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Whatever happened to the flower people?

We were the generation that was going to change the world. We made love not war (I can hear my father saying, “One wonders whether they are capable of either.”). We Banned the Bomb.
We lived in communes and went on peace marches and sang protest songs. We joined the CND. We camped out on Greenham Common.

What happened to us? Did we all become merchant bankers, business tycoons or, Heaven forbid, politicians? Do we smile indulgently at our younger selves who were so naïve we hadn’t realised that the important thing was making money?

We sold out. We sold out and now we have got what we deserve. The two greatest world powers are ruled by a madman and a psychopath, and the fascists are marching again all over the western world.
People I know, nice people, say that we can’t take any more refugees because Britain is full and we have enough on our plate with our own homeless. And so we turn away the desperate and the destitute who are dying trying to escape the bombs and their own harsh regimes.
The Earth, our only home, is slowly choking to death.

And we shake our heads and say that perhaps it won’t be so bad. Maybe Trump won’t turn America into one huge unreality show. Maybe Brexit won’t destroy the British economy and our cherished National Health Service. Maybe it doesn’t matter that Theresa May has scrapped the Human Rights Act and ordered more nuclear weapons. Maybe climate change is a hoax.

We should be marching in the streets again. We should be camping outside the White House and the Kremlin and the Houses of Parliament. We should be writing to our MPs and our senators and demanding another election, another referendum.
We should not just be sitting here afraid to speak out.

What happened to the flower people? 
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