An Anonymous Protest
After penning an article covering the initiation and announcement of the globally infamous “Anonymous” protests a few weeks ago, my curiosity was aroused enough to ensure that my Sunday would be spent outside the two major scientology buildings in London. Primarily to cover it for Felix, but also because I was personally intrigued by the bile-filled debate and rhetoric from both sides that abounds on the internet, and by the potential that the protest had to demonstrate “the power of the internet.”
For those who have managed to avoid the controversy, it can be summed up in a single, simple statement: “The internet has declared war on the ‘Church of Scientology;’” exaggerated, but not inaccurate (see box for full explanation).
I had no idea what to expect from February 10th. It was an event that could signify the beginning of a global movement, a popular movement that began and was sustained virtually, pouring out into the real world in a manner that has never been seen before; without a leader, without a clear plan. The headless body politic, ejecting a parasite. Or it could be three geeks and a sign exhibiting ignorance and irrationality, showing that virtual momentum still has no real bearing on the outside, another failed movement of hate. I expected the latter. I expected it to be about 20 people (maximum) standing outside a building, embarrassing themselves.
I’m confronted with 500 protesters: clad in masks to protect their identity from the perceived threat, handing out flyers, holding signs, acting as a single, outraged entity. Yet there is an inherent humour in the event. Anonymous don’t take themselves very seriously, breaking into bad dancing every so often as someone plays a song that they all know from various ‘memes’ that constantly circulate (such as the “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” theme song that was played throughout the day). Their protest signs contain in-jokes and shamelessly geeky comedy, but also carry the message of the day. “Love Scientology, Hate the CoS [‘Church of Scientology’]” says one sign. “Scientology makes me a sad panda,” says another, “Knowledge is Free, Scientology’s not.”
Most of the protestors are lined up on the pavement and raised walkway, wearing their masks (mostly V For Vendetta Guy Fawkes masks) on the opposite side of the road from the headquarters of the CoS’ UK organisation near Blackfriars tube station.
At this early stage of the day, there are 2 police officers mounted on horseback, approximately 7 foot-patrol police, and 1 squad van – all City of London Police – guarding the main doors of the building and surrounding the main body of protestors. This number increases steadily throughout the morning, finally peaking at approximately 20 officers, 4 mounted police, 2 police vans, and a dog unit. They seem to be there mainly to make the Scientology staff feel safe, and keep the protestors from blocking Queen Victoria Street. “We’re just policing the event,” said one police officer as he asked protestors to move away from the entrance,” It’s fairly quiet… simply a peaceful protest.” The police don’t seem worried, even though they have had little information about the planned protest and no leadership to meet with.
The ‘Church of Scientology of London’ was opened in 2006 in the very building where L. Ron Hubbard ran the embryonic Church of Scientology in the 1950s. At the gala opening, the fourth most senior City of London Police officer, Chief Superintendent Kevin Hurley, gave a speech in praise of the organisation – the largest in a series of interactions between the City of London Police force and the CoS in London that was investigated by the Guardian and other major newspapers at the time (which a man with a megaphone reminded the assembled protestors).
The building itself sits between the Anglican church of Saint Andrew by-the-Wardrobe and the BT Wholesale headquarters. Its proximity to an Anglican church is an irony not lost on Anonymous, who took relish in the chant of: “That’s a church, that’s a cult,” as they point respectively at the spire and the CoS. My fellow reporters and I visit the rector of the church, the Reverend Alan Griffin, to ask him his opinion of the protestors and of his neighbours themselves. He said that the protestors “all seemed quite young, similar in age to most of the Scientologists that they are protesting.” On Scientology, his philosophy was relaxed: “It’s a free world, isn’t it?” He’d been invited into the building, and some of the members had come to speak to him, but he was certain that “they shouldn’t call themselves a church.” I ask him whether he thought Scientology was a religion, and he responded without hesitation: “No, it’s a cult. And it’s definitely not Christian. They shouldn’t use the cross in their logo.” I look again at the symbol on the front of the building. It has a crucifix in the centre of it; what that signifies, I’m not sure.
I wander around to the rear of the CoS bulding. It’s deserted, but on my way up the alley staircase that runs between the church and the CoS, I’m noticed by two large men in dark blue suits and coats. The building is large, and I’m trying to work out how many rooms it must have, and looking at the windows, most of which are coated on the inside with an opaque material, even on the top floors. One of the two men has followed me round, and slowly approaches me as I stand at the mouth of an open (wide enough to fit a truck) dead-end that houses the rear entrance to the CoS behind a row of tidy bins. He asks me what I’m doing.
