Moments of Protest
October 28th.
I am standing on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Wacker Drive, watching as over five thousand people gather in support of Palestinian lives. The mass of bodies crowding down Wacker is tightly knit and looks formidable, and I get to be one of them.
I’ve been to many political actions for many causes before, but this is one of the most diverse I’ve seen, in age, race, and diasporic status. Greying grandfathers hold the hands of young children, who lead the chants of “End the siege on Gaza Now!” and “I believe that we will win!” with courage exceeding any seasoned activists’. Mothers, aunts, siblings, and cousins stand in keffiyehs and hijabs, pushing strollers and handing relatives snacks from their purses. Young men run across the street to greet one another in Arabic, laughing and clapping each other’s backs, so pleased to be united. Black and brown college students stand next to middle-aged Asian men in business suits while white retirees wave black, green, red, and white flags. Soon I will get used to these sights, but I won’t stop being gently awed.
Before the group can really get moving, a man on the loudspeaker says, the coffins need to be brought to the very front. Everyone else should get far back behind the banners, he says, please. At first I don’t know what he’s talking about, but then I see them held toward the sky: dozens of tiny…
