Wrong side of the law. Right side of history: the activists arrested in the name of the planet - The Guardian
I began this fight 10 years ago, when my community in Orange County, New York, was slated for a fracked gas infrastructure project. I was a stay-at-home mom raising four children, then aged 19, 14, 12 and nine. My entire focus was their wellbeing. So when I got a letter that said, “Your new neighbour is going to be a natural gas compressor station”, I was kind of catapulted into it.
At that point, fracking was just being developed in the US, but frontline communities were seeing this fugitive methane leaking at every stage of the process, and patterns in health impacts, especially in children: nosebleeds, rashes, breathing problems. I realised our communities were standing on the precipice of a crisis, threatening not only our children’s health but, longer term, a planet that can sustain life. I had to act.
As Protect Orange County, about 100 of us started protesting every week outside the site of the proposed plant. We engaged the regulatory process, the political process, the legal process, the media – pointing out at every opportunity that it was in violation of environmental law and climate policies. We filed a complaint to the US attorney’s office. Yet it kept getting approval after approval.
Once we realised that all these institutions had been wholly captured by the fossil fuels industry, we knew that our only recourse was civil disobedience. After construction on the plant began, six of us blocked the entrance and were arrested. After a lengthy trial, I was convicted and fined along with the actor James Cromwell , and one other person. We refused to pay, so were sentenced to a week in prison. We were in solitary confinement for three days, until we lost track of time. They were a little bit nicer to Jamie; he was allowed books. I just read the life stories of former inmates, written on the wall.
It was disorienting, and dehumanising. But I think I emerged from that with an immense sense of strength and power. It just pointed out the absurdity: that three individuals who were trying to safeguard the public interest were put in prison, while those who were causing harm were free.
In 2016, I ran for election to the New York State senate. Nobody wanted to take on the powerful Republican incumbent, John Bonacic, so I said I’d do it. My goal was to use the campaign to expose his involvement in this project. I had no political background, no money – but the Republicans were still extremely threatened. They launched a lawsuit to knock me off the ballot; I fought it and won. I lost the election, but I managed to get 40% of the vote. More importantly, I was able to debate the senator and publicly expose the fact that he’d had a conflict of interest in facilitating the project.
Shortly afterwards, in September 2016, an aide to then New York governor Andrew Cuomo was convicted of taking money from the power company. I was very relieved. I thought, “Of course this project has to be shut down now.” But that didn’t happen.
The plant still doesn’t have its final permits, yet it’s operating, in violation of state and federal laws. Politicians and courts are allowing it. We still protest the plant weekly, calling for it to be shut down – in fact, ours is the longest continuous anti-fracking protest in the US, possibly the world.
All of the institutions in our society that are supposed to safeguard the public interest, including the courts and the judiciary, protect fossil fuel interests. We are living in an oil and gas republic. If we want our children not to have harsh, miserable, life-threatening futures, we have to act now.
I am not as active as I was. I have parental responsibilities that I had to forgo for almost a decade, and I’m in the process of making it up to my children. They understand the climate crisis, but a good chunk of their childhood was sacrificed for this – at times, there’s some resentment. I hope they will be proud of me at some point.
What gives you hope? Hope is irrelevant, for me. I think about who’s innocent in this scenario: children, pets and wildlife. They did not create this crisis and people need to fight for them.
What keeps you up at night? The science – and I hear that from scientists, too.
I joined Extinction Rebellion in 2018. There was a recognition that it was vital that people knew what we were doing to the planet in a multitude of interconnected ways. But it’s not enough to be aware; the question is: what do we do? That month, I was asked to speak at Parliament Square. I publicly stated that I was going to attend Cop24 at Katowice in Poland that December. I knew that it was essential that there was a Jewish presence at Cop24, because it was 25km from Auschwitz. We, the Jewish people, know what bystanding can bring about. Just doing nothing, watching, can lead to a holocaust. It isn’t an option.
In October 2019, I joined XR Jews who were protesting at Cannon Street in London, and read XR’s statement of solemn intent – a short explanation of what XR is all about. As I read aloud, everyone echoed my words; it became a very powerful moment. Afterwards, I realised I didn’t want to do anything other than sit down on the Earth, the planet – which is what I did. The police told me they’d have to arrest me, and claimed I was blocking ambulances and police cars from getting past. It was a huge road, with plenty of room, so I got quite angry. The officer told me anything that I said could be used in evidence, so I asked to make a statement, but he didn’t take it down. I was furious, and said I would make a complaint about him.
After a two-hour wait, I was taken to Brixton police station and charged. Months later, I was told the charges were being dropped due to lack of evidence, which again was untrue because they were charging other people. I think they decided that if they charged a 78-year-old rabbi they’d be asking for trouble.
What gives you hope? I believe hope comes out of action. Hope is not something you carry in your brain. When I am fully engaged in something, I can feel hopeful.
What keeps you up at night? The life that my grandchildren are going to be leading, because we’re too late to stem irreversible climate change. I do fear that the people who are going to survive are those with sufficient wealth.
My first arrest was in 2009, just ahead of the climate talks in Copenhagen. We shut down and occupied a coal-fired power station in Didcot. It was a significant decision for me to accept an almost certain arrest; I’m not a natural rulebreaker. But I felt supported by the other activists. The judge agreed with us about climate, but found us guilty.
In 2012, I was part of a week-long occupation of a gas-fired power station under construction in Nottinghamshire to protest against George Osborne’s “dash for gas”. Seventeen of us lived inside the towers, on the scaffolding service platforms a few hundred feet up – and I’m scared of heights. One morning I’d rolled off my sleeping mat and woke up looking through the platform. I screamed.