“I’m looking at the building,” I reply, “I’m covering the protest for student press.”
“Where’s your I.D?” he asks.
“We don’t issue student press I.D, all I have is my college I.D.”
“Can I see it?” he says, staring at me in a none-too friendly manner. At this point I lie and tell him that I don’t carry it with me if I’m not going to college. It’s in my wallet, but I’m worried. The protestors at the front have masks because they’re frightened of the Church of Scientology’s reputation in the U.S., and over here to some extent. Accusations abound that they hire detectives to investigate people that protest their events. That they follow people home, photograph them to identify and intimidate them, picket them, harass them, stalk them and file frivolous litigation to silence dissent and investigation. I’ve seen the John Sweeney investigation, some XenuTV footage, and enough documentation to worry me, but today I have come without a mask. Journalists don’t wear masks. My intention is to cover this event in an unbiased manner because it’s newsworthy. I’m not attacking them, so why should I hide? I have nothing to hide. There is a woman in front of the building filming the protestors and taking their pictures. My picture has already been taken. Still I refuse to show my I.D. I stand my ground, holding onto my notebook and pen, and ask this man if he’s a member of the CoS.
“No, I’m not a member,” he replies.
“Are you part of the security team?” I ask.
“I’m not security.”
So I ask him why he wants to see my I.D.
“I’ve been monitoring you,” he says. At this point in the conversation, my adrenaline kicks in. This is a dialogue that is both sinister and sounds like a bad novel.
“You’ve been monitoring me? Why?” I ask. He does not answer. I press further: “Who asks random people in the street for their I.D?”
He shrugs. “I do,” he says with a smile.
A woman in her late fifties passes us and breaks some of the tension. She walks down to the back door and tries the handle. Finding it locked, she starts looking into the windows. The man who is not security walks towards her. “I’m a parishioner,” she calls to him in an American accent. I suspect that he nods at her, but I can’t be sure. I spot my editor rounding the corner about 20 metres away. Someone opens the door from the inside and lets the woman into the building, and the security guard is back by my side. Tom reaches us just as we resume our conversation.
“Are you sure you’re not security? That woman seemed to think you were.”
“I’m not security,” he repeats. I ask him for his I.D. but he refuses. He evades my questions for a while, during which I ask him a few more times whether he’s a member of security, or in any way affiliated with the CoS. He denies everything, remains silent, says ‘No Comment’, or changes the subject.
I ask why he is here, monitoring me.
“We’re here for peace,” he says.
I introduce him to the Felix editor, and ask Tom to verify that we don’t issue press identification. He does, but the man who is not security does not seem impressed. I apologise if we’ve caused him offence, but that I understand if he has a job to guard the building that he has to be watchful, but that we’re on a public right of way. He doubts whether we have a right to be there. I take a few steps towards the alley that leads to the back door. He stands beside me, and tells me that the alley is not public property. He slowly takes a few steps towards me, standing to his full height (a few inches more than mine and about twice as wide), and stares at me. Intimidation is clearly his intent. I meet his gaze for a number of seconds. Again, the tension is broken by the approach of a neatly-presented man in a black suit, white shirt, and red tie. He rounds the corner and approaches us. At the same time, a few people exit the rear door. The man who is not security walks towards them and begins talking to another large man in a dark blue suit and coat.
“Can I help you?” asks the man in the red tie. I explain that I’m covering the protest for student press and ask if he’s a member of the church. He nods. I say that I’d like to talk to a member of the CoS about their thoughts on the protests, both here and around the world. He gives me a phone number and tells me to call back later in the week. I ask for his name so that I can tell the person that answers the phone who gave me the number. “Mark,” he replies, “Just ask for Mark.” I later find out that Mark is the head of Scientology PR in the UK. Before he goes to meet the people who have exited the building I pose a last question:
“Is that man a member of your security team?” I quickly ask, indicating the man who is not security.
Mark looks confused, but replies: “Yes.”
Tom and I walk back around to the front of the building, the chanting and chatter breaking the quiet of the back alley. A few minutes later, as we stand next to the police, the man who is not security walks swiftly around to the front of the CoS. He extracts an I.D. card from his pocket, shows it to the guarding police officer, then walks through the door and stands there, hands behind his back, behind a layer of plexiglass as a woman points a camera at the nearest protesters, recording their every action.
