{"id":2037,"date":"2020-10-15T08:53:25","date_gmt":"2020-10-15T07:53:25","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/writersrebel.com\/?p=2037"},"modified":"2020-10-15T10:11:06","modified_gmt":"2020-10-15T09:11:06","slug":"october","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/writersrebel.com\/october\/","title":{"rendered":"Read: Trafalgar Sq Rhapsody<\/span>Susana Medina<\/span>"},"content":{"rendered":"

 <\/p>\n

To James \u2018Iggy\u2019 Fox<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We are nature. We are science. We turn grief into action. We protest and we sing and we play and we dance. We do so for life. We are mourning the earth. We are mourning us. We are re-inventing the city. We are the grief-stricken carnival spirit that marks Extinction Rebellion, making it a bittersweet joy to walk into a transfigured Trafalgar Square, all rebels with a cause, XR flags, with their bright colours and bold graphic design, flying high in the air, all roads freshly blocked, the large traffic circle replaced by exuberance.<\/span><\/p>\n

Trafalgar Square is about to become a playground.<\/span><\/p>\n

Rebels, tourists and the world press snap away.<\/span><\/p>\n

The bronze statues of lions proudly wear their large Extinction Rebellion medallions.<\/span><\/p>\n

There is no traffic soundtrack, but the traffic lights beam their usual colours.<\/span><\/p>\n

The stench of burnt petrol will fade away.<\/span><\/p>\n

The smog will vanish.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The square will disown concrete.<\/span><\/p>\n

We are sorry. We have a sacred duty to rebel. We chant, disrupt carbon emissions and pray for sanity. Our presence translates the trauma of omnicide. Our utopian smiles, adrenaline and bonhomie pervade the air, transforming the asphalt into a transcendent place of sorrow, laughter and hope. Gyrating in front of a THIS IS AN EMERGENCY fuchsia banner which blocks a street, here are the astonishing hula-hoop rebels, a group of delicious young women with hoola-hoops ceaselessly spinning around their arms a tale of defiance. Diagonally blocking Whitehall, black humour takes the shape of a fantastically ghoulish hearse with the floral tributes for the final journey, OUR FUTURE written along the black ribbon which rests on the coffin, the XR symbol centred on its back, while two rebel chauffeurs are locked to the steering wheel, ready for the planet\u2019s funeral. In yellow vests and flat peak caps, the police guard the funerary ceremony, arms crossed, legs wide apart, perhaps wondering whether play is one of the highest forms of resistance. The samba magic begins, to bind us in rhythm. It features a gutsy old lady rebel in a wheelchair drumming away, joyfully, furiously her XR drum.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We protest in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening, and at night. We protest and we sing and we play and we dance. Dear lost people, we are one of the maps. Here is the future. It is life-affirming. It transforms autumn into spring. It playfully bids adieu to a culture of death. A new vision of human nature is out on the streets, a ritual to give form to grief. Here, in the soon-to-be-filled-square, are the piles of kitchen utensils and food brought by all of us, to make do for the police seizures. Here is charming Roc with his beguiling smile, as a<\/span> dad of mighty rebels, artist and writer, dressed smartly for his police liaison role. Here is radiant white-hair Lorna by the fountain, her luminous eyes focused on her mobile, as she coordinates legal support for the imminent arrests. Blocking the asphalt from side to side, lock-ons will keep on multiplying on all the roads. Surrounded by police in yellow vests, it is mostly elderly conscientious protectors lying on the road on lock-on,<\/span> arms spread out, holding hands, a human chain of veteran activists: \u2018I am willing to be arrested,\u2019 their placards say. The Red Brigade, a large crimson splash of mourning humans with faces painted white, and black tears, dutifully visit them, a solemn presence, sorrowful and soothing at once.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I will be arrested in a few days\u2019 time, when I finish the mountain of work. Like so many rebels, I will have to organise my own arrest. I am also caring for my mother. I will take her to my brother\u2019s flat. I will be available for arrest from Thursday onwards.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I now capture moments of hope in action, the thing with feathers that won\u2019t ever take \u2018no\u2019 for an answer. At the centre of it all, an unforgettable three-and-a-half feet tall rebel with startlingly large eyes, and a circled hourglass painted on her cheek, over her head a light pink handkerchief with a bee block-printed at the front, the XR symbol at the back,<\/span> and an XR kerchief scarf over an orange duffel coat.<\/span><\/p>\n

