It's Still Life

Why Were the Protesters Mostly 55 and Older?

Last weekend’s UK marches were filled not with students or twenty-somethings, but with people aged 55 and up.

Why?

It’s a question that cuts to the marrow of generational difference. Those raised in the 1950s and ’60s carry protest in their bones — rebellion was the air we breathed. It was woven into youth culture, into the music, the streets, the headlines. To stand against war and injustice wasn’t just permitted; it was expected.

Today’s young people are no less compassionate or aware. But they live under a different sky — one shaped by surveillance, economic instability, online visibility, and a thousand simultaneous crises that splinter their focus and sap their energy.

So when the streets filled last weekend, it was the silver-haired who came. Not because the young don’t care — they do — but because the elders have carried the habit of defiance all their lives. We’ve long since lost any fear of bosses, blacklists, or broken reputations. We know, from decades of history, that silence is treason.

This is my generation — childhood in the 1950s/60s, young adulthood in the 1960s/70s. We came of age at the crossroads of postwar optimism and Cold War dread. We were taught to duck under our desks in case of nuclear attack (thank you, Mr. Khrushchev) and lived with the knowledge that the world could end at any moment.

That tension gave us urgency. Civil rights, feminism, Vietnam, decolonisation — everywhere we looked, systems were cracking, and we learned that collective action could force change. Protest wasn’t fringe; it was foundational. Rebellion wasn’t just permitted — it was identity. Music, books, film — all affirmed it. We internalised the belief that if the world is wrong, we must stand against it.

Young people today are just as principled, but their context is different.

They were raised in a culture of hyper-surveillance and digital life. Every action is tracked, judged, and stored. The cost of dissent is immediate and personal — jobs lost, reputations destroyed, safety compromised. Our generation faced police batons and firehoses; theirs face facial recognition, internet mobs, and trolls. Different threats, but no less frightening.

Activism today is often performative — platforms reward statements over sustained action. Marching takes more effort than posting, and the dopamine hit of “I’ve said something” can replace the long endurance that true protest requires.

Then there’s economic precarity. Young people today often work insecure jobs, face impossible rents, and carry crushing student debt. Risking arrest or a lost shift isn’t a choice many can afford. In the ’60s, rebellion still carried risk, but the ground beneath us was more stable — housing, jobs, and education were within reach.

There’s also the burden of fragmented attention. My generation had singular, galvanising causes: Vietnam, nuclear disarmament, apartheid. Today’s youth are pulled in every direction: climate collapse, war, racism, gender politics, AI, inequality — each urgent, all overwhelming.

So yes, last weekend, it was the elders who filled the streets — and not because they’re relics of the past. It’s a freedom of their life stage. Retirees don’t fear job loss or disciplinary hearings. They have time, perspective, and a lifetime of context. For many of us, Gaza is not a new outrage — it’s part of the same arc of injustice we’ve marched against for decades.

We no longer march out of hope in politicians. We march to bear witness.

Because for us, rebellion was normalized. It shaped who we are. And while today’s youth may rebel differently — more quietly, more personally, more inwardly — their defiance is still real. It blooms in other ways. But the battlefield has shifted. The cost is higher. And the fatigue is deeper.

In short: I, child of the 50s and 60s, grew up with rebellion as a cultural current. Today’s young adults grow up with rebellion as a risk-laden choice in a hyperconnected world. Both care. Both fight. But the terrain has changed.

Children of the Sixties

We were born to mushroom clouds
and lullabies sung through teeth of fear,
cradled by mothers who’d counted rations
and fathers who still dreamed in trenches.

We learned early: rebellion was oxygen,
the world could burn overnight.
So when the streets filled with fire,
we walked straight into it —
barefoot, chanting,
carrying banners like bread.

Now the years weigh silver in our hair,
and still we march — spirits sharpened
by every broken promise,
every child’s cry that rhymes
with Vietnam,
with Belfast,
with Soweto,
with Gaza.

The young, our children, are tethered —
chained by debts, by algorithms,
by a world that punishes
even the first breath of dissent.
Their rebellions bloom like secret gardens,
quiet as moth-wings,
brilliant as unspoken prayers.

But we —
we are children of the sixties,
still the storm’s eldest kin.
We know the chant, the banner, the step.
We know that silence was never us.

And until our bones refuse,
we will walk,
bearing witness,
singing against the roar of dark —
a chorus whose throats never forget
how to burn.

We march still —
not as fading echoes,
but as the slow detonation
that refuses to be silenced.

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Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.