Cassandra Voices

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  • Jeremy Corbyn and Bernie Sanders Confront Common Neo-Liberal Frenemies

    The Corbyn phenomenon – and the utter media-class meltdown over it – is weirdly but obviously reminiscent to anyone who witnessed the rise of Bernie Sanders here in the United States. In both cases, the harbingers were clear, both in terms of responding to grim economic data for an indebted younger generation, and arriving in the wake of bona fide progressive movements such as Occupy.

    Clearly, both the U.S. Democratic Party (which has never been a left-wing, working class party) and the British Labour Party (that dumped Clause IV of its constitution calling for common ownership of industry under Tony Blair, before repeating every Clintonian bromide in a posh accent) were not only ill-equipped to address rising inequalities, but ideologically unaligned with the interests of their electoral bases. But more so than Trump, or Boris Johnson, neither Sanders nor Corbyn were supposed to happen as national phenomena.

    Burning Bernie

    In the case of Sanders – who with 51%[i] of his support coming from non-white voters has the most diverse support of any major candidate – the line was that his supporters were a bunch of white male ‘Bernie Bros’, whose ‘leftism’ provided a thin veneer for deep-seated misogyny and wounded racial privilege. A typical litany from The Nation’s Joan Walsh from 2016 read:

    I’m tired of seeing her confronted by entitled men weighing in on her personal honesty and likability, treating the most admired woman in the world like a woman who’s applying to be his secretary. I’m stunned anew by the misogyny behind the attacks on her, and her female supporters, including my daughter. I’m sick of the way so many Sanders supporters, most of them men, feel absolutely no compunction to see things through female Clinton supporters’ eyes, or to worry they might have to court us down the road, take special care not to alienate us lest we sit the race out in November, if our candidate loses.[ii]

    This tack, which conflated scattered outbursts of sexist or racially insensitive statements, generally online, from Sanders supporters, with far more numerous disagreements, sometimes sharp, without discernible sexist or other bigoted undertones, is still a mainstay of coverage in such venues as MSNBC, The Washington Post, and The New York Times – whose almost ludicrously biased coverage on Sanders has been ably skewered by Katie Halper.[iii]

    Indeed, when Sanders had the temerity to suggest that Amazon CEO, and all-around Bond villain, Jeff Bezos’s ownership of The Washington Post has an effect on its coverage of his campaign, the Krakatoa-level eruption of media outrage was something to behold. [iv]

    NPR characterized Sanders’s well-deserved jab as ‘sounding like Trump,’[v] while Aaron Blake in the Post itself sneered at his ‘bogus media beef,’ declaring in what was one step from tone-policing:

    But as Trump has also shown, the gripes can often be badly exaggerated, undermining whatever valid points you might be making. If you’re going to criticize the media for being bad actors — and we’re hardly above criticism — you should choose your words more carefully and make sure you’re not undermining your own credibility in the process.[vi]

    Perhaps the establishment-liberal-objection to Sanders was best (if rather stupidly) summarized by prosecutor-turned-MSNBC commentator Mimi Rocah, who declared, ‘Just as a woman, probably considered a somewhat moderate Democrat … Bernie Sanders makes my skin crawl,’[vii] and then predictably, and with no particular evidence, cries ‘Bernie Bro!’ when ratio’ed into oblivion on Twitter for saying something dumb.

    One could go on like this, and many have, and here in the U.S., we have more than a year left of this, at the conclusion of which we will all be worse people than we are now. The point is the attacks on Sanders emanating from the ‘liberal’ media in the U.S., which almost universally loathes him, are cartoonish, poorly reasoned, and often in bad faith. Lurking beneath, however, is that for the first time in a long time, American politics may be reconfiguring on a class axis.

    The End of Socialism

    Which brings us to Corbyn. Back in the latter half of the 1990s, it was a lonely station being a leftist. The standard line, including from supposed left-wing publications, was that, per Francis Fukayama, the big conflicts were over. Socialism, after the fall of the USSR, whether taking its cues from Enver Hoxha, Leon Trotsky, Eduard Bernstein, or Billy Bragg, was as intellectually discredited as phrenology, Lysenkoism, and Ptolemaic astronomy. And that went equally for nationalized industry and tuition-free grad. school.

    Back then the leader of the British Labour Party, Tony Blair, could be heard to boast ‘When businessmen say to me, ‘Tony, I never thought I’d be doing this but here’s a big cheque to help you beat the most dishonest, negative campaign in history,’ I say thank you to them’ – which in retrospect may be the most important line of Blair’s 1996 Blackpool speech.[viii]

    Corbyn was an under-the-radar backbencher who wound up in the running for the Labour leadership in 2015 as a sop to what were widely assumed to be the demoralized remnants of the Labour Left, a footnote to what was expected to be a contest between the competing progeny of New Labour forefathers. Corbyn’s leadership wasn’t supposed to happen.

    As with Sanders, but possibly worse because the British press, improbably, outdoes even its American equivalent in narrow-minded pettiness, blinkered class prejudice, and general unpleasantness, Corbyn has been on the receiving end of every possible calumny.

    When he says he likes the novel Ulysses, the media class reminds us of his modest educational attainments; as if James Joyce wrote that novel to test the erudition of Oxbridge graduates instead of entertain its readers. He has been labelled a Stalinist, a dunce, and a doctrinaire ideologue.

    The Labour Party’s apparatus spent his first year as leader assiduously purging, or attempting to purge, new members for such infractions as publicly stating the desire to vote Green in previous elections, or, in the case of Irish poet Kevin Higgins, writing a satirical poem in support of Corbyn.

    Anti-Semitist Slurs

    The lowest point among the multitude of attacks has been the accusations of anti-Semitism against Corbyn and his allies. Two things are simultaneously true – anti-Semitism is a serious problem in the world, Britain included. Also, the British Labour Party has ninety-nine problems, but systemic anti-Semitism ain’t one. The accusations come from a place of bad faith, and to the extent that they are not merely a case of punching the left, they are mounted in defence of what is a jaw-droppingly racist Israeli state under Benjamin Netanyahu (with an only fractionally less racist internal opposition).

    In terms of political opportunism, the case of Luciana Berger, who exited the Labour Party in 2019 in favour of the entity currently called Change UK (currently polling at 0%) stands out. When members of her local party constituency, where her anti-Corbyn stance had made her deeply unpopular, submitted no-confidence motions, the Blairite wing of the Labour Party went into full smear mode.

    Tom Watson expressed ‘our solidarity, our support, as she battles the bullying and hatred from members of her own local party,’[ix] whose crime was wanting leadership that better represented them. Blair himself got in on the act, and the media soon pivoted from a story of a local Corbynite membership revolting against a Blairite M.P. to one of an anti-Semitic membership against a Jewish M.P., based on isolated incidents, all to bury the rebels’ main point in their main motion, namely: ‘Instead of fighting for a Labour government, our M.P. is continually using the media to criticise the man we all want to be prime minister.’

    That Alex Scott-Samuel, the constituency co-chair at the time, had regularly appeared on an internet show sponsored by conspiracy theorist David Icke was bad optics at the very least,[x] but Scott-Samuel’s membership in the ‘Jewish Voice for Labour’ should make one wary of sweeping claims of anti-Semitism.

    If anything, Corbyn has been too accommodating to his critics, with Labour repeatedly suspending his key ally Chris Williamson not for being an anti-Semite, but for questioning the good faith of those who continue to challenge the Labour Party on the issue. Corbyn repeatedly denounces anti-Semitism; the Labour Party has developed an educational program to combat it; and Labour has mounted a series of online videos and pamphlets against anti-Jewish stereotypes and politics. And yet the attacks continue – even as a post-Windrush, Boris Johnson-led Conservative Party takes after Donald Trump and says the formerly quiet, overtly-racist bits increasingly loudly.

    Slow-motion Pub Brawl

    Perhaps as ludicrous, if slightly less fatuous, are those attacks related to the never-ending slow-motion pub brawl that is Brexit. This, too, had its origins in Establishment hubris. It wasn’t supposed to pass. BoJo was supposed to use the opportunity to throw some raw meat into the gaping maws of the slavering rubes while Cameron was supposed to let him have his moment, after which Boris was supposed to shut his goddamn mouth. And yet again, a different wing of the in-crowd underestimated how little the nerds, burnouts, hoods, punks, shitkickers, and other people not seated at the cool kids’ table liked them.

    There are plenty of reasons not to like the E.U.. It is, at its core, a neo-liberal trade pact, and as the Syriza government in Greece discovered, the E.U. would rather see a country pauperized than let it renegotiate a payment schedule with its citizenry in mind. E.U. rules against state aids render the renationalisation of industry that Labour currently advocates not technically, but effectively impossible.

    That is not to say that a no-deal Brexit wouldn’t be catastrophic, or that many of the loudest pro-Brexit arguments aren’t tinged with xenophobia and racism. It is to say, however, that the #FBPE crowd’s almost utopian view on the E.U. is underpinned by a combination of frequent class privilege (‘how will I be able to pop over to the villa in Provence next weekend if Britain leaves the E.U.?’) and disdain for the socialist project.

    Corbyn’s Considerations

    In terms of relations with the E.U., Jeremy Corbyn has consistently attempted to manoeuvre through a deeply complicated series of conflicting demands in a political environment dominated by disinformation and demagogy. As I see it, his main concerns are:

    1. A Labour Party membership deeply divided over Brexit.
    2. Genuine belief that one cannot in good faith override a democratic vote because it did not produce the desired outcome.
    3. Desire to preserve positive aspects of the E.U. (ease of movement within the area, for instance), to blunt the effects of a hard Brexit (e.g. to trade) without glossing over the negative.
    4. Letting the Tory Party, which caused the mess, to bear the political costs.
    5. Keeping the Blairite majority among the party leadership at bay without completely selling out to them.

    The latter two have probably caused Corbyn the most problems. Ex-Labour (and current Lib Dem via Change UK) M.P. Chuka Umunna griped in The Independent: ‘I cannot think of any Labour leader in my lifetime who would not have instinctively said ‘Remain’ but the party has changed irrevocably under the current set up.’[xi]

    Of course Corbyn is not the only one – a number of those from the 2015 intake of MPs who are mooted to succeed him are on record of being even more hostile to the notion of a People’s Vote.’ Umunna was born in 1978, and the Labour Party under Michael Foot (leader 1980-83) favoured leaving the E.E.C., a position reversed by Neil Kinnock, whose main contributions to world history were paving the way for Blair, air-balling what should have been an easy election in 1992, and giving speeches for Joe Biden to plagiarize.

    This may seem an historical quibble, particularly as Corbyn campaigned, albeit unenthusiastically, to remain in an institution unworthy of enthusiasm, but Umunna inadvertently captures the key ideological disconnect.

    Left-no-longer

    For many years socially liberal yuppies like him dominated what, in official circles, constituted the ‘left.’ The socialist project, either isolated in its traditional mass party like Britain or essentially vilified and repressed to the point of near-extinction as in the United States, became a vehicle for free-market and militaristic ideas – but performatively anti-racist, pro-woman, and pro-gay – and a gaping political void emerged.

    With the genuine article re-appearing in the shape of Corby and Sanders, the ‘left’ of the Blair-Clinton era is the left-no-longer. But they like the real estate. Thus come the ludicrous charges.

    As Noam Chomsky noted of Corbyn:

    One must admire the incredible skills the media have in manipulating the population. They’ve managed to convince many that the most passionate anti-racist campaigner of the last 40 years, Jeremy Corbyn, is actually pro-racist and anti-Semitic.[xii]

    Of course Blairites favour, not social equity, but aspirational mobility, treating inequality as isolable matters of exclusion on the basis of race, gender sexuality, and so forth, rather than economic inequality, reflecting exploitation inherent in capitalism.

    There is a block in favour of radical, egalitarian change, and its leaders aren’t named Kamala Harris, Tom Watson, Chuka Umunna, Rachel Maddow, Alyssa Milano, or J.K. Rowling. Or Elizabeth Warren, frankly. Thus the ‘anti-Semitism’ slurs, and the ‘Bernie Bro’ canard.

    Many with leftist sympathies are genuinely bamboozled, given the ubiquity of this garbage. Other claiming these affinities really don’t really like socialism, universal health care, free college, and railroads that aren’t owned by the likes of Richard Branson. And those people should be honest about that, and if they aren’t, it’s okay to own them relentlessly on social media.

    Feature Image by ‘paulnew’ is of Jeremy Corbyn speaking at a leadership election rally to his supporters in August 2016.

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    [i] Untitled, ‘Profiles of supporters of the leading Democratic candidates’, Pew Research Center, August 20th, 2019, https://www.people-press.org/2019/08/16/most-democrats-are-excited-by-several-2020-candidates-not-just-their-top-choice/pp_2019-08-16_2020-democratic-candidates_0-06-2/.

    [ii] Joan Walsh, ‘Why I’m Supporting Hillary Clinton, With Joy and Without Apologies’, January 27th, 2016, The Nation,https://www.thenation.com/article/why-im-supporting-hillary-clinton-with-joy-and-without-apologies/.

    [iii] Katie Harper, ‘MSNBC’s Anti-Sanders Bias Makes It Forget How to Do Math’, July 26th, 2019, FAIR, https://fair.org/home/msnbcs-anti-sanders-bias-makes-it-forget-how-to-do-math/.

    [iv] Chavie Lieber, ‘Bernie Sanders called out Jeff Bezos for poor treatment of Amazon workers. In a rare move, the company fired back.’, August 30th, 2018, https://www.vox.com/2018/8/30/17797786/amazon-warehouse-conditions-bernie-sanders.

    [v] Domenico Montenaro, ‘Bernie Sanders Again Attacks Amazon — This Time Pulling In ‘The Washington Post’’, NPR, August 13th, 2019, https://www.npr.org/2019/08/13/750800062/sanders-again-attacks-amazon-this-time-pulling-in-the-washington-post.

