Pro-Palestine rallies are accused of sowing hate. This is the weekly reality

When the ceasefire between Israel and Hamas finally took effect last month, like many, I received the news with fragile hope and significant doubt.

Even with this scepticism that the deal would hold, I felt compelled to mark the moment at the place that is now inextricably tied to the conflict for myself and thousands of other Melburnians – the State Library of Victoria. It’s a location where, every week since October 7, 2023, people from across the city and from all walks of life have congregated to protest the murder of Palestinian civilians.

Melburnians have gathered outside the State Library for 15 months to protest in support of Palestine.Credit: AAP

Much has been written about these protests, which are too often misrepresented in bad faith, with the actions of a handful of individuals implied to be those of tens of thousands.

Last month, Victorian Premier Jacinta Allan called for the end of the weekly event, positioning it as a space of community division that was intimidating Australian Jews, saying, “There is hurt on both sides … If they can find a space for a ceasefire in the Middle East, surely we can find a space for these protests to come to an end in Melbourne.”

Opposition Leader Brad Battin went further in an interview on 3AW, suggesting the protests were a nuisance, and urged the reinstatement of laws that would allow police to clear out demonstrators.

For me, the protests have provided an opportunity to do something about the sense of helplessness that felt like it might engulf me.

For over 15 months, people who show up to these rallies have performed a ritual of gathering, listening, walking and yelling together. In that time, a lot has changed, and also, nothing has changed. We witness previously unimaginable horrors through our phone screens and say: “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.” Then we wake the next day and see something new and unimaginable and correct ourselves: “Oh no, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

We call politicians and hear the phone ring out. We send emails that are never answered. We start conversations that never get easier. And the whole time we watch the number of reported deaths rise and rise. Then Sunday comes, and we collect at the library because what else is there to do?

I’ve joined this crowd many times, noting it would always swell after especially horrific attacks, and slim in burning sun or pouring rain. Standing on those familiar steps – I’m ashamed to admit more often in the sun than the rain – I find myself asking the same question: Why am I here? Yes, to listen to the stories of people directly impacted – a family’s experience of the Nakba, doctors and nurses talking about working in bombed out hospitals. But what, if anything, do I think this will achieve?

Initially, I made my way to the library because I was looking for a space to process feelings that seemed like they couldn’t be contained by the walls of my home. I wanted to stand with other people who felt this weight. That first time, I went alone and despite my physical solitude, I found an instant point of connection.

Premier Jacinta Allan has called for the end of the weekly protest in support of Palestine.Credit: Luis Enrique Ascui

Over time, the protests became a place of retreat where we could collectively mourn and hold feelings that felt too colossal for our small lives.

Then, they became a space for rage. I was tired of writing invisible emails and waiting on unanswered calls. At least, I told myself, at a protest my fury couldn’t be ignored. On the street I yelled, disrupted quiet afternoons, filled the screen and news reports. Together, we could force people to witness.

Around this time, I became aware of existing in two realities. Social media would show me a father carrying the headless body of their child, then scroll on to the interior of a yoga studio. I’d read a report of a brother collecting their siblings’ remains in a shopping bag, gaze up and answer my mother’s question about holiday plans. While pulling my daughter’s soft arms through her water wings at the pool a memory would flash: mothers in Gaza write their children’s names on their limbs before bed in case they’re torn apart by bombs in the night.

Sundays were the only time when these split worlds converged. I’d glance at the face of a stranger and know they were seeing what I was seeing, and they couldn’t pretend it was just another week. That’s when the protests became a space for connection.

On the train into the city after the ceasefire was announced, I saw fewer protesters than a year ago. But a girl in a similar T-shirt caught my eye and smiled. Two primary school-aged sisters were threading through the crowd selling homemade biscuits to raise money for children in Gaza. I ran into an acquaintance, and we spoke about our kids and our week and our confusion over whether it was a day of celebration or not.

For over a year, I’ve asked myself: Why am I here? To mourn, rage, celebrate, pray, be witnessed, to maybe be part of some change?

It’s certainly not to spread hate and division, as some suggest, or to condemn an entire community for the actions of the Netanyahu government. It’s because I want the misery to stop.

The premier seems to think these events only existed to call for a ceasefire and now that one is (tentatively) in place, they no longer have a role. But this ignores the horror, pain and disillusionment that persists, as well as the hundreds of Palestinians who have been killed and wounded by Israeli attacks since the announcement of the ceasefire agreement.

Others might think they’re sure of my intentions, but I’m still not. All I know is I will keep coming for the same reason I did on that first afternoon: to know I am not alone, in my grief, anger or slim hope.

Wendy Syfret is a freelance writer and author based in Melbourne.

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