Thursday night, Montreal at Émilie Gamelin Park. Cursed beautiful evening to demonstrate with thousands of people who have plenty of their headphones. I've been depressed for years reading newspapers, which I worry about trying to measure the extent of their hold. Fuck that, tonight I'm walking to the beat of the djembes. Tonight, we are shouting revolutionary slogans! The night welcomes the clamor calmly, the temperature is bodily and there is in the air a burning smell, a mixture of sweat, anger and fear.


I join a group of friends while people arrive and massage gradually. A Radio-Canada team asks the demonstrators questions. They want to know why. Viewers want to know everything. Why do you go down the street even if the crowds are illegal? Why did you reject the government's offer? I am here because for the first time in my life I unreservedly love thousands of people whose vision I share. I am here because the reality is that I am wrong to have been so pessimistic. But I do not speak to the camera; I am wary. I prefer to stay indented and take notes for later. The real camera tonight, the one to whom no detail escapes, it's me.


As usual to start the ball, the police declare the demonstration illegal.

  • - Good evening, I'm the head of the SPVM-

  • - Booouuuh !!! Booouuuh !!!

  • - By law, this event is declared ...

  • - GO !!! WE ARE ENDING !!!


We stride along, without a precise route, as if we were heading towards an idea rather than a place, and our cries unite to refute our loneliness. In the subway, usually, we fix the junk on the floor or we play Angry Birds while waiting for our turn. When our eyes meet, we stealthily look away from the billboards smiling. Tonight it's different.

We know which side we are on; the eyes meet, the bodies brush against each other and form an organic whole and it galvanizes us. While we go up Berri Street, between Ontario and Sherbrooke, people with Anonymous masks twirl about distributing flowers and tracks. Flowers and tracks, the harvest of an early spring. The Nelligan ponds are boiling. Poets no longer languish looking out the window. They do not idealize their pain with rhymes mundane. Their daily lives do not mean anything for too long, and their dirty poetry, they spit in the face of all. An ugly poetry like that of the tunnel we take night after night, graffiti dripping with anger that, strangely, arouse joy:


I turn around and I see that the crowd extends as far as the eye can see. We are thousands! I have never experienced anything so exhilarating. I watch the demonstrators around me without saying a word. I feel distant and close at the same time, I watch myself watching others, as if I was floating behind me. I can not believe it. I am part of something big. All this time when I thought we were larval, slimy, we were in the process of storing up forces. We are dangerous because suddenly, we believe

that it is worthwhile to defend our dignity. A naked girl on her bicycle passes near us. She makes signs of peace, her long red hair tickling the tips of her breasts. She trailed in a cart a Native American who looks completely smashed, with his hippie headband, his aviator glasses and his toothless smile. We look at each other for a moment, I raise my beer to the sky in sign of approval, and then it disappears in the crowd without leaving a trace, like a mirage of beauty in a concrete desert.

A little later, the march is on Mount Royal. Beside us, there is a gang dancing Gumboot.

- Boum tchht-pak ti-poupou boom tchht-pak !!!

Listening to them, I feel my body dissolve into the rhythm and become the boot that hammers the ground. I am so excited that I find myself dancing with them. We block the street. I knock on my thighs by tapping feet like a gorilla! There are motorists who support us, others who are crisscrossing.


After a moment, a man in his thirties, well dressed, a pink shirt, a loose tie, gets out of his car and slams the door. He has to go twice to close it and people make fun of him, but he keeps his seriousness. To relax the atmosphere, I approach him while dancing. There are protesters pounding on the hood of his tank. He points to us, waving his finger above his nose:

- Well yes that's it, do not worry about my mouth! You can laugh at those who work to pay for your studies, it's good for your cause, that! This is the second time that I have been caught in your protests this week, damn crap!

I drink a sip of Pabst and tell myself that maybe I should drink something else. I take my time, I calmly look at the little reptilian vein that crawls along his temple, the sweat that oiled his face:

- Sorry sir, we're not here to piss you off, we're in the street to assert our rights.
Silence. I burp inside my mouth to be polite.
- Quebec is in debt! Do you think, sometimes, how much debt Québec has? Life is not a party my boyfriend. Why are you blocking the street, han!

I know his speech, I've heard it dozens of times. I do not like common sense, down-to-earth thinking of those who understand everything:
- We block the street because ... it's the only way we can hear. Have you ever made a change in your living room? I mean, apart from the decor?

