In part one of our series on literature and the Middle East, we examine some of the political implications of the ways we read.
T.E. Lawrence hanging out with a camel (via ivebeenreadinglately.blogspot.co.uk) |
T.E. Lawrence, better know as Lawrence of Arabia, was a badass. This much is evident from any brief
description of his achievements in the desert: uniting the Bedu tribes; devising guerilla warfare; overcoming a far larger Turkish
army; crossing the Sinai Desert alone; getting into Magdalen College,
Oxford (unlike yours truly).
Lawrence is one of those rare figures
who seems to stand apart from the rest of their culture, figures who
can influence the ebb and flow of history, rather than be merely
buffeted to and fro like flotsam. He manages to resist not just the
events around him, but the attitudes. The most remarkable thing about
T.E. Lawrence was that, at the height of British Imperialism (if only
in terms of landmass), at a time of Western political and cultural
hegemony, of untrammelled racism and chauvinism towards all those who
were not Anglo-Saxon, he managed to not be an Orientalist.
Orientalism is a complicated concept,
and needs a brief pause of explanation. The Influential critic Edward
Said devoted a whole book to it; I shall try to cram it into a few
paragraphs. Roughly speaking, the Orientalist is the Westerner who
takes an exceptional interest in the Orient – defined as 'not
West', but usually referring to either East Asian or Middle Eastern
cultures. Said argues that the interest of the Orientalist will
always be somewhat chauvinistic, based on caricature and
generalisation, on definitions of other cultures not in their own
terms, but in opposition to the culture of the Orientalist himself.
He goes further, and argues for a political dimension to Orientalism,
with the Orientalist, in Said's conception, ideologically furthering
the doctrines of Western Imperialism by justifying the subjugation
and rule of Orientals by Occidentals.
Sinai Desert (from here) |
Said's position is inflammatory, and
not without its critics. Examples can be produced of various
Orientalists resistant to the biases and epistemological pitfalls
Said identifies. Lawrence is my favourite of these. His shimmering
memoir of his desert-war years, Seven Pillars of Wisdom,
demonstrates a profound respect for Bedu culture as a whole and the
individual tribesman with which he interacts, and a profound shame
for Imperial Britain's treatment of the Arabs.
This
Western mistreatment of the Arab peoples is the subject (or one of
the subjects) of James Barr's recent history of Anglo-French
relations in the Middle East, A Line in the Sand.
During the First World War, the British, in part inspired and
assisted by T.E. Lawrence, convinced the Arabic populations of what
are now Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Israel, Lebanon, Iraq and Syria
to fight against the Turks. The Middle East was, at that time, under
the rule of the decaying Ottoman Turkish Empire, and the bait Britain
offered to the Arabs, as price for their military assistance, was
independence and nationhood.
James Barr's A Line in the Sand, showing the division of the Middle East (via handmademaps.com) |
As
Barr details, these promises were, unsurprisingly, broken. After the
war, the British and the French divided the Middle East between
themselves, giving Lebanon and Syria to the French and Iraq, Jordan
and Israel to the British. Arab concerns were ignored. The attitudes
that allowed for such a betrayal were Orientalist in the most extreme
and obscene way. Arabs were not capable of self-governance, the
British thought. It is our right to govern Syria, the French argued.
The great powers of the West forged an agreement because both
prioritised pleasing the other above pleasing the Arabs. When the war
was over, the Arabs were dispensable as allies.
The
motivation for the betrayal that Barr does not explicitly identify is
even more sad. The reason the French and the British valued one
another's allegiance so much in 1919 is that, following the Treaty of
Versailles, senior government figures on both sides of the Channel
considered another war with Germany an inevitability. The harshness
of the terms imposed by the Allies on Germany, they feared,
necessitated further conflict. Arabian self-determination was the
first of many casualties of such a petty and vindictive Treaty.
It is
perhaps ironic that similar harsh peace terms were offered to Turkey
– terms so harsh that they instigated nationalist revolution, and
created the kind of secular, self-governed state the Versailles terms
precluded in the former Ottoman Empire.
The
various imperial machinations of the 1920s and 30s do not make for
pleasant reading, and Barr does not flinch from brutal honesty about
the pettiness, self-interest and callousness of imperial officials.
It is clear that Barr disapproves of how his own nation had behaved.
And yet his history retains vestiges of the same kind of Orientalism
that allowed for such behaviour in the first place.
The
most obvious way in which Barr demonstrates his Orientalism is in his
marginalising of Arab influence. It may seem unfair to criticise a
history of British and French foreign policy for focussing too much
on the British and French, but in this case it is reasonable. There
is no sense of the effects of these policies on Arabs, and only a
very limited sense of Arab agency in resisting or abetting European
policy. The effect is to implicitly justify the cold pragmatism of
European policy, to condemn the results and motivations, but not to
condemn a policy of regional influence itself. It is the same
attitude that condones the support of the Saudi or Mubarak regimes to
enhance stability and protect European oil concerns.