With startlingly large eyes, she\u2019s screaming and screaming at the police.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Frowning, always on the verge of crying, she yells:\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Leave my mummy alone!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Don\u2019t touch her!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The police are trying to arrest some rebel mothers blocking the road, their faces contorted in agony. Her rebel mother is sitting on the road, a baby on her lap. Most fathers and mothers can only but be rebels. The rebel mothers stay put.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Arms wide apart, the little rebel girl stands in front of her mum.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018There is a plague in the sky. And in the earth. And in the seas.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Astonished, rebels and bystanders watch the feisty little rebel girl. Black fringe, black eyes, pale complexion, three-and-a-half feet tall, the hourglass symbol on her check, head, chest. How old is she? Five? She is the future of the planet, if we cherish it enough to protect it. One day, she could have grey hair and laughter lines, if we care for her future. Discombobulated, a policeman, clasped hands with interlocked fingers, crouches next to her. He is clenching himself back, exercising some sort of self-restraint, his body language conveying great anxiety and frustration. He watches her speechless, obviously thinking: \u2018Things are going really bad.\u2019 The only way he can talk to the little rebel girl is by crouching next to her. All the police are crouching around her, so she is just a bit taller than them. The little rebel girl commandeers the situation. The world is her oyster, but the planet is dying. She\u2019s one of the many Gretas who won\u2019t stop screaming until we all listen. Suddenly, she\u2019s all the Gretas, whatever their age and gender, as well as all the different names all the Gretas have. The little feisty girl has the power.<\/span><\/p>\n

A helicopter soon starts circling the sky above the square.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018My mummy\u2019s protesting for the common good!\u2019 the little rebel girl yells.<\/span><\/p>\n

The crouching policeman looks as if spoken by a moral dilemma, words caught in his throat. He rests his hand on his heart. A policewoman, pursed lips, plump hands, tucked thumbs under her fingers, asks the rebels to get up and leave the square. \u2018Sit down, sweetheart,\u2019 the rebel father says, but the little rebel girl isn\u2019t finished with her intervention.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Always on the verge of crying, pointing her forefinger to the policewoman, the little rebel girl yells:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018We are doing this for your children\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We are the children who know what you\u2019re doing<\/span><\/p>\n

We want to live<\/span><\/p>\n

We want the birds and the trees and the sky to live<\/span><\/p>\n

And the elephants, butterflies, penguins and the monkeys, the pandas and the zebras<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And the seas, rivers, the fishes, turtles, hippos, giraffes, rhinos and the tigers, lions and the bumblebees and the insects. Don\u2019t you get it?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The little rebel girl bursts into tears.<\/span><\/p>\n

Disarmed, the police leave.<\/span><\/p>\n

The rebel parents hug and kiss their daughter.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

With its hideous roar, the<\/span> helicopter continues to circle the sky above.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There is everyday heroism, and everyday villainy.<\/span><\/p>\n

