The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - The Telegraph Magazine
The good fght
Canon Andrew White has been kidnapped in Baghdad, given all his money away, adopted six children and suffers from MS. He also campaigns with indefatigable passion for peace in the Middle East. Saphora Smith meets a latter-day saint. Photograph by Ben Murp
A saint for our times, the British ‘Vicar of Baghdad’ has spent more than 10 years in Iraq, striving for peace, adopting six children, surviving kidnap – and battling his MS. By Saphora Smith
When I invited Isil to dinner they said, “Yes, we’ll come, but we’ll chop of your head,”’ White says matter-of-factly. ‘Rather kind of them to warn me’
For more than 10 years, Canon Andrew White presided over the only Anglican Church in Iraq, a role that led him to be known universally as the Vicar of Baghdad. But his old parish of St George’s has become too dangerous, and today he leads a peripatetic life, spending time with his displaced congregation in Israel and Amman, Jordan. He is, in efect, a vicar without a parish.
Recently he was to be found in Britain conducting a private service for ‘Christians in Government’ at St Margaret’s church, Westminster. For the past 17 years White, 52, has suffered from multiple sclerosis, so he would normally sit to conduct a service. But today he is standing. There are two places, he says, where he will always stand: Cambridge, where he was educated, and Westminster. ‘It’s a matter of pride.’
It cannot be every day that the Arabic words Allahu ma’ana (the Lord is here) reverberate around the lofty pillars of St Margaret’s. Speaking from the gold-encrusted pulpit, White continues with his blessing, now in Aramaic. (‘If it was good enough for Jesus it is good enough for me,’ he says.)
Cherub-faced with horn-rimmed glasses, White has a mastery of these Semitic languages, a reminder of his singular place as a 21st-century missionary who has spent much of his adult life working towards peace in the Middle East. If religion is part of the problem, he says, it must also be part of the solution. A fact, he adds, that politicians and diplomats often fail to grasp.
And he would know. Along the way he has crossed paths with numerous world leaders: George W Bush, Tony Blair, Yasser Arafat, Tariq Aziz (Saddam Hussein’s right-hand man) and Pope John Paul II. Arafat, Aziz and the Pope became good friends with White, though not perhaps with each other.
It is a strange collection, he admits, but White is a big believer in dining with his enemies – a gesture that, until Isil, had worked quite well. ‘When I invited Isil to dinner they said, “Yes, we’ll come, but we’ll chop of your head,”’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Rather kind of them to warn me.’
Born to a Baptist father and Pentecostal mother, White grew up in the south London suburb of Bexley. He attended both strict Baptist and Pentecostal churches with his parents but was also schooled in Judaism – ‘the root of Christianity’, he says. As an older child he was drawn to the Church of England after making friends with an elderly Anglican neighbour. ‘It seemed like a glimpse into what I imagined heaven was like,’ he wrote of his frst High Anglican church service in his autobiography. From that day on, White attended three diferent churches daily for the rest of his childhood.
‘The priest said to me one day, “Andrew, aren’t you going to get indigestion with all this Church, so much Church?” But I did it,’ he says. As it turned out this multi-faith education would be the best preparation for his future vocation.
But White’s calling did not come immediately. As a child he wanted to become a doctor and a vicar, but was told he could not be both. Convinced his time in the clergy would come, White became an anaesthetist at St Thomas’ Hospital on the banks of the Thames. It was here he came across Bashar al-Assad, Syria’s tyrannical president, who was in London training to be an ophthalmologist. And it was here, while taking a break in the hospital garden, that, he says, God came to him, calling him to leave medicine and serve Him.
While studying theology at the University of Cambridge, White was asked to intervene in a dispute between the Christian Union and Jewish students. By facilitating dialogue between the two camps, White managed to resolve a mini ‘holy war’, and went on to found a group called the Cambridge University Jews and Christians, his frst venture into interfaith co-operation.
Tall and big-boned, White commands attention. He has that uncanny ability of making you feel he is talking to only you when addressing a congregation. Despite his illness he gesticulates energetically, often throwing his giant hands to the heavens. In conversation his pronunciation is slurred, giving his voice a childlike quality (an efect of his illness that has led several radio listeners to complain about the ‘drunken vicar’). And yet in church his voice is booming and clear.
