On Sunday, I woke up to two emerging news stories. The first was of little consequence – my Facebook and Twitter timelines were filled with various friends realising that I had got up to a little mischief in town on Saturday with a street stall of Brexiteers, which was now reported in the local press, and my friends were expressing their amusement, encouragement and frankly non-surprise. I can get a little gobby, and I do like a debate, as well they know. (By Monday I was front-page news – but tomorrow’s chip wrapper, as they say.)
Enjoying “top bantz” (as my kids would say) with some Brexiteers
The second news item was more chilling. In the early hours of Sunday morning, news was breaking from across the Atlantic that a gunman had entered a gay club in Orlando, and had started shooting. Florida police described it as a “multi-casualty incident”, and at the time reported that there was an “on-going hostage situation.”
As I started writing this piece on Sunday afternoon, the incident was over, the gunman dead – along with “at least” 50 victims. We wait to see what on earth the twisted motivation of the gunman was, but I have a horrible feeling that the fact that the club, Pulse, was a focal point for the gay community will not prove to be a coincidence. As so often, when we scratch the surface of irrational aggression and violence we find anger, look under that anger and we find fear. Fear of difference, fear of the unknown, fear of what we might find within ourselves – but fear.
As I was out shopping with my partner Jenny on Saturday, I found myself in the middle of a crowd several deep, arguing the toss – very publicly – on the European referendum. No, I wasn’t a “set-up” from the Remain camp, it wasn’t pre-planned, I was shopping. However, as I passed the stall and heard one campaigner describing the “waves of Turkish immigrants” that apparently were already fervently packing their bags in anticipation of an “in” vote, I just wasn’t having it. I challenged the speaker to justify their nonsense, and so a debate began.
My nan used to tell me that “there’s none so blind as them that won’t see”, and my God, I know what she meant now. In the course of my “debate” I learned that – according to my sparring partners – Mark Carney, head of the Bank of England and member of the Monetary Policy Committee (that sets UK interest rates independent of government) has (and I quote) “no influence” on the UK economy. When I was defending the democratic processes within the EU I pointed out that the House of Lords – our legislative second chamber – was unelected, I was told that the House of Lords “doesn’t pass laws.” (LEGISLATIVE second chamber, clue’s in the name, people!)
So far, so dull. We’ve all heard the arguments about economy, governance, and political process as part of this referendum – and neither side is making much headway in a debate that leaves voters wondering who the hell to believe. But it was my opponents’ views about people that got me, and that is why I could not walk on by.
I’ll spare you the details, but in short, I was told that I hate my country. England is – I was told – being overrun by migrants and it is time to close the borders, and make our own way in the world. When I asked who precisely “elsewhere in the world” we were going to enjoy equally profitable trading relationships with, I was told “Canada, the US, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa…” So the largely white, mostly English-speaking world, then.
As a matter of fact, I love this country, and here’s why. We are a nation of migrants, we are proud internationalists, and have a long history of opposing intolerance, ignorance and fascism, We are, historically, liberal and tolerant – valuing diversity, and positively celebrating eccentricity. When did we start to fear (rather than quite enjoy) the different? When did it become “British” to withdraw from the rest of the world, and focus on narrow self-interest? It’s just not cricket.
My own heritage is Irish, Scots, French and German. My partner has a wonderful blended heritage of north London cockney, Italian and Romany gypsy. My daughter speaks multiple languages including Korean, Swedish and Japanese. When the fascist blackshirts tried to march through the east end of London, working class people of all colours stood in solidarity with the local Jewish population under the battle cry “They shall not pass!”
Even when in Spain (and long before Ryan Air would get you there for forty quid) British working class people heard that Nationalists and fascists under Franco were attacking and undermining the democratically-elected Republican government of the working classes, they signed up in droves to support their comrades – financially, in aid, and some even making the ultimate sacrifice as members of the International Brigades – working class militias from around the world that recognised that the common man in Spain was their brother too.
This country has always been about justice, fair play, and solidarity – and that is, for me, the true expression of patriotism – not this narrow, bastardised nationalism that is on offer now.
When we start to see people as “other”, as somehow different, and “lesser” – then persecution, oppression and violence becomes legitimised in the minds of some. Dehumanising the victim makes hate easier.
The “shrine” to remember the Orlando victims in Soho’s Old Compton Street, opposite the Admiral Duncan pub – itself the scene of an anti-LGBT terror attack.
Whether threatened by the gay man having a Saturday night out in Orlando, the Syrian family fleeing unimaginable violence in their home country, or the Romanian worker dreaming of a better life, all these are people like us; and I will never accept that to identify with any one of them is to reject and hate my own. Humanity is a big enough tent for us all, and I reject whole-heartedly any ideology that says it is legitimate for me to condemn others to a lesser existence in order that “me and mine” can be somehow “better.”
The rise of politicians like Trump in the US, or Farage in the UK, or the far-right in Austria, France or Eastern Europe should be a wake-up call to us all – their popularity will only embolden those on the fringes, simmering with hate, to act on their worst impulses, feeling newly legitimised by those claiming to speak for them. The rest of us have to decide at what point we speak up and speak out, and call them out on their dangerous nonsense. I believe that point has already been reached.
So, I’m sorry if I was a little loud on Saturday afternoon on Exeter High Street (I was) but I cannot apologise for speaking out, because at least fifty people are dead today because in the warped mind of one person their lives were somehow worth less because of who they are. Black lives matter, and so do gay lives. Female lives matter, and male lives, and white lives, and Asian lives, and Hispanic lives, and transgender lives, young lives and old lives… Lives matter, and I will challenge anyone, anywhere, that suggests any one life – or way of life – is somehow to be valued more.
Thank you to all those in the crowd on Saturday that spoke to me afterwards, that shook my hand, that messaged or thanked me – but that’s not why I said what I said, although it means a lot to me to find those prepared to offer their solidarity. I hope to one day to find you in the same position, arguing for a fairer, more compassionate humanity.
In the shadow of Orlando, I will stand with you, too – because all humanity is as beautiful and precious as it is frail. Now is the time for those of us who treasure humanity, reason, difference and love to speak, and to speak out clearly and unafraid. Speak, speak the truth – even if your voice shakes.
Simon Bowkett