The Isle of Dogs is quite an interesting area of London, and one steeped in history. I find the fact that, forty years or so ago, that area was just a wasteland of dying, crumbling old docks, but is now an area that can’t help but remind you of Manhattan or even Dubai, fascinates me. I sometimes like going over there, just to check out what is new. I hadn’t been there for a while though, so yesterday morning I trundled across to Lewisham before getting the DLR up to Island Gardens. I assumed I’d then have a nice leisurely roll up through the peninsula, checking out the docks and skyscrapers, before perhaps popping into The Grapes.

Oh, how wrong I was! It had started reasonably well, and I had almost made it to the impressive indoor shopping arcade, when all of a sudden I began to spot flags bearing the red cross of St. George flying from lamp posts. I then began to hear shouting. Naturally this aroused my curiosity, so I followed the noise to see what all the commotion was about.

You may have heard on the national news about all the anti-migrant protests going on outside various hotels around the country. I, however, had forgotten that one of them was taking place at Canary Wharf, and I had trundled straight into the middle of it. Naturally, my political side instantly kicked in: overcoming my almost uncontainable urge to ram straight into the line of anti-migrant numbsculls, I crossed the road and went to join the far larger, louder contingent of pro-migrant counterprotesters.

Not that I want to resort to stereotyping or generalisation, but the contrast between the two groups of people could barely have been more distinct: whereas those opposed to the idea that we should welcome those coming here were a collection of a dozen scrawny flag-waving white men occasionally shouting incoherent xenophobic slogans, on the other side of the road were a group of at least forty men and women of all kinds of ethnicities and nationalities. The latter group was well organised with a public address system, through which various people were giving speeches. One I heard was about the importance of immigration to learning support, and how immigrants are vital in helping students with special needs to learn – something I couldn’t help feeling extremely touched by.

Naturally I started to mingle with the group, talking to various people. One man I spoke to even bought me a cup of coffee and helped me drink it; I still feel rather guilty that I didn’t get his contact details or offer to pay for it. In stark contrast to the clearly quite uneducated nationalists opposite, they were a diverse group of well informed, articulate people, extremely passionate about a vast array of things. It was obvious that they were there because they didn’t want the country or it’s politics to be represented by the tragically misguided hate-spewers opposite. They, like me, want the country to be open, tolerant and welcoming; not one which turns it’s back on people coming here in search of refuge, or a dystopia where anyone who isn’t white, straight or able-bodied enough is openly persecuted.

I must have got there towards the end of the event, because within an hour or so it began to break up. People began heading through the shopping mall towards the bus stop, still shouting periodically as they went. I must say, though, that if anything at this points the contrast between the two groups became even more clear: one was patient and orderly, the other increasingly antagonistic and vitriolic. As the two sets of people at last mingled together at the bus stop, I was fascinated by the distinction. It was even apparent in the very vocabulary they used, leading me to wonder whether this fracturing of society boils down to education. Again, I don’t want to stoop to stereotype, but whereas those in favouring of welcoming migrants and refugees were obviously well informed and many if not most probably had degrees, I strongly suspect those opposed were more likely to have been dismissed by the education system: they were far less articulate, misusing words. Yet they were also far angrier and more vitriolic, to thee extent that one or two even frightened me. They were clearly a group of extremely frustrated, angry men, forgotten by the twenty-first century metropolis around them, misdirecting their frustrations onto those they misguidedly perceive as incomers coming here to take what they think should be theirs. Such people deserve our compassion and pity more than anything. Interestingly, though, I found one exception in a guy talking into a camera, using fairly sophisticated language and ideas, about how ‘the right’ were being misrepresented as a bunch of thugs, and how their beliefs are actually rooted in some sort of valid logical argument. Naturally I was interested and tried to talk to him, but was unable to catch his attention. Arrogantly, perhaps, part of me longed to talk sense into him and correct him; yet I was also interested in finding out a bit more about where he was coming from politically.

My reflections were, however, altogether dashed at the very end of the event: as people were getting onto various busses, I heard one scrawny, bald, thuggish man from the nationalist group cry loudly in a thick East London accent “Don’t lick any windows!” I was naturally instantly offended; it was as hurtful to me as a racial slur, and I reported it to a group of nearby police officers. The fact that such language is being used today is frankly sickening, and to be honest tells us all we need to know about the thugs so opposed to welcoming immigrants. People can try all they like to give it a veneer of respectability, I can try to justify it as socioeducational disenfranchisement or whatever until the cows come home; at the end of the day it boils down to tribalism, xenophobia, and all the gut reactions humanity should be ashamed of.

After that, there was nothing for me to do but make my way home. So much for my nice, quiet trundle.