    [vi] Aaron Blake, ‘Bernie Sanders’s bogus media beef’, The Washington Post, August 14th, 2019, https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/2019/08/14/bernie-sanderss-bogus-media-beef/.

    [vii] Josh Feldman, ‘MSNBC Panelist: Bernie Sanders ‘Makes My Skin Crawl,’ I Don’t See Him as ‘Pro-Woman Candidate’’, Mediaite, July 21st, 2019, https://www.mediaite.com/tv/msnbc-panelist-bernie-sanders-makes-my-skin-crawl-i-dont-see-him-as-pro-woman-candidate/.

    [viii] British Political Speeches, Leader’s speech, Blackpool 1996, http://www.britishpoliticalspeech.org/speech-archive.htm?speech=202

    [ix] Untitled, ‘Labour row erupts over no confidence vote in Luciana Berger’, BBC, February 8th, 2019, https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-politics-47169929.

    [x] Lee Harpin, ‘University distances itself from academic who promoted Rothschild conspiracies on David Icke show’, THE JC, February 12th, 2019, https://www.thejc.com/news/uk-news/university-insists-academic-who-promoted-rothschild-conspracies-on-david-icke-1.479941.

    [xi] Chuck Umunna, ‘Jeremy Corbyn is happily helping Britain leave the EU – he is and always was a Brexiteer’, The Independent, March 18th, 2019, https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/jeremy-corbyn-brexit-chuka-umunna-the-independent-group-leave-remain-a8828001.html.

    [xii] Frea Lockley, ‘Here’s how thousands of people are standing up to smears against Jeremy Corbyn’, The Canary, March 26th, 2018, https://www.thecanary.co/uk/2018/03/26/heres-how-thousands-of-people-are-standing-up-to-smears-against-jeremy-corbyn/.

  • Joe Rogan and the American Male Zeitgeist

    Anyone unfamiliar with Joe Rogan would do well to watch his stand-up shows on Netflix, or read a recent piece entitled ‘Why is Joe Rogan so Popular?’ from The Atlantic. Perhaps you already know him from a notorious interview with Elon Musk, where the latter liberally drinks whiskey and smokes weed, much to Wall Street’s chagrin.

    Why is Bull Moose talking about Joe Rogan? Well, for starters, he has the second most popular podcast in the country, but, more importantly, he is popular with men across the political spectrum.  Men who are fed up with political correctness, the victimhood so prevalent in American politics, and above all the constantly changing idea of what it means to be a man in America. Listen to Mr. Rogan and you’ll soon learn that he provides a welcome reprieve from conventional thinking, if nothing else.

    Joe Rogan is a showman. He is a professional comedian. But he’s also one who seemingly understands that the ‘average’ American man is frustrated. This average man has political power, yes, but his personal power (and his pocketbook) has been curtailed since the Great Recession. He asks his wife about whether he should change the diapers; seeks her for permission to go out for a beer; can’t pay off his debts, and somewhere along the way, Joe Rogan contends, he stopped acting like a man and started behaving like a pussy.

    The average Joe Rogan fan is unhappy about this state of affairs. They are American men of whatever race and background who realise they should have the power to succeed, and strive to be a better version of themselves, but see obstacles in their way. They realise the empty promise of a bigger TV, or a faster car. As Joe Rogan put it:

    We got sidetracked and diverted into these boxes, these cubicles in offices … So instead of investing your time in a passion, you’ve sold your life to work for an uncaring machine that doesn’t understand you. That’s the problem with our society. And what’s the reward? Go home and get a big TV.

    The media widely assumes that this group of disaffected, frustrated men voted for Trump. Many of them did, but just as many would never vote for him. They are the accountants, the soccer dads, the everyday Americans who believe this country is already great, and that, no, we don’t need to buy Greenland.

    Reaching out to this disaffected part of the population and offering them a voice will be key to winning the White House in 2020. Trump did it in 2016, and will surely count on their support in 2020. Democrats should take heed. Understanding the scale of their frustrations is one of the keys to a successful campaign. The anointed Democratic candidate should voice their concerns, appreciate their contributions, and make them feel part of his or her agenda.

    No, Bull Moose is not calling for an embrace of divisive gender politics as a way to win an election. Quite the opposite, the candidate that taps into this frustration will be the one that gives men the sense that they too can be who they want to be: a citizen who feels good about the opportunity he has for personal and professional success, to the benefit of the country as a whole.

    Past American leaders of different political convictions – from FDR to JFK or even Reagan and Obama – all called for sacrifices for the greater good. They instilled a pride in the average American man that his individual sacrifice was contributing to a great country. Increasingly, however, his sacrifices are accompanied by a diminishing quality of life, and income; nor has he much to feel proud about in the public sphere.

    What Joe Rogan understands – and what makes his so popular – is that lying beneath male frustrations is an enduring conviction that the ‘average Joe’ can become whatever he wants, and that self-actualization is more important than material gain. They are inspired to become the hero in their own movie: to be kind; to pursue excellence; to be relentlessly positive; to think freely; to be unafraid.

    So, you might ask, what’s the point? The point is Democratic Presidential candidates should start talking about opportunity and freedom inclusively, and not only for those disadvantaged historically. Also, please refrain from using the expression ‘the average hard-working American man.’ No one wants to be labelled “average.” Focus instead on the unlimited potential of every human being.

    Feature image is Joe Rogan with Gerald Strebendt, circa 2002.

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  • White Woman Brown Heart

    Even the color of my skin belies who I really am.
    Always on the outside looking in . . . even with my own kin.
    Blonde and blue-eyed born into a brown world,
    I came to see myself through their eyes, their skin, their pain.

    White woman brown heart, I am.

     

    I didn’t understand when sister girl said it wasn’t fair
    that beauty and smarts went to someone like me.
    Doors so freely opened were closed to her, I could not see.
    Because sister girl, she looked the same to me.

    White woman brown heart, I am.

     

    Yankee white daddy my mama said is how I came to be.
    They spoke his name first on that fateful sixth year.
    My names were nothing then and they are nothing now.
    Cause I’m a nobody traveling through life on an inner dark sea.

    White woman brown heart, I am.

     

    Tethered by psychic roots running so deep that
    it matters not where I stand on the grid of space and time.
    I’ll never understand the difference between them and me,
    or why we only see what we see in the face of humanity.

    White woman brown heart, I am.

     

    The soul is what bends and shapes what we’re supposed to be . . .
    And that difficult repentance the poet confessed long ago.
    That’s what kept my days from always ending in that dark inner sea.
    And a whispered thank you for all that ever was and ever will be.

    White woman brown heart, I am.

    Nance Harding is a Texan living in New Orleans. As a psychoanalytically oriented consultant, she uses archetypal pattern analysis and creative mentoring to assist adults during critical transitions requiring transformative change.  She writes poetry and flash fiction.

    Feature Image: Marina Azzaro

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  • How to Prevent a Brexit ‘Domino Effect’

    As the United Kingdom inches perilously closer to a ‘no deal’ Brexit, Frank Armstrong recalls the European Union’s origins as an antidote to destructive and ill-conceived nationalism, which tore the continent apart for thirty years between 1914 and 1945. He argues that explanations for British exceptionalism should not be reduced to post-imperialist delusions, instead highlighting a long-standing failure to make adequate provision for post-industrial ‘rust belts’, regions witnessing a recrudescence of nationalism right across the continent. He also interprets Brexit as a product of competing nationalistic forces within the U.K., proposing the E.U. should avoid an acrimonious separation, and leave the door ajar for a return. Finally, he identifies necessary reforms to the E.U. Treaty to avoid the very real possibility of a ‘Brexit Domino Effect’ threatening the wider union.

    Community Origins

    At the outbreak of World War I in 1914 British Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey wrote in a letter to a friend: ‘The lamps are going out all over Europe, we shall not see them lit again in our life-time.’[i] Grey’s foreboding ran contrary to the dominant ‘it’ll be over by Christmas’ view. From that war’s outbreak the continent descended into thirty years of almost continuous violence and instability – with non-combatant civilians often victims of collective punishment.

    At the Paris Peace Conferences in 1919 ascendant ‘Wilsonian’ ideas of democracy and self-determination swept away multicultural empires, (Hapsburg-Austrian, Hohenzollern-German, Romanov-Russian and even Ottoman-Turkish) which for centuries accommodated multiple ethno-linguistic ‘nationalities’, ruled by a transnational aristocratic caste.

    Cobbling together states based on often plastic identities proved problematic almost everywhere, however, as dispersals of nationalities rarely cohered with distinct geographic frontiers. Moreover, many nations possessed insufficient populations to make up viable sovereign entities, engendering dual- (Czechoslovakia[ii]) and multiple- (Yugoslavia) nation-states. Meanwhile, in violation of ‘Wilsonian’ principles of self-determination, the Peacemakers prohibited any unification between Germany and German-speaking Austria.

    Throughout the inter-war years, across Europe, a significant challenge for many governments lay in accommodating German minorities – the volksdeutsche that had settled in Central and Eastern Europe over the course of the Middle Ages – but also others such as Hungarians living beyond their rump state. This poisoned relations between newly emerged countries from the outset, while embedding seemingly implacably hostile minorities within states such as Czechoslovakia, and others.

    Establishing what Benedict Anderson referred to as the ‘imagined community’[iii] of the nation as the basis for a state, also elevated racial notions of a single volk, or people, with ‘blood’ attachments to a particular territory. This further estranged widely scattered, and linguistically heterogeneous, Jewish communities – without a state of their own or any prospect of creating one in Europe – from dominant national groups. Jews became convenient scapegoats, characterised as either bloodsucking-capitalist-Rothschilds, or transnational-Communist-ideologues, depending on political expediency.

    The U.K. was among the few European countries where anti-Semitism was not rife in this period. Indeed, with the Balfour Declaration of 1917, the British Empire committed to ‘a national home for the Jewish people’ in Palestine, to the consternation of its indigenous population. By the 1920s, however, the British were confronting a distinct fraying of imperial bonds (or really bondage), beginning with the concession of Dominion Status to the recalcitrant Irish in 1921, and threatening the ‘Jewel in the Crown’, India, which finally gained independence in 1946.

    A Community to End all Wars

    By 1945 World War II had stained the continent with the blood of almost fifty million. Nazi, and to a lesser extent Soviet and other states’, Crimes Against Humanity and Genocide introduced greater ‘national’ homogeneity, with Jews the main victims, but also most of the volksdeutsche were often brutally corralled into the two German states that emerged in the wake of the thirty year conflagration.

    As Europeans drew breath many – including Winston Churchill who coined the term a ‘United States of Europe’[iv] – identified the need for a political entity to safeguard what would have seemed a fragile peace, and confront the encroachment of the Soviet Union – and even the United States. The experience of total war brought by nationalist excesses proved cathartic.

    The European Community, proceeding from the European Coal and Steel Pact of 1951, and culminating in the Treaty of Rome in 1957, might reasonably be held up as the most successful peace process in history, coinciding with, if not incubating, an epoch of unprecedented stability and prosperity for Western Europe at least. Establishing close economic ties could, in the words of French Foreign Minister Robert Schuman, ‘make war not only unthinkable but materially impossible.’[v]

    Seemingly irreconcilable French and Germans, especially, found common cause in rebuilding their countries and raising the standard of living – with the assistance from the United States through the Marshall Plan. A nascent supranational identity eroded the dominant idea of the nation – along with its implicit racial ideas of a distinctive volk – although any pan-European identity relied more on rational construction than emotional identification.

    Vitally, a hybrid ‘social market’ – an accommodation between capitalism and socialism that emerged across post-war Europe – brought, or coincided with, the so-called ‘Miracle on the Rhine’, or Wirtschaftswunder (‘post-war economic miracle’) in Germany, Les Trente Glorieuses (1946-75) in France and Il Miracolo Economico to Italy. Affection for the European project was nourished by the rising living standards of a substantial majority across Western Europe.

    Under conditions where individual states, in general, sheltered citizens from ‘cradle to grave’ from naked market forces, the free movement of goods, services, capital and labour, a Common Market – the defining feature of European Law – worked to the benefit of the majority; at least until the oil shocks of the mid-1970s brought that sustained period of broad-based development to a close, jeopardising an unspoken European social contract.

    The one notable Western European democracy that declined to sign the Treaty of Rome was the U.K.. This ensured the organisation’s legal system was based on the Civil Law tradition of France rather than British Common Law, or a hybrid of both. Importantly also, Charles de Gaulle’s ‘non’ to British membership in 1967, reinforced British exceptionalism: a sense that they were of Europe but not from Europe – an island apart from the continent belonging to an Anglo- or Atlantic- sphere. Thus, when Britain (and Ireland) finally acceded to membership in 1973 it joined an institution whose still recognisable form had already crystallized, and at a less economically dynamic stage in European history.

    Left and Right Opposition

    It is commonly assumed that, from the outset and beyond, it has been the U.K.’s idea of itself as a global Empire that brought aloofness from the European Community.[vi] In fact, a succession of post-war Tory leaders including Winston Churchill, Harold MacMillan, Edward Health, John Major – if not Anthony Eden and Margaret Thatcher, David Cameron and Theresa May to the same extent – have been decidedly pro-European, viewing what became the European Union in 1992 as a guarantor of free trade on the continent. Even the current Tory Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, famously vacillated before urging a ‘leave’ vote in the 2016 Brexit referendum.[vii]

    On the other hand, the Community was initially identified by many on the left in Britain as a Capitalist club, working to the detriment of workers, in cahoots with Uncle Sam. Thus the U.K.’s Post-War Labour government declined an invitation to join the European Coal and Steel Pact in 1951. In response Churchill, then still Tory leader, inveighed against the decision in front of the House of Commons, maintaining that ‘The whole movement of the world is towards an interdependence of nations.’[viii]

    Indeed, from the outset, across Europe, the main opposition to the Community emanated from the radical left, Communist Party and others. But as long as states provided adequately for needy citizens agitation against the Community remained marginal. In the U.K.’s case, the ‘Bennite’[ix] wing of the Labour Party led opposition to membership in 1973, an enduring standpoint in the Party – albeit prominent ‘Bennites’ such as Shadow Chancellor John McDonald now advocate another referendum and a ‘remain’ vote.

