Not much happened that day.
The golden boys arrived; polished shoes, great vigor. (They tried to take what their elders sat on; wanted their cut of the unfair cut sooner than due time. The elders only smirked and would not give in.)
The fight at the lone barricade was short.
Urchin of the back streets, Gavroche, he was cut down in a hail of bullets. The air turned breathless. Occasionally even the least can make history.
We remembered him: the shrieking voice, the impudent grin. Every alley whispered Gavroche. We buried him in silence.
Afterwards, the golden boys returned to school, the soldiers to their barracks, the poor to their misfortune. Life would go on.
We’d learned a lesson: They’d rather shoot children than listen to the cry from below. Little they realize: Gavroche is an idea now, we still may decide to be.
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This content originally appeared on Dissident Voice and was authored by J.S. O’Keefe.