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Occupational hazards: Laurie Penny on the practicalities of protest

As eviction looms at St Paul’s, the protesters are struggling with the hardship of months spent sleeping rough.

They call it the Citadel of Hope because right now they haven't got a lot else to put in it. It is late January and the third national conference of the Occupy movement is being at a Salvation Army citadel in central Sheffield which has stood empty for 12 years. Before the Occupiers moved in, the floor was thick in pigeon droppings; now the bare brickwork is clean, and people from all over the world huddle in coats and blankets, crouched around a space heater under makeshift strip lights, sharing strategies for resisting police eviction and trying to work out what the hell to do next.

Four months after the start of the Occupy movement, which began in Manhattan's financial district and spread like a fever to hundreds of cities across the world, the press has begun to lose interest. There are no other journalists at the conference. No matter how many fluffy, media-friendly new actions the tireless Occupy organisers dream up, from melting Arctic ice on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral to staging mock-trials of former prime ministers at an occupied magistrate's court, they can no longer make editors hold the front page. The political establishment is making its message clear, in the manner of a hostess trying gently to expel the last unwelcome guests at the end of a party: stretching, ostentatiously tidying up and talking loudly about how cold it is outside.

On 18 January, the City of London Corporation won its high court action to evict the main London protest camp from the courtyard of St Paul's. The Occupiers have lodged an appeal, but believe that the tents, the kitchen, the large library and "Tent City University", which has run hundreds of free lectures and full-time courses in economics, could be cleared within days. The Bank of Ideas, the sister occupation near Liverpool Street housed in a building owned by the Swiss banking giant UBS, was evicted last week. As protest camps across the world, including the unaffiliated Democracy Village at Parliament Square in London, are turfed out by local police, even the BBC News website has published an article asking, "Protests: when's it time to go home?"

No going back

For many of the Occupiers, going home is not an option. After braving the past four months, during which the nature of this global resistance movement changed profoundly, many of those who have remained at the camps and squats over the winter cannot or will not return home. Some have been living on the streets for years; others have lost their jobs and homes only recently because of rent hikes and austerity measures. Many are among the million unemployed young adults in Britain, such as 19-year-old Tilly, who moved into the camps after finding she was unable to afford a place at university and who faces a court case for participating in a peaceful sit-in protest last year.

The idea that committed political operatives could be homeless is almost as disconcerting as the notion that homeless people could be committed political operatives. At the beginning of the actions, much of the press mocked the protesters for not being tough enough even to stay in their tents overnight, a slur later shown to be false. No one now could accuse these Occupiers of being faint-hearted: living in a protest camp is a short course in how to manage life outside mainstream society. It's a position that many more of us across Europe and America will find ourselves in as austerity programmes bite. It can feel like an adventure at first, but by the time you get to the hundredth day of sleeping on the ground or in an abandoned building, the process of taking and holding space has become plain old hard work.

At St Paul's, after tea and conversation in the canteen, I am invited into the art tent by Rob, who is 32. He has been living on the streets of London for 12 years. Being part of the occupations has given him back some confidence and a feeling of community. His drawings, complex abstract scratches in primary colours, are pinned to a paint board in a cosy sitting-room space inhabited by several smoking teenagers.

“It's the street people who are keeping the occupation going," he says. "They - I mean, the organisers - need to respect the street people more." When I tell Rob that I am here as a journalist, he asks if I was investigating anything. "I'd like to investigate you with my tongue," he says, putting an arm around me. "Let's make some occupation babies on the floor right here." I grip my cup of tea a little harder.

It would be unfair to note that sexual harassment has become a feature of life in the camps without mentioning that the Occupiers are taking the problem rather more seriously than most public institutions. One group session at the Occupy conference in Sheffield requires local occupations to report back on how they were maintaining "safer spaces" and protecting women and minorities while avoiding blanket exclusion of people whose social skills have atrophied from years of living on the edge of society. This "safer spaces" meeting descends into angry bellowing as young men shout over each other. Over lunch, a more enlightened male activist lamented that this often happens. "We had a simple solution to that at Greenham Common," says an older woman. "We just used to ban you all."

