Robert Sharp

Salman Rushdie has been given a knighthood, causing much offence and effigy burining in Pakistan. Now the diplomatic row has intensified, with British ambassadors in Tehran and Islamabad receiving offical complaints. I am confident that the British Establishment won’t back down on this issue, and that Sir Salman will recieve his daubing from the Queen sometime soon. Proof that we are not sacrificing our values to an intolerant minority.

It seems to be fashionable to complain about what a smug bore Rushdie is. I can’t speak for the man himself, but I’ve always enjoyed reading his iconoclastic prose, his unreliable narrators. Midnight’s Children is very rewarding, as is Shame and even Grimus. I never really related to the satire in The Satanic Verses, although I might do now I appreciate just how stratospheric Bollywood actors can be.

However, I was not impressed when he turned out to be one of the few authors on OpenDemocracy.net who refused to let his work be licenced under the Creative Commons agreement. He did apologise though: “Sorry to be old-fashioned,” he said.

Two journalists find themselves without liberty, in two very different situations.

First, via Mash at the Dr Strangelove Blog, we hear that prominent journalist Tasneem Khalil arrested by military police in Bangladesh. Khalil is only 26, and works for the Dhaka-based Daily Star newspaper. He also campaigns for Human Rights Watch, who have issued a statement regarding his detention.

There are rumours that this detention will be shortlived, and that he might be released by the weekend. Regardless, the Internet is already being used to co-ordinate a campaign for his release: There is a possibility of a protest outside the Bangladeshi embassy in London, and campaigners will be raising awareness within the Bangladeshi community in the UK, at the Brick Lane Mela this weekend. Pickled Politics has more information.

Meanwhile, BBC reporter Alan Johnston has been missing for 60 days. In his case, his captors are a local militia group in Gaza.

An online petitions has been created for Alan Johnston, with another planned for Tasneem Khalil. However, I wonder whether this is as important as simply spreading awareness on a word-of-mouth (or word-of-blog) basis throughout the relevant communities. In neither case are the captors (The Bangladeshi ‘caretaker government’; and the Jaish al-Islam group in Gaza) directly accountable to the populations they pretend to serve. But one hopes that a rising wave of discontent coming from within those populations will eventually persuade those who make the decisions, that releasing their prisoners is the best course of action. By contrast, disapproval from outside these ‘constituencies’ - say, from the BBC or the British Government - might not be as persuasive.

Good luck Alan and Tasneem.

Tasneem Khalil has now been released. Worryingly, his detention was apparently “not due to his journalistic work and had nothing to do with his functions at The Daily Star … In fact, it was because of the contents of his personal blog and some SMSs he had sent recently…” Hmmm.

“Well, I suppose overall it was an enjoyable film,” I said, as we wandered past the pop-corn. “I loved Ashkay Kumar’s shirts, I would like some like that. And he got the girl in the end.”

But there was a ‘but’.

“But I have to say, I did feel all the English characters were ludicrous stereotypes. The film portrayed the England as full of nothing but obnoxious, race obsessed toffs who live in huge Georgian estates. It was a wholly negative and false portrayal of my country and culture.”

My Pakistani friend shrugged and chuckled. “Now you know how we feel all the time.”

Of course, I never ever watch Celebrity Big Brother, full as it is of vacuous has-beens whining about their personal life. However, yesterday evening I just happened to walk into the living room, when a freak bolt of lightning turned the TV over to Channel 4, at coincidentally the exact moment when I tripped over a wild hamster. Prostrate on the floor, I randomly caught sight of this strange TV programme out of the corner of my eye. I leapt up, and immediately turned it off after only an hour and half viewing.

I could not help rubber-necking the foreigners’ car-crash into the British class system. Neither A-Teamer Dirk Benedict, or Bollywood star Shilpa Shetty, sees anything wrong in laughing at the poor diction of some of the other housemates. They did not seem appreciate that their comments are seen as snobbish. Nor did not understand when those ‘down-to-earth’ housemates predictably turned sour, mercilessly criticising Shilpa’s naive attempt at roasting a chicken.

It is a shame some of the comments flung in her direction were disparaging to India and its culture, prompting accusations of racism: apparently over 10,000 people have now complained.

Its interesting that the celebrity version of Big Brother should prove a microcosm of the country as a whole, an illustration of the race debate in the UK. What is crucial here is that the offenders (in this case, Jo, Jade and Danielle) genuinely do not believe they are racist. They are not picking on Shilpa because she is Indian. Her transgressions, such as they are, seem real to them, and crucially nothing to do with her race or nationality.

