Kenny gets his crowd!
Tuesday, September 8th, 2009Written By: Jason Sifflet
As far as numbers go this protest will go down in history as being a success but what now?
And when they up, they were up. And when they were down, they were down. But when they were only halfway up, they were neither up nor down.
This is the biggest demonstration ever in the history of St Lucia,” said Alva Baptiste once the marchers gathered at the Castries Market Steps.
Some on the sidelines scoffed. Thursday’s march was like Peter Jackson’s King Kong—a big budget Hollywood movie that went to number one and still failed to meet the expectations of the marketplace. While it was the most watched and talked about show in town, the audience wanted more. They wanted to see their friends, neighbours and their bosses out in the sea of red and black so that they could know that it was time for them to jump on the bandwagon too.
“It’s going to take a lot more than that to bring down the government,” one set of Flambeau whiskey drinkers said from the sidewalk outside their watering hole. “The demonstrations that brought down the Labour government in 1982 were much bigger than that.”
But a brief survey of people old enough to have marched in 1979 and 1982 confirmed that there was no such thing as a group of thousands in St Lucia back in the 1970s and 80s.
“Not even Calypso Finals used to have a thousand people back in 1979,” one well-known and committed non-partisan said. “Back then, if you could get 200 people, you had a successful protest action.”
Of course, the population has doubled since that time and so expectations are higher. So high, that the biggest demonstration in the history of the island didn’t exactly impress.
The best estimates of the day agree that there were about 2000 people actually marching on Thursday afternoon. It could have been 1700. It could have been 2300.
Philip J Pierre was the master of ceremonies and main performer from the beginning. Apart from leading the call and response chants, he also had to keep discipline.
“Flambeau!” he prompted.
“Must go!” the marchers responded.
“Flambeau!”
“Must go!”
The mantra was mind-numbing.
“Wait . . . back! back! back! back! Six rows! We cannot proceed if we do not keep the formation. Flambeau!”
“Must go!”
And so on and so forth. The messages on the placards were much more diverse.
The issues were like a litany of the current government’s missteps and wrongs including the Tuxedo Villas affair, the failure to pay pensions and allowances to the indigent, the ‘oil refinery’, health minister Richard Frederick’s villas, the IMF and a lot of ‘Youth In Crisis’ banners.
“We are marching for the teachers they call lazy,” Pierre preached. “We are marching for the civil servants who didn’t get the 7.5 percent. We are marching for the Labour Code. Do you want the Labour Code?”
As they crossed the Sans Souci bridge and came by government buildings, the march became a carnival. The marchers found a groove and were almost dancing and singing their slogans. They waved their old cardboard placards like Ole Mas players.
“The PM is a fortnight,” read one placard that could have been written by Tent Pinez legend Twa Ti Nay. “He 2 week.”
“I want some of de chip mauney,” another proclaimed, aping Guy Joseph’s IMF stance.
Civil servants who chose to stay at work abandoned what they were doing and came to the windows. Those who chose to demonstrate knew that there was no turning back now. The separation of the sheep from the goats had begun. The battle lines were drawn.
Justice minister Guy Mayers opened a window to get a better look at the people who were tired of his government. No sooner had he opened the window than 100 people pointed and shouted “Look Mayers!”
Without missing a beat, Pierre changed the chant to “Mayers!”
“Must go!”
Mayers chuckled seeming genuinely entertained with the idea of being the subject of a protest chant. He called on a clerk or secretary to bring him a camera. Within 30 seconds she was snapping away.
Passing the towers might have been nerve-wracking for those marchers who were just starting to overcome the culture of cowardice. But for seasoned demonstrators, who had not been to a march this good since George Odlum was cool, the real challenge lay ahead.
At the Jeremie Street junction, the opposition demonstration were confronted by the counter-demonstration. A group of loyal, faithful and hardcore Flambeau women stood on the corner ‘Under the Almond Tree’ where UWP supporters traditionally congregate to listen to Labour Party meetings on the Market Steps. Police officers in camouflage uniforms tensed up, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. For a moment, the scene was tense. An incident where 2000 protesters ripped apart 20 counter-protesters was the last thing the cops needed in the news. A group of cameramen inadvertently stoked the flames. The more attention they gave the counter-demonstration, the more energetic it became. Some protesters fell out of line to see what all the shouting under the almond tree was about. Tempers flared and arguments ensued. Police officers started moving into strategic positions.
