Decoding Shamima Begum- Anthony Loyd.

Life is trundling along without anything of particular interest to report.

So meanwhile I think this is worthwhile reading: a well-argued article by Anthony Loyd in the Times this morning, (therefore behind a pay-wall) which made me change my mind about Shamima Begum, the Isis bride he interviewed about a week ago in her refugee camp. The decision by the Home secretary to revoke her British citizenship was opportunism, designed simply to pander to the national mood...

                                                                           

Twelve hours before she fell into the eye of a social, legal and political storm, almost nothing that Shamima Begum told me was of particular surprise. Sitting together for 90 minutes, one-to-one, in the yard of the al-Hawl refugee camp that afternoon a week ago, she spoke very much like every other member of a radical Islamic militant group I had ever met.

Her lack of remorse? Her lack of regret? The failure to apologise? Her acceptance of the beheadings of journalists and aid workers?

I was not surprised by any of it, and nor should anyone else be. After four years living in the so-called caliphate, with no access to the outside world beyond that given to her by her Dutch Isis husband, Ms Begum behaved and spoke in the precise and predictable manner of any other indoctrinated member of Islamic State, among whose devotees she still lives at al-Hawl.

To expend anger over her point of view is a waste of energy. To expect different is naive. Over the past 25 years I have met jihadists in Bosnia, Chechnya, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria. They always sound the same.

Moreover, far from being removed from the thrall of the Isis death cult, the young British woman radicalised as a 15-year-old girl continues to live kettled within its confines. Most of the 40,000 people in al-Hawl camp belong to Isis families, and discipline is rigidly enforced there by foreign members of al-Khansaa, the all-female Isis morality police who burn down tents and beat women accused of transgression in the camp.

So not only will Ms Begum’s capabilities for individual thought, reason and feeling have been stunted by spending so long in Isis territory at such an influential age, she also lacks the liberty to speak freely even if she wanted to.

Yet unlike Sajid Javid, the home secretary, who has chosen to surf the national mood of rage towards the former Bethnal Green schoolgirl by revoking her British citizenship, I believe there is every reason to repatriate, investigate and rehabilitate — not banish — Ms Begum.

Aside from the specific legalities and moralities regarding her status as a minor when she entered Syria, buried within the rote-like repetitions of Isis vernacular that she used when speaking to me, Ms Begum also showed traits suggesting she would be an ideal candidate for a de-radicalisation programme.

Shamima Begum was found last week by Anthony Loyd among 40,000 inhabitants of the al-Hawl campGetty Images

Though much of the British media has collaborated with the popular fury, focusing on Ms Begum’s apparent inability to express regret or remorse, rushing to judge her on this basis, in reality the 19-year-old woman displayed considerable evidence of self-doubt and individual thought, despite the constraints of her circumstances.

The details of our meeting need a brief resume, as they were unique, not just for the amount of time and total privacy they afforded, but also because it was her first exposure to the outside world since she entered Syria in 2015; indeed, her first time alone.

We met in a reception room at al-Hawl early last Wednesday afternoon. Ms Begum entered the room in the company of another Isis wife, a Canadian called Amy Lucia Vasconez, 34, the widowed mother of two small boys.

A Syrian camp administrator and two foreign aid workers were in the room, as well as my interpreter. I asked for total privacy to conduct the interview and then left the room with both Isis women and moved to sit with them in a corner of the yard outside. No one else was present. After ten minutes Amy Vasconez also left. I continued speaking with Ms Begum for nearly an hour. She was reluctant at that stage for the interview to be taped, although later she agreed. The last 22 minutes of our conversation was recorded. The preceding hour and the final five minutes were not.

There are methods for interviewing radicals. Disassociation is a prime necessity for the interviewer: there is no point, for example, in allowing emotion or contempt to cloud the interview. I am not there to judge the interviewee. I am there to extract information and measure the likely extent of their radicalisation.