Throughout his time in the Middle East, White’s wife, Caroline, has continued to live in Hampshire with their two sons, Josiah, 19, and Jacob, 17. Josiah, who studies theology at Cambridge, admires his father’s willpower. ‘However ill he is with his MS, he’s always able to get up and give a big talk, to rally the troops,’ he says on the telephone from Liphook.
There are many troops to rally. With almost 30,000 followers on Facebook and countless more ofine, it can at times, Josiah says, be overwhelming. ‘Mum calls them his
stalkers. It gets a bit weird, you know, people asking to come to Christmas dinner.’
It’s easy to see why he draws a crowd. His manner is informal; he switches from English to Arabic to Aramaic without warning, and even breaks into song (‘Jesus loves me, this I know’), a trace, perhaps, of his Pentecostal upbringing. And he is light-hearted. During a pause in proceedings he catches my eye in the congregation, his press secretary having pointed me out, and gesticulates in my direction: ‘Me. You. Later. It’s on.’ (He is referring to the interview, but heads turn.)
After the service it takes a good hour to extract White. He is busy handing out his business cards and praying, there and then, for anyone who asks. When one man asks him to sign a copy of his autobiography, he refuses, saying, ‘I usually only sign in green, because Saddam Hussein’s death sentence was signed in green.’ Though he never met Saddam he believes that he was, along with Hitler, ‘fundamentally evil’.
We head for the Carlton Club, the Conservative stronghold where White stays when he is in town. White’s car is stufed with his belongings, and I fnd myself pressed up against a pillow that accompanies him around the world, which, for reasons of his own, he calls Abu Abbas after the late leader of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation.
We are driven to the club by White’s driver, while his assistant and press secretary follow in a taxi. Staf are paid for by the Foundation for Relief and Reconciliation in the Middle East, founded by White, which is funded by churches, synagogues and individuals around the world.
The Carlton Club is an unlikely watering hole for a travelling vicar, even one who describes himself as a ‘raving Tory’ who ‘loves’ Margaret Thatcher. Once inside, White’s assistant Peter busies himself. ‘I’ll lay out your clothes, wash bag, tablets, computer, phone charger…’ he says to White. ‘As far as tomorrow goes, what do you want to wear?’
‘Non-clerical tomorrow. Any bow tie, with the right colour shirt,’ says White, adding, ‘The colour is purple or pink. It’s Lent, so we’re going slightly liturgical.’
It was in 1998, as the director of the International Centre for Reconciliation at Coventry Cathedral, that White frst visited Iraq, at the invitation of Tariq Aziz. During his visit he was taken to see the only Anglican church in the country, St George’s in Baghdad. Established in 1864 by Christian missionaries from Jerusalem, St George’s had been shut by Saddam in 1991, following the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, because it was ‘the English church’. It had been repeatedly looted and all that remained was the marble font.
In 2003 White returned to resurrect St George’s, opening its doors to Iraqis and expats for the frst time in over 14 years. White says Caroline was unperturbed at the prospect of her husband spending more time away. ‘I was backwards and forwards for years,’ he says. ‘It was no great change.’
St George’s congregation grew rapidly, reaching more than 6,500 at its peak. Today, about 40 Christian families remain. Most have fed to Jordan or fallen into the hands of Isil, where they are forced to convert or to pay the jizya (a tax on non-Muslims), or they are killed – often by beheading.
White’s position was perilous, and he was kidnapped in 2004. He remembers being ambushed in Baghdad and giving his attackers all the money he had, before being thrown into a dark room. Once alone, he used his phone to light the space, discovering to his horror he was in a cell full of amputated toes and fngers. His response was to pray while listening to a recording of his friend’s daughter playing the piano. To this day White is unclear as to the identity of his kidnappers. ‘They didn’t leave their business cards,’ he says. When asked how he escaped he declines to say anything more than, ‘I would say God.’ I suggest his kidnapping must have been horrendous for Caroline. ‘She found it hard being a normal vicar’s wife in Clapham, with people coming to the door all the time,’ he says, evading the question. He pauses and adds, seriously this time, ‘She sees it as part of her ministry, allowing me to go.’
