On so-called Super Saturday, the first time that the United Kingdom’s Parliament had met on a Saturday since the Falklands War, hundreds of thousands of anti-Brexit protesters gathered outside of Westminster. Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister, faced the task of convincing members of Parliament to vote for his newly negotiated Brexit plan, a necessary step on his quest to fulfill his promise to leave the E.U., “do or die,” by Halloween. Many of the protesters carried signs (“Fromage Not Farage”) and E.U. flags and banners, or sported stickers reading “Let Us Be Heard.” They were marching in favor of a “People’s Vote,” which would put the question of Brexit back to the public, or to advocate revoking Article 50, which allows countries to leave the E.U. In short, they were for abandoning Brexit—by whatever means necessary. As one sign read, #GetBrexitGone.
The numbers were staggering. Outside the Westminster tube station, the crush of people, directed by police in neon yellow vests, moved in long, intractable lines, punctuated by polite apologies (“So sorry, if I could just move to your left. . . .”). Some of the protesters had marched from Hyde Park and were joined by others in the shadow of Big Ben, which remains covered in scaffolding. They had brought their dogs and children, sandwiches, thermoses of tea, and the occasional can of M&S gin and tonic. From a stage in the center of the square, organizers spoke about the Good Friday Agreement, in Northern Ireland, and the United Kingdom’s ties to Europe.
An old pub, St. Stephen’s Tavern, which describes itself as a “good old fashioned London boozer,” sits at the edge of Parliament Square (it was a favorite of Churchill’s). Inside, protesters escaping the crowds were sitting together with their signs, in groups of three or four, at tables full of pints and chips. It had started to rain, and the windows, through which you could see marchers pressed almost against the glass, were slightly foggy. On the TV, M.P.s were voting on an amendment put forward by Oliver Letwin, which would require Parliament to withhold approval of a Brexit deal until after legislation outlining its implementation had passed. (It was intended as a kind of safeguard, an opportunity to slow down and review.) If it passed, it would also trigger the Benn Act, which would require Johnson, somewhat humiliatingly, to ask the E.U. for an extension by 11 P.M. At the table next to mine, a group of students and young professionals were arguing about the best path forward. “I’m Remain, but I understand the importance of seeing it through, as difficult as that is,” one said, earnestly. The others looked on with expressions of deep skepticism.
Jane and Mike Radford had driven about five hours from their home, in Ludlow, near the Welsh border, to attend the protest. “Last time, we brought the grandchildren,” Jane, who is seventy, said. She was wearing a leather jacket and a shirt that read “Citizen of Europe.” Two of her three children had studied in Europe and they wanted to keep ties to the continent. “It’s the wrong time in history to be closing the door,” Jane said. “I feel it really strongly.” She had participated in protests against the Vietnam War, apartheid in South Africa, and the U.K.’s involvement in Iraq. “I never dreamt I’d be marching for this,” she said.
Emma Hawkes, a specialist nurse in the N.H.S., was standing on a barstool watching the news coverage. She had a blond ponytail and wore a mock-neck sweater. Emma and her husband, Nick, took the train from their home in Stoke-on-Trent. “I look back historically about why the E.U. was created, and it was to prevent future wars,” Emma said. “I feel very protected by that, and I think it would be a great pity if all that was to be abolished.” Emma and Nick are outliers in Stoke, which voted overwhelmingly for Leave. “In Stoke, I think people feel they’ve been left behind,” Nick said. “But we think people are blaming the E.U. for all their problems in Stoke, which I don’t think is anything to do with the E.U.” He looked around the noisy pub, adding, “Here in London, you can have that conversation, but in Stoke you can’t. It literally splits families and friends, and you can’t talk about it.”
Jason Hunter was on his ninth anti-Brexit march. He quit his job at an energy company in October of last year in order to “fight Brexit full time.” He started a podcast called “Three Blokes in a Pub” and travels around the country and abroad speaking with people about Brexit. He was worried about farmers in Northern Ireland, and the border between Gibraltar and Spain. “Parliaments sit on Saturdays because the country is at war,” he said. “Here we are, in the twenty-first century, after forty years of peace, and Parliament is sitting on a Saturday discussing how we can break free from our friends and neighbors. It’s disgusting.” A musician, Stephen Kemp-King, who took pains to identify himself as a Remainer, overheard Hunter and offered his own take, that a second referendum with the current deal on the ballot would “immediately disenfranchise millions of Leavers.” What did he think should happen? “It’s a really difficult question as somebody who voted Remain but believes in honoring democracy,” he said.
At one point, everyone strained toward the TV in anticipation of the results on the Letwin amendment; when it passed (three hundred and twenty-two “Ayes” to three hundred and six “Noes”), a cheer went up around the bar. On the screen, Johnson said that he was “not daunted or dismayed by this particular result.” He said that he would continue to push to leave the E.U. by October 31st with his new deal. “And to anticipate the questions coming from the bench opposite, I will not negotiate a delay with the E.U. and neither does the law compel me to do so,” he said. (Later that night, he did request an extension, though reportedly by sending an unsigned letter.)
Outside, the rain had let up, and the protest was winding down. People were clearing out slowly. A group of bikers wearing E.U. flags passed by, blasting “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” by Elton John and Kiki Dee, and some of the crowd sang along. Leila Kiersch, from Cornwall, was standing with her seventeen-year-old son. She held a a sign that read “My Mother Taught Me Always Practice Safe Brexit. Seek Full Consent.” Her mother was Dutch and had arrived in the U.K. forty-five years ago. “It’s felt really heart-wrenching to feel that the people of Britain have turned their backs on her,” she said. Kiersch wanted a confirmatory referendum. “I don’t feel that anyone’s been listening to the people who voted Remain, despite it being a very close vote to begin with,” she said. “And if they won’t listen, then we’ve got to come out here and have our piece.”
