There are plenty of mainstream news stories that spark debates here in Chicago. And then there are the niche issues that small groups of people feel passionate about and protest to bring attention to them (and hopefully media coverage).

My city apartment sits in the perfect spot to catch a large majority of these protests. Some groups gather at the small Jane Byrne Park in front of the Water Tower (two blocks from me) to protest causes such as animal cruelty, a Tibetan uprising, Russian war crimes. Larger ones usually meet in the Federal Plaza, Daley Plaza, or Wrigley Square. Other demonstrations are targeted at specific businesses: anti-fur at Louis Vuitton or fossil fuels at Chase Bank.

Protesters march up and down Michigan. They march around the Loop

But most recently, the October 7th attack on Israel has dominated the streets in Chicago and throughout the world. The very next day, a crowd of hundreds showed up at the Israeli Consulate in Chicago’s West Loop. I hadn’t attended a protest in a while – it had been a quiet couple of months. But I made sure both of my cameras were fully charged, the SD cards were in place (yes, I have actually forgotten to replace an SD card that was still plugged into my laptop), and walked the 45 minutes to the Consulate.

Read more: Photographing the Turmoil: Palestinian Rallies

I was nervous. This was before all the photos and videos surfaced from across the world of thousands, tens of thousands, and even hundreds of thousands marching and chanting “From the River to the Sea.” So I didn’t know what to expect. Plus, I had never been to this location before. I’m more comfortable when at a place where other protests have taken place because I know where to get the best shots, where the action is most likely to occur, and where the march will start and end. But here, I was going in blind.

When I arrived, maybe a dozen people were gathered across the street from the Consulate, all holding signs and chatting amongst themselves. I walked right through them but didn’t yet feel comfortable taking photos. I crossed to the other side of the street where a handful of cops were keeping an eye on things. Parked cars lined the curb, so It was difficult to see, let alone get a good shot of, the protesters from there. Still uncomfortable, I ended up leaving the area, walking down the street to the river, and taking some photos of the Civic Opera House while I built up the nerve to go back. Soon, the fear of missing out was too much to resist, and I headed back. By then, many more protesters as well as police had shown up. The police were now setting up barricades in front of the Consulate. I tentatively found a spot behind the barricade, lifted my zoom lens, and struggled to take a few, terrible, shots.

Then I noticed that a number of photographers had moved into the street and surrounded the parked cars. That gave me the courage to do the same. So I found myself dodging cars speeding down the street trying to get to the other side and get some photos. It didn’t take long for the protesters, whose numbers were swelling, to spill out into the street too. And as much as the police tried to keep them limited to the sidewalk, they continually lost ground until ultimately the protesters, now in the hundreds, took over the street.

As a side note, at a smaller protest on my street, I ran into the policeman who I had seen previously at the abortion protests, and when things got heated, he seemed to be in charge of quelling the tensions. I thanked him for what a good job he does. I have seen him handle some really tense situations. He was thankful but also shrugged, humbly claiming that he was just doing his job. We chatted for a bit, and one thing he revealed is that Chicago Police had changed their policy on protests – they now tend to be less confrontational. So if a protest spills onto the street, the police allow it. 

“It’s safer to just redirect traffic around the block than to try to keep the protesters out of the street,” he explained.

So it was no surprise to see this protest take over the street as well. 

I continued to struggle to get more comfortable and out of my head. Suddenly, I sensed commotion behind me. Protesters were swarming a woman. Quickly, a couple of cops dragged her away and behind the barriers across the street. I did manage to get one photo of the police yelling at her and of her sign. I still have not done a very good job of catching confrontations like that. Inevitably, those photos are either terribly out of focus or someone’s head has popped into the shot. She was a middle-aged woman, and her sign read, “Stop Hamas from Raping Israeli Women.” She was the one and only counter protester that day (and so far that I have seen at any of the Palestinian rallies). And she stood alone across the street with her sign the entire time.

