Once again at Syntagma Square

Another phase of the IMF Memorandum was about to be approved by the Greek parliament. The majority was slim. The people against it.
We gathered around the parliament in droves, to protest against it, to urge our "elected representatives" to vote against it.
We had tried this before, in the summer. Our voice was not heard.
Yet there we were again.
We went early. Starting from the parliament, the crowd grew to fill Amalias Avenue all the way to Hadrian's Arch, about a mile down the road. Other friends called to say that they were in Omonoia or Monastiraki but we couldn't meet - so thick were the crowds.
Thick was the smoke of teargas too. Riot police kept throwing canister after canister to keep us at bay.

This time the crowd was not like in the summer. Back then we felt euphoric, optimistic, believing that we were starting a revolution,that we could change things. There was singing and dancing and shouting of slogans.
This time the crowd was silent. People had dark faces and clenced teeth. We were angry but not euphoric, nor optimistic.

We had learned from past experience that our voice would not be heard. We knew that we'd be pushed back by the riot police. We knew that we'd insist and push back, again and again. We knew this phase of the Memorandum, together with its austerity measures, would be approved.

What we didn't expect was how few MPs would say nay. How many would bow their heads to unknown pressures or interests and vote yes.

And we didn't expect the media to betray us so blatantly.

All channels showed the upper part of the square, empty of people, surrounded by the police and a cloud of teargas. No camera turned just a few degrees right or left to show the throngs of people still there, despite the chemical warfare. No reporters described our sheer numbers, nor our persistence.

Instead, they all breathlessly reported about the fires started and the damages done by a handful of young, angry men (who, many people think, were just undercover police agents). No screen showed the thousands surrounding the parliament, no radio commentor talked about them, as if their disregard could erase our presence, mute our voice.

Perhaps they can. History will show. What they couldn't erase was the anger. The silent rage which every single one of us carried back home. A rage that clung to one's soul, like the smell of teargas clung to our hair and clothes.
I wonder - what will this rage evolve into?

PS. I am not the only one feeling this way. Several people wrote the same on the web. Here is a handful of posts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, etc, etc.