We ate self-heating pasta dinners once a day, and were rationed to one litre of water. By day three, we were feeling pretty ropey, and after a week we had to be back at work. We came down and handed ourselves in. I’m definitely less scared of heights now.
Heathrow was my highest-stakes action because of the security, the disruption we caused, the contentiousness of the debate – but that third runway would create the same emissions as all of Kenya.
Thirteen of us broke on to the runway early one morning, before flights had started taking off, and used arm tubes made of concrete, metal, chicken wire, other bits and bobs to lock ourselves down. Each material needed a different tool to cut through. It took five hours to remove us.
We pleaded not guilty on the grounds of necessity, but the judge told us to expect prison time, which was a shock: for many, it was their first offence. We spent the three weeks before sentencing packing our bags, negotiating absences with our landlords and employers. But we received suspended sentences and community service. We’ll never know why the judge changed her mind.
Then, in 2017, I was arrested as part of a rolling blockade of the first fracking site in Lancashire. New people arrived every day; sometimes so many that they had to shut the site. We kept it going for a month. I got arrested for trying to jump on the back of a truck – which I did, for 0.5 seconds. I got an £800 fine.
About 150 people got arrested, of thousands who took part. The local community was so determined to stop fracking, they were there day in, day out, year round. To support them was a powerful thing, and those connections will last a lifetime. We recently organised a protest for migrants’ solidarity. It was early morning, and I looked to my left to see the activists from Lancashire. They said: “You were there when we needed you; we’re here when you need us.”
What gives you hope? We are winning some battles, even if the wars feel unmanageable.
What keeps you up at night? Seeing the parts of the world that are currently on fire, or underwater; it does feels like we are moving in the wrong direction.
Read Jane Fonda on her decades of being arrested for a good cause:
'We are the last generation that still has a chance to force a course change that can save lives and species on a vast scale. Remember: the cure for despair is action.'
What gives you hope? I have experienced my own sudden realisation of a wrong that I then committed myself to helping make right, and I’ve seen this awakening and transformation in many others.
What keeps you up at night? What informs my nightmares and haunts me all day long is imagining the future if we don’t get this right.
Six years ago, I went to jail protesting a proposed methane-fired power plant in the town in New York state where I live. It’s built now, spewing out methane, CO2 and other chemicals that are poisoning the agricultural community. But for about a year, we stood on the road and held up signs, we protested in the capital, we sent emissaries to the office of then New York governor Andrew Cuomo – we did all the things that supposedly work but absolutely don’t. Finally, I suggested we do an act of civil obedience. Pramilla Malick, Madeline Shaw and I decided to chain our necks together with bicycle locks. Four others manned the picket line behind us. After three hours, the policemen finally managed to get the locks off, and we were arrested for a misdemeanour.
We pleaded the necessity defence at trial, but it’s up to the judge to allow it – I don’t think he even finished reading before he looked up with disgust. To him, the idea that this power plant might contribute to the extinction of life on this planet was not important. We went to jail rather than pay the $375 (£274) fine and assume any guilt for what we did.
I decided to do a hunger strike, but I still did much better in prison than Pramilla and Madeline. They didn’t get time out of their cells, showers or calls – I got everything. The justice system turns everybody into an object: that’s the whole idea. But you can’t turn the movie star into an object, because you’re always going to want to get a picture with him. The last thing that the police wanted was a headline: “Actor assaulted in prison.” After three days, we were out. This is my privilege of being a celebrity.
Civil disobedience is guaranteed under the constitution. We have to do it consistently, at every level and on every issue. That’s the only way out of this mess. I’m no spring chicken, but I do what I can.
I’m on probation right now, over protesting experiments on dogs in Texas – there were charges I couldn’t talk my way out of. If I violate any law, in any state, my parole will be revoked and I’ll spend a year in jail in Texas. It’s bad enough in Orange County, New York.
I have to report every month, for six months, to my parole officer. After that, I would certainly get arrested again. That’s the power that we do have, to refuse to be oppressed. We’ve got to address the mendacity, the greed, the culpability. We must stand up and stand together – and we will win.
What gives you hope? Children, and the school strikes – the power of depriving your government of your participation in a future that is inimical to your survival. At some point the young will realise that the loss, my dear hearts, is yours.
What keeps you up at night? The stupidity and culpability of the people who are supposed to represent us, and protect the rights of the people. Every day those rights are eroded – by crazies on the right, for sure, but also by those people who use their position in Washington to affect the desires of donors.
I’m losing count of my arrests. In XR, arrest is part of a clear strategy. We have people trained in de-escalation, legal observers. You communicate to people their rights; you have explicit principles and values, including nonviolence. Arrest becomes a sacrificial act.
People can be raring to go with civil disobedience, then they go: “Hang on, what do I do when I need the toilet?” You say: “You have to wear a nappy” – and that’s when you lose them. There are skills you have to develop; it’s very good for your pelvic floor.
I don’t tend to get arrested as much in the XR rebellions because I’m needed as a spokesperson. The last time was in 2019, protesting outside the Department for Transport – responsible for people dying of air pollution. I got a leg up on to the door, and used a little hammer and chisel to break a pane of bulletproof glass. They said it would cost £27,500 to replace.
In March this year, I broke the window of my local Barclays bank: the biggest funder of fossil fuels in the EU. That was part of XR’s Money Rebellion over banks’ role in the climate crisis. We make donations to climate causes with credit cards, then ask the banks to write off the debt. It’s a novel form of protest: we’re helping them to do the right thing.
