The hustle of the rebellion had already stirred an other wise quiet neighbourhood into action. The bustle of the police jeeps merely added commotion. Those gathered were awake and ready for they knew their fate. They knew the protest would be halted soon; they were prepared to go to jail. For they were doing and had done no wrong. For what were they if they didn’t stand, sit, fight and sleep for what they believed in. The State was angry and displaying its might. The people were not afraid. Once the madness of a rebel sinks deep into your veins, there is no turning back.
They had protested eight days in a row for the brutal murders of 18 villagers who refused to give up their land. The establishments couldn’t proceed with their plans without their land; the State merely bent forward and yielded to their greed. Murder was a way to get what they wanted.
As the policemen circled the group and aimed their weapons at the peaceful protestors, a symbolic symphony played in unison in all their heads. The irony was overwhelming. The rebellion would, therefore, have to continue. Their deaths would in turn spark a revolution. They lived, died in that hope.