Uneasy Acts: The importance of discomfort in resistance

Throughout history, protests have been the force behind exposing injustice, demanding accountability, and pushing life-saving social movements. In the early 20th century, the Suffragettes (also known as the Women’s Social and Political Union) attacked Churchill with a whip, set fire to post boxes on Parliament Street, slashed paintings to pieces and hid bombs in theatres in London, aiming to “make England and every department of English life insecure and unsafe”. Three years before the Stonewall Riots, in 1966, a cafeteria worker called the San Francisco police to arrest a customer for being a trans woman, who then threw coffee in the police officers' faces. The LGBTQIA+ community came together in the Compton’s Cafeteria Riot, leading to the creation of the vital Transsexual Counselling Unit in 1968, and Compton’s Transgender Cultural District decades later. Of course, these examples of protest and fighting have led to positive changes. And these examples are also embroiled in moments of violence driven by passion, anger, and hope.

Currently, however, there’s an increasing discourse against moments driven by passion, anger, and hope, when entwined with ongoing fights for liberation. Am I condoning violent actions? Absolutely not. Am I saying that the history of protest and its positive societal changes is peppered with violent, angry moments? Yes. As a Queer woman, I recognise that Queer liberation gained momentum because of riots and violence. When society was attempting to eliminate my Queer ancestors, those ancestors were bold and brave enough to stand up and fight.

But today, we see those seeking to eliminate marginalised folk undermine even peaceful protests with outcries of alleged aggression and violence. In the murky depths of social media, the rhetoric becomes even more intense. I joined a recent protest outside my local library, which was hosting a meeting for a local anti-trans group; I felt an obligation to support my trans siblings and stand in solidarity with my community. I tweeted that evening: “Even the sky above #Portobello library today said #TransRightsAreHumanRights #PortobelloPride No TERFs on our turf,” with a photograph of the pink and blue sunset. The replies saw me called a c*nt and told to f*ck off, and that I absolutely could not be local to the area because Portobello was an area that did not accept trans people.

Despite this online outpouring of vile hatred, it was the protest – a beautiful, gentle evening listening to young trans folks' stories, singing songs with my older neighbours, and a lot of lovely dogs draped in Pride flags – that was painted as hostile in the press. Similarly, we only need to look at government attacks on the Black Panther’s Free Breakfast for Children programme in the 60s and 70s to remind ourselves that peaceful resistance is routinely criticised throughout history. Whether we’re fighting for the rights of trans people or Black communities, no matter how friendly and gentle our protest is, it’s condemned. 

This ongoing delegitimisation of protest purports that any protest that seeks to amplify the voices of those being oppressed is either unnecessarily violent or cancel culture at work. When an anti-trans activist recently had soup thrown in her face, it was reported by a right-wing publication as a 'shameless persecution… Shaming of a witch.' Meanwhile, Just Stop Oil’s peaceful protest of throwing soup (soup is currently all the rage in protest) on a glass-protected Van Gogh painting was criticised for deterring public support for climate justice movements. In April, the group brightened up the World Snooker Championships, emptying yellow powder on the table; it was, predictably, met with a similar response. But of course, protest is never comfortable. The history of protests tells us that. It is angry and it is messy. If it was comfortable it wouldn’t result in newspaper coverage, dialogue, or positive change. It wouldn’t be part of the fight against oppression and marginalisation.

Looking to France currently, where hundreds of thousands of people have flocked to the streets to protest the pension age raising from 62 years to 64 years (alarmingly in the UK for someone my age it may be increasing from 67 years to 68 years), the scenes are empowering. From here on our grey little island, most of us don’t seem to be criticising these protests. It’s worth questioning why we’re more supportive of protest when it’s at a comfortable distance.

For those that sit on the fence when it comes to protests – whether home or away – I think there is a discomfort with anger. But like the author Mark Oshiro, for me anger is a gift when directed in the right direction. At seven years old, anger sparked me to paint my first protest sign, reading, “NO NUCLEAR”, held as I traipsed up and down an empty primary school while my friends visited a nuclear power plant. Anger pushed the Suffragettes, the Civil Rights movement, the Just Stop Oil protestors; anger fuelled some of the greatest music, art, and theatre. It is a privilege to not feel anger, and to simply step away from anger. Those of us whose anger isn’t so heavily policed, who can protest with relative ease – due to racial, financial, or able-bodied privilege – should do so.

Stay angry. Keep protesting. And remember to pack a tin of soup. You never know when you’ll need it.