How many of us can say we were there? On our way there or stuck at home wishing we could be?
Loads I reckon. Some estimates put the size of this gathering at over 1 million people. My hometown in New Zealand doesn’t even have half of that. That’s enormous. Especially when you consider that we are talking about fitting that into the centre of London, less than a mile in circumference.
I’ll never forget it. By far the largest and most authentic crowd of freedom fighters I had ever seen. The messages, largely home cooked, etched, sometimes in crayon, onto the nearest side of a storage box or old tray or flag or crisp box. Whatever could be found. Some bearing statistics, in stark contrast those espoused through the tel-lie-vision news or from our earnest politicians (isn’t that an oxymoron?). Some simply stating the word FREEDOM, the one-line reminder of what’s at stake. From masks to shots to mandates to autonomy and the fundamentals of freedom, each had a reason and each one unique. I sometimes wonder if those placards, flags and banners are still knocking around somewhere. Gathering dust in someones attic or garage. Have they been discarded or forgotten? Or, do they still hold some of the magic of that time with them? Are they infused with it somehow? Do the owners observe them now, still in their resting place and remember this time, these days? Do they remember making them, in the kitchen perhaps, children pitching in to ‘help’? Do they remember the journey to these events, rallies and marches? Meeting the likeminded, identified by a bare face and a warm smile. Bonding, making new friends. Meeting those you’ve followed, liked and erstwhile looked to for truths. I do.
I remember charging batteries, packing up my camera bag and hitting the road to London. I remember the drives, the traffic, the getting hit on an off-ramp on my way to London by a cleaning company lorry 🤦♂️…yep. I remember the smell of the tube and of the relief to see passengers getting on with placards and homemade signs.
The sense of camaraderie, togetherness and a tribe coming together was what I always took from those events. Much more even than speakers, it was the crowd for me that made them special.
In particular, it was always the families which moved me most. United by values, common sense and somehow imparted with a kind of joie de vivre. The kind that I think that comes across alive and well, even in photographs…
These are the people I remember, I recall the sounds, the smells, the heat (or absence of) and the weight of my cameras dangling off me as I tried (sometimes in vain) to avoid a head-on collision between lens and ball sack.
I often think of them (not my balls… the people). Not just when scrolling through pictures (though I am reminded to keep doing that) but generally. I wonder how they’re doing. I wonder what they even do and what their lives are like. Are they still part of any events or freedom groups? Was this their only rally or did they go to others? What are their names? Would we get on (I like to think so)? I’m curious if they ever think of that day. What did they do, what were their plans? I try to introduce myself briefly to people whenever both they know and I know I am going to take their picture. Always fun, but if I had £1 for the number of times I have been asked who I work for…
I love the occasion of it, the feeling of being with ones tribe. Whether brought by sheer magnetism or because of being found in the darkness like so many of us, in the early days especially. A feeling of freedom in the face of the prevailing thrust of intra-governmental forces to convince us that not longer was togetherness or unity a good idea. For a few hours at least, chatting, laughing and (shhh) hugging our fellow freedom fighters, all was well in the world. Knowing, as we did, that all was also well with others who were doing the same, all over the world. Staggering to think, isn’t it?
Protests are funny things though, aren’t they? I’ve been to a few in my time, and witnessed many more as a passer by. They unite us in a moment and for a common purpose, but ultimately in a temporary way. Like the remnants of a kebab in the morning after the night before, we are left knowing it was great, but also slightly mournful at its passing. Each one carries with it, an emotion, a frequency, a vibe, an energy, a spirit if you like. The protesters themselves both create and imbibe the intoxicating liquor. In some ways I’d love to do it all again. To be with all the protesters, the likeminded, the characters and the energy of it all.
Whatever they all meant, or mean now, it surely has to have left something behind. Some ghost of protests past, some relic of that time. An imprint, like a family of hands pushed into wet cement. Though not present, something of that time and those events lives on. At least for me it does, and I hope too for many others. Our memories of it aren’t flat and lifeless, they’re full of sounds and sights, smells and encounters. Life.
They’re full of life. And life, as they say, is for the living…
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