In 2014 White’s good friend the Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby recalled him from Iraq. ‘He told me I was more use alive than dead,’ says White, who reluctantly agrees. Now he spends most of his time preaching to Christian refugees in Jordan and Israel, living in rented apartments shared with his staf or friends.
When he is not preaching, he dedicates his life to the practical needs of his congregation, to raising awareness of the persecution of Christians in the Middle East, and to bringing Jews and Arabs together.
The conversation moves on to the plight of Christians. In the past century the proportion of Christians in the Middle East has decreased from 14 per cent in 1910 to about four per cent today, according to The Economist. Along with economic crises and a general fall in birth rates, the rise of extremist groups is responsible for this decline.
White explains that Iraqi Christians have been among the worst hit. Since the fall of Saddam in 2003, violence against Christians in Iraq has escalated, leading hundreds of thousands to fee the country. ‘The situation today in Iraq is much worse than it ever was before,’ he says. According to Open Doors, a Christian charity, only 250,000 Christians remain in the country, compared with 1.2 million in the 1990s.
One problem, White says, is that Christians in the Middle East are seen as apologists for the West. It’s unfortunate, he says, as some Christians aren’t even aware of the link to America or Europe. ‘One of my adopted sons [White has six Iraqi children, who are not formally adopted] didn’t know there were Christians in the West; he thought Christians were [only] in the Middle East, in Iraq.’
Today Isil is attempting to eradicate all Christians. White tells the story of his friend Jamar, a former member of the congregation at St George’s who, on returning to his native Mosul, was forced to convert to Islam when Isil threatened to
White used his phone to light the space, discovering to his horror he was in a cell full of amputated toes and fngers. His response was to pray
kill his children. Jamar’s story is one of many, says White. ‘He came to me asking if Jesus would forgive him and I said, “Jamar, if I were in your position, and my children were threatened, I would have done the same.”’
In the week of our meeting, the United States House of Representatives declared that Isil’s mass killing of Christians and other religious minorities amounts to genocide; the European Parliament made a similar declaration in February. But White says the West has been slow to act in defence of the Christians, partly for fear of playing into the ‘clash of civilisations’ narrative, and partly because the West has ‘fundamentally misunderstood the role of religion in the Middle East’.
In order to restore peace, White says, Iraq needs strong leadership. ‘In the Middle East the only form of government that really works is benevolent dictatorship,’ he says. ‘Look at King Abdullah of Jordan and King Hussein before him, and the King of Morocco. They have total power but they are kind and loving to their people.’
Might this not lead to another Saddam Hussein? ‘Yes, of course it’s dangerous,’ he says. ‘But you have to take risks.’
Dinner arrives. White has ordered a cheese board for his main course and a second dessert to follow, as well as mixed fruit juice. He says grace in Aramaic.
White’s MS afects his dexterity, and several times during our interview he knocks things of the table. Diagnosed with the disease 17 years ago, the day Jacob was born, White now receives treatment in Baghdad, where he is injected with his own stem cells – a treatment not yet available in Britain. ‘In the West they do research, research and research,’ he says. ‘In Iraq we just do it.’ He is often asked why God does not cure his disease. His response is simple: ‘God has enabled me to do everything I’ve ever needed to do.’
The conversation moves on to his childhood, which he says was a mixed bag. His sister, Joanna, had severe anorexia, while his brother, Mark, sufered from depression that eventually drove him to suicide. To cope, White spent most of his teenage years buried deep in books – on anaesthetics and faith – or visiting the elderly.
‘Don’t you fnd things that are emotionally part of you are harder to deal with than external things?’ he asks. But, he says, he has been lucky enough to have faith to see him through. ‘I’m strange – I’ve never had any doubts [about his faith].’ This, he says, is ‘abnormal even among the clergy’.
