Sunday morning. I woke before the alarm, got up, picked out a clean, smart(ish) outfit, and took a selfie in front of the dressing table mirror.
I’d spent Saturday evening trying to work out where best to park for the Royal International Air Tattoo in Fairford. A good friend—an avid plane watcher—told me it would be near impossible. I decided to wing it (unintentional pun, honestly).
I left early. Gates opened at 7:30am, flights started at 10. As soon as I hit standstill traffic, I parked in a cul-de-sac called Elf Meadow. “That’s a bit of me,” I thought.
The thing about travelling alone is you have to do everything—navigate, plan, remember names, manage your phone battery. Even if it’s just up the road, it can feel like a lot. Elf Meadow I could remember.
I parked, ripped up a cardboard box, and pulled out the Sharpies I’d packed. My hands were shaking as I wrote my sign. Badly enough that I flipped the box and rewrote it.
Then I started walking.
Four miles to the entrance. I didn’t expect to get anywhere near it. Security at these events is tight—air tattoos are the public-facing tip of arms fairs.
I’d dressed conservatively: no backpack, just a handbag. Your average gran on a day out—except for the sign, which I held with one hand and rested on my shoulder.
Hundreds of cars passed me. Traffic was slow, and many slowed further to read the sign. I walked with quiet intent. Not to judge the audience, just to point out a truth.
Fewer insults than expected. A few offers of lifts. A couple of women checking in with support. The usual bit of mocking. But nothing awful.
One lad leaned out of a car window to ask what school I went to. I asked him the same.
“I went to Eton,” he said, like it was a flex.
Never in my life have I wanted a boombox blasting Scrubs more. Full volume. Turn it up to eleven.
The terrain was hard. Mud, rough verges, no proper footpaths. I kept going, focused on the reason I was there: to raise awareness.
Each time a police or security vehicle approached, I hid the sign in the inside back of my jacket. It fit perfectly. After about three miles, a security person took a photo of me. I knew my time was limited.
My feet hurt.
A young mum passed on a bicycle, her son—maybe nine—riding behind. They pulled over as a plane flew low overhead.
“Mummy, it’s a bomber!” he shouted, thrilled.
That hit me. The deafening roar of the jet, the boy’s excitement. It’s fun for us. It is not fun for them.
Soon enough, the police arrived. Traffic had died down, most people already parked.
They stopped and told me I was on bodycam. Asked why I was there.
“Because the Israeli head of Air Force is a guest at Fairford.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tom something—I can’t remember. I’m dyslexic.”
The officer read my sign, asked if I belonged to any proscribed groups. Told me I could be jailed for ten years.
“Fourteen,” I replied. “It’s fourteen.”
He asked for my details. I said I knew I didn’t have to give them—but I did. I have nothing to hide. No criminal record. Not even a speeding fine. No affiliations. No memberships.
It felt like a respectful exchange. Factual, friendly. Just as he was about to ask for my date of birth, two cyclists pulled over.
“What’s she being questioned for?” one asked. “You look like you could’ve been at Greenham.”
“I was at Greenham.”
“That’s where we just cycled from. We don’t agree with this either.”
A passing car slowed. “Absolutely agree,” they said, reading my sign.
I’d done what I came to do. Walked four miles through traffic, holding a message. No arrests, no threats. And maybe a few minds opened.
The officer ran my details. We shared a laugh about my squeaky-clean record. Then the rain began—pouring.
That’s when I heard it: “Clare—do you want a lift back to your car?”
“Yes, please!”
My feet ached, and the thought of another four-mile slog through mud was not appealing.
They drove me back along the one-way system. We chatted about Stroud and my shop. They said they’d visit one day. Asked me to send them my next column.
I stopped at Jolly Nice for coffee on the way home, and I think that gave me such a reality check. Literally two million people are now starving in Gaza.
Over the next one to two weeks, hundreds of people living in Gaza will die needlessly every day. All that has to happen to change this is for the gates to be opened. The warehouses of food and aid are there. The humanitarian workers are there. This is a genocide we are watching in real time on our phones. We cannot say we did not know.
Protesting and attending events around these global issues always brings up a deep sadness in me, which is why I tend to avoid it. That and of course I mostly work Saturdays when most protests are held.
But as I said to the police, at some point one of my six grandchildren will ask me “What did you do in the genocide Grandma?” The answer of course will be “Not enough” But it is certainly time for everyone of us to stand up and us our democratic right to express our despair for this humanitarian disaster and for the lack of accountability. Use your words carefully, check the law. Don’t use the P word or the A word.
What a world. I’m pretty sure we can do better. Anyone with a platform needs to seize this moment. To speak up. For what is right.
