Cat spotted it first. The broad stretch of the meadows was strewn with litter, spots of white like the starfield that we didn’t have above because the sky was getting light even at half three in the morning. One constellation had been carefully arranged, the CND logo assembled from discarded posters and placards and water bottles. Peace.
Fifteen hours before the ground beneath our feet had been bearing the weight of 225 thousand bodies. White-shirted families, young teenagers in groups, socialist party members in bright red and singing French activists and dancing alternofolk and resolute senior citizens and us, by the thousand, a teeming throng of smiling, forgiving, hopeful people. The tree-lined walkways of the meadows were packed with patient souls waiting their turn to march, some waiting three or more hours before beginning the one-hour route. Music played from the stage, the giant screens played short documentaries, everything stayed on message except the marchers who showed up with Palestine flags and George Bush Terrorist signs. The sun took part as well. It was a glorious day.
I snapped dozens of photos as we went around the route, through the bottleneck exit from the meadows, down the mound, along Princes St where innocuous High Street retailers had covered their picture windows with boards and chipper signs, ‘open for business’. She-Boom, an all-women drummer group from Glasgow, ended up accompanying us the entire circuit, and we danced as we went. People waved from windows.
Make trade fair. Drop the debt. More and better aid. Whatever else its failures and limitations, the Make Poverty History campaign has mainstreamed ideas that were radical only five years ago. Essentially they amount to public acknowledgement that we in the developed world exploit those without, and we bear responsibility for their misfortunes. The message was repeated time and again – this is not about charity, this is about justice.
After the circuit we went to local pub the Pear Tree House for a bite to eat, making our way down Buccleugh St and ending up at ground zero of the police confrontation with the Black Bloc. Clown-faced people taunted and played with the rows of silent police, beyond which a hundred or so Black Bloc people stood together and weighed their options. One guy, about twenty or so, stood inches from a policeman and stared insolently into his eyes while brushing his teeth. I’ve never seen teeth brushed with such menace. We didn’t stay to watch things unfold, but no violence seemed to take place. Whatever might have happened was off the agenda with that many uniforms on the scene.
Music in the park, more speeches, and Billy Bragg slipping the Internationale in to finish off the Edinburgh event. Everyone cheered.
Crossing back through the meadows in the early hours of the morning and seeing empty stages and hollow tents, I experienced again a sensation I used to have wandering night landscapes as a teenager, a truth just beyond words. The silent world asking a question and in me a responsibility to answer. Thoughts spinning out from the meadows to the beat of protest drums and dancing, and we walked on from the CND circle, over shining refuse stars, and around us the night moved on into day.
She Boom are awesome. You can’t beat rhythmic drumming.
Surely drumming without rhythm has merit too? 😉
I’m sorry, I gotta say it, it’s mostly tounge in cheek but;
So the only lasting impact was lots of litter?
A little unfair perhaps.
I saw it on TV. I duly impressed and moved, andthen promotly forgot about it.
Well that’s not true either.
I looked at the ,arch and thought how many thousands of ours of real fight for justice were lost that day as people when on the march and now feel that they have; “done their bit.”
I looked at the concerts and thought look at all those filthy rich people, how much of thier wealth do they use to help here?
Not just the rock stars, many of whom do a lot (but do they really *need* multimillion dollar homes? Couldn’t they be satisfied with less and give and do more?). No, the people in the crowd.
Those people, jumping up and down, having a good time, 3 billion of them *apparently*. What if they had all spent their day working with someone they lived with and helping them. Thats about a 1 on 1 ratio.
Now that *would* have changed the world.
But it would never happen. Morgue you called it an: “:impossible dream”. Why? Why is it impossible. If 3 billion people could tune in, why is it impossible that they could have spent that time actually *doing* something rather than watching people sing and listen to speeches.
I have more respect for the protesters. At least they got out and walked.
But in the end would it not have achieved more if those 225,000 had gotten out and done something positive. Picked up litter, helped in a soup kitchen, knitted blankets for refugees around the world, taught esol to refugees at home.
You want to hear a sad story. My mum has helped out with an organisation called “Pregnacy Help” for some years now. It was set up because they counselled people not to have abortions, and regonising that it was unfair to give this advice without supporting them the organisationw as set up to support parents. They gave out clothes and stuff for free, helped arrange adoptions, provided parental counselling and advice.
They helped.
Now they are closing up shop. Why? Not enough money? No. No one to help? No. Quite simply there were not enough volunteers.
No one wanted to step outside their comfort zone and actually help other people in a real face to face kind of way.
This is happening in aid agencies the world over. The problem with Tsunami relief wasn’t raising the money, it was getting skilled and experienced people to give up their time and volunteer to help. People were happy to go if they were paid, but then the relief money goes into the pay.
The sad, sad reality is that in the west, as afar as i see it, people are far more interested in feel good politics (talking, singing, marching) that the actually trying to help their fellow man in real, tangible ways.