Thought for the Week: Not in our name
Ian Kirk-Smith reflects on the ten year anniversary of the protest against the Iraq War
On 15 February 2003 millions of people, across the world, marched in more than 600 cities. They had a simple demand: for George Bush and Tony Blair to call off their plans for an invasion of Iraq. Tens of thousands of Quakers took part.
In Belfast, that Saturday, just after midday, a group of about forty Friends from all over Northern Ireland gathered in the square opposite Belfast Cathedral. Nearby, beside Belfast Art College, thousands of people were coming together – trade unionists, students, activists of all kinds and concerned citizens. The scene was full of colour and noise. The mood was good-natured. There was a great sense of anticipation and excitement.
We formed a large circle and soon became very still. Our silence was in total contrast to the exuberance and noise elsewhere. The next twenty minutes were memorable for many of us present and, ten years on, it is uplifting to recall what happened.
A number of people, passing by on their way to join the growing mass of demonstrators, paused, out of curiosity, to see what we were doing. Many stopped, slightly bemused, and moved on, but others joined the circle. The huge edifice of Belfast Cathedral towered over us, twenty yards away, a different kind of church. The stillness was like a magnet. The circle, gradually, grew larger and larger until, at the end, it was three or four deep. There was an extraordinary sense of power in our midst. It was as if the circle contained a huge, mysterious, energy. You could sense it – almost touch it – a profound sense of unity and harmony and of being ‘gathered together.’ It was both physical and deeply spiritual. We were blessed to experience it.
Half an hour later the scene changed completely. We were walking down Royal Avenue, the main street in Belfast’s city centre, in the middle of tens of thousands of people, on our way to Belfast City Hall. Many groups walked behind massive trade union banners, for they were the principal organisers, and there were a lot of political ones. There seemed to be hundreds of placards and posters saying ‘NO’ and ‘No blood for oil’ and ‘NOT IN OUR NAME’.
Our banner, held by my young son, who was twelve at the time, and myself, simply said ‘Quakers for Peace’. Our small group was very distinctive, a fact much commented on, for no other contained such a mix of very young people and elderly. We were, also, the only religious group marching. It seemed sad, even shameful, that other Christian churches and denominations were not prompted to take part. Why did they not take the opportunity to openly proclaim the message of Christ – that we should ‘love our enemies’ rather than bomb them? In Northern Ireland violence, in the previous three decades, had begot only more violence. The marchers in Royal Avenue knew, only too well, what conflict produces: killing, pain, suffering and grief.
Tens of thousands of Catholics and Protestants, alongside people of different faiths and none, had come together. They understood that peace is not an end. It is a process and, inevitably, a political process. It requires nonviolent political action, on the streets, in the squares, and, mainly, in rooms: big, medium and small.
The experience of people in Belfast was repeated all over the world. Harry Albright, then editor of the Friend, wrote of the scenes in central London in his editorial some days later: ‘What struck me most of all, as it did others, was the sheer variety of people who felt strong enough to be counted on Saturday. This is, indeed, a broad grassroots movement of all ages and from all walks of life. I cannot remember when I was so proud to be part of something or more alive.’
On that Saturday, 15 February 2003, the world witnessed the largest nonviolent political action in history. We found ourselves welcomed and praised throughout the day. It was humbling. We all felt very proud to be Quakers and to be walking, shoulder to shoulder, with such an extraordinarily mixed bunch of people, some of whom, years earlier, had fought against each other. We were all united that day in a common cause. Peace.
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