The need to find common ground early in the conversation is another requirement. I met Alexanda Kotey and El Shafee Elsheikh, the two alleged members of the so-called Beatles Isis cell, in a jail in Syria last year. Despite their alleged involvement in torture and murder we managed to communicate over the shared ground of the Golborne Road in west London, near where we all had lived, and so we recapped on fish and chips, police and thieves. Sometimes we laughed together too. At one point I recalled being shot while a hostage in Syria and they cried “sobering, sobering”, trilling with delight.

“How much do you think you’d have been worth if you came into Islamic State’s hands?” Kotey had grinned.

“More than you are now!” I replied and we shared a good laugh at our reversed circumstances, loathing each other all the while.

I certainly did not loathe Shamima Begum. In essence, she was a classic victim turned potential perpetrator: the groomed minor sat before me as a radicalised young adult. Despite her predictable arrogance and didactic manner, her aura was primarily that of a confused and vulnerable young London woman. Most of the time we were together it seemed too that despite her outward composure she was in a state of grief and shock. Alone, frightened, she wanted someone to speak to. All I had to do was listen, coax and engage.

She spoke repeatedly and in anger over her husband’s six-and-a-half month imprisonment and torture in an Isis jail over spying charges. She talked also of the hypocrisy, cruelty and oppression within the organisation.

“I am scared,” she said. “I am so confused. I’m really naive.

“There’s so much oppression and corruption going on [within Isis] that I don’t really think they deserve the victory. Dawlah [Islamic State] has actually killed Muslims. People that have fought for them, they’ve killed. And for what? So you say you kill the non-Muslims and take care of the Muslims, but they don’t do that.”

“My husband said that while he was in [an Isis] prison there were men that had been tortured so badly that they were like ‘I’m just going to admit to being a spy so they can kill me’.”

These are extraordinary remarks for an Isis devotee to make, and suggest that within the mental confines placed upon her by the so-called caliphate there lurks an independently minded young woman who with the right help may be able to emerge from her radicalised state.

Indeed, Ms Begum is likely to be one of the most suitable adult candidates for rehabilitation of the scores of British adults who joined Isis and are believed to be in custody in northern Syria.

From a practical point of security, of course, Britain’s decision not to repatriate its Isis fighters, their wives and children from Syria is nonsensical. It is hypocritical too, as the public policy is a reversal of what has already been going on in private.

Since 2012, the UK has allowed about 400 British members of Islamic State and Jabhat Fateh al-Sham, once al-Qaeda’s offshoot in Syria, to return home. The majority of them have been male fighters. That Mr Javid has now chosen in public to revoke the citizenship of a young woman from Bethnal Green who was indoctrinated by Isis as a minor is an opportunistic decision made purely to pander to national mood, and has no foot in national security considerations.

Indeed, if the home secretary were to make his decisions based upon security, then he would push for the prompt repatriation from Syria of every single British Isis member, including Kotey and Elsheikh. The current situation, whereby more than 900 foreign fighters and nearly 3,000 foreign family members from 49 countries are cooped up in camps alongside thousands of Syrian and Iraqi Isis members in one of the most unstable parts of the Middle East is unsustainable; a calamity waiting to happen.

Yet so far, in the week since Ms Begum’s story emerged, little evidence of reasoned, informed consideration and debate has appeared. We would do well to realise that victory against Isis will be measured in no small part by our ability to have the confidence in our own legal system and values in dealing with British citizens who joined the jihadists.

If our institutions and sense of worth cannot deal fairly and appropriately with a runaway schoolgirl from Bethnal Green, who may well be more deserving of rescue and rehabilitation than hatred and condemnation, then we will indeed have become a very little England.

Tidying up

This week, having finished my floor canvas for the David Parr ‘museum-to-be’ in Cambridge I am behaving like those women of a certain age that appear in several Ingmar Bergman’s films- Fanny and Alexander for one- seen looking through the pictures from their life, arranging photo albums. I am having a long-needed sort out of drawings, pictures and mementoes that have been lying in a heap for a year and a half, since my return from Mali. 

