, I refuse to see it that way. I am not lucky, I am not safe, I am not strong – I am scared. The whole of Australia witnessed a disgusting display of police brutality, Islamophobia and racism, and in the days following that horrible event, we have seen little to no justice for anyone affected. The same officers who assaulted us are freely walking without consequences, going back on their oath to protect us.
So my question to these “public servants" is: when you turn against your own, who are you really serving?
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