The March To Somewhere Else

          I spent some time last week hanging around the seat of political power – not actually inside the Houses of Parliament but on the streets of Westminster, where, for four days, an alliance of activists was intent on holding government to account for its prevarication and often plain refusal to enact timely and effective legislation to ameliorate the inter-connected crises of pollution, loss of bio-diversity and carbon-driven climate change. Activism is a tough job and not without stigmatic consequences, but someone’s got to do it – unless, of course, you take the Daily Mail view that to be sufficiently concerned about the imminent demise of the planet to actually do something about it marks you out as an “eco-zealot”, a trouble-maker intent on destabilising the state, law-and-order and even civilisation itself. Well, science predicts that the path we’re currently going down will lead to all of that ultimately, so the “zealots” are trying to do Daily Mail subscribers the favour of averting it. If only they could see the logic.

          When relatively tiny numbers of citizens actually take to the streets to protest, demonstrate, or otherwise clamour for social change, it’s a hard fight to persuade the passive majority of their fellows to join in. So, what inspires them to keep at it? Perhaps they believe, as Amy Goodman* does, that, “Activism is an act of love. It is born of a deeply held conviction that the world can be a better, kinder place. Saying ‘no’ to injustice is the ultimate declaration of hope.”  Of course, not everyone who agrees with the objectives of a cause is either willing or able to hit the streets – and there are other ways of showing support, such as boycotts and disseminating ideas via media – which is just as well because, personally, I’m not sufficiently brave or passionate to be truly counted as one of the flag-waving, in-your-face stormtroopers who are the public face of a movement and who’s courage I so admire.

          When I implied that I had spent some time on the streets with them, it was in the capacity of a hanger-on, a bag-carrier, a sympathiser and a semi-detached observer of them and of the public who, mostly, ignored them. Maybe the inhabitants of Westminster are so inured to demos that they no longer raise an eyebrow. Or maybe they agree with the cause and see no point in hammering home the message. As for the tourists, it looked as if the colourful shenanigans of the protestors were simply providing added interest to the foreground of their video footage of Westminster Abbey.

          I did join in one of the marches and I did carry a flag. We left from the Supreme Court of Justice and went to Shell HQ (the entrance to which has long been fortified against demonstrators and was that day monitored by face-recognition cameras) but I have to admit that I was bored by the process – as I have been on other protest marches. It was a very long column and, being at the back, I was frustrated by not knowing what was going on at the front. Why, for example, did we sometimes come to a halt? Marches only have the dynamic power to impress when they are in motion. Frustrated, I made my way to the front but got into trouble at a pinch point, where I briefly obstructed one of the drummers and was roundly cursed.

           When I did make it to the head of the column, it was just as we passed a Gail’s bakery and, conscious that I had run out of sourdough, I nipped in for a loaf, leaning my flag against the wall outside, hopeful that someone might relieve me of its burden. Nobody did. Still, what I lack in street cred is balanced by my faith in Margaret Mead’s* dictum, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

* Amy Goodman, investigative journalist, columnist, and author (b. 1957).

* Margaret Mead, anthropologist (1901-1978).

 

 

Slower Living

          As previously related, the days preceding Good Friday were a bit fraught here at Wonderman Towers: our campervan broke down; one of our bicycles suffered a shredded tyre; and our electric kettle lost its mojo. The repairs and replacements were delayed, inevitably, by the holidays. However, this turned out to be less inconvenient than one might have thought because I decided to make a stand and refuse to admit that my happiness depended on technology. We’re privileged to have the use of all the machinery and gadgets that make life easier and more convenient but taking them for granted is a trap best not fallen into. And, although technology makes life easier, it also quickens the pace of things, with the consequential effect of causing us stress and anxiety, the widespread reporting of which suggests that our capacity to deal with these symptoms of mental ill-health lags behind the speed at which they are caused by tech-driven changes to our lives.

          Not that I experienced a profound back-to-nature moment by being temporarily deprived of a few gadgets, but being obliged to compromise in small ways did promote in me a kind of zen calmness and a peek into the realm of fatalism that I imagine to be practised by white-clad members of reclusive sects or the somewhat more practical world of people such as the Amish, who actually live and work as if technological invention had been frozen circa 1850. (Q. Why not 1220? A. Because there is no logic in their choice.)

          I exaggerate, of course. We weren’t actually without an electric kettle, as I remembered to borrow the now temporarily redundant one from the campervan before it got towed away. But, being designed for use on low-voltage systems, it takes a long time to boil so a degree of advance planning is required to make a cup of tea – which demonstrates how being obliged to slow down enhances mindfulness and builds anticipation so that the tea is more appreciated when it is, finally, poured.

          The campervan was returned, as promised, in time for a scheduled trip, but alternative plans had been mooted just in case. Now, I’m sitting in the van in a sunlit, wooded campsite, gazing on daisy-speckled grass, luminous blossoms and freshly greening twigs. A woodpecker is busy hammering a hole in a tree-trunk and a pair of parakeets are showing off their lime green plumage to the lustreless natives. I’m almost overcome with smugness looking out in comfort on the spring awakening – and on the couple emerging from a small, cramped tent, such as might have been our accommodation under Plan B.

          As for the bike, it’s good to have it back in use, as sharing one has, on occasion, led to some tensions. But, to keep things in proportion, I’m glad we don’t have battery-powered cycles, since my friend has just told me how his relatively new ebike spontaneously combusted and would have burnt his garage down had he not been there to prevent it. He has since acquired fire extinguishers and fire blankets, under which his and his wife’s bikes now reside when not in use.

          Not all advances in technology live up to expectations and some have unintended conequences. When I chose a replacement electric kettle, I went for a ‘silent’ model, having noted over the years that some kettles are so noisy that they overwhelm the radio and make kitchen conversations unviable. The new kettle is certainly quiet – so much so that the only way I can tell it has boiled is to watch its light go out. So, now I have a new, lo-tech route to zen calm: watching the kettle boil.