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My pragmatic, conservative background had taught me that if you felt the need to shout in the street you were either clearly insane or deeply naïve. From our safe, comfortable middle-class perspective, there seemed something dangerously uncivilized about the act of protest. Passionate people inspired by injustice to take to the streets were a million miles away from my family's world, where making a fuss at the refunds counter of a department store was the closest you'd ever come to standing up for your rights. This ingrained view of the world weakened a little when I left home, evolved further over time, and finally collapsed when the government declared its intention to invade a country some 3,000 miles away. I didn't know the war was wrong for sure. The overload of information didn't help -- not all the arguments really made sense and part of me was even prepared to trust those in charge in their fearful summary of the consequences of inaction. But it still all struck me as deeply fishy, suspiciously convenient, and an unhealthy precedent for the future. Enough people felt the same way for there to be a march through London planned for the following weekend. When I saw the flyers and watched the news I found myself considering for the first time the idea of taking to the streets and joining in. I spoke to my sister on the phone a few days before the march was due to take place. I think I was trying to provoke her by announcing my plan to join the protest. She wasn't impressed and, in a rather patronizing way, told me exactly why she trusted those in power and saw the war as the only option. I was left deflated by her attitude, but -- more importantly -- I found that she actually seemed far more informed than I was and confident about her stance. I envied that. I was reacting with my heart to a crazy situation, but how much did I really know? Did I have the facts to back up my instincts? Did I really have the courage of my convictions? I resolved there and then to join the march -- to stop being a bystander and a theorizer and get my hands dirty with the idea of being more politicized. When the day came, I was almost more worried about not going, than going. How would it feel? This tantalizing opportunity to make my voice heard and I didn't have the guts to take my place amongst the crowds? How could I talk about it with conviction in the future if I didn't step up to the plate and join in? I had to go. When my wife and I arrived at the spot, my genetic reservations kicked in again. As we ascended the subway stairs to the street, the chanting and general hubbub struck me as intimidating. There was a hint of revolution in the air. Thousands of people had gathered. How could I fit in? How could this seething mass that snaked through the streets possibly represent a single opinion -- my opinion? Awkwardly, we stepped over the barrier that divided us from the crowds. We crept into line and left the ranks of the silent majority. Once in the crowd I saw a breed of people that broke the TV news stereotype of "the protestor" These weren't rabble-rousers. Not unionized workers defending their jobs or tie-dyed travelers strapping themselves to trees. This was the first protest for a great many that day. Entire families were there, sensibly clothed, their raincoats packed away in backpacks. Sandwiches were distributed, flasks of hot soup passed round. At times it felt more of a camping trip than an attempt to prevent the next world war. After various speeches delivered from a temporary stage, it was announced as the largest single gathering in the history of the city. Everyone let out a cheer. As the rally came to a close, my wife and I headed home. A few streets away we found oursleves walking right down the middle of the road. We felt a fresh sense of freedom, that we could walk anywhere, that these streets now somehow belonged to us and our fellow protestors. The experience had left us feeling somehow empowered, as if we had just voted. Like many people on the march, I knew that day alone wouldn't be sufficient to really stop the war. But I did feel that enough noise was made so that next time those in charge might think again. When that protest comes around, I'd better have a damn good excuse not to be there.
Chris Day is a freelance animator/illustrator and designer living in London. He has a beautiful wife, a gorgeous newborn son and a disastrous hairstyle. He faces more of his trademark indecision and political angst at the upcoming UK election (May 5th). It may seem a bit late, but there are still plenty of ways to register your disapproval of the war in Iraq - visit www.stopwar.org.uk to find out more.
(c) Chris Day 2005 |
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