We walk through the streets as if we own them and we do. Not in the stupid sense that we have any legal claim on them, but because we’re dominating them. People stare at us with their lowered eyes, in their fear and shame, while we, holding our heads high, declare our pride to the world. Hundreds of us have been imprisoned and beaten by the police, by the tyrants’ bullies, and we’re still here.
We’re actually more here, now, than we used to be, than we’ve ever been. It’s remarkable, but not strange how liberating it is to stand up for ourselves, and to rise against oppression. They did their best to break us, but achieved the exact opposite result. Right now we’re not doing anything, anything overt to provoke them, except by our very presence. Justified pride has no place in today’s world. No true human emotion or humanity has.
A house is gone, but what it represents won’t go away. We carry it with us, forever. The authorities achieved nothing by brutally assaulting us, except alienating a bunch of young people. The older among us have found a lot of new friends on the radical venues throughout the city lately.
We sit there, in the smoke, in the mist, exchanging looks, men and women thrown together by coincidences and Fate. What doesn’t kill us or turn us into zombies, make us stronger. We feel it, in every single spot on our body and in our mind. They beat us up and believed they beat us, but we survived, not only with our mind and independence intact, but enhanced, with the fire inside having grown even stronger than before. We have grown and become more than we were. Thank you, Denmark. Thank you, Copenhagen.
We walk through the streets and we see fear in the police officers empty eyes.