The Protest

"Mummy, what’s a terr-rist,?" asked the little girl as she squirmed about at the table.

“You mean a terrorist? They are bad people,” warned the mother as the mood in the square became sombre matching the sky above them.

“Terr-o-rist!” she yelled as she set her favourite teddy down on the high chair anchored to the listless rectangles of the law courts.

An uptight man pushed past spilling her latte anxious to be free of something. He carried a flag woven in black and red framing a yellow sun as he burst through the narrow doors to the café consumed by a siege of frenzied stakeholders.

Her mother stood quickly, aware of the danger and calculated the best exit from her surroundings.

A squirmish erupted outside of the Supreme court where the protestor had come from. A line of riot police sprang forward forming a barrier wielding shields and batons. Demonstrators pounced in response, chanting the name Elijah.

 “Like those people?” pointed the little girl.

“Zhou Xi be quiet! she scolded in Mandarin. She scooped up her daughter scurrying past the wall of media vans. The crowd exploded rushing the square. She was pinned. The chalky face of the aboriginal elder struck her. He clutched at his spear for comfort, making small agonizing moans.  His forehead displayed a rough band of brown and green emu feathers. His mate was a proud woman of the Eora clan.

Sydney was all askew with furious protest. They would make the court pay. The glass entrance was smeared with ochre and graffiti as the police forced back the mob.

She cowered by the chief for protection. “I like your necklace, “said Zhou, breaking the tension. Both parties appeared shocked.  She held his gaze as she clutched her child to her breast and the child clutched the teddy. The elder withdrew an emu feather from his band and handed it to the little girl. The child snatched the new treat greedily.

“What happened to you? Asked the woman in a whisper. The elder stared into her, reading her heart.

“How old your daughter?” The woman didn’t answer. A placard swam behind the chief. Angry words plastered in red and black screamed: If you are not angry, you aren’t paying attention!

Horror dawned on her face. “She’s five,” she choked.

“My grandson was five when the Truckie hit him, but, the judge let him off.”