BY: MIROSLAV TOMOSKI
The circus has come to Cleveland and the streets are eerily quiet. Uniforms from South Carolina, Indiana, Georgia and California can be seen patrolling the streets on foot, bike and horse. The city was granted $50 million by the federal government to purchase new equipment for its 500-man local force and to hire 5,000 out-of-state officers for the four-day Republican Convention. In the wake of the Dallas and Baton Rouge attacks, Cleveland was expecting a war zone. But among the food trucks, park-bench-preachers, and open-carry activists it looks as though very few have come to oppose Trump.
With only four designated protest areas several blocks away from the Quicken Loans Arena, where the convention is being held, reporters have been left to shuffle back and forth from one public park to another only to find small groups of Trump supporters among an even smaller opposition.
Ohio is one of several states in the Mid-West where citizens can openly carry a firearm in public and many have come to express that right – like one man carrying an AK-47 and wearing a shirt that read, “CUCK HUNT”. Yet the most common sight thus far has been a series of small confrontations flanked by a swarm of reporters who look as though they’re expecting a cock-fight.
Others had come to preach their own version of the gospel, lifting their megaphones skyward and threatening hellfire for, “masturbators, porno-addicts and queers.”
“I am not Jesus Christ, but I represent him!” A roadside prophet screamed into a near-empty square before telling a small group of annoyed onlookers why whores make bad wives and men who are afraid to put a ring on it are not real men at all.
“When Muslims are real Muslims, there’s violence.” Another explained, “When Christians are real Christians – peace.”
“Jesus is in the Koran!” an onlooker shouted back, “Islam means peace!”
At the heart of the action, convention organisers steamrolled over the Republican’s last chance to stop Trump just three hours after the drop of the first gavel. Nearly 2,500 delegates filled the Quicken Loans Arena and rumours began to spread that the Never Trump movement had enough votes to challenge Donald’s nomination. All they had to do was prove that they had seven states on their side. But with the rules calling for a voice vote in a packed arena the official vote counter, Steve Womac, was left to judge whether a thousand muddled voices were screaming “aye” or “nay”. In a few short seconds Womac had to decide whether the next four days would be the star-studded pep rally Donald Trump had promised or a disorganised mob.
When the gavel came down on the side of Trump, the entire Colorado delegation walked out in protest, while Utah delegates were heard shouting that their microphones had been shut off. It was chaos in the only way that a room of tired old politicos could offer, but it was nowhere near the chaos that was expected.
If Cleveland is lucky enough to make it through the week without the kind of violence other cities have seen in the past month, it can breathe a welcome sigh of relief. But for now, the streets are plagued with a haunting sense of paranoia. Its citizens walk the streets as though they are prepared for war, ‘men of god’ have come to cast judgement and – whatever comes of their expectations – the Republican Party believed that they would need an army to protect them from dissenting voices.
