My life is beautiful. Overwhelmingly so. To the point that I am really struggling to keep up with its pace.

On any given weekend here in London — and on plenty of weekdays too — I live through so many meaningful moments that it feels impossible to remember them all. Let alone to tell the story behind each one.

Still, I need to do it. Because I am a writer.

What it means to be a writer.

And for me, a writer is not someone who publishes books and gets paid for it — that would be a nice bonus, but it’s not what makes someone a writer.

Similarly, a writer doesn’t really write to be read — that, too, is a nice bonus, but you can’t really control that outcome, especially today, in the era of the Algorithm Empire.

No: being a writer means feeling the unavoidable urge to sit down at your desk and put into words everything you live through, because it is only in this way — by channelling everything that happens to you into one coherent narrative — that your life really makes sense to you.

If this is how you feel and operate, then congratulations: you are a writer.

On being a writer in a capitalist society.

At the same time, I don’t have time to write like a professional writer.

I’m talking about those writers who have a literary agent, a few bestsellers to their name, and a publisher who pays them an advance to work on their books, so they can use that money to pay the bills, refill the fridge, and go places — to have a life, in short.

Unfortunately, I’m still a Mister Nobody in the writing industry. And that’s why I’m still working my 9-to-5 to afford my life.

And yet, I’ve recently realised that you can’t really be both: a loyal liegeman of capitalism — and an artist who fights against it. You cannot live on the threshold between capitalist respectability and anti-capitalist rage. You need to pick a side.

And that’s exactly what I going to do in a few weeks/months.

A thousand anti-genocide activists in trouble.

I learned this hard truth the hard way in February, when a friend of mine got fired for a post against Israel. His experience is part of a wider pattern of repression against Palestine solidarity in the UK — the ELSC’s Britain’s Index of Repression documents 964 verified incidents between 2019 and 2025.

But that’s a parenthesis I don’t want to open here. Maybe in the future. Actually, most likely in the future. I don’t know yet. Perhaps, with enough support from my readers, I’ll find the courage to tell that story. What do you think? If you’d like to stay tuned and support me, please subscribe to my free newsletter below.

In any case, I’ve now resigned from my day job — Social Media and Online Fundraising Manager for a small charity — so soon I can give my all energy and time to writing.

But today is Sunday, and tomorrow is Monday, and I still need to go back to work. So here I’ll try to give you a quick recap of what I experienced yesterday, on Saturday 10 October 2026, using the photos I took to help me retrace the day in chronological order.

Saturday, 10 October 2026

A Love Bite for Palestine.

I went to bed at 4 am, tired but with a smile on my face, after attending a cute fundraiser for Palestine called Love Bite.

My dear friends Paul, Chris, and Lorenzo organise it. They brought together around 200 people and raised £800 for Medical Aid for Palestinians. You can still donate here if you want.

As always, I did my usual thing: creating art on the dance floor, taking my shirt off, and being fully in the moment. I met so many lovely people, invited them to our own fundraiser for Palestine on 6 November. Then, at 3 am, I jumped on my longboard and took the Central Line, knowing that the day after would have been a long and intense day.

Leaving the house.

I woke up at 10:47 am, thirteen minutes before my alarm, and needed the quickest possible breakfast before rushing to the March for Palestine.

I took my full dose of ADHD meds because I needed as much executive function as possible to navigate London on the day of a national protest. Then I started getting ready, thinking I’d have a chance to come back home in the afternoon to faggot up before attending a queer and poly rave that evening.

Spoiler: I didn’t come back home and went straight to the rave with my protest clothes.

I put on my black T-shirt for the Palestine fundraiser I’m organising on 6 November, my red shirt with a Palestine pin, and my rainbow keffiyeh, made in Palestine.

On top of that, I had my sunflower lanyard to signal that I’m neurodivergent, with a pin from MAP, Medical Aid for Palestinians, which I got the night before at Love Bite. And then my Palestinian flag, my rainbow bandana, my Progress Pride flag necklace, my autistic headphones, and my beautiful new Ray-Ban sunglasses.

