Camp 66. Eighteen thousand people. Burning bins belching out black smoke. Between the flickering gasps peer the soot-saturated faces of men, women, and children, unified by their gaunt expressions and bloodshot eyes. When the patrols come they scatter back into their rusted shipping containers and torn tarpaulins.
They say the jackboots are here to keep them safe. To split apart the swellings of gangs who threaten and steal and break. But the wiser among them know that the patrols are to keep a lid on the bubbling dissent and squash down sprouts of sedition where they spring up.
Press a rot down all you like. Keep pressing. It keeps coming, creeping, up and up, touching more and more. They may have next to nothing, but these people hold onto their rage. Stoke it, blow on it, keep it close to their chests. And it has nowhere to go but up.
Paddy Dobson
28th March 2023