DIVA heads to the second annual protest filled to the brim with lesbians on a mission
WORDS AND IMAGES BY LARA IQBAL GILLING
I’m at the front of a long line, squinting in the sunshine as a stranger paints my cheek. He wipes the brush on his leg as he goes, leaving a palette of pink, white and orange. The crowd around us starts to move, but he stays until everyone around has a lesbian flag on their face.
The painter realises his friends have left, but he doesn’t seem worried. “Everyone’s a friend here,” he says, and gallops off into the mass of people.
The procession picks up speed. It’s London’s second Dyke March since it was re-founded by queer activists Shiv Dave and Stav Bee, after lying dormant for eleven years. The first Dyke March was held in Washington in 1993, to encourage visibility and activism amongst lesbians. 32 years later, its aim remains the same. We walk past Trafalgar Square calling for trans rights and a free Palestine.
“No borders, no nations, trans liberation! From the river to the sea!”
Marchers spin their signs, the paint bright under the blue sky. The one in front of me proclaims: “NO DYKE IS FREE UNTIL WE ARE ALL FREE” on cardboard ripped from a Birra Moretti box.
People chat in between chants, periodically wiping sweat from their upper lips. It’s 31 degrees and the air is hot with shouts and bodies. Already, painted cheeks are smudged with suncream. Black tops and shorts have been artfully chosen to hide sweat patches.
A wave of phones shoot up to photograph the rainbow flag hanging off the Institute of Directors. Generally, though, this is a pretty phone-free event. Everyone seems keen to be present.
After an hour and a half of walking, the chants get silly. “Every woman is a lesbian at heart!” sings one group. The marchers dissolve into giggles.
We have received beeps and cheers from onlookers throughout – whether friendly or mocking it’s sometimes hard to tell. As we reach Hyde Park, a spectator runs from the pavement to join us.
People scatter as we enter the park. “Don’t be scared, we’re only lesbians!” someone yells. The sun goes in, lifting the cloud of heat.
The scene transforms into some kind of sapphic picnic – clumps of people sit chatting, calmer under the sweet relief of rain. The drops are sporadic but comfortingly cold on my hot shoulders.
The speeches start. The mic squeaks, and a wince ripples through the crowd. It’s quickly replaced by a megaphone. “This is more my style,” grins the first speaker. “Let this dyke march re-radicalise your hearts, your minds and your souls.” Rapturous applause.
“We gather to honour our outrageously beautiful community,” says Sym, a London-based tattoo artist. It’s true: smiles abound and outfits are striking. One person is dressed in only black shorts and white paint, though it’s become streaky and flaking. Others wear leather vests over bare chests, harnesses and pink mesh bras. It might be the best-dressed protest all year.
Now the upbeat energy has faded. Everyone looks comfortable, lolling on the grass and leaning on each other. Seeing so many loud and unafraid butch lesbians feels special – no nerves about using the women’s toilets, surrounded by people who understand. It reminds me to spend more time in queer spaces. There is nothing like not being on high alert.
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