    Importantly, the Community’s defining liberalism does not extend to the treatment of the agricultural sector, long protected through trade tariffs and embargos from cheaper exports imports from beyond the continent. To an extent this contradiction was the basis of the Community itself – offering French farmers German prices for their produce brought (or bought) necessary electoral support, as well as guarding against dependence on imports from beyond the continent in the event of another world war.

    The effect has been to preserve millions of small- and medium-sized farms that would otherwise have become commercially unviable. Controversially, however, the Common Agricultural Policy used to suck up to two-thirds of the Community’s budget, and still accounted for almost forty percent in 2018.[x] Moreover, the subsidy regime has proved regressive, rewarding wealthy, including super-wealthy, landowners,[xi] and is insufficiently attentive to the environmental damage of farming systems, including traditional pastoralism that prevents necessary re-afforestation and re-wilding.

    In contrast, the populations of post-industrial regions – ‘rust belts’ – such as the North and Midlands of England, north-east France and elsewhere, have been given little European assistance since much heavy industry has pulled out. Historically these areas offered staunch support for left-wing parties, but loyalties have shifted in recent times, with UKIP and the Brexit Party, as well as the French National Front in particular, gaining traction among working class voters.

    The expansion of the Union into Eastern and Central Europe in the 1990s has also worked to the detriment of these regions, with increased competition for employment in Western Europe, and re-location of multinationals to low-wage Central and Eastern European economies.

    Indeed, the demise of the Soviet Union crippled the ‘hard’ left across the continent, with Communist Parties losing both an important patron, and exemplar. By the 1990s most European socialist parties, including the U.K.’s ‘New’ Labour Party had shifted to a broadly pro-European, and even neo-liberal, outlook.

    An ensuing vacuum has been opportunistically filled by a range of Far Right or nationalist parties, opposed to the supranational Europe project. Populist parties have gained support in economically depressed post-industrial regions, where atavistic appeals are often made to the nation or volk, targeting constituents ill-served by the Common Market.

    Furthermore, since the 1960s most European countries have experienced an influx of overseas migrants, mainly drawn from former colonies. That the Union guarantees the free movement of labour has brought a misleading association with an ensuing multiculturalism. This is despite immigration from beyond Europe being subject to the laws of individuals states, a point affirmed in the Dublin Regulation of 2013 on refugees.[xii] This requires, in most cases, that an asylum seeker’s application is processed in the first EU member state he or she sets foot in.

    Explaining the Referendum Result

    Ironically, it has been elements within the Tory party, the long-standing champion of the free trade the Community brought to the continent, which came to the fore in opposing the Union. The opposition of ‘Shire Tories’ may have come as no surprise, but the referendum also revealed deep antipathy towards the Europe Union in the economically depressed regions of the Midlands and North.[xiii]

    This should have come as no surprise. Since Britain’s entry into the Community heavy industry has continued to depart these regions, helped along by Thatcherite privatisations throughout the 1980s that worked to the benefit of speculators in the City of London. Crucially, the British media focused working class malcontents on the European Union, with constant emphasis on Britain’s heroic role in World War II, and enduring stereotypes of Nazi Germans and cowardly French.

    British working class antipathy towards Europe can also be explained by a lingering – not altogether without foundation – left-wing view that indigenous industry cannot recover under free trade conditions, and without state-aid grants, currently prohibited under European law.

    Moreover, as indicated, the U.K. entered the Community at a stage of economic decline across the continent, and with a sense of unbelonging. Importantly, unlike within the founding states, there is no collective memory to draw on of thirty glorious years of growth and development under European suzerainty.

    Also, the U.K. lay at a remove from the extremes of cathartic bloodletting during World War II. Notwithstanding the experience of the Blitz, and the loss of hundreds-of-thousands of men-under-arms, the country was spared Nazi occupation – the apotheosis of state-sponsored racism.

    Increasingly strident national identities within the U.K. itself now also shape attitudes towards the supra-national institution; on the basis that ‘my enemies enemy is my friend’ Scottish nationalism is identified with a European affiliation, while Northern Ireland Unionism is antipathetic. Thus Brexit signifies, and fuels, a fissuring of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

    Also, strikingly, a majority of English Brexiteers are more concerned with leaving Europe than preserving the Union.[xiv] A willingness to shrink one’s state hardly equates to residual imperialist ambitions.

    Brexit Effect

    It seems Brexit cannot be avoided, and Europe (including the Irish government) should refrain from counter-productive meddling in U.K. politics. Its electorate cast the dye, and recent election results for the European Parliament indicate there are no regrets.[xv] A face-saving resolution can surely be found to the so-called ‘Backstop,’ especially given the U.K. has undertaken to respect the terms of the Common Travel Area,[xvi] allowing for unhindered movement and reciprocal employment opportunities for Irish and U.K. nationals.

    It now appears that both Angela Merkel and Emmanuel Macron have softened their stances on preserving all aspects of the Withdrawal Agreement[xvii], putting it up to the Irish government to offer alternatives. But the uncompromising, and occasionally nationalistic,[xviii] rhetoric of Taoiseach Varadkar and Foreign Minister Coveney leave the minority Irish government vulnerable to attack from current partners Fianna Fáil, and opponents Sinn Féin.

    The total volume of trade between Northern Ireland and the Republic amounted to just over £5 billion in 2016,[xix] suggesting the challenge of equipping the border to check in-coming container traffic is not insurmountable. The key to preventing further Troubles surely lies in addressing the impoverishment and ghettoization of areas such as the Creggan in Derry.

    Of far greater concern for the Republic should be the extent to which trade flows are dependent on the Holyhead ‘land bridge’, rather than through direct links to the continent. Previously, this led to the boorish comment from the new Home Secretary Priti Patel that the threat of food shortages could be used as a weapon in negotiations over the Backstop.[xx]

    Clearly the current Tory leadership, and membership, is hell-bent on ‘delivering’ on Brexit. But their preferred outcome is presumably a compromise deal, but they are at least courting the possibility of crashing out.

    A period beyond the Union would acquaint dyed-in-the-wool Brexiteers – especially those Prosecco-quaffing ‘Shire Tories’ – with a salutary lesson in the perils of life outside a substantial free-trade block. For starters, the prices of many foodstuffs, and beverages, will rise through the weakness of the pound and potential retaliatory tariffs. The Cabinet Office’s leaked Operation Yellowhammer document even anticipates food shortages.[xxi]

    A period of stagflation is on the horizon with many multinational companies poised to pull out. But if a Jeremy Corbyn-led Labour government were to come to power, it would surely introduce state aids to assist fledgling industries, which might flourish under protectionist conditions, with a weak pound conducive to exports. Whether such a regime could resist a tendency towards over-bureaucratization, historically evident in command economies, remains to be seen. But the alternative of business-as-usual in many regions under E.U. is just as unpalatable to many living there.

    Politically, Brexit may finally prompt the U.K. to settle on a written constitution, the absence of which has brewed such confusion, including the latest prorogation of Parliament. Much of the uncertainty around the Brexit referendum, and beyond, is linked to the absence of a clear text explaining the powers of the various arms of government. Ultimately, it seems likely that a majority in the U.K. will wish to return, but for this to happen undue punishment should be avoided.

    How to Save Europe

    If a ‘take it or leave it’ ‘in/out’ vote had been placed before other European electorates in all likelihood some would have chosen to push the exit button too. Even in Ireland – the beneficiary of disproportionate financial supports due to a substantial agricultural sector – two recent referendums on extending the European treaty have yielded negative votes, only reversed after clamorous support from the main political parties and mainstream media.

    Likewise, the French and Dutch electorates rejected the European Constitution in 2005,[xxii] but were ignored, while the populations of both Switzerland and Norway have repeatedly chosen to remain outside.

    As the poet Micheal O’Siadhail put it: ‘Starred blue flag so dutifully raised, / Still not fluttering in our chambered hearts’[xxiii]: Lacking symbols such as a football team to support, or other singular cultural representations, the European Union has not invented a lasting idea of itself beyond its liberal freedoms. These are now associated with a permissive Globalisation benefiting rapacious and tax-avoiding multinational corporations, and often working to the detriment of working people. Moreover, an extensive and exceedingly well-remunerated[xxiv] E.U. bureaucracy is associated with unnecessary red tape – and not only in the U.K..

    The Brexit vote should give rise to profound questioning of the laws and institutions of the E.U.. Lest we forget, European leaders displayed palpable disregard for the welfare of the Greek and Irish populations during their economic crises; as Irish journalist Fintan O’Toole put it in response to Ireland’s EU/IMF Bailout in 2010:

    There is no European solidarity. And there is not even a genuine sense of self-interest. The sadistic pleasures of punishment have trumped the sensible calculation that an Ireland enslaved by debt is not much use to anyone.[xxv]

    A worldwide economic crisis impoverished many parts of the continent, and the E.U. became an agent of a doctrinaire austerity, often to the benefit of speculators.

    What it means to be ‘European’

    For the European Union to develop lasting legitimacy among a new generation – increasingly removed from the bloodletting if the first half of the twentieth century – it needs to be seen to do more than maintain the liberty to move goods, services, capital and labour. It should inspire loyalty by guaranteeing basic socio-economic rights, including inter alia basic sustenance, a dwelling, health and education, and defend human rights violations in countries such as Spain – where draconian measures curb freedom of expression, and have led to outrageous prison sentences being handed down to Catalan separatists for having the temerity to hold a referendum.

    This requires a re-negotiation of the Treaty, along with abandonment of grandiose notions of a European super-state, and army. It could involve the incorporation of the European Convention on Human Rights into E.U. law. We also need to see far greater institutional accountability, with all forms of lobbying being completely transparent, and outlandish salary scales re-assessed. The Commission ought to be democratised, with Commissioners perhaps being elected from a Europe-wide list, instead of positions being in the gift of national governments – resulting in political ‘fixers’ such as our own Commissioner Phil Hogan being promoted without democratic oversight.

    Far greater burden- (and benefit-) sharing of refugees is also required – meaning the Dublin Regulation should be scrapped. This would take pressure of states such as Italy and Greece that have had to accommodate a disproportionate share.

    Our ‘European’ identity should be disentangled from blood and a Judeo-Christian heritage; instead being a European should be equated with taking pride in one’s region’s culture and history, while holding a curiosity for others, available to visit via a continental rail network that is a unifying-symbol of progress. To this end, legislation offering all eighteen-year-old-Europeans a free Inter-rail pass is to be lauded.[xxvi]

    A European identity should become modern in the sense of understanding global environmental responsibilities; along with recognising that a certain income threshold is required for human flourishing, beyond which gains are marginal.

    A failure to reform is likely to result in a ‘Brexit Domino Effect’, with states such as Italy, Hungary and Poland succumbing to Populist, anti-EU political parties. A progressive supra-national alternative to inward-looking nationalism must be offered, but if states are unwilling to accede to a greater focus on environmental protection, human rights, income support and inclusivity then these should be permitted to leave, or be shown the door, and face the harsh realities of life outside the Union, just like the U.K..

    There is much worth saving about the European ideal. In particular, as we stare down the barrel of an environmental crisis threatening humanity’s very survival, we require an E.U.-led Green New Deal, including reform to the CAP so as to make it more equitable and focused on environmental protection.

    Europe can be a beacon to the rest of the world, and the development of a symbiotic relationship with nature can inspire a new generation, countering obsolete nationalist ideas of racial belonging.

    Let us leave the light on also, and the door ajar, to allow the U.K. to return, whether United or not.

    If you enjoyed this article you might consider purchasing our new hard copy Cassandra Voices II.

    Become a part of the Cassandra Voices community through a monthly donation on Patreon.

    [i] [/efn_note]Viscount Grey of Fallodon: Twenty-Five Years 1892–1916, New York, 1925, p. 20[/efn_note]

    [ii] At least in name. There were also German, Ruthenian (Ukrainian) and Hungarian minorities, as well as Jews drawn from different nationalities, along with a substantial partially nomadic Romany community.

    [iii] Benedict Anderson Imagined communities: reflections on the origin and spread of nationalism, London, Verso, 1983, pp.6-7.

    [iv] Boris Johnson, The Churchill Factor: How One Made History, Hodder, London, 2015, p.301

    [v] ‘The Schuman Declaration’ May 9th, 1950, https://europa.eu/european-union/about-eu/symbols/europe-day/schuman-declaration_en.

    [vi] Ishaan Tharoor, ‘Britain clings to imperial nostalgia as Brexit looms’, Washington Post, January 4th, 2019, https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/2019/01/04/britain-clings-imperial-nostalgia-brexit-looms/.

    [vii] ‘Jessica Elgtot, Secret Boris Johnson column favoured UK remaining in EU’, The Guardian, October 16th, 2016. https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2016/oct/16/secret-boris-johnson-column-favoured-uk-remaining-in-eu

    [viii] Ibid, Johnson, p.300.

    [ix] Followers of the Labour politician Anthony Neil Wedgwood Benn 1925-2014.

    [x] ‘Common Agricultural Policy: Key graphs & figures’ https://ec.europa.eu/agriculture/sites/agriculture/files/cap-post-2013/graphs/graph1_en.pdf, European Commission, July, 2019.

    [xi] George Monbiot, ‘The one good thing about Brexit? Leaving the EU’s disgraceful farming system’, The Guardian, October 10th, 2018, https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/oct/10/brexit-leaving-eu-farming-agriculture.

