Glasgow Peace Demonstration

Glasgow Peace Demonstration, Saturday 22 September 2001.

A good journey. The baby had only started crying ten minutes before
arrival, and the train was only 15 minutes late. The countryside had
been gorgeous: straw bales, ripe wheat, cattle in a wet pasture,
saturated green even in the overcast conditions. Same mindless
pre-disembarkation hustle as usual: people standing and queuing in the
corridor, as if the few extra seconds were worth the discomfort. I was
late but I waited in my seat.

At first I didn't see the demonstration. I had expected George Square
to be packed with chanting masses waving banners. Then I saw them - a
few hundred subdued souls clustered around a makeshift pallet platform
to the left. The loudspeakers were adequate - if the human speakers
spoke into the microphones and one cupped one's hand. What they said
was to the point, well expressed and moving. A mother, a human rights
lawyer, a representative of the fire brigade and Tommy Sheridan. I
won't tell you what they said in detail because I'm sure you'll know it
all: sympathy with the victims of the terror attacks, the money spent
on weaponry, local and global poverty and injustice, the opposition of
the Muslim faith to terrorism, the impossibility of fighting terrorism
by military means... We all knew it, but it was important to be there
and be counted. We clapped the speakers. I unfolded the clumsy banner I
had constructed in the train by sticking together several A4 pieces of
pink cardboard and painting them with my little tubes of gouache: "Food
not bombs". The text was in smudged and jiggly black (ever tried
writing on a train?) and I had crudely embellished the last word with
red paint, flowing into a symbolic river of blood. I could not easily
hold my long and flimsy work, so placed it at the foot of the statue of
Gladstone. Several times I had to go back and re-position it as the
wind didn't like it. Once I saw that a passer-by had done this for me.
Then I stuck it in place with my sticky tape. Why hadn't I thought of
that earlier? I assessed my fellow demonstrators: a motley crew, as it
should be. An extremely beautiful dusky young woman, wearing make-up
but in a Muslim headscarf, made her way amongst us: she moved through
the fair, I watched as she moved here here and she moved there. A
vision of assimilation. Two little kids were giving out "boycott
Israeli products" stickers in return for a few coins in their
collection tin. I demurred, I ignored them, as I'm not convinced that
boycotts help in these circumstances, and I could just see the sticker
antagonising Jewish people. Besides, I am uneasy about children being
used in this way. What we need is gestures of reconciliation, not
provocation, I thought. Many people held little printed banners aloft,
most of which had the CND emblem and bore the words "Bread not bombs!"
or similar. Better than my slogan, but a letter longer. (I had
carefully marked out the letters on my cardboard, wanting few of them
so that they could be as big as possible.) I looked at the worthy books
on a table at the side: expos?s of the evils of globalisation, and how
to overcome it. Just how many does one need to read? It had been
announced that there would be buses to Dungavel, where the protest
would be against the detention centre for asylum seekers being opened
there. Much as I abhor the treatment of asylum seekers in this
so-called free and democratic country, I decided not to go. I wasn't
sure how late the buses would return. Besides, these days I consciously
attempt to balance my life.

Balance. A few years ago I lived in Paris and joined a far-left party.
They were good people, and I empathised with their aims, but after
reading - and even translating - much of their literature, and taking
part in many protest marches and meetings, I came to realise that
something inside me was dying. All I could think about and talk about
was politics. My creativity and joie de vivre were being stifled. I had
to attempt to make the world a better place on my terms and in my own
way. I was under the impression that the only people I was meeting for
any length of time were those who thought the same way. Others would
freeze when I started talking politics, and no-one seemed to be won
over. I left. A friend later confided that she had cut me out of her
life during those days, as I had indeed become insufferable. So now I
attempt to balance things. The bulk of my writing is informed by my
conscience and my heart (if not both then at least one) but I make room
for other things, especially my friends, and music. Today I wanted to
make room to wander around the great city of Glasgow.

I love wandering here and there, according to whim. I call it
"celestine-ing", after The Celestine Prophecy, the bad novel but Good
book that opened my eyes to another way of being. It is no coincidence
that the name of my magazine (The Cellar Scene) sounds similar. When I
am in the right mode, significant things always happen, be this only
the arrival of an Idea. My favourite words are probably synchronicity
and serendipity, and this is how I live, to some extent. I leave
slackness when I can, and try to stay receptive, and good things fill
it up. Hard work and slackness...

