LONDON

words by Claire Miller illustration by Ali Harford

It’s 10 p.m. on a Monday night in April, and the bathroom in my London flat is in desperate need of hand soap. I’m supposed to be writing a paper, but my inspiration level is as low as the liquid in that plastic bottle, and I can’t concentrate for shit. There’s a steady thump of bass rattling through the windows of my living room. It’s coming from Hyde Park across the street. “When do you think they’ll stop?” my flatmate Sydney asks, looking up at me pleadingly from one of her impossibly thick books. Restless, I shake my head, put on my coat, and head out into the night to investigate. I reason that it’s not technically procrastinating since going for a walk usually helps set my head right. Plus, I can solve our sanitary needs by stopping at a store.

Out there, the streets are empty save for the shadows dancing across them. I walk my usual way onto Park Lane, which borders the eastern edge of the park. On a normal day, you can catch one of those classic red buses here every half-minute. But not tonight. Tonight, vehicles don’t exist anymore. Tonight, there is only them—the Extinction Rebellion.

Stepping into the barren wasteland of the city street, I can see them all: the civil disobedients fighting in what they call the third world war that rages between life, climate change, and its profiteers. In the past year, members of the Rebellion have blocked bridges, super-glued themselves to the gates of Buckingham Palace, gone to jail, and plastered their hourglass symbol across the city. I saw that symbol this morning, painted on posters that school children carried out of the Tube station. There were stickers, too, on the walls of my crowded train car when a man got on and said, “For Christ’s sake. They’re making more rubbish than they’re cleaning up. Get a fuckin’ job!” right before unceremoniously cracking open a cheap can of beer. But these protesters are less interested in jobs than they are in saving the human race from extinction, and they’re taking over central London to demand that Parliament declare a climate emergency and act to reduce greenhouse gas emissions to a net-zero by 2025.

Now, they’ve occupied the north-east corner of Hyde Park where the Marble Arch stands as a monument to history. I walk

"i really need this stupid fucking soap.

rebels buying snacks. I find the soap section, and my stomach constricts. There are just two kinds available, and they’re both in plastic bottles. I pick up the sea-breeze scented one and feel red-handed guilt. I hate to do it— buy plastic when there are people all around me fighting for the world. But I really need this stupid fucking soap. It occurs to me then how absolutely screwed we all are. I carry it up to the counter, ashamed, but there’s a girl in front of me in a green army jacket with the hourglass symbol painted on the back, and she takes her item from the cashier in a black plastic bag. She walks out of the store with her boyfriend at her side and a grin on her face, and I put my soap on the counter and say, “No bag, please.” It gives me a quick hit of superiority that evaporates instantly. I hand over the money, shove the bottle deep into my coat pocket, and hope no one outside sees. FEATURE JERK 2 - 20

it occurs to me then how absolutely screwed we all are."

among them with their colorful tents and colorful hair. They’re sprawled out on the grass, blissed-out like victors. A band is on stage crooning a refrain: “I hope. I hope.” This close, the thumping of the bass seems enough to jumpstart the rhythm of my heart. A wild-haired girl dances past me like a fairy on shrooms, though her eyes are clear, and I’m pretty sure she’s just happy to be alive.

I realize that they’re not going anywhere. They’re spending the night. Suddenly I feel conspicuous, like I don’t really belong there because I don’t share that level of commitment. I wind my way through camps, where hot plates and sleeping bags are set up, and break out on the other side of the park. A convenience store is just down the street, and inside there are a few Walking home along Oxford Street, the busiest street in London, I’m staggered by its stillness. The Rebellion has managed to stop the chaos of one of the planet’s greatest cities by forming a human blockade. They hold one red banner that reads, “This is an emergency,” and another orange one that reads, “Climate change? We can change.” They fly their symbol overhead on green flags that rustle restlessly in the wind, but the people who hold them are unwavering. They stand there in a battle line, and they look like warriors. I turn home and think there might be hope for us yet. JM