Gotcha,
Hana thought, spotting the long, yellow, school bus spray-painted with LAND BACK, sitting on the train tracks almost a football field's distance away. She gripped the steering wheel as her beat-up cargo van bumped along the unpaved path toward where a handful of protestors gathered. Not far from their blockade were two local police cruisers.
"Are you here to join us?" a middle-aged Indigenous woman called to her as Hana alit from her van.
"Sure am," Hana smiled, her voluminous black hair bursting out the top of her denim jacket. "But first, is anyone hungry or thirsty?" She unlocked the back of her van and the Indigenous grandmother covered her mouth in awe as she peered in. In the massive cargo space sat several trays of cooked food, a gas stove and cannister, and gallons of drinking water.
"You're an angel," the older woman said, squeezing Hana's arm. "We were just discussing how to leave for lunch without risking the police towing the bus away. I'm Michelle. My nephew Nigaan over there was the one who got us the bus. There's only a few of us now but..." she trailed off.
"And there will be more," Hana reassured her, her voice comforting but hard. "A white guy rams his truck full of ammo and guns through the Prime Minister's gates and he's given a 90-minute talk by RCMP and then taken alive?
"A bunch of white, right-wing truckers take over Ottawa's streets for weeks and the feds and local police refused to stop them? Let them justify why they're going to stop us for being less disruptive than those privileged assholes."
Hana's hand flew to her mouth as she was afraid she'd offended this sweet woman she'd just met, but Michelle grinned at her. She reached for the paper plates and peeked under the aluminum cover of the fried rice tray.
"It's heartening that non-Indigenous people are also here, dear," she said to Hana.
"I'm Palestinian," Hana replied. "I fully understand what this must be like for you, trying to defend land that was never ceded, and that colonisers are trying to keep by force over the course of many, many years. I can't fight for my people back home, but I'm glad I can be here with you, Michelle."
They passed out plates as Michelle introduced Hana to her family members who were there, as well as local activists who were not Indigenous but believed in the cause of Land Back.
"How much did all this cost you, dear?" Michelle asked.
"Don't worry about that, Michelle," Hana replied. "My family runs a catering business, and all this was surplus from an event we just did. It's all fresh cooked as of this morning, and it was going to be thrown out if I didn't bring it here. Weekend events always yield more surplus anyway."
Hana was in the process of working out a plan to regularly bring them supplies when a red coupe approached the area and parked by the police cruisers. With one ear to the conversation, Hana observed a guy looking to be in his mid-20s step out of the two-door coupe and walk around his car to talk to the cops.
His hair was a shade of strawberry blond that Hana had rarely seen before, and he was lean but with broad shoulders. He wore khakis and a white, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Checking out how tall he stood next to the police officers, Hana squinted and estimated he might be about 5'11".
"He's too young to be a detective," Michelle said to her, stepping away from where the other activists were still talking. "But he has a notepad and the cops are talking to him."
"He's press," Hana stated, her brow furrowing as she tried to watch the reporter's body language more closely. "And of course he went to the police first because that's the slant his story is going to take." She and Michelle exchanged knowing glances, then walked forward a bit when the blond man started toward them.
"Hi there, I'm Reed Poletti. I write for the
Examiner
," he introduced himself, lifting his hand in a hello gesture while still holding his pen. Hana was on her guard as she always was when speaking to the press at protests, but she wondered why she hadn't seen this guy on the circuit before.
I would have remembered him,
she thought, noticing his striking blue eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses, and the way his longish red-blond hair fell over his forehead on one side.
"Michelle Robinson," the grandmother responded. "How can I help you?" Reed proceeded to ask Michelle a few questions, glancing over at Hana now and then. She stayed silent but continued to stare warily at Reed. After thanking Michelle for her time, Reed turned to Hana.
"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions as well?" he gave her an easy smile. Hana's pulse quickened, prompting her to turn back toward her van.
"Not at all," she replied. "But I'm just helping. I hope you'll mainly be talking to the Indigenous protestors here." She motioned for him to follow her back toward the spot where everyone else was gathered.
"Did you bring all that food?" he asked.
"Sure did," she answered. "Are you hungry? There's plenty for everyone."
"No, I'm good, thank you," Reed said, clicking on the end of his pen. "Do you... do you come to these things often?"
"Not as often as the Canadian government decides to shove pipelines through unceded Indigenous land, no," Hana flippantly answered, inwardly rolling her eyes at how he managed to make his question sound like a pick-up line. "But I try to show up with supplies as often as I can."
Reed was intrigued watching Hana set up small folding tables on which she laid out hand sanitizer, cups, plates, and bamboo cutlery. She had everything prepared as if she had quite a bit of experience aiding protesters before. He peered into the van and saw she even had blankets and first aid equipment toward the back.
She's pretty young, though,
he pondered, observing the small crowd of about 25 people step up one by one and grab a plate as Hana answered questions about the ingredients in each dish.
Maybe she's my age? Maybe a bit younger? She could very well still be in college or university.
Reed couldn't help but admire how much energy she packed into her slight frame. She was about 5'5" with wavy black hair and dark chocolate eyes, tan skin, and a svelte figure.
"Is that the only question you have for me?" she asked, snapping Reed's eyes away from the curve of her hips.
"Uh, no," he said. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"It's Hana."
"Hannah?"
"No, HUN-ah," she overpronounced, as though he were a toddler. "Hana Farouq. It's Middle Eastern so please don't anglicize it." Reed found himself wondering why he was captivated with this young woman despite her making no effort to hide her disdain for him.
"I'm sorry, did we get off on the wrong foot?" he asked her once she'd finished serving everyone their first helping. She turned toward him, unimpressed.
"Reed, was it?" Hana said, turning her dark eyes up toward his. "I've met you before. Not you, but some version of a spry, young reporter assigned to cover events like this, who wants to ingratiate themselves with the cops so they end up writing a story making peaceful protestors look unreasonable.
