LONDON CALLING II: THE OTHER SIDE OF TRAFALGAR

Meet Colin Gregory Palmer:

After graduating from high school, I enrolled at SUNY Geneseo, in upstate New York.

Geneseo was great for me. I became startlingly extroverted and I really enjoyed myself. I started out as a physics major. The department was a family and it was great to be surrounded my so many intelligent people. I had many interesting conversations that lasted long into the night.

A nice young man, and humble in not outright including himself as one of the intelligent, for from his writing one gets the impression he would be justified to do so. Let's learn more:

I eventually added a second major in sociology, and it was the best decision I made in college. It helped me better understand the environment I grew up in and to see the larger picture of the world. My political views on many subjects did a complete reversal. I've been unable to watch television since. It's great.

Indoctrination, anyone? Really, when I was in my late teens/early twenties, in post-draft, post-Vietnam America "cults" were the great threat to youth; young disaffected people much too savvy to be swayed by foolish ideas who 10-20 years earlier would have joined the hippies in San Fran were being snapped up by "religious" leaders who would "help them better understand the environment they grew up in and to see the larger picture of the world. Their political views on many subjects did a complete reversal." Echoes of such statements always set the alarm buzz off in the back of my mind.

Continuing, Colin tells us

I moved to London to attend the London Metropolitan University to obtain a masters in international economics and trade. It sounds like a plan, but I really have no idea what I want to do with my life. Sometimes I worry about the future, but I try not to. As Oscar Wilde says: Life is too important to be taken seriously.

We can check back with Colin in 20 years as to that last line, but for now let's assume his motivation is something other then to emulate a former president, that he is not a brainwashed product of lefty sociology professors desperately trying to re-ignite the passions of their youths, and instead is merely a young man on a voyage of discovery, out to broaden his horizons and see the wide, wide world.

Including the "big" anti-American demonstrations coinciding with his president's visit to London:

George Bush made me do it.

Politically apathetic all my life, I barely followed the issues, never voted, and never much cared to.

After September 11th, the United States had the sympathy of the world. There was so much potential. But, in a few short years, Bush and his foreign policy turned that sympathy into hatred.

Bush forced me to get up, get out, and take to the streets.

At 11:00AM on November 19th, I joined the anti-war coalition at the London Eye for a protest march against Bush. It was the first political action of my life.

Young Colin is going to provide a participant's viewpoint into the demonstrations for us. I will tell you right away that his report is characterized by thoughtful commentary and his personal views are not unusual for someone young and in his position. He is candid and without guile, thus he does not even realize those passages in his story that strip bare the ludicrous position of the left and give insight into the motivations that really drive their 'movement':

We rounded the first street corner, and there was the media. Dozens of video cameras were carefully aligned an the same side of the street so as not to film each other. I'm used to watching events unfold on television - not being part of them.

<...>

The march started at the London Eye, and ended in Trafalgar Square. Abruptly. I didn't know what I expected to happen at the end, an appearance by the real president, a regime change, a riot, a pro-bush protest waiting for us, but I expected \emph{something} to happen. Instead, the organizer told us when the next protest would meet, and thanked everyone for coming.

And then we dispersed.

Disappointed, Colin? It's because you passed the moment the parade was designed for without fully realizing it. That stumbling lock-step pass before the cameras was the sole reason the various fringe groups had you in the streets that day.

Overcoming his dismay, Colin presses on and even manages to inject some humor into his account:

I wandered off, and noticed that the fountains at Trafalgar Square were turning a deep, blood red. I went over to investigate. When I reached the edge of the pools it seemed that someone dumped a large amount of red powder in the water. I got some of it on my hands.

Without thinking, I tried to wash it off in the clear part of the water. Immediately, my hands went from having a small amount of powder on them to being completely red. I also realized this didn't look good for me. I was one of the first to notice the water, and now, to someone else, it would seem that I was the purpotrator of this vandalism.

In my head I heard the words my mother spoke to me many times: "I support you and hope you enjoy the protest, but please, please don't get arrested."

I walked quickly and (I hoped) unsuspiciously, to the bathroom. Inside, I filled my hands with soap, and washed furiously. It was no use. Cleaning my hands was unsuccessful, but I did manage to dye the stainless-steel sink red. Behind me, several Trafalgar Square workers came into the bathroom.

"I can't believe what happened to the fountains," one said.

"Yeah, I hope we catch the guy," said another.

