On your bike: Anne M Jones joins the Big Ride for Palestine 2023

‘It’s the love and solidarity across all peoples that matters.’

The P word is an inflammatory one. P for Palestine. Using it in conversation provokes defensiveness and verbal ping-pong, with ‘tit for tat’ tones. These conversations are often based on an inadequate understanding, and fruitless. Our media doesn’t help here: information about daily events in Israel and the Occupied Territories is not often offered. For that kind of reporting one needs to seek out organisations that are active on the ground: Human Rights Watch, the Israeli Campaign against House Demolition, Jewish Voice for Peace, or the Amos trust, to name a few.

It is difficult to summarise just how deeply cruel is the disregard for human rights in this part of the world. Every day, settlers seek to take more land. The gradual removal of rights from Palestinians has accelerated. ‘This is apartheid’, says Amnesty International.

The Big Ride for Palestine is an annual cycling event. It takes place over two or three days, between major cities in the UK, to raise awareness for Palestinians. It was instigated by a former social worker in 2014, with about fifteen riders. The first went from Edinburgh to London (I tried to join, but, at Kings Cross, after buying my personal train ticket, I was told I could not get one for my bike). The subsequent years have included: Coventry to London; Birmingham to London (with a stop at Shennington to demonstrate against the arms factory that exports to Israel); and Liverpool to Bradford (where, in 2015, when Israel was bombing Gaza, it felt especially poignant to cycle over Saddleworth Moor with its terrible ghosts of murdered children).

I have just completed this year’s ride from Swansea to Bristol, across some beautiful countryside. I was among 300 good-natured, funny, supportive people, who care deeply about human rights in a place where human rights are disregarded. This year’s ride was in aid of Middle East Children’s Alliance (for sports equipment for children in Gaza) and Gaza Sunbirds (set up by Amos Trust to supply bikes for young paraplegics, including a potential Paralympic rider).

Arriving in Swansea I followed the street maps to the meeting point in Christchurch Hall. There were lots of warm hellos from faces I remember, and names I recall less. Stewart brought me three helmets, for some Iranians who were riding with us. But then a van full of bikes breaks down just outside Swansea. Another van rescues the bikes, and another van, driven by Graham, sets out from London.

My bike is handed to Mehmet (not his real name), a young asylum seeker, who is delighted with a bike made for a six-foot male. Ellen loans me hers – it is light and the proper size for a five-foot woman. Mehmet has brought two fellow asylum seekers along, and, unsurprisingly, all are inadequately prepared because of financial constraints. Mehmet is the only one with a raincoat; I give one of them a pocket poncho, and put out a shout for any spares.

Among the happy chatter we are served a curry by local volunteers. We leave Mehmet and his mates with the community group (they are sleeping on floors), and we set off for our university accommodation along the wide coastline, spectacular in the setting sun.

After a night on an uncomfortable bed, I cycle with Ann to the civic centre, to join other riders. Ann has spent six months in Israel and the Occupied Territories as an observer for the Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme in Palestine, which is co-ordinated by British Quakers. She has many stories of casual daily oppressions. She tells me of young soldier walking past a small child on his bike. The child is ordered to dismount, and the soldier walks off with the bike while the child runs behind trying unsuccessfully to get it back.

At the morning rally before we set off, one raincoat has been found. But it is so small it creates laughter when Mehmet’s largest friend tries it on. Swaps are made.

Finally, all riders stream out of Swansea, along pathways and roads, over astonishing high bridges that span even bigger roads, mostly accompanied by the din of traffic noise. It takes several hours until we at last come to quieter country lanes. Blackberries droop from hedgerows; many of us cannot resist pausing to stuff some into our mouths. Later come a few small hills. It all felt very peaceful, anxieties beginning to vanish.

It was a long forty-eight miles, however, and we were very tired by the time we reached Cardiff. There, we had to carry our bikes up some steps into the reception at Travelodge, then up more steps to our rooms. But everyone joked and helped each other out.

After a quick shower, three of us met to walk to the Bangladeshi centre, a mile away, for our evening meal. Cardiff Castle turrets were outlined by the setting sun, the Welsh flag waved proudly against the purple sky. On the way back we encountered a fine, bold statue of Aneurin Bevan, another fighter for human rights of another kind: the right to health.

At the centre I sat next to Sue, who talked about her recent work in Gaza with the ‘Hands Up’ project. This is a UN-supported project helping young women learn English, engaging them via playwriting. At the airport on her way home, Sue had watched Israeli guards questioning every Palestinian traveller in an abrupt manner, sending them, for no reason, to wait in other parts of the facility, resulting in some missing their bus or plane connections. These memorable but gloomy tales were accompanied by unmemorable food, but the chairman of the hall was very helpful in finding ways for Mehmet and his friends to stay warm. Our own hotel was next to a nightclub that thumped out raucous noise until four in the morning. The lack of sleep informed my decision to spend a huge sum of £9.50 on a breakfast, making sure I exported, in paper napkins, enough for Mehmet and his friends: potato cakes, veggie sausages, croissants, and an array of jams.

After breakfast our convoy departed, the younger riders singing a version of ‘Bella Ciao’, adapted appropriately from the Italian freedom song used during the Spanish Civil war. More blackberry bushes, heavy with rich fruit, tempted Mehmet and friends to stop. I cycled on leaving them laughing together like schoolboys.
Confronting another hill, a fellow rider came alongside me. Jaded though I was, we began chatting. He was the director of Amos Trust, which does human rights work in Palestine, South Africa and Nicaragua. We talked about the apparent hopelessness of this protest in the face of all that is happening in Israel, but how passionately he believes in the value of protest to maintain hope and encouragement.

