This text is the transcript of the podcast
Adil Fradin: To what extent does the collective support our desire for uprising? Why do I feel such a need for the group to feel in place and aligned with my ideas? Why is it so important not to be alone, to be surrounded when we raise our demands? Is it the collective that turns every spark into a fire? Who creates change? Is the group merely a support, a mirror, like an echo of oneself?
These questions come to me today, as protests are no longer a part of my life. I no longer take part in various gatherings, nor do I make myself available to circulate in the activist spaces whose values resonate with mine. La Flèche d’Or, the LGBTQ+ Center in Paris, or even just the activist parties that once made me feel like I belonged to a world that matched my ideals.
These questions come to me today as I revisit the place of my old university, the Sorbonne Nouvelle. It was here, in the Latin Quarter of Paris, from its creation in 1971. Now it has moved to Picpus, but that’s not really important. What matters, and what is great, is that the buildings weren’t abandoned. They didn’t fall into disrepair. The space is now occupied by a third place called “Césure.”
This third place offers a dense cultural program and space for 200 organizations, associations, and artists. It’s buzzing, and that’s amazing. And if I’m back here today, it’s to help the LGBTQ+ Archives Association build a real monument of both old and contemporary documents about the history of the community. I think that after all this time, I needed to invest myself in this.
Anyway, coming back to the old university buildings I hadn’t seen in four years, I remember. The memories flood back quickly, and old images overlap with the present in this courtyard, with long wooden tables and benches ready to welcome people for various events in the third place. In this courtyard, I see myself during the occupation of the university by the students we were. It was one of the blockages in 2018.
Remember the protests against the ORE Law (Orientation and Success of Students), also known as the Vidal Law, in Paris? My university, Sorbonne Nouvelle, was blocked. Tolbiac was blocked too, as was Paris 8 in Saint-Denis, Montpellier, Toulouse, Nantes, Tours, Grenoble… the list goes on, and we forget too quickly.
So, coming back to the place of my university, I see myself with my group of friends, sitting on the floor, in a bit of a haphazard way. The blockade had been voted on by students and staff to keep the noise down during speeches. I remember, we didn’t clap, we snapped our fingers.
The university then became accessible only to those who participated in the blockade. I see myself here and wonder: wasn’t this my first political experience? In the city I come from, I don’t remember any protests or political actions I participated in. So, what was that first collective uprising like, especially as a non-political person back then? My group of friends was Catarina, who studied with me in the film studies program, and Nicol, a non-binary student who had come from London for an Erasmus in Paris. I remember, we slept one night at the university, and one night was nothing compared to those who slept there multiple times a week. We brought our stuff and sleeping bags, and anyway, there were always extras at the university.
People were really into sharing. While I was digging through my computer or browsing social media, I stumbled upon the cultural program of the blockade. It was incredibly rich, well-curated. I can read the title again, it said:
“For an open and emancipatory university, Paris 3 in struggle, the commune of Censier.”
And what did we find in it?
The General Assembly, of course, but also discussions on queer theory, the history of popular struggles, or screenings of political films. For example, there was the precious “Paris is Burning”. It was clearly a call to political awakening, while providing the tools needed for emancipation.
And when I talk to my friends about it, we all agree we were lucky to live through that moment. It gave us extra strength.
Today, Nicol is in Tokyo. When I ask her to share her memories of the 2018 blockade, she immediately answers on the phone : “Yeah, I was really impressed by the organization of the group, the sleeping arrangements, the security for those who were staying for weeks. But that night, we slept with you and Catarina. Someone gave me something to protect myself from tear gas. And that’s when it really hit me, that the situation was serious. And I think you remember, a few hours later, the police blocked us on both sides of the street near the university. And you managed to escape with others by climbing onto the roof of the Franprix. For me, that was a shock, you know? Because in the UK, especially when it comes to students, the police aren’t usually as reactionary. But here, the confrontation with the police was brutal.”
And now, today, I’m climbing the stairs of my old university building to join the LGBTQ+ Archives Association. As I climb the many steps, I wonder: when was the last time I took part in an uprising? When was the last protest, the last gathering? Weeks? Months? Years?
I still remember it well, the usual preparations before a protest: after deciding with my friends on the meeting time, gathering the necessary stuff at home: band-aids, tissues, saline solution, sunglasses (even in winter), water bottle, phone charger, ID card… Putting everything in my bag after flipping the apartment upside down.
Putting on comfortable shoes, a warm jacket but not too thick. Going to the bathroom quickly so I don’t pee myself an hour later, at Place de la Nation. That would be a little silly. Not forgetting my keys, then slamming the door with *Sexy Sushi* blaring in my headphones. Taking the metro for what feels like forever for no reason, just to get to the starting point of the gathering.