By now I had gotten my sea legs, so to speak. And I was soon weaving my way through the crowd, snapping pictures as if I belonged there. 

After about an hour, the protesters began their march into the Loop. A red pickup truck led the way. In the bed of the truck were a few men holding Palestinian flags, a huge speaker, and a man chanting on a microphone. On the top of the truck cabin was a man standing tall and waving one, sometimes two, flags.

I learned early on that I like to be out in front of the march. This is often where you find the media – the news cameras, a reporter live on air, and the professional photographers. I laugh when I stop to look at myself. There I am, racing around, dodging photographers and cops, running backwards, climbing planters, and placing myself in the middle of the street to get the best shots of the leaders.

I found my spot at the front, and bike cops lined the curbs on both sides of the street. I ran alongside them, head on a swivel. At one point, I saw that we were coming up to the underpass for the “L.” I positioned myself so that I could get a photo of the man on top of the truck waving the flag as they were going under the tracks. That would be a great shot, I thought.

I got myself in position and waited for the picture I wanted. Just then, the man I had my camera aimed at looked down at me and smiled. My stomach clenched. I framed the photo. I pushed the shutter release. I dropped the camera and gave the man a smile and a thumbs up. Then the truck moved on. I froze. 

That moment reverberated through my bones. I attend these protests not as an ally or a counter protester, but simply to capture them as best I can. I also am strengthening my creative muscle as I scan the landscape looking for interesting and unusual color combinations, shapes, contrasts, expressions, people, stories, etc. I also appreciate seeing what is happening firsthand rather than having the event filtered through the wrong-every-single-time media.

Needless to say I was horrified by what happened in Israel on October 7. In fact, that is a gross understatement. As with most people, the evil committed was beyond human comprehension. I assumed that the people who would show up at this protest less than 24 hours later would not only be vehemently anti-Israel, but I assumed also anti-Jew. I expected cheers for the death of those Jews in Israel. There had been no time yet to think about what led up to this or to what would come next. So yes, I was nervous.

But what I didn’t expect and didn’t prepare for, especially in my role as a disconnected, invisible observer, was that I would experience human moments. A connection. And I couldn’t shake it off.

That would be the last rally held at the Israeli consulate. The next few started at Congress Plaza and marched up and down Michigan Avenue. I scoured my sources to find a pro-Israel rally somewhere in the city, but I couldn’t find anything. I later read that there was one at a synagogue out in the suburbs that was attended by Governor Pritzker. Throughout the city, I have never seen a single Israeli flag, any posters, or graffiti. Last week, however, I finally saw some of the flyers featuring kidnapped Israelis posted near my apartment. Within two days, they had been torn down, only the corners where the tape was hard to remove remained. 

After a couple of weeks, I finally read about an Israeli rally to be held at the Federal Plaza. As I walked down to the spot, my heart pounded. There had been no pushback against the Palestinian rallies, but I knew this one could get heated. In fact, I assumed that the reason there was no support shown for Israel in the city was for fear of safety. As I got about a block away from the plaza, I could see two bicycle cops down the road. I knew immediately that something was wrong. A rally like this would require dozens if not hundreds of cops. 

When I got closer, flyers posted on poles surrounding the plaza were covered with a red CANCELED stamp. A few cars circled the block with Palestinian flags waving out the windows. A few people wandered around confused. And a group of skateboarders raced back and forth practicing all kinds of tricks. I can only guess the organizers were concerned about safety. I haven’t seen any announcements of a similar rally since.

At a Palestinian march a couple of weeks ago, people first gathered at the Chicago River along Wacker Drive. The march was advertised as moving north on Michigan, so when the police closed the Michigan Ave bridge, I made the decision to move to the north side. For over an hour, I stood across the river from the rally and the speeches, hoping that I made the right decision and itching to get all of the photos I was now missing. 