It is his unwavering faith that has led him to believe in religion’s power to build peace. What works in Iraq, he says, is to meet and eat with the ayatollahs. (Though he admits it is a challenge for him, as a vegetarian, when the ayatollahs serve up a whole sheep: ‘I mainly moved it around the plate.’) Religion, he believes, must be a bedrock of reconciliation, but many disagree. What he is up against, he explains, is the notion from the West that religion and politics should be distinct. ‘But the reality in Middle East negotiations is that you realise there is nothing without religion,’ he says.
Why? ‘Because Islam is a way of life not just a religion.’ To be successful in reconciliation in the Middle East, White says, you have to understand the Koran and the Torah, and how religion infuences peoples’ mindset.
But today there is another force at play in the Middle East and it is debatable how far it can be explained by the Koran. Isil is on the move in Iraq and Syria, attempting to build a
In order to restore peace, White says, Iraq needs strong leadership: ‘In the Middle East the only form of government that really works is benevolent dictatorship’
caliphate across the region and beyond. White is in favour of invasion. ‘Isil will not be controlled by bombs from above; you will only manage to subdue them with troops on the ground,’ he says. White believes in just war, and for him Isil is malign enough to warrant bloodshed. ‘We are dealing with an evil, evil group. You cannot negotiate [with Isil] at all.’
The trouble is Isil’s ‘corporate identity’, he says. ‘You always hope there will be individuals [within Isil] you can get through to.’ But with a collective it’s difcult. ‘I want to forgive them, and I really hope one day we’ll be able to work with them and not against them.’ But this day, he says, is far of.
Dinner is cleared. White has barely touched his cheese; he says he fnds it difcult to eat. Sleep, he admits, is also a challenge. I ask if his vocation has taken a toll on any other part of his life – his family for example, whom he rarely sees. ‘They’ve never really known any diferent,’ he says. ‘I went home for fve whole days once, which is quite rare, and after a while Jacob, who must have been about 11 at the time, said to me, “Daddy, time for you to go back to work now.”’
White frst met his wife while preaching one evening at St Mark’s church in Battersea Rise in the early 1990s. In his autobiography he recalls, ‘I noticed in the second row the most beautiful young lady I’d ever seen.’ Less than a month later Caroline and Andrew were engaged.
Other than his biological family (and 29 godchildren), White has brought up six Iraqi children. Orphaned or with parents who were ill, they all lived with White, at one stage or another, in his compound in Baghdad. ‘They are adopted in the Iraqi sense. I look after their needs,’ he says, explaining that his defnition of family is ‘looser’ than most. Today the children are grown up; one is in Iraq, the others have emigrated to France, Canada, Jordan, Kurdistan or America.
Josiah is proud of his father’s achievements. ‘It’s always very strange, because for me he’s just a guy that can’t fnd his slippers and who always wears the same jumper. But when I’ve been out to the Middle East with him, it’s like he becomes a completely different person, doing all these amazing things,’ he says. ‘I don’t have many strong memories of him,’ he continues. ‘He wasn’t really there for anything important. I’ve always felt kind of sad; sometimes it feels like he puts other people above me, like some of the people in Iraq.’
There are probably many times when White has put others frst. A seasoned hostage negotiator, he once spent his family’s savings to pay the ransom of a man he had never met. He declines to give details but says, ‘I remember my wife saying, “You’ve given everything we’ve got.”’ An American benefactor has since paid for his sons’ education.
It is past midnight and White has spent much of the day at the American Embassy trying to convince ofcials he is ‘not a terrorist’ despite spending so much time in Iraq. (White travels often to America, teaching at universities, fundraising and rallying support.) Then on to the Westminster service, and now here, in the drawing room of the Carlton Club.
Before I leave he makes a request. ‘I don’t like being called the Vicar of Baghdad because I am no longer the vicar there,’ he says. What about the Vicar of the Displaced? I suggest, thanks to his role as a preacher for Christian refugees in Jordan. ‘The Vicar of the Displaced,’ he says thoughtfully, mulling it over. ‘Yes, I like that very much.’ To fnd out more about the Foundation for Relief and Reconciliation in the Middle East, visit frrme.org
‘I went home for fve whole days once, which is quite rare, and after a while Jacob, who was about 11 at the time, said, “Daddy, time for you to go back to work now”’