In May, the police raided my home and arrested me over conspiracy to cause criminal damage and encouraging fraud, which I deny. Four officers had come from London to Stroud, which made me feel quite special. They always come at 5.30am. The idea is you’re half-asleep, so you’re more likely to “talk”. They even tried to follow me into the bathroom. I told the woman: “I’ve got my moon cup to deal with; if you want to watch, that’s fine with me.” She stayed outside.
Then they took me to the nearby cells, put me in a holding pen and handcuffed me. There’s no reason other than to try to humiliate me – we all know the game. I’ve got really thin wrists, so I slipped out. That upset them. I used the police interview to talk about the climate emergency – partly to influence the people in the room but partly so that it’s on the record.
I’m awaiting trial in November for criminal damage to the window. But we’re not breaking the law; we are conscientious protesters. There needs to be provision made for that, as there was for pacifists during the war. Instead, they’ve taken my phone and laptop, and I could be facing up to 10 years’ prison if I’m charged with conspiracy. Really, we’re conspiring to protect life on Earth.
What gives you hope? People are longing to move away from this current, consumer-focused system. I think it’s a natural human trait to be courageous.
What keeps you up at night? There are a lot of disagreements in XR, and I can let ridiculous things get to me. I’ve read the climate science, I’ve been in deep grief, but it doesn’t keep me up.
It took eight hours for me and five other Greenpeace activists to scale the chimney in protest over the decision to build another coal-fired power station on the site. We began at 4am, and climbed a back-scratcher ladder next to the flue, which was like the biggest, hottest radiator you’ve ever known. When we pushed through the hatch and came out into the sunlight, it was a beautiful moment. Looking down, we could see a cluster of police vans and TV crews, which was gratifying.
Once we started painting, one of us was on the ground on a walkie-talkie saying “left a bit”, sort of art directing. The idea was to write “Gordon Bin It” (Gordon Brown was prime minister at the time). But by the time it was getting dark, we’d only written Gordon. Then E.ON, which operated the power station, got an injunction ordering us down. We spoke to Greenpeace HQ and the decision was taken to come down in the morning rather than paint the rest of the message, because we had stopped the chimney from operating. But being a comms person, it killed me that people wouldn’t understand what we were trying to say.
We were charged with criminal damage greater than £5,000, which meant we’d get a jury trial – great, because it meant we’d have the chance to present a case to a jury, but the potential penalties were higher. It was my boss who suggested pleading not guilty and arguing a necessity defence: saying a power station does more harm than the actions we took to shut it down – effectively, if we stole a neighbour’s fire extinguisher to put out a fire, you’re not going to charge me with theft.
Our barrister understood the argument and was prepared to push it. Simultaneously, we wrote to Prof Jim Hansen, the world’s leading climate scientist. We were astounded when he agreed to come over from the US to Maidstone crown court and give evidence – this is a rock star of science. He turned up on day one and explained how many species we were saving from going extinct by stopping the power station, and how many potential human lives. When the foreman of the jury announced we were not guilty, the place erupted.
We did that thing where you go down the steps of the courtroom to meet the media and we said, “This jury has made a really important decision – they have effectively said that the government doesn’t have a licence to build these power stations.” It indicated to me that as a society we’d come a long way in understanding the threat of climate change.
What gives you hope? The school strikes were the most energising, exciting thing that I have seen on climate change in 20 years. There is incredible power in that argument about intergenerational justice: don’t you dare saddle us with this.
What keeps you up at night? It’s happening faster than we feared and it’s worse than we feared. I’ve got two kids, a four-year-old and a two-year-old, and I fear greatly for the second half of the century.
Having spent nearly 30 years working within the law, it was a huge decision to get arrested. The Paris agreement, which we’d spent thousands of hours negotiating, was not going to be acted on, including by countries that had played a key role. I was just fuming. And the Cop process was not delivering.
I took 2018 off due to burnout, depression, frustration – I’d done everything I could inside the system. After studying social movements, I realised that we’d become too policy-wonky, that we needed to take more risks. The suffragette, anti-apartheid and anti-colonialism campaigners knew how to use law-breaking as well as law-making. It was time to put my body on the line.
I liked that XR was a movement of ordinary people who thought the crisis deserved their time, attention and sacrifice. I became a coordinator of the political team. At the XR action outside the Shell HQ in April 2019, I was going to throw paint we had left over from painting our front door, but as I was leaving the pot exploded in my bag, so I took superglue instead.
I was holding the open bottles in my pocket as I dived under the police cordon. An officer tackled me, I threw the bottles on the floor, and glue went everywhere. I couldn’t believe how effective it was – every single digit on each hand was stuck. I had to shout: “Don’t lift me” – they would have ripped my skin off.
It took two officers 25 minutes to free me, using a syringe to inject a special solvent under my hands. Some droplets had apparently landed on an officer’s beard, and that was added to the arrest sheet as aggravated assault. I was upset about that. It wasn’t assault, I was just throwing glue. A walkie-talkie got stuck – that was criminal damage of police property. I spent most of the time in the police station picking glue off me.
Every police cell was occupied by an XR rebel, which we were proud of: it was a spectacularly well organised rebellion. I was released around 1.30am and switched on my phone to hundreds of messages. My husband and 11-year-old son had been interviewed on TV. My son said he couldn’t have been more proud.
I had wanted a jury trial to run the defence of necessity. But after a year I was told there would be no charges. I am no longer involved in XR and have returned to advisory work ahead of Cop26, but if there’s still no change I’m prepared to get arrested again. I heard: “A government adviser can’t be gluing themselves to Shell.” But I think that’s exactly who should do it.
What gives you hope? The renewable energy revolution: the technological solutions are already here, and they are cheaper and better.
What keeps you up at night? Nothing in the 2021 IPCC report is a surprise, but it fills me with real dread to see it laid out in words and paragraphs. How can it not?
As a privileged person in the UK, you do get an easy ride with the police compared with other parts of the world. My most dramatic arrest was in 1987 in West Papua, Indonesia. I was investigating the genocide of the Indigenous people and the mass destruction of their forests by the Suharto regime, assisted by the World Bank and western governments.
I’d stolen notepaper from the police headquarters in Jakarta and forged a travel pass, but it was immediately doubted. We were arrested by soldiers and held while they tried to radio to Jakarta, 3,000 miles away. Had they succeeded, they would have learned that our permit was forged, and probably would have shot us. My hair was coming out in clumps – we were convinced we were going to be killed. But they failed to get a signal. After three days, they simply gave up and let us go.
By comparison, getting picked up at Whitehall with XR was not a big deal. I lay down in the road and got carried away by the police. They put me in a cordon for nearly two hours. I think they were desperately trying to find somewhere to move us to, which I saw as a sign of success – the point was to tie up the system. Eventually, they took me to a cell in Lewisham and I was held for six hours.
It was nearly midnight when I got out. The next day I was giving a talk on climate breakdown to the European Commission but nearly missed the Eurostar because some XR activists stood on top of the tube trains and snarled up the line. It was very foolish; almost everyone in XR had told them not to do it.
There is a sense of “use it or lose it” when it comes to freedom to protest. We’ve already lost a lot in the past 30 years, and Priti Patel wants to finish it off. But protecting our remaining democratic rights is essential, even aside from protecting our life-support systems. As a white man with a profile, I feel almost obliged to put myself on the line because it’s easier for me to do so.
The notion of “equality before the law” is such a joke. In May last year, I was notified that there would be no further action from the XR arrest. The reason given was “insufficient evidence”. I just laughed – there must have been 20 cameras pointed at us. If not for the pandemic, I would have contested it. I still feel guilty that I didn’t.
What gives you hope? The remarkable human capacity to stand up for something bigger than ourselves, to project ourselves into the lives of others and to act on that empathetic motive.
What keeps you up at night? The lack of connection between what we know, and what we do – and the way in which we are still induced to behave in ways that threaten the survival of life on Earth. If not now, when?
I’ve never been an “out in the streets” type of guy. I’m a bit embarrassed by it. I was the son of a scientist, kind of a nerd, then I became an actor.
When, in 1982, an environmental lawyer and I got together to prevent offshore oil drilling in Santa Monica Bay, Los Angeles, I think part of me was going: “Hey, Dad, I may not be a scientist, but I’m getting things done.” Since then, I’ve been an ocean activist, working within the law to change policy through the organisation Oceana.
My wife, Mary Steenburgen, made a film with Jane Fonda, and we all became great buddies. I have such respect for the way that Jane has thrown herself into Fire Drill Fridays. When she asked me to participate, I didn’t think twice.
To be there on the steps of the Capitol, a majestic seat of power, surrounded by passionate people, clapping and cheering every time someone was taken away – it really is the champagne of arrests. There are people who protest who are putting their lives in jeopardy; this was not that. But just being handcuffed and put in the paddy wagon made a deep impression on me. This is going to sound lame, but even the fact that I could not move my hands for a short while made me realise how frightening it is to have your freedom taken away. It was clear that the police wanted us to sit there and think about it a little bit.
I remember walking out about eight hours later, hugging Jane and thanking her for one of the most amazing days of my life. It was not a hard day, but it felt momentous. It made me think I’d better up my game. For a long time, I’d hidden behind the work I was doing with Oceana: “It’s OK that I don’t jump up and down about climate change.” Being arrested made me go: “Wait a minute. The science is telling you that you have 10 years to make a drastic change, or some of the results will be irreversible, and all that work you’re doing for the oceans, Ted, that will be for naught.”
The next day I was back at the Capitol to see senators and congressmen, lobbying for Oceana. A couple of police officers saw me and said: “Hey! How’d you enjoy yesterday?” It was funny, like we’d all participated in an important, desperate piece of theatre. But participation is important. If people feel helpless and hopeless, then they throw their hands up and walk away.
The tide is shifting; whether we can shift it fast enough is the scary part. Yesterday, the sky over southern California was yellow from fires. Warming oceans will bring more frequent and damaging storms; trillions of dollars will be spent trying to take care of the devastation. This is going to cost us in every way. If you’re not interested in doing the right thing for your grandchildren, or your planet, do the right thing for your pocketbook. If we don’t keep our eye on the ball, at some point it’s going to be too late.
What gives you hope? Sometimes I remind myself: “And then, Ted: you die – so get off your butt.” It’s not like saving the oceans brings you immortality, so do the best you can and try to make it better every day. That, for some strange reason, keeps me lighthearted.
What keeps you up at night? Up and down the country, people are dying and losing their homes – and this is the tip of the iceberg, and that is not hyperbole.
There was an action plan for eight activists to glue themselves to the building, and I was fascinated to understand direct action better. I had never been involved in one before, never been arrested, didn’t have an intention of being arrested, but I was invited to go along.
We went up at about 8am and I watched as the activists fixed themselves to the glass doors at the front of the hotel. I was just planning on taking some pictures, but in the moment I felt moved to take action. Initially, I stepped up to the door and placed my hand on it, essentially pretending it was glued. Security guards turned up. It was chaotic – they assumed I was stuck like the others.
It was only when everything calmed down that the guy next to me, a barrister from New Zealand, noticed that my hand wasn’t actually stuck and he whispered: “I’ve got some glue in my pocket, do you want some?” That was the moment I was suddenly confronted with the reality of actually gluing myself to this building. I got this sensation: I’ve got to do something, this is the time to act. So I accepted his offer of glue, placed it on my hand when the security guard wasn’t looking and put it against the glass.
The police turned up. They were calm, didn’t try to remove us, but explained that they had called the “phantom squad”, the guys who are sent to unstick people. Some of the delegates started to turn up to the conference and we tried to engage them in conversation, but they all looked at us as if we were crazy.
For me, it was done out of sheer anger and frustration. I was prepared to do anything that would further the message of climate action and highlight the urgency of the situation. I didn’t think that getting arrested would ruin my life, which comes from my position of privilege.
I was sweating and eventually my hand started to become unstuck. Then I dropped my sign and bent down to pick it up, removing my hand from the door, forgetting to keep up the act. A policeman spotted that I was no longer stuck and I was the first to be arrested.
I spent about eight hours in a cell and was released at about 2am. Initially they charged me with criminal damage and aggravated trespass and I was in and out of court four or five times over six or seven months. Eventually, they dropped both of those charges against me and a number of the other activists.
What gives you hope? Young people who have woken up to this issue and are using social media to organise and educate one another. But I do wonder if it puts too much of a burden on young people’s shoulders.
What keeps you up at night? Whether it’s too late to do something – whether anything we do actually makes a difference.
Jack Harries’s YouTube Originals series Seat at the Table premieres 25 October on JacksGap.
I’m not legally allowed to talk about my arrest, as the case is ongoing. [Ravi shared an online activists’ “toolkit” for supporting Indian farmers’ protests against agricultural reforms, and was retweeted by Greta Thunberg. Ravi was arrested, flown to Delhi and held in custody. She has been charged with sedition and criminal conspiracy.]
My grandparents are farmers. Their struggle through the water crisis led me to become a climate activist. As a child, I’d wake in the middle of the night and hear someone in my family going to switch on the water tank – you couldn’t just turn on a tap. When I was 18, I realised that this is the reality for millions in my country. The fact that it wasn’t front-page news was baffling. In Bengaluru, where I live, houses are being flooded in the monsoons.
The climate crisis is not just an issue for the future, it is an issue of the present – it just hasn’t been impacting white people until now. Even in the global south, rich people won’t be affected in the same way. I realised I didn’t have the privilege of not acting: it’s only going to get worse, and those who have contributed the least to the climate crisis are going to be the most impacted.
We started Fridays for Future India in 2019. I connected online with other young people across the country. We knew nothing about organising, and thought 15 people would show up to our first chapter, but more than 150 did, and the word spread. It was heartwarming.
In India, the government is violently suppressing activists, journalists, anyone who tries to hold them accountable. Being “anti-national” seems to mean having a different opinion. People are being punished for what are essentially thought crimes. We are constantly threatened. Some of our members are minors; we had to have a conversation about the age limit to join. I receive death threats daily; I’ve got used to it. I almost wish they’d mix it up a bit.
My arrest caused a huge uproar in India; I am very grateful for the support. At least I have lawyers. A lot of people in the global north think being arrested is something cool to flaunt. Here, it’s a serious threat. People are beaten and sexually assaulted in custody. It’s terrifying. But we’ve made our peace with being afraid.
What gives you hope? What we have created is larger than one person, or one group of people: there are no prisons that can keep ideas locked up.
What keeps you up at night? Governments prioritising businesses over people and environment.
I feel that the papers Rupert Murdoch owns underplay the climate crisis and that readers are being misinformed. I also believe these papers have too much control over our democracy and who is in power. That’s why we did it.
A massive group of us went there at about 10pm and blocked the factory with two vans so no vehicles could get in to distribute the papers. I locked myself in one of the vans with a “lock-on” – a metal tube that you put your arm inside, so that I was locked to the person next to me.
A police officer came to my window and said: “Are you planning on moving from where you are?” I just looked away. We sat there until eight in the morning, and blocked a whole news cycle.
I remember watching all the people around me being arrested and taken off. That’s the part I was really nervous about, because I’d never been arrested. As a black person, that’s something you try to avoid – we live in an institutionally racist society where we already know that people of colour are disproportionately arrested and sentenced, so I was going into that with a layer of fear that I know other people don’t have. I was worried about how they might treat me, that it was going to mess up my future job prospects, but that’s nothing compared with the fact that our planet is on fire.
Someone came into the van and cut through the lock-on. When I got out, I just fell really slowly to the ground, quite pathetic, actually. Two of them tried to pick me up, but I was too heavy. I think there were four in the end with an arm or a leg each, it was very unflattering. And they just carried me off to the police car. I could hear everyone cheering, which was really lovely. I was smiling and thinking: “This is it, Elise, you’re a criminal, there’s no turning back.”
What gives you hope? Until we had to get through the pandemic, I don’t think I had much, but seeing the way we react and treat each other in a crisis gave me hope.
What keeps you up at night? The speed at which things are starting to deteriorate and break down. It’s like a timebomb.
Jane Fonda, Catherine Keener and I were driving up to Big Sur for Labor Day weekend. We were discussing Greta Thunberg, and Jane had the idea for Fire Drill Fridays. A month later, she’d moved to Washington DC to start it. That’s how Jane does things: she makes her mind up, then it’s done. Everyone follows her lead.
Keener and I joined Jane twice, and were arrested twice. Having a sit-in in a federal office building, with these incredible activists, singing We Shall Overcome, was one of the most moving moments of my life. It was electric.
We were taken to a warehouse for processing. One time, it took 10 hours. There was laughter, great conversation about everything: relationships, activism, motherhood, balancing it all – what women talk about. It was just real.
People did ask for autographs. We just said: “Thank you, but this is not the time.” It wasn’t about Hollywood jumping on a bandwagon, some actress trying to get attention. I grew up protesting. My mother was an anti-war activist. I’ve been close to arrest on many other protests.
We’ll continue this fight, because if we don’t, humankind will perish. It’s that simple. I live in California, which is on fire. I’m worried that my grandchildren will be fighting the water wars.
That we knew the science and have allowed this to happen is one of the biggest failures of mankind. And it’s all greed. You see Branson and Bezos and their giant penis rockets in space – “My rocket’s bigger than yours” – billions that could be spent on solutions for humankind. Elon Musk, you have the technology – what the fuck are you doing?
There are days when I don’t even want to get out of bed, it’s so overwhelming. But I feel honoured to have been arrested for climate change. I’m going to get arrested again in future.
What gives you hope? There are more people who are good than there are evil – I have to hold on to that.
What keeps you up at night? Fascism is taking over the world. I’m worried about an authoritarian government throwing out the rule of law and democracy.
I joined Fridays for Future in 2018. There were so many people protesting but it wasn’t translating into policy. Then Covid crushed the movement better than any government could. People got uninterested. It didn’t make sense: this is the potential extinction of the human race. I took steps to up the ante.
I travelled from Cork to Dublin to protest universities’ inaction on the climate crisis. I blew up two A0 size academic papers that proved they were shirking their responsibility, and stuck them on the Science Gallery at Trinity College. But they were brought down in two seconds. I was heartbroken. To have put all this faith into this action: I felt sad and a bit stupid.
Then I saw the Department of Agriculture building, displaying its “sustainable development” goals. I found it almost hilarious: these goals have been developed to hide the climate crisis, and they have the audacity to spray them on a building. I spray-painted “It’s all for show”. Afterwards, I was so nervous, I just sat down and my legs wouldn’t move. I knew the police would be called – but it took them an hour to get there. I could have got away with it, but that wasn’t the point. Unlike the government, I take responsibility for my actions.
In the back of the garda van, I was strangely happy, like: I’ve been restrained, I’ve done all I can today. I agreed to bail conditions saying that I was banned from the centre of Dublin and all government buildings.
For Fridays for Future’s global day of action in March this year, I spray-painted “No more empty promises” on the Department of Foreign Affairs building, breaking my bail conditions twice. I knew that I would be going to prison. The judge assumed I would take bail but after the last time it didn’t feel right. The judge and my solicitor were both so frustrated with me. Then I was taken to prison.
I’d prepared myself as much as I could but I spent the first 10 days in isolation, which was rough. I ended up spending 34 days in prison. I talked about the climate crisis with every officer and prisoner.
Eventually, I found out I could apply to the high court for bail on conditions I could abide by. I have been charged, twice, with criminal damage; I’ve not yet decided whether to plead guilty. I only feel guilty about hurting my parents. It’s horrible to have your child put themselves in danger – but we’re already in danger. My actions aren’t going to create the change we need; we need mass mobilisation. I hope to inspire other people to join us.
What gives you hope? The solidarity shown to me by the other prisoners.
What keeps you up at night? My activism has distanced me a lot from my friends because our lives are so different.
We had been fighting for the cancellation of the third runway at Heathrow for two years. We’d heard that Peter Mandelson had bullied a cabinet that was opposed to a third runway into saying yes. So when I discovered that he was going to take the stage at a low-carbon energy summit to talk about a green economy it boiled my blood.
A handful of friends and I thought about how we might undermine his ability to get credit for good work on climate when he had undermined one of the biggest climate fights in the world. It was one of Plane Stupid’s least-planned actions. This was very much a group of friends making some green custard the night before; we had to make a few batches to get the right consistency, then I threw it at my friends to see if it stuck.
I woke up incredibly early, cycled down with my friend, and we parked our bikes near the Royal Society. There was a moment when I couldn’t get the lid off the cup, but I think if I had done it quicker it wouldn’t have been such a good shot; it gave Mandelson a moment to look at my hands to try to figure out what I was doing and that’s why it ended up in his face.
I threw the custard and said something about how it was because of the third runway at Heathrow, which we can’t build because it will stop our chances of stopping climate change. I was shaking. Then I realised there was a news camera behind me.
I knew he was a great PR person and would be straight back out giving interviews, and that I had a choice of either being painted as a crazy person or standing up for myself. Sky News chased me down the road, so I turned round and went back to try to make my case.
The next day I did a brief interview at Belgravia police station. Ultimately, it was agreed that it would be a caution.
I’ve thought about what the personal impact might have been on Mandelson, which didn’t occur to me when I was 28, because I had a simplistic idea of power. I’ve always done nonviolent direct action, but we have to hold people in power to account, and that means making difficult choices sometimes.
What gives you hope? The rise of female power in the movement. Women’s empowerment is fundamental to greater equality, which is fundamental to stabilising the planet’s climate. Everything is connected.
What keeps you up at night? We need to embrace the efforts of anyone willing to fight for the planet, and that means spending less time judging each other for our personal actions and more time welcoming, facilitating and encouraging people who aren’t necessarily identified with the movement. We need everybody.
I am, by temperament and by behaviour, a moderate – so this kind of action was foreign to me. I’ve been involved in a protest or two but I’ve never invited arrest before. It may seem to others like a radical thing to do, as it did to me. But these are radical times, and in radical times it is moderate to do radical things.
This is an existential crisis. It’s now a case of whose side are you on: with nature or against nature? It would be a ridiculous question to ask at any other time in human history. Getting yourself arrested makes it very clear which side you are on, and how much it matters, because you’ve voted with your feet.
The Capitol is a momentous place to be, and even more precious since the 6 January insurrection made it so clear how vulnerable it is. To be there speaking up for something as essential as this – people wearing red, the blue sky, the green grass – it’s a very vivid memory that keeps on resonating. But you can’t know what arrest feels like until you do it. It makes you realise that, in a very physical and immediate way, you think it’s worth it. It reinforces the convictions that you thought you already had.
I liked it so much that my daughter and I, both Yale graduates, went to a sit-in at the Harvard-Yale football game and tried to get arrested there, too. Eventually, the police let us go. But here’s the great thing: this stuff works. The students were pushing for Harvard and Yale to divest from fossil fuels, and Harvard just did it.
This is a pretty desperate situation we’re in. I would certainly get myself arrested again, and I would encourage everybody else to do it, too, because of the change that it brings about in you. The more committed people there are, the more likely positive change is. This time it really matters, it couldn’t matter more.
What gives you hope? I’m one of those people who thinks there is no alternative to optimism.
What keeps you up at night? The most trivial things: am I prepared for the phone call that I’m about to have with the Guardian?
I joined Animal Rebellion 18 months ago, because they were taking direct action to target animal agriculture and fishing. When you say that we need to transition to a plant-based system, it can feel like a personal attack – but it’s the whole system that’s broken.
Arla produces about 10% of the UK’s milk. We staged a blockade outside its factory near Aylesbury, the largest dairy factory in the UK. The workers were able to come in and out, but the delivery lorries weren’t, disrupting the supply chain. We had two big bamboo infrastructures we call beacons, to suspend people in the air, and concrete blocks we call biscuits to lock ourselves on to. There were 16 of us.
We got there around 4am, when the roads were clearer. As soon as someone sees us, the police are called; Arla works a 24-hour clock, so we had to set up quickly. There was such a rush of adrenaline: “Are we going to make it?”
I was hanging from the beacon within 10 minutes. Unfortunately, I was the first to be taken into custody, while the police dealt with the people on the biscuits. They brought me down in the cherry-picker, handcuffed me and took me to Aylesbury police station. I was prepared for arrest, but I still found it an emotional, anxious experience. I had to keep telling myself that I’d done this for a reason, that it’s important.
They held me for 22 hours. I was hoping to sleep, but didn’t get a blanket until morning, and the lights were really bright. It made me appreciate what other activists do, how important it is to support them – even just by being there when they get out of prison. I was let out on bail, then charged with wilful obstruction of the highway. At my hearing, I pleaded not guilty. What we did was totally proportionate: we’re facing complete climate and ecological collapse, and the government isn’t doing enough. I don’t want to do this – but I’ve been left with no option.
The new police sentencing bill has made me anxious about what protesting is going to look like going forward. We’re creating pressure on the system, and they want to crush that. It’s made me think about how far I am willing to go. Two years ago, I wouldn’t have seen myself going to prison. I cared as an individual, I was vegan, I recycled, all those things you’re told to do – but it’s not enough.
What gives you hope? Being surrounded by people who are willing to make sacrifices to create change.
What keeps you up at night? Everything: the news, the complete disregard from world leaders, the greenwashing, the fake promises.
I was staying at an Animal Rebellion protest camp for the G7 summit, on a farm not too far from Carbis Bay in Cornwall. We were there to pressure the government to invest in a plant-based food system rather than a meat one.
I’d been there three days when four of us decided to go to Hayle beach: there were no showers at the camp, so I was keen for a wash. As we left the camp, a police car started following us. We thought it was hilarious that we were being tailed while going to the beach – then they pulled us over.
They said it was a traffic violation, that there was something wrong with the tail lights, even though the car had had a MOT two weeks before. They held us on the side of the road. One hour turned into two, then three. It got darker and colder – I was wearing my swimming costume.
On their way back from the beach in their van, our friends stopped to check that we were OK. That gave the police proof of association, and they searched both vehicles. They found some flags and flares – completely safe; every protest group uses them – and tried to say they were explosives.
It was really scary and confusing. There were seven of us and about 30 officers who charged towards us down a cul-de-sac. They arrested three people on suspicion of possession of an article with intent to commit criminal damage, and me and three others on suspicion of conspiracy to commit public nuisance.
I was devastated. I didn’t want to be arrested. I was crying a lot; I didn’t like how, all of a sudden, the police had the right to touch me. I felt quite naked in my swimming costume. We weren’t even at a protest – we were going to the beach.
We were taken to one of the triage centres that they had set up for G7, then to different locations. I don’t know Cornwall very well, so it was very disorienting. I was eventually taken to Hayle police station around midnight. When I was released at 4pm the next day, one condition of my bail was to leave Cornwall immediately. I was upset and exhausted, and worried about my parents finding out and thinking I’d done something wrong. I’ve only just told them what happened, months later.
At the time, I was working part-time as an arts and crafts teacher, but after I was arrested I quit my job to become a full-time activist. The experience made me want to get more involved. It showed me what we’re up against: what are the police trying to hide, who are they trying to protect? It wasn’t me, that’s for sure.
The case against me was dropped, as I thought it would be. They’d have had to prove that there was some agreement between us, and there wasn’t, other than to go to the beach. We didn’t even all know each other. I was pretty angry about my arrest, but it has definitely propelled my activism forward. It made me realise: I need to keep doing this. The money they’re spending on policing could be put towards the climate crisis, which is much more urgent.
What gives you hope? People power – the feeling you get when you’re at a march, standing together. I meet people who inspire me every day.
What keeps you up at night? There’s already so much suffering going on right now, and it’s going to get so much worse.
I had just left university and had a dark night of the soul thinking about how our leadership is guiding us to climate ruin. That provoked me to go to a Heathrow climate camp.
That’s where I met people from Plane Stupid. They had great ideas to capture the media’s attention, and highlight things in clever ways. At Parliament, the banner was going to read “BAAHQ” because there was paperwork that showed there was a revolving door between the Labour party and executive roles at the airport operator. Somebody knew someone who had a parliamentary badge, and that person was up for taking a group up to a door that led to the roof.
We tried to look as if we belonged. I was wearing a smart jacket, but now when I look at the videos, I’m on the roof in a big, green woolly hat – I couldn’t be more activisty. I guess I got cold and stopped trying to look like a young politician.
We had to get from the back of the roof to the front so we could drop the banners in the most visually arresting way. Everything was so well planned; that’s the thing about the community of activists, it’s a tight-knit crew. Everyone has worked incredibly hard. And when you’re there, it’s like magic – you’re part of this thing that has made it happen.
My job on the day was talking to the media, which meant staying a little bit at the back. The people at the front facing the street were making sure that the banners fell well and throwing paper aeroplanes. We locked ourselves to the railing up there. It wasn’t clear if it was working, but we could see loads of journalists taking photos, news cameras rolling – it felt exciting. Then the police came and eventually unlocked us.
There’s a point where they take your arm and that feeling of: “Oh, I’m not free any more and there’s no negotiation.” It’s quite shocking. We ended up in Horseferry Road magistrates court holding space. I think they charged us with aggravated trespass. I was alone – I think the police were doing that thing where they say: “We’ve let everyone else out, you’re the only one who hasn’t spoken.” But at some point I heard my friend Olivia singing, and it was so wonderful. I wasn’t alone – we were doing this together.
What gives you hope? Human kindness.
What keeps you up at night? That there is a very small bunch of people who are sowing seeds of division and benefiting from a fossil-fuel economy.
I’m good friends with Frank Hewetson at Greenpeace, and over the years I’d pestered him about getting involved. He eventually said that he thought I’d fit in on the Esperanza, because a ship was a bit like a tourbus: cramped, crowded with other people. But Frank said: “The only issue is, you don’t have any skills.” The only way I could come on board was to do basically the lowest job on the ship: assistant to the chef. I said: “You tell me what to do, and I’ll follow orders.” I’d just come off tour with Damon Albarn and Gorillaz, where I’d gone for a U-boat commander look. I took the striped top, the hat, straight on to the Esperanza. It fitted in quite well.
My duties were to prepare food, cook, then clean the kitchen from 8am to 8.30pm/9pm. I was a dogsbody, but at least working in the kitchen meant I didn’t have to clean the toilets. The first 10 days were easy – nearly everyone was seasick, so no one was interested in food. We spent about two months on the ocean, through some pretty heavy-duty storms, trying to find the Leiv Eiriksson oil rig.
Eventually we caught up with it off the coast of Greenland. Our job was to board it and demand to see its response plan in the case of an oil spill. Very early in the morning, we launched about seven or eight small boats and raced towards the Leiv Eiriksson. When we got there, it seemed about a mile high – I’ve never held on so tightly to a ladder. I don’t think you have much chance of surviving if you fall into water that cold.
We made it onboard and wandered around, looking for the office. Eventually we found it and said, “Hi, we’re from Greenpeace. We would like to see the paperwork for your response to an oil leak.” They said, “If you don’t get off the boat, you’re going to be arrested for piracy” - which sounded a bit dramatic. We weren’t causing trouble, or being aggressive. We just wanted to see the plans.
Helicopters arrived, we were all handcuffed and taken to Greenland. As we got to the prison, there was an enormous din of the inmates going, “Eff off, Greenpeace, get out.” They had to put us in a separate wing. One of the local guys came up to me in the shared area and said, “I wanna fight you.” I just sort of said, “What for?”, and that dissipated the whole thing.
I thought, “Right, I’ve got to keep busy”. The food they brought us was mostly bread and mutton, so I asked the prison governor if I could cook for our wing, and he said yes. I went to the supermarket with two armed guards, then made spaghetti for the whole prison. It was a novel experience. I also sneaked in some paint and did some paintings on the wall. We’d watch a Danish serial on TV in the evenings. Some of the other inmates started to understand what we were on about. Many were fishermen: if there was an oil spill, their careers would be over.
We were there for two or three weeks, then taken to Denmark to be deported. They were a bit heavy-handed – we got dragged off the aeroplane, to sign for the belongings they’d taken off us. They laughed at my signature and said, “It’s like it’s from a pop star!” I had to laugh. Of course, I didn’t tell them.
In July this year, Greenland decided to suspend all oil exploration, to show it takes the climate crisis seriously – which is a really nice end to this story. Would I get arrested again? Well, it’s up to the police, isn’t it? But I did say to Frank: next time, can we go somewhere a bit warmer?
What gives you hope? People contributing to their neighbourhoods, doing what they can to make them better.
What keeps you up at night? Let me sleep on that. Joking! My mind, thinking too much about lots of things.
source: https://www.theguardian.com/environment/ng-interactive/2021/oct/23/wrong-side-of-the-law-right-side-of-history-the-activists-arrested-in-the-name-of-the-planet
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