This weather is weird. The heatwave finally broke by the start of the weekend, but it still didn’t feel like fall. There was a light drizzle Saturday morning, but, by mid-afternoon, it was warm, sticky even, less like L.A. and more like New York was that time I spent most of a weekend chasing canceled flights back home. I’m wearing a baggy denim jacket – Kneecap pinned to one pocket, “Fuck ICE” fixed to the other – less because of the weather and more to cover up the swollen, red bumps on my arms. I got attacked by mosquitoes the other day and no fewer than seven bites have kept me in a state of itchy misery for the past 72 hours. Still, I’m wandering down Hill Street, looking for a protest that may or may not be happening. I could have sworn the couple announcements that flashed by on my Instagram feed said it was at Pershing Square, but that sounds more like a concert happening behind a set of temporary fences.
Off in the distance, a few people wearing keffiyehs round the corner of 6th Street. I pick up my pace and follow their route, landing in the midst of a crowd marching onto Broadway, chanting slogans of the “Free Palestine” variety. Today is an international day of protests in support of Palestine marking one year since a “ceasefire” was announced and Israel continued attacks on Gaza. There is a good amount of people gathered in downtown Los Angeles with everyone from seniors to small children in the mix, although the bulk of the group looks and sounds like college students. Some people hold printed signs from groups like the anti-war A.N.S.W.E.R. Coalition. Others carry homemade ones. Still more hoist Palestinian flags into the air. One flag reads “Saoirse don Phalaistín,” which is probably the only thing I’ve learned via Instagram in recent memory. It’s Irish for “Freedom for Palestine.”
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