    [xii] Regulation (EU) No 604/2013, https://eur-lex.europa.eu/legal-content/EN/ALL/?uri=CELEX:32013R0604

    [xiii] Untitled, ‘EU Referendum Results’, Financial Times, 2016, https://ig.ft.com/sites/elections/2016/uk/eu-referendum/

    [xiv] Frank Armstrong ‘An Irish Poet Attains Greatness’, Cassandra Voices, August 31st, 2018, http://cassandravoices.com/history/an-irish-poet-attains-greatness/.

    [xv] Ashley Kirk and Josh Wilson, ‘EU election UK results and maps: Brexit Party wins nine of 12 regions, Lib Dems triumph in London’, The Telegraph, May 28th, 2019, https://www.telegraph.co.uk/politics/2019/05/28/european-eu-election-results-2019-uk-maps-brexit-party/

    [xvi] Untitled, ‘Johnson tells Varadkar that Common Travel Area will remain after Brexit’, August 20th, 2019, RTÉ, https://www.rte.ie/news/ireland/2019/0819/1069694-varadkar-johnson/.

    [xvii] Katya Adler, ‘Brexit: Is EU softening over Withdrawal Agreement?’, BBC August 27th, 2019, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-49475117.

    [xviii] Juno McEnroe, ‘Varadkar: United Ireland possible in hard Brexit’, Irish Examiner, July 27th, 2019, https://www.irishexaminer.com/breakingnews/ireland/varadkar-united-ireland-possible-in-hard-brexit-939785.html.

    [xix] Untitled, ‘Trade across the Irish border’, February 26th, 2018, Fullfact, https://fullfact.org/europe/irish-border-trade/

    [xx] Untitled, ‘Patel comments on no-deal Brexit in Ireland criticised’, BBC, December 7th, 2018, https://www.bbc.com/news/amp/world-europe-46488479.

    [xxi] Rowena Mason, ‘No-deal Brexit: key points of Operation Yellowhammer report’, The Guardian, August 18th, 2019, https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2019/aug/18/no-deal-brexit-key-points-of-operation-yellowhammer-report.

    [xxii] Untitled, ‘Dutch say ‘devastating no’ to EU constitution’, The Guardian, June 2nd, 2005, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2005/jun/02/eu.politics

    [xxiii] Frank Armstrong ‘An Irish Poet Attains Greatness’, Cassandra Voices, August 31st, 2018, http://cassandravoices.com/history/an-irish-poet-attains-greatness/

    [xxiv] Bruno Waterfield, ‘10,000 European Union officials better paid than David Cameron’ The Telegraph, 21 May, 2014, https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/eu/10847979/10000-European-Union-officials-better-paid-than-David-Cameron.html

    [xxv] Fintan O’Toole, ‘Abysmal deal ransoms us and disgraces Europe’, Irish Times, 29th of November, 2010, https://www.irishtimes.com/opinion/abysmal-deal-ransoms-us-and-disgraces-europe-1.683289

    [xxvi] Alexander Sims, ‘EU plans to give free Interrail pass to every 18-year-old in Europe on their birthday’, The Independent, September 30th, 2016, https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/interrail-passes-free-eu-parliament-debate-europe-train-tickets-a7339466.html.

  • Musician of the Month: Kiruu

    Music is like a home. A country. A tribe. A religion or faith. You can’t see it, yet it is real, and has tangible effects. It brings people together. Or it pushes them apart. It creates groups and sub-groups through inclusion or othering. It provokes love and friendship and connection. It reaches into the core of a person and can save or break them. It makes people dress in certain ways and talk with certain accents or lexica. It is a mechanism, or a process. It is a medium, just like water or air, through which energy can travel.

    I write on the day of the digital release of my first full-length Album, ‘Super Feo Express’, a body of work that spans twelve years of composing and which took three years to produce. It is a defining moment for me as a musician and person, so before going into further detail about the album, it is worth recalling some other defining moments that precluded this one.

    Alongside Baobab bandmates in Valencia, Spain.

    It’s the mid 1990’s. I’m 12 years old and at boarding school in Kenya. I’m nervously awaiting my slot in a piano recital. I play Mozart’s Sonata Facile in C. I nail it and I feel for the first time the buzz of an audience connecting with my sounds. It is a defining moment.

    It’s 2013. I’m standing on a stage in the sweltering heat of Dar Es Salaam, before a crowd of thousands of rowdy and impatient, and mostly male, youngsters. ‘Bongo Fleva’ (Swahili pop) stars have been gyrating sexily to backing tracks most of the day. Many have been booed off stage. My guitar stops working. In a panic, I sing Sikupendi acapella. By the end of the song. I’ve won round about sixty percent of the crowd. The other forty percent want to throw things at me just as they’ve done to everyone else. It is beyond bizarre. It is a defining moment.

    At the Coca Cola festival in Coco Beach, Dar Es Salaam.

    It’s 2009. I’m playing in Eamon Dorans, Dublin with my band, Caracoles. It’s a night full of rather sombre ‘alternative rock’ and experimental sounds. They are wonderful, if sad. But the audience gets up spontaneously and starts dancing and grooving to one of our new, more upbeat songs, ‘Fading Pain’. I am struck by the range of emotions and responses music can provoke, even in a crowd that is ‘into’ darker music. It is a defining moment.

    I’m sat in a flat in Valencia in 2013 glued to the news that the Islamist group Al Shabaab has attacked a shopping centre in Nairobi. My partner’s pregnant friend has been shot. Her lost child’s is named Shivani. A song is born out from the vicarious anguish of knowing that she will not be born. It gushes out, like a lament. I name it ‘Shivani’ after her. I sing it for hours and hours, amid tears. It is a defining moment.

    It’s 2004. My first ever band, ‘To Show This Idea’ plays our final show in the U.K. before I move back to Tanzania, and eventually back to Ireland, after four years in Leeds. The venue is our own basement. My brother, who would be the last person to compliment me on my music, approaches after the show full of enthusiasm, and says: ‘My god Kieran that was fantastic, I’m so surprised.’ It is a defining moment.

    It’s 2014. I’m touring with a band called Solana through Europe. We stop in Calais at the makeshift migrant camp where people from everywhere have gathered. Many are traumatized, some from war torn countries, all displaced. That night we play an unplugged gig for them all. After playing my song ‘Equinox’, I break into Bob Marley’s ‘Buffalo Soldier,’ and everyone starts to jam along. The audience lights up. The refrain ‘Woy yoy yoy!’ sees everyone start singing together. Smiles all around. This was a defining moment.

    These moments sit amid countless others that any musician will have had. Being a musician means having the job of looking after this medium; holding the responsibility to use it wisely. Creating music is working within the same medium, world, or space. Every musician will have their own particular approach to this.

    In my case, I’m yet to grasp fully how I create songs and music, because it seems to happen differently every time. I think that my lyrics mostly come from observation and enquiry, and the music behind (or in front of) them mostly comes from reaction or response. The songs on the ‘Super Feo Express’ album tell the story of over twelve years of composing, performing, and collaborating in bands and musical projects on four continents. Musically, the songs are responses to the musical contexts I found myself in.

    Recording ‘Super Feo Express’ has been arduous and has taken a long time partly due to huge personal challenges along the way that delayed the process. It includes the work of around fifteen wonderful musicians, mostly based in Dublin but hailing from all around the world. It has taken three years, but it is here, and it is done. And I am honoured to share it with the world.

    At the Síocháin launch in BelloBar, Dublin, in 2017.

    I am also thrilled that I’ll be presenting the album’s physical manifestations (CD and Vinyl) with a full band live gig at Lost Lane on September 24th. I hope reading about my background has sparked curiosity and I will see you there. You will also find the album on Spotify, Bandcamp, Soundcloud, among other digital sites.

    Jack Kerouac once said: ‘The only truth is music.’ I believe that I have been able to express myself truthfully in the ‘Super Feo Express’ album, and it is my hope that listeners will be able to appreciate that.

  • Artist of the Month: Gerard Dowling

    What one leaves behind. I guess a lot of stuff. If over the last few years you have passed Bloom’s Lane, just across the Millennium Bridge on the north side of the River Liffey, you may have noticed a familiar figure. Sometimes standing on the bridge, other times reading from a bundle of newspapers and taking coffee in front of one of the four Italian joints adorning this little square, carved out by Mike Wallace in the early 00s.

    The big black coat only came off on rare summer days, and with a wide-brimmed black hat ever-present, he earned the nickname: ‘the Zorro of the Liffey’.

    This was Gerard Dowling, the Dublin artist mainly known for his twenty-year, controversial residence on 47 Middle Abbey Street, a four-story Georgian townhouse, right in the heart of the north inner city. He lived out his afternoons and evenings in this new part of town, full of recently-arrived Dublin residents; an aspect not to be overlooked, considering Gerard’s peculiar preference for solitude. He shunned empty pub conversations.

    Anyone who knew Gerard also knew where and when to find him: from 3pm in the Italian Quarter, any day of the week. After that, as the restaurants closed, he would say ‘ciao’, and proceed swiftly south across the bridge, towards his last residence in Harold’s Cross. Gerard was going to work.

    His life was a puzzle to those who knew the many ambiances he lived simultaneously among. Between his studio residence and the Italian restaurants, the bottom of the Liffey at low tide, or Focus Ireland in Temple Bar where he lunched every day, his unusual appearance made him a target of curiosity, at times openly unwelcomed.

    Originally from Ballyfermot, he entered a seminary at the age of fifteen. It was the quickest way to get out of school he said. Despite this being his choice, it was, nonetheless, a period in his life he only talked about reluctantly.

    Bit-by-bit, combining precious skills learned from an inventive father (including welding, metal-work and photography), with a lifelong capacity as an autodidact, he developed into the audacious artist frequenters of his atelier knew so well.

    He moved to London in 1969 with a desire to interact with the arts scene around Carnaby Street and Piccadilly. He wound up working as an Underground train driver, lasting two months on the job before he was sacked for smoking dope. Two years later he was back in Dublin for a brief period of time, before setting off to Paris. There he enjoyed success as a jewellery designer, working for the likes of Givenchy and Bijou Fantasies.

    Returning to 1980s Dublin, he attempted, unsuccessfully, to keep going with jewellery design; in the basement of that famous house on Abbey Street, which prior to him taking up residence there had served as his father’s place of business.

    In an Evening Press article from February 9th, 1990, he complained: ‘Thieves are robbing me of livelihood’, after a spate of robberies left him without many of his tools.

    As time went by, with other tenants leaving the premises and not being replaced, he slowly made use of the upper floors. Eventually he had the whole building to himself, which was perfectly suited to producing and exhibiting his unique works of art.

    Most of his work was recycled art, reminiscent of Marcel Duchamp’s ‘ready-made’ pieces; an artistic direction he would have encountered regularly in Paris and London, but which was extremely scarce, if non-existent, on the Dublin scene at the time.

    In the early 1990s he would regularly climb down to the River Liffey bed at low tide, also using a small raft, improvised with his father out of two Volkswagen Beetle bonnets. He would rescue various leftovers the city had spat out, from what he referred to as ‘the cradle of Dublin.’

    There he found: traffic cones, bicycle parts, fragments of the Halfpenny Bridge, record players, and shopping trolleys. He once publicly complained about the danger posed by those trolleys to inner city kids diving into the river. But mainly he was exposing environmental neglect. The river had become an endless dump for raw materials, now at his disposal, reflecting the city above’s social and economic characteristics.

    He often remarked on the increasing pile-up of mobile phones, and even wedding rings, discarded after break-ups.

    By then 47 Middle Abbey Street had become, in fact, one of the very few remaining non-institutionalised art spaces. Many recall various parties and openings regularly taking place on its different levels, largely ignored by Ireland’s official art societies and institutions.

    Institutions would, however, eventually take notice of Gerard Dowlling. After a misunderstanding with ‘The Sculpture Society of Ireland’ (now known as‘Visual Artists Ireland’) in 1991, when a dilapidated bicycle covered in seaweed and barnacles hanging from the front of the house was mistakenly assumed by journalists to belong to the Society’s official Sculpture Trail. But Gerard vehemently denied any participation.

    The furore placed his residency on Middle Abbey Street under scrutiny. Dublin City Council, and private interests, were eager to take possession of a valuable property. At the time Dublin was gearing up for the big sell-offs of property, paving the way for the Celtic Tiger, and becoming more and more of consumer society. This early plunder of the city’s architectural, social and artistic heritage passed unobserved by most.

    It led to a ten-year-long legal battle, pitting the artist against Dublin City Council. It ended seven-years-ago with Gerard forced out of the premises, although he did receive financial compensation as part of a settlement.

    Over that time, he also contended with mental health issues, mainly derived from his sister’s murder during the 1970s, a trauma he was only able to speak about openly in recent times, along with other episodes from his youth, which he usually attributed to ‘bullying.’ Despite these challenges, Gerard never stopped working on his art, even up until his last days.

    Artist Gerard Dowling hangs from a harness painting the outside of his house in Dublin City Centre, entitle”Tsunami Now”. 21/5/2005 Photo Photocall Ireland

    From being fined for painting bubble gum onto footpaths, to highlighting Dublin’s decay, and assembling massive sculptures made from traffic cones; or adorning barbed-wire Christmas trees with abandoned soothers, and using debris from motor cars to form African-inspired masks, his aesthetics never ceased to evolve. He never settled in a comfort zone derived from the guidelines seemingly accompanying contemporary art exhibitions.

    In the midst of that variety of forms, and styles, certain motifs recur. From his jewellery design he developed and enhanced fractal-like-Celtic-motifs, which reached a height expression in a collection of twelve paintings, or collages, produced over the last twenty years.

    [Best_Wordpress_Gallery id=”52″ gal_title=”Gerard Dowling Article”]

     

    His late work reveals an abiding love of science, particularly the concept of energy conservation, and anthropological studies of prehistoric tools seen as the origin of human expression. He produced miniature dolmen-like structures, carving in stone to create perfect surfaces for each to be stacked on top of the other.

