‘Being a priest forces others to think – I’m the nice vicar who conducted their granny’s funeral’: Reverend Bill White, 68, Macclesfield
I worked in the Church of England for 35 years before retiring. I’ve been married for 43 years to my wife, Rosemary. We met at Sunday school – she was nine, I was 11. We’ve got three adult kids and four grandchildren, too. When we thought about retirement, we imagined gardening and looking after the grandchildren. Instead, we have become climate activists. A few years ago, I’d never have believed it.
As a boy I wanted to join CND, but was told “no” by my parents. Then life happened – I found a role as a parish priest. Looking back, I’m not sure I was politically aware. I focused on helping individuals, rather than looking at structural problems. Then, during Covid, I contemplated the future a lot – how I might continue contributing.
One of my first post-lockdown outings was to an Insulate Britain presentation in a local church. The science I heard alarmed me. Still, I declined the invitation to join a protest on the M25. Until then, I’d never had so much as a parking ticket. Instead, I enrolled on an Open University environmental studies degree, through which my sense of concern only heightened. I couldn’t shake the sense I needed to do more. Rosemary and I joined Christian Climate Action and went to their conference – hearing stories from those who’d broken the law challenged the way I saw the world.
In August 2021, Extinction Rebellion were protesting on Tower Bridge. They held a tea party, inviting people to join them. Being a vicar, my attendance seemed fitting. When I saw two people lying on the road, I put my dog collar on, then joined them, kneeling down in a position of prayer. The next minute, I went floppy as I was arrested.
I felt a sense of achievement upon my release. No longer could the prospect of arrest scare me. Since then, I’ve crossed that bridge a few times – I’ve sat in front of an oil tanker, and blocked a road in front of an oil depot despite an injunction. If it’s morally right to break a certain law, I now believe, I’ve little reason to fear handcuffs, a courtroom or prison. Being an older white person allows me to do this in a way others can’t. I have the privilege, therefore, to continue. Being a priest, I hope, forces others to rethink – I’m the nice vicar who might have conducted their granny’s funeral. Are climate campaigners really the awful people this government wants to present to you?
I used to spend hours writing weekly sermons, rarely with tangible results. You had to hope that what you said sowed a seed that later had an impact. That’s how I think about my activism today. I can’t be certain of success, of course, but you plod on with faith that good, in the end, will come from it.
‘My belief is that ordinary people can change the world. That’s why I’m a radical’: Leila Hassan Howe, 74, London
My activism started at the beginning of the 70s. Like many young people of my generation – I was 21 back then – we looked to international movements for guidance. There was women’s liberation and those demanding an end to the Vietnam war, but as black people on the margins, we looked to the American Black Panther movement for inspiration.
We set up black power organisations in cities across the UK. I was part of one in London. We held meetings, organised supplementary schools, produced a newspaper and fought police malpractice. In 1981, 13 people died in a fire after a racist attack in New Cross, south London. We congregated at the house that night, sat in the street and refused to leave. We sensed a watershed moment, and called a public meeting for people from all over the UK. National media and politicians ignored us. Six weeks later, I helped lead a march through London in our thousands.
When I compare movements then and now, being in my 70s offers perspective. Today, the black power movement of the past is shown reverence. In my time, though, in the US, activists were killed and vilified. As years pass perceptions change as society catches up with the movement. It’s a reminder not to be hurt when those with power try to chastise you.
The long view allows me to see how much has changed. When I was young, we’d be lucky to get a handful of white people marching with us. We were shown hostility and hatred – banana skins thrown at us on the streets. Today, we see millions of white people standing alongside our communities in Black Lives Matter actions. By knowing what came before, you see shifts have occurred. There’s still a fight – so much more to do. But I see the progress because I’ve lived through it. When young black people tell me, “Leila, nothing has changed,” I can’t help but smile as I explain the world today is different. They rarely listen, not that I mind. When I was young, I showed the same disregard for anyone over 40.
