Last summer, I strolled down the road to join at least 2,000 other Brightonians. We assembled to protect the offices of an immigration law firm from an out-of-town far-right rabble; those representatives of racial superiority who look as if they’ve not so much lost a genetic lottery as come up short on an evolutionary scratchcard. Hugely outnumbered by the locals, they ended up bundled into police vans “for their own safety”, much to the amusement of PC Plod.
This summer, something altogether less heartening took place. A group calling itself South East Patriots organised a “Stop The Boats” march. It was a much more serious affair. Last year’s grotty old hooligans in Sports Direct mufti, swilling cans of lager alongside their rodent-like apprentices, were supplanted by younger, sleeker, muscle-bound goons, powered by energy drinks and steroids, clad in something disturbingly and intentionally akin to an illegal uniform. Functionally, a blackshirt militia.
A counter-demonstration was duly called, branded as a “Carnival Against Fascism”. I chose not to attend. I had been glad to take part in an impromptu gathering of ordinary Brighton folk to thwart a contingent of racist bullies. This time, I suspected advance co-ordination by the Jew-baiting far left. I anticipated the event would have a very different temper to it. So it proved. And I didn’t have to leave the house to find out.
My home overlooks one of the city’s arterial roads. From a high window, I saw some nasty sorts park up and plot up, identifying one another by the ominous logos on their customised black polo shirts. These were unmistakably the Bad Guys.
It reminded me of a tendency among some of my fellow Jews, all of us justly appalled and terrified by what is being levelled at us from the left, to fall into the “my enemy’s enemy trap” and mistake the far right for our friends. On top of the moral squalor and ahistorical blindness of aligning oneself with such people, it is also a grievous strategic error. These malignant thugs and grifters simply have more urgent targets for now. The crocodile that will eat you last may not be the crocodile that will eat you first, but it is still a crocodile, and it is still going to eat you.
Two hours later, the same junction was occupied by the counter-protest’s self-appointed vanguard, itching for trouble, and contained by a large detachment of police. Stretching out behind were crowds of what one might call civilians: people with no particular agenda other than an antipathy to fascists, who had answered the call to turn the day into a street party, then predictably enough had their goodwill hijacked by activists. The wielders of megaphones who evidently fancy themselves as glorious leaders of the revolution.
A deputation from the teachers’ union NEU, bearing a large banner combining the flags of Palestine and Cuba, the fetishisation of whose regimes is apparently to be welcomed among those shaping the minds of the nation’s children. Antifa – last seen in these parts heroically menacing women’s rights advocates – pitched up in our front garden: a black-clad mirror-image of their declared enemies, but for longer hair and a propensity for masks. Belligerent paramilitary cosplayers with hidden faces are apparently the Good Guys now. As so often of late, I found myself wondering what would happen if I ventured downstairs bearing a symbol of Jewry.
In 1988, the great horror, action and sci-fi director John Carpenter released They Live. Its plot revolves around a pair of sunglasses that reveals to the wearer predatory alien ghouls passing in plain sight as ordinary people. For antizionists, the Jews are the aliens. But I too feel I am viewing the world through such a lens. I’ve watched aghast as those naïve civilians greet the Hamas fanclub as fellow travellers – and boggled at the Olympic-level cognitive dissonance required to see the champions of genocidal Islamists as enemies of fascism.
I see friends sharing pictures of their favourite placards. Held above a keffiyeh-decked head: “Racism is weird. Have you tried hobbies?” Well, quite. Physician, heal thyself. I hear remarks about “flag-shaggers” made quite unself-consciously by people marching alongside comrades whose entire personality is based upon brandishing the flag of Palestine. Nationalism bad; transferred nationalism good. I want to jam those imaginary sunglasses onto their faces and shout, “For pity’s sake, look!” But even if they look, they cannot see, and I must resign myself to this truth.
In the ugly mob scene below my window, only one set of protagonists was not an active menace to Jews, and that was the police. Which may seem rich, considering their recent track record. But the police did a good job that day. They restrained a host of would-be troublemakers, kept the myopic civilians out of harm’s way, withstood a great deal of performative provocation, and generally kept the lid on a combustible situation. In short, they stood for the rule of law. And the rule of law – when applied without fear or favour – is the best friend a Jew can have. We ally ourselves at our peril with anyone who would undermine it.
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