by BNimri Aziz June 14, 2025
Should I, or shouldn’t I? Can I, or can’t I? I may be alone. No villager who had accompanied me to protests 6-8 years ago hinted they might attend Saturday’s “No Kings” rally. Of more than 2,000 nationwide events, I’m heading to one of only three in upstate New York. Will today mark a watershed in citizen resistance in the U.S.?
One neighbor declines to join me. She’s so angry at the current administration that she hangs an American flag upside down from her balcony. I interrupt her railing against Trump’s diktats to say I’ll be at the “No Kings” march. She cautions me: “I told my daughter not to go; it could turn violent; DHS thugs may infiltrate; the police are unreliable; there could be arrests.”
This was before we heard that a state leader and her husband were assassinated in Minnesota, and another legislator and his wife shot. That shocking news might deter anyone already hesitant about joining a “No Kings”. Thus far, across New York, Democrat-led protests have not been very assertive. Too fearful of offending, they display their objections decorously with droll headgear and cute slogans on handheld boards. No anger please. Not too loud. Bury any mention of Gaza or Palestine today. With barely 400 people expected at the local “No Kings”, I might be conspicuous. I consult one pithy advice from author James Baldwin:
“You have to decide who you are and force the world to deal with you, not with its idea of you”
Draping my keffiyeh, faded although inescapable, over my shoulders, I lift my board with its brief, blunt message – Get-Out-Of-GAZA – into the car and head to the rally. Not without apprehension. Police arrests don’t worry me. Nor projectiles from counter protestors. I simply expect unwelcome gazes and perhaps some shouts to ‘get out of our America-only party’. I doubt there’ll be a Palestinian flag visible today. I doubt if even a whisper of Israel’s genocide will be uttered, or a connection made between bombing Gaza and the scorned U.S. president’s repressive declarations. It will be about losing cherished American benefits, about cutbacks to traditional institutions —pensions, medical research, libraries, public media, cheap immigrant labor. Forget our good life’s link to 800 U.S. military bases worldwide, to U.S. bullying and sanctions on disobliging foreign leaders, to disregard for the International Criminal Court.
Arriving at our “No Kings” assembly point, I search for familiar faces from past ‘NY-Indivisible’ actions supporting political candidates. Disappointed but undeterred, I join an unsmiling column – yet feel alone. No turning back.
I thrust my banner as high as I can. Once I set it firmly above my shoulders, I never waver as I walk among strangers: elderly couples, a few families and fewer youths heading courteously to the town’s Broadway. I forget about possible frowns and malicious remarks which my message might evoke. When cars honk at our thin parade and passers-by record us on their phones, I turn Get-Out-Of-GAZA in their direction. This actually emboldens me. Although I still search for someone I know in the overwhelmingly grey-haired crowd. A pedestrian outside a café smiles as she turns her camera towards my valiant memo. I beam proudly.
Although tiring, I dare not falter when I spot a small but recognizable star-of-david sign in a woman’s upheld arms. (Not unexpected, I think. Many Jews live in this area.) Then, having found a prey, she and her little flag heads my way.
Walking steadfastly alongside me, she begins her heckling. I point Get-Out-Of-GAZA straight at her. Maybe a mistake. She keeps pace with me, firing a battery of now well-known rantings in defense of the Zionist state. I walk forward determinedly keeping my face visible. No need to say anything beyond what I’ve posted. Absolutely no thought of fleeing.
I feel a hand placed softly on my right shoulder. Not that of the heckler or her accomplices, but a fellow marcher who mutters something like “You’re Ok” as she leans in towards me. The heckler seemed to disappear when a young radio reporter with a microphone stops me for an interview: “Where do you live? Why are you here? Why is this action important to you?” I oblige, then break off when I hear Barb and her husband Kevin call my name as they pass. Had they seen what was happening and shouted my name to thwart that sleazy heckler?
Our rally of about 300 thinned out as we crossed Broadway and headed back to the square. We had no permit to assemble and no speakers were scheduled. As at the “Hands Off” protest last April, we also saw no state representatives. (Our elected officials are more timid than even these well-behaved resisters!)
Perhaps a hundred lingering protesters dutifully gather near the parking lot perhaps needing to commiserate. I am again searching for friends when a young woman with three children approaches and asks to take a photo: – less with me than with my Get-Out-Of-GAZA message! Absolutely, I reply. Then Ken, smiling broadly, suggests a snapshot together, reminding me when we’d last marched along this path. Next, feeling another gentle tap on my arm, I turn to see a woman with a kaffiyeh wrapped around her head like a turban. “Can I have a photo too?” Certainly. All want to be seen with Get-Out-of-GAZA, perhaps regretting they hadn’t dared risk carrying their own declaration. Pity; what else is left?
Summing up: Why had I been nervous? This crowd’s slogans against Trump’s policies were so feeble, given the threats we all face. There was no sign of outrage in our assembly. Notwithstanding my contribution, does attending such a mild protest need serious courage? If so, American democracy has a deeper problem than one man who acts like a king.