We are zing, pluck, zest, vim. We protest and we sing and we play and we dance. Drumming binds us. There are no XR boats, this time. We are the boat. A scaffolding tower is quickly conjured up in front of Waterstones. At its top, lovely Fox with his red Rapunzel hair waves a large magenta XR flag with a skull at its centre, and symbols of life pushed to its edges. The scaffolding tower becomes an XR citadel, as young rebels glued to it, well-known beloved faces, start giving out passionate speeches. There is clapping and sing-alongs. <\/span>The hourglass is ubiquitous, on flags, clothes, drums, sculptures.<\/span> D<\/span>ecorated with Stop Ecocide placards, high flying XR flags and stickers, the lock-on towers keep on growing, playful fortresses where rebels glue themselves with superglue. The vibrancy is palpable. Familiar faces rebel as if their lives depended on it, because their lives are also the lives of others, including all life on earth, present and future. Here is cheeky Savannah, wearing her beautiful torn cloths. Here is Clarissa, a big mama rebel in pink waterproof, who turns away when she sees I\u2019m about to take a picture of her. \u2018How are you?\u2019 I say. \u2018Not good!\u2019 … \u2018How come? \u2018The police confiscated \u00a31000 worth of kitchen equipment … and now they\u2019re saying they\u2019ve lost it!\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Her face is full of despair.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She strides on.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Drop out of the fairy tale,\u2019 the police says.<\/span><\/p>\n

But it ain\u2019t exactly a fairy tale. It\u2019s a new story implored by science, a cautionary tale with gruesome fairy-tale elements and a vision: We\u2019d like a happy ending.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Excerpt from \u2018Trafalgar Sq Rhapsody\u2019 from <\/span>Rebel Rebel, An Emergency Dialogue<\/span><\/i> by Roc Sandford and Susana Medina, a dialogue about Extinction Rebellion and solutions to the Climate Emergency, conducted since the April Rebellion. A collage or \u2018pastiche\u2019 of different sorts of writing, it is a historical snapshot, literary experiment, intellectual exposition, and an act of planetary defence.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Susana Medina<\/strong> is the author of <\/span>Philosophical Toys<\/span><\/i> (Dalkey Archive Press), offspring of which are the short films <\/span>Bu\u00f1uel\u2019s\u00a0Philosophical Toys<\/span><\/i> and\u00a0<\/span>Leather-bound Stories<\/span><\/i>\u00a0<\/span>(co-directed with Derek Ogbourne); <\/span>Red Tales<\/span><\/i> (bilingual ed. co-translated with Rosie Marteau, Ara\u00f1a editorial); <\/span>Poem 66<\/span><\/i> (bilingual ed. trans. R. Marteau, the runner-up in<\/span> Good Morning Menagerie\u2019s International Translation Award), and <\/span>Souvenirs del Accidente<\/span><\/i> (German\u00eda). She has been awarded the Max Aub Short Story International Prize and an ACE Writing Grant for <\/span>Spinning Days of Night<\/span><\/i>. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including <\/span>Best European Fiction, 2014<\/span><\/i>, Dalkey Archive Press<\/span>. <\/span><\/i>She has exhibited at Tate Modern and collaborated extensively with artists.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Act Now: <\/b>Say no to HS2 damaging ancient woodland<\/b><\/a>. HS2 is a grave threat to the UK\u2019s ancient woods, with 108 at risk of loss or damage. The destruction has already begun but we\u2019re doing everything we can to save as many woods as possible.<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  To James \u2018Iggy\u2019 Fox   We are nature. We are science. We turn grief into action. We protest and we sing and we play and we dance. We do so for life. We are mourning the earth. We are mourning us. We are re-inventing the city. We are the grief-stricken carnival spirit that marks […]<\/p>\n

Read More… from Read: Trafalgar Sq Rhapsody<\/span>Susana Medina<\/span><\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2040,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[4,1],"tags":[15,236,16,17,276,275,273,274,57],"yoast_head":"\nRead: Trafalgar Sq Rhapsody - Writers Rebel<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/writersrebel.com\/october\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Read: Trafalgar Sq Rhapsody - Writers Rebel\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"  To James \u2018Iggy\u2019 Fox   We are nature. We are science. We turn grief into action. We protest and we sing and we play and we dance. We do so for life. We are mourning the earth. 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