CHAPTER FIVE
The greatest crisis since the last greatest crisis
Death, so the cliché goes, is cheap. Personally, I find that life is cheap and that death is merely a price, paid according to relevent exchange rates. In our western newspapers, one American life equals 1,000 Iraqis or more, unless - like Rachel Corrie - you are an American ‘martyr’ on the ‘wrong’ side. Inverted commas are important here. A European ‘crisis’ is not the same as a ‘crisis’ in the Middle East; a rejection of the European Constitution is more important - for our press and television reporters - than a bombing in Baghdad. But when an Afghan refugee and his family are desperately seeking asylum in the Netherlands, does the crisis belong to him - because he faces deportation, even death at home - or to a new anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim Europe which has forgotten the Age of Enlightenment?

A long and honourable tradition of smearing the dead

Across the marble floor of the shrine of the Imam Hussein in Kerbala scampers Suheil with his plastic bag of metal. He points first to a red stain on the flagstones. ‘This was a red smoke grenade that the Americans fired,’ he tells me. ‘And that was another grenade mark.’ The Shia worshippers are kneeling amid these burn marks, eyes glistening at the gold façade of the mosque which marks the very place, behind silver bars kissed by the faithful, when - in an epic battle far more decisive in human history than any conflict fought by the United States - Imam al-Hussein was cut down in AD 680. There is a clink as, one by one, Suheil drops his souvenirs on to the marble.
US forces denied that any ordnance fell upon the shrine when they opened fire close to the Husseiniya mosque last month. Of course they denied it. Denial has become a disease in Iraq - as it has through most of the Middle East. The Americans deny that they kill innocent civilians in Iraq - but kill them all the same. The Israelis deny they kill innocent civilians in the occupied territories - indeed, they even deny the occupation - but kill them all the same. So folk like Suheil are valuable. They expose lies. The evidence, in this case, is his little souvenirs. On one of the grenades in his plastic bag are written the words ‘Cartridge 44mm Red Smoke Ground Marker M713 PB-79G041-001’. Another is designated as a ‘White Star Cluster M 585’. Yet another carries the code ‘40mm M195 KX090 [figure erased] 010-086’. They are strange things to read in a religious building whose scholars normally concentrate on the minutiae of Koranic sura rather than the globalised linguistics of the arms trade.
But one of the Kerbala shrine’s guards, Ahmed Hanoun Hussein, was killed by the Americans when they arrived to assist Iraqi police in a confrontation with armed thieves near the shrine. Two more Shias were shot dead by the Americans during a protest demonstration the next day. Suheil insists that US troops wanted to enter the mosque - an unlikely scenario, since they are under orders to stay away from its vicinity - but four bullets did smash into an outer wall. ‘We are peaceful people - so why do we need this?’ Suheil asks me plaintively. ‘Remember how we suffered under Saddam?’ And here he points upwards to another sacrilegious assault on the shrine, this time amid the gold of one of the two principal minarets - a shrapnel gash from a shell fired by Saddam’s legions during the great Shia revolt of 1991, the rebellion we encouraged and then betrayed after the last Gulf War.
So you’d think, wouldn’t you, that the shootings at Kerbala were an established fact. But no. The US still insists it never fired into the shrine of the Imam Hussein and ‘has no information’ on the dead. Just as it had ‘no information’ about the massacre of at least six Iraqi civilians by its soldiers during a house raid in the Mansour district of Baghdad a month ago. Just as it has no information on the number of Iraqi civilian casualties during and after the illegal Anglo-American invasion, estimated at up to 5,223 by one reputable organisation and up to 2,700 in and around Baghdad alone according to the Los Angeles Times.
And I’ve no doubt there would have been ‘no information’ about the man shot dead by US troops outside Abu Ghraib prison last week had he not inconveniently turned out to be a prize-winning Reuters cameraman. Thus Mazen Dana’s death became a ‘terrible tragedy’ - this from the same American authorities whose secretary of state Colin Powell thought that the tank fire which killed another Reuters cameraman and a Spanish journalist in April was ‘appropriate’. Of course, the Americans didn’t hesitate to peddle the old lie about how Dana’s camera looked like a rocket-propelled grenade - the same cock-and-bull story the Israelis produced back in 1985 when they killed a two-man CBS crew, Tewfiq Ghazawi and Bahij Metni, in southern Lebanon.
