On Sunday the 3rd of August, history was made in Sydney. This history was not made by politicians, the rich or powerful, nor was it endorsed by the government at state or federal level. This history was made by tens of thousands of regular Sydneysiders who came together to stand up for Palestine.
By midday, the streets were already choked, the crowd spilling out of the tiny Lang Park down York and George Street. The echoes of the distant speakers bounced off CBD skyscrapers as the growing crowd craned to hear the powerful words of eight speakers. One by one, these speakers condemned the Israeli government, the brutality of occupation, and the politicians here who continue to enable it.
It was in this assembly that the first of the pouring rains fell. Perhaps another crowd would have scattered, but not this one. Instead, a forest of umbrellas sprang up, like the bloom of flowers in the spring. All around, people readily gave shelter to complete strangers, rain coats were exchanged, and when downpour muffled the speakers, chants of “Free Palestine!” rose louder, echoing defiantly through the soaked streets.
The umbrellas were of all colours, some big and others small. Some had decorations and embellishments. Many were coloured like watermelons. Like their umbrellas, the wielders were as diverse as they were numerous. All ages, genders, backgrounds and beliefs were represented in their thousands. Drawn from every corner of Sydney, the crowd reflected the rich diversity that gives this city its beauty. All united in solidarity—fighting for people who felt like they were a world away. As the crowd moved, it was clear all old identities had ceased. Now in their hundreds, in their thousands, they were all Palestinians.
Together, hundreds of thousands of people moved as one in a slow but ecstatic march. Within it brewed a mix of emotions—sadness, righteous anger, hope, community, celebration, pride, and the willingness to fight—that blended into an electricity bouncing from person to person, that moved the feet and drove the chanting. These chants didn’t come from ‘serial protestors’, ‘Islamic extremists’ or chaotic agitators armed with megaphones, they came from everyday people, shouting over the wind, rain and the whirring of police helicopters. When one voice leading a chant died, it wasn’t long until another took up the position. Even the strained voices of young children could be heard as they led hundreds, riding on the backs of their parents.
The crossing of the first pylons was a victory, met with a cheer. Under the steel skeleton of the bridge, the periods of downpour barely put a dent in the enthusiasm of the crowd. An older man came up to our group and thanked us for being young and willing to fight, but we were far from the only ones—every generation was there, standing side by side.
Drums pounded, tambourines jingled, pots and pans clanged. A wild, defiant rhythm rising and falling with the loudest, most impassioned voices. The sound echoed off the bridge’s frame, carrying the sound forward even as voices died. Soaked by the rain, no one felt cold; there was warmth within the march itself. The second pylon passed with another cheer.
It was upon entrance to North Sydney that the disruption occurred. Police determined that hundreds of thousands couldn’t fit within Bradfield Park and the march had to be turned around. Some news outlets in the following days might focus on this disruption, phrasing that it was for “public safety”, implying that the conduct of marchers was destructive or dangerous. But that wasn’t the case. The truth is that there were simply so many protestors that the city did not account for our magnitude.
While confusion reigned for a time, people only came together, stronger than before. Information was spread by word of mouth, posted to social media, and those at the front phoned their friends and family at the back. Chants were quieted so that megaphones could sound out instructions.
The chaos that Premier Chris Minns and the NSW Police warned of did not come to pass. Instead, amazingly, the flow of a hundred thousand people was turned around. The sun broke through the storm clouds as chanting and singing surged anew. Twice, passing trains blew their horns in support and the crowd responded with roaring cheers, laughter, and friendly waves to the passengers. The final passing of the pylons was a celebrated yet tired victory. As we descended back into the CBD, the energy diffused into conversations with friends and strangers.
Sydney was flooded with marchers who disbanded in every direction, filling the streets, restaurants, pubs, and social spaces. With their flags and keffiyehs, for over an hour, Palestine came to Sydney.
Hundreds of thousands of people, thousands of flags, and hundreds of organisations. Congratulations to Josh Lees, Amal Naser, and all the organisers from the Palestine Action Group for holding such a historic march in the heart of Sydney.
This event is a clear reminder that we stand at the fragile beginnings of an anti-colonial counterculture and that the fight must continue and intensify, every single day.
-