In a scene that could have been lifted from a dystopian opera composed by a committee of caffeinated bureaucrats, the streets of Geneva erupted today in a spectacle of carefully choreographed resistance and impeccably organised pandemonium. The cause, the impending G7 summit, a gathering of the world's most powerful geriatrics who will spend four days patting each other on the back for solving problems they largely created. But while they sip champagne and draft communiques, the city's populace decided to stage a counter-festival of righteous fury. And what a glorious, ineffectual festival it was.
Protesters, a motley coalition of vegan anarchists, green-painted performance artists, and pensioners who remember when protest meant something, descended upon the secure perimeter with banners reading 'Keep Your Summit, We Want Our Alps Back' and 'Climate Action, Not Platitudes.' They were met by a phalanx of riot police, whose faces betrayed a deep longing to be anywhere else, perhaps at a quiet café sipping a velvety espresso. The air crackled with tear gas and the scent of organic falafel, a signature aroma of European dissent.
The clash, if one can call it that, was a masterpiece of mutual inconvenience. Police fired water cannons with the precision of a confused gardener; protesters replied with a volley of tennis balls painted to resemble G7 leaders' faces. One particularly zealous protester, a man with a beard so magnificent it could have its own diplomatic passport, attempted to scale a barricade but was gently repelled by a Swiss guard who apologised profusely in three languages. It was, in short, the most polite melee I have ever witnessed. Even the tear gas seemed half-hearted, more a suggestion than an assault.
Geneva's security has been tightened to such an absurd degree that even the pigeons must produce ID. The city centre resembles a dystopian Lego set: concrete barriers, snipers on rooftops, and a drone swarm that hums a tune somewhere between Gregorian chant and dial-up internet. The local government, clearly terrified that someone might have an unfiltered thought, has banned all gatherings larger than a book club. Naturally, this has only inspired more creative forms of protest. A group calling themselves 'The Subversive Knitters' has been crocheting blanket over the security fences, each one a tapestry depicting world leaders as garden gnomes. It is both pointless and profoundly beautiful.
But what does this all achieve? The G7 leaders will arrive in their armoured limousines, wave to the cameras, and disappear into a bubble of wealth and delusion. The protesters will return home, tired, slightly tear-gassed, and perhaps a little richer for having screamed into the void. The void, as always, will do nothing. Yet there is a stubborn, heroic quality to this theatre. It is a reminder that somewhere, people still care enough to bother. They will be ignored, but they will have been loud. And in the silent corridors of power, a few sleep might be lost to the memory of a giant knitted Thatcher gnome.
I retired to a nearby bar, the only truly neutral ground in Geneva, and ordered a double gin. The bartender, a man who had clearly seen too many summits, muttered, 'They think we are Switzerland. We are not Switzerland. We are a bank with a flag.' I drank to that. The gin was good. The protest was better.