But there’s a far more hateful bit of denial and hypocrisy being played out now in the US over two young and beautiful women. The first, Private Jessica Lynch, is feted as an American heroine after being injured during the American invasion of Iraq and then ‘rescued’ from her Iraqi hospital bed by US Special Forces. Now it just happens that Private Lynch - far from firing at her Iraqi attackers until the last bullet, as the Pentagon would have had us believe - was injured in a road accident between two military trucks during an ambush and that Iraqi doctors had been giving her special care when Lynch’s ‘rescuers’ burst into her unguarded hospital. But the second young American is a real heroine, a girl called Rachel Corrie who stood in front of an Israeli bulldozer that was about to demolish a Palestinian home and who was killed - wearing a clearly marked jacket and shouting through a loudhailer - when the Israeli driver crushed her beneath his bulldozer and then drove backwards over her body again. All this was filmed. As a Jewish writer, Naomi Klein, bravely pointed out in the Guardian, ‘Unlike Lynch, Corrie did not go to Gaza to engage in combat; she went to try to thwart it.’ Yet not a single American government official has praised Rachel Corrie’s courage or condemned her killing by the Israeli driver. President Bush has been gutlessly silent. For their part, the Israeli government tried to smear the activist group to which Rachel Corrie belonged by claiming that two Britons later involved in a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv had attended a memorial service to her - as if the organisers could have known of the crime the two men had not yet committed.
But there’s nothing new in smearing the dead, is there? Back in Northern Ireland in the early 1970s, I remember well how the British army’s press office at Lisburn in Co. Antrim would respond to the mysterious death of British ex-soldiers or Englishmen who were inconveniently killed by British soldiers. The dead were always described as - and here, reader, draw in your breath - ‘Walter Mitty characters’. I used to get sick of reading this smear in Belfast Telegraph headlines. Anonymous army officers would pass it along to the press. The guy was a Walter Mitty, a fantasist whose claims could not be believed. This was said of at least three dead men in Northern Ireland.
And I have a suspicion, of course, that this is where Tony Blair’s adviser Tom Kelly first heard of Walter Mitty and the ease with which authority could libel the dead. Born and bred in Northern Ireland, he must have read the same lies in the Belfast papers as I did, uttered by the same anonymous army ‘press spokesmen’ with as little knowledge of Thurber as Mr Kelly himself when they spoke to journalists over the phone. So from that dark war in Northern Ireland, I think, came the outrageous smear against Dr David Kelly,21 uttered by his namesake to a correspondent on The Independent.
So let us remember a few names this morning: Ahmed Hanoun Hussein, Mazen Dana, Tewfiq Ghazawi, Bahij Metni, Rachel Corrie and Dr David Kelly. All they have in common is their mortality. And our ability to deny their deaths or lie about why we killed them or smear them when they can no longer speak for themselves. Walter Mitty indeed!
The Independent, 23 August 2003

Tricky stuff, evil

When George Bush sneaked into Baghdad airport for his two-hour ‘warm meal’ for Thanksgiving, he was in feisty form. Americans hadn’t come to Baghdad ‘to retreat before a bunch of thugs and assassins’. Evil is still around, it seems, ready to attack the forces of Good. And if only a handful of the insurgents in Iraq are ex-Baathists - and I suspect it is only a handful - then who would complain if Saddam’s henchmen are called ‘thugs’? But Evil’s a tricky thing. Here one day, gone the next. Take Japan.
Now, I like the Japanese. Hard-working, sincere, cultured - just take a look at their collection of French Impressionists - they even had the good sense to pull out of George Bush’s ‘war on terror’. And Japan, remember, is one of the examples George always draws upon when he’s promising democracy in Iraq. Didn’t America turn emperor-obsessed Japan into a freedom-loving nation after the Second World War?
