Non-Violent Protest

I remember when I was a young boy at school, I was advised by another by that when it rained, God was pissing on the world. This ineffable wisdom returned to me one Saturday in a grey November.

It was almost midday and I found myself stood in a car park with about fifty or so other like minded people. It was cold and drab. All I wanted to do was be in the warm, but I was compelled to be there. We were all given placards and together we marched.

Across town, an opposing march. five thousand angry men. Drinking, chanting, punching. Their slogans had been plastered all over the town for months. Men scared of something they didn't understand. Islam. No surrender they said. No Sharia they said. No violence they said.

We marched. The police made sure we weren't seen by the others. Five thousand could quite easily swallow our fifty. We made our way to where we could be seen. Made them see we weren't scared of them. I heard someone shout at us that we were sympathisers. Maybe we were, but we were there for the right reasons. Not for a fight.

They came across the river. Charging with poles, bricks and knives. The police quickly protected us from them. A phalanx of armour, helmets and batons surrounding our number. We were the cattle in this corral.

By this point we were joined by three hundred Muslim boys. They mounted the counter charge. By this time, I was freezing. I just wanted to go home to warm up. The police were tightening their protective ring around us. Then I realised.

The police supported the others. The Muslim boys were arrested, we were left on our own to face the abuse and spittle of the five thousand. Our fifty, comprising of musicians, women, children, Muslims and Christians alike, at the mercy of five thousand drunken street brawlers with weapons. The cries of the children still haunt me to this day. I saw a woman have her face caved in by a pole, a child have a glass bottle hit him in the face. I had never been so ashamed to be British until this point.

Blood fell to the concrete. The woman with her exploded face cried and screamed constantly, as though she would never feel calm or pain free again. The child with his face gashed deep, wailed for his mother. It dawned on me that the woman with the broken face was his mother. Their related blood hit the ground as it started to rain. It washed down a nearby grate. Help couldn't reach them, for the five thousand had us surrounded.

The rain became heavier. It soaked us through to the core. Water from the heavens, somehow sealed, for the five thousand at least, enforced their righteousness. They became restless and decided they needed more booze.  

I heard someone shout back to us.

"Even God pisses on you, filthy Muslim lovers."