    [Best_Wordpress_Gallery id=”54″ gal_title=”Gerard Dowling Article II”]

    Powder resulting from the process was combined with glue and napkins – pilfered from the Italian restaurants – forms five square pieces of sculptural-relief, resembling volcanic landscapes. Together with varied photographic images and an array of newspaper clippings, it surveys a life spent on the verge of notoriety.

    I like to remember what cannot be left behind materially. One of Gerard’s favourite recent activities over long afternoons spent in the Italian Quarter had been to draw convoluted patters with chalk on the pavement of the Square. Stepping back, he liked to observe who would walk and thus ruin his drawings; or those sensitive souls who would take notice of them, and kindly offer his ephemeral shapes a slight extension to their lives; at least until the first rain shower, or the incessant flow of early morning commuters.

    ©Andrea Romano

    Feature Image: Julien Behal Photography

  • Occupied Territories Bill: Government Defies Dáil Majority Leaving the Jaber Family to their Fate

    On a crisp, sunny morning in Hebron in January of this year my friend Atta Jaber tells me: ‘The settlers have what they wanted and Randina sits on a chair.’

    Atta resembles a Kerry farmer, one in particular comes to mind: the late Sam Brown from Maharees in West Kerry. He is sinewy, with a mahogany-coloured face, and a mischievous twinkle in dark Arabic eyes, revealing a profound gentleness of soul.

    Atta is also a farmer, whose family land of fifty-eight dunums (one acre is the equivalent of four dunam) spans both sides of Route 60, outside Hebron in the West Bank. This land is his vocation and passion, and the overwhelming source of the family’s food.

    His wife Randina used to work on the land from 5am every morning. He confides: ‘Randina has green fingers and made everything grow!’

    Today, Atta’s farm house has only four metres of land surrounding it and some eight dunums at the bottom of a steep hill. The white plastic chairs outside the back door are still there for chat, tea and cigarettes in the sun. But the soul of the Jabers has been uprooted. Randina sits on a chair now for long periods of time. The state of Israel has confiscated forty-eight of the fifty-six dunums of which they own the title deeds.

    I first met Atta in early January, 2010, while volunteering with EAPPI in Hebron. We received a call from him saying settlers had arrived in three large buses, and were on his land with picks and shovels, guns slung over their shoulders.

    As ever with settler incursions and attacks, they were accompanied by heavily armed Israeli military personnel. In randomly banging their picks and shovels into the ground, they were making a statement: Atta’s land was now their land. One teenage settler shouted out to say I was a Nazi.

    Later, while discussing what happened, Atta rhetorically asked: ‘Why did Randina marry me? What kind of a life does she have here with me?’

    The family home had been occupied by either settlers or the Israeli army on three separate occasions by 2010. During one period, the family was permitted to remain in a part of their home, while the military occupied the rest.

    In the intervening years the settlers continued to display a sense of entitlement over the land, which they claim Abraham gave to the Jewish people. Year after year they ripped out the Jaber family’s irrigation pipes; then they trampled on the crops.

    Atta and Randina would repair and re-plant, again and again and again. The land was the source of their food after all.

    In the last two years three members of Jaber’s family have seen their homes on the land bulldozed and demolished. One of Atta’s brothers now rents an apartment in Hebron city. His food and income has disappeared.

    Forty-eight of the original fifty-six dunams have been seized by the state of Israel. Parts of the remaining Jaber land can only be accessed with an Israeli permit. The last time they worked that part they required a permit for access. They went ahead and planted the ground, and continued to water it, but were then denied a permit when it came to the harvest. The produce was seized by settlers, which could have easily found its way onto an Irish dinner plate.

    The remaining eight dunams accessible to the Jabers lies at the bottom of a hill. Randina has developed asthma and is unable to walk the route. That illness also means she cannot be prescribed other medication to ease a damaged soul. Randina sits silently and for long periods now, and as Atta says goodbye he adds: ‘I stand beside her.’

    As I am leaving, Atta then tells me he is returning home to tend to his newly planted cauliflower crop on the remaining eight dunums. I said I hoped they would become really, really big cauliflowers. What more could I say? I wish I could help him get his land back, but only the combined will of the governments of the world have the power to bring that about.

    Atta and Randina have a deep and enduring love for one another, but the land sustaining their bodies and souls has been brutally seized by the state of Israel.

    This is the human impact of illegal settlements on the Palestinian West Bank, and not an isolated case. Since the U.N. Declaration in 1949 establishing the state of Israel, dividing Palestine in half, Palestinians were left with 22% of their former land.[i] That proportion of historic Palestine was allocated by the U.N. to other Arab states, Jordan and Egypt – the areas of Gaza and the West Bank. These lands, and more, were conquered by Israel during the Six-Day-War of 1967, but were not incorporated into Israel proper.

    Under the Oslo Accords of 1993, Palestinian land was further divided into Areas A, B and C. A part of the West Bank, known as Area C, is now under full Israeli military and civil control. This comprises 60% of the original 22% of land allocated to the indigenous population. Area B is under Palestinian administrative control, but Israeli military occupation.

    Accordingly, advocating for a ‘Two-State Solution’ is now empty rhetoric. The land is being taken, inch-by-inch, and the governments of the world do nothing to prevent Israel’s ongoing violation of international law and human rights.

    Yet according to the Geneva Convention an occupying state cannot move its citizens into the land it occupies. [ii] There are now over six-hundred thousand Israeli citizens living on the Palestinian West Bank.[iii] Indeed, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu plans to annex settlements in the West Bank into the state of Israel.[iv]

    An effective non-violent response is urgently needed.

    The Seanad and Dáil recently passed the Control of Economic Activity (Occupied Territories) Bill 2018.[v] Despite a resounding 75 to 45 majority, with all Opposition Parties voting in favour, Fine Gael voted against this Bill and it is understood they will use the controversial ‘Money Message’ procedure to block it.

    This procedure has been employed in recent times to block a number of Private Member’s Bills. It is clearly undemocratic and potentially unconstitutional.

    Its use also exposes tacit support for Israel’s breach of International Law and human rights. This is consistent with the Irish State’s failure to exchange diplomatic accreditation with the State of Palestine, despite the Dáil and Seanad voting unanimously for recognition in 2014.

    Yet this failure of democracy in Ireland pales in comparison with the tyrannical treatment meted out to Atta Jaber and his family.

     

    Do you think this piece is valuable? If so, you might consider providing us with financial support via Patreon, or simply pay us a small sum directly using PayPal: admin@cassandravoices.com. Thanks for supporting independent journalism. Subscribe for free to our monthly newsletter here. 

    Gerry delivers Certified Professional Mediation Training that is accredited by the Mediators’ Institute of Ireland. She has delivered conflict and mediation training internationally with U.S. based Lawyers Without Borders, in partnership with the Director of Training from CEDR, U.K., and she is also an externally employed trainer with CEDR U.K. Gerry is a member of the Mediators Beyond Borders Consultants Team. She is a panel member with One Resolve and delivers mediation training under their auspices. Gerry was involved in the development of the Level 8 Certificate in Mediation training programme in the Law Faculty of Griffith College and she was invited to be the senior lecturer in that programme. She also delivered mediation training for the University of Limerick’s, “Masters in Peace and Development” programme. Gerry has written ‘The Mediator’s Toolkit: Formulating and Asking Questions for Successful Outcomes’, and it is published by New Society Publishing, Canada.

    [i] See: United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), https://www.ochaopt.org/sites/default/files/the_west_bank_including_east_jerusalem_and_the_gaza_strip_jan_2019.pdf

    [ii] GENEVA CONVENTION (IV) RELATIVE TO THE PROTECTION OF CIVILIAN PERSONS IN TIME OF WAR (GENEVA CONVENTION IV) Article 49, https://ihl-databases.icrc.org/ihl/COM/380-600056?OpenDocument or

    https://www.un.org/ruleoflaw/files/Geneva%20Convention%20IV.pdf

    [iii] ‘Btselem’, ‘Statistics on Settlements and Settler Population’, The Israeli Information Center for Human Rights in the Occupied Territories, Updated January 19th, 2019, https://www.btselem.org/settlements/statistics

    [iv] Oliver Holmes, ‘Netanyahu vows to annex Jewish settlements in occupied West Bank’, April 19th, 2019, The Guardian, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/apr/07/netanyahu-vows-to-annexe-jewish-settlements-in-occupied-west-bank,

    [v] https://www.oireachtas.ie/en/bills/bill/2018/6/

  • Musician of the Month: Fin Divilly

    Over seven years ago, I moved to an old house on Liffey Street having lived in various Dublin suburbs. I was 25 years of age and in the heart of Dublin city. Quickly the opportunity to make music my livelihood was upon me. I was now living on the circuit that could pay me to sing in bars and clubs.

    I still have pleasant flashbacks of coming home from school and while the rest of the family weren’t home, I could play soul and rock’n’roll; ceol loudly and bounce around the kitchen with a broom as a mic stand. Rocking my prepubescent balls off, I dreamed I was Iggy Pop or Al Green. A career began.

    I took every gig available and I learned the absolute strengths and weaknesses of musical prostitution. Meanwhile I could party my arse off, write whatever music I liked, in my own time. The next five-years would be a unique apprenticeship. I was student and master. My mind became a crazy FUCKIN classroom.

    My body on its own is just flesh

    Smelly when it’s used, balmy when it’s fresh

    Playful when it’s bruised while love is how it hardens you

    I am very passionate and often too serious about music. At times, I do forget simply to enjoy the experiences that I have, and live in the moment. Like anyone else, that is something for me to deal with in time.

    So much of what people generally care about is not a primary concern of mine. Pride in possessions, voting with tradition and buying upon demand are a few of life’s regular fruits that I have not yet found an appetite for. I am surrounded by shops but I rarely go inside. I have never voted as I don’t see real structural change happening as a result. It’s a rotten economic system of greed and bland reactive politics, from both sides, with a more and more middle of the road agenda for society.

    The fact that individualism is generally dedicated to easy and safe goals makes me sad and angry. I’m interested in affecting the real lives that I can actually experience around me. To love and hate things and people whenever. I want people to be more open about things that matter: distribution of wealth, the demise of civil liberties, drug taking, sex etc., etc. I write from those conversations.

    ‘You said slut! Now apologise! What you say it for?

    Turn that word on yourself, see what you’re aiming for!’

    To make a living, I perform other people’s songs with the addition of some of my own music. Wednesday nights are in the Dame Tavern alongside the inimitable violinist and composer Gareth Quinn Redmond. Other weeknights I play on my own in a variety of city centre bars and beyond. On weekends, I sing and go bananas with the mighty fine cover band ‘Bangers & Cash’. That is my proudest exercise; developing my voice and ability to rock a room. I also do so much climbing, dancing and running around that it now counts as a sport. I pay the rent.

    My body clock is set for a race

    While we’re just some cum sample the universe has gargled

    Left between the legs of an accidental country

    I wrote and released my first solo album ‘Liffey Street’ in late 2017. It’s a brief blend of songs spanning my time here and the endless noisy circus of life around me. I have a very personal attachment to my work but am proud to share my observations with anyone who cares to listen.

    As an avid daydreamer, I have romantic visions of life but I prefer to then find the most direct and honest means of describing things. Having only performed these songs live a couple of times, I have decided to continue writing more music privately, with the aim of building a band under my name that can enjoy much more diverse material to play with than just one album’s worth.

    Most days I can’t stand to sit and wait

    Nobody has a head on someone else

    The body alone is in no shape for horniness

    or “common” sense

    Just loneliness

    While I have this broader aim to create more solo work, my growing admiration and relationship with the poet John Cummins led me to begin writing music around his words and with the addition of two great friends David Meany and Jonathan Jude, we developed the group Shakalak. It is the most exciting and sincerely original group I have ever played in. Our personalities, style and humour make Shakalak both common sensical and unique. We talk and write about what we know and play our instruments with every respect for that.

    The boom is back boys, the boom is back

    The boom is back babe, the boom is back

    Let’s all grab a crane and fuck it all up again

    I feel lucky to have the life I do. So much so that excitement and big mood swings can sometimes make me anxious and doubt if I’m capable of keeping this rebellious lifestyle going.

    I don’t collect the dole and I don’t earn enough to pay tax. I have great independence and occasional bouts of terrifying loneliness. I work FUCKIN hard and I party harder.

    That novelty is wearing off as I find myself joyfully craving the peace of the outdoors more and more, and adventure without the arm of drink and drugs holding me from late bar to early house. I have been hired, fired and heartbroken. I am a punk in a zebra coat. Black and white.

    The quays are these arteries that flow through me

    As Dublin and my mother must breathe me in

    With less boundaries between private and public life

    I’ve come to have no real respect for traffic lights

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  • Albert Camus and the Decline of the Public Intellectual

    But again, and again there comes a time in history when the man who dares to say that two and two make four is punished with death.
    Albert Camus, The Plague.

    Periodically, I am asked about the relationship between law and literature. Therefore, it came as no surprise to be sent a book on that theme, The Meursault Investigation (2013) by the Algerian writer Kamel Daoud. It is a rebuke to the greatest Algerian, or indeed French, writer of the last century, Albert Camus, and in particular his classic novel of 1942, The Outsider.

    In fact, Daoud’s account can be read as a form of homage to Camus’s seminal work, taking as it does the murdered Arab as its lynchpin. Nonetheless, there is an implicit critique of Camus’s putative racism or imperialism, or at best, a lack of empathy for the individual killed.

    It is most decidedly not univocally hostile, insofar as Daoud – himself the subject of a religious fatwa in his native land – clearly despises what Camus in effect warned against: the rise of extremism, whether religious or secular, as is the theme of his historical novel The Rebel (1952), set during the French Revolution.

    Daoud’s book concludes with an idea Camus himself would surely have approved of: how to hold on to the precious commodity of truth? This is a subject dear to my heart too as a practising criminal defence barrister.