So, in Tokyo not so long ago, I took a walk down memory lane. Not my memory, but the cruelly cut-short memory of a teenage Royal Marine called Jim Feather. Jim was the son of my dad’s sister Freda and he was on the Repulse when she was sunk by Japanese aircraft on 10 December 1941. Jim was saved and brought back to Singapore, only to be captured when the British surrendered. Starved and mistreated, he was set to work building the Burma railway. Anyone who remembers David Lean’s Bridge on the River Kwai will have a good idea of what happened. One of his friends later told Freda that in Jim’s last days, he could lift the six-foot prisoner over his shoulder as if he were a child. As light as a feather, you might say. He died in a Japanese prisoner of war camp sometime in 1942.
I wasn’t thinking of Jim when I walked into the great Shinto shrine in central Tokyo where Japan’s war dead are honoured; not just the ‘banzai-banzai’ poor bloody infantry variety, but the kamikazes, the suicide pilots who crashed their Zero fighter-bombers on to American aircraft carriers. Iraq’s suiciders may not know much about Japan’s ‘divine wind’, but there’s a historical narrative that starts in the Pacific and stretches all the way through Sri Lanka’s suicide bombers to the Middle East. If President Bush’s ‘thugs and assassins’ think of Allah as they die, Japan’s airmen thought of their emperor. At the Shinto shrine, in the area containing photographs of the Japanese campaign, there are some helpful captions in English. But in the room with the portraits of the kamikazes - including a devastating oil painting of a suicide attack on a US carrier - the captions are only in Japanese. I wasn’t surprised.
What I was amazed to see, a few metres from the shrine, was a stretch of railway with a big bright green Boy’s Own Paper steam locomotive standing on it. Japanese teenagers were cleaning the piston rods and dabbing a last touch of green to the boiler. As a boy, I of course wanted to be an engine driver, so I climbed aboard. Anyone speak English? I asked. What is this loco doing in a Shinto shrine? An intense young man with thin-framed spectacles smiled at me. ‘This was the first locomotive to pull a Japanese military train along the Burma railway,’ he explained. And then I understood. Royal Marine Jim Feather had died so this pretty little train could puff through the jungles of Burma. In fact, this very same loco’s first duty was to haul the ashes of dead Japanese soldiers north from the battlefront.
The Japanese are our friends, of course. They are the fruit of our democracy. But what does this mean? Even now, the Japanese government will not acknowledge the full details of the crimes of rape and massacre against women in their conquered ‘Greater South East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere’. Since the postwar International Military Tribunal - twenty-seven Japanese war criminals were prosecuted and seven of them were hanged - not a single Japanese has been prosecuted for war crimes in Japanese courts. Men who have admitted taking part in the mass rape of Chinese girls - let alone the ‘comfort women’ from China and Korea forced to work in brothels - are still alive, safe from prosecution.
So didn’t these men represent Evil? What is the difference between the young Japanese men honoured for blowing themselves up against American aircraft carriers and the equally young men blowing themselves up against American convoys in Iraq? Sure, the Iraqi insurgents don’t respect the Red Cross. But nor did the Japanese.
I guess it’s all a matter of who your friends are. Take that little exhibition of ‘crimes against humanity’ a year ago at the Imperial War Museum in London. Included was a section on the 1915 Armenian Holocaust. But the exhibition included a disclaimer from the Turkish government, which still fraudulently claims that the Armenians were not murdered in a genocide. Andy Kevorkian, whose father’s entire family was murdered by the Turks in 1915, wrote a letter to Robert Crawford, the museum’s director general. Nowhere in the exhibition is there a disclaimer of the Jewish Holocaust by the right-wing historian David Irving or by neo-Nazis, Kevorkian complained. Nor should there be. But ‘for the IWM to bow to Turkish (or is it Foreign Office?) pressure to deny what the entire world accepts as the first genocide of the 20th century is an insult to the Armenians who survived . . . For the IWM to allow the Turks to say that this didn’t happen is a travesty of justice and truth.’