The police presence on my side was building and building. Dozens of bike cops, multiple unmarked vehicles of higher-ups, and five mounted police. Dump trucks blocked the bridge and traffic was stopped on Michigan in both directions.

I asked a number of cops which way the march was headed, and not a single one knew. “We’ll see,” was the most common answer. That surprised me. I figured the march had at least been coordinated with police, especially since streets would need to be shut down. “We’re waiting for them to let us know.”

So I waited. As time passed, the air electrified. As police descended, the tension increased. As the crowd on the other side of the river grew, and the chanting got louder, we anxiously waited to see what would happen. It was almost more nerve-wracking to be watching from afar than to be in the middle of things.

The most surreal part was the contrast that I was immersed in. On my side of the river, brides and their bridal parties lined up along the river for their wedding photos as if nothing was going on. Amongst them was a street performer playing guitar and singing, “I’ve got sunshine, on a cloudy day.” But on the other side of the river, thousands were chanting “Resistance is justified – when people are occupied” and “Biden Biden you can’t hide – we charge you with genocide!”

Turned out, I guessed wrong. The group headed south down Michigan instead.

Since the bridge was closed, I had to race down the steps to cross the Michigan Ave bridge on the lower level – a scary proposition itself. Another contrast! The shiny decorations, the lavish landscaping, the storefronts, and the the picturesque view of the Chicago River above as opposed to the dirty, grimy, dark, graffiti-covered, tent-filled underworld thirty feet below.

As I mentioned earlier, I am most comfortable up in the front of these marches, so I spent the next five or six blocks working my way up to the front. As the group passed Starbucks, someone with a megaphone accused the company of supporting Israel. People turned to the coffee shop to yell “Shame, shame, shame!” Inside, employees quickly locked the doors. But that was it – the group quickly moved on.

Another incident that occurred that day was when we heard a loud bang, followed by expanding smoke and a burning smell. I shrugged my shoulders at that. I’ve seen that before. But then came repeated booms. Fireworks? Gunshots? Smoke bombs? They continued and were only about a block in front of me. The march stopped moving forward. But the chants continued as if nothing had happened. I wasn’t nervous as much as curious. Also, my instincts wished I was closer (who am I??).

Soon, the crowd moved along, and nothing else of note occurred. It wasn’t until I got on social media the next day that I found out what happened. The group of the Black Hebrew Israelites that is regularly stationed outside of Millennium Park on any given weekend was the catalyst. One of the previous times the Palestinian supporters marched down Michigan, a scuffle broke out between the two groups. I did happen to be standing there for that. And as typical for me, my photos of that interchange did not come out at all. 

But on this day, apparently the Black Hebrew Israelites were prepared. They were on the other side of the street, so I couldn’t see anything. But videos online show the groups throwing things at each other and using flag poles as weapons. I can’t figure out who was throwing the fireworks or smoke bombs or whatever was being thrown. And no surprise that I cannot find anything in the media about it either.

I do feel like I need to add a note here that a group of people wearing yellow safety vests is always present at these gatherings. They keep the group contained to the rallying location. They organize the marchers, making sure that the vehicle carrying the megaphone is in front, followed by the people carrying the banners. Everyone else is to stay behind the banners. They dictate the speed of the march. They determine which direction it moves (left at the corner, straight at the intersection). But most importantly, they reign in the dozens of young men, the Palestinian keffiyeh wrapped around their heads so that only their eyes are visible (or those dressed in black bloc) and waving the Palestinian flag. These men are filled with testosterone, adrenaline, and rage. They race out in front, sometimes running ahead of the group, triggering cops to react. They climb on top of bus stops, up scaffolding, onto traffic lights. They shake the doors of the locked Starbucks. They tag walls, statues, bus stops, and sidewalks with the words “Free Palestine.” They challenge the police.

