We in the press may
not be, as David Blunkett supposes, close to the edge of
insanity, but we sometimes stray far from where our
countrymen live. The media tempest which briefly beset
Cherie Blair this week will have confounded them. Most
people will have thought her remarks about the link
between hopelessness and suicide-bombing in the Middle
East were plain common sense. Most people will have
wondered why anyone who is not a homicidal maniac should
be obliged to state what is obvious: that she
disapproves of mass murder.
And most people will have thought it unfair that Mrs
Blair should be descended upon like a ton of bricks for
expressing a personal opinion.
Yes, she is the Prime Minister’s wife and cannot
forget it. But Denis Thatcher was a Prime Minister’s
husband and sometimes did forget it — yet I do not
recall that his occasional inflammatory remarks about
people and politics ever hit the front pages. They were
never a big story, though his opinions were a better
guide to the true opinions of his spouse than Cherie
Blair’s are likely to be.
Her comments were important and interesting, and
would have been important and interesting whoever she
was. So was the response. The minority who were angry
were very angry. I heard the same anger last week when,
on BBC Radio 4’s The Moral Maze, it was put to
the columnist Melanie Phillips that suicide bombing
might be placed in a different moral category from the
terrorism in which the perpetrator is not willing to
sacrifice his own life.
I suspect the fury with which this is denied arises
from an unconscious recognition by those who deny it
that they are spitting into the wind. All through human
history and myth, the willingness to lay down your life
for a cause has been recognised, I think instinctively,
as somehow ennobling, regardless of whether the cause is
good, bad, or (as in the case of murdering Israelis)
wicked.
I suppose Samson was the original suicide bomber. It
is worth looking briefly at Samson’s career, for here is
a terrorist who is also a hero and an archetype.
Samson had a grudge against the Philistines who had
wronged him. So he caught three hundred foxes, attaching
firebrands to their tails, and used them as animal
torches to devastate the cornfields, vineyards and olive
groves of the Philistines.
The Philistines responded by burning Samson’s wife
and her father.
“And Samson said unto them, Though ye have done this,
yet will I be avenged of you, and after that I will
cease.” He then smote them hip from hip, and caused a
great slaughter.
The Philistines tricked and captured Samson; but he
burst the bonds with which they tied him, and with the
jawbone of an ass slew a thousand Philistines, “heaps
upon heaps”. The Philistines swore revenge.
... and this is all getting a very familiar ring.
They got their revenge. Through the wiles of Delilah
they discovered Samson’s secret: his hair. His hair
shorn, he was powerless. The Philistines put out his
eyes and sent him to Gaza, where he was imprisoned.
Taken from his prison to be mocked by a crowd of
Philistines, Samson gripped the two central supporting
pillars of the house where they had gathered. “And
Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines, and he
bowed himself with all his might and the house fell upon
the lords and upon all the people that were therein.
“So the dead which he slew at his death were more
than he slew in his life.”
Some few of those who read this story may believe it
is the literal truth. Those who do should note that the
Lord was pleased with Samson, and in the Book of Judges
the story is told as a simple tale of strength, nobility
and self-sacrifice. Samson was a Hebrew terrorist, and,
even in death, Samson won.
But that great majority of us who do not believe the
story should be the more discomfited by it; for if it is
not true then it is a myth and parable, and the point
about myths and parables is that they speak to the moral
psyche of the reader. The story of Samson tells us
something we may already know about ourselves: that
revenge is human nature, that self-sacrifice is
ennobling, and that the greatest self-sacrifice of all
is to embrace death. Dulce et decorum est pro patria
mori. Greater love hath no man ...
Into the valley of Death/ Rode the six hundred ... O
the wild charge they made/ When can their glory fade?
... I need not elaborate. It could even be argued
that the Christian religion itself places at its centre
an act — the Crucifixion — which can be interpreted as
the embrace of death. If Jesus had tried to escape but
had been caught and killed, His crucifixion would lose
much of the moral potency it has for Christians.
There is hardly a page of any reputable dictionary of
quotations which does not provide further evidence of
how deep in our moral reasoning lies the idea of
ennoblement through the embrace of death. It would not
surprise me if Israelis understood this more keenly than
most.
That is why this particular action by Palestinian
zealots so enrages them, for it communicates with them
in their own moral language. They shudder. When, during
the Vietnam War, Buddhists set themselves ablaze in
protest against the United States, did we not likewise
shudder?
To this argument comes — and came, for instance, on
The Moral Maze; came as Mrs Blair’s critics
blasted her for “not mentioning” the Israeli dead — the
response that any nobility or pathos claimed for a
suicide bomber is eclipsed by the injury he does to
innocent souls.
But, though deeply felt, such a response moves the
argument deftly away from self-sacrifice and on to
sacrifice: can it ever be other than wicked in a violent
conflict intentionally to sacrifice the lives of
non-combatants? This is a different question; and if you
will bear with me I should like to pursue it; to show
how little we disagree about the answers; and to whittle
away the “moral” arguments which conceal, at their core,
a practical one.
For to the question whether the uninvolved
should be targeted, most of us offer a more or less
cautious No.
So it is this stable of words and phrases — “the
innocent”, “non-combatants”, “civilians”, “the
uninvolved” — which emerge, I believe, as the only
grounds of real dispute between even the most extreme on
the two sides of this debate. To recapitulate:
Both sides agree that self-sacrifice can be, on the
face of it, noble.
Both sides agree that killing other people may
sometimes be justified in a violent conflict.
So both sides must agree that encompassing your own
death in the killing of other people may sometimes be
justified, even noble. If you or I could have brought
down the temple in which the Third Reich sat, killing
ourselves too, that might (I presume we agree) have been
a noble act.
Now we can narrow yet further the disputed ground.
The insistence with which Palestinian extremists argue
that Israeli civilians are not in the truest
sense non-combatants suggests to me that even these
Islamist militants would feel morally uncomfortable with
the idea of killing people who were not complicit in an
enemy’s cause. So do the Israelis: their spokesmen lay
great and repeated stress on the wickedness of the
murder of civilians, but I have never heard an Israeli
spokesmen complain in moral terms about attacks by Arab
militia on Israeli soldiers.
Are Israeli civilians, then, by their very presence,
aggressors? The argument reduces to this question.
And now we can narrow the dispute one final notch. I
do not think that in his heart an Israeli would deny
that, if your enemy has taken land that is rightfully
yours and occupied it, then not just your enemy’s army
but his wife and son and daughter and servants and all
who, under his protection, come to live and make their
living on the stolen land, are aggressors. By their
presence they aid and abet the occupation. If the
Palestinian Authority were to enter and occupy parts of
Israel proper, for instance, and bus in Arab farmers and
merchants and builders to live there, would an Israeli
in a refugee camp in Cyprus not see these as legitimate
targets?
There is therefore only one question left to resolve:
who are the owners of the disputed territory? This is
not really a moral question at all.
In history ancient and modern, some great disputes do
wheel around real moral differences between the
participants. This is not one of them. It is a very
Semitic war in which the principal values of all three
Semitic religions, Judaism, Islam and Christianity, are
widely shared. The dispute is about the ownership of
land, not about what behaviour is justified in
protecting that ownership. On that we agree. The moral
maze is a mirage. The turf war is real. It will be
decided by force.
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