5 years on: the story of how we created the National Covid Memorial Wall.

By Matt Fowler

The first year of the pandemic was gut-wrenchingly difficult for the families of victims. Like many, my Dad's funeral was a stripped-back and quiet affair. Only 10 people were allowed to attend a short service. We rushed to get people out and distanced as soon as possible, and that was all we had to try and memorialise him. As I have often said, he was a huge personality, and half an hour just wasn't enough to scratch the surface of who he was. Hundreds of people turned out to line the streets for his funeral procession, many of whom had known him for their whole lives, unable to attend the actual funeral in person.

Memorialisation is an important part of the grieving process. It's an opportunity to say goodbye and get closure. It's also something left behind for the families and friends to remember people by, and this is the main element that was missed. Those who died did so suddenly and unexpectedly. There was no opportunity to say goodbye to come to terms with an impending loss. It was just harsh and abrupt and over before it could be thought about. The scale of loss was staggering, and the number of people affected grew exponentially by the day. With such a high death toll, I can't even estimate how many people have been affected by that denial of closure.

Towards the end of 2020, our campaign had struggled to get the messages we needed in front of the government. We had tried so hard to get a rapid review inquiry started in the summer to get ahead of the second wave, and we had been ignored. Johnson and his cabinet were surging ahead with trying to reinvigorate the hospitality sector with the devastating Eat Out To Help Out scheme, adding to the death toll instead of arranging safeguards to protect people.

I contacted Led By Donkeys, the high-profile activist group that had helped us project a video onto Big Ben earlier in the year, to ask for advice on a billboard campaign to try and do something more visible. Olly and James were thoughtful; I could see cogs whirring during the call. "We have some ideas, we'll have a think over Christmas and get back to you" they said.

Christmas came and went. It's never felt the same since Dad died; he was always a big part of the day, and the gap he leaves now is unavoidable. That first year was the most difficult. Afterwards, though, I was still fuelled with the rage that losing him had led to the formation of the campaign. Getting back in touch with Led By Donkeys couldn't come soon enough. The call changed the course of the campaign. "How would you feel about an art installation?" was the question. Between the five of us on the call, we talked about creating something on a massive scale that would get the world's attention, a massive guerrilla campaign public memorial. We talked over what it could look like and what it needed to do and be.

We would choose a location and hand-paint symbols on it to represent the numbers of the dead; we just needed to choose the right symbol and the right location. James and Olly cycled around the city looking for the ideal location and trialled different images and colours with paint pens. The yellow heart had been adopted as the symbol of covid bereavement, and so we asked the Yellow Hearts group if we could use that in the installation. Though they approved of what we were doing, they asked us not to use the yellow heart to keep them separate from the political message that the wall was going to become, and so we settled on red. It was bright and vibrant and easily seen from a distance. The distance it turned out was to be the width of the Thames as James and Olly got back to us with a choice of locations, and one stood out. The Southbank of the Thames was in the perfect location, opposite the Houses of Parliament and bordering St James' Hospital. It is easily visible from the terraces of the house where it would stand as a stark reminder of the price of failure. The die was cast; we just needed to make it happen.

Led By Donkeys bought every single Red POSCA pen in the country. So many, in fact, that it actually forced a price increase. With those in hand stored in a rented room near Lambeth, they turned to how we would get away with what was basically graffiti. They were clear that there was a real chance that we could be arrested for what we were about to do, but we were committed to the cause and decided to take the risk. Hiding in plain sight was the strategy. We had branded hi-vis jackets, a large plaque, sandwich boards and wreaths of flowers declaring that this was the National Covid Memorial Wall, and we gathered at 6am on Sunday, the 29th March 2021, the first day people were allowed to gather in groups of 6 to begin the work. Volunteers from the group had made the journey to help with the work.

It felt like a landmark moment to paint the first heart. I felt the weight of responsibility to ensure that everyone we had lost would continue to have their names spoken and to do something to protect people. I remember thinking of my Dad while I painted. As soon as it was finished, James turned to the rest of the volunteers and set them off. We painted in silence for an hour.

Meanwhile, Nathan, our old campaign manager, was calling every journalist and MP he could to get them down to the wall. If we could get people to document it, comment on it, and legitimise it, we could get away with it and it couldn't be stopped. Within the hour, we started to get visitors, Florence Eshalomi and Dawn Butler were the first, then Rachel Reeves, Angela Raynor and Keir Starmer, who called it remarkable. We had legitimacy; the wall was ours.

On the first day, we had painted about 30,000 hearts. It made world news and became the background for all Covid news ever since, and it was unavoidably evident to the government, as we had located it on their doorstep. Over the next two weeks, thousands more hearts were painted. But here is the most important thing about it: it became a pilgrimage for the Covid Bereaved, as for the first time, they could be unified in their grief. I can remember how serene that first day was. People were socially distanced, yet together. They had quiet contemplation time to think of their loved ones while they painted. They had people around them who understood their pain, and they could talk freely about their experiences. It was everything that they had been denied for over a year.

It was also an outpouring of defiance. Across the river, the government had been failing to act, had ignored our calls, and, as we later found out, had been breaking its own rules. Now, as you stand on Parliament's terrace overlooking the Thames, you can see a wall of red. It's breathtaking, and it is a constant reminder of the scale of loss and the consequences of failure. The Wall symbolises not just the grief and the loss and the love behind it, but it also stands as a monument to defiance.

It is also a reminder that people like us can not be silenced. We will not go quietly and allow injustice to go unchecked. The Wall reminds those on that side of the Thames that we are there, and we are watching, and we will continue to fight for change.

Finally, our loved ones are forever tied to the pandemic, the Wall and the inquiry. I quoted the late great Sir Terry Pratchett numerous times over the years:

"Do you know, a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?"

The Wall ensures that our loved ones' names are spoken forever. They may be gone, but they never leave us, and they will never be forgotten.