Citizens or Crusties?

          Last Monday was a busier day than usual in Westminster, where Extinction Rebellion (XR) had started its campaign to bring disruption to the seat of power in order to emphasise the “emergency” part of the Government’s declaration of a Climate Emergency. I was there in the capacity of camp-follower/bag-carrier and I experienced, vicariously, the frisson of a crowd assembling in anticipation of deterrent action by the police, whose mission was and is to keep the traffic flowing – the irony of which may be lost on those who are unsympathetic to the cause.

          There is a deal of harrumphing over the inconvenience caused by these demonstrations but emergencies, by their nature, are inconvenient. Besides, the broad cross-section of participants makes it difficult for those who feel aggrieved to get too nasty in their objection. The face of the XR crowd is the face of their own society: mothers with babies at the breast parading in support; clergy leading a singing crowd carrying a symbolic Noah’s ark; professional people – teachers, lawyers, medics et cetera – all joining in, some lending their skills; grey-haired retirees sitting defiantly in the road, while exuberant youths drum enthusiastically in samba percussion bands. But this great, varied assembly of citizens was described by our Prime Minister as a group of “importunate nose-ringed protesters” and “uncooperative crusties” with “hemp-smelling bivouacs.” Sure, some of the activists fit these descriptions, but most do not. This is our Prime Minister, in Trumpish mode, setting up scapegoats for his fan-base to scorn, rather than addressing the issue with which the populace is concerned.

          As well as XR, the permanent campaigners for and against Brexit are in their positions outside Parliament, though their flags and symbols have been temporarily overshadowed. Two XR grannies walked past the pro-Brexit lobbyists and admonished them with a curt “There are more pressing issues to be addressed, you know.” They took no notice. I am anti-Brexit but refused the offer of a “Bollocks to Brexit” badge on the grounds that the phrase obliterates the argument in favour of a slogan. Show me your arguments, I say, not your hatred.

          By the end of day two, the police had succeeded in ‘persuading’ some of the XR people to abandon their sites and move to a designated protest area (Trafalgar Square) where they would present less of an obstacle to traffic flows. The story is by no means over but, on day three, with cat-and-mouse being played all over the city, I took time to go to the William Blake exhibition at Tate Britain. My route took me via several XR sites that were still clinging to the tarmac but, off a side street, I came across a tiny, tranquil, tree-lined park with a statue at its centre, around which a dozen costumed figures slowly processed. The sun was glinting off their silver, hooded, floor-length cloaks and their heads bore silver crowns in the form of the XR symbol. They were followed by two people carrying a banner. I thought it a vision that Blake himself might have dreamt up but, as I got closer, I saw that the banner read “Aged Agitators” and, when I spoke to them, the ethereal figures were very down to earth. “Wrinkly, but not crusty,” said one as they set off to join the other demonstrators.

          Later, on the way back to Westminster tube station, I passed a chap selling toilet rolls imprinted with the face of Donald Trump. He was at risk of alienating at least half of the American tourists but doing brisk trade, nonetheless. “It’s a smear campaign,” he hollered, and I could not help smiling. I almost stopped to buy a couple but remembered my principles just in time. How easy it is to bypass argument and resort to insult instead.