I let Glasgow wash around me. It's one of my favourite places for its
variety. The beautiful and fashionable young women, the world-weary
council estaters, the smart suits, the buskers, the beggars, the
football fans, the drunks... Nothing is hidden. The buskers and beggars
(and I do not lump them together!) are out in force today, but it is
the cheery Glaswegian drunk in a Celtic shirt who attracts my
attention. One of his eyes is black, and there's a graze over the
contralateral cheekbone but he weaves through the other pedestrians,
oozing bonhomie. He accosts a young man emerging from a shop, greeting
him like a long-lost friend. The man is nonplussed - just how does one
react?

The real question is how one reacts to the beggars. There are young
lads, probably heroin addicts, with their wee paper cups with a few
coins in the bottom, there are older men, with exhausted and defeated
faces, probably alcoholics. But can I judge? Sometimes I ignore them,
sometimes I empty my pockets. Always I feel guilty and usually I
rationalise: I am heavily in debt myself - rather save my money and try
to right the faults in society that put them on the streets. But I am
about to treat myself to food and drink somewhere - although I've
already bought a sandwich at Gregg's - and won't worry about the cost,
and, besides, tomorrow may never come. The moment is all we have,
really. I empty my pockets.

While all these thoughts were moiling, I had made my way to the Central
Station as I knew there'd be a map there, and I wanted to find King
Street. The previous day a friend had written the name and address of
her favourite cafe and adjacent gallery on a scrap of paper. She was
away to join her husband in the USA after finally getting the paperwork
sorted, and this had been our last meeting, over a coffee and a
sandwich at our local restaurant in Aberdeen. Her parting gift was the
knowledge that I had to see the Sharmanka Russian kinetic sculpture
gallery. So I had remembered this, while celestine-ing the streets, and
retrieved the slip of paper (a tourist agency's card, redundant now all
her travel plans had been made) and now, having located King Street on
the map, I was heading there.

I pass many fashion shops and stray into bright high-ceilinged arcades.
Cathedrals to consumerism. Beautiful people sup cappuccinos in
mezzanine caf?s, logo'd bags at their feet. I pass Gap, Baby Gap: wrap
your brat in designer tat, slave-laboured in free trade zone
sweatshops, by other kids. Take the Gap, or leave it, and earn the
disdain of your pecunious peers? One of the fashion traps blatantly
calls itself Logo. Poor Naomi Klein doesn't have a hope. But I look at
the faces of the bright young things. They're innocent. Self-esteem
must be bought as there's no time these days for the cumulative warmth
of human interaction to build their confidence. Their parents are their
televisions. And their days are filled with text messages, and their
thumbs are ever so dexterous. But it's balanced exercise - on the
trains they alternate the buttons of their mobiles with the pages of
glossy magazines. Beauty lies a purchase away, friendship a message
away. And what of beauty? My eyes are not averse to the comely and
well-dressed. There should be beauty in this world. The passage of
bright and superficial youth brightens my day. And darkens it.