It’s the same old problem. The steam loco in Tokyo and the disclaimer in the Imperial War Museum are lies to appease enemies who are now friends. Japan is a Western democracy. So Evil is ignored. Turkey is our secular ally, a democracy that wants to join the European Union. So Evil is ignored. But fear not. As the Americans try ever more desperately to escape from Iraq, the thugs and assassins will become the good guys again and the men of Evil in Iraq will be working for us.22 The occupation authorities have already admitted rehiring some of Saddam’s evil secret policemen to hunt down the evil Saddam.
Tricky stuff, evil.
The Independent, 29 November 2003

‘Middle East hope!’ - ‘Europe in crisis!’

‘What on earth are you Europeans on about? What is this nonsense about Europe breaking apart?’ We were at lunch only a hundred metres from the crater of the bomb that killed Lebanon’s former prime minister last February. The restaurant was almost destroyed in the explosion and the staff bear the scars. The head waiter at La Paillote has a very painful, deep slit down his right cheek. My host was still amazed. ‘Do you people live on planet earth?’ he asked.
Point taken. When I open the European papers here in Beirut, I read of European chaos, of constitution rejections in France and Holland, of the possible break-up of the EU, of the return of the lira (of all currencies, the most preposterous!), of shouting matches in Brussels (of all cities, the most preposterous!) about rebates. ‘Blair tells Europe it must “renew” ’, the International Herald Tribune informs me. ‘Brown in stark warning to EU,’ my own paper headlines. Only the Eastern Europeans, it seems, like the European Union. And part of the answer to my Lebanese friend’s question may lie among Eastern Europe’s ghosts. But the Western press, when it reaches Beirut, has an awesome perversity about it.
Yesterday, for example, Lebanese newspapers - like others in the Arab world - published a picture that no Western publication would dare to show. At least a quarter of one front page here was given to this horror. It showed an Iraqi man amid the wreckage of a bomb explosion, trying to help a twelve-year-old boy to his feet. Well not quite; because the boy’s left leg has been torn off just below the knee, and beneath his agonised face there is indeed, in colour, the bloody stump, a thing from a butcher’s shop, a great piece of red bone and gristle and hanging flesh. Laith Falah, one of the lucky Iraqis to be ‘liberated’ by us in 2003, was bicycling to a Baghdad bakery to buy bread for his parents and three sisters. For him, for his parents and three sisters, for all Iraqis, for Arabs, for the Middle East, for my luncheon host, the EU’s problems seem as preposterous as Brussels and the lira.
So why is it that we Europeans can no longer understand our own peace and contentment and safety and our extraordinary luxury and our futuristic living standards and our godlike good fortune and our long, wonderful lives? When I arrive in Paris on Air France and step aboard the RER train to the city, when I take the Eurostar to London and sip my coffee while the train hisses between the great military cemeteries of northern France where many of my father’s friends lie buried, I see the glowering, sad faces of my fellow Europeans, heavy with the burden of living in the beautiful First World, broken down by minimum hours of work and human rights laws and protections the like of which are beyond the imagination of the people among whom I live.
And when the train eases towards Waterloo and I catch sight of the Thames and Big Ben, I call a friend on my mobile, an Iraqi who’s trying to emigrate to Australia or Canada - he hasn’t decided which yet but I’ve already told him that one can be quite hot, the other very cold - and he tells me that he can’t cross the border to Jordan even to visit the Australian embassy. No Eurostars for him. Oddly - and this is part of the perversity that our newspapers accurately reflect - we want to believe that the Middle East is getting better. Iraq is the world’s newest democracy; our soldiers are winning the war against the insurgents - at least we are now calling it a war - and Lebanon is free and Egypt will soon be more democratic and even the Saudis endured an election a couple of months ago. Israel will withdraw from Gaza and the ‘road map’ to peace will take off and there will be a Palestinian state and . . .