    There have been other condemnations of Camus. Richard Posner, for instance, argues:

    Not only is the Arab victim left nameless, Arab customs and culture are occluded. Mosques, souks, Arabic, the milling throngs of Arabs in the street all are ignored even though Arabs outnumbered Europeans in French Algeria by more than ten to one.[i]

    Edward Said also claims that Camus implicitly accepted French control over Algeria in Culture and Imperialism. But to my mind these assessments fall far wide of the mark, and fail to acknowledge the great humanity of the author.

    Marxist Critique

    Marxist extremists such as Jean-Paul Sartre and his partner Simone de Beauvoir also crucified Camus over this perceived failing. De Beauvoir’s 1960 autobiography, The Prime of Life, expressed a cold-blooded contempt for Camus, seemingly for his independence of mind, and ideas beyond the cult.

    I consider Sartre a mediocre philosopher and terrible writer, and view de Beauvoir’s offerings only marginally superior, at least in her feminist tracts. I find her novels uninteresting. In contrast, Camus’s singular voice is both philosophically, and in literary terms, of far greater importance, then and now.

    I believe Camus was the defining, and greatest, public intellectual of the last century. More to the point, he is far from obsolescent or useless. In fact his ideas are more relevant than ever. As Daoud’s timely book suggests, he has come right back into focus. So let us address why much of the criticisms directed against him, including those from a position of disappointed absolutism, are wide of the mark.

    Camus’s career was meteoric, but short-lived, dying in a car crash at the age of just forty-three, after becoming the youngest, or second youngest after Rudyard Kipling, recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature.

    Berta Vias-Mahou’s recent work They Were Coming for Him is suffused with premonitions of mortality, and a suggestion in the coda that the car crash would not be an accident, but an assassination by his enemies, who were at that stage plentiful.

    It is the story of a man who has taken a stand against violence, the death penalty, and terrorism, and has his life threatened as a result, and even goes on to die in an attack that is arranged to look like a straightforward accident.[ii]

    His career consisted, in substance, of three great, but short, novels together with several plays and political tracts, along with numerous journalistic pieces. This output may seem paltry, but as ever, quantity wins out over quality. Each novel is a masterpiece in its own right that has stood the test of time, and the political tracts are rich in philosophical insight, condensing multitudes. The plays are less garlanded, but worthwhile nonetheless.

    In literary terms much was achieved, including that last incomplete work of fiction released by his widow long after his death. The First Man (1994) thus acts as a coda and summation of his greatness, and is set in sultry Algeria, his country of origin. The manuscript was actually rescued from the car crash, and explains a hurried journey to a publisher in icy, mid-winter conditions.

    It should also be noted that Albert Camus was a Pied Noir, a nickname for the French community of Algeria, doubly despised by mainland French and the indigenous Islamic population of Algeria.

    Still today, Pied Noir is a term of abuse, as I once discovered in a hat shop in the south of France, when the owner mistook me for one – a poor, dispossessed Frenchman. This antipathy is also evident in The First Man.

    Hatred of Camus was also linked to his quixotic lifestyle as They Were Coming For Him reveals. Purists, Communist or religious, take exception to the tradition of the cosmopolitan intellectual he represents.

    The Figure of the Public Intellectual

    If Camus is to be defined a great public intellectual this leads to the question: what is a public intellectual, and what benefits does this increasingly rare breed confer?

    A public intellectual is not an academic as such. In his time, as now, the world is full of specialist academics operating in their silos. Specialisation brings a tendency to focus exclusively on one or two matters, leaving no room for the big picture. In contrast, the public intellectual is a generalist and synthesiser.

    Today, compartmentalisation has reached dizzying levels. The proliferation of often useless non-directional research, with the requirements to publish or perish, creates careers equivalent to battery hens producing eggs. The role of the academic as a generalist, and popular communicator, has been almost completely extinguished.

    Above all, it seems to me, a public intellectual should be a communicator. He or she makes complex ideas accessible, stretching the public’s insights, and shocking them if necessary, but never unnecessarily complicating matters, or dressing them up in excessive verbiage or pomposity.

    Take the last two truly great Anglo-American intellectuals, Gore Vidal and Christopher Hitchens. Hitchens was a superb journalist, but it is said that as you read him you always hear him speaking, for above all he was a formidable debater and public speaker, even whilst under the influence.

    Unlike Hitchens somewhat bombastic style, Camus communicates in crisp and lyrical prose. Also, importantly, he was an ordinary, even working class, French Algerian, and never forgot where he came from, and nor was he allowed to.

    In contrast, Gore Vidal spoke with the plummy dismissiveness and engrained intellectual contempt, of the Brahmin. By all accounts his personality was insufferable, which is apparent in a debate with perhaps a progenitor of American neo-conservatism, the devilishly witty William F. Buckley. Indeed I encountered Vidal’s brusqueness myself when I sought an audience in his Italian villa!

    The debate between Buckley and Vidal prior to the 1968 Presidential election returns us to another planet of true intellectual discourse. It is interesting to note that Buckley, whose views I find obnoxious, comes across as the more personable character than Vidal. I heartily recommend the documentary ‘Best of Enemies’ (2019) to find out more.

    Both Vidal and Hitchens, however, pale in comparison with Camus, who won a Nobel prize for his literary work. Vidal certainly, and Hitchens to a lesser extent, were great journalists, acerbic and pointed, but both lacked the secular seriousness, humanism and depth of Camus.

    While Camus might not regale a dinner party with the same panache as Hitchens, or have the same capacity for anecdote as Vidal, there is a unstinting logic and, above all, deep-seated humanism in his writing.

    Rivals Among Contemporaries

    There are many great writers of fiction who cannot be classified as intellectuals – although they may be celebrities. For instance, F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote one of the greatest novels of the twentieth century, but even allowing for Edmund Wilson’s comment that he could never write a bad sentence, his philosophical insights, except in a yearning, American way, are non-existent.

    The Great Gatsby is a simple parable on the self-delusion of the American Dream. A far better and more videogenic vehicle for the true dystopia of the American dream is found in Mamet’s play ‘Glengarry Glen Ross’. (1984), where the American Dream descends into the cut-throat competition of avid materialistic salesmen.

    It should be added that Fitzgerald, in his epiphanic manner, argued that the sign of a great and first-rate mind was to keep ‘two inconsistent and contradictory ideas in his head at the same time’, which, ironically, encapsulates the ability of Camus.

    Unlike Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway was thought of as a man of ideas and action. But obsessions with bullfighting, machismo, war-making and fishing are not evidence of profound thinking, albeit these relate to important questions over masculinity and mortality, as well as the futility of existence.

    Nonetheless, Hemingway’s telegrammatic prose style is perhaps unsurpassed in its succinctness, most evident in brilliant short stories and the 1926 novel Fiesta. These are towering achievements, but they not the work of a public intellectual. On the contrary. Papa was not a thinker. Papa liked mamba. Too much.

    The nearest comparisons, and thus competitors of Camus, for the status of the greatest public intellectual of the twentieth century, are French representatives from the same period. These include his erstwhile friends, Sartre and de Beauvoir. Unlike Camus, however, their work has not stood the test of time.

    I feel they always looked down on him as a clever provincial boy, and not quite at their level of seriousness; seeing him perhaps as the Algerian equivalent of a Shropshire Lad.

    In reality, Sartre’s existentialism was always derived from the superior analysis of Martin Heidegger, and his latter-day Marxism is designer-radical-chic, which ultimately achieved nothing. De Beauvoir is a turgid novel writer, insightful in her autobiographical work, and as a foundational feminist, but neither of them wrote as well as Camus, or as reasonably.

    Sartre and de Beauvoir ultimately expelled him from their court: intellectual banishment for the temerity to steer an independent path, and not be their swarthy, mixed-race poodle. Of course, the precise banishment came after his response to the war in Algeria.

    To de Beauvoir and Sartre, Camus was a traitor to the extremism and mumbo-jumbo they promoted. A traitor to the achievement of nothing. It is hardly coincidental that Jacques, the fictional hero of They Were Coming For Him, suggests his intellectual executioners will facilitate his real executioners.

    It is generally assumed that Sartre, with his existentialist and Marxists texts, is the philosopher, and the Camus novelist. I beg to differ. Camus was a far more practical thinker, and his ideas more digestible. Serious writing is not simply that which is unleavened by humour or compression, even in philosophy. To my mind Jacque Derrida is the worst argument for a public intellectual, and is not serious in the least, as anyone who reads his incomprehensible prose will attest: plenty of words, few clear ideas.

    Algeria

    Camus of course, as he readily admitted, was not an existentialist, but a product of the Enlightenment and the French tradition of letters and reason. An inheritor of the tradition of Voltaire, with a clipped prose style redolent of Pascal. There is an austerity about his work too, but also a lyricism born of a mongrel Algerian background.

    His critics accused him of French colonialism, as they saw it, but this is a question of perspective. He advocated co-existence between the transplanted French and the native Islamic population, condemning the torture and the death penalty inflicted on the Islamic population. He was one of the few journalists to visit Algeria at the height of the war where he pleaded for moderation.

    The Marxist dogmatists despised him for this and accused him of being an agent of American imperialism. This descended to the absurd accusation of racism, lingering in The Meursault Investigation, and in the writings of Posner and Said. In my view these accusations are doubly spurious, considering his desire to broker a peaceful solution between the two sides, and a relentless commitment to human rights.

    Camus saw clearly that there would be serious bloodletting in Algeria as there had been during the Terror after the French Revolution, which is the subject-matter of The Rebel. Also, as a Pied Noir, he always argued for the peaceful co-existence between Arab and French populations. In a sense, he anticipated the idea of a two-state solution between Israel and Palestine.

    Evident throughout his writings is the desire to confront absurdity and extremism and invoke the values of rationality, community, solidarity and human rights. That moderation makes him a kindred spirit of the only true Irish intellectual, Edmund Burke.

    The Fall

    So why does Camus remain vital to our own time?

    In the classic sense, Camus was a man of letters, and of epigrammatic precision. In his writing, as with a great advocate, not a word is wasted. Like Beckett’s profound later works, his novels are models of compression and insight.

    It is not simply the novels, but the tracts of political philosophy and journalism – equalling even that of Orwell’s in my view – that define the consistent achievement. He also shared with Orwell a commitment to truth and moderation, defying barbarisms, whether fascistic or Communistic.

    The overriding note in Camus, thus, is always one of rationality and a profound distrust of hypocrisy, and indeed the social and religious prejudices emanating from extremism. Unlike Camus, extremists exhibit a fondness for over-statement and wrap ideas in generalisations, propaganda and pseudo-erudition. Psychologically, it is a form of hysteria, and far too many are appearing in our public discourse today.

    In this respect Camus’s disquisition on hypocrisy is best seen not just in The Outsider, but above all in the remarkable character of the judge and advocate penitent, Jean Baptiste Clemenceau from the 1956 novel The Fall, which even Sartre appreciated.

    Lawyers have often been portrayed as monsters, and such is the character Clemenceau. All ‘piss and blarney,’ as the Irish would say. Seductive, hyper-articulate and a rattlesnake. A judge penitent exiled to Amsterdam confessing his sins, unclear disgrace, disenchantment with humanity, and sense of the hypocrisy of his professional existence. The advocate manqué searching for something, perhaps oblivion.

    There is no more properly satanic and self-reflexive lawyer depicted in all of literature than in the crisp eight-five pages seated on a bar stool in Amsterdam. It in fact is a monologue. A mulish self-justificatory cri de coeur.

    The point is there for all to see: an awareness of the personal failure, properly understood, to grasp or deal with professional and personal hypocrisy.

    Other Works

    The Outsider, is Camus’s most famous novel and the pretext for The Meursault Investigation. It is at one level a classic penological drama of crime and punishment; unsurprisingly Camus worshipped Dostoevsky, which explains the echoes of Raskolnikov. Both texts also feature an intrusive religious prosecutor, compelling the alleged perpetrator to confess all.

    The cleansing of the soul becomes a metaphorical scaffold built by extremists to hang the perceived deviancy in others. It is really a projection of their own evil onto the righteous, and the innocent. The Outsider is also infused with Camus’s lifelong campaign against the death penalty, making it a human rights tract too.

    I would argue it is a mis-reading to suggest he is endorsing French colonialism, and any soupcon of indifference towards the faceless Arab victim should be read in the context of a quest for a just dispensation for all.

    It is the two great political tracts The Myth of Sisyphus (1942) and The Rebel (1951), which are, I believe, the most relevant to his status of public intellectual.

    The Rebel advocates a freedom tempered by responsibility and engagement. It is a book cautioning against terror and a descent into extremism. It is the voice of enlightened, secular humanism that resists the path of uncaring nihilism. It is not a radical rebellious text as such, save as a plea for independence, principle and indeed righteousness.

    Camus demonstrates clearly in Sisyphus that suicide is an abnegation of responsibility. He also saw clearly the need to engage rationally with the important questions of his time. I translate this into my own profession work as meaning the rational compilation of evidence to ward off the forces of darkness.

    Thus, the Rebel is not a radical rebellious text as such save as a plea for independence, principle and indeed righteousness. This not unlike Jurgen Habermas’s idea of communicative action of technically but morally rational solutions to human problems.

    Continued Relevance

    On all sorts of levels, the anti-extremism of a Camus is called for in a world ensnared by religious fundamentalism, fuelled by toxic neo-liberalism and incipient fascism.

    As a man of the Enlightenment, Camus was also an opponent of moral relativism: the idea that all views are equally valid. He valued reason and moderation and sought compromise. His enemies now, and then, are the purveyors of Post-Truth psychobabble, along with all forms of fundamentalism and terror, racism and social marginalisation.

    Alas, independent public intellectuals are no longer in vogue, and we all must eat. Our universities are corralling us it into fixed categories and narratives. Issues of environmental and economic collapse give way to the safe haven of identity politics, allowing vested interests to virtue-signal their ‘liberal values,’ and ignore the great unwashed.