He approaches me, len-te-ment. I feel like he'll take me by the collar, but there are dozens of ferocious students behind me, claws out and teeth tapered, so he takes a deep breath and returns to his chariot. I thought it was over, but it's coming back! He lowers his window and shouts:

- One day ... one day you will understand ...! You'll understand that we can not have everything cooked in the beak my little guy! Me at first I was not bad of your edge, but there, I start to have until then of your nonsense! Go back to class!

- But I do not want to go to school. I went to school! Paul Gérin-Lajoie, if you want my opinion, it was a big asshole! What a carde idea! Want to teach the people! The people do not need to be instructed to torment the ass of the rich ...! I'll make you a confidence. Me, sir, I am a socialist. I believe in solidarity. Tell him not to my father, he'll be in good shape!



Woooh! I did not come to demonstrate to persevere with one of the responsible lobotomized parrots.

In any case, the march continues, one advances and the red sweeps from one sidewalk to another like a river of new blood. People come out of the bars to applaud and we invite them to join us in the street. And there, what happens is very strange. Rather than join us, our supporters take out their cell phones and film us, dumbfounded by the human tide. Maybe they think we're on TV? It makes me angry! I'm standing in the middle of the street, motionless, watching them film us.

I go out my cell and decide to film them too. We fix ourselves, via the impassive eye of our cameras. Two worlds that contemplate each other without touching each other, two visions that brush against each other in a thrill of misunderstanding. What is he thinking of, the guy who is filming me? I'm doing a free show? He thinks I'm funny? I am the clown of service, the flavor of the day that furnishes the coffee breaks. I'll make them a show! Hey, look here! Hop! What is that ? My middle finger that makes you tatas! Say hello, come on! I sneer a few seconds for posterity, then I set the goal one last time by pulling his tongue like a jerk, before turning his back and save me. I put away my phone and catch up with the crowd. I prefer not to find myself at the end of the walk. This is one of the places where we are most likely to receive batons.


While clearing my way, I spot the sign of my friend Olivier: THE HAND OF THE BOURREAU STILL FINISHED BY MOUTH. I feel less alone.

We stride along, without a precise route, as if we were heading towards an idea rather than a place, and our cries unite to refute our loneliness. In the subway, usually, we fix the junk on the floor or we play Angry Birds while waiting for our turn. When our eyes meet, we stealthily look away from the billboards smiling. Tonight it's different.

We know which side we are on; the eyes meet, the bodies brush against each other and form an organic whole and it galvanizes us. While we go up Berri Street, between Ontario and Sherbrooke, people with Anonymous masks twirl about distributing flowers and tracks. Flowers and tracks, the harvest of an early spring. The Nelligan ponds are boiling. Poets no longer languish looking out the window. They do not idealize their pain with rhymes mundane. Their daily lives do not mean anything for too long, and their dirty poetry, they spit in the face of all. An ugly poetry like that of the tunnel we take night after night, graffiti dripping with anger that, strangely, arouse joy:


I feel drunk, as if my apprehensions mixed with alcohol to disturb my senses. The police seem to want to be conciliatory and half of the group has already left the campus when suddenly, without warning, the riot squad divides the crowd in half. We find ourselves on the side of the street, while the other half of the group is taken in mousetrap on the grounds of the University. The walk stops. People start shouting insults at the police. I light a cigarette to calm down and I pump frantically watching the scene. There are policemen everywhere, batons in hand, shields erect and placid eyes. They are waiting for orders. Part of me wants to run away,

but I know they want us to come home wisely to hear more about LCN. We must stay at all costs, even if we have the dog. We must resist the temptation to believe that we are wrong to be there. A few feet away from me, a masked protester seizes a garbage can and throws garbage on the police blocking the street, making great arm movements. Most people shout at him to stop, but there is nothing to do. I crush my cigarette with my heel and get ready to run. I know the rest. It's safe-who-can. The police officers charge by tapping in unison on their shield. A barrage of uniforms leads us, mechanically, as if they were devoid of body.

The protesters jostle in panic, some fall and get up immediately by an accomplice who passes by there. Deafening bombs burst over our heads and time breaks up into an indistinct buzzing sound where cries are lost. We run, we run, and when I turn, I see those who stayed behind to confront the police, those who throw stones as big as my fist, and other less fortunate to handcuffed. I freeze, unable to advance further. I can not find my companions anymore. I sweep the scene of the look by covering my nose with the back of my shirt. I have trouble breathing.

The gas they use to disperse has a burnt tire odor. It's everywhere. I'm leaning against the wall of a restaurant and wondering how people find in them enough anger to confront the police. A man plunges his body inside and grabs a salt shaker lying on a table near the window. For a fraction of a second, I intend to try to hold him back, but I let go and he runs to one of the policemen he's grappling with the salt shaker. Events rush and take me away with them. I take my breath and lose myself in a chemical cloud, without voice.


