No Kings Protest – Bearing Witness Again

Yesterday, I attended the No Kings Protest, a continuation, in many ways, of what I began when I attended the Hands Off protest earlier this year. At that first protest, my family, my loving wife and wonderful daughters, expressed understandable concern for my safety. To their relief, and mine, I never once felt unsafe. Surrounded by deeply caring, peaceful people, I carried nearly twenty pounds of camera equipment through crowds defined not by anger, but by compassion, kindness, and a shared belief in equality.

The No Kings Protest carried that same spirit forward, and I felt at home among familiar faces, friends and, people I have come to know through our collective insistence on humanity, integrity, and truth. There was an unspoken understanding among us: that these values, once fundamental to our country, are now endangered.

It is a strange feeling, comfort and sadness occupying the same space. Comfort in the company of those who still believe in decency; sadness in witnessing the deliberate dismantling of democracy by a select few who wield fear and falsehood as weapons, fronted by a narcissistic bully unfit for moral or civic leadership.

Many came dressed in elaborate costumes, part satire, part rebellion, exposing through humor the smallness and absurdity of those who claim power through bluster. The theatrical energy transformed outrage into art. Through parody, people stripped the demagogue of his mystique, revealing instead the hollow vanity and lack of intellect beneath the spectacle. In their laughter was defiance, in their creativity, courage.
Yet, despite the darkness of the times, the protest was filled with light, literal and metaphorical. The glow of the afternoon sun bounced off signs declaring hope, compassion, and equality. Strangers greeted one another like old friends. Laughter intertwined with outrage. It was democracy in its purest form: imperfect, loud, and alive.

As I review the images from both protests, I am reminded that photography is not merely about observation — it is participation. Through my lens, I see the faces of those who refuse to surrender their humanity, who still believe that kindness and justice matter.

These photographs are more than documentation; they are witness statements. Proof that empathy endures, even in an era defined by cruelty. Proof that not all have succumbed to the cult of selfishness and deceit that has taken root in the current Trump administration.

I hope that when others view these images, they see what I felt, the resilience, the grace, and the moral courage of ordinary people standing up for what is right.

My camera doesn’t take sides. It tells the truth.
And the truth is: there are still good people fighting to keep this country human.

Robert Levy