    People are appalled at the likes of Harvey Weinstein, rightly so, but the ex-post-facto-political-correctness is a side show to the real economic and environmental abusers.

    The mainstream media provides in Chomsky immortal phrase ‘language in the service of propaganda.’ Standards of intellectual and professional argumentation are going out the window. The educational system is obsessed with branding.

    Meanwhile mainstream media demands ‘balanced’ coverage: airing both sides of the argument has led, ineluctably, to the ventilation of utter nonsense. I would love to read what Camus would had to say about the dumbed-down palaver that passes for political debate today.

    So the values of Camus, the just man, the legalist in fact, the moderate, the secular humanistic rationalist and compromiser are greatly in need. These qualities are intrinsic to a genuine public intellectual, rather than a jumped-up self-help guru such as Jordan Peterson.

    Moreover, my own distaste for the organised criminality of many police officers is reflected in a passage from They Were Coming For Him:

    It seems that the; police officer in charge of the investigation had said there was nothing surprising about the case, that a career such as that mans was bound to end as it has.[iii]

    Of course, the books still stand the test of time and are now revisited and indeed revitalised by works such as The Meursault Investigation. This legacy is as vital as ever and in Aristotelean terms, the virtues it expresses are those of courage, moderation, justice and prudence. But he also held other great virtues: an utter lack of hypocrisy and, above all else, humanism. Camus had the full package of ingredients required, then as now, to be a public intellectual.

    David Langwallner is a barrister at Great James Street Chambers, London.

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    [i] Richard Posner, Law and Literature, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1989, p.66

    [ii]Berta Vias-Mahou, Cecilia Ross (Translator), They Were Coming For Him, Hispabooks, New York, 2016) p.111

    [iii] Ibid, p.189

  • You and Yours

    It’s only a day’s walk north from Sana’a to Al Madid, in the province of Neham, so I said, ‘In Al Madid, God willing, surely we’ll find what you seek.’

    Wearing a cuffia, the small man eyed me with a detached superiority while I thought to myself, ‘How fortunate he is to have me. With someone else, he could find himself in a perilous state, Yemen being Yemen. And Yemenis being Yemenis, they may not tolerate his lofty air.’ However, being a humble Yahud I chose to ignore it. We were on foot, heading toward the Mareb and the mountains. It was still spring.

    I’d been told the bare minimum by the small man, Baahir Jalali, and in truth had no right to know more. But curiosity is a beast all its own, and a beast must be fed. My countless questions kept falling flat though, so I ceased my futile efforts. If he wanted to speak, fine. If not, so be it.

     

    Poverty in the countryside is such that we traveled with nothing of value. Not even food. Without provisions, we trusted in the Jews of Al Madid. I carried a letter of introduction from Moshe Alkarah, a well-to-do merchant based in Eden. He knew Baahir Jalali and had recommended me, Al Fathihi, to act as his guide. Addressed to the Rabbi of Sana’a and other Rabbis in other towns, the papers I possessed requested we be looked after and promised reimbursement for any out-of-pocket expenses, in due course.

    The barren mountains stretched ahead and as we walked, endless dust swirled at our feet. My eyes roved, seeking the few plants that found strength to sprout and cling amongst the rocks, existing on thin air and hope. Were we not doing the same ourselves? The hours crawled by and Baahir Jalali was getting tired, because in spite of his steely gaze his body was made of something softer.  When we came to the outskirts of Al Mawqiri, a small village not far from Al Batah, both of us were thirsty as two empty humps on a camel.

    In the distance, I glimpsed a girl tending goats. Baahir Jalali rested his bones while I went for water. About thirteen and completely covered, only her tired eyes and chapped lips were exposed. Glad for the interruption, she offered me a leather pouch spilling water and asked a thousand questions. I answered a few, pouring the precious clear liquid for my friend into her clay dish, which I swore to return. Picking some plants, she pressed them into my hand and said ‘Eat.’ I trusted doing this would energize us and ease our walk. Baahir Jalali was dozing when I returned, but quickly revived to say water had never tasted so good. Chewing her herbs, we stretched our legs and massaged the soles of our feet.

    The sun’s movement across the sky meant we must carry on if we were to reach Al Madid before nightfall. At last, perhaps bored by his own thoughts, the small man spoke, ‘Have you ever been to Lahaj?’ I’d never had that pleasure, but asked if it was true they sent water to Eden? Baahir smiled, ‘One hundred camels carry bags of water every day!’ he boasted triumphantly. ‘Lahaj is beautiful, its palm trees plentiful and their dates so sweet.’ He spoke of big juicy melons, then with probing eyes, asked if I knew the Sultan of Lahaj: ‘I’ve only heard of him,’ I answered in all modesty. Baahir Jalali laughed with delight and seemed slightly relieved.

    ‘It sounds heavenly. All those rivers and green fields.’

    ‘Oh yes! It is most certainly heaven on earth!’ sighed Baahir Jalali then he fell silent for a while. Waiting. Debating in his mind. He weighed it carefully before casually mentioning his grandfather had lived in Lahaj.

    ‘So why do you not live there?’ I asked.

    ‘Long story,’ said Baahir Jalali with a smirk.

    ‘This road is long. Your story will not last the length of it.’ But Baahir Jalali grew quiet.

    I gave up on getting anything out of him, but only then, of course, he answered. Baahir was not born in Lahaj, because his father left there to look for a key.

    ‘He left Lahaj only to locate a single key? This key must be quite unique.’ Baahir Jalali smiled and left my unanswered question dangling there between us.

     

    Our walk resumed, we both kicking stones and me trying to make some sense of this mysterious man. Suspense was clearly his currency, and I had a strong suspicion he was toying with me. Asked a direct question, he didn’t divulge, but when I relented, he tendered the most granular detail. Determined to deprive him the pleasure of depriving me the answer, we walked on.

    The wilderness pressed in from all sides, leaving us to stare at the rugged mountains straight ahead. Baahir Jalali retreated back behind his personal well of thoughts, his bushy brows shaded eyes further darkened by contemplation. It was not in my nature to sustain a vexation with the taunts of this haughty man and slow as a snake twisting up a tree, my curiosity reawakened, tickling my mind as we passed the place called Jabal Dhimarmar. The springtime sun slid further down in the sky, and yet still it sliced our backs like a hot sword.

    ‘Tell me, what is the importance of that key?’ I felt compelled to ask. Baahir Jalali jumped, startled out of a somnambulant stroll, and from his twinkling eyes, a smile melted across his face to form deep dimples in his cheeks and softening his grimace, revealed a row of teeth, perfect as pearls.

    ‘I’ll say more than I intended, but only if you promise not to say one word to a single soul.’

    Vaguely intrigued before, I must admit he had me eating out of his hand.

    ‘And be warned,’ he continued, ‘possession of a secret can put you in danger.’

    At this, I laughed, ‘Surely, you’re not serious?’

    ‘I am serious. What is a secret worth without any risk?’ His glare mixed gravity with bemusement at how my curiosity, like a flame kindled, now leapt out of control. Patting me on the shoulder, Baahir Jalali promised knowledge that would hold me hostage to him and his secret. Unhurried, he inquired ‘How long until we reach Al Madid?’

    I saw the sun low in the west, ready to slip behind that mountain and said surely we still had hours to go.

    Baahir Jalali sighed, ‘We’ve eaten nothing, and I’d settle for a simple cup of coffee.’ ‘Coffee.’ What a word. It sent my head spinning, with a longing that weakened me and I had to agree, ‘Coffee, would be good, indeed.’

    ‘I’ll finish telling you that story later.’ He said, ‘Now all I can think of is food.’

    ‘No, please talk,’ I pleaded. ‘Say anything to make us forget our hunger.’ So he spoke.

     

    Baahir Jalali was not born in Lahaj, but his father was Shafiki, son of the Sultan. I did not doubt him for a moment but began to believe that the road we were on had no end. By some miracle the soft hills parted, we rounded a corner and stumbled upon a small holding. In the midst of its sand and gravel, stood several coffee trees, their leaves a lustrous green.

    An old man squatted in the dirt, just off the trail, staring into the empty distance, then greeted us, ‘Salam Aleikum.’

    ‘Is this your land?’ I asked.

    ‘Why else would I be here?’ he answered in a bored tone of voice locals reserve for travelers.

    ‘Please could we have some coffee?’ I ventured. He was weather-beaten but wiry as a young goat, and stood up on his feet to bellow, ‘Latifah, bring coffee. Now!’

    A stunning girl of seventeen brought us three glasses of coffee on a woven tassey, and to our unfettered delight, put down a plate of dates! Squatting alongside the old man with all the willpower we possessed, we ate the dates at his measured pace. ‘Your daughter?’ I asked, politely sipping her spiced coffee.

    ‘God, no! She is my new wife,’ he said, swelling with pride.

     

    Satiated by strong coffee and sweet dates, the old man asked, ‘What business brings you here?’  Baahir Jalali looked to me, but I hesitated to speak, not confident I’d been informed of the complete story, myself. Quickly it became clear Baahir Jalali was leaving it all up to me.

     

    I said to Sa’idi, that was his name, we were collecting stories about an ancient queen. She was called Sheba, and once ruled these lands. Did he know any stories? Old Sa’idi waved his hands as if to say, ‘Waste of time. Centuries ago. Forgotten!’ ‘But there must be some stories passed down? Generations of people tell their children old tales.’ His eyes were open, but Old Sa’idi sank into a sort of sleep.

     

    The lovely Latifah brought him a nargila pipe and absentmindedly, he stuck it between his lips without exiting his trance.

     

    ‘Where are you from?’ Alert now and abruptly he turned to interrogate Baahir Jalali. Locals regularly treated foreigners with suspicion. For this reason, Baahir Jalali reclaimed his roots. ‘Lahaj. And Al Fatihi, here, is from Sana’a.’

     

    The old man sank back on his soles, ‘I seem to recall something about a man from Lahaj. Must have been sixty years ago…’ Old Sa’idi adjusted his cuffia and scratching the back of his neck, he said, ‘Yes, I was about five years old when a fancy young man from Lahaj came through here on his way to Al Madid. Found out later he was the son of the Sultan. It’s been so long but I’ll never forget the gorgeous young girl he had with him. As if it were yesterday, I still see those eyes of hers, green as basil. The man, Shafiki, claimed she was his wife and kept calling her Cat. And by God, she did resemble a cat with those enormous green eyes. The rest, of course, was always covered, but once I was alone with her. Lifting her veil, she held my face in her elegant hands and said to me, ‘My child, one of these days, one of my own will come for you and yours.’ When I think of it now, she was merely a child herself!’

    ‘So why did they come to your place?’ asked Baahir Jalali and Sa’idi scratched his head.

    ‘They were looking for a tablet. One of the old stone ones they say go back to the Sabaean period, with writings on them. We only have one here. Salam Al Saudi brought it back. From Al Narjan.’

    ‘The tablet has an inscription?’ Baahir Jalali vibrated with excitement and making myself small, I watched how hotly he asked Old Sa’idi, ‘Did the local people reveal the tablet?’

     

    ‘They didn’t dare. As you know, bad luck will be unleashed if these tablets fall into wrong hands. Cat claimed it rightly belonged to her, but the people said she would find many more tablets in the south. They asked her why she must have Salam Al Saudi’s slab? She insisted she was searching for a particular stone. Something about the writing.’

    ‘What was inscribed?’ I almost whispered.

    Old Sa’idi shook his head, ‘Who knows? It’s a long forgotten language.’

     

    ‘What would a woman want with that tablet?’ asked Baahir Jalali, on tenterhooks, stuffing each of his trembling hands into the opposite sleeve of his robe. Sa’idi shrugged his shoulders. ‘She didn’t get it. They buried it so well under the floor of Salam Al Saudi’s house. Back then he was the last of his line. And now, he’s long dead.’ Sa’idi sucked deeply on his pipe which made the water gurgle.

     

    We three sat quietly, thinking of Shafiki, Cat and their tablet. Jalali calmed himself and I said,

    ‘It’s a good story.’

    ‘Yes, yes, it’s a great story!’ agreed Baahir Jalali a tad too enthusiastically.

    ‘So Salam Al Saudi’s house, is it in ruins?’ I ventured.

    ‘Yes. But everyone knows where it was. It was the last house at the end, where the Mareb road leads in the direction of Bab Al Yahud.’

     

    Like a jackass who can’t restrain from running, Baahir Jalali was dying to depart out the door. But I sat for more chitchat with Sa’idi, and thanking him for his hospitality, we left hopeful to reach Al Madid before dark.

     

    It was cool and nearly night when we arrived to a pleasant dinner at Yahya Mansoor’s house, modest fare laid before us made tasty by the undeniable goodness of our host. We mentioned an early morning meeting with the blacksmith would make us late for breakfast. Mansoor showed polite interest in our appointment, but Baahir Jalali deferred going into detail until the following day. And before anyone, including the sun, was up, we set out.

     

    With only a sliver of moon to light our way, we found the ruined house of long dead Salam Al Saudi. We knew it by the Star of David hung high in a niche on the wall, just where Old Sa’idi had described it would be. Rubble piled high made our mission seem impossible, but Baahir Jilali began pulling large stone slabs and expected me to come to his aid. My hands are more accustomed to pen and paper, so I said ‘We’ll not get far like this. Two people in the dark.’ He eyed me in a way that could only mean, ‘dig or I don’t pay.’

    I shifted smaller stones, and after two tedious hours, it was daybreak and Baahir Jalali began to agree with me. We needed help, but first it was time for breakfast. Sweet words indeed! We walked back and Yahya Mansoor’s wife had prepared a simple meal with as much coffee as we desired. Mansoor was too busy to hear about the blacksmith, but on his way out said, ‘I’ll be seeing him later, myself!’

     

    ‘Better go see that blacksmith,’ grumbled Baahir Jalali, the moment Mansoor left the room.

    ‘Because?’

