It began as a peaceful rally, the most peaceful I had seen in the three days of demonstrations. It ended with roughly a hundred people – the elderly, shoppers with bags of groceries, people walking dogs or just curious to see a protest – held in torrential rain for four hours, penned in by rows of riot police. Slowly, one by one, they were arrested on charges of conspiracy to commit public mischief, handcuffed and led to buses headed for a prisoner detention centre.
I was among those arrested.
I had been following the demonstrations for three days, live-tweeting what was happening in the city. I followed the 25,000-strong protest that left from Queen’s Park on Saturday, with marchers from Oxfam and Amnesty International. The protest was marred by a minority of violent extremists who left a trail of broken windows and overturned mailboxes.
On Sunday, the protests resumed downtown. I caught up with one at King and Bay in the afternoon.
When we got to the intersection of Queen and Spadina, the police had blocked two exits: southbound and westbound. Mass confusion about where to go. A marcher with a megaphone ordered people to join others riding north, but people milled about, unsure. Suddenly, out of the crowd stepped two police leading a man in handcuffs to an alleyway north of Queen. Many followed his route, asking police why he was arrested. Then I looked up the street and realized: Police in riot gear are now coming south, toward us. We’re possibly trapped.
I asked an officer the way out and he pointed to the southeast corner. I didn't make it there. When I realized we were trapped, I went to the southwest corner and asked to be let go. “You can’t leave,” said the cop. A woman next to me, 40-ish, thin, with nervous facial tics and a pet dog, asked to leave as well. A man with a backpack and a suitcase asked to get through to get to his home on Queen Street. No dice.
Picture taken by Lisan Jutras on Queen Street West Sunday.— Lisan Jutras/The Globe and Mail
Before there was time to check on the eastern exit, a group of police began pushing up from the south. “Move! Move!” they said as I stood in a crush of people with my bike. “I have nowhere to go!” I said. I was plowed into the people in front of me. A couple nearby looked to be in their 60s; the man was obviously not a protester: “Why didn’t you leave your bike at home today?” he said to me in aggravation.
Someone nearby helped me by carrying my bike to a safe spot in a store alcove, but while it was allowed to stay there, we were not. We were told by police in riot gear in the alcove behind us to leave and get into the street. I stood in front of a woman who had six bags of food from Chinese grocers – she’d been shopping.
I don’t know if it’s all the practice we have waiting for the TTC in foul weather, but Torontonians were amazing. However confused they were, they stayed very, very calm. Very respectful of each other. All was quiet but for the sound of helicopters.
And then it began to rain. And I mean rain. Bollywood-musical monsoon-scene rain. Out came the umbrellas, about one for every five to ten people. We shared. People, a lot in T-shirts, were shivering severely. A destitute man wandered around asking if anyone would share food. Someone gave him a falafel.
The crowd seemed to be thinning. I wandered across the street and saw people being released. There had to be a catch, I thought, or people would be storming out. Yes: The catch was that you were allowed to go only if you gave yourself up for arrest.
