The tear gas canister was close. I could not see it but I could hear everyone around me scamper. We were on a peaceful protest, why were they doing this to us? My eyes opened ever so slightly, just enough to see the curb across the street. I felt my way over to it and sat down. On the fringes of the poisonous gas that lingered in the air around me, I sat clutching my hat in an attempt to release some of the pain my eyes were feeling. An Italian man came over to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. "Look up", he said. Unable to open my eyes, the stranger jammed a bottle of lemon juice into my eyes. Lemon juice slipped passed my shut eyelids and neutralised the pain. Once again I was able to see.
Twenty yards away, a march steward was shouting at people. "Get out, get out", he screamed pointing towards the one exit away from the Red Zone. As people began to run, the police fired another canister of tear gas, this time blocking off the exit. People stopped, confused as to where to go. Another canister, this time closer to police lines. Sandwiched in between two clouds of tear gas, the only option was to run through the one that led to our safety.
Back at the Convergence Centre, news began to filter through the crowd. How many were dead? One? Two? Three? Rumours were flying. Just a mile from where our peaceful protest was attacked by state forces, protestors had come up against live ammunition. Carlo Guilliani was dead. Shot and run over. A 15 year old Spanish girl was fighting for her life in hospital.
We had intended on going to the camp site that night. It was only a mile away, but it was too dangerous to attempt the journey. All our bags were on our bus which was now trapped outside the city, unable to get to us. We had nothing. No spare clothes, no sleeping bags. Nothing.
That night was tense. Helicopters with spotlights hovered above us all night. People screamed abuse at them. "Murdering bastards"."Assassini". Sleep was impossible.
The next morning we took part in one of the largest demonstrations Europe has seen for generations. Nearly 300,000 people marching, singing, banging drums, dancing and chanting. "Say Hey, Say Ho, The G8 has got to go". "Berlusconi, Assassini".
Locals looked down from their apartments, some throwing water on us to cool us from the mid day Mediterranean heat. Others held banners: "Welcome Citizens of the World, Hasta La Victoria Siempre".
When the march broke up, the police started their attacks again. Assuming that the afternoon would pass off peacefully, our group of four had broken from the rest of the crowd. It was a mistake that could have been fatal. Tear gas. "Run". We passed a girl receiving mouth to mouth resuscitation. "Breath". Nothing. "Breath". Nothing. Eventually she came around. More gas. Run.
That morning I had gone to the Indymedia Centre to email a report of the demonstrations to the Sunday Tribune. I had noticed mattresses on the ground. Thinking of the night before spent lying on the concrete with no blankets or pillow, I decided to spend Saturday night in the media centre.
That night the media centre was raided by a couple of hundred armed police officers baying for blood. A casual comment from a fellow Irish protestor was all that had stopped me from being in the centre. "There aren't really enough beds to go around", he told me, "Stay there if you have to but try and find somewhere else". With these words in my head, I had headed up to the campsite for a look. There I found an indoor tennis court where I could maybe grab an hour or two sleep. "Fuck it", I thought, "I'll just stay here".
Had I gone to the media centre, I would have ended up in hospital or prison. Ninety-two people stayed in the centre that night. Ninety-two arrests were made. Sixty-one people were so badly beaten that they were brought to hospital. Video footage of the aftermath of the ìarrestsî show pools of blood beside sleeping bags where people had been attempting to sleep.
Were they crazy? These people are the police; they are supposed to protect us. Had they lost their minds? As news of the raid spread to the campsite, panic grew. The next logical place to raid was the campsite. Protestors were all leaving the city the following morning. The raids werenít about arresting rioters. They were about revenge.
We slept nervously in the tennis court that night. If the police had raided the court, there was only one exit. We would have been trapped. Beaten to within inches of our lives, just like one Briton in the media centre had been.
The following morning our bus came and we were able to change our clothes for the first time in four days. We even found a shower in the campsite. Heaven. We packed up and left immediately. We had come to protest against a system that keeps hundreds of millions of people in poverty. For our trouble, we had been brutally attacked by uniformed thugs. Including the bus journey to Genoa, we had hardly slept a wink in four nights. There was another two sleepless nights to go. Tired? Yes. Traumatized? Yes. Repentant? No. One question kept cropping up in conversation on the bus home: how were we going to get to next years summit?
Eoghan Rice