I live in Stokes Croft. In the heart of it; above the art shop maintained by the influential Peoples Republic. Across from the prominent Canteen bar. A stone’s throw away from a litter of independent shops and cafes. I choose to live here because of what Stokes Croft represents; the independence of a city that is a hub of diversity. In which shops line there shelves with food that is local sourced, locally grown and consumed by local people. I live here because the women opposite my house are from Northern Pakistan, and their magnificent silk dresses ignite wonder in me. Because the dance classes I attended across the road are taught by traditional Senegalese teachers and in that two hour class I am transported into another culture. Because I greet the woman who serves me in the post office and the guy who I grab my steaming morning coffees from by name. And I know the people who live in Stokes Croft, through their many varied languages, all have a desire to be heard.
For me, fighting the battle to be heard goes as far back as I can remember. Those bellows of frustration as a child, when I wanted my parents to cuddle me instead of my crying younger brother. As a teenager when I wanted to be heard instead of my talkative best friend and now as a young woman, who simply feels the pressures of being a young woman. It’s incredible, that we as humans have a voice to speak and the desire behind that voice to stand up for what we believe to be right. It’s incredible that we live in a society where the freedom to express this is boundless.
I don’t want the café I work in to be closed down because people buy their breakfast from another Tesco's store. There are already eighteen in Bristol. I don’t want the farm shop or the Italian delicatessen to shut so products are brought from a store that has no character or representation of the people that surround it; and it’s not only me who holds this opinion. For over a year a campaign has been on going to try and stop Tesco from opening on Cheltenham Road Stokes Croft. Claire Milne the diligent spokeswoman behind it says, ‘it’s so important that people don’t lose sight of what we are doing and last night’s violence doesn’t become a smoke screen. For over a year there has been a very peaceful protest against it and a law case as to why this shouldn’t have gone ahead.’ So how did this peaceful demonstration erupt into the chaos of Thursday night?
At 9:00 pm, at the start of the bank holiday weekend and in a busy drinking area of the city, police gathered to raid a squat. Members of the squat, situated opposite the Tesco store, were supposedly said to be a threat to Tesco. Yet the eviction was resisted. 160 officers were involved in the operation. A helicopter whirled through the night sky, with a dramatic spot light that pieced through the black and illuminated the chaos. Some officers mounted horseback and others were firmly on the street, bearing shields and helmets, some with angry dogs in their hands others gripping batons. In opposition a strange mix of young anarchists clothed in scarfs, people caught in the riot on their way out to celebrate the back holidays and residents of the city appeared in their hundreds.
I was hit by so many emotions last night. I saw young men clamber onto the roofs of houses, pulling off tiles and hurtling them down onto lines of police. I heard accounts of an officer who had been hit over the head with a concrete block and the hand break of a van let off so it rolled down hill. Plastic bins set alight that filled the air with a rancid stench of noncompliance. Alongside this I saw police officers pull an old man to the ground because he attempted to pass them and get safely to his home. A couple walking back from an evening out who were fiercely attacked for no reason other than walking near the riot. Innocent people pushed to the floor just for getting in the way; residents pounded with batons whilst hordes of angry police men ran towards them. And I felt scared and sad and afraid. Not only because my house is in the heart of this city, my garden the streets that now held the weight of this battle, but because I know longer knew what I was fighting for.
This war will continue. As Claire says, ‘The ball is now in the court of Tescos and Bristol City Council. We want the decision to be re addressed we want to stop Tescos being able to trade. We need to know if its profit is more important than the safety of our community.’
As I was drifting off to sleep that night, with the whirl of the helicopter and smell of burning plastic, I couldn’t help but think about the intention behind the riot. Surely we are all just fighting the battle of what we believe to be best for us. But why do all parties involved carry anger around like another limb, just waiting for its moment to explode? The fight to be heard does need to exist, but not by throwing petrol bombs and using batons. It’s by acknowledging that we as humans are filled with dissatisfaction and finding ways to unite ourselves in this. We all want our environment to represent just how unique and wonderful we are and no matter what, Stokes Croft will always be the heart of a city that just wants to be heard.
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