Christiane Amanpour Has Got Nothing On Me

If I saw Christiane Amanpour turn around a corner somewhere, I’d dive head-first into the nearest Kebab Shop in search of refuge of whatever doom it is that would follow shortly. But tonight, even though Christiane is probably out there dodging killer African turtles somewhere, she has got slightly less on me than she would have on any other night.

As I type this, walls are crumbling everywhere around me. Flocks of young men are roaming the streets in search of their next victim. Hide your mailboxes, garden gnomes and, if you have any, your children. None of them are save for the ferocious onslaught that follows a night of riots with a massive arrest count of two.

I might have been overreacting a bit when I said the walls were crumbling around me. To my knowledge, nothing has actually crumbled as of yet. At least not at the site the actual riots took place yesterday, which is half a kilometre away from me. It is now ‘hermetically sealed off’ from the outside world. The fences seem to have a Siren-like effect on large groups of youthful riot tourists, who come swarming towards them practically begging for an arrest. I am not one of them. In spite of their ridiculous proximity (calls from concerned relatives are coming in) and my growing curiosity, I have managed to miss every single sight of anarchist behaviour.

What always puzzled me about civilian unrest, and what I now get to experience semi-first hand is its ability to be unavoidably present (unless, apparently, you just don’t leave your house for an entire day) at one moment, completely vanish over night, only to resurge the following evening. Where are these people during the day? Do they work? Do they prepare ritually for battle during their paper rounds? Who are these rebels of the night? But most importantly: why do they insist on throwing rocks when they know they are just going to get a canister of teargas in reply. It seems pretty obvious who’s getting the short end of that deal.

When Feyenoord last won a championship in 1999, riots erupted that made the centre of Rotterdam look somewhat like a Balkan war zone. While this would (should?) not make immediate sense to most of us, a Feyenoord fan later explained to me that this had been because of the fans’ inability to fully grasp what was going on; success. Out of sheer confusion, they started tearing down their own city. After so many years of supporting their hilariously unsuccessful team, violently expressing their frustration, even in victory, had become their only way to respond.

I wish you all good night, as I prepare to sleep right on through another night of civil disobedience.

Sleep well, Christiane Amanpour. We are the same, you and I.