With red hands in a red sink, it wasn't looking good for me. Luckily, I remembered I brought gloves in my backpack. I quickly dried my hands, put on the gloves, and got the hell out of there.

I'm sure the painted fountain won't be the only mess left by the "friends of the working class" for them to clean. But I told you this was a sharp young man, so now see how he turned his misfortune to a positive experience. Returning to Trafalgar our hero obtains a piece of chalk:

I picked out a clean spot on the ground and scrawled in large, capital letters: "I am American. Bush has covered my hands with blood." I removed my gloves and sat behind the words in had written.

For three and a half hours.

I wanted Europeans to know that not all Americans support Bush. I also did feel guilt at having lived my life a-politically until now. I talked to many people during my time in the square and had my photograph taken hundreds of times. (As a side note, if you are one of the people who took a photograph, I would deeply appreciate it if you would contact me. cgp@ColinGregoryPalmer.net I'd love to get a copy.) Nothing is a conversation starter like upturned bloody hands. Most supported me, but some didn't. One man asked if I would prefer that the Iraqi people were still under the dictatorship of Saddam. I explained to him my thoughts as best I could.

"The world is not as black and white as protest slogans portray it. I will not sit here and say that nothing good has come of this war. But, I believe that far more evil has been done than good."

Iraqis dipped into shredders this week: 0. Does the Left have a definition of "evil"? Most lefties I know choose to deny the inconvenient existence of absolute good and evil. Once he approaches realization that good has triumphed over evil in Iraq I'm worried Colin may choose to deny the existence of evil too. No doubt his sociology profs will explain it too him.

Of course that was the small protest; the next day brought the real deal; "The Mother of All Bush Bashings":

At 12:00 I went to Russell Square to meet with the American expatriates against Bush. I went for two reasons: I didn't want to be the only American in what I anticipated would be a vast crowd of people; and, I heard that we were to be one of the groups leading the protest. I figured, if I'm going to do this, I might as well go all the way and be front and center.

The group leader brought out the protest signs for us to carry during the march. This was the beginning of the internal politics of the protest: there were about five different signs, and people started trading to get the one they felt best suited them. We all wanted to be part of a group, but still maintain our individuality. I traded a "Proud of my Country, Shamed of my President" for a "Shamed by your stance on Civil Liberties" and was happy with the deal.

"Here are ze approved signs. Verily thou shalt hold no others. Swap amongst yourselves until you feel validated"

... Among us was as US World War II veteran in full uniform. In his old, knobby hand, he strongly held a sign denouncing the war. We stood ready to march with the London Muslim Organization, the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, and many others.

I feel your pride!

I marched with the other Americans that I could find after the initial chaos. On television, marches look like a single, cohesive unit. They aren't. While all the participating groups may agree on ending the war, they don't necessarily agree with each other.

For example, the American Expatriates didn't want to be near the neo-communists. We thought it wouldn't help our 'we aren't anti-American' image if we were photographed with hammer and sickle flags in the background. As we moved away, the socialist workers filled the gap. But the neo-communists and the socialist workers didn't like each other either. Each group tried to get as far away from the other, while still moving forward. It was like pushing the same poles of a magnet together.

If you think that's bad imagine the challenge of the seating arrangements at the nominees' section for the annual Darwin Awards Banquet; all the same groups are there too. I'd imagine in America the Democratic National Convention will be similarly conflicted.

Seriously though, please consider: you can't tolerate the groups that support you? Wasn't it Marx himself who said "I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members."? Yes, it was Groucho Marx.

From bad to worse for those concerned with the social niceties of protest:

At this point, the dreaded hippy-mobile came up behind the American expatriates. The hippy-mobile was a psychedelic construction. Bicycles, wagons, and carts connected together in a train, painted green, with a windmill on top and lots of speakers blaring music. Hippies with fairy wings and dressed in animal costumes maneuvered it through the crowed.

It was the physical incarnation of everything I hate about hippies.

While I appreciate their anti-war/pro-peace sentiments, I'd rather be photographed with the anarchists than the hippies. I know they want to help, but they only succeeded in making the rest of us look foolish, and they played into the anti-war stereotype. They were leaning into a punch the anti-anti-war people were waiting to deliver. My only comfort was that the rest of the crowd didn't seem happy to see them either.

"Damn! The dreaded hippy-mobile approaches! Nothing kills a party like the dreaded hippy-mobile. What would you do if you're marching along, full of Bush-hate and carrying a fully approved sign and suddenly the hippy-mobile shows up?

I suggested to a no-nonsence-take-charge woman with the Wesley Clark 2004 campaign that we should make a break for the front and get away from the hippies. She agreed. We then led a mad dash through the crowd, dodging and weaving around hundreds of protesters and police. The rest of the Americans followed as best they could.

No mention of whether the general's people had a big Cheney puppet on a stick or not. I'd have to think not; too hard to "mad dash" with one.

We approached Parliament. There were so many police in fluorescent uniforms that dusk turned yellow from the reflection. All the police in London had their leave removed for the three days Bush was in town, so all the cops, from the grizzled veterans to the guys who just got their billyclub issued yesterday, were out in force. Faced with a wall of stern faces, I tried to get the young girl cops to smile back at me, but was not very successful.

Note to all young idealistic protestors: The police are not happy to see you. You are the reason they lost their days off, and they know it. Again: your leaders are not "friends of the working class."

I was especially uncomfortable when we stopped in front of Whitehall, and I looked to the top of the building and into the eyes of a police sniper scanning the crowd. This was not a time for sudden movements. My life was within a twitchy finger of ending. I know that my chances of being killed crossing the street in my everyday life are many orders of magnitude greater than being killed a sniper. But the street is so mundane, I cross it all the time. Being in the sights of a sniper was a new experience for me. At least, I think it was.

It's not fun for the soldiers you're protesting in Iraq either, Colin. There's a fine line between youthful fun and the serious business of my world; you caught a glimpse of the line. Walk away and pretend it isn't there, kid.

As we marched along, a group of 16-year-old teenage girls were singing "George Bush is a prick, Tony Blair sucks his ----!" I couldn't help but laugh. However, an older woman in front of them didn't find it funny. I didn't hear what she said, but a yelling match ensued between her and the girls.

Harmony. Many voices raised as one... respect for your elders is so outdated. Those aging 60's radicals should so stay home, shouldn't they Colin? Senile old bat probably helped build the hippy-mobile. Do you think the witty young lassies could have made that old WWII vet blush too?

At last, Trafalgar!

I've never seen so many people in one place. The whole square was filled, and all the streets leading into it were clogged with people. As I angled for a good spot (very difficult in the tightly packed area) an announcement came over the speakers "We estimate there are 200,000 to 400,000 protesters in the streets of London today. We shut the city down."

<...>

One of my legs suddenly gave out from under me, and I hit the ground. I had been on my feet, standing and marching, for seven hours straight - something I don't think I have ever done in my life - and reached a point of physical exhaustion. I stayed on the ground for quite a bit and listened to the speakers, who now sounded oddly muted from below the crowd. I felt like a kid hiding under the dinner table during his parents' party.

<...>

He ended with "I want you to know that this is not an anti-American rally. God bless the people of the United States, and GOD DAMN GEORGE BUSH!" The loudest cheer when up, my voice was among them.

The statue of George Bush toppled, and the march finished.

I bet Colin felt just like the soldiers who've lost legs in freeing Iraq, there on the ground and unable to stand after all that mad dashing. But eventually Colin regained his strength, repainted his hands and spoke ill of America to all who would listen. Then the supreme leaders of the movement apparently went away...

Now that the leaders of the rally were no longer in charge, things got a little scary. Huge bonfires lit the square. Smoke filled the air, and it was difficult to breath, but I wanted to stay and see what happened.

There was an uncertain moment as we wondered what would happen now that control of the crowd had been relinquished.

Who are these leaders with such powerful control of the masses, that their absence is cause for deep concern? Why are "peace activists" so willing to submit to control of some small group? Did Colin expect Trafalgar to be similar to Iraq without the control of Saddam?

Eventually, the crowd began to thin, and I remembered I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. It was time to go, and I headed to a Chinese take-out in Leicester Square to get food.

I stepped out of Trafalgar Square, and stepped back into the everyday world. In Leicester Square, I was suddenly out of place with my painted hands and poster. The chinese girl gave a screech when I handed her the money.

"What's wrong with your hands?" she asked, and I explained where I had been.

"It's pointless," she commented. "You won't change anything."

"Perhaps not." I replied, "But, I think I'd rather try and fail, than do nothing."

And at that same time, somewhere in Iraq, a young GI who may never see home again ate what may be his last meal, an MRE.

And at that same time, gathered around the glow of a TV set in Tikrit, the Baathist secret police group that plans to kill him cheered with you as that statue fell.