No amount of romanticism can prepare you for a Paris May Day.
After a brief speech by Jean-Luc Mélenchon, the march began. The man had said little but he was still the person who embodied our resistance to Macron and an inhumane France. He was followed by Mathilde Panot addressing women’s issues. After her speech, militants began migrating to the starting point of the May Day march that I would be participating in. Mélenchon and his colleagues did not stay for the march and left at the first opportunity. When I reached the starting point, I watched from the sidelines, halfway up some metal scaffolding with other young people who had climbed the conveniently placed jungle gym. The police had formed a barrier that would only let out members of the press and the infirm. Arrayed in front of me, was an odd collection of symbols: the famous gilets jaunes, Breton and Lorraine flags, and an anarchist red and black banner. As the police moved away, the march began and I climbed down from my spot on the jungle gym to join the marchers. It was dark, the rain clouds had arrived to furnish the march with it oppressive atmosphere before pelting us with its aggressive, but brief, rain.
As the thick rain pellets hit me, I marched at a tempo slightly faster than that of the main body of marchers. I was moving from umbrella to umbrella towards the front of the demonstration. But the march was quickly halted at the site of Mélenchon’s empty speaker stand. Before I understood what was happening, the protesters in front of me urgently retreated, leaving me inside a now empty circle of marcher around a primed flashbang. I managed to run back, but as I ducked behind a medic, the grenade went off. I was blinded for just an instant.
The temporary deafness was not a serious problem since chants were few and far between. Parisians were walking with their friends and putting on a brave air. At that same moment, several anarchists chanting something barely audible above my ringing eardrums. They were all ducked under their marching banner, holding it above their heads like a Roman Tortuga formation. They too, were putting on a brave face because the neighborhood’s lovely glass bus stop was instantly smashed. All unprotected storefronts were as well. The anarchist black bloc, to their credit, was incredibly efficient. Boarding up windows did not guarantee success either. Of course, I did not “see” any of this. (Why would you even ask?)
The march took on the character of a wave, as the participants advanced until some unknown lunar force pushed them back. Some would retreat, but experienced marchers stood their ground. At this point, I was walking along the right-hand sidewalk of the Boulevard Voltaire as I felt our wave crash against the lunar gravity exerted by the riot police. To my left were the famous French firefighters, who marched to the frontline at a tempo. Each with his hand on the shoulder of the comrade in front of him. I felt like a conscript watching the elite shock troops pass him in the trenches.
The shock troops must have finished their work because the march began moving again. As we reached a broad intersection, I looked to my right. The police were advancing and bashing their shields with their batons. I retreated and hugged the wall. I felt like the battered soldier leaving the trench, a warning of things to come, to those moving into position. I saw an open door and walked briskly towards it. I was too late. A young medic told me “wounded only!” and held up his hand as though it was a stop sign. Faced with the approaching batons I, amazingly, followed his instructions as the door was closed in front of me, much to the disappointment of those who hoped to get in behind me. As we crashed up against the door that had just been open, the police battered us against the wall, I was fortunately placed in the rear and only felt the crush of those in front of me taking their beatings in stride. The police had cleared the central street and suddenly the unmistakable sound of a tear gas grenade went off. My vision was filled with the approaching cloud of gas that I was powerless to stop. As it approached, I distinctly remember one woman yelling at a man not to touch her. He was not doing anything wrong – at least I didn’t see anything– but she did not want to be touched, period. The man angrily replied that he was trying his best not to touch her but we were just crushed against a wall together. As the gas approached, someone shouted for us all to take a deep breath. I did, but my excitement was too great and I was breathing heavy. As the gas approached, I felt the stress tighten every part of my body as I waited to experience my first tear gassing. But right as it was about to hit, the door behind me opened and I found myself in the foyer of the Parisian apartment that had just rejected me.
I was not wounded, but it was a fait accompli, as I fell in, I stumbled into the foyer’s rear. I watched for what felt like a small eternity, as the door was opened to allow a few souls in at a time and for the medics to give medical assistance. As we waited, we milled about the foyer and the attached courtyard. Some smoked, but everyone watched the battle’s progress each time our door was cracked open. The atmosphere was like a siege and the medics were our generals. Every time the door was cracked open and a small stream of refugees stumbled in, the call went out: “Close the door! Close the door!” We could not take more. Each straggling refugee wordlessly revealed the progress of the battle outside to us. The foyer light periodically turned off, and although it was the result of a simple timer designed to save energy, it made our redoubt feel as though the siege ring was tightening.
