The Adventures of a Wandering Kiwi

In Catalonia September 11th has a different meaning to that which most of the Western world connect it with. It is the day which the Catalan people lost a battle back in 1714.

And yet, on this day in 2012 the streets of Barcelona are pounding with a relentless and enthused energy. Flags of red and yellow adorned with a blue triangle and a single white star salute the air. These same flags, called the estelada, represent Catalan independence and are worn as capes, fashioned as earrings, and are even stuck onto the helmets of fire fighters supervising the protest.

The discordant tone of the gralla drifts through the crowd. Castellers, four by four and later two by two rise above us in a castell or human tower that stretches into the sky. The captain asks for silence and we watch as the last casteller, a girl of six, begins her ascent. The tower sways and trembles under the weight of so many, yet her tiny limbs grip and slide over her team mates easily. The gralla quivers as she takes the last step, planting her feet firmly at the top and standing strong to salute us.

Applause replaces the silence that we had forgotten we had been keeping and once that brave little girl has made it down safely the rest follow with fists raised in victory.

The atmosphere intensifies. The crowd is now so thick I’m struggling to breathe. It’s time.

Cries of 'Indepèndencia’ burst into the air. And we walk.

Us protesters do not fit onto the organised path, we’re too many. We spill into side streets, we scrape against the buildings. We are sweating and breathing into our companions.

I stand on my toes and lift my head to take in air and spot a woman of at least seventy waving the estelada jubilantly from her balcony. She plays with the crowd, disappearing and later re-emerging. 'La Iaia per presidenta,' they shout, 'the grandma for president!' She is not the only one in her age to take part; the majority are in the march. The whole community is here. They push prams, they carry walking sticks, they hold their baby in their arms and they climb rubbish bins and trees just to get a better view.

One brown haired little girl sits on her father’s shoulders, the estelada painted on her cheek. Her open mouth breathes in all that is around her and her eyes reflect the never ending valley of red, yellow and blue. I contemplate her future and that of her proud, united people.

‘Indepèndencia’ we all cry.