Patterns of Revolution.
Very soon, maybe even tomorrow, a pastoral grandmother will appear among the Georgian protesters: a funny kandibobber on her head, a pot of homemade pies in her hands, covered for warmth with a shawl. The granny will distribute some of the pies to the
opposition, and then she will go up to the black wall of the local riot police and offer them, but the wall will be silent, and the old lady will wail "Since morning they are standing! They want to eat! Call their bosses, let them feed the boys!".
Then a piano will appear,
followed immediately by a young man who will play something simple and recognizable, like "Moonlight Sonata", to make it clear that he is not a professional musician, but just knows a little bit and loves it.
Then there's a couple that look like high school students.
First, they will hold hands so as not to freeze he will give her his sweatshirt in which she drowns, soon stop being shy and start kissing against the black wall of riot police. The paraphernalia on their clothes will show that he is an ideological fighter, he came here to
defend his political position, and she has no position, she came because she loves him and wants to be always near him.
Toward evening, students will begin to pull up in the square. Students cannot see the speakers, they will take off their shoes and stand on the benches,
a little shy of their funny socks with Puschin the cat or Sponge Bob.
Photos with a pastoral grandmother, a pianist, schoolchildren in love, and cleaning students in funny socks will go around all the major media outlets of the planet, some will even end up on the covers.
It is business as usual. Why is it that from one revolution to the next, the images look exactly the same? To encourage sympathy for the protesters? No, they're just preparations. In a week or two, a month or three, the same media could easily have different pictures
on the same covers:
About the same grandmother, leaning against a wall, trying to cover a bleeding head wound with a shawl.
Under the same piano, only charred and shot, in a pool of blood lies the corpse of a young man, another whose turn to play came at a bad time.
Some other boy is dragging his girl to the ambulance because the girl will get gassed or run over by the crowd.
There are sneakers neatly on the bench, and next to them is a corpse covered with a tarp, and from under the tarp you can see the feet in funny socks with
Pusheen the cat or SpongeBob.
And all this against a black wall of riot police.
People who read the Western media should understand without hints where there is good and where there is evil, and who is responsible for the innocent blood spilled.
But all is not so bad,
there are working methods of saving the potential victims of the revolution, and they are in the hands and feet of the protesters themselves:
To the first granny with a pot, a pot on her head and a kick-ass from the square.
To the laboogey with a piano lid on his fingers,
so that he couldn't even brush his own teeth for a month.
Sucking chocolatrons by the ears and to their parents.
Benches overturned, shoes removed into the storm drain, students in ridiculous socks kicked half-heartedly.
No provocateurs, no provocation!