Camp

They set up a camp in the middle of the city, they put up tents and flags, banners which read “stop the war”. They built a compost toilet and installed solar electricity. The city was grey compared to the colours and enthusiasm of the camp. Every few hours there was a different group, chanting and shouting for justice, to free prisoners, to free Tibet, to help Palestine, stop the stoning of women, all issues were dealt with and nothing escaped.
I sat beside a homeless man who was residing at the camp, not a revolutionary but a man who needed a little space and acknowledgement. His hands were swollen, arms Indian inked. He sat there for weeks.
Indigo was the leader, the man with freedom is his heart. He spoke strong even at the aspect of failure. He would sing laws and loop holes but he could not win and he knew how the system worked and how the workers of the system worked and that they always worked together to crush those who shine torches where light is not supposed to be shun.
The camp was called a peace camp and it was in its intention, every beat of Indigo’s heart was there, the signs were hand painted.
This camp could of survived millions of years and conquered millions of things but the things they wanted to stop, the war and the hurt was what got them evacuated.
I saw one of the men from the camp beat another man, the riot police danced in, like bombs from the sky. The beating occurred over money, something very far from the premise of the camp, but people are people and some are not there to fight for the right reasons. One person can always destroy the peace.
A piece of me was left there that day.