My Response to the Anti-Trump Demo — Monday 30th January 2017
Wanting to play my part in the resistance, I attend the emergency Downing Street Demo against Trump’s appalling ban on Muslims
Via a hastily created WhatsApp group, I agree to meet friends (and friends of friends) outside the Co-op near Charing Cross station. The common domesticity of the meeting point raises a smile. Yet, surely there’s no better place to muster than outside the branch of an organisation priding itself on an ethical approach to business?
As I draw near, I see a small group I assume are my comrades for the evening and, yes, there’s a familiar face attached to a familiar person, scrawling in marker pen upon a piece of paper, the glass shop front a makeshift desk for the purpose of protest, a sheet of benign printer stock morphing into a political placard.
At a flourish, the handiwork is revealed — “Human Rights Trump Racism” reads the message of positive reinforcement. A North American, to whom I have just been introduced, plumps for “Fuck You Cheeto!”. We’ve certainly covered all the bases.
Each banner pierces the night sky in disapproval and my eye is drawn to the Westminster clock tower, just visible in Parliament Square, illuminating the hour in the steadfast certainty that comes with overlooking a seat of power.
As we follow fellow protesters in an unruly gaggle, circumnavigating Trafalgar Square and turning into the north end of Whitehall, we all exchange platitudes, which, though failing to fully articulate the subtler nuance and greater depths of our feeling towards Trump, nevertheless set us all on a sure and agreeable footing for the evening ahead.
The Muslim ban is abhorrent as are Trump’s attitudes to women, race and climate change but almost as galling is the manner in which our own Prime Minister overlooks all this in the name of a good trade deal. Hours previously, photos of Trump and May, hand-in-hand, circulate via social media and we are all aware May thrice failed to condemn the ban when asked to do so at a press conference on her return from the US.
As we move towards Downing Street, there is a tide of bobbing cardboard and cloth held aloft. Each banner pierces the night sky in disapproval and my eye is drawn to the Westminster clock tower, just visible in Parliament Square, illuminating the hour in the steadfast certainty that comes with overlooking a seat of power.
Here we are, the “liberal elite”, called together with just 36 hours notice and, yes, it feels good to be among the like-minded. As I look around, I see faces young and old, black and white, and I am swept along on the wave of an ideal: that we are witnessing fascism’s death throes; its final rage against the dying of the light. The reality, of course, is more complex but, boy, does it top up the old hope, replenishing steely resolve from the fountainhead.
Typically, in that same moment, I’m conscious of a nagging doubt. Even here, whilst drawing strength from the mass of people, I’m aware I risk retracting into docility. Cheers ripple through the crowd from Downing Street towards us and, though we are too far from the source to know what they represent, we whoop and whistle in blind loyalty. Chants of ‘Shame on May!’ rise and fall from sections of the protest and I join in out of a sense of duty. It’s not that I disagree with the words I hear myself parroting but I’m nevertheless wary of the ease in which I comply with the lusty wants of the baying mob.
Typically, in that same moment, I’m conscious of a nagging doubt. Even here, whilst drawing strength from the mass of people, I’m aware I risk retracting into docility.
A close friend, who has joined the protest late, finally finds us and I am given a new surge of enthusiasm. As the hands on of the clock tower tick on, we shuffle forwards, intent on reaching the gates of Downing Street before departing. Smoke rises nearby, causing concern until someone reassures us it is merely a flare, the atmosphere remains one of solidarity and stoicism rather than revolution and unrest.
As we pass Downing Street and move on from the remaining melee towards Parliament Square, there is a sense of anti-climax in the practical discussions that follow. “Do you want to go somewhere to eat?”; “How are you getting home?”. My friend and I forego the relative expense of a sit down meal and part from the group in the direction of the nearest pub. Outside The Red Lion, over a couple of pints of lager, we dissect and analyse in the manner of football pundits having just spectated an England match from the relative comfort of the TV studio.
I imagine one of us raising a glass “to the first of many.” Yet whether referring to the drink or to the demonstration I wouldn’t be entirely sure.