Classic Orientalism: Jean-Léon Gérôme, Pool in a Harem, c. 1876 (via wikipedia) |
Barr's
elision of Arab action is thrown more starkly into contrast in the
later parts of the book, which deal with Zionist terrorism against
the British in Palestine. He emphasises, as he does in earlier
sections about Arab terrorism and uprising in French-controlled
Syria, the role of Western backers in providing arms, money and
intelligence. But he also emphasises the role of Zionists in
attracting this support, and describes their degree of activity and
success in far more detail than that of equivalent Arab movements.
One comes away with the idea that Israel was won by the hard work,
cunning and determination of the (mostly European) Jewish community,
while Palestine was lost by the disorganisation and ultimate
passivity of the Arab population. Said would note, with a
disapproving but unsurprised shake of the head, that passivity was
one of the most frequent of Orientalist stereotypes.
There
are mitigating factors in Barr's differing treatments of Arab and
Jewish resistances. For one thing, Jewish terrorism did actually
produce its desired goal. To analyse in such a post hoc manner is not
especially desirable. It assumes that all other conditions remained
the same for this one factor to have determined the outcome, and it
assumes, to an extent, that the final outcome was inevitable. My
criticism, however, is more of Barr's writing than of his argument,
though: the differences in descriptive treatment between the two
groups is not excusable, even if a difference in argumentative force
is.
The
other reason for Barr's bias, perhaps, is that he does not speak
Arabic. I cannot say this with certainty, but the bibliography
provided in his book shows a very limited reading of Arab primary
sources and of Arab scholars. Many Jewish sources were written by
European immigrants, and written in French or German, and are
therefore more accessible to the European scholar. Linguistic
barriers, Said would wearily note, often result in deficient
Orientalist scholarship, in the inability of Western scholars to
fully understand Arab culture. (It should be pointed out that Said
excludes a volume of influential European Oriental scholarship –
including German, Austrian, Dutch and Italian work – from his own
argument due to a lack of linguistic proficiency in those areas: it
seems that language barriers apply in all cultural exchanges.)
Rebels have fashion sense too (via funcorner.eu |
The
worry is that, while these may be mitigating factors in the skew of
Barr's analysis, the central cause is somewhat more deep-rooted and
pernicious than these scholarly weeds. There has not been a great
development – in popular circles at least – in attitudes towards
the Middle East. Orientalism continues to pervade, even if it has
been modified. For many, the Middle East remains an Arabian Nights
fantasia of camels and deserts and sultans and gemstones. Or, at
least, they wish it were so, and acknowledge, with what I'm sure
they'd dress as admirable pragmatism, that the cultural gems of
Arabic culture are being eroded by pernicious, unifying forces.
Islamism, perhaps. Or the Arab Spring. Or petro-dollars.
I'm
often alarmed myself at how easily I slip into these modern
stereotypes. Alarmed at how casually I have referred to the Middle
East as an entity of relatively uniform characteristics, resting on
the safe assumption that most anyone reading this will know sort of
what I mean. I often find it a shock to see footage of the Arab
Spring, to see young people in jeans and hoodies and iPhones, in
apartment blocks that could be in Spain or Italy. Somehow it
surprises me that a Syrian could own a smartphone, and yet I am
completely unsurprised that the Syrian government own tanks. It seems
that modern life only applies in some parts of my Middle East.
Tahrir Square (from wmf.org.eg) |
Even
with a heightened level of self-consciousness, the best description I
can offer of the existence of the average Egyptian, say, is very
limited. I'm fairly sure most people aren't Islamic Fundamentalists,
whatever that means. I'm fairly sure they worry about bills and
unemployment and crime just like everyone else does. They probably
think about getting laid a lot. They probably don't own camels. I
know for a fact that it isn't sweltering desert heat all the time.
(But when I imagine the scenes in Tahrir Square, it's always
approaching 45oC.)
I know Egypt are surprisingly good at football.
What
is perhaps even more frightening is that those who do claim to be in
the know don't seem to make things clearer. Take recent news coverage
of the Egyptian elections. Mohamed Morsi (let's not go into
transliteration issues), I am assured, is an Islamist of some sort. I
don't really know what this means. As this article on the excellent
blog The Arabist points out, most of these labels are nebulous.
Pinning down what politicians actually believe is always a tricky
business, but the whole process is made harder by obfuscating words
and the lack of nuance they create.
Mohamed Morsi, Egypt's current president (via saharareporters.com) |
Which
brings us back to language. Thinking about the words we apply to
things is one of the ways in which language – and, by extend,
literature – can become politically significant. This is one of the
advantages to be gained by approaching non-literary works like Barr's
from a literary perspective. It can be attitudinally revealing. It
can be somewhat dispiriting. But it can remind us, as we should often
be reminded, to re-evaluate our own attitudes, and our own words.
Above all, it should remind us that words are not enough, that the
entirety of existence cannot be captured on the page. Barr tries
heroically to represent thirty-five years of Middle Eastern history,
but fails to represent the people who actually live in the Middle
East; the West tries to represent the vast and varied change in the
Middle East, and, again, leaves out so much that is essential, and
leaves us with tunnel-vision.
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