When so-called culture wars periodically blitz the media, the examples of cultural conflict are stark, dealing as they so often do with life-changing issues such as marriage, sex, or the role of religion in political decision-making. They are noticeable. What goes unremarked are the tiny issues, the little differences, than can turn two people off each other. There is nothing wrong with using spices in food, or using your hands to eat it. This is part of Shilpa’s culture. Jade, Jo, and Danielle, who are ignorant of Shilpa’s culture, do not understand this. When they criticise her, they do not for one moment believe their comments have anything to do with her being Indian. They think they are criticising her. They do not realise the subjectivity of their criticism. They do not even realise that they are actually criticising a part of Shilpa’s culture, and others by association. The ‘racism’, such as it is, lies in these ignorances (I would prefer to call it an ‘unwitting prejudice’).

Whether one has any time for the ‘racism’ charge depends on whether you believe the invective levelled at Shilpa was directed at her alone, or her cultural practices in general. Those who said them would passionately, genuinely argue that the former is true. Those who heard them, would say the latter. Neither would be completely correct, however. Like a blunderbuss, no matter how careful and ‘genuine’ the aim, you will always hit something you did not intend. The problem is caused by shooting the invective in the first place! It is a kind of second-degree racism: the Indian viewers of Celebrity Big Brother have been caught in the cross-fire of a domestic spat. They have a genuine greivance, even if the mens rea is absent.

The same argument can, I think, be applied to the remarks about the accents of certain housemates. You can appear to be a snob without realising it. But just like culinary practices, the way someone speaks is a matter of culture and upbringing. To laugh at it is to laugh at everyone who does it.

We’re all guilty of second order prejudice on some level, because it is impossible to know what is going on everywhere in the world, or how everyone lives. The key to reducing this, is to make an effort to learn more about the people who you live with (whether you live in a multi-ethnic democracy, or the Big Brother House). To avoid learning more about others, or to declare it unnecessary, is the real prejudice.

India actually has its own version of the TV show, called Bigg Boss. I haven’t seen it myself, but those who have tell me it is actually more interesting, with nudity and frolicking at a minimum, and the contestants getting stuck into political debates instead.

Perhaps I am being too diplomatic. Apparently slurs like “Paki Bitch” are being bandied about. That’s first order racism, and certainly didn’t make the cut yesterday evening.

I happened to catch an interesting CCN-IBN special news report this evening, discussing the aftermath of the bombings in Malegon three days ago, where a Muslim cemetary was attacked during Friday prayers. We were shown footage of a Hindu man returing to buy groceries from a stall opposite the blast site. Unafraid to visit the vicinity of the attack, and unwilling to disrupt his routine, he made a point of taking his eleven-year-old son along with him. There were also scenes of Hindus queuing to give blood, to help the Muslim victims of the blast.

Whatever the religion of the interviewees, the message was unianimous: “They are trying to divide us, and we won’t let them.”

On the fifth anniversary of the atrocities on the World Trade Centre, we will ask ourselves again: “What was the aim of the hijackers when they did this? What was Osama Bin Laden’s purpose?” The attacks on the world trade centre ignited a global conflict that has polarised world opinion, and ostracised an entire race of people. Sure, we didn’t start the conflict… but I cannot help thinking that we rose to the bait. When, on 14th September 2001, George W Bush named the ‘War on Terror’, it was seen as the beginning of the Fight Back. But it was also endorsement of the enemy’s terms of reference. That was the real defeat, and it happened after only three days.

Following my post regarding names and over-achieving name-alikeys, a correspondent of mine writes:

I wanted to call my son Ebenezer. I wanted him to have a unique name, and I don’t know any other kids called that. When he grew up, he could shorten it to ‘Ben’ if he wanted, or if he fancied something a bit more street, he could call himself ‘Ezey’, like if he was a DJ or something. It would be a good stage name. It would look good on a book jacket. Everyone he met would remember him. He would be talked about. People would say “Do you know Ebenezer?”
…
But my wife wasn’t having any of that. She said that kids at school might bully him. So instead we named him John, after my Dad. My son John, who must now compete for attention with the billions of other Johns out there.

