Trigger

First, what came before it? To give a bit of context, I had taken part in a highway blockade organized by Extinction Rebellion.^{Extinction Rebellion is a UK-founded global and politically non-partisan movement that uses nonviolent direct action to persuade governments to act justly on the climate and ecological emergency.https://rebellion.global/.&nbs...} on the A12 highway in The Hague, The Netherlands, on the 27th of May. I had posted about it extensively on social media, as a way to openly journal and clear my head about the experience, as well as in anticipation of it, to promote the blockade and attract more participants.

I mentioned the steps the protest took and how there’s a very funny feeling being in the middle of a protest like the Extinction Rebellion blockade. There are weeks of preparation before stepping on the highway, and then many days after reserved to process what happened and check in with one’s group and buddy. And then, if the weather holds, it can feel incredibly joyous. Which it did! Like a collective party where everyone works towards one goal: in this case, cutting fossil fuel subsidies through direct citizen action by blocking a highway. Around 6,000 people joined either on the highway or in the support demo on the sides on that day.

German water cannons were brought in and deployed fifteen minutes into the blockade, entrapping protesters from both sides and needing to be refilled several times throughout the day. They were counteracted by people in swimsuits with inflatables and kids refilling their water pistols from the puddles that formed. Water went full circle and in both directions.

Both photos were taken with our phones and shared between us via WhatsApp messages in real time. They live in my camera roll among videos and pictures of the protest caught in between participation.

I was confronted personally with the urgency of needing to document what was happening but not being able to before, during, or after being hit by the police. My phone – my only means of documentation – ended up being cradled close to my chest. I’d slid it into my T-shirt, close to my skin, seconds before joining arms with my group, before being arrested. Days later, after posting a notice about needing to make a complaint to the police, the core of this essay, my appropriated image, came to me.

One message was followed quickly by the video, which, due to a poor internet connection at the time, refused to load, stuck in a revolving arrow, before it was finally unstuck so that I could download and play it on repeat. The person who sent me the video didn’t say much by way of introduction – just, ‘Hey, maybe I’m completely wrong, but I just saw this post from you and suddenly wondered: is this you?’

The image: three police officers with their backs turned to the phone camera, the shot taken from top down, and you can see their uncovered arms, watches, gloves, uniforms, walkie-talkies, guns, and leather shoes. The sun is shining on one of the arms. The video play button was frozen on a short shirt sleeve. There is a hint of pavement on which the sun shines, pavement that I remember was covered in an oily substance to deter anyone from gluing their hands to it. There is a certain tension in the police officers’ stances. They seem to be banding together. There are bits of knees and shoes visible on the asphalt – protesters waiting to be picked up, me among them.

To the right side of the image that I’m dissecting, there’s the continuation of my dialogue with the sender:

His images, devoid of context except for the time, the place, and the organisation participating in the protest, could nevertheless also be used as evidence of mishandling, but only if they made their way into the hands of the people in the shots or of those in charge of keeping track of boundary crossing. A protest in a public space is in the arena par excellence of the press photographer. But it is also, due to the ubiquity of mobile phones and the online presence of those holding them, a place where every member of the collective who engages in protest can serve as a witness for their community.

I ultimately got reminded of an artwork that speaks of multiple angles and multiple ways of documenting, in dialogue with structures of power. The work is Trokut (Triangle) by Sanja Ivekovic, from 1979.^{‘This group of four photographs and one text documents Sanja Ivekovic’s performance in Zagreb on the 10th of May 1979, the day of President Tito’s visit to the city. The artist describes the interaction that took place between her (on the balcony of her apartment), a person who could see her from a rooftop and a policeman supposedly communicating by walkie-talkie with the observer. According to the text accompanying the photographs: “The action begins when I walk out onto the balcony and sit on a chair, I sip whiskey, read a book, and make gestures as if I perform masturbation. After a period of time, the policeman rings my doorbell and orders the ‘persons and objects are to be removed from the balcony’.” Trokut (Triangle) is representative of Sanja Ivekovic’s work in the 1970s, in that it sets up a confrontation between public and private spaces, exemplifying both her political activism from a critical perspective and her interest in dealing with gender-related issues.’}

In Ivekovic’s work, the purpose was to see how fast one can be seen, and held in check, abiding by the morals of the time. The core of her performance was to simulate the act of masturbating in a semi-public space, under the watchful eyes of the police, during a visit of then-President Tito to her city. In the documented performance, there are three angles presented in four photos: one of Ivekovic on her balcony, one of the security agents from a nearby high-rise, and two of the presidential procession.

There is a contrast between Ivekovic’s action and the dynamics of a protest like the Extinction Rebellion one, where monitoring happened from multiple angles – audience, press, police. In the case of Extinction Rebellion the true challenge would be the idea of holding someone accountable, and the follow-up question would be for what.

What transgression is more egregious? What acts are considered violent in public, once they’re discovered? And who’s allowed to carry them out without repercussions?

Two weeks after the protest, the video evidence I’d gathered of the violence against me had yet to lead to any follow-up. Identification of the officers whose faces were visible on the video had not been possible. Communication between the police in The Hague, where the protest took place, and the police in Amsterdam, where I live, had been cumbersome, since each follow different steps in processing complaints.

My professional photographer classmate had managed to sell a couple of his images via Getty. They have not served as official evidence of police violence.

I wondered what additional angles I missed in my documentation – who else had their camera pointed toward me while I was picked up?

I wondered what the effect of having my camera phone accessible and pointed at the officers arresting me would have been, and whether it could have acted as a shield against violence.

While reviewing this piece, on 8 February 2024, eight months after the fact, I have yet to receive any follow-up from the authorities.