And I'm there, at the Russian caf?. Next door the museum appears
closed. The timetable adjacent to the buzzer indicates nothing on
Saturday. Nonetheless I am here now, and I enter the caf?. A miscellany
of colourful tassled rugs bulge from the ceiling. An old couple occupy
the window table. The furniture is elegant pale wood and could be
Scandanavian. A young girl lurks behind the bar. A slip of a lass in a
Calvin Klein top. Up the Liverpool do_cK_ers, I think, but she won't
have heard of them, or of the clever protest at a football match. I ask
her whether she knows if the museum is open. In fluent English but an
unplaceable accent she says she doesn't know, but can find out... I
tell her not to bother as I shall have something to eat and drink now
anyway. I ask her where she's from. She says Russia, but she's lived in
the USA. Now she's in Glasgow, so that explains it. I order a cherry
vodka - they have a wide selection of this spirit. I consult the menu
and decide on the Russian pickles with dip. I ask her whether there's
any meat in this. She doesn't know and scurries to the back to consult
The Authority who apparently bides there. I notice the music. It's
bland, international faceless boy-band stuff. Insipid crooning about
love. It must be the young girl's choice. Soon the boss appears. She's
an amicable woman in colourful attire. I tell her a friend recommended
that I come here. I sip my delicious vodka, take out my diary and my
copy of the Big Issue. The pickles arrive, tastefully served. Cabbage,
mushrooms, garlic and whole peppercorns with a piquant
red chunky sauce. It's exactly what appeals and I consume it as I do
the Big Issue crossword. The couple in the window are chatting to the
manager, and, midst friendly words, ask for the music to be turned
down. She takes the hint and turns it off, searching through the
stacked CDs for something more appropriate. Soon Russian ballads fill
the room. Not traditional - the backing instrumentation is modern and
there's conventional western percussion. It's fine though, certainly
better. The manager and the girl exchange quiet words in the back
corner. Perhaps the lass is hurt that her music is unappreciated. Meal
finished, I have a black coffee and then ask the girl for the bill. The
manager comes over and suggests I might like to try the delicious
homemade Russian cake. Astute businesswoman perhaps - the place is
rather empty and the takings per customer must be maximised - but she
is convincing and I'm sure her friendliness is sincere. She says that I
haven't had a lot to eat. I explain that I had a sandwich earlier but
allow myself to be persuaded, as she cheekily says I can dine late that
evening. I agree and am served a delicious multi-layered confection,
tastefully presented with a splash of custard and a gooseberry on an
icing sugar-dusted plate. It is good, possibly containing powdered
almonds, but very sweet for my palate. I soldier through it. I shall
indeed dine late that evening. Later, as I pay my bill at the counter,
I ask about the museum. Alas, Sunday is the day one should come. Not
only is the museum open, but there is live music in the caf?. I explain
my interest in music and she passes me the programme. I won't be in
Glasgow again this month, but might come in October. My friend had
enthused about the music, I tell her. She is pleased. I tip generously
and depart to walk off my feast. The next train for Aberdeen leaves in
an hour.

I pass a cornershop, with fruit and vegetables in colourful display on
large racks outside. It reminds me of "l'arabe du coin" of Paris days,
the equivalent of our "cornershop Paki", open long hours against the
supermarket onslaught. They deserve every penny they earn in the face
of the dripfeed racist abuse they endure daily. A Glasgow-resident
friend recently told me that her local cornershop had been defaced by a
swastika in the wake of September 11. Only, the ignorant hate-mongers
had painted the symbol the wrong way round, and so, strictly, it
symbolised life and the sun. But perhaps it symbolises The Sun, and
arch tax-avoider Rupert Murdoch's systematic culpabilisation of the
poor and weak? He has a lot to answer for, and mealy-mouthed words
about Islam not being in the dock come a bit late. If I believed in
violent revolution, he'd be the first against the wall. I'd start with
his toenails and a sturdy pair of pliers.

Thinking such thoughts of peace, love and forgiveness, I stray into
Merchant Square. There's a craft fair in this bright spacious arcade.
Most of the goods appear mediocre - cushion covers featuring cutesy
pets and the like - but I like the atmosphere. One corner is bracketed
by O'Neill's fake Irish pub and a Latin American restaurant. There are
tables and chairs in the square itself. A young woman dressed in black
sits alone at a table outside O'Neill's enjoying a book, a drink and a
cigarette. I need the loo, and find my way to the quaintly named
"washrooms" on an upper floor. Returning, I opt for half a Guinness and
enter O'Neill's. The barman neatly tops my drink with a shamrock swirl.
Good luck. I look at the newspaper rack and see only tabloids. I cannot
read these without feeling ill, but lying below them are a few
magazines. I pick up a copy of Repertoire, the drinks industry's glossy
pimp. I sit outside and notice the signs indicating that no football
colours are permitted in the pub. I leaf through the pages showing
glitzy bar interiors and gormless bright young things clasping the
latest fad drink to be pushed at them. My cursory inspection does not
discover errors of grammar, spelling and punctuation, which used to be
rife in this publication where presentation ruled supreme over content.
Perhaps someone has been sacked or reprimanded? I wonder why fate has
brought me here. There must be a message somewhere. Then I read my
horoscope: "There has been lots going on in your life both
professionally and socially. It's all change and it's all for the
better. Trust me. There's likely to be some travel involved and that
will be great fun. All you have to do now is get your personal life
sorted out. Can it be this hard?"

Mmmn. Yes. Outside the day is brightening.