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I remember September 11th 2001 very clearly.  I had just started a temporary job during my year off before university and was on my second day of training.  Over lunch a murmur went around the staff room and someone switched on the TV.  We all watched, horrified, as one of the World Trade Centre towers collapsed.  I was shocked – we all were, everyone in the world was – but I consoled myself with the thought that people had probably been evacuated by then.

Then I was informed that they hadn’t been evacuated, and thousands of them were dead.

I went home on the train.  My Dad picked me up at the station.  He had been sitting in front of the TV all afternoon, crying.

Those attacks marked what seemed like a new level of terrorist horror: televised mass murder on an immense scale. Yet more recent events have surpassed even that appalling act of cruelty: the Taliban in Afghanistan and Pakistan and, more recent yet, the unimaginable savagery of Islamic State in Syria and Iraq.  Who, on September 11th 2001, would have thought that even that day of cruelty and destruction would one day be surpassed by levels of savagery even higher, even more cruel, of beheadings and massacres and people locked in cages and burned alive?

I’ve been trying to put the actions of Islamic State into a historical context.  It’s all too easy to look at current events and assume that they are more dramatic, more cruel, more terrible than anything in human history, because they are happening to us, and they are happening now.  The immediacy changes things.  So how does Islamic State fit in, when seen in a historical perspective?

One thing which occurred to me is that the actions of Islamic State are not unprecedented.  Beheading enemies is a tactic that has been used countless times throughout history: by the Mongols, by the ancient Persians, by the French revolutionaries, by countless movements across history.  Killing one’s enemies by removing their heads from their shoulders was not invented in 21st century Syria.

Nor, for that matter, is burning people alive.  Islamic State did this to a captured Jordanian pilot, and even filmed the event, but again, this is a tactic as old as humanity itself.  Joan of Arc was burned by the English in 1431.  Christians were put to death by burning by the Emperor Nero in 64 A.D.   Rebels and criminals were burned to death by the Ancient Babylonians a full eighteen centuries before the birth of Christ.

So why are the actions of Islamic State so deeply shocking?  I think there are two reasons.  Firstly, because of media.  Gruesome executions throughout history leave little mark on us now because the only records we have of them are either written accounts, or engravings such as those seen in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.  Compare the shock-value of these hand-drawn pictures with the shock value of an actual colour video of the event, with sound, and the difference is evident.

The main reason, though, is this: because the execution of Joan of Arc happened nearly six centuries ago, in a primitive age of brutality and violence and sickness, whereas the actions of Islamic State are taking place in an era of relative liberty and progress.  We have the UN Declaration of Human Rights, we have democracy as the most common form of government, we have relative human equality (or at least the aspiration to achieve human equality), we have education and healthcare and prosperity.  To look upon the crazed cruelty of Islamic State is to open a window and peer back into the murky depths of man’s historical cruelty.

Islamic State is not really any more cruel than any of the myriad savageries committed by humans over the centuries: the Mongol armies who made entire pyramids of the severed heads of their enemies, the armies of Cromwell who packed women and children into Irish churches and burned them alive, the execution of Robert Damiens in 1757 who attempted to kill the King of France and was stabbed with red-hot pincers, had molten lead poured over his wounds, and was then dismembered and burned alive.  The difference is that they are happening now, in an era in which personal liberty is taken, broadly, for granted, and they are being filmed.  To look upon the actions of the psychopaths of Syria is to look back at the dark, murderous past of humankind.

My son is five, and learning to read English.  This is deeply unfair on him.

His school is doing an excellent job teaching him to read.  First he learned the alphabet, both phonetically and traditionally, and then he learned to put letter together.  He started to patch together words – “cat”, “bird”, that kind of thing – and then increasingly complex ones like “toothpaste” and “pancake”.  He reads road signs eagerly and the other day he excitedly called me into the kitchen to show me how he had read “cooking oil” on a bottle in a kitchen cupboard.  He sucks in information like a vacuum, desperate to learn.

Now I have to start teaching him how to do it wrong.

