36 x 26 1/2 in
The Purpose of Protest: A Testament to Solidarity
In every generation, there comes a moment when silence becomes impossible. When injustice speaks too loudly to be ignored, when grief becomes collective, and when the human instinct to protect, to stand beside, to mourn together, compels us into action. The Purpose of Light, Misan Harriman’s landmark photographic exhibition, bears witness to these moments, not with judgment or ideology, but with a deep and unflinching empathy for the human condition. Featuring 110 unique photographs, this exhibition is a call not for division, but for togetherness.
Protest can be an act of rage, but also one of profound hope. It is the belief that things can be different, that through resistance, through public demonstration, through the brave decision to speak up and show up, change can be made real. Protest is not only about the self. It is, in its purest form, about others. It is about solidarity.
It is easy to stand apart when a crisis does not touch your doorstep. But the true moral arc of humanity is revealed when we stand with people even when we don’t have to, when their pain is not our pain, but we carry it anyway. This is the quiet power of protest: it builds bridges between strangers, between nations, between struggles that may look different but are fundamentally rooted in the same fight for dignity.
In The Purpose of Light, we see photographs that span continents and causes, from Black Lives Matter marches in London and Minneapolis, to vigils for the victims of Grenfell Tower, to outcries for justice in Sudan, to the cries of solidarity for the people of Congo, and most recently, the massive global movement in response to the humanitarian crisis in Gaza. These images are not just moments frozen in time, they are acts of witness, of remembrance, and of resistance.
Take Grenfell: a tragedy that laid bare the inequality woven into the fabric of one of the world’s wealthiest cities. The tower still stands, not as a monument, but as a question: how did this happen, and who was deemed worthy of protection? The protests that followed were not only about fire safety; they were about race, class, policy, and invisibility. They were acts of love, of grief, of rage channeled into public mourning.
Then there is Palestine, a place whose name alone can evoke political unease, but whose people deserve compassion like any other. What this exhibition does not do is engage in hate. What it does do is offer space for shared humanity. To care about Palestinian civilians, to protest in support of their basic rights, is an act of empathy. It is entirely possible, and necessary, to denounce suffering without denying the trauma of another. Solidarity is not a zero-sum game. It is about choosing the side of life, dignity, and justice for all people.
In Sudan and Congo, where international attention flickers in and out, protest becomes a way to keep the spotlight where it matters. These are places where silence is deadly, where the world’s inattention has cost countless lives. And so when people march in the streets of Paris, Nairobi, or New York with signs for Sudan or Congo, they are not pretending to be experts. They are simply saying: I see you. Your life matters. Your struggle is not forgotten.
This is why the global response to the killing of George Floyd was so powerful. Protesters in Korea, Brazil, Ireland, South Africa, all lifted their voices for a man they never knew, in a country many had never been to. Not because they were American, but because they were human. Protest becomes a mirror, reflecting not just what is happening “over there,” but what it awakens in us, here. The same instinct to protest has shaped movements closer to home. In the UK, the racist murder of Stephen Lawrence in 1993, and the decades-long fight by his family to expose the institutional failures that followed, marked a turning point in the nation’s understanding of systemic racism. It was a tragedy, but also a spark. One that forced an entire country to reckon with how deep injustice can run, even in societies that claim fairness. Stephen’s name became a rallying cry not just for justice, but for accountability, for reform, and for the right of Black people to live safely, freely, and equally. His story is a reminder that racism is not confined by geography, it is a global disease that demands a global conscience. Photography, like protest, is about bearing witness. Misan Harriman’s camera does not look away. It captures the tenderness between father and child at a march, the tension in the jaw of a speaker mid-chant, the raw power of raised fists and tired eyes. These are not staged moments; they are lived truths. They tell us that protest is not just about noise, it is about presence. About bodies in space, standing where it is uncomfortable to stand.
We must also remember that protest is not just what happens in the streets. It happens in classrooms, in conversations, in art, in the refusal to forget. Exhibitions like The Purpose of Light are themselves a form of protest, they challenge erasure. They demand visibility. They say: here are the faces, the names, the lives behind the headlines.
