The normally placid middle class of Iceland is in revolt, taking to the streets in protest at their politicians, bankers, and the financial meltdown.

Since the country’s banks went bust in October, unemployment has soared and is heading towards 10% and the currency has collapsed, losing more than one third of its value in a matter of months. Inflation is close to 20% and interest rates have hit 18%. Last week people decided enough was enough. When MPs gathered after their winter break on Tuesday, they were met by a large crowd creating a cacophony with everything from pots and pans to empty paint cans, whistles and musical instruments.

“We have to wake up the government that seems to be fast asleep,” said Audur Ketilsdottir, while pounding a pot with a large spoon. She has been unemployed since losing her job at a newspaper soon after the economic collapse began. Standing next to her in the crowd in front of the parliament house was a young man playing a drum set and an elderly woman beating time with her walking stick.

“The government keeps on repeating that it should not be disrupted because it is in the midst of its rescue of the economy,” said Ketilsdottir. “But the situation seems to be worsening. Besides, how are we to trust the people that led us into this mess to find the way out of it?”

With just 320,000 people, Iceland is not accustomed to such excitement. Although there have been weekly protests since October, growing worry about the country’s debt-burdened future last week ignited a daily barrage of noise outside the parliament.

Rakel Jonsdottir, who joined the street protests on Wednesday, said: “Old people, young people, all kinds of people, were bringing these kitchen utensils and instruments to the streets.”

Jonsdottir herself was pounding two pot lids together: “Everyone can feel that something is in the air. But this whole mess makes me so sad I don’t even know how to begin to describe it.”

That day Geir Haarde, the prime minister, was chased when trying to escape from a meeting after demonstrators surrounded the ministry offices. People threw eggs and soda cans at his car when he sped away.

“People are simply so frustrated,” Jonsdottir explained. “A whole nation capsized – and everyone from the government to the central bank and the financial supervisory authority are still in their positions.”

In a country like Iceland it is not comfortable for the prime minister and president: Reykjavik is so small that voters bump into political leaders in the supermarket. The government has been struggling to hold its coalition together. Late last week the already odd chain of events took a surprising twist.

Soon after the economic collapse began, Ingibjorg Solrun Gisladottir, leader of the Social Democratic Alliance, one of the two parties in the government, was diagnosed with a brain tumour. On Friday she returned after medical treatment in Sweden – only for Haarde to call a press conference soon afterwards where he announced that he now has a tumour.

Haarde has decided not to seek reelection as leader of the Independence party and announced that his party is willing to hold elections in May. After the saucepan revolution, it seems voters are going to get their demand for a new government.

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