The English language is deeply illogical.  A few days ago he wrote his mother a letter to say “To mom, luv from sam”.  I let the “mom” go with gritted teeth – I’m married to a Canadian so making a fuss about that particular mis-spelling would be politically unwise – but I corrected his spelling of “luv”.  He’s learned that the letter “u” makes a sound like the start of “umbrella”, so it’s logical to put it in the middle of “love”.  Except it’s wrong.  He needs to use an “o” and a totally unnecessary “e” at the end.

It’s the same with “dade”, which he how he writes “daddy”.  Naturally he needs to add an unnecessary extra “d” and replace “e” with “y”.  Why?  I don’t know.  Neither does he, and it frustrates him.  And this is just the beginning.  One day he will encounter words such as “rhythm”.  One day I will be forced to inform him that “rough”, “bough”, “cough” and “through” are all pronounced differently for absolutely no logical reason whatsoever, and I can’t begin to imagine how that is going to go down with the little chap.

Still, it can’t be helped.  English is the most useful language in the world.  He has to learn it.  I just wish it was somewhat less illogical, that’s all.

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Whenever I need a reason to love Pakistan, and these days I often do, I go to get something fixed on the car.

This might sound odd.  Coming from the UK, as I do, mechanics are people to be avoided as much as possible, because they are so expensive.  The hourly rate they charge for labour means that even the smallest job is going to set you back a bare minimum of £50, and if your car’s problem is in any way serious, you will pay a lot.  A LOT.

This is not the case in Pakistan.  Labour here is cheap – a consequence of high unemployment and low literacy, which together result in a large pool of unskilled labour.  This is sad, but it does mean that car repairs are cheap too.  Once I needed to have the head gasket on our car fixed, a job which cost me £400 when I had it done in the UK.  In Pakistan the same job cost £15 – and even then the mechanic winced, blew out his cheeks, and sighed deeply when he informed me of how serious the problem was.  I tried to act sad, but inside I was rejoicing.

When I show up at the mechanic’s shop he welcomes me with open arms, invites me to sit, and orders tea.  For a few minutes we sit and drink and chat, catching up on what’s happened since I was last in, and eventually we come round to the reason for my visit.  I explain as best I can, he nods wisely, and he instructs one of his juniors to open the bonnet and start pulling things out.

Everything that is good about Pakistan can be seen at the mechanic’s shop: the ingenuity, the hospitality, the hard work.  With little more than a spanner, a jack and a piece of cardboard (to lie on when they peer under the car) they can fix almost anything.  When it turned out that I needed my transmission fluid changing, a junior mechanic was sent out to find the best quality fluid available.  When the rear brake shoes were proven to be in need of replacing another junior was sent out in the pouring rain to find new ones.  While they worked I sat and drink tea and chatted.

Eventually the work was done.  The mechanic sighed heavily, looked at me with sad eyes, and delivered the bad news.  For four replacement brake shoes (imported from Japan, not inferior local ones), replacement transmission fluid (again, superior Japanese quality), new wipers, and repaired brake pads, it came to…

“Eight thousand rupees [roughly £50].  I’m sorry, but prices are high these days.”

We were visiting friends for “High Tea”.  They live in a house on the outskirts of Islamabad, which served to remind me that it’s possible to drive for ten minutes out of the city and be in the countryside, surrounded by fields and farms and birdsong.  There can’t be that many other capital cities in the world so closely embraced by nature.

“High Tea” sounded like a somewhat unappetising idea – in England it would probably consist of tea and sandwiches, not exactly the kind of thing you’d drive a long distance for, but Pakistani hospitality being what it is, we were served with kebabs, samosas, pakoras, salad, and a dish of haleem, a kind of stew of lentils, chicken, and roughly eighty-four spices.  Everything was delicious.

Our kids ran up to the roof to look at the view, back down again, up again, and then down once more.  Then they proceeded to eat every single crisp in the house, drink Coke, and ask for more.  Pakistanis can never refuse a child’s request, so more came, and were duly despatched.  I stepped in to sort out some of their more boisterous behaviour but our host stopped me.

“It’s ok” he said, smiling indulgently as one of my offspring crawled through a gap in their screen door, laughing uproariously.

