Protests

As I stepped out of my house last night it all started again. Streets articulated with the sharp sounds of kitchen pots and pans being beaten. Only a few at first, but as I walked up more and more people opened their windows to lean into the night and make their contribution. It spread. Eventually the drifting particles of sound gravitated towards each other and condensed into unity on the corner of our street. I watched flares being lit on the pavement. There was an infectious excitement among the crowds; inspired, empowered and caught up in the thrill of objection. There was a solitary policeman standing on the sidelines of the demonstration. I went over and talked to him. He told me that Erdoǧan is finished, and that the people wouldn’t stop until they got what they want. “And what do you want?”, I asked him, to which he responded with wild gesticulations towards the police badge embroidered into the cotton of his shirt, telling me he couldn’t say.  I later saw the same policeman in civilian clothes, smiling and waving at me from among the swathes of people marching through the streets crying out against the government.