A Bridge Not Too Far, the day the Tradies took Westgate Bridge

Cafe Locked Out

The History of The Freedom Movement, Early Days

Sept 21st 2021

We didn’t know where we were going. When we first showed up at the spot that was yesterday’s battleground, our numbers were so small that the lines of police, including riot and mounted units, matched our own. We were jittery, but we didn’t move, and neither did the police. Then, as time ticked by, our numbers grew—but not by the amount we were expecting, or rather, hoping for.

At one point, the police moved forward, and we were told to prepare. But they only moved forward a short distance, and then they stopped again.

An hour passed like this, as the tension from yesterday returned, accompanied by the same chants. But then the crowd started moving, and when it did, we suddenly got to see how many of us there were. We were no longer a pocket of defiance, or as the media had portrayed us, a load of right-wing extremists. We were a river of people with a simple demand: We wanted choice, and no segregation. Or in old speak, freedom. Not just for ourselves, but for our country, for our kids.

At Parliament, the police had regrouped on the steps—again with their horses and armor. Before them stood a sea of high-vis construction workers and others from all walks of life, chanting once more.

But before the situation could escalate, the protesters instead went for a walk down Elizabeth Street. And as they walked, their numbers grew. All of this was being streamed to social media, not just from Rukshan’s camera, but from thousands of others, capturing the courage and spreading the hope.

And that hope spread like a virus that everyone wanted to catch.

The hope came not only in numbers, but in muscle. Despite the periodic threat of violence, there was no real danger—many of the men were so well-built, and there were just so many of them.

This is why the marchers walked away. They weren’t retreating out of fear. They were simply turning their backs on the police and walking somewhere else—basically, wherever they wanted.

After two strolls around the city, they turned left.

"Where are we going?" you heard people ask.

"Where else, to freedom."

For this is what it was—a march to freedom.

Then the word spread: it was the West Gate Bridge.

It was a long walk, eased by our spirits, lifted by the gift of each other’s presence, with all the truckies and cars honking in support.

I spent most of the day with Kylie, who, it turned out, was the woman who, several protests ago, had helped me when I was blinded by pepper spray. I had walked up Elizabeth Street, arms out like flailing, inadequate eyes, laughing because I couldn’t believe the tyranny I’d witnessed wasn’t just happening in my city, but was being cheered on by a social media crowd.

It was Kylie and the others who helped me—people I never saw—because despite the milk they poured over my face, I was still blind. They worked together to revive my soul with the kindness of what we used to call the Australian spirit. The spirit that could never have justified the falling and pepper-spraying of that 70-year-old woman, an act that has now led the Republican Party in the U.S. to demand sanctions against us for our government’s treatment of protesters. And yes, if you back our government, you heard that right.

But today was different. Protected by the construction workers, we walked onto the freeway and all the way up the center of the West Gate Bridge, beneath the pillars upon which the Australian flag flew above another flag—the flag of the Eureka Stockade.

There was cheering, chanting, and dancing, and as we strode back to the city, there was something new in the air we could smell. It was the scent of victory.

This was only day two. How could tomorrow be any smaller?

When we got off the bridge, the police were back with their armor and shields, and a few of the men arced up and threw things. The majority, however, simply crossed the road and walked around the government’s display of tyranny before yelling back at them from the other side: every day, every day, every day.

That done, we headed back to the city, knowing that if no one else showed up, at least we would be back. And the reason? Ask any one of them: for our kids. For our kids.

And what they mean by that is freedom for their children to choose in a country that isn’t segregated.

To date, I’ve told people we are on the right side of history, but we were a long way from home. Well, today we saw our home—and its name was freedom.

Michael Gray Griffith
Cafe Locked Out

P.S. Sadly Everyday, for many of them, became that day. They never came back and we never found out why