Extinction Rebellion (XR) occupied a
street in central Manchester for four days last week. My partner and her best
mate were deeply involved in the organising and implementation of the
proceedings, while I played only a supporting role, a pot-carrier, literally,
in that I helped to put together the temporary street garden by transporting
some of the potted plants to site in the campervan.
It’s not that I am unsympathetic to
the cause: on the contrary, I agree wholeheartedly that action is needed now to
save the planet from eco-disaster. And I concur with JS Mill’s argument that a
person may cause evil to others not only by his actions but by his inaction,
and in either case he is justly accountable to them for the injury. But there
are different forms of action and people have diverse temperaments so, when it
comes to the various ways in which influence can be brought to bear on
authority, it is perhaps more effective
for each of us to utilise our particular talents. Evidently, I am not
comfortable with group activities, committee meetings, communal singing and
such. I prefer to act independently. However, having said that, I was so moved
by the marching drummers who led the way to the occupation site at the ‘taking
of the streets’ (I now appreciate why drummers led soldiers into battle in days
of yore) that I am considering applying to join them – as long as the practice
sessions are not too onerous. Music is a chink in my emotional armour.
Any organisation wishing to reach out
to a maximum audience has to take careful account of how its image or message
is perceived and XR is aware of this. Some have commented that its logo, for
example, is sinister and that the tone of its communication can sometimes sound
too shrill for waverers. Certainly, there is an element of proselytising and a
residual image of the crusty eco-warrior-cum-hippie that might put off some
potential sympathisers and here there are opportunities for me to be effective.
One afternoon, I strolled around the
XR encampment in order to gauge how things were going. There were reports of
one or two ranting dissenters, angry about the disruption, but, on the whole,
the atmosphere was jolly, relaxed and positive. Parents had brought their
children along to the family-activity marquees, while musicians performed on
the portable stage and the police presence was palpably sympathetic. I bumped
into an old friend and we retired, as we often do, to the terrace of a bar
nearby for a beer where, after a while, I got into conversation with a couple
of middle-aged women sitting next to us. One of them asked me if I knew what
the “festival” was about. Therein lay a clue as to the potential pitfalls of
careless terminology. I wanted to inform her but was unsure whether to use
words like protest, demonstration or occupation so, in order not to alienate
her, I fudged the vocabulary and
explained that they were ordinary citizens showing their concern for the
environment. I was amazed that, even with the Amazon on fire, the Barrier Reef
dying, deluges, droughts and hurricanes afflicting huge parts of the planet,
this woman seemed unaware that there was actually a problem. Of course, in
Cheshire, at least for the time being, there isn’t one, but she did show a
glimmer of understanding when I mentioned children and grandchildren.
And so I rest my case. I was not
manning the barricades but did exercise a quantum of soft influence at a
watering hole for the well-to-do. Oh, and I am currently doing a lot of online
research into the availability of electric-powered campervans.
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