“In Pakistan we say that when you meet a child, you are in the presence of God”.

If you spend any amount of time in Pakistan you will be invited to a wedding.  In fact this goes for most Muslim countries.

I remember arriving in Jordan to spend a fascinating couple of weeks visiting Petra, the desert at Wadi Rum, and Roman ruins in Amman and Jerash; on our first day we were invited to a wedding by friends of the people with whom we were staying.  They put us on a bus to a town two hours away with the memorable instruction to “Get off when the bus stops and look for a guy called Mohammed.  He has a beard”.  As you can imagine, that really didn’t narrow it down very much.  We turned up at the wedding, we were warmly welcomed, we were fed roast lamb with rice and yoghurt, and halfway through an elderly relative pulled out a pistol and started firing it into the air before his family wrestled him to the ground.

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Anyway, I digress.  Getting invited to a wedding in Pakistan probably sounds like a wonderful way to learn more about the culture of the country, but in reality they are monumentally tedious and an almost complete waste of time.  Here’s what will happen:

  1. You will arrive early. Doesn’t matter what time you leave or however late you think you are, you will still be early. Probably very early.  You will therefore sit around in a near-deserted wedding hall or marquee while waiters walk around wondering who the heck you are, and what you’re doing.  If the wedding invitation says 8pm and you arrive at any time before midnight, you will be too early.  Trust me on this.
  2. Nothing will happen. In Western weddings there is usually a basic pattern: arrival, church service, food, dancing, etc. Over here you arrive, sit at a table, and…do nothing.  People mill around a bit.  People chat a bit.  People drink Pepsi a bit.  But that’s about it.
  3. Eventually, after several hours of pointless awkwardness, food will come out. This will be a highlight, because it’s Pakistan, and Pakistani food is sensational. Everyone will rush for the buffet and start stuffing biryani down like it’s going out of fashion.  If you politely stand aside to let the more senior people go first, you will not eat anything, as I have learned to my cost.
  4. After stuffing yourself with rice and chicken, desserts may be brought out. People here get inordinately excited about this, but Pakistani desserts are basically variations on a theme of Sweet Liquid In A Glass Bowl.  Everyone goes crazy for them, for reasons I have never been able to ascertain.
  5. Following the dessert course you return to stage 2 for as long a period of time as you think you can handle. Feel free to find the bride and groom and give them some money, but otherwise, just drift away.  You’ll easily be able to locate the bride and groom because they will be the ones looking utterly ludicrous.  The bride will probably look wonderful, but the groom won’t.  He’ll be the one wearing a jewelled coat, a completely idiotic turban with a crest, and a look of sheepish embarrassment stemming from the fact that he knows full well that he looks ridiculous, but his mother insisted.

I don’t know why South Asian weddings have come to be regarded as such vibrant explosions of colour and dancing and jollity.  For all I know that’s true in India or Sri Lanka, but around here weddings are just an exercise in tedium.  Of course you can’t ignore the invitation, though, as that would be disrespectful.  My advice?  Bring a Kindle.

Yesterday one hundred and thirty-two schoolchildren were murdered by terrorists at their school in Peshawar.  The funerals are already taking place, as is normal in Islamic countries.  One hundred and thirty-two coffins, heartbreakingly small; one hundred and thirty-two sets of grieving parents; one hundred and thirty-two families whose future has been snatched away in a heartbeat.  It is too much to bear.

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Jesus, whom Christians like me believe to be the son of God, had much to say about suffering.  On numerous occasions he predicted that suffering would come, that his followers would be handed over to the authorities, that they would be killed.  In the Gospel of Matthew he stated that he was sending his followers out “like sheep among wolves”.  Yet he also instructed us how to respond to suffering.  We should not retaliate, but instead should “turn the other cheek”, we should “bless those who persecute us”.  Paul, a leader of the early church, agreed: “Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse”.