Lunch at the conference consists of tea, casserole and conversations about how the internet will alter the democratic process. You can tell a lot about any conference by the food. The last two Labour party conferences, for instance, offered bland, flabby quiche that managed to be both stomach-turning and insufficient. Occupy food is hot and plentiful even though it comes largely from skips at the back of local supermarkets. The groaning shelves in the kitchens at Sheffield and St Paul's give the lie to the myth of scarcity: at their peak, they were feeding thousands for free.

In Britain, the Occupy movements have become an economy of care, a network of mutual aid for those ground down by the job market, by the housing market, by the free market and all its intricate cruelties. During two weeks of hanging around occupied buildings in glossy, deserted business parks and at windswept tent cities in public squares; of sharing hot, sweet tea and vegetable soup cooked on gas heaters; of being shown around tenderly maintained propaganda installations, what almost nobody I spoke to talked about was the wider economy. Unlike three months ago, I heard few complaints about fractional reserve banking, wage repression or benefit cuts.

There are several possible reasons for this. The first is that the Occupiers may have assumed that, as a young person with straggly dyed hair and a selection of agitational badges on my backpack, I already knew the drill. That is a dangerous assumption. In the past three months, the Occupy movement has grown more insular, dealing with internal difficulties that divert energy from keeping the public message strong. The politics of this movement has also become more ingrained: its anti-capitalist discourse has not disappeared so much as soaked in, like a stain into a carpet.

When I visited St Paul's one recent morning, I found people making artwork and videos, or planning their latest fundraising project - a record label to promote political music and support the neediest Occupiers. For better or worse, Occupy is as much a cultural movement as it ever was a political campaign.

“This particular project was always going to be temporary," says James, 25, an anarchist organiser who was involved at the start of the occupations but who has now "critically disengaged". "To my mind, the eviction notice is an opportunity to consider who the people are who are left," he tells me. "On the one hand, it's the people who have nowhere else to go, and that's politically important. On the other, it's people who become zealots about this movement - those who've left their jobs, their flats, maybe even relationships . . . My fear is that, for those people, when the eviction happens there will be a profound level of trauma."

Designs for life

Traumatic as they will be, the evictions need not signal the end of Occupy. As the last few camps are forcibly broken up, Occupiers all over the world are moving into indoor spaces and squats, with a particular focus on "dead" real estate owned by big banking firms. In the US, the Occupy Our Homes project has been taking over foreclosed houses since early December; in the UK, it is larger spaces that can be converted into social centres.

A ragged-looking banner urging "Occupy Everywhere" hangs from the window of London's newest occupation in Frome Street, Islington, an enormous nine-storey corporate unspace recently abandoned by several City companies. Inside the building, shy, serious people in hoodies are clearing up mounds of rubbish, but outside not everyone is pleased. "They invited me in for a cup of tea but I won't be taking them up on it," says Amanda, who has lived in the area for over 14 years. "They've tried to make a point, which is a point that needs making, but it's been made."

Like most of the mainstream press, Amanda makes the mistake of thinking that Occupy was ever about concrete demands. Rather, it is about retaking psychic and physical space amid the self-satisfied centres of capital. It is about using that space to build tentative prototypes of a new social system, created by and for people failed by the present one. "Occupy was never going to be an agent of change," James says. "It is a portent of change."

The so-called 1 per cent can dismiss as many petitions as they like, but sweeping cultural transformation is the one thing that may yet have them running scared.

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 30 January 2012 issue of the New Statesman, President Newt

Ralph Steadman for the New Statesman.
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Tim Farron: Theresa May is "the prisoner of the Ukip wing of her party"

The Liberal Democrat leader on his faith, Blairism and his plan to replace Labour as the opposition. 

