Why the protesters of today are not your usual suspects

The mainstream coverage of protest relies on stereotypes of violence and reckless behaviour. But the real face of dissent in 2013 can just as easily be the "Knitting Nana" on the fracking front line.

Outside the main gates of the Cuadrilla site near the West Sussex village of Balcombe – the fracking front line – sits a woman who poses a threat to the government. She is an ex-nurse and grandmother called Bernadette, nicknamed “Knitting Nana”, and she has been there since the first days of the community campaign to stop the exploratory drilling in the woods across the road from her. She stays outside her tent all day, knitting black and yellow bandanas and wristbands to give to the community “protectors”.

Bernadette voted Tory, read the Daily Mail and had always thought that the government had her best interests at heart. That was until the fracking controversy kicked off outside her idyllic village. She tells me that everything has changed: those in government “don’t care for us; there is no democracy. All they care about is power and greed.” I ask her what she thinks of the protesters who have come down to support the campaign. “At first,” she says, “I thought they were going to be a bunch of troublemakers but they are lovely – some of them are a little weird, maybe, but they are brave. They understand all the arguments and I love them.”

I met another unlikely protester in Friern Barnet, north London. Fiona, a psychotherapist, had been infuriated by the prospect of Barnet Council selling off her local library. She helped start a local campaign to save it but it was struggling until one of the people involved invited Occupy and squatters to help. Fiona was horrified at the prospect of “violent and unruly protesters” coming to her library but she found: “They were all incredibly well informed, tremendously organised and passionate about the cause.” The groups worked together well and the newly bolstered campaign succeeded in saving the library and handing it back to the community.

This does not mean that Fiona and Bernadette are now going to Molotov-cocktail-making classes, smashing windows and voting Labour, but they have become far less ready to believe what they are told by the media about protesters.

The difference between the stereotype of protesters and the reality is stark, to say the least. When I sit in meetings with activists, people from every walk of life surround me. The characters I have befriended in the past two years include an ex-headmaster who fights for economic justice; a bathroom fitter who live-streams actions; a single-parent stallholder from Essex who has been thrown out of three English Defence League meetings for telling its members that they should give up race hatred and support Occupy instead; a single mum-of-four who wants her children to learn the “dignity of dissent”; a grandmother from Blackpool who doesn’t want to see her grandchildren “grow up in a world wrecked by inequality”; several ex-servicemen; care workers; a fireman; a health and safety trainer who has become a legal observer; teenagers and students. What brings us together was described by Douglas Wragg, another Balcombe resident, in this way: “We have here a travesty of democracy and we’ve tried every democratic path. The only choice we have left is direct action . . . You either lie down and let Cuadrilla ride roughshod over you, or take direct action.”

The mainstream coverage of protest relies on stereotypes of violence and reckless behaviour. Until people see through this and realise that the vast majority of these protesters are the same as them, the numbers that come out will remain shamefully low. Whether the media’s representation of activism is skewed by design or not is conspiracy territory but I can leave you with something that I witnessed that is more than a little provocative.

During the anti-G20 actions in London in 2009, many of the windows in the area had been boarded up as a result of incessant scaremongering about anarchists. Except, that is, for a small Royal Bank of Scotland branch in the middle of the four marches.

At one point – in perfect time for the early-evening news schedule – the police who had been guarding the bank suddenly marched off. Moments later, platoons of media replaced them and, as if on cue, two “protesters” started to smash the bank up.

Along with the prolonged kettling of hundreds of people without water or sanitation and the news of Ian Tomlinson’s death, this scene is what has remained in people’s consciousness, driven in there so deeply that many people will have forgotten what the protest was about but still remember the association with violence.

As Howard Zinn wrote: “Civil disobedience is not our problem. Our problem is civil obedience.”

Jamie Kelsey-Fry is a contributing editor of New Internationalist. He tweets at: @jamiekelseyfry

Anti-fracking protesters in Balcombe. Image: Getty

This article first appeared in the 23 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Russell Brand Guest Edit

Photo: Reuters
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Murder by numbers: the legacy of the Grenfell Tower fire

It is difficult to refute the reality of suffering when the death toll is still being reckoned.

How do we measure human malice? Sometimes it’s all too easy. This summer, British cities are struggling through the aftermath of successive terrorist attacks and hate crimes. The Manchester bombing. The Westminster Bridge murders. The London Bridge atrocity. The attack on people outside the Finsbury Park Mosque in north London and on other mosques. The unidentified young men who are still at large in the capital after spraying acid in the faces of passers-by, mutilating them.

