Nothing short of violence

A look at the local ‘Freedom Convoy’ occupation, from my front door

Residents in Ottawa, Winnipeg, Windsor and Emerson have had to deal with a constant onslaught of noise from anti-vaccine protests. (Supplied photo)

 Alarm bells rang in my head as I read a Winnipeg Police Service news release that warned of a “planned demonstration” in the city’s centre and advised people to “avoid the area.” From my third-floor apartment beside the Manitoba Legislative Building, this was easier said than done.

I’ve watched TV during honk-a-thons and caught the end of ManyFest sets through my open bedroom window. Silent nights unnerve me. Traffic’s hum, snow plows’ beeps, firecrackers’ pops are my lullabies. But nothing could have prepared me for the cacophony that invaded my home this month.

I followed along as the so-called “Freedom Convoy” swarmed Ottawa’s streets more than three weeks ago. As the New York Times reported, what “began as a protest against the mandatory vaccination of truck drivers crossing the US-Canada border” soon “morphed into a battle cry against pandemic restrictions as a whole.”

These demonstrators bore Nazi symbology, “desecrated national monuments and threatened local residents,” all while blaring horns day and night. Then, they descended on Winnipeg.

Rolling my eyes and occasionally lifting a middle finger in greeting, I limped between trailers and trucks as their drivers barricaded the intersection of Broadway and Memorial on Feb. 4. With one foot in a cast and the other recovering from an injury, it was easier to shuffle through the growing crowd of unmasked protestors than take a longer route to my bus stop.

Many protests are and must be disruptive to convey a message. In The Skin We’re In, activist Desmond Cole describes how “Black people must take extraordinary risks just to expose the violence” they experience. “Many people don’t appreciate it when we stop traffic or confront public officials,” he writes, “but it’s usually the only way to get their attention.”

In the five years I’ve lived across from the Legislature, I’ve seen, heard and been part of disruptive protests. Thousands of people attended a Justice 4 Black Lives rally on the building’s west lawn that culminated in a march to the Canadian Museum for Human Rights in 2020. The Migiziiwazison Sacred Fire Camp has peacefully claimed space on the east side of the Legislature for close to eight months.

But when I returned home on Feb. 4, I wasn’t ready. What many news outlets and officials labelled “noise” is nothing short of violence. A barrage of horns, shouts and music continued into the night and has barely let up since.

As Niigaan Sinclair writes for the Winnipeg Free Press, “the difference with these protests” is that “unlike Indigenous or Black Lives Matter protests, which dissipate in hours, ‘Freedom Convoy’ protestors don’t leave. Like colonizers, they arrive, stay and take up as much space as possible.”

“Home” no longer seems like the right word to describe a place where I feel nervous, violated and unsafe. In this apartment, I cycle between wearing and charging my noise-cancelling headphones. I wake with headaches and ringing in my ears, unable to tell if the honking has ceased, even for a moment. I avoid calling sick relatives and my long-distance partner. We likely wouldn’t be able to hear each other, anyway.

There’s nothing peaceful about this auditory onslaught. Despite what Const. Rob Carver has told reporters, Winnipeg hasn’t fared “better than any other city” in terms of handling these protestors. Even if this claim were quantifiable and true, it ignores how they’ve accosted, assaulted and otherwise harmed local residents. And we’ve had enough.

Danielle Doiron is a creative and educator who splits her time between Winnipeg, Philadelphia and small Midwestern towns. Catch them reading, procrastinating or defending the pineapple on pizza. 

Published in Volume 76, Number 18 of The Uniter (February 17, 2022)

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