The roads became quiet, and the scenery pretty. Songs from Tom Jones about the green, green grass of home came into my mind. I told Mehmet about the importance of Welsh music and poetry. The afternoon took us along an old canal path, passing old locks, one after another, now just pools of water growing yellow daisies and cream water lilies. A coot hopped along the lily pads. I stopped to take a photo and got chatting to a human signpost, a man who introduced himself as Fax, who had not cycled before. He said to me, ‘Isn’t this canal wonderful? It’s part of British history. These canals made Britain great.’ I agreed but said ‘Don’t forget the contribution made by the slave trade.’ ‘Ah yes, that was then, but do you know my grandfather came here in 1960 from India, when all he needed was a visa? He had all of fifty pence left in his pocket but got a job in a factory the next day and never looked back.’

Our next stopping place was a sports field, where a football game was going on. A few of the group were welcomed to join in, and Big Ride’s win was scored by Hadi, in full Muslim headscarf and dress, smiling triumphantly.

In Newport the highlight of our welcome rally was the actress Maxine Peake, who gave a warm welcome and a mercifully-short speech.

We walked to the rugby club hall, a large, round room, festooned with photos of local players ancient and modern. At the sight of an excellent chicken curry, I temporarily forgot I was a vegetarian. Then we walked the mile back to our hotel, and I had the best night’s sleep.

On day three we woke to pouring rain. I put on every waterproof I had, but the word is a misnomer: I was soaked to the skin by coffee break, thirteen miles later.

On the road I saw that Mehmet’s friend was not using his poncho, so I asked him where it was. ‘I keep as souvenir!’, he cheerfully replied. Reluctantly he took it from his pocket, and Mehmet fussed in a brotherly manner over him, unfurling it, putting it on back to front, then correctly, as others hurried by, spraying us in their wake. Later he passed me, polythene rising up behind him like angel wings.

On a small rough road was a ford over a stream. I paused, then went cautiously over. Antonio appeared on his low-hung ambulant bike, so I waited, expecting he would need help, but he sailed through, grinning widely, the water a millimetre away from his legs.

It is unfortunate that I can no longer disguise that I have become old. I am unprepared for the amount of curiosity this incurs. I have, however, learned to predict the question. I spot a slight hesitation in a stranger’s voice, and that glint look in the eye, as if they are suddenly expecting a special favour. They start with ‘I hope you don’t mind but,’ or ‘I don’t usually ask a woman but…’. Somehow word had gotten around that I was eighty-eight, so of course I had to correct it by assuring people I was ‘about eighty’. On revealing this I was often expected to offer all kinds of lifestyle advice – ‘How do you manage it? Do you train? What do you eat?’ – followed by some undeserved compliments. I had my photo taken beside the youngest on the ride, aged nine, a son of Mahfuz from Birmingham.

The true inspirations come from people like Antonio, and all the refugees on the ride. These are oppressed peoples who barely get a glimpse of any of the immense privileges I have enjoyed throughout my life. Owen, who started it all eight years ago, was there cheering us on, in spite of just having had a bone marrow transplant and chemotherapy. When he was in hospital he snuck into the hospital shop to put ‘Boycott Israeli goods’ labels on all the dates and avocados.

Our final stretch into Bristol was uninteresting: endless, dull roads. One of the refugees was clearly struggling. I advised him to drink more water, and fed him crisps, banana cake, and chocolate, but he continued rubbing a painful leg as we arrived into Westbury Green, too late for the final rally. A medic told him it was just muscle pain.

Then, for another year, the ride was over, everyone off to their accommodation. There was silence, apart from Graham organising his van. I persuaded him to give me a lift to Bristol Temple Meads, to comply with a family duty in Somerset, which he did with a gallant grace. Later, in spite of then getting lost in northern Somerset, I was prevailed upon to enjoy family kindnesses.

I returned for our final day, which began with Ellen giving a cheering speech. She talked about how the small stuff does not matter. It’s the love and solidarity across all peoples that matters.

Our convoy cycled around Bristol, handing out leaflets. Then it was time for Ann, Mehmet and the others to peel off, in order to take the coach back to Manchester. We stopped to get sandwiches for the journey and, as we waited, one of the refugees was videocalling his wife and baby back home. He proudly showed me his wife waving with the baby. Mehmet told me he is hoping to get leave to remain, to find a job, and to save £20,000 to bring them over here, maybe over five years. He added ‘I have not told them about all the changes in the law here, they will be too sad.’

I, too, felt sad shaking their hands goodbye as I retrieved my bike and waved them off.

Back at the rally there were more inspiring speeches, including one from ‘Jews for Justice for Palestine’.

Finally I went back to the vans, to find my panniers, help trusty Graham as far as he would let me, and cocoon myself in the back of the van. I did my knitting all the way back to London. Graham had kept my bike ready to take off first, so I was quickly wobbling down Leytonstone High road, weighed down by over-full panniers and a rucksack, as far as the Elizabeth Line and its excellent lifts. Near my stop the train lurched and the bike fell on top of me. A bruised bottom and a grazed leg is quite a good ending.

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