This is Tim Farron’s seventh general election. His first was in 1992, when his Tory opponent was a 36-year-old called Ther­esa May. He was just 21 and they were both unsuccessful candidates in the Labour fortress of North-West Durham. He recalls talking “to a bunch of ex-miners who weren’t best pleased to see either of us, some kid Liberal and some Tory”. Now he sees his former and current opponent as “the prisoner of the Ukip wing of her party . . . I think it has rendered Ukip almost pointless – she is Ukip now.”

May was elected to parliament in 1997, but it took Farron until 2005 to join her. She leads the dominant Conservatives while he heads a party of only nine Liberal Democrat MPs. Still, their reversal of fortunes gives him hope. “After the 1992 election, every­one said there’s no way for a non-Tory government, and it turned out there was. So let’s not assume it’s a given there’s a Tory government [for ever].”

In April, I accompanied Farron to Manchester Gorton, in the lead-up to a by-election that was cancelled by May’s decision to call a snap election on 8 June. Still, the 46-year-old’s party has been in campaign mode for months; Lib Dems spoke of using last December’s Richmond Park by-election to test their messaging. It clearly had an effect: the incumbent Conservative, Zac Goldsmith, lost to their candidate, Sarah Olney.

Brexit, to which the Liberal Democrats are vehemently opposed, will be a dominant theme of the election. Their party membership has just exceeded 100,000, close to an all-time high, and they have enjoyed much success in council by-elections, with more to come in the local elections of 4 May.

However, any feel-good factor swiftly evaporated when Farron appeared on Channel 4 News on 18 April. He was asked by the co-presenter Cathy Newman whether or not he believes that homosexuality is a sin, a question that he answered obliquely in 2015 by saying that Christianity started with acknowledging that “we’re all sinners”.

This time, he told Newman, he was “not in the position to make theological announcements over the next six weeks . . . as a Liberal, I’m passionate about equality”.

The Channel 4 interview divided opinion. One Liberal politician told me that Farron’s stance was “completely intolerable”. Stephen Pollard, the influential editor of the Jewish Chronicle, described it as
“a very liberal position: he holds certain personal views but does not wish to legislate around them”. Jennie Rigg, the acting chair of LGBT+ Liberal Democrats, said it was “as plain as the nose on my face that Tim Farron is no homophobe”.

Farron declined the chance to clarify his views with us in a follow-up phone call, but told the BBC on 25 April: “I don’t believe that gay sex is a sin,” adding, “On reflection, it makes sense to actually answer this direct question since it’s become an issue.”

For his critics, Farron’s faith and politics are intertwined. He sees it differently, as he told Christian Today in 2015: “. . . the danger is sometimes that as a Christian in politics you think your job is to impose your morality on other people. It absolutely isn’t.”

Tim Farron joined the then Liberal Party at the age of 16 but didn’t become a Christian until he was 18. Between completing his A-levels in Lancashire and going to Newcastle University to read politics, he read the apologetics, a body of Christian writing that provides reasoned arguments for the gospel story. “I came to the conclusion that it was true,” he told me. “It wasn’t just a feel-good story.”

In speeches, Farron now takes on the mannerisms of a preacher, but he had a largely non-religious upbringing in Preston, Lancashire. “I don’t think I’d been to church once other than Christmas or the odd wedding,” he says. “I went once with my dad when I was 11, for all the good that did me.”

When we meet, it is Theresa May’s religion that is in the spotlight. She has condemned the National Trust for scrubbing the word “Easter” from its Easter egg hunt, a row it later emerged had been largely invented by the right-wing press in response to a press release from a religious-themed chocolate company.

“It’s worth observing there’s no mention of chocolate or bunny rabbits in the Bible,” Farron reminds me. “When people get cross about, in inverted commas, ‘us losing our Christian heritage’ they mean things which are safe and comfortable and nostalgic.” He pauses. “But the Christian message at Easter is shocking, actually, and very radical.”