Palestine, queerness, neurodivergence: all there, all visible, all coming with me.

Before arriving on the tube, I passed from my disposable sign number 7, which I have installed on 7 October, to mark the anniversary.

Arriving at Embankment.

I got on the Bakerloo line with my autistic headphones on, inside my own bubble. I was feeling tense. The carriage was packed, and I didn’t want to interact with anyone. Not even with the two lovely protesters next to me, who were talking in Spanish about the genocide.

As soon as I came out of Embankment station, I started crying, almost uncontrollably.

I saw the small but always present block of Holocaust survivor descendants protesting against the genocide in Gaza, and I could not keep it together.

I was thinking of my friend who had been fired last February for a post on Instagram. He had compared Nazi Germany with Zionist Israel. And here were dozens of Jewish people, descendants of Holocaust survivors, standing against the genocide in Gaza.

Amy-Beth’s neurodivergent hug.

I was crying, trying not to be seen by others, when a woman approached me. Do you need a hug? she asked. I accepted her offer and cried even louder on her shoulder.

Then we started talking. She was from Winchester. She had come all the way from there. Then she noticed my sunflower lanyard. Do you have a disability? she asked. I replied that I’m neurodivergent — ADHD with a sprinkle of autism on top. She said she’s neurodivergent too.

We kept talking about the importance of supporting each other and carrying the torch wherever we go. We exchanged Instagram handles, then said goodbye.

Before going on my way, I approached Stephen Kapos, sitting in his camping chair and holding his sign. Stephen is a child survivor of the Holocaust from Budapest and one of the Jewish voices speaking out for Palestinian liberation.

Still crying, I thanked him. “Thank you,” he replied. “It’s just our duty. Just our duty.”

Dancing to protest. Dancing to not meltdown.

Still shacking and crying, I went my way. I started wandering around, unsure who to join because my friends were scattered all over the place.

Through my autistic headphones, I was listening to Sama’ Abdulhadi’s DJ Mag set — the one where I had been standing behind her with my Palestinian flag and keffiyeh, as you can see in the thumbnail below.

It was surreal to dance to that music while surrounded by people carrying Palestinian flags and chanting Free Palestine.

Some people looked at me confused, as if they didn’t know what I was doing; but then they saw my sign and understood. I was dancing to protest. But also: I was dancing to not have another autistic meltdowns of mine. But they could not have known that.

When I met A. and E.

I decided to try to find the Queers for Palestine block. I checked their Instagram stories, saw their meeting point in the Embakment Gardens and started walking towards it.

I was feeling alone amongst that giant crowd. The universe must have felt it, because that’s when I stumbled upon A. I couldn’t believe it.

You see, A. (I use the initials because I don’t want to put him in danger) is one of the most caring and beautiful men in the London Rainbow Ravers and BHAN communities. He is from Palestine, and we shared so many dancefloors – at UNFOLD, at Maiden Voyage, at BHAN.

A. was with his lovely flatmate, Erin, who’s a writer like me. And I wish I could post a photo of them here. But again, I want to protect A.

We found the gays.

We arrived at the meeting point, but there was no one there.

The Queers for Palestine block must have already left, but they could not be far, so we decided to keep looking for the block until I saw their signature pink stendardo. We found them. It was magical.

I started talking with so many queer people like me. We talked about everything: life, coming out, why Palestine matters to us. And it does matter to us, because queer liberation and Palestinian liberation are the same thing: imperialism wants to steal Palestinian land and control Palestinian bodies; capitalism and patriarchy want to control and police our queer bodies. It’s the same thing, really. And if you’re queer and don’t support Palestinian liberation, then you should think twice about what your queerness means to you.

We shared dates and banana chips with everyone, kept talking, and felt safe together. I could dance, talk, and be myself.

The Zionist block.

