There are those who sneer
At what we have here
In the UK.
They have nothing good to say
About our democracy
And argue that we are not truly free.
I met a man today
Who did say
How he is a Kurd from Iraq.
He came hear to escape the fear
Of attack
By Saddam’s poison gas.
Just a gentle man cutting my hair
And people dare
To say to me
That the English are not free.
Standing in my bedroom, the much loved pine bookcase giving off it’s scent of forests mixed with books. The flat is quiet, England is at peace. What a contrast to the situation in Iraq where madmen in the shape of The Islamic State murder and persecute Christians together with anyone else who dares to disagree with their warped view of the world. Mad men doing evil, chaos reigns and I stand, breathing in the smell of books mixed with pine, at peace in a free land.
The other day an acquaintance remarked that they felt uncomfortable in the presence of women wearing the Burka (the cloak worn by some Muslim ladies which leaves only the eyes exposed). France has banned the garment as an affront to equality, a decision recently upheld by the European Court of Human Rights despite the claims by some Muslims that the ban on the Burka in public breeches human rights. Is the prohibition a peculiarly French piece of legislation stemming from Rousseau’s view, expounded in The Social Contract that man “must be forced to be free”, (in this case those Muslims wishing to wear the Burka must subordinate their desire to “the general will” which, in France appears to be in support of the Burka ban?
Some in the UK are calling for the country to go down the French route and prohibit the Burka in the interests of “social cohesion”. One can not, they claim interact with fellow citizens when all but their eyes are concealed behind black cloth. The Burka is “sinister” and should be prohibited in public. Calls for a prohibition on the wearing of the Burka have found support among some muslim scholars who say it has no place in a modern conception of Islam, (see, for example the following recent article http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2695181/Why-I-Muslim-launching-campaign-ban-burka-Britain.html.
Others argue that banning the Burka runs counter to a long and honourable tradition of British liberty. It is, they say intolerable for the state to dictate to people how they aught to dress. The British philosopher J S Mill was suspicious of what he termed “the tyranny of the majority” and adherents of Mill’s views might well argue that to impose “the general will” or what most people would call “the will of the majority” on fellow citizens as regards how they choose to dress is illiberal. The idea of a person being arrested merely for wearing a certain kind of garment sticks in the throat of many liberals. However other liberals argue that Muslim girls and women often come under intense pressure from within their own communities to wear the Burka and, in many cases it is far from being a free choice of clotheing. Therefore we must assist such women by prohibiting the wearing of the garment in public.
Leaving aside for a moment the rights and wrongs of the Burka there is also the argument of pragmatism. At a time of limited resources is it a good use of police time to go around arresting women for flouting a Burka ban? If such a prohibition where introduced might it act as a recruiting sergeant for Islamic extremists who could portray it as persecution of Muslims?
At a deeper philosophical level can one “force people to be free?” Would prohibiting the wearing of the Burka promote outward conformity with western norms of dress but leave those who wish to wear it inwardly seething with anger?
The advance of the terrorist Islamic State in Iraq undoubtedly helps to fuel suspicion and, in some cases paranoia against Muslims most of whom abhor what is being done in their name in Iraq. We must be steadfast in our opposition to extremism (whether Islamic or otherwise) but, at the same time consider long and hard before going down the road of Burka bans and other similar measures.
As a boy of 9 or 10 he had found the gun. It lay hidden in his father’s wardrobe, underneath a pile of old jumpers wrapped in a blue bath sheet. The boy had replaced everything as he found it and returned sheepishly to his bedroom. He shouldn’t have been in his father’s wardrobe let alone in his room. If dad found out that he had been there a beating would be the result. John shook with terror as he imagined his father removing his belt. He new only to well the swishing sound the belt made as it flew through the air. Swish followed by excruiciating pain as the buckle bit into flesh. Ever since he had returned from military service in Iraq dad had changed. The gentle giant much loved by John and his sister Anna was transformed into a brooding ogre. The slightest misdemeanour was likely to send him into an uncontrollable rage. After the beatings his father would hold his children close and mumble incoherent apologies as tears ran down his face. It proved all too much for the children’s mother. One day while John and Anna where at school and her husband was drinking with former members of his platoon Amie James took an overdose. It was John who had found her on his return from school. She lay on the sofa her blonde hair streaming over the cushion on which she rested.
“Mum” there was no answer.
“Mum” still there was no response.
His mum looked like a ghoul out of one of those horror movies which his parents had forbidden him to watch but which nevertheless the boy had seen while visiting his friend Mark who’s mum and dad where more relaxed about such matters. Her face was the colour of chalk and a stream of spittle had run down Amie’s face.
“Mum” he said again reaching out his hand to touch her face. It was icey cold.
Feeling as though he was in a nightmare from which he would soon awake John had called for an ambulance. He recollected making the telephone call but everything following on from that was a blank until he woke up to find himself cradled in his father’s strong arms. Very gently mr James had broken the news to John and Anna of their mum’s death. Thinking back it was the last time that John could recollect his father as having shown any genuine tenderness or regret.
John couldn’t get the gun out of his head. He longed to take a closer look at the weapon, to aim and fire the gun as the cowboys did in the westerns which he so loved to watch. Desire to possess the prize contended within the boy with the fear of the consequences if his father discovered the loss of the gun. He would only borrow it for a few minutes the next time his father went out.
“I won’t even fire it. I’ll just hold it and imagine that I am a cop or a cowboy. Dad will never find out that I borrowed the gun” John reassured himself.
One evening, a week or so following the discovery of the weapon Mr James went out for the evening to drink with friends from the platoon. He new that he shouldn’t leave young children alone in the house but he felt that his head would explode if he didn’t get out for the evening.
