Protester
By x-ray-cat
- 835 reads
It is a bright cold day in April, and Big Ben is striking twelve. Brian Haw leans against a steel barrier, puffing on a roll-up, gazing over the road at the Houses of Parliament. A gaggle of tourists stare back at him, more interested in Brian and his display than in Barry and Pugin's Victorian Gothic masterpiece.
It's hard to say if Brian notices them ' after all, he's witnessed the seasonal ebb and flow of visitors to Parliament Square for almost four years. Any Londoner who has taken a bus past Parliament knows him, even if they don't know his name: the crackpot protestor who camps outside the seat of government in protest against 'the war'.
In fact, Brian started protesting in June 2001, against the sanctions imposed on Iraq. Since then, of course, the world has witnessed Al-Qaeda's attacks on America and the subsequent invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq. Brian's originaal protest has been subsumed by a myriad other grievances against the man he calls "baby burning, bombing bloody Blair. For fourteen hundred days Brian has kept up his solitary vigil; last week I joined him for a mere hour to try to get a picture of his day-to-day life.
Brian is instantly recognisable in his scruffy clothes and fisherman's hat festooned with badges: CND; Greenpeace; pro-peace and anti-war logos jostle for space on his headgear. Closer up, one can make out the man: his skin a dark red, tanned as much by exposure to the wind and cold as by the sun. Sharp features; strong, searching eyes; a left hand streaked yellow-brown from his incessant smoking. He's statuesque ' not only imposing, but literally like a statue: as you might expect of a man who has spent such a long time in one spot.
He is economical in movement and inexhaustible in speech. Asked a question, Brian stands and smokes and thinks carefully before answering in a hoarse, strained voice. After a carefully considered answer he lapses into silence and I tentatively pose another question, only to be rebuked: "Wait a minute, I haven't finished ' I'm thinking. You have to let him have his head on any given subject ' he has much to say on any topic touching his protest.
We talk politics ' I ask him how he'll be voting in the expected General Election. "I don't know ' I don't even know how to register to vote ' it's not as if I've got a fixed address, he says. He pauses, drawing on his dog-end, thinking. Finally: "I'm voting now. I'm exercising my right to protest ' I'm voting every minute of every day. I'm being a responsible citizen ' some people express their citizenship by going to their MP's surgery, some do good work within their community¦[long pause]¦I express my citizenship this way.
Responsibility is a key theme for Brian. What's the point, he argues, in marching against the war if, the moment that war goes ahead, those protestors melt away as if they've been defeated? Everybody in a democracy is personally responsible for the actions of their government; that responsibility is not confined solely to polling day ' we are obliged to challenge the government of the day if it acts contrary to what we believe is right.
A few minutes into the interview an American family heaves into view ' a father and two teenage sons. They stop to look at Brian's extensive hoardings. "Are you American? asks Brian. "Yes I am, and I'm a staunch supporter of George W. Bush, says the smug, smirking father.
"Well then, let's talk, replies Brian. "Is that a joint? asks one of the clean-cut, loose-limbed, obnoxious teenagers, gesturing towards Brian's roll-up. Brian hands the father a leaflet and, while he studies it, calmly points towards a board covered with photographs of horrifically mutilated children. "Can't you see that bombing babies doesn't work? he asks. The teenager grins: "Cruise missuls usually work. Meanwhile the father is ripping up the leaflet and hands the pieces back to Brian before walking off. "Did you see that? Brian asks, "not an ounce of pity.
The other key theme to understanding Brian's motivation is Christianity. He's neither a zealot, nor a proselytiser; his Christianity is very simple: love thy neighbour, do unto others as thou wouldst have them do unto you, tolerance. "Christian George and Christian Tony ' followers of Christ are they? he asks scornfully, "do followers of Christ wage war? Would followers of Christ invade another country?
Another interruption: this time a taxi pulls up to chat, but no ordinary taxi ' Cuban flags flutter from the wings. The commie cabby parks his car to chat with Brian with utter disregard for the chaos he's causing to the traffic in Parliament Square. "This man should be over the road running things, he tells me. A conversation ensues about Christianity; the cabby maintains that religion is part of the 'multi-national ruling class conspiracy' but concedes: "I've never met a real Christian, except Brian. As he moves off Brian says: "He's got more Christianity in his little finger than someone like Blair. The problem is he doesn't see it practised.
Do you get much support from the anti-war movement? I ask. "I'm not anti-war, he replies quickly, "I'm pro-peace. We talk about the apathy of the protestors who marched against the war only to desert once the conflict had begun. I tell him about the government's 'I don't do politics' advert. Brian gives a wry smile and a mirthless laugh: "They usually nick my best speeches.
A Pakistani tourist wanders up with a video camera, filming Brian and his display. "You are a very respectable person, he tells Brian. "No ' I'm a responsible person, says Brian. "Allah knows you, says the tourist. "He knows everybody, counters Brian. The tourist poses for a photograph with his arm across Brian's shoulders. When he has gone, I ask Brian what would make him end his protest. "A miracle, he replies, "either things change, or I might stay here till I die.
At the end of the interview he makes me look at the pictures of grossly disfigured new-born children which form part of his display ' the victims, he says, of depleted uranium munitions. It's hard to look at them for any length of time. "This isn't right, is it? he asks quietly. It's hard to disagree.
As I leave Parliament Square the bell in St Stephen's tower is chiming one, marking the passing of a single hour of one day in the fifth year of Brian's vigil.
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