I find Olivier in a park. The demonstration is over, everyone has been scattered and it happened so quickly that we wonder if it was true. We breathe a little, we light a cigarette and we tell how we managed. The air is so heavy that it envelops us. I take out the last two beers from my backpack and give one to Olivier. Afterwards, we take some pride away from being there. The beer is hot as piss, but we savor it anyway:

- Man, host, you should have seen the girl ... on the ground, man, are sick, I can not believe it ... crunch ... they leave us no time ... we did nothing, we nothing wrong, there is no right, there is no right to do that! And check the news tomorrow, they will say that there has been some mayhem, and the police chief's jerk is going to say that he is proud of his men, damn stinking eats.

I let him empty his bag. All that Olivier says is obvious, we repeat these things day after day and it becomes almost boring, even if it is good at the time. There is nothing to do but to express our anger, the injustice is too great for us to resign ourselves to silence. His eyes are so irritated by the gas that it almost looks like he's not crying.

- We were ten miles. I just hope that tomorrow we will be more numerous ... They can not all cringe in prison. They can still kill us tabarnak !!!

- Yeah, you're right ... That's for sure. I am traumatized ben stiff! You should have seen the girl. If it happened to my blonde, I do not know man, I do not know what I would do, I think I would go crazy, I would jump on them and they would break my mouth, but crunch, I Let them not do it for sure ... Are so barbaric, there is no heart host, there is no heart ... Will you have a dead wolf host!

- I do not know what to say, Oli. There is nothing to say. Just hope that the wounded will not have been for nothing.


- The hosts, they will not fare like that ... I guarantee it. I'm ready to go out night after night if necessary.

- Me too, my guy ... Hey, I'm wondering what happened to the naked girl on her bike.


We hold our beer grimacing and we decide to go to Saint-Denis for a last pint. On the way, we meet our accomplices, here and there, just as agitated as we are, the look a little lost, the square crumpled red. Police cars crisscross the streets and their flashing lights color the windows of the buildings around us. The helicopter floats over the city like a black thought, growling.

When we get to the Ontario corner, we see hundreds of people getting together! They are excited, probably because they saw the same things as us. The curious dozens come out of the terraces staggering to join the group. People tear down the barriers that surround part of the street under repair and tear the planks of wood to stack them. In a few minutes, a huge fire illuminates all faces. People dance shouting TO WHO THE STREET !? WE ARE STREET !, while a fire truck tries to make its way through the crowd. The police are deploying to surround us and nobody moves a hair. We stay near the fire. We must extinguish the fire of ungrateful young people. Our bonfire, the symbol of our pugnacity.



Je me souviendrai/I will remember

Éditor: La boîte à bulles

Collection: contre-coeur

Release date: August 20 2012

Format : 16.5 x 24 cm

Cover : Souple

Number of pages: 265

ISBN: 978-2849531600

Author : collectif

Copyright 2018 Ó freed

Images in this publication can not be reproduced

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Thursday night, Montreal at Émilie Gamelin Park. Cursed beautiful evening to demonstrate with thousands of people who have plenty of their headphones. I've been depressed for years reading newspapers, which I worry about trying to measure the extent of their hold. Fuck that, tonight I'm walking to the beat of the djembes. Tonight, we are shouting revolutionary slogans! The night welcomes the clamor calmly, the temperature is bodily and there is in the air a burning smell, a mixture of sweat, anger and fear.

I join a group of friends while people arrive and massage gradually. A Radio-Canada team asks the demonstrators questions. They want to know why. Viewers want to know everything. Why do you go down the street even if the crowds are illegal? Why did you reject the government's offer? I am here because for the first time in my life I unreservedly love thousands of people whose vision I share. I am here because the reality is that I am wrong to have been so pessimistic. But I do not speak to the camera; I am wary. I prefer to stay indented and take notes for later. The real camera tonight, the one to whom no detail escapes, it's me.

As usual to start the ball, the police declare the demonstration illegal.

  • - Good evening, I'm the head of the SPVM-

  • - Booouuuh !!! Booouuuh !!!

  • - By law, this event is declared ... - VA CHIER !!! WE ARE ENDING !!!

