It felt like the city that I had come to call home was burning at the seems. As I walked past Flinders Station and into the heart of Melbourne, I was confronted with group after group of protestors. Some were holding placards with the premier’s face blacked out or with devil horns; some were chanting obscenities about the lockdown, twisting the larrikin charm I had once found so attractive into something dark and insidious; and others were holding burning Australian flags and waving them about in a sign of utter defiance. The same flag under which I had pledged my allegiance and my personhood two months to the day.

My friends had scattered some time ago, fearful of what would befall them if they attracted the ire of the protestors. And so I was alone, scurrying through the dark of the night like a mouse, trying not to get trampled on.

I couldn’t go home until I had found a sign, something to show me that I hadn’t made a terrible mistake by becoming an Australian. So I made my way to the state library, thinking that knowledge would save the day, would show me the grand, if imperfect, history of this nation.

But when I got there, I saw three men surrounded by a pile of emptied bottle beers and stumbling around the giant chess boards that guarded entry to the sanctum of books within.

I ducked down a side street, ready to give up hope, when I heard the gentle strum of a guitar and a woman’s soft, gentle voice. I followed the sound until I saw her, a lone busker standing among the wreckage, playing her guitar and cooing into a microphone. She was so peaceful, as though she was unaware of what horror was raining down around her. Or maybe she was an optimist, believing that her music could soothe the violent masses.

Either way, I was thankful she was here in my time of need. I sat on the steps opposite and focused my attention on her, letting the flames and the yelling and the smell of alcohol fade away from my mind and my senses. Here before me was a beacon of hope, a sign of what I loved most about this city.