Winnie

Ashann Thardoor writes ‘The dark side of Winston Churchill’s legacy no one should forget’

It’s been 50 years since the funeral of the man voted the ‘greatest Briton’, but there was a callous side to the British Bulldog’s career.  There’s no Western statesmen – at least in the English-speaking world – more routinely lionized than Winston Churchill. Last Friday marked a half century since his funeral, an occasion that itself led to numerous commemorations and paeans to the British Bulldog, whose moral courage and patriotism helped steer his nation through World War II.

Churchill, after all, has been posthumously voted by his countrymen as the greatest Briton. The presence (and absence) of his bust in the White House in Washington, DC was enough to create political scandal on both sides of the pond. The power of his name is so great that it launches a thousand quotations, many of which are apocryphal. At its core, Churchill’s myth serves as a ready-made metaphor for boldness and leadership, no matter how vacuous the context in which said metaphor is deployed.

I hate Indians. They are a beastly people with a beastly religion.

Winston Churchill

For example, former British prime minister Tony Blair earned comparisons to Churchill after dragging his country into the much-maligned 2003 Iraq war. So too Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, whose tough stance on Iran’s nuclear ambitions has been cast by some in Churchill’s heroic mould – the Israeli premier’s uncompromising resolve a foil to the supposed “appeasement” tendencies of President Barack Obama.

In the West, Churchill is regarded as a freedom fighter, the man who grimly withstood Nazism and helped save Western liberal democracy. It’s a civilisational legacy that has been built up over decades. Churchill “launched the lifeboats”, declared Time magazine, on the cover of its January 1950, issue, which hailed the British leader as the “man of the half century”.

But there’s another side to Churchill’s politics and career that should not be forgot amid the endless parade of eulogies. To many outside the West, he remains an unvarnished racist and a stubborn imperialist, forever on the wrong side of history.

Churchill’s detractors point to his well-documented bigotry, articulated often with shocking callousness and contempt. “I hate Indians,” he once trumpeted. “They are a beastly people with a beastly religion.”

He referred to Palestinians as “barbaric hordes who ate little but camel dung”. When quashing insurgents in Sudan in the earlier days of his imperial career, Churchill boasted of killing three “savages”. Contemplating restive populations in northwest Asia, he infamously lamented the “squeamishness” of his colleagues, who were not in “favour of using poisoned gas against uncivilised tribes”.

At this point, you may say, so what? Churchill’s attitudes were hardly unique for the age in which he expounded them. All great man have flaws and contradictions – the American founding fathers, those great paragons of liberty, were slave owners. One of Churchill’s biographers, cited by The Washington Post’s Karla Adam, insists that his failings were ultimately “unimportant, all of them, compared to the centrality of the point of Winston Churchill, which is that he saved [Britain] from being invaded by the Nazis”.

But that should not obscure the dangers of his world view. Churchill’s racism was wrapped up in his Tory zeal for empire, one which irked his wartime ally, United States president Franklin D Roosevelt. As a junior member of parliament, Churchill had cheered on Britain’s plan for more conquests, insisting that its “Aryan stock is bound to triumph”. It’s strange to celebrate his bravado in the face of Hitler’s war machine and not consider his wider thinking on other parts of the world. After all, these are places that, just like Europe and the West, still live with the legacy of Churchill’s and Britain’s actions at the time.

India, Britain’s most important colonial possession, most animated Churchill. He despised the Indian independence movement and its spiritual leader, Mahatma Gandhi, whom he described as “half-naked” and labelled a “seditious fakir”, or holy man. Most notoriously, Churchill presided over the hideous 1943 famine in Bengal, where some 3 million Indians perished, largely as a result of British imperial mismanagement. Churchill was both indifferent to the Indian plight and even mocked the millions suffering, chuckling over the culling of a population that bred “like rabbits”.

Leopold Amery, Churchill’s secretary of state for India, likened his boss’ understanding of India’s problems to King George III’s apathy for the Americas. Amery vented in his private diaries, writing “on the subject of India, Winston is not quite sane” and that he didn’t “see much difference between [Churchill’s] outlook and Hitler’s”.

When Churchill did apply his attention to the subcontinent, it had other dire effects. As the Indian writer Pankaj Mishra explains in The New Yorker, Churchill was one of a coterie of imperial rulers who worked to create sectarian fissures within India’s independence movement between Indian Hindus and Muslims, which led to the brutal partition of India when the former colony finally did win its freedom in 1947. Millions died or were displaced in an orgy of bloodshed that still echoes in the region’s tense politics to this day. (India, it should be noted, was far from the only corner of the British empire victim to such divide-and-rule tactics.)

