Last weekend I stood naked on a busy street in central Cambridge for 40 minutes as part of a protest demanding that the University of Cambridge disentangle itself from the fossil fuel industry. The idea of the protest was to use our vulnerability to draw attention to the far greater vulnerability we all have in the face of climate change. I was not gung-ho about it, but I was fairly relaxed about the prospect. I could see the power of such an action, particularly in light of the incredible “Naked Athena” of Portland. However, the strength of my feelings surprised me. It was not a pleasant experience for me, though the response was more positive than I had expected. This is my account of what happened that day.
The process was simple. We gathered to finalise our plans and to write slogans on our bodies. Then we walked over to Kings Parade, spaced ourselves out across the lawn and divested ourselves. We each had a bag for our clothes, which we handed to one of the clothed people supporting us. I stood with my hands by my side wearing nothing but a face mask. The street is not open to traffic and has cafes, shops and meeting points for guided tours. It was fairly crowded with people picnicking, eating ice creams or passing through. At least 100 people could see us at any one moment, easily.
I found myself unable to look at people. I stared towards the lawn or up at the tops of buildings. I had to work to keep my breath steady and could not stop my legs from shaking. Our sound system started up with a speech announcing why we were there. It detailed the extent to which the University supports fossil fuel extraction through research, careers advice and of course investment. I focussed on the words being said, as if trying to remember the sounds of a foreign language, which helped me to calm down.
I have done many uncomfortable or scary things as acts of protest, but this was by far the loneliest. Despite being alongside 16 others I had no interaction with them. The solemn nature of the protest meant I did not speak and barely moved. I could see one other naked person out of the corner of my eye. Somehow, I did not feel able to turn my head. It was like being part of an installation.
I was conscious of being scrutinised, assessed, critiqued under the gaze of all and sundry and with no course for defence. Or even to hear the views. I made eye contact once, and not deliberately. It was with a little girl, perhaps aged 9, who was sat on the wall just in front of me with her family. Her parents were talking about our action while they all ate their ice creams and she looked on curiously. This was probably 30 minutes into the action, so I was more relaxed, but still felt penetrated totally by her casual gaze. I was heartened by this family and many others who saw our action as interesting and safe.
I don’t think my feelings came from particular embarrassment or shame, as I might have imagined they would. I wasn’t imagining passers-by voice my particular insecurities. Instead, the feeling was a generalised insecurity. I felt literally vulnerable to danger and powerless to stop it. In that sense, it perfectly embodied my fears around climate change.
In fact, our action was met by an overwhelming feeling of seriousness. People seemed to respect our vulnerability and were careful with it. No one shouted abuse at any of us. Several times, a group came round the corner and reacted noisily with shock and laughter, but almost immediately they were quietened. Doubtless people assessed our “flaws”, made comparisons and perhaps found things repulsive, ugly or surprising, but no-one shouted or laughed loudly about them. The most surprising thing of the whole event for me was how little giggling I heard. It was like the stillness of a busy gallery. Perhaps we reminded people of their own vulnerability or humanity, but I suppose some were simply too shocked or embarrassed. Better to ask a more impartial onlooker.
Like nothing else, I willed for it to be over. During the speeches and poems that were read I found I could focus on them for distraction, but in the silences I did little but will for it to end. At long last a bell rang, signalling the “die-in”. We each lay down like corpses and waited to be covered by white sheets, as if in a morgue. Lying on the grass waiting the brief moments for my sheet to arrive was the worst bit of all.
After another while the bell rang again to signal the end of our action. The plan had been to walk away together in our sheets, but the practicalities of footwear, photographers wanting extra shots and our varied emotions meant this didn’t really work. I felt supremely silly once I stood up. The spell of the installation was broken and I was just some naked person wrapped in a sheet on King’s College lawn. I was very keen to get dressed and walk away.
My mother asked me afterwards whether I’d do it again. I find it empowering to know that this is something I can do, I am proud that I did it and would go into next time more prepared. That said, I do not want to do it again. I did not want to do it this time round either. Even when protesters are having fun and supporting each other it is rarely out of want. I was compelled to do this because I am desperate and scared and incredibly sad for the suffering we are already causing. Until those things change I may do this again.
This event was one of many pressuring the University of Cambridge to divest and is leading up to a rebellion against the systems that trap us on this destructive path from 28th August. There are many ways to support this movement:
Cambridge local group: https://xrcambridge.org/
UK wide movement: https://extinctionrebellion.uk/