I cannot do it.  When I see the pain carved into the faces of the people crowding around Lady Reading Hospital in Peshawar, the inchoate grief of those uttering funeral prayers over coffins that are far too small, forgiveness is far from my mind.  The only thoughts in my mind are dark and murderous.  May the perpetrators of this deed know nothing but pain and anguish.  May their houses be destroyed, may their crops be ruined, may they weep and grieve and die far from their loved ones.  I want to offer them not forgiveness, but bombs, and bullets, and violence.  I – even I, a committed pacifist! – want them to look into the eyes of the weeping mothers, the anguished fathers, and know just a fraction of the unspeakable pain that is tearing their souls into pieces.  The impossibility of forgiving the kind of people who would shoot schoolchildren cowering under their desks – this impossibility stares me in the face and mocks my futile rage.  I am failing as a follower of Jesus

But this rage will not help.  Fighting violence with more violence will only beget yet further violence.  This attack was carried out in response to the army offensive against terrorists in Waziristan, an offensive that was launched in response to terrorist attacks in Pakistan, which were carried out in response to a previous offensive against terrorists in the Swat Valley….and so the cycle goes, an eye for an eye, a bomb for a bomb, a massacre in return for a massacre.  The same cycle spins in Israel and Palestine, and it spins in Syria and Iraq, and it spins wearily on its bloodslicked axis wherever men with cruel faces lift rifles to their shoulders or pull pins from grenades.  Nothing will change, if we carry on like this.

This is why Jesus said what he did.  Because he knew that the only way out of this deepening torrent of murder and darkness was to choose a different course of action, a decision so illogical, so difficult, that it makes us want to laugh.  To forgive.  To refuse to bear a grudge.  To offer love in the place of anger.  This is why he chose to give his life in our place, uttering the words “Father, forgive them” even as men committed barbarities against him.  Because this offers us a way out.

I can’t do it.  But I know that I have to do it.  The words of forgiveness stick in my throat, as if even my larynx cannot bring itself to utter something so contrary to human nature.  It is a choice between darkness and light, and yet darkness is so much easier.

It is still too raw.

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Following Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem the Bible tells how King Herod, jealous and concerned by this potential threat to his rule, had all of the children massacred.  Matthew’s gospel quotes a prophecy from Jeremiah, the words of which have always stuck with me:

“A voice is heard in Rama, weeping and great mourning. Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more”.

Today Peshawar witnessed a similar massacre.  An Army school was attacked by gunmen who climbed the walls, shot the guards, and roamed the classrooms, hunting children.  Perhaps 130 people were killed, mostly from gunshot wounds to the head or chest.  It is an unthinkable act.  It is beyond adjectives.  It is beyond description.

No doubt analysts and journalists will spend much of their time over the next few days expending much energy discussing the implications.  What of the ongoing army offensive against the Taliban?  What of the government’s position?  What will the army do?  How will this affect Pakistan’s political situation?  How will Imran Khan respond?

Perhaps this is a normal human reaction; an attempt to obtain some kind of sense from an act of senseless cruelty.  A way of rationalising it, analysing it, thinking in pleasant abstractions about broad concepts like civil governance, army policies, security procedures, ways of preventing it happening again.  I was going to do the same: write about militancy in Pakistan, about how this kind of terror is rejected by an overwhelming majority of Pakistanis, about how untypical this is of Muslim people, about….about anything, because doing so would take my mind off it, and right now the image of gunmen roaming the corridors of a school while tiny children as young as my own cower under their desks and weep in terror is haunting my thoughts.

A hundred and thirty kids.  One hundred and thirty kids.

I came home from work early.  My kids came racing to the door when they heard my key in the lock.  We had dinner, and I read them a bedtime story, and they went to bed.  I will sleep soon, comfortably and in peace, but across this beautiful and perplexing land the voice of mourning can be heard, echoing around the fog-draped cities and fields like a dark mist.

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It’s currently 15 degrees Centigrade.  In Britain, people would be out wearing shirts and thin trousers.  In Canada they would be wearing shorts and sandals.  In Pakistan, people are wearing just about anything and everything they can lay their hands on.