“The rival nationalisms and politicised religions the British Empire brought into being now clash in an enlarged geopolitical arena,” writes Mishra, gesturing to the spread and growth of political Islam in parts of South Asia and the Middle East. “And the human costs of imperial overreaching seem unlikely to attain a final tally for many more decades.”

When measuring up Churchill’s legacy, that tally must be taken into account.

Ishann Tharoor writes about foreign affairs for The Washington Post. Previously he was a senior editor at Time.

From The Age 4 February 2015

TOMORROW some comments on this piece

Poetry Sunday 8 February 2015

We republish Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress” together with Ira Maine’s wonderful comments

“I think any young lady on reading this poem might be persuaded to the belief that the poet only has the girl’s interest at heart.” writes Poetry Editor, Ira Maine.
Make up your own mind after reading the said poem and Ira’s comments below

To His Coy Mistress

BY ANDREW MARVELL

Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
       But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
       Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Andrew Marvell (1621-1678) is an odd and interesting man. Born in Yorkshire,  becomes MP for Kingston-on-Hull, friend and secretary to John Milton (who is fiercely anti-monarchy) serves as an MP in Cromwell’s government, and (miraculously) serves again as MP following the Restoration. Pleads successfully for Milton’s life to be spared when he is liable to be executed for his anti-monarchist views. Marvell is famously know as a great survivor and held various important posts until his death in 1678.

‘To His Coy Mistress’ is a poem designed to loosen ladies’ resolve.
The poet, quite rightly begins by agreeing with the lady in question, that coyness was most certainly not a crime. He does add, however, that had we ‘…world enough and time…’ we could of course, take up positions at either ends of our worlds and love each other from a vast distance and over aeons of time.. He tells her that he would love her ‘..ten years before the Flood…’ and she, in her turn, could refuse his advances ‘…Till the conversion of the Jews…’ That is how taken he is with her, how smitten. If there was time his love would grow as slowly as vegetables until that love was ‘…vaster than Empires…’ He would devote at least a hundred years to the praise of her forehead and eyes, and then at least two hundred to adore each breast, and  ‘…but  thirty thousand to the rest…’

And why would he do this?

‘…For Lady, you deserve this State…’  She deserves nothing less than this level of adoration and that he would willingly devote himself to this level of blissful worship…except…

‘…But at my back I always hear

Times winged chariot hurrying near:…’

Sadly there is no time. Our lives are brief and allow no time for the proper business of love because before you know it;

‘…yonder all before us lie,

Desarts of vast Eternitie…’ (Deserts of…)

The emptiness, the bleak landscape of decay and death.

After so brief a period of life, our beauty is dissipated, gone, and is not coming back. Beauty, your beauty will have no place in the tomb, nor will my all too brief love song.

Then will ‘…your quaint Honour turn to dust…’ and the only thing that will breach your maidenhead will be worms!

‘…Then Worms shall try

That long Preserv’d Virginity…’

This is a jolt, a deliberate reminder, a coarse interjection and calculated to remind the girl of how fleeting youth and beauty are, and how they must not be wasted.

She wobbles! She trembles! He turns the screw;

“…The graves a fine and private place,
‘But none I think do there embrace…’

And now the persuasion, the soft and sussurrating warmth, the breathy words…

‘…Now therefore, while the youthful hew

Sits on thy skin like morning dew…’

And every pore is alive with instant fires, let us sport!

Let us , rather than wait in ‘…Time’s slow chapt power…’, let us roll all our strength, all our pleasures all our sweetness up into one glorious ball, and tear our pleasures from the iron gates of life!

Thus though we cannot stop time passing, we’ll give it a hell of a run for it’s money!

I think any young lady on reading this poem might be persuaded  to the belief that the poet only has the girl’s interest at heart.

IRA

Thoughtfullness

By Ira Maine

I wondered if it was enough.  Thoughtful enough, I mean.  It is, in the end, quite difficult to ascertain when a sufficiency of pondering, of taking others thoughtfully into account, has been achieved.

I had as an example, behaved in what the Lady of the Manner considered to be a wholly thoughtful way when I had decided to treat her to a helter-skelter ride which I had secretly built in the back garden.  The device took her, at a height well clear of neighbouring pergolas, washing lines, and sundry other garden affectations, over the fence to the starting point.  Clad in her Isadora Duncan extravagances and anticipating the off, she waved her ebony cigarette holder to indicate her readiness.