Earlier this year, sitting on a bus winding through the hills of Sri Lanka, I met a British couple who were expecting a baby. He was a Scotsman, while she was of Sinhalese Sri Lankan parentage. They were discussing what name to give the baby. Part of the discussion was to find a combination of first and middle names which acknowledged their disparate heritage. Would the child take on the father’s monosyllabic Scottish surname, it’s mother’s polysyllabic Sri Lankan second name, or a hyphenated tongue-twister which combined the two? I wondered to what extent the origin of the name would affect the child’s relationship to the world around them. In those weeks before a decision was made, the baby had as much chance of being named Christopher or Angus, as being named Dilip, or Hasantha. Born into the twenty-first century UK, he would not, I hope, suffer any prejudice, had his parents chosen the latter moniker. However, it would serve as a constant reminder of his heritage in a far-off continent. What effect would this have on his approach to life, his politics, his “identity”? I imagine it would be quite significant, and positive. EbenezerJohn’s father clearly agrees… as did Johnny Cash when he wrote “A Boy Named Sue”.

Or; Would Cassisus Clay have won as many fights as Muhammed Ali?

Sigiriya: More ancient ruins. This time, a castle high on rock, built by a paranoid king who had killed his father and lived in fear of his exiled brother.

Down at the foot of the mountain, an old man approaches. He carries a single item for sale, what appears to be a wooden book. The other pedlars have not shown me anything like it, so I am a willing audience when the man offers a demonstration. It turns out to be a box with secret compartments, and one must pull back secret panels to open them.

It is clearly hand-made, from solid wood, and I recognise the guard-stone patterns carved into the sides. It is a quirky item that I may not find again, so I make up my mind to have it, there and then. But at what price?

Now don’t worry, I have done plenty of bargaining in my time. I once spent a full forty minutes arguing over a stone rhinoceros with a woman by the roadside outside another UNESCO site, the Great Zimbabwe monument. I eventually bought it for eighty Zimbabwe dollars, and broke the horn a day after purchase when I threw my bag into the back of a truck. In recent years however, the idea of haggling fills me with a certain unease. To make a fuss over what amounts to only a few pounds is surely petty. It is, after all, the kind of money that, in the average British pub, I can send through both my digestive and renal system and piss away in under thirty minutes. It is, after all, above the average daily wage for many of the people I encounter. Surely the benefit of the bargain must fall on their side, and not mine?

And so, as we begin to discuss the price, my heart is not in the game. He suggests over four thousand rupees, cheap if I had found the same item in a shop in the UK. All I have to do is hesitate for a short while, and this drops to three thousand. Passive, rather than pro-active bartering has won me a discount.

I consider that I can afford this amount, and that my group have already begun to climb the steps to the ruined castle, so I hand over a few of the many green notes in my wallet and make off with the book. The wood is thick and varnished. The carving has a tactile quality. It will look good on my shelf, and I begin to imagine the times I shall point it out to friends who visit, and tell anecdotes about Sri Lanka. It is a worthy artefact, and I shall treasure it forever…

Around the next boulder, I am accosted by another vendor, holding another secret book. It is exactly the same as the one I have just slipped into my satchel.

“Sir! Sir! Look, a seecrit book! Come see, only two thousand rupees!”

My heart sinks. My own purchase, once destined to take prime position as a genuine piece of take-home Sri Lankan culture, is devalued in an instant. I have paid over the odds. By the time I have descended the mountain, I have been offered other examples for for fifteen hundred. My scowling and reluctance to purchase is once again taken for passive bartering, and the price has dropped to a thousand. By the end of the day, I will have overheard an offer to one of my friends for five hundred.

The fact that some other pale tourist has bought the same thing for a cheaper price bothers me, haunts me into the evening. We haggle because of this pride. Never mind the money in our wallet. Never mind paying over the odds to a ragged old peddlar. Even if he is laughing at my naivety (and surely, by the Lord Buddha, he is laughing), I can write off the difference as a charity. The real dent to my ego is that I have lost out relative to the other tourists. And – make no mistake about this – they will remind me about this for the rest of the day, and probably tomorrow too.

I guess the crippling need for value for money, down to the last rupee, is a universal trait. Too many holiday conversations revolve around how much he paid for this, or how much she paid for that. Are we getting a good deal at our hotel? How much did the flights cost? Hearing that we are paying less for our hotel room fills us with secret glee. The news that someone managed to get a flight for fifty pounds less will threaten the entire trip. We need to confirm that we are having as good a time as everyone else. We search for a constant endorsement of our every action. Instead of enjoying the holiday – souvenirs, hotel rooms, flights – on their own merit, we judge them relative to what other people have done.