With my late husband Darcus Howe, my worldview was shaped. He was a leader of our movement. In essence, my belief is that ordinary people can change the world. That’s why I’m a radical, and always will be. The American author James Baldwin has always inspired me. There’s a phrase of his I repeat often: “The very time I thought I was lost, my dungeon shook and my chains fell off,” he wrote in The Fire Next Time. I read it as a teenager, it still sticks with me. In moments of doubt, it’s what I remind myself – the possibility of change comes out of the darkness.
‘Laughter was key. Ridicule helps to expose evil and stops you becoming too serious’: Lisa Power, 68, Cardiff
Anger, humour and self-preservation – that’s what keeps me going. Anger that has never wavered drives me, while laughing and looking after myself means I can carry on the fight.
It all started when I was young – I’ve always been blunt and terribly outspoken. But really, my activism can be traced to, as a child, not understanding how people could be prejudiced. At first it was with gender and sexuality, what with me being gay, and a woman, but quickly it spread to bigotry based on ethnicity, race and class. Anything.
Early instances stick out – going to a meeting about apartheid, and watching nasty National Front goons make chimpanzee noises. I had a loving childhood, so it was only in early adulthood that I appreciated how poorly I’d be treated simply for liking other girls. I ended up back in the closet for a while. Luckily, I came back out fairly quickly. At first, all this just confused me. But as I grew older, that turned into anger.
My journey to activism was gradual. Coming to London after graduating and joining Gay Switchboard set my path permanently. I joined the UK’s only lesbian and gay helpline in 1979. Sitting on those phones, listening to queer people across the UK talking about being unfairly treated – it was a huge injustice. So when HIV appeared in the community, I threw myself into supporting people with the virus, too, while fighting to ensure we saved as many lives as possible.
Even then, laughter was key. Ridicule helps expose evil, so we employed silly stunts which took the piss out of our opponents. We also mocked ourselves – self-deprecation is important to stop you becoming too serious. And through it all, I’ve had a hinterland – outside interests which keep burnout at bay. Being a fan events promoter for a Buffy the Vampire Slayer actor is probably the most unexpected. I’ve been a collector of all sorts of things, and started the first UK lesbian-run women’s sex toy mail-order business, Thrilling Bits, smuggling lesbian-made sex toys from San Francisco because the ones here were rubbish.
I’ve learned some lessons along the way. The moment you think you’re indispensable, you do more harm than good. Communities are stronger together – we can’t be divided. Any excuse, and the rights we’ve fought for will be taken away. And, resist co-option or getting too comfortable. I look around – even to some of my fellow Stonewall founders – and see they’ve become the people they despised back then, picking on the marginalised. I refuse to be one of them.
‘At 13, I established a junior CND group’: Linda Clair, 77, Rochdale
If you don’t do anything to make the world a better place, I’m not sure you’ve got a right to complain. You can’t just sit around waiting for someone else to step in.
Politics runs in my blood. I was raised in Manchester’s Cheetham Hill – at 14, my dad tried to sign up to fight in the Spanish resistance. Being committed to the cause, therefore, was a part of family life. I was only eight when, in 1953, I took my first political action. I learned about two Jewish communists – a couple, Ethel and Julius Rosenberg – accused of giving secrets to the Russians in America. They were sentenced to death. The Rosenbergs had two sons, both similar ages to me. I was so horrified when I realised soon they’d have no parents, that I took a petition to school and asked other pupils to sign it. At 13, I established a junior CND group. As a young mum, I focused on fighting racism in our multicultural corner of Manchester. From then, I’ve never stopped, really.
I met George, my late husband, in 1980. Politically, we were on the same page. Having a shared worldview was important for me. We were together in the things that mattered most, including this – it’s wrong to bring children into this world, but not try to make it better for them. So that’s what I’ve done for my children, grandchildren, and now great-granddaughter too.
I rarely feel despair – who has the time? – but there are moments when I fear we’ll never get there. But it doesn’t last. I’m surrounded by friends who have the same outlook. If you’re genuine about your ideals, living another way is impossible. I don’t know how to stay at home. If you’ve been an activist, and still care about the same things, you can’t just switch off and retire. I can’t go on demonstrations any more, down to my health. I have a folding chair which I take to rallies. I feel aggrieved, but I find other ways. My eldest grandchildren are 32 and 29. I’ve passed on the baton. You know you have to hand it on, you won’t keep going for ever.
