We started moving towards Whitehall, and the rhythm was slow, like a conga line without the music. Someone brought a boom box that played “Give Peace a Chance,” but it was at the wrong volume, so it sounded like a distant radio station. Nobody cared. We just shuffled along, stepping over puddles and the occasional discarded vegan sausage roll wrapper.
London protests: Thousands march through capital in day of protest
I found myself next to a bloke holding a sign that said “Diplomacy: It’s Like Talking, But Harder.” He told me he’d cycled in from Peckham and had forgotten his raincoat. His commitment was either inspiring or dangerously optimistic. I offered him a corner of my plastic poncho, which immediately ripped. We laughed. That’s the thing about anti-war protests—they’re a masterclass in shared misery and solidarity.
The Chants and the Chaos
The chants started, the classic call-and-response. “What do we want?” “Peace!” “When do we want it?” “Now, but preferably after this weekend, because I have brunch plans on Sunday!” Okay, that last part wasn’t official, but you could see it in people’s eyes. Protesting is exhausting. It’s like running a marathon for your conscience, but your legs are cold and you really need a toilet.
A toddler in a pushchair started crying because the drumming was too loud. His dad picked him up and bounced him gently, still chanting “No more war” between bounces. The toddler eventually stopped crying and just stared at the sky, probably thinking, “This is a weird trip to the park.” Same, kid. Same.
