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).