Inevitably, the Left was victorious and we were pushed out of the foyer to continue our march. The same tidal currents revealed themselves as we pushed forward and were inevitably propelled back. Properly conscious of my previous experience, I hugged the right-hand walls of the Boulevard Voltaire and went from door to door, hoping to get in should the smoke return. This was not always easy. Black bloc saboteurs were destroying windows on the right-hand walls and I was not covering my face. I hop-scotched around these saboteurs until I saw a cloud of approaching smoke in front of me. It was still dark, but I could clearly see the frontlines and we were on the defensive. Three young women returning from the frontline went to a nearby door and entered the code. Without thinking two dozen marchers and I found ourselves in a second courtyard. This time, the landlords were not as generous. They wanted us out and we only spent a few moments before we were returned to the march. As the landlords came down to chastise the young ladies for letting us in, I remember hearing another young woman say “Bonjour, la solidarité.”
The advance continued and the clouds hung overhead, although the rain had since ceased. I found myself briefly resting in one more apartment foyer next to a bongo player who had been gassed. After getting up and helping the friendly bongo player to his feet, we marched on. As we passed the next grand intersection, I found myself confronted with a wall of police waiting for the order to attack. I traversed no-man’s land at speed, I did not want to be caught again.
My efficient passage of no-man’s land was rewarded, perversely, by the police, who swung around like a door on a hinge, trapping us. I found myself on the right-hand side of the street again but the police did not bother coming out with their batons. Instead, they threw gas as I jumped into the alcove of a nearby shop door. I wasn’t protected by a door like before, and as the gas approached I knew my number was up. I noticed that I was sharing the alcove with me, several young men, probably 18-19, all huddled in a circle waiting for the gas to pass. As they each put their arms around each other and their heads down, I pushed my way between two of them. With out missing a beat, I was one of them. They wrapped their arms around me and held me as though I was their best friend. I do not even know their names. I repeated what I had originally heard to hold our breaths when I thought the smoke was upon us. We all coughed and teared up, but it was together. Soon enough the smoke had passed, the coughing and the tears were not so bad after all, but it was unpleasant. Clearly it was all our first time as we stayed to congratulate one another on our survival while reminding each other not to touch our eyes and flagging down medics.
One of my unnamed comrades noticed I didn’t have a mask and offered me his spare. I had been using my wet t-shirt and hoodie to protect myself until then and the mask was a welcome change of pace. As the medics came, the nurse pulled off my fresh mask to put lemon juice in my mouth. “My eyes, just my eyes” I told her, hoping that the burning sensation would now be over. She did not miss a beat, she held my mask, and signaled to her colleague that I was next for the eye drops. But she held my mask and put a few drops of lemon in it. “You’ll breath better with this” she said calm. The eye drops were like a blessing from above. All of the sudden the pain disappeared. As I left the out alcove to continue the march, I noticed that, of all things, the sun had returned. The march continued at a good pace. Shops, having survived the anarchist terror, were slowly opening to allow the main body of respectable protesters to get a snack for the relaxing second half of the march. A couple even left their apartment with their stroller. But they were a bit premature. The couple had to quickly retreat when it turned out the police would push back against us one more time and the fear of gas filled the air (although I never saw it). One shop owner near the Place de la Nation opened his jewelry shop a bit too early as some claim to have seen an anarchist climb through his freshly broken window and leave with watches. I could, however, hear the shop alarm going off as I walked by.
As we reached the Place de la Nation, our march turned into a carnival as the shining sun informed us that we had reached a brighter tomorrow. Folks milled about, talking with friends as a band played classic socialist tunes. The police continued to push, but we did not push back, as they attempted to clear the sunny Place de la Nation so that traffic could resume as quickly as possible. I stayed and watched others mill about but we were only waiting for the police to finally push us out, which we would not resist this time.
As I walked to a semi-distant metro stop to avoid the crowd, I saw another a Trotskyist May Day celebration with all three major Trotskyist parties present. You will not believe me, but my eyes did not lie. Thousands of Trotskyist cadres marched by me, newspapers in hand.
French May Day lives up to the hype. The French are experts at protesting. I first experienced that in Angers, but the Parisians are second to none. Andy (Weeks) has already pointed out that these marches are masturbatory. It feels good but accomplishes little. But goddamnit, it does feel good. The rich solidarity of strangers, the long back and forth with the “forces of order.” A Parisian May Day should not be missed. It’s an experience I will not soon forget.
Signed,
Andrew (Pfannkuche)
Normal Thoughts 