The spring street roars

The snow melts. It’s spring in Montréal.

I can hear the street. The youth are chanting for social justice, freedom and rights.

What is their manifesto? Do they hope to topple power? If yes, what do they propose?

I meet a young student from UQAM - a bastion of militancy. She is fierce, her hair free in the wind like Marianne.

The world outside her tells compromise is necessary. That the world is not black and white. That there are all-too-powerful entities who use us like flies for their sport. That sometimes you have to close your eyes for corruption to make the world go round.

But her eyes stay open and tells me about a world where Truth reigns and shines. I stop for a moment and dream of such a world.

The second is an artist who resents the police oppression of young immigrants in Montréal Nord. He sings about police brutality and racism. His words flow about colonizing forces keeping blacks in poverty. Stand up, free from the chains of oppression!

In Montréal, those words are strong yet frank.

They make me think.

So foolish to protest the agenda set by white men, so wise to know what to stand for.

I meet another fool; a colorful fool in the otherwise gray streets of Montréal. He basks in the sun and drums on Lady Spring in good terms. A few months ago, this young Québecois was doing odd jobs, from cooking to trading in markets to online businesses, always with a fresh smile and boldness. He dreams of a francophone Montréal, as dynamic as New York city or Shanghai.

Like many other young French Canadians “pure laine”, he believes the government sacrifices the younger generation. Yet he won’t fold in the mold. And there he goes, drumming to inspire the troops, even late into the night.

Rue Berri 22 mai #manifencours #ggi #loi78Later protesters in black attire come, chanting and denouncing capitalism. Their eyes tell of battles with the police. Take action, they say.

I like to think these activists were once the young dreamers of social justice - only to find the hard batons of law enforcement. I see police lining up, ready to charge.

The last face in these roaring streets is angry.

He comes from the West of Montréal. His car is stuck in the traffic jam and has missed his business meeting. He despises the sights of signs and young people chanting their dreams. They are spoiled, he says. It’s from the unions, he says. He makes it a personal affair and thinks about moving this time to Toronto.

Two years later, the streets are roaring again. Youth is full of sport, nimble like the wind, inspiring in their bold revendications. Such is Spring in Montréal.

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