How can the decent be accountable for the wicked few?
Armed soldiers at Westminster, Buckingham Palace, Downing Street; a shocking sight to some but not to anyone who grew up in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, when squaddies patrolled our streets, their semiautomatic rifles resting on one shoulder.
Does placing the nation on a critical threat footing and deploying troops at iconic landmarks make us feel more protected or less safe? Both, however contradictory that sounds. But we live in deeply conflicted times.
In the wake of the Manchester Arena horror, amid the churn of anguish, the unplumbable depths of sadness and bereavement has come an outpouring of animosity towards Muslims and a reported spike in hate crimes. Apart from being illegal, it’s illogical, irrational and bigoted. Adding insult to injury only results in different injuries. How can anyone expect the ordinary, decent many to be held accountable for the wicked, warped few? What does burning the door of a mosque or yelling abuse at a veiled woman achieve?
Nothing, apart from the twisted objective of extremists, whose stated aim is to foment hatred and schism and civil war so they might rebuild broken Western societies in their barbaric image.
This week Fawzi Haffar, trustee of the Manchester Islamic Centre in Didsbury, spoke with fierce eloquence when he condemned this “evil crime of epic proportions”. Then he added: “But let’s also be clear about this – why do we then have to stand up and say: ‘we apologise’? It’s not my fault. It’s not the fault of the religion. We’re sick of having to apologise and being the first to condemn it. What more can we do? Tell me what more can we do?”
I understand that outrage, that helplessness. I am from County Tyrone, Northern Ireland, where I was defined by my religion; back then you could instantly tell from a person’s face whether they were Catholic or Protestant, one of us or one of them. As a child, no-go areas for each religion seemed normal; the clue was whether kerbstones were painted green, white and orange or red, white and blue. We walked through “their” estates at our peril; if we were only subjected to stone-throwing and name calling we got off lightly.
In my teens I was beaten up by a former primary school classmate and as soon as I left to go to university my faith became public property. I would be asked my religion almost daily, but never my politics. That pat assumption was that if I was Catholic I was republican, and republican meant pro-ira. As a result, I would find myself lambasted or lauded according to my interlocutor’s politics. The truth was I wasn’t republican and I felt nothing but revulsion for the crimes being carried out “in my name”.
But private feelings weren’t enough. Those around me expected – demanded – public denunciation. Whenever an atrocity was carried out, particularly on the mainland, I would be required to condemn the perpetrators and defend my religion against aspersions.
Yes I am a Catholic, no I am a Unionist, yes that is unusual, but real life is far more nuanced than the standard narratives. This whole oft-repeated rigmarole was taxing and tiresome and egregiously unfair. Why was I expected to represent my religion? It wasn’t a role I chose, I just happened to be a Northern Irish Catholic and, although unqualified to give anything but my own personal opinion, was treated as a religious spokesman.
So, I entirely empathise and sympathise with British Muslims who feel intimidated, disheartened – exasperated – by the covert intimations and overt accusations that, amid suspicions of guilt by association, it is their duty to prove their innocence.
I recall the sense of shame I felt after every IRA bomb blast, and shame is a hard emotion to live with. Members of the Libyan community in Manchester interviewed in these past days have talked in just those terms.
So what are they to do? I believe the onus is on imams and leaders like Haffar to be vocal, unequivocal in their ongoing condemnation of violence and their implacability towards extremism.
During the Troubles, with a few fine exceptions, the Catholic clergy were at best supine and at worst downright complicit; at my own church, the priest asked the congregation to pray for the souls of “those poor dear boys gunned down in cold blood by the occupying forces”.
He omitted to mention that the poor dear boys had been driving a car filled with explosive into a barracks. My entire family stood up and walked out of the church. Nobody followed.
It’s impossible to make a stand like that every day, to pluck the sleeve of every passing stranger begging for collective forgiveness. After the Westminster attack, Muslim women formed a human chain across the bridge to demonstrate their solidarity with the victims.
Must they stand there every day, expiating crimes they did not commit, just so the rest of their faith can go about their business in peace? I think there are some who will only be satisfied once they do just that.
Religious leaders must make that statement for them, over and over if necessary, until the naysayers appear ridiculous when they question where British Muslims’ allegiances lie. It is their responsibility.
Those opposed to British foreign policy (by no means confined to Muslims) are free to do so and can make their views known at the ballot box; the intolerant, the inadequates and the brainwashed who would resort to the bullet, the bomb packed with ball bearings have no place here.
Terrorism feeds off alienation and disaffection. Which is why we – all of us – must treat one another with kindness, with respect and a shared sense of purpose. To do otherwise is to play into the hands of those who would slaughter and maim our children.