I’m not joking.  They are wearing woolly hats, padded jackets, scarves, shawls, and gloves.  And they’re been wearing them for over a month.  Ever since the temperature dropped below 25 centigrade (and that was some time ago, believe me) the good people of Pakistan have been wandering around dressed up like Ernest Shackleton about to set out on a voyage to the South Pole.

Because Pakistan is so hot for so much of the year any change in temperature has to be adjusted to.  We spend much of the year sweating like crazy and doing anything we can to cool down, so when the temperature drops our bodies struggle to adjust.  I find myself urinating all the time, because I’m not losing any water through sweating and my body adjusts accordingly (bet you wanted to know that).

The real challenge comes when it’s cold AND rainy.  That’s when people start to get sick, the gas pressure drops (because everyone is running heaters), and people publicly scold us for letting our kids run around without seven layers of clothing on.

Goodness knows how Pakistanis cope when they emigrate to Canada…

We had a Christmas carol party at our house the other day: thirty foreigners from six or seven different countries all gathered together to sing carols, eat cookies, and drink coffee.  Unsurprisingly, it was a lot of fun.  Perhaps surprisingly, it brought the meaning of Christmas home in a very stark way.

Christmas carols are usually associated with fun and jollity – the kind of thing Westerners listen to as they do their Christmas shopping.  Since Christmas, at least in the West, has become a hyper-commercialised orgy of consumption and unnecessary expenditure, stripped of its Christian origins, so Christmas carols have become part of the cultural backdrop of the West – and so “Away in a Manger” is mashed up with “Jingle Bells” and “Driving Home for Christmas” and Mariah Carey singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You”, and may God have mercy on us all for that particular crime against humanity.

Singing these carols in Pakistan, where Christmas passes largely unnoticed, stripped of all of its commercial baggage, brings the meaning of Christmas home to us in a very striking way.

Put simply: Christmas carols are dark.

Take this, from “We Three Kings”:

“Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume / Breathes a life of gathering gloom / Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying / Sealed in a stone-cold tomb”.

Or this, from “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”:

“Oh come, thou Rod of Jesse, free / Thine own from Satan’s tyranny / From depths of hell thy people save/ And give them victory o’er the grave”.

Not exactly chirpy, is it?  Or this, from “Oh Holy Night”:

“Long lay the world in sin and error pining / Till he appeared and the Spirit felt its worth / A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices…”.

The point is this: in wrapping Christmas in a bundle of gaudy, tinselly baggage of consumption and self-interest we have missed its most important point: that the birth of Jesus was part of a rescue mission to save a dark and broken world from its own slow suicide.  It is a time of rejoicing, yes – but only in that we are celebrating the arrival of the Messiah who came to save us.

It is ironic that I spent most of my life in a “Christian” country and yet only really appreciated the true beauty and power of the Christmas story when living in a Muslim country.

Recently we travelled to another city in Pakistan and returned to our home late in the evening.  While we were unpacking and getting the kids ready for bed there was a knock at the door.  My wife opened it to find our landlord’s wife standing there with a tray of food – rice, kebabs, and sweet custard – in her hands.  She bowed, handed it over, and quietly left.  We never asked for it – she just knew that we had been travelling, had not had any time to make food, and were therefore in need.  This kind of instinctive, unassuming hospitality is entirely typical of Pakistani people.

The thing is, handing back an empty plate is considered rude in this culture (as it is in other Muslim cultures, I believe).  So once we had eaten the kebabs and rice (which were predictably delicious) and washed the plate, my wife put some chocolate brownies on it and sent it back down.

Unwittingly, we had started a game of hospitality tennis.  Our landlord’s wife felt obliged to send food back up – rice and lentil curry – so my wife returned the plate with a cake on it.  Pizza came up next, wrapped in clingfilm, and home-made cookies went back down again.  Hospitality was bouncing back and forth like a tennis ball at Wimbledon.  One day our landlord’s son got his exam results so my wife baked him a cake and sent it down, along with another plate of brownies – the hospitality equivalent of an overhead smash – and we thought that was the end of it…

…that is, until rice, chicken wings and salad came back up the stairs again, followed by a plate of samosas.

I don’t know when this match of hospitality will be over, but this I do know: I’m getting fat.

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