Sunny and real
Although a couple of weeks have passed since those events, I still want to write about them. It is a nice day in May. There is a small stage set up on St. Michael’s Square. It looks as though there are only a few people. The opponents are here too, a little group of neo-Nazis holding flags, reinforced by the fans of Kyiv Dynamo, with about a hundred people behind the police cordon.
There are not enough of them to block the March of Freedom (known throughout the world as Global Marijuana March) as there were last year, when UNA-UNSO took care of this. This time the veterans of street wars were smart enough to stay away. One should give credit to those who came to demonstrate this time: they made the atmosphere more diverse. The delay of the demo was caused by their actions; they tried to seize the stage before the start. Taras Ratushny, the organizer of the march, immediately sprang to the defense of the hand-made citadel of freedom, and the police detained both forces. The neo-Nazis are redeeming their guilt in every possible way, chanting “Shame!” “Degenerates!” and even a funny slogan: “Suitcase — Railway Station — Jamaica!” But their creative potential is not exhausted.
It is all the more vexing that the leaders of the march are not being very active. They’re playing reggae music, urging speakers to step up to the microphone from time to time. The aired demands attest to the attempts of the march organizers to revamp the image of a “marijuana march”: to change the vector of the state drug policy from a repressive one to a socially-oriented one (to imprison producers of narcotics, not consumers) stop drug corruption in the power structures, regulate the sale of powerful pharmaceutical drugs (stop selling poisons, like Tramadol) ban tobacco and alcohol advertising, provide people with objective information about the risks connected with the use of psychoactive substances, and put an end to the practice of discriminating against people with unusual lifestyles.
Everyone is acting like adults. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about the organization: the equipment is lousy; there is hardly anyone who knows how to conduct a public meeting; and there is a total absence of informational materials — only a card recounting the events of 2006.
So as not to get irritated, I start watching the people who have assembled. There is an exuberant gathering of rebels: hippies, Rastamen, cyclists, anarchists with the slogan “Banning is forbidden,” anti-fascists — frowning young men with covered faces — a boy with a little hog on a leash, a lot of pretty girls, and flags of Jamaica, Belarus, and Ukraine.
Finally, Ratushny, who has been released, is practically carried onto the stage. The speeches get louder, musicians perform a few nice songs, and a direct connection is being established with Symferopol and Odesa, where similar actions are taking place. The neo-Nazis are perking up too: one by one they start making their way into the very heart of the meeting.
The first to do this is a big bald-headed guy, who is yelling “Shame!” into the megaphone. That’s a mistake because the police arrest him at once, together with his megaphone. So the brownshirts are left without a voice. In despair, another leader tries to start a fight near the stage, but the police are not napping. Another inventive soul appears out of nowhere and invites everyone to smoke some grass. The result is the same. The neo-Nazis go nuts: when the speaker yells “Slava Ukraini!” (Glory to Ukraine) they answer with obscene gestures.
The column proceeds along Volodymyrska Street. I look backwards. No, there are quite a few people. The line is pretty long — probably half a thousand. The police officers are behaving perfectly, maintaining control on both sides of the march. (At this very time their colleagues in Russia are grabbing, crippling, and imprisoning the participants of similar demonstrations.) Along the way activists from the “Orange” parties join the marchers. Tourists understand everything at once and wave from their buses. The march is headed by anarchists chanting “No to fascism!”
We get to Khreshchatyk without any problems. We hear more speeches and declarations. Politics finally gives way to a spontaneous concert. Everything is sunny and real.
One can argue a lot about what happened that day. As for me, that day, without leaving Kyiv, I visited the real Europe, not dream Europe or paper one.
