Under the shadow of Parliament: a city divided, a law contested
On a damp Saturday in central London, a crowd gathered like a living mural against the silhouette of the Houses of Parliament—placards bobbing, voices braided into a single, urgent chorus. The air smelled faintly of diesel from the red buses and of reheated coffee from the nearby stalls. For hours the chants rose and fell: anger, grief, defiance. By evening, police figures would say roughly 300 people had been taken into custody. For many who came to protest, the arrests were not a surprise—they were the point.
“I didn’t come to break the law,” said Eileen Carter, 74, a retired nurse from Camden, her voice hushed by age and resolve. “I came because I felt like I had to stand in the street and show the world that what’s happening matters.” Her placard read simply: ‘Stand Up For Gaza.’ She paused, as if weighing the consequences of her own words, and then added, “If that’s enough to put me in a cell, then let them do it.”
The Metropolitan Police had been unambiguous in their warnings all week: explicit support for Palestine Action—a group proscribed under the UK’s Terrorism Act 2000—could result in arrest. The ban, introduced in July after a series of high-profile acts of vandalism and a costly attack on a Royal Air Force site said to have caused roughly £7 million in damage, converts political solidarity into a potential criminal offence. The net cast by the legislation has already swept up hundreds; police records show more than 800 people had been arrested prior to this weekend, and 138 charged with offences linked to supporting or encouraging a proscribed organisation.
Faces in the crowd: stories that complicate the headlines
Not all who came were militants or masterminds. Many were parents holding the hands of teenagers, students with backpacks still damp from the drizzle, and older citizens who grew up in an era where the right to protest was sacrosanct. “I’m here because my son is still in Gaza,” said Layla Hassan, 39, who had travelled from East London. “I don’t support vandalism. I support people being allowed to speak.”
“They’ve turned civil disobedience into a security threat,” said Mark Hughes, 62, a CEO of a small recycling company who declined to give his surname in full. “When the state acts like this you have to ask: who exactly are they trying to protect?” He was detained by officers as the crowd surged against a police cordon. Around him, an ebb and flow of skirmishes broke out—pushed shoulders, shouted curses, and the metallic clang of police radios. The chants occasionally shifted into a single, pointed refrain: “Shame on you!”
The human cost of a legal label
To be proscribed under the Terrorism Act is to be legally frozen in the public imagination. Supporters of the ban argue it is necessary to protect public safety and to deter acts of deliberate damage or violence. Critics, from the United Nations to Amnesty International and Greenpeace, have described the move as an overreach: a silencing of dissent under the guise of counter-terrorism. “This is not just about one organisation,” said Dr. Imran Khalid, a civil liberties scholar at a London university. “It’s about where we draw the line between criminal action and political expression, and whether we allow the state to draw that line so broadly that it erodes basic democratic freedoms.”
Legal experts point to the stark penalties: those convicted of supporting or encouraging a proscribed organisation can face up to six months’ imprisonment for certain offences, while organisers or those found to be more directly involved could be jailed for up to 14 years. The government has been granted permission to appeal an earlier court ruling that allowed Palestine Action co-founder Huda Ammori to legally challenge the ban—an appeal that will likely set new precedents for how protest is policed in the UK.
Two demonstrations, one city in flux
At the same time as the arrests near Parliament, several thousand people poured into other parts of London, holding a separate demonstration to protest Israel’s ongoing military campaign in Gaza. Their numbers were larger, their banners more varied—some reading ‘Ceasefire Now,’ others invoking international law. The protests unfolded against the backdrop of new military strikes by Israel aimed at taking Gaza City in operations it described as necessary to dismantle Hamas. Across the capital, conversations about international law, human rights, and the limits of protest spilled into cafés and living rooms.
“People are terrified,” said Amira Suleiman, a university student who had been at both demonstrations. “Terrified for our relatives, terrified for our rights here. They’re linked.”
What the numbers say—and what they don’t
The arrests and charges provide a quantitative snapshot: hundreds detained, dozens charged. But numbers alone can’t capture the frayed feelings a protest like this exposes—the sense that the state’s security apparatus and citizens’ political impulses are colliding in a new, harsher way. They also raise questions about selective enforcement. Why are some groups targeted for proscription while others, which may express controversial or disruptive views, remain legally active?
- Reported arrests at recent demonstration: approximately 300
- Total arrests linked to Palestine Action prior to Saturday: over 800
- People charged with supporting/encouraging proscribed organisation: 138
- Damage attributed to prior Palestine Action acts at an RAF site: approx. £7 million
- Potential prison sentences: up to six months for many offences; up to 14 years for organisers
Local color: London as both stage and audience
On the pavement by Westminster, a man selling roasted chestnuts watched the arrests with a detached fury. “I’ve been here forty years,” he said. “London is a place where people make their voices heard. It’s part of our DNA. Now it feels like something’s being suffocated.” Nearby, a group of schoolchildren craned their necks as they were led past by teachers, their eyes wide, taking in what adults often call complex politics in phrases that are simpler and truer: “Why are those people in handcuffs?”
It was impossible not to notice the small, human moments: a woman offering bottled water to arrested protesters as they were guided into vans, a grey-haired man folding up a placard with a careful, tired reverence, and a young medic tending to a demonstrator with a torn hand. These vignettes threaded the drama with everyday tenderness—reminders of the ordinary lives that lie behind political labels.
Where do we go from here?
As legal battles over the ban continue to make their way through the courts, the protest in front of Parliament will not be easily forgotten. It raises urgent questions: how do democratic societies balance the imperative to keep citizens safe with the equally important need to protect dissent? When does policing become political? And perhaps most pressing: in an age of polarized news cycles, how do we ensure that the human stories beneath the banners don’t get flattened into slogans?
The answers will not be found in a single courtroom or on a single pavement. They will emerge slowly, in policy debates, in law reports, in conversations around kitchen tables, and in the courage of ordinary people who keep showing up. “I’m not a criminal,” Eileen said one last time, as she prepared to leave. “I’m a witness.”
What, then, does your witness look like? How will you listen to the next protest that comes down your street, and what will you do when the law and conscience seem to point in different directions?