“Kids grow up quicker these days. John is old enough to look after Anna” he told himself.
“I’m going out for the evening. I’ve got my keys so don’t answer the door to anyone or you’ll wish that you had never been born! Don’t answer the phone either. Do you understand?”
“Yes dad” they had both replied.
For at least 10 minutes following the slamming of the front door John sat in the living room his ears straining to detect the sound of returning footsteps. Mr James had become very forgetful as a consequence of the head wound which he had sustained while serving in Iraq and was likely to return for his wallet or some other item which he had forgotten. However after the elapse of 10 minutes John felt reasonably certain that his father would not return for the next few hours. He must, for once have remembered to take his money and would now be drinking in the local pub with his former comrades.
John gingerly ascended the stairs. Glancing round the door of his sister’s room he saw Anna engrossed on her laptop. She was, almost certainly chatting with friends on Facebook John thought. Well all the better for him as Anna was unlikely to disturb his examination of the gun.
Slowly John opened the door to his father’s bedroom. As he entered a movement caught his eye. John’s heart jumped into his mouth. He stood stock still for what seemed an age. He could feel the sweat running down his neck and soaking his t-shirt. The sound of breathing reached his ears.
“Hello” he whispered.
Thump, Thump came the response. John felt relief flood through him It was Jet dad’s black Labrador which had somehow got into the room and was now reclining contentedly on Mr James’s bed.
“Get down Jet” he said. Reluctantly the dog jumped off the bed and with a click of claws on the uncarpeted floor he was gone.
John opened the wardrobe door. What if the gun had gone or had been a figment of his fevered imagination? All the adrenaline would have been in vain. Tentatively he reached out his hands and lifted the jumpers. It was still there. At any rate the blue bath sheet remained where he had last seen it. With trembling hands John opened the towel. The pistol stirred back at him.
Sitting on his father’s bed John took a closer look at the weapon. The gun had a black butt and a silver barrel. The metal felt cold against his skin. John shivered. Had his dad killed Iraqi insurgents with the weapon? How many people had died?
Inexpertly John fiddled with the magazine. After a minute or so it opened. The gun was empty. John delved into the depths of the bath sheet. His hands closed around several circular pieces of metal. With a thrill of excitement he withdrew the bullets. Such tiny pieces of metal but with the capability to snuff out a life. John’s excitement increased. What if he inserted a bullet into the magazine? He wouldn’t fire the weapon (that had only been a silly day dream) but he could at least see what it was like to aim a pistol.
John wiped his sweating palms on his handkerchief. Holding the barrel away from him and with shaking hands he inserted one of the bullets. It took several attempts but, eventually the bullet clicked into place. John felt a surge of power rush through him as he pointed the gun towards the door
“Come in here and I’ll blow your brains out” he said.
Of course he would do no such thing but the thought of the power which he could release by a mere compression of his finger thrilled John beyond anything he had ever experienced before.
Looking around the room his eyes fell on a picture of his mother and father on their wedding day. His mother looked so beautiful and proud standing there her arm linked through that of her husband. It brought a lump to his throat
“Fucking dad you killed my mum. Arsehole you killed my mum” he sobbed burying his head in the pillow the gun quite forgotten left lying on the bedside cabinet. Gradually his sobbing ceased. He tried to remember happier times. He remembered sitting on his mum’s knee as she related stories of her ancestors. Amie’s great great grandparents had fled Russia at the time of the Bolshevik revolution in 1917. They where liberal aristocrats with no love for the Tsarist autocracy, however to the newly installed Communist government anyone of noble birth was suspect and discretion being the better part of valour Amie’s ancestors had fled to Britain leaving all their possessions in Russia.
John and Anna had listened with rapt attention as their mother told them tales of her Russian ancestors. John recollected one story in particular.
“Darlings you should never play with guns. One of my ancestors, Count Gorky lived a wild life. He used to get horribly drunk with his friends. He loved excitement. One evening when he was very drunk and all his friends had deserted him the count feeling bored took out his revolver. He placed only one bullet in the chamber, spun the barrel and placing the gun to his head fired. Nothing happened. The chamber had room for 8 bullets and when he spun the magazine it ceased revolving on an empty chamber so, when Count Gorky pulled the Trigger he avoided death by pure good luck. Well children (she continued holding them close) Count Gorky continued to play Russian Roulette for the remainder of the evening and, eventually the inevitable happened – the Count pulled the trigger on the loaded chamber and put a bullet in his brain. So John/Anna promise mummy that you will never play with a loaded gun, they aren’t toys”.
At the time neither John or his sister had imagined that they would ever have the opportunity to do any such thing and being frightened by the story they had promised faithfully never to play with weapons.
John reached for the gun. What where the chances of the gun going off? As with Count Gorky’s pistol the weapon had 8 chambers only one of which was loaded. John felt sick with excitement.
“I’ll be OK. I’ll only spin the magazine once and pull the trigger. I’ll be lucky, wow what a thrill it will be”.
John spun the magazine and placing the gun against his head began to ease down on the trigger.
The door flew open.
“I forgot my wallet”
Mr James trailed off stirring at his son in horror. Very gently he said
“Son put down that gun right now”.
John let the weapon fall to the floor.
“Christ you where bloody lucky that didn’t go off. Thank god I didn’t load it” his father said.
John swallowed hard.
“There is one bullet in it” he muttered hiding his face in his hands.
Mr James’s face took on the colour of chalk.
“You stupid, stupid boy” he said “You should never, ever mess with guns.”
John shrank back. He knew that he was about to receive the beating of his life. Instead Mr James caught his son tightly in his arms.
“I love you son. You could have been killed. Please never ever let me catch you playing with guns again or I’ll beat the living day lights out of you”.
End of Part 1
K Morris - Poet 