It’s rubbish, of course. Iraq is a furnace of pain and fear, the insurrection grows bloodier by the day, Lebanon’s people are under attack, Mubarak’s Egypt is a pit of oppression and poverty and Saudi Arabia is - and will remain - an iconoclastic and absolute monarchy. ‘Take the greatest care,’ I say this week to a Lebanese lawyer friend whose political profile exactly matches the journalist and the ex-communist party leader who were assassinated in Beirut this month. ‘You too,’ he says. And I sit and think about that for a bit.
Maybe we Europeans need to believe that the Middle East is a spring of hope in order to concentrate on our own golden grief. Perhaps it helps us to feel bad about ourselves, to curse our privileges and hate our glorious life, if we persuade ourselves that the Middle East is a paradise of growing freedom and liberation from fear. But why? We lie to ourselves about the tragedy of the Middle East and then we lie to ourselves about the heaven of living in Europe. Maybe - a wilful notion now slides into this paragraph - maybe the Second World War was too long ago. Almost outside living memory, the real hell of Europe persuaded us to create a new continent of security and unity and wealth. And now, I suspect, we’ve forgotten. The world in which my father’s chums died in northern France in 1918 and the world in which my mother repaired Spitfire radios in the Battle of Britain is being ‘disappeared’, permitted to pop up only when Prime Minister Blair wants to compare his horrible little war in Iraq to Britain’s Finest Hour or when we want to enjoy an orgy of cinematic Nazi destruction in The Downfall. Only in the east, where the mass graves litter the cold earth, does memory linger amid the mists. Which might explain their love of the EU. Yet Laith Falah’s terrible wound was more grisly than Saving Private Ryan - which is why you will not have seen it in Europe this week.
And yesterday, before lunch, I went down to Martyrs’ Square in Beirut to watch the funeral of old Georges Hawi, the former communist party leader who was driving to the Gondole coffee shop on Tuesday when a bomb exploded beneath his car seat and tore into his abdomen. And there was his widow - who had swooned from grief and horror when she actually saw her husband’s body lying on the road - weeping before the coffin. And 2,000 miles away, Europe was in crisis.
The Independent, 25 June 2005

A poet on the run in Fortress Europe

Mohamed Ziya sits on the chair beside me in Amsterdam and opens his little book of poetry. His verse slopes down the page in delicate Persian script, the Dari language of his native Afghanistan. ‘God, why in the name of Islam is there all this killing, why all this anti-people killing . . . the only chairs left in my country are chairs for the government, those who want to destroy Afghanistan.’ He reads his words of anger slowly, gently interrupted by an old chiming Dutch clock. Outside, the Herengracht canal slides gently beneath the rain. It would be difficult to find anywhere that less resembles Kabul.
‘The donkeys came to Afghanistan, Massoud, Rahbani and the rest,’ Mohamed reads on. ‘All the people were waiting for the donkeys. Gulbuddin said these donkeys have no tails - “Only I have a tail, so I shall have a ministry,” he said. The donkeys are now in the government.’ Donkeys may be nice, friendly beasts to us, but to call anyone in the Muslim world a khar - a donkey - is as insulting as you can get. Mohamed was talking about the ‘mujahedin’ guerrilla fighters who moved into Kabul after the Russian withdrawal in 1990, an arrival that presaged years of civil war atrocities which left at least 65,000 Afghans dead. This was the conflict which so sickened the anti-Soviet fighter Osama bin Laden that he left Afghanistan for Sudan.
Mohamed looks at me - a small energetic man with dark, sharp eyes. ‘I wanted future generations to know what we went through, to understand our pain,’ he says to me. ‘I couldn’t stop myself writing this poetry.’ This was his mistake. Betrayed to the ‘mujahedin’, he was thrown into a foul prison in Kabul, rescued only by his father’s intercession. The Taliban came next and Mohamed could not prevent his pen from betraying him again. ‘I kept my poetry “under the table”, as we say, but someone at my office found a poem I had written called “Out of Work” and told the boss, who was a mullah.’ When he knew that he had been discovered, Mohamed ran in terror from his office to his father’s home.
