An Intimate View of a Not-Yet Violent “Protest”
Crowds of people in Hull city centre’s Victoria Square
On August 3rd, 2024, I was greeted with a swarm of hundreds in the city centre of Kingston Upon Hull. I, having ventured out with hardly anything but a camera and my headphones, was rather pleasantly surprised by this dense concentration of people, all so mindlessly self-serving that they’d hardly notice an observant voyeur photographing them as unassuming spectacles. I cannot, of course, pretend that this encounter I had was entirely incidental, though; the day before, a companion of mine had mentioned that this gathering should be happening. What was a surprise, however, was the sheer number of people there.
It took me a moment to work up any amount of confidence. Step by step, I found a bench, took my camera out of my bag, followed by my lens of choice (in this case, an 85mm f/1.4 from Samyang) and slowly assembled them, remembering (for once) to remove my lens cap. But it wasn’t for another three of four minutes that I’d take my first photograph of the day — believe it or not, I was finding the whole scene somewhat imposing.
There was a very evident divide between two polar opposite political movements: closest to me, and furthest from Hull’s Victoria Square monument, were those I could quickly label as the progressive people. They were holding signs with almost hippy-like mantras (pictured above): “UNITY NOT DIVISION” and references to “racist lies” were commonplace, no doubt. I chose to hang around this side of the gathering not least because I most aligned with them politically, but also because it’s where I felt the most safe, somehow; the diverse crowd of all different genders, backgrounds, dress-senses, races, and lived experiences was all-encompassing, if a little obvious. Apart from us, separated by a gap of, say, 14 or 15 metres, were the infamous, and far more plentiful, “Hull Patriots.” Keep that name in mind — the last five letters soon became relevant.
Strangely, however, one of these patriots was stood just behind the crowd I’d soon found myself looming by. I began leaning against a tree, assessing the situation mentally to the sound of Elliott Smith’s self-titled album. On the other side of this (admittedly narrow) trunk was the aforementioned patriot, whom would often sneak glances towards me, which I involuntarily reciprocated.
“Are you shooting for a publication?” I’m soon asked by him.
“Not strictly,” I reply, “But I sometimes offer my photos for purchase to news outlets.”
“Any in particular? Or just anybody who’ll buy your photos?”
“Haha, hit the nail on the head there.”
A somewhat awkward three seconds passed, in which I’d solemnly check through the two photographs I’d taken.
“What do you make of this?” he’d then ask. By this point, I’d yet to realise that he and I were not particularly socially aligned.
“I suppose I should remain neutral, if I’m loosely under hire.” Was the best response I could quickly calculate.
“Yeah, yeah. There’s a point for both sides, I suppose. I’m with the lads over there.”
“Ah right — were you involved in organising it, then?”
“Yeah. The problem we face is that, because we’re all men, we very quickly get labelled as ‘alt-right.’ But, this is about my eighth protest with these lot, and we’re never the violent ones. This lot like to paint us out as thugs, but we’re never the problem causers.” Real life dramatic irony.
“Oh yeah, I get what-” My thought was cut off by some of his friends arriving. I finish my feigned thought of sympathy in a half-shouting voice: “I suppose there is a ‘holier-than-thou’ mentality at times,” before shaking his hand and quickly walking away.
I had arrived at this scene at 1140 precisely, and now, by 1146, I’d had almost as many social interactions as pictures I’d taken — yuck. With that in mind, I turned my headphones up, and start pressing the shutter button. I quickly began finding natural frames, aided not only by the growing crowds, but by the now present policemen, creating a satisfyingly safe divisive line between the two opposing groups. This created a repeating pattern that I was very easily able to use to frame pictures.
I never really stood still for any great length of time; before things got particularly hectic, I was even able to venture into the opposing crowds, getting somewhat intimately framed pictures of people sneering at a young and “liberal-looking” (whatever that should mean) photographer. One of the stand-out shots from the whole day — in my eyes, I should add — was from this somewhat bold port of call: this rather angry-looking gentleman, who made careful sure that I knew he was directing his insult at me (pictured below). I gave a cheery smile and shouted, “That was a brilliant shot! Thank you!” before swiftly returning myself to the safety of the left-leaners.
One strange and unexpected benefit of this event was the sheer number of people I spoke to; after the patriot I mentioned earlier, I had plenty of conversations with other photographers, sometimes about gear, being hired, pictures they’d already taken, etc. Not just this, though, as I was also approached by more inquisitive protest attendees — take, for instance, a young man (likely not much older than 17-year-old me) also named Josh. He flagged me down around the back of the crowd as I was getting pictures framed through the arms of a man flaunting a peace-promoting sign. He, again, approached me by asking if I was working for a magazine, to which I gave him a spiel not dissimilar to the one detailed before.