But a group of red-shirts formed a barrier between the demonstrators and counter-demonstrators. The moment passed quickly. Though the counter-demonstrators caught the media’s attention, most marchers never even knew they were there.
“That’s all the people?” said Yellow, a semi-famous United Workers Party operative, as the tail end of the demonstration went past him. “You mean to tell me Labour have a demonstration and that’s all the people they can bring from all around the island?” With his party in power, he found it easy to forget those dark days in 2001 when Flambeau meetings could barely muster 10 people.
“There are many more watching,” a woman standing nearby told him.
“Marching and watching are two different things,” Yellow noted, remembering that blood and sweat, not good intentions, are what helped keep his party alive in the worst of times.
“But there are people who are supporting just by watching,” the woman replied. “You think people were just passing by and stopped to see what’s happening? People attended the march. Even though they are not marching, the fact that they attended means something.”
“What does it mean? That they wanted to see who is marching and who is not marching?” Yellow retorted, perhaps giving his own intentions away.
“It means something is wrong with the country.”
All the way up Jeremie Street, the march left arguments and discussions like this in its wake. The spectators were divided into three groups: those who could never support Labour; those who were tired of the government but not so much for marching right now; and those who thought that the entire crop of current politicians should be lined up by the wharf with their hands and legs tied and then pushed into the dirty water, for the upliftment and benefit of all future generations. Few people watching the march circle from Jeremie Street, down the Chaussee onto Micoud Street could manage not to have strong feelings about it.
“March? What march?” a single mother said, quarreling with herself on the way to a bakery. “I have to make bom to feed my children. All of them have their big money. And I have to come and march? How is me, uh?”
“I’m red in smart,” said one sidewalk red-shirt, following without marching.
“I’m in mourning,” said a man in black, sitting on the Market Steps, waiting for the marchers to come back around for the meeting at the end of the march.
“They can march how they want,” said an older man, making his way home. “Marching doesn’t change governments. Elections change governments. And elections is two more years again.”
“I’m supporting, but I’m not marching,” said one sideliner, getting agreement from about six others near her. “A lot of the people watching are supporting. But people are working. They don’t want to be identified. They don’t want to have trouble at work tomorrow.”
On Micoud Street, a cheer rose up as Mario Michel came to the window of an office and smiled and waved to the crowd. They adored him as they never did when he was in office. In fact, back then, he was widely described as unlikable. Reporters urged him to come down, or at least open the window wider so they could get good shots. Michel waved his hand negatively. He was taking no part in this.
In front of the basilica, the marchers at the front waited for the rest to catch up. People were getting tired. But the sun was going down and the police were getting impatient. The last thing they wanted was protesters on Bridge Street at night. Some of the cops were old enough to remember Plywood City. The rest were old enough to be told.
The cops ordered the marchers at the front to move it along. Wayne Vitalis, former head honcho at the National Development Corporation and tried and true Kenny’s boy, protested. A light scuffle and heated argument ensued.
“Leave him alone! He has his rights! He has his rights!” the women holding the banner screamed at the camouflaged cops. The police, desperately outnumbered, backed off.
“It’s nothing, nothing at all,” said Vitalis as querulous reporters rushed to the scene, too late.
Tired, but energized by the near confrontation, the marchers turned on Bridge Street and like revelers on the last lap of Carnival Monday chipped their way back up Jeremie Street. It was over before they knew it. They did not lose. But they did not exactly win either. Their only consolation was that they had lived to dance another day.
Thursday’s march was the most watched and talked about show in town. But when people saw their friends, neighbours and bosses on the sidelines with them, it was a confirmation that the sidelines were the right place to be. This movie made money, but it didn’t rake in the kind of profits the studio needs.
“A lot of people are too busy working or trying to get work to protest,” said Ras Ipa, professional vendor and man on the street, on the reason more people weren’t there.
“You think when the bank is on your tail and you’re trying to keep your little business open you have time to think about strike?” said Gavin, a Castries businessman.
“A lot of people are afraid of victimization,” one of Kenny Anthony’s assistants had said before the march, preparing herself for hundreds rather than thousands of people.
But, like Franz Fanon said, the oppressor can only oppress with the consent of the oppressed. Or something like that. It wasn’t the culture of victimization keeping them from joining in, it was the culture of cowardice. And so the beat goes on.