                                                        

I wish I had done more drawings- these are some of the very few I managed to do one day at the Monday market in front of the Great Mosque- I was just too busy doing everything else…

And photo albums from Mali- there simply are none : no album from my life with Keita. There seemed to be enough documentation through the Djenne Djenno blog, but now I think I must make an album for us…

                                                                                

In my rummaging I found Keita’s vaccination certificate. I have one too. It was done at the hospital in Kayes, when we were on our way to Senegal in Keita’s beloved old Mercedes. It was our last holiday together in February 2015. We had suddenly been given the information that it was absolutely essential to organize vaccination certificates in order to be able to enter Senegal. At the hospital they affirmed that they would be able to do them for us, so we waited for a moment, then we were given the certificates, stamped and finished and told to pay something- I believe it was 5000FCFA.  ‘So where do we go now , to have the actual vaccinations ?’ I asked, naively. Keita looked at me with some irritation, as did the medical officer in charge. ‘What ? You have the certificate, don’t you ? We haven’t had any of these vaccines for months.’ …

Boring trouble in Timbuktu…

But of a manuscript and library nature. And more annoying than deadly and tragic.  If  one contemplates the recent jihadist attack at Aguelhok which killed ten Chadian UN soldiers I feel I should not complain about anything at all. But I will, since I have started…

It is not easy to manage a project at a great distance- I only see the staff for a few precious hours on a couple of days every two/three months when I get to Timbuktu. That may not matter so much if communication was clear and I could rely on good weekly reports. But such is not the situation.

When I lived in Djenne and looked after the BL projects I used to pop into the Djenne Manuscript Library every other day. ‘What have you found that is fun ?’ I always used to say. And they always used to reply that  they hadn’t found anything at all. But of course they had : ‘What is this manuscript talking about for instance?’ I asked , and quite often I would find that what they deemed uninteresting might be something quite fascinating, such as the day when one of their ‘boring’ manuscripts turned out to be an early nineteenth century letter with an eye witness report of a battle that had been fought in Djenne. I loved the work with the library because the material interested me. The staff and I got on well –with one notable exception- although I am a very short tempered supervisor. The slanging matches we invariably got involved in were balanced out  by plenty of fun- jolly banter and the perpetual Malian teasing  to do with marriages and such like.I think that they knew that I was 'on their side' and we did somehow make up a good team. But in Timbuktu it  is quite different: I have a feeling they are rather looking at the project as  'us and them' situation.

 In Timbuktu there is not much fun at the moment to make up for annoying and evasive behaviour. For a start, I don’t have such a close knowledge about the material since noone tells me anything about it- although I have asked them to communicate if they find something of interest so I can put it up on social media  etc. And  selfishly  I want to discover things and  revel in the exciting fact that we are actually working on some of the most important manuscripts in Timbuktu, belonging to what was regarded as the University of Sankore. - I  know that there must be amazing things to find out ! But the silence is deafening from my Timbuktu collaborators. 

And now one of our three libraries has run out of manuscripts. Before we started the project we were of course assured that there were plenty of documents to digitize- they were all hidden at various family members houses. Our libraries were the ones that had chosen not to take part in the celebrated rescue mission described in best selling books and numerous articles and documentaries when the majority of Timbuktu's manuscripts were removed to Bamako, away from the danger of Jihadists' attacks.  Our libraries had instead decided to hide their manuscripts in Timbuktu. 

In April we spent  lots of money kitting out one new digitizing studio with material- not only for the photography but also air conditioner, fridge , furniture, flooring etc. As the months carried on we became aware that the work flow from this one library was particularly slow and it became apparent that very often the workers just sat around waiting for material to digitize. And now there seems to be none left at all ! I am very cross with the head of this library who has not told us the truth. 