We stride along, without a precise route, as if we were heading towards an idea rather than a place, and our cries unite to refute our loneliness. In the subway, usually, we fix the junk on the floor or we play Angry Birds while waiting for our turn. When our eyes meet, we stealthily look away from the billboards smiling. Tonight it's different. We know which side we are on; the eyes meet, the bodies brush against each other and form an organic whole and it galvanizes us. While we go up Berri Street, between Ontario and Sherbrooke, people with Anonymous masks twirl about distributing flowers and tracks. Flowers and tracks, the harvest of an early spring. The Nelligan ponds are boiling. Poets no longer languish looking out the window. They do not idealize their pain with rhymes mundane. Their daily lives do not mean anything for too long, and their dirty poetry, they spit in the face of all. An ugly poetry like that of the tunnel we take night after night, graffiti dripping with anger that, strangely, arouse joy:

I turn around and I see that the crowd extends as far as the eye can see. We are thousands! I have never experienced anything so exhilarating. I watch the demonstrators around me without saying a word. I feel distant and close at the same time, I watch myself watching others, as if I was floating behind me. I can not believe it. I am part of something big. All this time when I thought we were larval, slimy, we were in the process of storing up forces. We are dangerous because suddenly, we believe it is worthwhile to defend our dignity. A naked girl on her bicycle passes near us. She makes signs of peace, her long red hair tickling the tips of her breasts. She trailed in a cart a Native American who looks completely smashed, with his hippie headband, his aviator glasses and his toothless smile. We look at each other for a moment, I raise my beer to the sky in sign of approval, and then it disappears in the crowd without leaving a trace, like a mirage of beauty in a concrete desert.

A little later, the march is on Mount Royal. Beside us, there is a gang dancing Gumboot.

- Boum tchht-pak ti-poupou boom tchht-pak !!!

Listening to them, I feel my body dissolve into the rhythm and become the boot that hammers the ground. I am so excited that I find myself dancing with them. We block the street. I knock on my thighs by tapping feet like a gorilla! There are motorists who support us, others who are crisscrossing.

After a moment, a man in his thirties, well dressed, a pink shirt, a loose tie, gets out of his car and slams the door. He has to go twice to close it and people make fun of him, but he keeps his seriousness. To relax the atmosphere, I approach him while dancing. There are protesters pounding on the hood of his tank. He points to us, waving his finger above his nose:

- Well yes that's it, do not worry about my mouth! You can laugh at those who work to pay for your studies, it's good for your cause, that! This is the second time that I have been caught in your protests this week, damn crap!

I drink a sip of Pabst and tell myself that maybe I should drink something else. I take my time, I calmly look at the little reptilian vein that crawls along his temple, the sweat that oiled his face:

- Sorry sir, we're not here to piss you off, we're in the street to assert our rights.
Silence. I burp inside my mouth to be polite.
- Quebec is in debt! Do you think, sometimes, how much debt Québec has? Life is not a party my boyfriend. Why are you blocking the street, han!

I know his speech, I've heard it dozens of times. I do not like common sense, down-to-earth thinking of those who understand everything:
- We block the street because ... it's the only way we can hear. Have you ever made a change in your living room? I mean, apart from the decor?

He approaches me, len-te-ment. I feel like he'll take me by the collar, but there are dozens of ferocious students behind me, claws out and teeth tapered, so he takes a deep breath and returns to his chariot. I thought it was over, but it's coming back! He lowers his window and shouts:

- One day ... one day you will understand ...! You'll understand that we can not have everything cooked in the beak my little guy! Me at first I was not bad of your edge, but there, I start to have until then of your nonsense! Go back to class! - But I do not want to go to school. I went to school! Paul Gérin-Lajoie, if you want my opinion, it was a big asshole! What a carde idea! Want to teach the people! The people do not need to be instructed to torment the ass of the rich ...! I'll make you a confidence. Me, sir, I am a socialist. I believe in solidarity.

Tell him not to my father, he'll be in good shape!

Woooh! I did not come to demonstrate to persevere with one of the responsible lobotomized parrots.

In any case, the march continues, one advances and the red sweeps from one sidewalk to another like a river of new blood. People come out of the bars to applaud and we invite them to join us in the street. And there, what happens is very strange. Rather than join us, our supporters take out their cell phones and film us, dumbfounded by the human tide. Maybe they think we're on TV? It makes me angry! I'm standing in the middle of the street, motionless, watching them film us.

I go out my cell and decide to film them too. We fix ourselves, via the impassive eye of our cameras. Two worlds that contemplate each other without touching each other, two visions that brush against each other in a thrill of misunderstanding. What is he thinking of, the guy who is filming me? I'm doing a free show? He thinks I'm funny? I am the clown of service, the flavor of the day that furnishes the coffee breaks. I'll make them a show! Hey, look here! Hop! What is that ? My middle finger that makes you tatas! Say hello, come on! I sneer a few seconds for posterity, then I set the goal one last time by pulling his tongue like a jerk, before turning his back and save me. I put away my phone and catch up with the crowd. I prefer not to be at the end of the walk. This is one of the places where we are most likely to receive batons.

