Walking to the side
A day of protest
May 23, 2004
iranian.com
11 May 2004
I was on the tube this morning and it was packed, there was an
old man, shaped like a ball, with a beard and scruffy cap, arms
crossed tight, asleep and obviously homeless. His head was small
for his frame and he had no neck. It would have sunk into his
chest were it not for his chin.
A pair of dusty old track pants
was tugged over his brown woolly jumper and big belly. His
black slip-ons looked like they had
seen better days as, no doubt, he had too.
A skinny chap sat to one side of him. The other was left empty
as freshly deodorised office workers avoided the seat. He seemed
at times about to tumble sideways but jolted himself upright
in time. His breathing was pronounced, as if each moment before
the
prod that would eventually wake him were being relished.
But when would it come? At the next stop? Perhaps he would make
it up and down the Northern line all day.
So this, I thought to myself, is what becomes of Father Christmas
in spring. Saturday 22 May 2004
Riot vans had assembled in Whitehall outside Downing Street where
Tony Blair lives. Palestine, being raped by the Israeli army
miles away, was represented here by a few hundred; sons and
daughters,
fathers and mothers, English, Arab and angry. A few anti-Zionist
Hassidim were there too. They had walked a good couple of hours
from a north London suburb in observance of the Sabbath.
This was a welcome sight as police swooped on protestors who
had laid a giant Palestine flag on the road to halt traffic. When
you
are few you have to make a noise, the very excuse gung-ho cops
need to jab you in the ribs, with a shove and a kick.
A woman sat on Tarmac was manhandled only to spring back to her
cross-legged position with the grace of a ballerina. Perhaps
she too had been sickened by Israel's murder of Palestinian refugees
this week. So much so that she was inspired to sit on her arse,
only not in front of the telly.
A sharp advance eventually managed to occupy enough of one side
of Whitehall to bottleneck passing vehicles. Police grunted and
heave-hoed but you can't smash into a peaceful mob so early on
in a demo.
The cop-count belied paranoia about security in a week when a
condom filled with purple flour had been hurled at the Prime Minister
in the House of Commons.
But Fathers 4 Justice, which organised the stunt, was surely
the wrong cause. A condom slung at Blair from the public gallery
does
less for dads who are denied access to their children than a
balloon of red paint would for the anti-war movement.
It was a fine shot, one which the PM's trusty lieutenants
were not animated to take for him, least of all his rival Gordon
Brown.
In contrast, protestors at the demo lined up to protect the odd
one among them who would break the police cordon to raise a flag,
and a cheer from the crowd, only to be bullied back into it by
a burly cop.
It did not take long for police to lose their patience. The sun
was out and Manchester United were playing Millwall for the FA
Cup. They waded into demonstrators violently and people struggled
to sit down in defiance.
I was propelled to follow suit but a word from my mother, who
was with me at the time, was enough to suspend this revolutionary
impulse.
To have persisted was no option, what if a cop struck my mum?
I swallowed my pride and walked to the side, deserting our
comrades.
But it did make me think, “Too bad Che Guevara's mother didn't
go with him to Bolivia.”
May is Mamnoon
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