    ‘Because, we said we would and Mansoor may discover we lied.’  He was impatient with me.

    ‘But what business have we with the blacksmith?’ I asked.

    ‘You’ll think of something!’ he snapped.

    ‘More urgently, who will help us dig in the ruins for the tablet? Shall we trust Sa’idi?’

    ‘Let us ponder that on the way to the blacksmith,’ answered Baahir Jalali. And on our way to see Sa’idi we pondered more. Could we get Old Sa’idi’s help without the locals learning what we’re after?

    ‘We’ll give him something.’ Concluded Baahir Jalali.

    ‘But what have we to give?’ I simpered.

    ‘One always has something to give…’ What was in Baahir Jalali’s devious mind? Close to Sa’idi’s place Baahir Jalali stopped and said. ‘I must say something before we see Old Sa’idi. As you may have gathered by now, Cat is my mother, Safia.’

    Safia, was the daughter of an Italian, Doctor Montalbano, who lived in Eden. When the Sultan fell ill, his doctors, unable to cure him, called the Italian to Lahaj. Montalbano’s wife was originally from Lahaj and happily accompanied her husband back to her hometown. The couple brought along their adorable daughter Safia, who had just turned twelve.

     

    During his treatment, the Sultan took a particular shine to this green-eyed girl in his palace, as did she for his statuette, a cat cut from stone. It sat on a windowsill of the Sultan’s private chamber, and one day lifting the statue, Safia found a key fitted into the base of it. Since nobody was looking, into her pocket slipped the key.

     

    ‘My father told me, the moment she held that key in her hand, she knew it was meant to be hers and hers alone.’ Baahir Jalali repeated like a mantra.

    ‘I don’t follow,’ I mumbled mostly to myself before he added…

    ‘My father never explained this preternatural episode to my satisfaction. Perhaps he didn’t understand it himself? He did say, there are some things in life we are not meant to understand and the wisest of us would not try.’

     

    For safekeeping, Safia stowed the key deep in the stuffing of a doll and sewn up tight, returned with it to Eden. Months passed before the complacent Sultan discovered his key missing and with that, all hell broke loose. No one really remembered the significance of the key, dutifully passed down from father to son, for generations. Long before the people of Lahaj were who they are today, the key was always there. When the imams and aristocracy had not yet converted to Judaism, already they believed the key to be essential, a lucky charm. Its absence made the superstitious Sultan and his people uneasy. Its loss could bring permanent misfortune on the tribe. This made it imperative to locate the key, and bring it back where it belonged.

     

    The Sultan trusted his youngest son, his favourite, to resolve this affair. Shafiki was a smart young man, and assembled the whole tribe. Investigating each great family, he deduced only an outsider could have taken the key. Who strolled through palace gates and gardens, right in to the Sultan’s inner sanctum? His father’s concubines. So Shafiki conducted careful interrogations to satisfy himself of their ignorant bliss. Previously unaware of the key, word of its disappearance had even reached their exquisite ears and all over Lahaj, hushed whispers hung in the air.

     

    Good citizens began sulking in anticipation of evil genies unleashed on the world. Shafiki was determined to calm them. He had a theory and so set out to see Doctor Montalbano in Eden.  Montalbano received him cordially. Shafiki avoided any discussion about the key, describing the purpose of the visit as an expression of the Sultan’s ongoing gratitude. The doctor dismissed the idea of yet more lavish gifts, insisting Shafiki remain rather than rushing his return to Lahaj.

     

    During the days that followed, Shafiki noticed Safia’s strange attachment to her doll. Wisely, he surmised she was beyond the age of clutching such a toy but not too young to be the thief. ‘What is it about this doll that makes you cling to it so?’ Safia’s eyes filled with defiance as she bit her lips in determination that not one word of confession would spill from them.

    Shafiki demanded ‘Give it back. It’s not yours. You know what they do to thieves, don’t you? They cut off the hand that stole!’ He glared fiercely and after an eternity spent staring in to her eyes so green, found himself hopelessly ensnared. Shafiki had fallen in love with Safia.

     

    Returning to Lahaj, Shafiki informed his father that he had located the key. The Sultan demanded details, but instead Shafiki reminded him, “Did you not stress the key should remain in good hands, with the people of Lahaj? The Sultan admitted that was true. Then you must allow me to marry Doctor Montalbano’s daughter.’

     

    This statement confounded the Sultan, who saw no connection between the missing key and his son’s future. Shafiki went on to say, ‘I’ve been to see Montalbano in Eden and his beautiful Safia resembles that cat statue in your private chamber.’ The Sultan’s furrowed face brightened as finally he followed his favorite son’s plan.

     

    Doctor Montalbano was taken aback when Shafiki asked his daughter’s hand in marriage and his wife said her little girl was too young. Shafiki was willing to wait years for kids, but about the ceremony he insisted, ‘I must marry her now.’ The doctor could only consult with Safia, explaining, ‘I’m European and in Europe we let our daughters decide for themselves.’

     

    So besotted was Shafiki by Safia, he endured the doctor’s delays and Italian egalitarianism. Montalbano’s final condition stipulated that instead of his daughter living with her in-laws in Lahaj, he preferred Shafiki stay in Eden to help in his medical practice. ‘I always wanted a son. I’ll teach you medicine.’ This seemed to Shafiki a last straw. His life was in Lahaj and the great outdoors.

     

    He spent his days on horseback, supervising the farming activities that sustained his tribe. Riding alongside the Sultan amongst palm trees, disgruntled Shafiki consulted his father regarding this complicated marriage. ‘I find it a splendid idea,’ said the Sultan. ‘Lahaj is not far from Eden. You’ll visit often.’

     

    I’d been standing around in the heat, listening to Baahir Jalali’s story when all of a sudden he looked up, appalled, ‘I’ve said too much! You know quite enough already. Sai’di’s young wife is his weakest link. Just let me do the talking and don’t try to help.’

    God bless us and save us, I thought to myself. Did I ever meet a more conceited man? But he’s paying the bills, so I will obey.

    Nearing Old Saidi”s place, we found him right where we’d left him. If anyone told me he’d slept squatting on his soles like that, looking at the mountains, I would’ve believed them. Sa’idi saw us and didn’t seem surprised in the least. ‘Salam Alaikum,’ We replied in kind.

    ‘Did you find the house?’ His question clarified just how transparent we appeared.

     

     

    To his credit, Baahir Jalali was quick to recover, seeing no point in beating about the bush.

    ‘Yes, we did,’ he replied. ‘Shame the place is in ruins.’ But Sa’idi was not sentimental. ‘And the tablet?’ His knowing eyes found me and he smiled. ‘Many come searching but none find,’ was his answer to the question we had not asked. He sucked deeply on his pipe, and the water it contained gurgling through the filter was the only noise we heard until he set it down.

     

    Old Sa’idi jumped again like a young goat, calling lovely Latifah who brought us black spicy coffee. We sat sipping and Sa’idi said, ‘I’m an old man.’

    That is fairly obvious, I thought to myself.

    ‘And I have a young wife,’ he continued.

    What was he driving at? I kept quiet, looking at Baahir Jalali politely nod.

    ‘I would like to live longer for Latifah,’ said the old man whose eyes began to well up. Baahir Jalali stopped nodding to stare harshly at Old Sa’idi when he said ‘and be young again.’ Returning Baahir Jalali’s judgemental stare he demanded, ‘What will you do for me? I want more time.’

     

    After some silence Sa’idi said with utmost confidence, ‘I presume you possess the key.’

    Baahir Jalali croaked, ‘What makes you say such a thing?’

    ‘Because Cat was your mother.’

    Beneath his sallow skin, Baahir Jalali blushed.

    ‘Don’t have her green eyes, but you’re certainly Safia’s son.’

     

    ‘What is the key for?’ I blurted, carried away by my confusion in the moment until Old Sa’idi’s eyes darted disdain in my direction. ‘He didn’t tell you?’ I was starting to feel stupid.

    “First, find the tablet,” Old Sa’idi advised as if the entire story were written there and Baahir Jalali wore a silly smile until Sa’idi said, ‘The Sultan, Shafiki, Cat. All dead now.’

    ‘Yes.’

    Sa’idi sucked his pipe, then offered with some finality,

    ‘So we’ll do a deal.’

    Old Sa’idi wasn’t in a rush. It seems old men never are, despite the short span that stretches ahead of them. No, he meandered like a slow stream licks every stone with love.

    ‘I don’t pray for riches or immortality. All I ask is another forty years. No more. I’ve learned too late contentment in a woman’s company.’

    You could have fooled me, I thought. Latifah seemed more a servant than a companion.

    Baahir Jalali was not laughing, but said ‘What have you got?’

    ‘I’ve got the tablet,’ said Sa’idi, resolute.

    Jalali jumped up glaring, ‘You said it was in the ruins!’

    ‘I lied,’ said Sa’idi.

     

    Jalali paced up and down the road. Muttering to himself, he kicked the dust, then shouted ‘It’s not yours!’

    ‘It’s not yours either,’ said Sa’idi, unfazed.

    ‘How do you know you have the right tablet?’ growled Baahir Jalali.

    ‘If the key fits.’

     

    Baahir Jalali must have had a better idea because now he was positively beaming.

    ‘Ok,’ he said. ‘You’ve stated your wish. To be young again and live for another forty years? Am I correct?’ Sa’idi bowed, but his eyes remained opaque.

     

    ‘Shall we dine to conclude our deal?’ asked Baahir Jalali.  ‘I’m famished!’ The old man was also ravenous. Making love to Latifah, even if only imagined, produced in him a vigorous appetite. At last we spoke of something I understood. Together we approached Sa’idi’s home. In the Yemeni style, the tall building was constructed of red mud and decorated with white filigree around the windows.  We entered the dewan where Latifah and an older woman were preparing a minor feast. Gesturing to the older woman baking fresh pita bread in a hot charcoal oven, Sa’idi introduced her as, ‘My first wife.’

     

    Both women served zehook, hilbe and a fragrant chicken soup. There was rice with shredded carrot and also baba ghanouj. We tucked in like there was no tomorrow and finished the meal with coffee. The older wife brought a nargila which we then smoked in silence. The water in the pipe was still gurgling when Sa’idi left the room.

     

    Soon he returned with a heavy stone slab wrapped in soft white cotton. Laying the tablet down on a low table, Sa’idi sat now ignorant as I. It was Baahir Jalali who recited the strange words carved on the stone, and me dying to know, ‘So what does it say?’

     

    I detected a slight tremor in the hands of Baahir Jilali as he translated, ‘The green eyed Cat, you and yours will be obeyed,’ he said. Sa’idi bowed his head, but Baahir Jallali mulled over this, mumbling ‘You and yours.’

    ‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

    Baahir Jalali shot me a look that said ‘Silence.’ If Sai’idi noticed anything, he didn’t let on, standing still as a stone statue, himself. Impatient, I watched the key in Baahir Jalali’s hand, move in slow motion, and I was suspicious. Did he have  something devious in mind ? Sai’idi, as usual, seemed less hurried than I.  Baahir Jalali, finally ready, flipped the tablet over. There was a point carved in to the stone, where he was able to insert the key. Just as he was about to turn the key, Old Sa’idi’s voice came out of him, as if from a cavern made of the same stone. ‘Don’t forget I’m yours.’

    Baahir Jallali retracted his hand. ‘What are you saying?’ He asked.

    ‘The Cat blessed me, and don’t you forget it! She made me one of you! I couldn’t comprehend what she said at the time, but later I saw the tablet and understood everything,’ said Sa’idi.

    The old man motioned for Baahir Jalali to go ahead and turn the key. At a loss, he did just that. The tablet’s tiny door sprang open to reveal a compartment. Its box-like interior was beautifully inlaid with gold, but otherwise quite empty. Staring in to it, we saw nothing but heard what Baahir Jalali said was the sound of the sea. Sa’idi and I had never seen nor heard the sea in all our lives. So over the deafening roar Baahir Jalali described to us what waves looked like and in our imagination we watched them crash on the shore.

     

    To our astonishment, a golden bird materialised inside the box. But before we could catch it, the bird flew away into the blue sky, taking the lining of the box with it. All the gold was gone. And when Baahir Jalali closed the little door, we saw even the key had vanished.

     

    Stupefied, we stared at each other and then at Sa’idi. In his place was a much younger man with a big open smile full of strong white teeth. I was speechless but Baahir Jallali shouted,

    ‘Our wish came true!’ I could see that Sa’idi got his wish, but what did Baahir Jalali get?

     

    He hugged me, singing ‘All is good! My son is healed! I saved my son!’

    ‘You have a son? Your son is saved? How do you know?’

    “I just know,” said Baahir Jalali. “I thought Sa’idi would spoil it all but it still worked.”

    Mystified by these events, I was feeling a little left behind. That is until Baahir Jallali took my face in his hands and said, ‘It is only for you and yours connected to the cat.’

     

    A willing hostage to him and his secret I asked, ‘But where is the key now? Is what’s left of the tablet of any use? And what about the people of Lahaj?’ So many of my questions remained unanswered, but now we were distracted by Latifah entering.

     

    She carried fresh coffee and pushed Sa’idi away when he tried to fondle her. His wife screamed, ‘Get hold of yourself, I’m a married woman!’

    ‘Of course you are,’ said Sa’idi delightedly, ‘You’re married to me!’ She looked around in confusion and panic.

    ‘It’s me, Sa’idi! Don’t you see I’m the same, only younger?’

    ‘Stop fooling around. You’ll get me into trouble! Where is the man I married?’ wailed Latifah and then she began to cry. The old wife, hearing the commotion, came out and started shooing Sai’idi out of the place.

     

    Baahir guided me out into the garden. ‘Better let him explain,’ and then under his breath, almost to himself, ‘it’s going to be tough.’ Hurrying down the Mareb road, Baahir Jalali promised to clarify it all for me. But as we headed toward Sana’a, he said we would save that story for some other time.

     

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