“The Protest” by Janice Locke

 

It was the noise I noticed first – a slow deep rumble that grew steadily louder. My husband and I were in the back of a black limo, threading our way through the busy streets of Central London toward our hotel near Trafalgar Square.  It was cold and grey with a relentless drizzle. 

We were on our way back from a Bat Mitzvah. The synagogue was in a village about an hour outside the City. We were honoured to have been invited by our close friends to celebrate such an important milestone for their 13-year-old granddaughter. The congregation was welcoming and even though the service was serious and steeped in tradition, the mood was happy and celebratory.   Our friends beamed with pride.

The limo was making very little progress.  Barricades were being put up at intersections.  The GPS used by the driver kept moving our ETA out.  What had shown 15 minutes, now displayed 35.

The driver started to show visible signs of frustration, as he veered away from one barricade, only to face another. 

In addition to a greater number of people on the street, police presence began to increase.   Mounted Police, London City Bobbies, and what appeared to be military police seemed to be everywhere we looked.  We noticed Helicopters circling overhead. 

It became clear we were not going to be able to reach our hotel by car.   I looked at my husband.  Neither of us were dressed for walking the wet and uneven London Streets, thronged with people, in our “Church Clothes.”

The driver confirmed by advising us, “You’d best walk”, and we exited the car, and joined the crowds.  I juggled my cell phone, silently gave thanks for Google Maps, and tightly grasped my husband’s arm.  High heeled shoes, nylons, and a light wrap made me feel vulnerable.  Not a feeling I relished.

Heading toward Trafalgar Square the noise became deafening. I knew it was Guy Fawkes Day and wondered if we were heading to an event in recognition of the day. 

Gradually, we made out a chant coming from the Square.  “Free Palestine Now”, was being shouted in unison from the thousands of people already gathered.  More people flooded in from the Tube Stations and the crowds became denser with every step. Palestinian Flags were everywhere.

I was suddenly scared.  My fear was due to the crowds and the overwhelmingly strong emotions from the people all around me.  I tried to make myself invisible as we squeezed and now pushed our way through the crowds.

I considered myself non-political. My family belonged to the United Church.  This was the most generic of Protestant Religions.  My memories of Church were mostly of the feeling of community and the tea and sandwiches served at various fundraisers.   I had the luxury of not feeling too strongly about either politics or religion.  

 My close friends who grew up in Poland right after the Second World War frequently told me my views of “live and let live” were somewhat naïve.  I have never faced war or considered what it would be like to live with views that would lead to violence or war.  I grew up in Canada.  My parents were not rich, but I took food, space, freedom of thought and lack of oppression for granted. 

Ironically, we had spent the previous day at the newly refurbished Churchill War Rooms Museum.   There was a well-presented exhibit that outlined in detail the various events that led to the creation of Israel and the Palestinian territories.  

The complexity of the events leading to the current divisions of lands was overwhelming. Decisions were made in the backdrop of world changing events over hundreds if not thousands of years.   

Was it possible to feel that these events and the subsequent tragedies were not “my problem?”  Did I have to choose sides?  Could I still cling to my perhaps simplistic view that all conflict was avoidable. What would I do if I found myself actually involved in the atrocities? What if my family were involved?

Thankfully, we eventually made our way safely to our hotel.  We had a warm cup of tea in the comfort of our room and prepared for the Bat Mitzvah Party that was happening that evening. 

In Trafalgar Square there were now three hundred thousand Protesters. It remained peaceful.

We were about to join an intimate gathering of families and friends who also had to fight their way through the protests to celebrate a significant day in the life of a thirteen-year-old girl.

The contrast between the close family celebration and the raw emotions on display in the Square were beyond my ability to process. 

I have been thinking of my personal experience as news updates inundate all forms of media.

I don’t have any conclusions, but I now feel involved.  My stance that this is happening far away to people I don’t know has evaporated. But what follows from this? I still don’t know what to think of it all.

Note: For more about the current war between Israel and Gaza, perhaps start with “At War with a Death Cult” here. 

Or to get an idea who these protestors are, see here.

***

Janice Locke has been inspired to capture personal stories and write non-fiction as a result of Brian Henry’s courses. She writes based on personal experiences as a CEO of various public and private companies and as a grandmother. Janice lives in Ancaster with her husband and enjoys hiking the beautiful Dundas Valley with her Sheltie, Callie. 

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.