Years ago, when the Americans bombed Libya, we went on to the motorways with placards. Aren’t you scared, my daughter asked. You’ve got to be so active, I explained, that you’ve no time to be frightened. I’m not sure I’m optimistic about the future. But you keep going: it won’t change if I don’t do anything, but it just might if I do… and so, I’ll never stop trying.
‘I was put on a black list so no employer would take me on’: Norman Candy, 74, London
I’m a retired postal worker, involved in the trade union movement since the 1960s, at first, as a building worker, before joining the post office in 1976. These days, I’m the retired members’ representative on the national executive of the posties’ union, the CWU. Being around for so long, you see history repeating itself. And that teaches you a thing or two. This winter, once again, we’re seeing working people demand what they deserve. And just like clockwork, the government, right-wing press and the establishment, too, are coming out with their union-bashing. Of course, it’s nonsense – the general public aren’t stupid. When you’re attacked, you have to remain firm. Keep believing in what it is you are fighting for. Get to my age, and you’ve seen it all. It has never fazed us before, so why should it now? Frankly they were much better at bashing us in the 70s and 80s.
It was just as underhanded then, too. I worked in construction in my early 20s. It was the wild west, so I got involved in our trade union. When a pay increase had been agreed, but our bosses refused to pay, we were only 20 or so workers, but we went out on strike. In the end, we got what we were owed. It was early proof to me of the power of organising. But in retribution, I was put on a black list meaning no employer would take me on once that job was over. That’s when I moved into the postal service. After that, no threats were going to worry me. I got involved – why wouldn’t I? A young dad, with three kids to support… It was a no brainer.
It’s hard graft, sometimes, taking on the fight. But you’ve got to, it’s really that simple. If you want a quality of life – maybe a mortgage and a house, holidays, pension – you’ve got to fight as a team. What’s the alternative, just submitting to whatever your boss wants? If they had it their way, too, many wouldn’t even be paying you. So stay strong, that’s the best advice I can give. Because believe me when I say it’ll pay off nicely.
‘We encouraged people to go to their nearest military base and cut a fence wire or two’: Angie Zelter, 71, Knucklas
I’ve been a peace and environmental campaigner for many decades now. Keeping going can be tough. Things get worse and you can’t always see the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s easy to get burnt out or miserable, while unbounded optimism only leads to perpetual disappointment. You need to find balance, the fine line between hope, pragmatism and possibility. For me, that means working with others to prevent and disrupt evil in this world. That way, you don’t feel alone.
Greenham Common had a major impact on me, surrounded by so many women. Confronting the military over US missiles in a non-violent way was my entry into a lifetime of non-violent direct action. There, we cut the wires on the base’s perimeter, leafleting inside, blockading entrances. It taught me plenty: there’s no right way to protest and there need be no leaders.
After that, I founded my own direct action movement, the Snowball campaign, at home in Norfolk. We encouraged people to go to their nearest base and cut a fence wire or two. Over the years, 2,500 people were arrested doing it. Yes, we were painted as terrible vandals. There was – as there is now – a debate over tactics. But our argument was clear: if there’s a fire in a house and you knock down the front door to rescue someone inside, there’s no question of criminality. Doing all we could to stop nuclear weapons, to our mind, was precisely this. I feel the same in my 70s.
It’s difficult changing minds but I’ve learned a few lessons. Bring information to light, highlight what’s going on. Show solidarity when others are struggling. And throw a spanner in the works: force those who’d rather ignore you to sit up and take notice. I even wrote a book last year, Activism for Life.
In the UK, protesters are portrayed as criminal know-it-alls who should stay at home. It’s at odds with how we see protests elsewhere – look to Russia, Hong Kong, all over. But here, power also needs holding to account. Maybe it’s comforting to live in denial, to believe that there are no problems closer to home. The reality is that’s simply not true. People are suffering here while the planet is in crisis. My son often asks, “Why do you keep campaigning? You’ve not got rid of any weapons yet.” I always say yes, that’s precisely what keeps me going – there’s so much more to get on with.
Some interviewees appear on the BBC documentary podcast Lights Out, also broadcast tonight, 8pm, on Radio 4
