On 23rd May 2024 the University, in a public statement, described the work of certain encampment protestors as contributing to “a deeply intimidating environment”. The words were, no doubt, etched into the consciousness of the 200+ students who occupied an encampment on the lawn of the Radcliffe Camera. It is interesting to consider, then, how much of this ‘intimidation’ was wrought through sound and music. Chants, songs, and a range of live instrumentation – often broadcasted through loudspeakers – were used to create a distinct sonic landscape, but the unheard effects they had on shaping public opinion of the protest should not go unnoticed.
Sonic territorialisation (when sound is used to signal a group’s occupancy, or attempted occupancy, of a space) is one of the most powerful forms of protest. By leveraging the relationship between physical and sonic space an auditory hierarchy is created. The sonic space is an ever-present, but an abstract one, as sound is inevitable in every environment we inhabit. It is also, being immaterial and uncontainable, one of the hardest dimensions to police. In this case, an auditory hierarchy was established when the protestors brought out loudspeakers. Not only could their chants or demands be heard more clearly as they overpowered the speaker-less authorities, but the power of sound is also demonstrated when it is freed from the constraints of visual reliance. The protestors ascended this imagined hierarchy when their immediate and peripheral space was dominated.
When the University recommended that students sit exams wearing noise-cancelling headphones during Trinity Term last year, providing them with tissue to plug their ears during the exams, the institution was forced to acknowledge the auditory force of protestors. Whilst they could still assert dominance over the physical space of the Examination Schools – through police presence and security checks – the institution struggled to reclaim the sonic landscape, and thus, albeit momentarily, were forced to take notice of saxophone-playing, loudspeaker-chanting student protestors. Anyone who has passed Clarendon Building in Trinity Term 2024 during the callout of names of deceased women and children (a callout that took place again just a few days ago), remembers that the sound does not just travel down Broad Street, but that it echoes against those controversial walls and rings throughout the city. For a moment, the protestors reclaimed some seemingly foreign territory; their monopoly on the sonic space meant that they were in charge of disseminating information to the public. In other words, they were not walled off.
The reworking of Palestinian folk songs also empowered the body of student protestors. The recontextualisation of Zaffa, a traditional Palestinian wedding chant into a ‘Zaffit El Tahrer’, a song calling for the freedom of Palestine, creates a sonic vernacular that is only truly understood by the protestors themselves. The remix demands a holistic understanding of cultural, historical, and social elements to grasp its nuances. Kokym, the artist, subverts the typical theme of desiring gifts at a wedding to convey the intensity of his wish to see an independent Palestinian flag wave over an Israeli prison. There is a type of bitter irony that comes with using musical tropes associated with such jovial themes: the song is underscored by a carefree ukulele strum, whilst a harrowing plea for liberty runs throughout the song. The conflicting tropes in the piece could reflect an emotion that is unique to the protestors themselves, thereby fostering a stronger sense of community through shared experiences. When sung in a protest, its upbeat nature may seem out of place for passers-by. That, however, is exactly the point. It is unassuming to those who are not part of the cause.
Sonic protest capitalises off the unexpected, and that is precisely why it is so effective. It ensures, ultimately, that protester’s demands do not fall on deaf ears.
