"Berkeley Student's On-the-Spot Observation of the London Anti-Bush Protests"
http://www.chronwatch.com/content/contentDisplay.asp?aid=5237
I've taken this year to study abroad, to see the world, and experiences new things. But as I found out during the state visit of George W. Bush to the United Kingdom, I didn't go far enough away: A little bit of Berkeley managed to follow me all the way over to my year abroad in London.
As the George W. Bush's visit approached, my ''campus away from home,'' the London School of Economics, suddenly blossomed with ''STOP BUSH'' posters and fliers like the Royal Garden in spring. Next came the posters targeting Donald Rumsfeld, and finally Colin Powell. You could hear the low murmur of ''Bush'' in everyone's passing conversations, and the LSE student government started madly pontificating about American foreign policy – apparently the ASUC has some competition for the ear of our nation's leaders. But when stinky forty-year-old professional protesters were imported onto campus, it was sufficiently clear that mass demonstration was looming. After all, if I got anything out of my two years at Berkeley, it's the keen ability to sense a protest on the horizon.
While Bush was in London, everyone was conscious of it. The signs with the President's photo saying ''A Killer Is Coming to Town'' had been posted since I first stepped foot in the city, and gave everyone ample warning. As the fateful day of Bush's arrival approached, American and British flags were draped on every light post – making it evident to even the thickest Brits that something was going on. But I didn't realize the massive protests that would ensue until my usual morning route to the LSE was punctuated by police with riot shields and florescent yellow jackets every twenty-five feet or so. Near the London Underground stations, police units loitered in full chemical suits, preparing for a terrorist attack.
Meanwhile, the 62 percent of Britons who recently polled that George W. Bush is a force for good in the world, and the 43 percent that supported his visit to the U.K. were nowhere to be found. ''If you're in trouble, just tell them you're Canadian,'' a nervous American warned me.
My fellow American Jennie and I strolled up the LSE campus to find that its narrow cobblestone streets were teeming with dirty protest-eager Londoners. They hadn't even had two showers between them, as our astute friend Woody pointed out, and they displaced the preppy LSE private-school types in the bars and cafes on the street. I tried to push through the crowd to make it to lecture, only to be scolded by a 40-year-old Pakistani that it was inconsiderate for me to wear a backpack, lest it brush against the irate loiterers who were infiltrating my campus.
''I'm sorry, but I'm a student here, and I need to get an education.'' I informed him as I pushed past.
''There you go with your bourgeoisie self-righteousness,'' he returned, shaking his head. This wasn't just about warfare, it was about class warfare.
My friends and I pushed through the crowd only to decide that if London was going to sustain a massive terrorist attack or burn in citywide riots, we'd rather not meet our end in a god-awful international economics lecture. Many an LSE student comforts himself in the fact that our campus is the least-likely terrorist target in London. After all, at least three Al-Qaeda terrorists have attended LSE, along with the suspected kidnapper of Wall Street Journal reporter, Daniel Pearl. My current campus colleagues include sons of Middle Eastern Princes and Saudi Oil Execs. ''They can't bomb LSE unless they want to bomb their own,'' my British friends reassured me many a time. Nevertheless, we vacated the safety of campus and sped for Trafalgar Square, our legs working faster than Prince Charles' press office.
The square was bustling with protest regulars. Palestinian flags, peace signs, gay rainbows, socialist workers, rubber George Bush masks, and anti-globalisation signs were all well represented, as custom dictates. Everyone, of course, was convinced that if they shouted loud enough, by god, George W. Bush would hear them on the other side of the city and think long and hard about his foreign policy decisions.
Unfortunately, the protest proved to be rather ordinary. May Saddam correct me if I'm wrong, but there's not much difference between a stop-the-war rally in America and a stop-the-war rally in the heart of London: just add a cockney accent and bad teeth.
To be honest, the venue itself was an impressive feat, proving our own Bay Area protesters have a thing or two to learn. Huge banners were draped across the statues and railings along the square; a massive audio-visual system was set up, including a Jumbo-tron that would make the Arco Arena screens look diminutive. The screen flashed all kinds of fantastic images, including Bush/devil caricatures, Palestinian women throwing rocks over the security fence, and a computerized reenactment of a plane hitting the twin towers – over and over again. I was particularly enchanted by the oh-so-clever backdrop to the stage, reading: Nuke is Puke. Surely this poetic feat would make Wordsworth, Auden, and Shakespeare proud.
A 25 foot statue of George W. Bush cradling a nuclear missile was erected in Trafalgar Square. The crowd chatted about the overwhelming, mind-blowing significance of pulling the huge paper-mache dummy to the ground. They really found it quite clever: ''Oh, I get it! The American soldiers toppled Saddam's statue, marking an end to decades of tyrannical, oppressive rule, and now these chronically dazed protesters are going to topple this figure of chicken wire and paper mache! Dude! How brilliant! What symbolism! What a striking, earth-shaking parallel! Surely this will make the history books.''
Quite unfortunately, I didn't get to see the grand finale.
Some aspiring stop-the-war rappers, intent to make it big as the next politically-conscious Eminems, destroyed several hip hop tunes from Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg. They inserted what they termed ''deep lyrics'' like ''Bush tears down Saddam's statue/ puts up his instead./ America attacked/what do you expect?'' There was also a little ditty about a 10-year-old Palestinian boy who wants to grow up to be a suicide bomber. I would have jotted down more of the lyrics, but whenever I pulled out my Palm Pilot to take a note, the clean-cut girl with a red coat, an American flag pin, and a Palm Pilot made the Republican image all too apparent, and photographers for random 5th rate websites started snapping pictures of me with anti-Bush rabble all around.
When the stop-the-war homeboys began butchering J.Lo's ''Jenny from the Block,'' I had enough of this assault on intellectual copyrights. Besides, my slingbacks were starting to hurt.
''Fancy a bottle of vino?'' suggested Woody.
''Brilliant idea,'' I replied.
Jennie, Woody, and I spent the next eight hours in a 16th century wine cellar downing six bottles of French chardonnay and talking about cricket, fox hunting, and the importance of carrying a handkerchief at all times, as the protests rumbled on. I understand much incessant chanting and American flag burning ensued on Trafalgar Square .
We only emerged to indulge in the pleasures of corporate America at a nearby McDonald's before stumbling home.
Ahh, the joys of mass protests. I love being on the winning side
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- Car Key Boi