Finally today, after giving plenty of time to gather together the manuscripts to convince us that there were enough it became clear that nothing was forthcoming. So all material was removed from this one library to be redeployed in the other two. And then, when the library stood there empty and forlorn, suddenly I get the news that manuscripts have miraculously been found! I don’t believe it, I don’t trust it and I am very annoyed… We’ll have to see tomorrow.

Meanwhile here in London there are some embryonic first thoughts on making a fund raising Mali event happen around May. There seems to be several strands for the knitting together of this event- and they have all presented themselves quite independently- more about this hopefully later… it may be a Mali Market with jewellery and textiles- there may be Mali food, there may be a Mali film… and perhaps a reading of some of the Sundiatta epic in English translation- but done in the Griot way accompanied by a Goni… Hmm just thinking aloud and open to suggestions…

St Bridgid’s Day

I have been away for a long time. 

It is not as if I have not had any contact  with Europe at all of course- even when I lived in Mali for the twelve years at Hotel Djenne Djenno I had plenty of European (or western) interaction- after all I had a stream of interesting people staying at my little mud hotel, and there was never a moment of feeling lonely or bored- that is only something I have experienced in London...but nevertheless, the concerns that matter to life in Africa are so very different to the ones that people care about here that I often feel like an alien in my own culture now. An alien or some sort of dinosaur from another time and place...

Take just one little incident: an exhibition of eighty nine Irish women artists  at Jeremiah’s excellent Twelve Star Gallery – the exhibition space for the European Union in London, which will now shortly be closing alas... These artists  had all been given a poem as inspiration to create a painting  in celebration of St. Brigid’s Day.  She  is an Irish patron saint, along with St Patrick. She lived in the 7^th century and seems to have gained an  alternative possible existence as a Celtic fertility goddess. Lá Fhéile Bhríde, Saint Brigid's Feast Day is on the first of February and celebrates the beginning of spring.

The poem given as inspiration is by the Irish poet Leland Bardwell, called St. Brigid’s Day 1989. It is short and describes a vision of women gathering rushes to make St. Bridgid’s crosses. It ends:

‘I too will make a cross, for luck and irony.

Amongst the witches coven I will raise my glass

So that my children’s children’s children

Will gather rushes for her turning.’

The irish ambassador Adrian O’Neill was there, making a speech. Later I and some friends chatted to him – he said that when he spoke to people about St Bridgid’s Day  first of all the reaction was negative- ‘St Bridgid- that’s religious isn’t it ?’ but then he explained, reassuringly, that St. Bridgid was actually a Celtic fertility goddess, and therefore everyone felt it was OK to join in and celebrate. It is clear and understandable how the Irish has turned powerfully against the Catholic church of course, since there has been unforgiveable travesties perpetuated for too long with apparent impunity.

Nevertheless, I did not really feel happy about the line ‘ Amongst the witches coven I will raise my glass’ etc… which is an example of how feminists have sometimes taken the theme of witches’ covens to celebrate  ‘sisterhood’ and even ‘Das ewig Weibliche’.  Call me an old dinosaur, but to me witchcraft is not something positive. When I spoke to one of my closest female friends  she seemed put out by my being disturbed by this. ‘But Sophie, they burned women at the stake for just being single, not married !’ Yes, of course that should never have happened and there were many innocents that were put to death. But that doesn’t mean that witchcraft itself and witches covens is something to be celebrated .  Witches and witchcraft is not something jolly like Father Christmas, something that isn’t actually true. It is something quite alive, and there are plenty of people that get involved in this- in Europe and also in Africa of course, and I have spent twelve years observing the power of ‘maraboutage ‘ in West Africa. The occult, in my opinion is not something charming- it is powerful and can deeply harm people.  But that opinion is now not possible to express perhaps in the current climate here.

I do feel an alien.

Another year, another canticle...

That is what they are called, the three parts of Dante’s Divina Commedia.

