All photos © Lydia Bruce
What makes a protest successful? Is it the noise, the numbers, or the ability to change minds? I’ve joined marches that felt electric, passionate, principled, full of conviction – and others that left me wondering whether anyone beyond the crowd was really listening. Protest is one of the purest forms of public expression. But lately, I’ve begun to wonder whether all protests achieve what they set out to.
On 1 October last year, I joined Fossil Free London for a protest in solidarity with a group called Women Against the Far Right. The event brought together environmental activists, feminist groups, and students determined to resist the rising normalisation of far-right rhetoric. The energy was infectious: placards painted by hand, chants ringing through the air; the kind of shared purpose that briefly makes you believe that change is really possible.
Among the speakers were a group of students from the University of the Arts London’s Intersectional Feminist Society: articulate, confident, and clearly deeply informed. They spoke passionately about structural inequality and the ways in which misogyny intersects with capitalism, race, and climate justice. Their arguments were smart and politically sound. Just the kind of analysis you might hear in a university seminar.
But as I listened, I began to notice something that bothered me. The language they used, words like intersectionality, systemic patriarchy, colonial hierarchies, was precise, but also highly academic. As an English Literature student, I understood the vocabulary. Yet I couldn’t help thinking how it might sound to someone walking past, someone sympathetic, perhaps, but unfamiliar with feminist theory or activist jargon. Would they grasp what these speakers were trying to say, or tune out at the first unfamiliar phrase?
It made me question whether some protests unintentionally alienate the very people they hope to reach. Protest, after all, is a form of public communication. It isn’t meant to be an echo chamber of shared terminology, but a bridge between conviction and understanding. The most successful movements in history, from civil rights to suffrage, translated complex ideas into language that resonated emotionally and universally. “Votes for Women.”, “I Am a Man.” Those slogans didn’t require a degree to understand; they struck at the core of what it means to be human.
In contrast, today’s protest culture can sometimes feel linguistically gated, accessible only to those already fluent in its vocabulary. The risk is that the message never travels beyond the circle of the already convinced.
And yet, moments later, I saw the opposite extreme: a counter-protest that used intimidation, not intellect, to make its point. Across the road stood a group calling themselves The Pink Ladies, a name that sounded harmless, even cheerful, until you realised that most of its members were middle-aged men waving anti-feminist signs.
One of them approached us with a camera, announcing he wanted to “interview” protesters. What followed wasn’t dialogue but performance: he shouted over people, mocked their answers, and loomed physically close as if daring someone to react. His questions were traps, his tone dripping with sarcasm. It was clear he hadn’t come to understand, only to humiliate.
It was a small, unpleasant moment, but it spoke volumes. This man believed he was defending free speech, yet his tactics achieved the opposite. By using fear and ridicule, he didn’t strengthen his side, he made it look cruel and unserious. Watching him, I realised how easily anger and aggression can hollow out a cause, turning conviction into spectacle.
Both encounters, the inaccessible academicism of one group and the intimidation tactics of another, revealed something similar: the danger of losing sight of communication. Whether through elitism or hostility, a protest that stops listening also stops persuading.
I started thinking about why more people don’t protest at all. Many of my friends care deeply about issues like climate change, inequality, and human rights, but rarely show up at demonstrations. When I ask why, the answers repeat themselves: “I wouldn’t know what to say.” “It feels too political for me.” “I’d be scared of confrontation.” There’s a sense that protests belong to a particular kind of person: the outspoken activist, the well-read radical, the one who already knows how to chant in rhythm. I asked my friend Frankie, a regular at these protests and member of Fossil Free London, who I’d attended this specific event with, what he thought about the language used in protests, and he responded that, “what we’re arguing for is accessibility for everyone. We want to be unifying, so our language needs to be unifying, not unintelligible. Simple language is so effective, and I think people often lose sight of that in favour of sounding intelligent.”
But if protest is meant to represent the people, shouldn’t it feel open to everyone? The reality is that protests can be intimidating spaces, whether because of aggressive opposition, or simply the hyper-specific language used by some movements. Both can make outsiders feel unwelcome.
Protest only works when it brings people together. History’s most transformative movements succeeded not because they were loudest, but because they were inclusive. They found ways to turn anger into empathy, theory into story, slogans into solidarity.
None of this is to say that protest should be comfortable. Change never is. Disruption, by definition, unsettles the status quo, and that discomfort is part of its power. But there’s a difference between discomfort and alienation. The goal shouldn’t be to frighten or confuse people into silence, but to invite them into understanding.
When I think back to that day, the chants, the speeches, the arguments on the sidelines, I realise it was a perfect microcosm of modern activism. There was so much passion, so much urgency, but also so much noise. The irony is that everyone there, from the feminist speakers to the Pink Ladies, believed they were fighting for truth. Yet both sides, in different ways, failed to truly communicate it.
Perhaps that’s the question we should be asking: not just what makes a protest powerful, but what makes it persuasive. A protest that speaks in accessible language, grounded in empathy rather than superiority, can reach people who didn’t know they cared until that moment. A protest that shouts or shames only deepens division.
Real change comes from conversation, not confrontation. And conversation, like protest, only works when both sides can hear each other.
Because in the end, protest shouldn’t be about who can shout the loudest – but who can make people listen.
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