Mohamed seems to spend his life on the run. He and his wife and three children live in the north of Holland, desperate to stay in the land to which they fled six years ago, but the courts - in the new spirit of anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim Europe - have rejected their pleas to stay. Mohamed’s papers have expired. Now he waited in fear for the policeman who would demand: ‘Your papers please.’ A family friend, Hoji Abdul-Rahman, originally arranged for Mohamed and his family to flee Kabul for Jalalabad and then across the Afghan border to Pakistan where ‘Hoji’ - an honorific title bestowed on those who have made the pilgrimage to Mecca - obtained fake visas and passports that enabled them to fly to Holland. ‘I went straight to the police to tell them we were here,’ Mohamed said. ‘They were very good to us. They told us to register at Zevenaar as asylum-seekers, which we did.’
He was housed in a small Dutch village where the local people treated the Afghan family with great kindness. ‘They always came to see us in our flat and gave us food and invited us to their homes,’ Mohamed said, producing a sad poem entitled ‘Thank You for Everything’ in tribute to the Dutch people. But fate struck Mohamed again. Had the last of four court hearings into his case dated his refugee status from the day he arrived in Holland rather than from that of his first visit to Zevenaar in 2000 - which was delayed because the Dutch authorities were enjoying the week-long millennium celebrations - he would probably have qualified for permanent refugee status.
‘But the court dated my arrival from the delayed registration at Zevenaar and told me my family had to leave Holland. They said that the Taliban had been defeated and that Afghanistan was now a “democracy”. But they wouldn’t accept that Karzai’s government includes many of the ‘mujahedin’ warlords who locked me up in prison. They will do the same again.’ Which is probably true. But now Mohamed, his wife and three children - one of them born in Holland - wait for the police to take them to Schiphol airport for the long journey back to their dangerous homeland.
The ferocious murder of film-maker Theo van Gogh and the callous behaviour of his Muslim murderer - who announced in court that he felt no compassion for van Gogh’s family - has hardened Dutch government hearts, just as the rioting in Clichy-sous-Bois has hardened those of Messrs Sarkozy and Chirac. So what am I to say to Mohamed as he sits hunched in the deep, soft armchair of my hotel room, clutching his poetry book and his sack of expired refugee papers, a mechanical engineer with a foreign language degree from a Ukrainian university who must now clear garbage from Dutch apartment blocks to earn money? I can’t help you, I say quietly. I will write about you. I will try to pump some compassion out of the authorities. But the days of such humanity have run out.
Next day, I am giving a lecture in the Belgian city of Antwerp when a man in the audience starts to berate me. ‘Why should we help Afghans or Iraqis or other Muslims when their own governments treat them like shit?’ he asked. ‘Why should we have to save them from their own people? Why do we have to treat them better?’ I explain that it was us - we, the West - who armed the ‘mujahedin’ to fight the Russians and then ignored Afghanistan when it collapsed into civil war, that we nurtured the Taliban via Saudi Arabia and Pakistan when we thought we could negotiate with them for a gas pipeline across Afghanistan, that the current US ambassador in Iraq - that other blood-drenched democratic success story - was once involved with the company Unocal, which negotiated with the Taliban over the pipeline route, that Karzai had also been working for Unocal. To no avail.
Our new morality, it seems, no longer revolves around ‘Saddam was worse than us’ but ‘Why should we treat Muslims any better than they treat each other?’ And now we know that the CIA is holding other Muslims in bunkers deep beneath the earth of democratic Romania and brave old democratic Poland for a little torture, what hope is there for Mohamed? For him - and for us in Britain soon if Prime Minister Blair gets his way - it will be a familiar story from Europe’s dark past. Vos papiers, Monsieur. Arbeitspapiere, bitte schön. Your papers, please.
The Independent, 5 November 2005
Mohamed Ziya’s story has a happy ending. In February 2007 he e-mailed relatives that the Dutch authorities had given permission for his family to stay in the Netherlands.