We managed somehow to escape Hell just before Christmas, as the little reading group which meets at my flat every two weeks emerged victorious from the trials of those  unhappy and unholy places into the light once more –it has taken us a year to finish the Inferno- and last night we embarked on something altogether lighter as we began the Purgatorio.  I must confess that I occasionally had my doubts about the real value of Dante’s  epic poem- is it really that great? There were times when it seemed like a slog and, frankly, a bore- how much interest can one muster for the gossip and intrigues of Florence in 1300? There is quite a lot of such stuff...but of course it is not allowed to harbour any doubts about it- how could Dante not be great? I suppose it would be like saying that Shakespeare isn’t that good actually... It simply isn’t possible. If we don’t like it the fault must lie with ourselves:  there is such overwhelming weight of opinion: it is unassailable. (Although weight of opinion does not necessarily mean one has to agree: for instance that film everyone is going potty over- the Favourite. I really disliked it- and in this case I refuse to bend.) But we are talking Dante here...We persevered and I did it often because it was fun to have my friends come and to focus on the text- often that would lead us into good talks about all sorts of interesting things.

And then something happened- to start the new canticle was quite a revelation:  there were fresh breezes and air and light and beauty – there was great space again and suddenly I got a revived sense of the greatness of the poem- in Dorothy Sayer’s wonderful translation :

‘Colour unclouded, orient-sapphirine,

Softly suffusing from meridian height

Down the still sky to the horizon-line,

Brought to mine eyes renewal of delight

So soon as I came forth from that dead air

Which had oppressed my bosom and my sight

Purgatorio is not really a place of misory- it is a place of journeying and of hope and that is one reason why many people regard this second part as the best of the Divina Commedia. I am sure Milton found much inspiration here- so much reminded me of him.

So many lovely – and cinematographic images: the glittering Ship of Souls arriving with a great Angel at the helm ; the  tender  passage where Virgil washes the smear and grime of Hell from the face of Dante in the fresh dew of the Island of Purgatory; and the gentle ‘flock’ of souls, the ‘excommunicates’ who wait  timidly and patiently to be able to begin their ascent of the mountain: they see the shadow of Dante thrown from  the setting sun behind him onto the mountain: he as the only living body is the only one that casts a shadow- this excites their timid curiosity.. All charming and ravishingly beautifully told. 

And what else...? Well, I am once more back in Kindred Studios for a few weeks where I am painting a couple of floor canvases  for the David Parr House In Cambridge  which will be made into a Museum soon- a lovely little late ninetheenth century treasure trove of hand painted walls, ceilings and floors...

At the same time on the Mali front we have been selling quite a few textiles through Etsy.com https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/MaliMaliStudio  so maybe there will be some work still for dear Dembele? I will be putting in a new order with him tomorrow- perhaps we can continue?

I am just about to book my flight back to Mali again for the last part of April. It will be the Great Heat then... I love that.

In Celebration of Djenne

                                                                               

You have seen something about both of these exhibition  events before, but here is my blog post for the EAP's (Endangered Archives Programme) which just came out:

https://blogs.bl.uk/endangeredarchives/2019/01/djenne.html

A Star is Born

                                                                           
Well, just feel I have to communicate something fairly important:
Last night Jeremiah and I stumbled across Honey, a seventeen-year old girl who played her first ever gig at the time- honoured Troubador cafe/restaurant/bar/ music venue in Old Brompton Road where JimiHendrix and Bob Dylan used to hang out. Her school girl  friends where sitting in the corner loving it and giggling and what seemed like her proud  mum and dad was taking pictures. I just wish I had noted down some of her great lyrics...

We just sort of bumbled in for a drink after our dinner in a little Italian Restaurant around the corner, thinking there might be something fun on. And there she was, the little Amy Winehouse of right now, just bursting out all ready to spring upon us all- a star being born in front of our eyes!And her guitarist was excellent too.
The little Honey is a  singer /song writer of such talent it took our breath away and brought tears to our eyes...
Some of it is on her Instagram where she is Honeymooncie - do check her out and follow her. She only has 542 followers she is that unknown and there isn't even a Youtube trace of her yet...