This exhibition is also an experience, not just of images, but of presence. The layout is intentional. As you walk through The Purpose of Light, you are surrounded by people everywhere you look. Not all of us had the chance to protest in the conventional way, but every face holds the story of someone who mattered, someone who stood up, or was stood up for. You, the viewer, become part of that continuum. By entering the space, you are standing with those very people, many images often towering above the viewer. Whether or not you agree with every protest pictured, whether or not the issue directly touches your life. That is the quiet radicalism of this exhibition. You will encounter a white boy in a wheelchair at a Black Lives Matter march, a rabbi and an imam protesting side by side, moments of unexpected unity that tell us something about what is possible when we choose to care. The Purpose of Light is not just a collection of photographs. It is a living, breathing archive of solidarity, one of a kind, and urgently needed.
This exhibition is not an invitation to guilt. It is an invitation to connect. It asks us to consider what it means to care, to be moved by something that may never touch our own lives. To say: I may not know your story, but I see your struggle. In a time when polarisation is often the loudest voice in the room, that kind of empathy is itself a radical act.
This exhibition reminds us that protest is a collective language, spoken differently across cultures, but always with the same hope: that people will be treated with fairness and dignity, that truth will matter, and that no one will have to fight alone.
We live in a world where cynicism is easy. Where it is safer to remain neutral. But neutrality in the face of injustice is not safety, it is surrender. And so protest becomes the opposite of apathy. It is the declaration: I will not turn away. Misan Harriman’s work, and the community it reflects, seeks to illuminate. It understands that protest is not about perfection. It is about presence. Showing up, even when it’s hard. Speaking up, even when it’s uncomfortable. And standing beside others, not because we are the same, but because we all deserve to live in a world where justice is not selective.
In the end, The Purpose of Light is exactly that, a light cast on darkness, not to scorn it, but to see clearly. To see each other. And in doing so, to find the courage to act. Because protest is not only the domain of the oppressed. It is also the responsibility of the free.
Misan Harriman (b. 15 December 1977, Calabar, Nigeria) is a Nigerian‑British photographer, filmmaker, entrepreneur, cultural commentator, and activist. Born into a prominent Nigerian family—his father, Chief Hope Harriman, was a noted politician and businessman—he was educated in England at Stubbington House School and Bradfield College before working in recruitment and finance in the City of London.
In 2016, Harriman founded What We Seee (later Culture3), a digital media agency spotlighting underrepresented creative voices. He began taking photographs in 2017.
His breakout came in summer 2020, when his powerful black‑and‑white photographs of London’s Black Lives Matter protests were widely shared and earned acclaim for their clarity and dignity. That same year, he became the first Black man to shoot a cover for British Vogue—the September 2020 issue featuring Adwoa Aboah, Marcus Rashford, and 18 activists—at the invitation of Edward Enninful.
Since then, Harriman has photographed major figures—Meghan Markle and Prince Harry (including their children), Rihanna, Tom Cruise, Cate Blanchett, Julia Roberts, Giorgio Armani, and more—gracing publications such as Vanity Fair, Harper’s Bazaar, People, and The Telegraph. The Evening Standard dubbed him “the most talked‑about photographer of our times”.
In July 2021, he was appointed Chair of Trustees at London’s Southbank Centre, becoming the first BLM‑photographer in that role.
Harriman made his directorial debut with The After (2023), a Netflix UK short film starring David Oyelowo. Co‑written with John Julius Schwabach, it premiered at HollyShorts Festival (winning Best Live Action Short) and was nominated for the 2024 Academy Award for Best Live‑Action Short. Harriman has said the film—rooted in grief amid the pandemic and BLM era—is about healing and “wear[ing] our vulnerability with pride”
An outspoken advocate for diversity, mental health (especially dyslexia and neurodiversity), and social equity, Harriman continues to influence culture through art with purpose.