The carriage paused for a moment, gathering it’s awesome strength.  It moved almost imperceptibly, but with gathering grace and  power, down the lane, past the Monument, before skillfully skirting the butcher’s shop which is, I must say, an immaculately presented emporium (Magdalena Fly-Shacker, Prop.).  Then the breathlessness, the dry mouthed fear which go heart in mouth with the slow anticipatory ascent to almost steeple height.  A moment to enjoy the panorama before the ear-splitting shrieks which inevitably accompany the terrifying descent to the supermarket car park.  This shrieking is particularly marked when Heinrich Stauff-Bullivant, our local police sergeant (easily impersonating Lauren Bacall) carries out secret elevated reconaissance in the interests of law and order.

All things considered then, I felt I was being entirely thoughtful when, following the unfortunate unpleasantness with the Reverend Molesworth, (our footballing Man of the Cloth, affectionately known as Moley, the Holy Goalie) regarding unsolicited banshee interruptions to choral practice, I offered to supply the entire choir with industrial ear muffs.  Furthermore and to wit, I further offered to have the wheels of my helter-skelter vehicle shod with trade quality carpet, (at no cost whatever to the Church).  These more than generous offers were derisively and unceremoniously rebuffed by Holy Moley himself although some of the more daredevil members of the choir did exhibit more than a little interest in giving their cassocks an airing on board my new mechanical wonder.  As a final and deeply thoughtful gesture, I even offered to bus in, at my own expense, coachloads of out-of-town congregations, who, unaware of my contrivance, might easily be persuaded that the screams from on high and descending therefrom were those of lost souls who, having failed in their earthly duty to attend church services, were even now being consigned irrevocably to one of Dante’s more infernal circles of Hell.

Later, motoring into the dawn, the following thoughts occurred to me:

You will remember my doubts, expressed at the beginning of this tale, as to whether one ever knows if one has been thoughtful enough, has fulfilled one’s obligations well enough to allow one to believe one is now at last free of the ‘thoughtful’ contract.  To this end I have outlined to you, step by step, my commitment to honouring my side of this bargain.  Well, I had begun to think, in a frighteningly heretical manner, that perhaps thoughtfulness can be taken too far.  What if I had, long ago, already fulfilled my obligation?  What if, despite all of the sweat of my brow in recent times, the struggle naught availeth?

Deliberately I slowed the car on this beautiful Spring morning, and rolled to a halt.  Drawing the toilet roll wrapper out of the glove compartment I re-read the advice thereon;

“Please dispose of this wrapper thoughtfully”

Immediately I could feel the insidious nature of this admonition begin once more to seep into my soul.

“Thus far and no further!” My mind screamed.“Have I not been thoughtful enough already?”

Before I could weaken, before  my courage evaporated, I savagely crushed the wrapper in my fist and flung the wretched thing straight out of the window.  Breathless I fell back, my body exhausted, terrifyingly aware that the die was now cast.  There was no going back.

After what seemed like a lifetime I slipped the car into gear and drove slowly away, into the great thoughtless unknown.

Poetry Sunday 1 February 2015

Today’s poem was first published on 5 May 2013

A Fowl Education.

When Miranda came round,she looked over my ground,
And pronounced it a haven of peace.
And she observed over tea, ‘Niall, between you and me,
What you need is a couple of geese’.

Taken somewhat aback, I tried to backtrack,
Though the notion was not unattractive…
Well,what can I say?, I could see right away
That I’d soon become goose interactive!

She’d hardly departed when my tools and I started
A superbly constructed enclosure.
Little did I suspect when Miranda came next,
Her goose bill would threaten foreclosure!

Well, it’s all now too late but what did eventuate
Really only crops up in a film,
But if my torments to cease, if I catch those two geese,
I’ll not claim’em, or tame’em, I’ll kill’em!

On a freezing cold night when the moon was alight
From the pen came this terrible roaring.
So I jumped out of bed and dashed down to the shed,
But both geese were asleep, gently snoring.
Full of mystified wrath, a sub-zero bath
Wasn’t something I’d usually have thought of,
But slippers on ice are an idiot device,
And I fell arse over tit in the horse trough!

Saturated, I screamed, my head hit a beam,
Semi-conscious, I dreamed my decease,
Then I fell to the ground, head pounding, half drowned,
And was immediately assaulted by geese!

Midst the frostbite and blood, I never thought I would
Ever again see my book-lined interior,
But it’s amazing the gain you can make over pain
With two geese trying to fleece your posterior!

Next day on the dam, they wrecked all my plans
To get them back in their enclosure.
Then one freezing day they rose up, flew away,
Leaving me hospitalized with exposure.

So, if your pride has been ravaged, your bum cruelly savaged,
Go scratch yourself on the verandah.
There’s no ambrosial tincture to succour the sphincter
That’s been thoroughly goosed by Miranda!.

IRA MAINE.  May 2013