Photos by Brett Beadle

In the grey Sunday morning light, a costumed procession marches through the quiet streets of Downtown Vancouver’s financial district. Dressed in matching black business suits and stylized Guy Fawkes masks, the sombre group looks more like a displaced Day of the Dead parade than members of an organized protest.

A loud cheer greets the group as they swing onto West Hastings Street. Over a hundred fellow protestors await them, most of whom also have their faces hidden behind Halloween masks. The two groups merge, and the protest commences. Pamphlets are handed out to curious passerbys. Picket signs rise high. A man with a microphone begins a chant: “Brain-washed, brain-washed, brain-washed!”

On the opposite side of the road, the Church of Scientology doors swing open. Two members strut out proudly, unfurl a banner, then raise it high on poles. “Scientologists For Peace,” it boldly proclaims.

The protestors break out in mocking laughter. A new chant starts, aimed at the banner: “Lies, lies, lies!” A section of the protestors splinter off and sprint across the street to the church. They raise their picket signs high, blocking the banner from view. One protester, her face hidden with a plaid handkerchief, wields a simple cardboard sign: “Religion is free. $cientology isn’t.” A veiled man beside her holds up a hand-written plea: “Free Tom Cruise.”

It’s difficult to describe the inside of the Scientology building in Vancouver as a church. Devoid of the scents of melted wax or burning incense, the Vancouver mission looks more like a marketing office than a sanctuary of religious devotion. Tall promotional signs line each wall. The receptionist’s desk is adorned with a bookshelf full of Scientology material for sale. In two cubicles behind reception, Scientologist members place follow-up phone calls to potential members.

George, a Scientologist for over 27 years, sits at a promotional table near the church doors. The table is decorated with E-meters and books on Dianetics, the foundational belief system of Scientology. George calmly sips on a cup of coffee as he offers a demonstration of the E-meter, paying no attention to the protest across the street.

The E-meter looks like a volt meter, the kind available at Radio Shack, attached to two tin cylinders. He turns on the device. The needle on the meter hovers at neutral. The E-meter, George explains, measures the electrical current in the human body, and can be used to observe changes in a person’s mental energy. “Hold the cylinders and think of a stressful moment in your life,” he says. “The needle will react to your thoughts.”

The needle fails to budge.

“Are you concentrating? Here, let me make an adjustment.” He turns the dials on the meter. Suddenly the needle violently swings back and forth.

“See?” he says, smiling affably.

Back outside at the protest, an altercation has broken out. Two muscular passerbys become enraged when videotaped by a protestor. They corner her, demanding the tape. Other protestors rush over, surrounding the two men. While outnumbered, they still pose a potential physical threat. The men begin shouting. “Why are you hiding behind masks? Stand up for what you believe in!”

“We are,” counters one protestor. “This is about free speech.”

Rain begins to drizzle. “Then prove it! All of your shit stands for nothing. Take off the masks! You’re all a joke. Behind a mask you’re nobody.” The two men storm off.

“We’re not nobody,” another protestor weakly retorts, his voice muffled under a Guy Fawkes mask. “We’re Anonymous.”