There are a few of what I want to call “elders” who seem to be tasked with managing these young men. And I have to say, it is remarkable to watch them and their ability to de-escalate and get things back under control. A few stern words coming from one older man that I saw at every one of these, and the young men fall into line. He jumped in between these men and the Black Hebrew Israelites, ensuring nothing more than words were thrown. They coordinate with police. These protests would not be possible without those men keeping a lighted fuse from burning all the way down in a crowd of thousands. I have the utmost respect for them, for I am sure that they understand that should this all break down, the messaging is lost.

I attended the most recent protest this past weekend, held at the Water Tower and followed by a march down Michigan Avenue. And a few things I want to point out. For one, these marches in Chicago don’t seem to have nearly the agitation as those that I am seeing on social media, particularly in New York City or in London. Secondly, the crowds are made up of all ages. The young people, many of whom are probably students and organizers, tend to be in the front holding the banners or refusing to follow the directions and running around in front and up on bus stops. But behind them are people of all ages. Infants, toddlers, teenagers, adults, elderly, many who are there together as families.

Finally, I had an interesting experience as I was walking home from this rally. An older Palestinian gentleman’s car was parked right off MIchigan Ave. HIs portable speaker blared (Palestinian?) music, and he stood leaning against the passenger side door. As I walked by, he called out, “Thank you! Thank you for your support.” I stopped and told him “Of course.” He signaled for me to stop – he had something he wanted to say – and he turned off the music. He spoke in heavily accented, broken English, but the gist of what he wanted to tell me was the following.

He wanted me to know that I am a good person. Allah had brought us together so that we would have this conversation, so that we would connect. He wanted me to understand that there are innocents being killed in Gaza but that they will be in heaven, because they are innocent. And we all need to stand up for these innocents. He thanked me over and over again, stressing the goodness he sees in me and the importance of us making a connection like this. Because it is all about connecting with each other.

I was looking into the eyes of someone who could be my father, my kids’ grandfather. He was full of light and of love. He was grateful but he was saddened at the killing. And he wanted to make a connection with me at that moment.

I can’t say that I have been at these protests because I support the Palestinian point of view. I have struggled with this issue for decades, completely confused about who, historically, the good guys are and who the bad guys are. Again, absolutely do not be confused about the objective fact that those who participated in the October 7th attack on Israel are evil incarnate. I am referring to the bigger picture here. I have sought books, articles, videos, and even friends, asking them to explain their views. But I always leave more confused. Both sides of this issue believe they have been wronged. No, that word is too weak. Both sides feel that they have been persecuted. And slaughtered. No one will convince either side that this is not true.

I know, I know. Hamas is a terrorist group. Obviously. That isn’t what I am talking about. I am talking about the people. I know, I know. The Palestinians voted for Hamas to run their government. Well, I didn’t vote for Biden. And I refuse to be held responsible for what happened in Afghanistan under his leadership during our abandonment of that country. I refuse to be held responsible for what is happening at our border during his presidency. I didn’t vote for any of it. Plus, from what I understand, the last election in Gaza was in 2006. How many today would support Hamas? And from what I understand, 50% of the population is made up of children, none of whom voted for any of this either. 

Protests like these take a lot out of me. They are emotional. My adrenaline is pumping. My head is on a swivel, hyper aware. And I learn something every time. I learn about topics I know nothing about. I learn the arguments on both sides of a current issue. I learn about passion and conviction. I learn about people and human nature. Believe me, it isn’t always good. But sometimes it is downright inspiring.

And sometimes, I make a connection.

But it’s real. It’s life. It’s living.

So until the next demonstration! (and why do I have a feeling that this turmoil is only going to increase over the next year…?)

Oh, and here are all of the photos I’ve taken of the Palestinian rallies: Part 1 and Part 2. For other posts on protests, HERE is info on the abortion protests in Chicago, and HERE is a post on my visit to Washington DC during an anti-war protest.

---

Recently released!

Captain and the Greyhounds by Vickie Oddino

Available on Amazon