Life is full of contradictions. Sometimes they go unnoticed. Other times they are so notorious that they practically explode in your face. Suddenly, when the news seems to be a pitched battle between radicals and police in the center of Barcelona , for a few seconds all eyes are fixed on another side, pure exotic. This Friday that other side was a bent octogenarian who walked impassively in the middle of the war . Your goal, eye: "Avoid some imprudence."

We are in Via Laietana , in front of the Superior Police Headquarters . It's still daytime. Noon, to be exact. In front of the building, a new demonstration of students protests against the Supreme Court ruling, which has sentenced the politicians who led the illegal 1-O referendum between nine and 13 years. About twenty riot police stoically endure the rain of bottles, garbage bags, milkshakes and flour propelled by university students.

"Without farlopa you are nothing," they snap. "But throw the helmet, not the shield," they pull. Each basket unleashes the revelry. There are not many left and the only diversion is to grow the garbage dump in the hole occupied by the agents. Next to the fence is José Frías , an octogenarian and retired from the Palau de la Musica . In the hand, poetically, a kind of baton. With her he stokes the kids if they get too close.

The boys protest; José abronca. And so they continue for a while. He has the face of few friends, José. He is outraged with what he sees. He remains indignant shortly after six in the afternoon. How outraged, he is furious! The festive shot at the agent has led to an open war shortly before five in the afternoon, just when the peaceful demonstration that crossed the Paseo de Gracia to the Plaza de Cataluña , a few meters from where the tumult began.

And in the afternoon, José was still there

There are no fences anymore. Those that exist serve as a barricade between the two sides. Below, the Police; There are already enough more than twenty agents. Above, the violent radicals, which have also grown in number and are already several hundred. In the middle, burning containers, busted planters without a trace of plant life, cobblestones torn and dented by impact ... It is a war of stones against rubber balls , and the sides move forward and back in small battles, with short breaks to carry ammunition .

In one of those impasses, José stands in the middle of the street. "But where does that man go?" , a refugee journalist asks loudly at a bus stop turned burladero. "That one ... That one is resurrected Franco , " replies a boy with his face covered by a panties that share a trench. Who knows if José had hit him with a bat in the morning. The old man advances slowly, as if that were not war. The baton has grown and is a club. Do not let go. He bends down as he can and hooks a signal torn from the ground. The apart.

It seems that time stops, while all the spectators shrink expecting the worst. As soon as José steps on the opposite side, the ceasefire ends. It will not be the last incursion of the retired clerk to clean up the damage. "I like to observe all these things and avoid some imprudence," he says a while later, when crossing to talk to him does not mean playing life, "I mean thugs against older people or the Police, too ."

The soundtrack of shots, sirens and screams makes it difficult to hear the voice of the old man, reduced to a thread with a slight Catalan accent.

- And you're not afraid?

- No.

"Were you when I removed the signs?" He asks, almost flirtatiously, and pulls heroism: "This same week, not yesterday, yesterday, today, what are we doing, Saturday? -" It's Friday, "he corrects. the interviewer- On Wednesday, I think it was, when they burned two containers on the Gran Vía. Between two companions and I, we were able to prevent part of the third party from burning .

Despite his age, closer to the nineties than to the eighties, José had not seen his Catalonia as he is seeing it this afternoon . "I just wish that another era would come back as in 1711 , when Felipe IV entered and ended up overthrowing Catalan independence," he says. It would be good if the Army was mobilized: "For me, it is the only solution, I already see it very difficult."

If what he is witnessing has to do with independence or is something else, José does not openly say: "That already ... depends." "There may be something a little in the middle," he agrees, "I just want the thugs to have better studies." José does not intend to abandon his deed. "Go there, do the favor," suggests a riot with patience. "If I were afraid I wouldn't leave home," José musita.

-And what does your family say?

-I'm alone, I live alone.

A few seconds later, and before the tired look of a riot column, the grandfather returns to the fire. He has many, many debris to clean.

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  • Violence Catalonia
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