At some point, our little group felt lost. We had just seen the usual Zionist bloc with their perfect imperialist trio of flags: Israel, the USA, and the UK. We heard their chants: “Zionists and proud.” Click the image below to listen to it yourself.

Imagine Germans in the 1940s shouting, “We are Nazis and proud.” That’s how it felt to me, really — that pride in something I could only look at with horror. But also with pity. They really are blinded by an ideology that has instilled a genocidal logic in their minds. And they are irredeemable.

Marcos and the Latino block.

We were on Westminster Bridge, unsure what to do next. For a second we even thought about leaving the March and going home.

But then we saw some colorful flags on the bridge. I couldn’t believe my eyes: it was the Latino block, led by my dear friend Marcos. He was leading the chants with the megaphone, as you can see in the video.

Suddenly, amongst all those people, there was a familiar face and a familiar voice. We had been ready to leave, and now I wanted to stay.

Crazily enough, I also spotted the two protesters who had sat next to me on the Tube, and this time I finally managed to connect with them.

Seeing Marcos leading the chants was especially touching because I know he’s been going through a lot recently. And still, he shows up.

Every single Saturday, without exception, he dedicates his time to the community — protesting against the far right in Argentina, standing for Palestine, raising funds, fighting for queer liberation. There was my friend, bringing people together, giving his voice to something we all care about, even while carrying so much himself. Seeing him there, shining his light, I felt so proud of him.

I love you, Marcos. Please keep shining your light and carrying the thorch. Because united, we will never be defeated.

Dancing, resisting, protesting.

Then everything happened so suddenly, all at once. We ended up dancing with the Skate Action bloc, a lovely group of skaters with a small sound system. I had finally found what I was looking for, and I couldn’t have been happier.

For me, dancing is a form of liberation. I feel like I reclaim my body — a body I spend so much time trying to regulate, contain, and make acceptable to others.

When I dance, I can let it move how it wants to move. I feel free, and it is so empowering to feel that freedom in my own body, surrounded by people dancing like me, protesting with me, fighting for the same form of liberation.

The children’s faces.

But at some point, I lost it again.

I saw a wall covered with children’s faces. Someone was saying who they were. And they were 160 children killed by an Israeli bomb dropped on their school.

I didn’t have time to process it, to ask which school or where. As if it mattered anyway. I simply lost it and started crying again. Because yes, we dance, we move our bodies, trying to forget why we are there. But the brutal reality is that, although we can be fired for our anti-genocide activism, we are safe in London, while Palestinian children are being slaughtered by the Israeli Occupation Forces.

As if this was not enough, I had another meltdown after this one.

I heard a woman’s voice on the speaker. She was reading out the names of thousands of people killed in Gaza since 7 October 2023. Then she reached the children’s names and ages — six, seven, eight — and her voice broke.

I cried with her. And there was nothing I could do but cry. Because killing children is wrong, but the Western world seems to have forgotten that.

I am glad millions of people like us didn’t forget it.

I need to stop writing now. I can’t keep going.

At this point, I’ve realised that I’m exhausted and don’t have the energy to write anymore. Writing about yesterday keeps bringing me to tears. It is too much. It is too hard.

I’m sorry, I need to stop writing now.

And to think that so many beautiful things happened after the protest:

• raving inside a red telephone cabin in Soho;
• life-changing conversations on the Southbank;
• a crazy few hours at Tate Modern;
• the Uber rides to and from the rave;
• the after BHAN with two of my dearest friends.

Sorry I cannot write about it, I need to recharge my batteries before another long week at work.

I’ll simply leave some photos below, without context.

I hope you enjoy them.

If you’d like me to keep writing here about my wonderful life in London, please consider leaving a comment or a small donation — something to help me feel I’m not talking into the void.

Or else, please buy a ticket for the BHAN for Palestine I am organising on 6 November.

It would really help me feeling less alone in this battle.

Thank you for your support.

And Free Palestine.

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© Giovanni Gaetani, 2026. All rights reserved.

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