By now it’s about 12:30pm and the protest in Queen Victoria Street is at its peak. At least 500 people (both by police count and my own approximations) stand in a wall of masks and signs, chattering and cracking jokes at Scientology’s expense. A small conflict breaks out between two protesters and the police who are trying to move them away from the main entrance. The police push them, and they push back. The crowd sides with the police, shouting as one peaceful entity for the rogue members to fall back into the Anonymous crowd. “Fall Back!” they cry, “No loss of hit points!” “Calm down! Stay calm, stay cool!” and my personal favourite: “Let’s all have a nice cup of tea!” This was the resolute character of the protests: peaceful, with the smiling knife of humour as their weapon.
The two men return to the protest side of the road. They talked to me briefly about an encounter that they had at the rear of the building. They spoke of walking to the door of the rear entrance and protesting by that. Of security guards telling them that the alley was private property, then changing their minds when challenged, of being threatened until the police arrived, and then being filmed by police.
The protesters continue for the next half an hour, until someone makes an announcement that the protest will reconvene at 2pm outside the Tottenham Court Road branch of the CoS, its “Life Improvement Centre.” As I leave to follow the rapidly dispersing crowd to the final stop, I see protesters wandering around, picking up dropped flyers. “We don’t want to get done for littering,” they say. The last thing I see in Queen Victoria Street is a police officer taking down the flyers stuck to the windows of the building as he said that they were here to “protect a commercial business.” A statement of fact after the failure of Scientology to gain ‘charity’ status here in the UK.
In Tottenham Court Road the barrier enclosure that has now been erected for the protesters is already full. Some of the masks I recognise from Blackfriars, some I do not. Outside the Scientology building there stand two tables stacked with “Dianetics” books (the “scientific” basis for Scientology that L. Ron Hubbard published in 1950 on “The Modern Science of Mental Health”. A book which rejects psychology and accepted science) and offering the infamous “free stress tests.”
One of our reporters quickly asks for a stress test. He is asked some questions by another man in a black suit/red tie combination, who wears a perma-smile and strangely glazed eyes, whilst he grips the “E-meter” probes. He is then taken inside the building for a chat, after which he buys the “Dianetics” book. Our reporter is curious as to what is really contained in this ‘bible’ of Scientology.
Another member of our reporting team asks for a stress test. The nice man with the glazed eyes welcomes her, but immediately after she is taken into the building, she is stopped by a woman who appears to be in charge of the “Life Improvement Centre”. The woman labels her a “troublemaker,” and tells the man with glazed eyes to keep her at the front of the shop. He duly gives her the stress test, but after some hushed words between him and the woman in charge, she is asked to leave by the woman. “I can tell you for certain that these people are criminals and terrorists and are here to incite violence against Scientology,” she tells our reporter.
The “Life Improvement Centre” is next door to a casino and KFC (Leading to chants of “Chicken, Cult, Chicken, Cult” with comic pointing) on one side, and a Ryman’s on the other. The police are here in force, this time from the Metropolitan Police. I count at least 25-30 officers and 3 police vans. They herd the protesters into the barrier enclosure to prevent blocking the street, keeping them all on the opposite side of the street. We stand near the other press: Sky News, BBC London, ARTE (a French television company), and various freelance photographers. An older man with red hair issues a press release to the media. “We are working with police to minimise the negative impact of the terrorist activity,” he says. This is the second time that members of the church have referred to the protesters as terrorists in under ten minutes.
Two scientologists stand opposite the protesters, handing out pro-Dianetics and anti-psychiatry leaflets to passers-by. Leaflets that they call a “free newspaper.” The building is now locked down. Only members are allowed in, the public are barred after a few protesters were accidentally allowed inside. Mark has arrived, and stands on the outskirts, watching. He seems less cheerful than in our previous encounter.
The scientologists glance at the protesters with carefully unconcerned disdain. The protesters continue their chanting. They wave and dance and shout. They hold signs that say “Honk if you hate the Church of Scientology (sorry if we made you late!)” and cheer loudly when motorists beep, which they frequently do. They do not look like terrorists. The protestors chant “Rip it up!” to the passers-by who are handed leaflets. There are loud cheers when, as several pedestrians follow the request, the leaflets are torn up.
Before I leave, over five hours after the protest started, I speak to the man with the glazed eyes and explain that I’m student press covering the protests, and would like a tour inside the building. He asks for my name and phone number so that someone can call me later in the week to arrange it. As I go over to Tom to get a piece of paper, the man with glazed eyes is called over by the woman in charge, who speaks quietly to him. I go back and hand him the paper with my first name and the Felix office phone number. He tells me his name is Felix, I tell him that that’s the name of the student paper that I work for.
“That’s funny,” he said, with a still glazed and smiling expression, “I googled my name recently and read something that Felix published on Scientology a few weeks ago.”