Hurrying through the line changes. Racing down the stairs. Still arriving late, because the clock has been speeding up since the morning. Struggling to find my friends, dealing with network issues. Those problems that always crop up during huge protests, then finally finding them.
Finally, the group is complete. We march through the streets, whether in Paris, Lille, or Nantes. The signs go up, and the procession moves forward. Hundreds, thousands of us, even if the weather’s awful, even if police violence is poisoning everyone’s minds.
That violence, it calms a lot of people down. It stays in your memory when the smoke grenades explode beneath your feet, when you see orange ashes flying in the air behind the sunset. It stays in your memory. It demotivates us, disgusts us. We don’t want to go back, and yet, that’s not the best solution.But before all of that, before the years I spent in protests, the turning point for my political awakening was the blockade. It was the first event where the importance of the collective took on a new meaning for me.
My friend Catarina, who was also there during the blockade, shares my view : “Well, it was the first time. It was really the first time I was fully part of a protest in France. Because being Portuguese, being a foreigner, I always wanted to, you know, but I never felt entitled to join a social event, especially when I couldn’t vote, couldn’t do anything. It felt like I didn’t belong to that society.”
Did you take part in protests in Portugal, for example?
Yeah, I did a few after, in Portugal, at least back then. I think now people protest much more, given the current situation. But back then, the protests I joined were the Pride events. I come from Porto, so it was a really small Pride with grannies all around who came with their bibles. So, yeah, it was pretty limited. In the end, you knew everyone, and you’d end up dancing at a club with everyone who had joined the protest. So, you see, it wasn’t quite the same. So, yeah, in France, it can feel quite intimidating, you know, the scale of the protests and everything. But yeah, I kind of got swept up in it. When the blockade started, it happened really quickly. I was at Paris 3. It was the right moment. I think the crowd movement that formed during the blockade, especially when you watched the news in the morning and heard about the blockades happening everywhere at once… the police oppression too, by the way. So, already, there was this bubbling energy, I think, to begin with.
Then, suddenly, you’re at the university, and you hear about a blockade, and people come up to you and explain how it’s organized, asking, “Are you staying? Are you leaving?”
And of course, you say, “I’m staying,” you know? So, yeah, there was this sudden, almost anarchist energy, but also utopian. But when I say anarchist, I don’t mean chaotic. It’s really not to be confused. It’s the weight of the political: you’re in, or you’re out. You know what I mean? You either act, or you don’t. You’re either part of the crowd, or you’re not.
And if after the 2018 blockade,I participated in other uprisings, protests, and gatherings, I haven’t in almost two years. Well, it’s true that we don’t keep in touch as much about going to protests with my friends, but mostly during these two years, when I was working in a bookstore near Bastille, I couldn’t protest. I worked every weekend, and I don’t count Pride in the mix. I would take the day off like it was a mandatory event.
And it’s been a long time since Pride had that revolutionary political aspect it once had. That’s why the Radical Pride exists today. Today, Pride is more of an open-air party than a political protest. And honestly, I like the party. But let’s not kid ourselves, I’ve missed many protests even when I was available. So why did I stop?
My friend Cata, she protests way more than before. Is it because I’m afraid? During the protest against the Global Security Law by Gérald Darmanin, our father in common, the police trapped us between three streets, right in front of the National Assembly. There was no way to escape. We were all there like rabbits caught in a trap. I was with my roommate, and that was after they threw grenades and tear gas at us.
Is it that I don’t protest anymore because I watch too much news, that it exhausts me in advance to get up and throw myself into the fray? And then I realize, no, I shouldn’t feel like that. Like my friend Cata says.
“The situation’s getting so bad that I want to protest more. And the more repression there is, the more we need to show up, I think. We really need to be present and not change our nationality, keep our ACAB sign. And yes, we put ourselves in danger, and yes, we could die. And yes, our lives could be completely ruined in every possible way. But our lives are already ruined, actually.”
Without the group, there is no uprising. It no longer fits into our daily lives, and our individual voice, which becomes collective thanks to the encounters we make, fades until it’s nothing but a whisper. That’s how I feel.
Not having participated in protests these past two years, I’ve developed a sense of guilt. A bit of a silly guilt. And as I reach the door of the LGBTQ+ Archives Collective in the Césure third place today, I realize something is waking up inside me.
I hadn’t noticed how much the concept of the collective had drifted from my daily life, how I had lost sight of it in this individualistic society where I’ve closed myself off more than usual. I couldn’t make my voice heard without being accompanied. That’s why an uprising without the collective is impossible for me.
So today, more than before, I need the group, my LGBTQ+ community, and collectives that fight for their rights and stand by their positions. Because the group, to rise up, is the best way to connect with one another, to expand, to be heard.
How could we believe that all the rights we have gained arrived without struggle?
These last two years, I’ve kept silent. But today, that’s over.
I’m going to protest, and I’m going to make myself heard.
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