British politics is tolerant of atheists (such as Ed Miliband and Nick Clegg) alongside those who, like David Cameron, are culturally Christian but whose faith is “a bit like the reception for Magic FM in the Chilterns: it sort of comes and goes”. But the reaction to Farron’s equivocation on homosexuality prompted many to wonder if a politician who talks openly about his faith is now seen as alarming. Nebulous wishes of peace and love at Christmas, yes; sincere discussions of the literal truth of the Resurrection? Hmm.

Tim Farron’s beliefs matter because he has a mission: to replace not only Jeremy Corbyn as leader of the opposition but Theresa May in Downing Street. Over lassis at the MyLahore curry house in Manchester, he tells me that Britain is facing two calamities. “One is Brexit, indeed hard Brexit . . . and the other is a Tory government for 25 years. We have to present a genuine, progressive alternative that can not only replace Labour as an opposition, it can replace the Tories as a government.” This is ambitious talk for a party with nine MPs. “I understand the ridicule that will be thrown at me for saying those things: but if you don’t want to run the country, why are you in politics?” He pauses. “That’s a question I would ask most people leading the Labour Party at present.”

What does he think of May, his one-time opponent in North-West Durham? “She strikes me as being very professional, very straightforward, somebody who is very conservative in every sense of the word, in her thought processes, her politics, in her style.” He recalls her 2002 conference speech in which she warned Tory activists: “Our base is too narrow and so, occasionally, are our sympathies. You know what some people call us: the nasty party.”

“In many ways, she was the trailblazer for Cameron in being a softer-focused Tory,” he says. “It now looks like she’s been trapped by the very people she was berating as the nasty party all those years ago. I like to think that isn’t really her. But that means she isn’t really in control of the Conservative Party.”

Voters, however, seem to disagree. In recent polls, support for the Conservatives has hovered between 40 and 50 per cent. Isn’t a progressive alliance the only way to stop her: Labour, the Liberal Democrats, the Greens, the SNP and Plaid Cymru all working together to beat the Tories?

“Let’s be really blunt,” he says. “Had Jeremy Corbyn stood down for us in Richmond Park [where Labour stood Christian Wolmar], we would not have won. I could have written Zac Goldsmith’s leaflets for you: Corbyn-backed Liberal Democrats.

“I’m a pluralist,” he adds. “But any progressive alliance has got to be at least equal to the sum of its parts. At the moment, it would be less than the sum of its parts. The only way the Tories are losing their majority is us gaining seats in Hazel Grove –” he ticks them off with his fingers, “– in Cheadle, in the West Country and west London. There’s no chance of us gaining those seats if we have a kind of arrangement with the current Labour Party in its current form.”

What about the SNP? “Most sensible people would look at that SNP manifesto and agree with 99 per cent of it,” Farron says. “But it’s that one thing: they want to wreck the country! How can you do a deal with people who want to wreck the country?”

There’s no other alternative, he says. Someone needs to step up and offer “something that can appeal to progressive younger voters, pro-Europeans and, you know, moderate-thinking Middle England”. He wants to champion a market economy, strong public services, action on climate change, internationalism and free trade.

That sounds like Blairism. “I’m a liberal, and I don’t think Blair was a liberal,” he replies. “But I admire Blair because he was somebody who was able to win elections . . . Iraq aside, my criticisms of Blair are what he didn’t do, rather than what he did do.”

Turning around the Tory tide – let alone with just nine MPs, and from third place – is one hell of a job. But Farron takes heart from the Liberal Party in Canada, where Justin Trudeau did just that. “I’m not Trudeau,” he concedes, “He was better-looking, and his dad was prime minister.”

There is a reason for his optimism. “I use the analogy of being in a maze,” he says, “You can’t see a way out of it, for a progressive party to form a majority against the Tories. But in every maze, there is a way out. We just haven’t found it yet.” 

Stephen Bush is special correspondent at the New Statesman. His daily briefing, Morning Call, provides a quick and essential guide to British politics.

This article first appeared in the 27 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Cool Britannia 20 Years On

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