While clearing my way, I spot the sign of my friend Olivier: THE HAND OF THE BOURREAU STILL FINISHED BY MOUTH.
I feel less alone.

The last demonstrations were brutal. The police do not hesitate to spank in the pile. It's necessary to be vigilant. After several minutes wandering the streets of the city, the walk heads to the campus of McGill University. The prestigious McGill University where a handful of students had the courage to take part in the strike, despite the contempt of their colleagues. It is fabulous! The special law forbids us to approach schools. It's a direct affront to authority! I like this. I love that! The ranks are tightening and we shout ON ADVANCE, ON ADVANCE, RE-CULE NOT! to give oneself courage. Eyes are illuminated by the pleasure of disobedience and the fear of reprisals. We know that it will fart.

I feel drunk, as if my apprehensions mixed with alcohol to disturb my senses. The police seem to want to be conciliatory and half of the group has already left the campus when suddenly, without warning, the riot squad divides the crowd in half. We find ourselves on the side of the street, while the other half of the group is taken in mousetrap on the grounds of the University. The walk stops. People start shouting insults at the police. I light a cigarette to calm down and I pump frantically watching the scene. There are policemen everywhere, batons in hand, shields erect and placid eyes. They are waiting for orders.

Part of me wants to run away, but I know they want us to come home wisely to hear more about LCN. We must stay at all costs, even if we have the dog. We must resist the temptation to believe that we are wrong to be there. A few feet away from me, a masked protester seizes a garbage can and throws garbage on the police blocking the street, making great arm movements. Most people shout at him to stop, but there is nothing to do. I crush my cigarette with my heel and get ready to run. I know the rest. It's safe-who-can. The police officers charge by tapping in unison on their shield. A barrage of uniforms leads us, mechanically, as if they were devoid of body.

I find Olivier in a park. The demonstration is over, everyone has been scattered and it happened so quickly that we wonder if it was true. We breathe a little, we light a cigarette and we tell how we managed. The air is so heavy that it envelops us. I take out the last two beers from my backpack and give one to Olivier. Afterwards, we take some pride away from being there. The beer is hot as piss, but we savor it anyway:

- Man, host, you should have seen the girl ... on the ground, man, are sick, I can not believe it ... crunch ... they leave us no time ... we did nothing, we nothing wrong, there is no right, there is no right to do that! And check the news tomorrow, they will say that there has been some mayhem, and the police chief's jerk is going to say that he is proud of his men, damn stinking eats.

I let him empty his bag. All that Olivier says is obvious, we repeat these things day after day and it becomes almost boring, even if it is good at the time. There is nothing to do but to express our anger, the injustice is too great for us to resign ourselves to silence. His eyes are so irritated by the gas that it almost looks like he's not crying.

- We were ten miles. I just hope that tomorrow we will be more numerous ... They can not all cringe in prison. They can still kill us tabarnak !!!

- Yeah, you're right ... That's for sure. I am traumatized ben stiff! You should have seen the girl. If it happened to my blonde, I do not know man, I do not know what I would do, I think I would go crazy, I would jump on them and they would break my mouth, but crunch, I Let them not do it for sure ... Are so barbaric, there is no heart host, there is no heart ... Will you have a dead wolf host!

- I do not know what to say, Oli. There is nothing to say. Just hope that the wounded will not have been for nothing.
- The hosts, they will not fare like that ... I guarantee it. I'm ready to go out night after night if necessary.

- Me too, my guy ... Hey, I'm wondering what happened to the naked girl on her bike.

We hold our beer grimacing and we decide to go to Saint-Denis for a last pint. On the way, we meet our accomplices, here and there, just as agitated as we are, the look a little lost, the square crumpled red. Police cars crisscross the streets and their flashing lights color the windows of the buildings around us. The helicopter floats over the city like a black thought, growling.

When we get to the Ontario corner, we see hundreds of people getting together! They are excited, probably because they saw the same things as us. The curious dozens come out of the terraces staggering to join the group. People tear down the barriers that surround part of the street under repair and tear the planks of wood to stack them. In a few minutes, a huge fire illuminates all faces. People dance shouting TO WHO THE STREET !? WE ARE STREET !, while a fire truck tries to make its way through the crowd. The police are deploying to surround us and nobody moves a hair. We stay near the fire. We must extinguish the fire of ungrateful young people. Our bonfire, the symbol of our pugnacity.

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