“These shoes were on discount … How much did you pay for your house? … We haggled down the price of our taxi … We found a delightful guest house that no-one else has been to … Our seats were upgrade … pray do tell me, how was your steak? It looks rather over done from this side of the table … “

Every day in Sri Lanka (as in Edinburgh), tourists take photographs of land-marks, duplicating a million photographs of the same scene, carbon-copies of which exist within a hundred thousand photo albums world wide. Of course, we want to remember the scene, its history and its beauty… but we could do that by purchasing a post-card or a professional print. But the problem with paid-for pictures is that they do not endorse the holiday in a way that personal, amateur snaps do. Our own pictures (with our gormless, pasty mugs in the foreground) are proof that we went there, and thus proof that we had a great time, had our value for money.

As, indeed, are wooden souvenir boxes with exotic carvings. Just don’t tell anyone how much you paid for them.

Anaradhapura: A serene and shaded park conceals the ruins of a vast ancient city, which was a centre for Buddhist learning and civilisation, a thousand years ago. For centuries the city lay hidden beneath the jungle, but the foundation walls peek above the grassy banks, like milk-teeth breaking through a baby’s gum. We see stores for rice, plenty of areas for meditation and prayer, and some swimming pools in which monks would bathe.

We lean on some modern iron railings to view a moonstone. These are semi-circular floor sculptures, which lie at the entrance to temples - a kind of door mat for the soul. Our guide tells us that this is one of the finest examples in all of Sri Lanka, and explains that the four layers to the pattern symbolise the obstacles on the path to nirvana. One set of animals represent cravings, and another set symbolise desires. We have a short semantic debate about the difference between craving and desire, and decide that one is physical, the other cerebral.

Strolling back to our bus, we are approached by two young men in grubby T-shirts. They each have a tray of souvenirs, and I cannot help but steal a glance at their merchandise. They have an interesting selection of brass trinkets and bangles, but nothing that I crave or desire.

I try to walk on. “No thank you.”

“You are British?” I know they want to engage me in a sales pitch, but I owe them the courtesy of answering.

I nod, and smile. “Yes, I live in Scotland.”

“Tell me,” he says, “why is it that the Germans and the Americans will buy from us, but you British always say ‘no thank you’? Then you always go and buy the same things from the shops in Columbo!”

I am taken aback. This is not an effective method of endearing oneself to the customer.

“I’m not going to buy anything from the shop in Columbo,” I retort.

He looks at me with scorn. “You say this, but then you will buy somewhere else for a higher price. You won’t get these prices in the hotel shops.”

Now I am quite agitated at this effrontery. He is missing the point. “I realise that, I really do. But please understand that I don’t actually want any of those things.” I almost say, I have enough tat in my house already, but I bite my tongue. “Even if you offered me these things for one rupee only, I wouldn’t take them.” I also do not mention that the Buddha suggests we relinquish, not accumulate, worldly goods.

He shakes his head in disgust, turns his back on me, and wanders off to greet the next tour bus that has pulled up to view the moonstone. His silent companion follows a few steps behind. A few Japanese in wide brimmed hats and big sun-glasses step off the bus and into his path. Perhaps he will have more luck with them.

Rejoining our group, we find that Jude our tour guide is getting excited. “Now,” he gushes, “Who wants to see a well in the shape of a key?”

Once upon a time, o best beloved, the Man lived in the jungle - next door to the Elephant. They went about their daily business together as friends. The Elephant would pull up trees for The Man to make a shelter. Sometimes, he would allow the Man, weary from a long walk, to ride upon his back. The Man allowed the Elephant to eat the rice he cultivated in the fields, and would make a fire for the Elephant to warm himself beside. They would sit together around the flames, and the Elephant would tell the man the long stories of the jungle.

Of all the animals in the jungle, only the Man felt shame. He would weave himself clothing from banana leaves, so that his body was shielded from the gaze of the other animals.

One day, the Elephant happened upon the man, down where the river becomes wide and splashes over the rocks. The man was bathing in a shallow pool, and thus was not wearing his woven clothes as usual.

“Good Morning,” said the Elephant to the Naked Man.

The man stopped splashing water on his back, and turned slowly to face the Elephant. “Hello,” he replied.

There was a short pause. The Elephant sensed that he should make conversation. So he stared at the Naked Man and said: “How do you breathe through that?”

The Man did not reply. Furious, he stomped off out of the forest. He never spoke to the Elephant again, and the Elephant never understood why.

After that, Man forgot the language of the Elephants. He lived by himself on the edge of the jungle, and ate his rice alone.

After the Boxing Day Tsunami and Hurricane Katerina, people have been suggesting that we may begin to suffer from Disaster Fatigue, an ailment that is just as dangerous as avian flu, and then some.

DesiPundit have declared today to be Blog Quake Day. Visit the Quake Day page to find links to those organisations that could use a small donation.