“What’s your name?” he soon asked.
“Josh,” I replied, sticking a hand out.
“What- pfft. No way, me too,” he said, firmly shaking it in response. “I’m a rapper,” he goes on, “so anyone creative, I love to talk to and learn what motivates them,”
“Ah, nice, man. Creative processes are some of the most interesting insights into somebody’s life.”
Some small talk about our respective works led to me landing upon the label of, “coincidence photographer,” to describe my method of taking pictures. We exchanged social handles, before he left with the closing statement, “Right, I’ve got to get away from these lefty-loonies.” Not so “liberal-looking” now, am I?
Some more, albeit less interesting conversations followed this, most of which were soon ended by my sheer lack of social skills, or a quick dash to take a picture of a fleeting moment. Before I knew it, it was coming up on 1220. I found a place to perch myself. By this point, tensions had risen significantly: the police were forced to stand with straight backs to prevent the shouting patriots from coming over to hit the “wokies.” The spot I had found had a fantastic view of this, with a lovely bench that I could use as a foreground element whenever required.
After several minutes (perhaps even up to ten) of staying in this spot, I shuffled through the pack of photographers and videographers to get a slightly more angled, outsider view. Not long before this, about a minute and a half prior, in fact, those on the opposite side of the police line had begun to throw things: uneaten food, discarded McDonald’s bag, and, less than a minute after I had moved, a 2KG bag of flour. It was at least 15 metres to my left, so I was still in great comfort and not at all covered in baking goods. I checked my watch once more: 1236. As I’m looking up and raising my camera to take a picture, I hear a distinct crash from about three metres to my right. A bottle of Budweiser (empty, of course, for the protesters were morons, not monsters) had been thrown in the general direction of me. I like to think that this was unintentional, though it was increasingly obvious that people were beginning to get sick of me. I quickly returned to the safety of the photographer’s bench, my spot perfectly preserved.
After that brief shake up of my mind, and a few more close-calls with airborne items, it struck me that, though I had expected this particular type of disorderly conduct, I hadn’t expected the depravity of it. Children were present at this protest in surprisingly high numbers; I did my best to avoid capturing them in photos unless they were pivotal to telling a story. This small boy, no older than 5 (pictured below), was propped upon the shoulders of his evidently, ‘patriotic,’ mother and was being passed things from the crowd for him to throw. Every time he did this, an unmistakably British, “Whey!” would come crying out from the hive-mind of a gathering.
The only other picture of a child I took that day was the one shown below, depicting a girl whose eyes followed me with a sunken misery. This image, I at least think, represents the selfishness of the right in this situation; it’s a fairly standard assertion to say that children do not, at all, belong at protests — particularly not ones with such socially complex issues. The look of despair on this girl’s face is one directly inflicted by her parents, who chose to take her to this unsafe environment.
By now, things were on the brink of becoming physical. The visible annoyance of the police officers was almost tangible, as the same 4 or 5 people shouted in their face. Another photographer stood in front of me began loudly (and correctly) proclaiming that those opposite us had been doing Nazi salutes. This began a distanced shouting match, during which crude insults and accusations of evil were exchanged. The leading force of this (pictured below), who would unapologetically and loudly proclaim things to the effect of, “Muslim immigrants come here to murder and rape, and nothing else,” was seemingly getting under the skin of the police. One in particular began warding him off specifically, much to the dismay of he and his crowd.
I’d began walking to the left of the pack, to catch an angle with the monument in the back. I stumbled into this composition, and took a picture without second thought. Suddenly, though, as I frantically searched for another character to exhibit, the mass began migrating (rather fittingly) to the right, down to Paragon Street. This mass movement perfectly demonstrated the woefully small gathering of left-leaners; we were demonstrably outnumbered, by probably seven or eight times.
At 1245 precisely, the first strike landed upon another. It was very difficult to tell from my distant vantage point whether it was even between people with opposite views, or two ‘patriots’ (now aptly renamed to rioters). I chose not to stick around and find out, and I’m incredibly lucky to have done so.
By the time my bus had just delivered me home, the rioters had made their way to Ferensway, blocking access into and out of the bus station.
Information about the happenings after this is available from first-hand reports on Hull Live:
