Green paint

I walked passed the Royal Albert Hall at that time when crowds hustle and bustle before a big show (they were all anticipating the Cirque du Soliel). They mix with the touts and vendors to make sure they confirm that this is going to be a good night. Just beyond, as I made my way to Knightsbridge underground station across the wide Kensington Road I noticed a large group of protesters surrounded by police barriers and officers looking on. They were singing and waving flags. They were marking the occasion of Iran’s celebration of the 1979 revolution by protesting against human rights violations.

Walking past on the other side of the road, between the protestors and the object of their wrath (the Iranian Embassey on Prince’s Gate) I noticed that paint bombs had been thrown against the wall. A couple of weeks later I took a photo.

When I walked past on that Thursday evening I realised that I could only be the spectator of someone else’s political statement. I didn’t know exactly their motivations and only had the broad, BBC-provided general information of the Iranian protests and elections in the back of my mind.

Being in this no mans land in-between the demonstrators and what they were rallying against I wished that a splodge of this green paint would splatter all over me. I thought that this would enliven me and politicise me in the most tangible way realisable – I could find myself as the accidental accessory of someone else’s problems and participate in a very peripheral way. This is the best I could hope for.

But alas, no paint hit me and I walked to the Underground station.