In Britain, we are commendably resilient about these things. Returning to London after some time away, I found my spirits lifted by an issue of the London Evening Standard magazine that celebrated the ordinary people who stepped in to help after these atrocities. The paramedics who worked through the night. The Romanian chef who offered shelter in his bakery. The football fan who took on the London Bridge terrorists, screaming, “Fuck you, I’m Millwall!” The student housing co-ordinator who rushed to organise board for the victims of the inferno at the Grenfell Tower and their families.

Wait. Hold on a second. One of these things is not like the others. The Grenfell Tower disaster, in which at least 80 people died, was not a terrorist or malicious attack. It was the result of years of callous council decisions and underinvestment in social housing. On 14 June, entire families burned alive in their homes partly because, it is alleged, the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea would not pay the extra £5,000 or so for fire-resistant cladding. Nor could it find the cash, despite a budget surplus, to instal proper sprinkler systems on the rotting interior of the building.

Kensington and Chelsea is a Tory borough that, in cash terms, cares very little for poorer citizens who are unlikely to vote the right way. In 2014, while the Grenfell Tower residents were refused basic maintenance, the council handed out £100 rebates to its top-rate taxpayers, boasting of its record of “consistently delivering greater efficiencies while improving services”. Some of those efficiencies had names, and parents, and children.

This is a different sort of depravity altogether. It’s depravity with plausible deniability, right up until the point at which deniability goes up in flames. Borrowing from Friedrich Engels, John McDonnell described the Grenfell Tower disaster as “social murder”. The shadow chancellor and sometime Jack Russell of the parliamentary left has never been known for his delicate phrasing.

Naturally, the Tory press queued up to condemn McDonnell – not because he was wrong but because he was indiscreet. “There’s a long history in this country of the concept of social murder,” he said, “where decisions are made with no regard to the consequences… and as a result of that people have suffered.”

It is difficult to refute the reality of that suffering when the death toll is still being reckoned from the towering tombstone that now blights the west London skyline.” As the philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote, “The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil.”

Market austerity is no less brutal for being bloodless, calculating, an ideology of measuring human worth in pennies and making cuts that only indirectly slice into skin and bone. Redistributing large sums of money from the poor to the rich is not simply an abstract moral infraction: it kills. It shortens lives and blights millions more. Usually, it does so in a monstrously phlegmatic manner: the pensioners who die early of preventable diseases, the teenagers who drop out of education, the disabled people left to suffer the symptoms of physical and mental illness with nobody to care for them, the thousands who have died on the waiting lists for state benefits that they are perfectly entitled to, the parents whose pride disintegrates as they watch their children go to school hungry.

We are not encouraged to measure the human cost of austerity in this way, even though there are many people in back offices making exactly these sorts of calculations. This year, when researchers from the Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine claimed that “relentless cuts” to the health service could explain as many as 30,000 “excess deaths” in England and Wales in 2015, the government denounced this as “a triumph of personal bias over research”, which, however you slice it, is a callous prep school debater’s response to the reality of 30,000 fresh graves.

There is a species of evil in which an individual allows the dark and yammering corners of his mind to direct him to put a blade in a bystander’s belly, or a bomb in a bustling crowd of teenage girls. That sort of monstrosity is as easy to identify as it is mercifully rare, though frighteningly less rare than it was in less febrile times. But there is another sort of evil that seldom makes the headlines. This comes about when someone sits down with a calculator and works out how much it will cost to protect and nurture human life, deducts that from the cost of a tax rebate for local landowners or a nice night at the opera, then comes up with a figure. It’s an ordinary sort of evil, and it has become routine and automated in the austerity years. It is a sort of evil, in the words of Terry Pratchett, that “begins when you begin to treat people as things”. 

The Grenfell Tower disaster was the hellish evidence of the consequences of fiscal ruthlessness that nobody could look away from. Claims that it could not have been predicted were shot down by the victims. The residents’ association wrote on its campaign website after years of begging the council to improve living conditions: “It is a truly terrifying thought but the Grenfell Action Group firmly believe that only a catastrophic event will expose the ineptitude and incompetence of our landlord.”

That catastrophic event has happened, and the ordinary British response to tragedy – brave, mannered dignity – is inappropriate. When the Grenfell inquiry launches next month, it is incumbent on every citizen to call for answers and to call this kind of travesty by its name: murder by numbers.

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder