SHOUTING AND SINGING
Michael Dickinson


I was arrested on my arrival at Heathrow Airport a couple of months ago and driven by police van to Westminster Magistrates Court in London to stand trial. The charge was “threatening and abusive language likely to cause distress”. This was because on Remembrance Sunday last year during the 2 minute silence at the War Cenotaph in Whitehall I shouted “No More War!” three times at the top of my voice. I said the words were not threatening or abusive, and I was prepared to appeal to a higher court if found guilty. The prosecution decided to drop the charges.

So, finding myself back in London again on the 11th of November, and having got away with it last year , I decided to repeat my vocal protest. This time I chose somewhere my voice would be heard even more loudly – a place by the Thames Embankment on the other side of the War Office where a public pathway between the buildings would carry clearly through to those assembled round the cenotaph on the other side, and this time I would walk away after my shout and escape arrest. At least that was my plan.

However, when I woke up on a cloudless sunny Remembrance Sunday morning I realised that the place where I was staying (a squat in King’s Cross – my third third recently, what with evictions)was further from Whitehall than I had reckoned, and by the time I left the building there was only half an hour left until the silence began. I walked through the streets at top speed, running sometimes, pausing only to snatch a long French roll of bread of bread I saw sticking out of a rubbish bag outside a cafe, but sadly I knew I wasn’t going to make it to my chosen destination. As Big Ben began to strike eleven I had only reached as far as Cleopatra’s Needle, the ancient Egyptian granite obelisk inscribed with hieroglyphics commemorating the military victories of Ramses the Second. It was presented to the UK in 1819 by the rulers of Egypt and Sudan to commemorate the British victories of the Nile and Alexandria.

“It’s all about war”, I thought. “It’ll do.”

I walked round to the front of the pedestal facing the Thames, counted the number of gongs and then twenty seconds of silence before I began.

“NO MORE WAR!” I bawled twice at the top of my voice. The sound seemed to echo along the banks of the Thames. Nearby tourists turned in surprise.

“OPEN YOUR EARS, WAR PROFITEERS! NO MORE WAR!”

That was enough. It wouldn’t pay to hang around. Without thinking I threw the baguette I was holding into the Thames and watched it float away, remembering the old verse from Ecclesiates: “Cast your bread upon the water, for after many days you will find it again.”

I walked on along the embankment and was surprised how close I had been to my originally intended shouting place. Police cars and vans were in proliferation. I would definitely have got nicked if I’d shouted there, so I counted my blessings. People were stil massing around the cenotaph and in Parliament Square, watching the military bands and marching soldiers.

Poppies were everywhere, on people’s breasts and on the thousands of little wooden crosses carpetting the lawn outside Westminster Abbey. I felt sick as I pondered the fact that each poppied cross represented a young life that had been snuffed out in combat, in obeyance to wars created by superiors who kept far from the dangers.

I sat on a bench in Green Park and watched the yellow and orange leaves falling from an elm tree. Each one had its unique dance as it fell. Twirling, drifting, spinning, turning fantastic somersaults, and landing with a soft finality to the earth.

“That’s how death should be,” I thought. “The tree is life, and the leaves are people. They bud and blossom together in the spring and are young and green in the summer. No leaf is more important than another, the ones on the top branches are not there by privilege. They grow mature and old in the autumn, until finally comes the time, when faded and withered, they are finally ready to fall from the community tree that gave them life down to the earth in their own particular style. Tumbled by the wind , they dance and chase each other on the grass, until finally they are still and will rot, and yet we know that new leaves will come and take their place as the spring returns, naturally. Life should be like a tree. Death in War is obscene. It has nothing to do with nature.”

As for the ‘singing’ mentioned in the title of my essay, I ‘ve been doing a bit of that recently. Following the latest attacks by the Israeli Defense Forces on Gaza I headed for Kensington to take part in the demonstrations against the atrocity outside the Israeli Embassy.

It’s a long walk from King’s Cross, and on the way I composed a little song that I taught to some demonstrators when I got there. After the important but monotonous chants of “1234 – OCCUPATION NO MORE! 5678 – ISRAEL IS A TERRORIST STATE!” the change was welcome and greeted with enthusiasm and it sounded effective chanted-sung in unison, so now I’m going to teach it to you, and hope you might practice and sing along with friends. It’s easy to remember.

It goes to the tune of ‘HAVA NAGILA’ (“let us rejoice”), an old Jewish folk song. If you don’t know it I recommend listening to Harry Belafonte singing it on YouTube. The words ‘FREE PALESTINIA!’ have the same melody as ‘HAVA NAGILA’. It goes like this -


“FREE PALESTINIA! FREE PALESTINIA! FREE PALESTINIA!

NOW! NOW! NOW!”

(AGAIN)

“UNITE AND LIVE IN PEACE! UNITE AND LIVE IN PEACE! UNITE AND LIVE IN PEACE!

NOW! NOW! NOW!”

(AGAIN)

“FREE-DOM! FREE-DOM!”

“FREEDOM FOR THE PALESTINIANS! FREEDOM FOR THE PALESTINIANS! FREEDOM FOR THE PALESTINIANS! FREEDOM FOR THE PALESTINIANS!

FREEDOM NOW! FREEDOM NOW!

FOR PALESTI-I-I-INIA!”


(BACK TO THE BEGINNING. REPEAT SEVERAL TIMES BUILDING UP SPEED. CONSIDER DANCE MOVEMENTS.)