I have had this book: "An Evil Cradling” on my shelves for almost fourteen years, and only now have I felt able to read it, helped in part, by family members who encouraged me to do just that. But without doubt, another helpful ingredient has been the passage of time.
When the book was first published, the thought of reading it was more than I could bear. For years we had watched with both admiration and sadness, as Jill Morel sought to keep alive in the public consciousness, the memory of her boyfriend John McCarthy, who, along with Brian Keenan had been kidnapped and was being held hostage somewhere in Lebanon. And terrible though this story was, it was made worse, as this was a drama, acted out, against the backdrop of atrocities here at home.
By the time that Brian Keenan was kidnapped in Beirut 1986, (an ordeal that was to last for four and a half years), we were in the second decade of a wanton campaign of violence by the I. R. A., fellow countrymen, who, in the name of liberation, and in the war against “the Brits,” (the British), could rationalise the most barbaric acts. For them, there were no limits; so fellow countrymen, and many others; men, women and children, were blown to pieces and glibly referred to as casualties of war. And there would be more dastardly acts to come, to name but two. In November 1987 on what is known as Remembrance Sunday, eleven people died at the cenotaph in Enniskillen. They had come to remember the dead of two World Wars, only to die in an I. R. A. explosion. And as if that wasn’t obscenity enough, among the dead was a 20-year-old nurse, Marie Wilson, who, along with her father Gordon, had gone there to remember. Then in 1993 came the outrage in Warrington in England, where Saturday shoppers fleeing from the aftermath of one explosion, ran, (as planned), into the path of another.
And terrible as these things were, they were part of a wider global malaise, in which fellow human beings were no more than fodder for warped minds and for the powerful. Almost certainly, the most stark in the public consciousness, has to have been the horrendous stories that emerged from the “Killing Fields” of Cambodia. There in 1975, the Khumer Rouge under the leadership of Poll Pot, embarked on an ideological orgy of death and destruction. The strategy was simple; to purify Cambodia by returning it to year zero and starting again. To that end they emptied the cities of people and then set about getting rid of the malign influences: The intelligentsia were the first to be slaughtered; academics, doctors, teachers and other professionals, until, in the end, a third of the population of Cambodia: men women and children had perished. And the iconic images that were later to emerge from these “killing fields”, were pictures of skulls, piled high.
Then in 1989, when Brian Keenan was still in captivity, came the fatwa, a religious edict proclaimed by the Iranian spiritual leader Ayatollah Khomeini. It called on Muslims world wide to seek out and kill the acclaimed writer Salman Rhusdie, for allegedly having blasphemed against the prophet Mohammed in his book, “Satanic Verses.” It was an edict that lead to a global hysteria, with copies of the book being set alight in places as far apart as Bradford in England, India and South Africa, and by people who had never read it, or couldn’t read it.
Now when misguided human beings are killing one another, that is one thing, but when a revered religious leader singles out an individual and calls on his followers world-wide, to kill him as a religious duty, then, as I saw it at the time, we were dealing with something new; for when I first heard the fatwa mentioned on the television evening news, (and though I understood that it was aimed at Salman Rhusdie), nonetheless, like an electric shock it struck at the core of my being, and I saw it as an attack on me.
Now for the unthinking it would have been easy to dismiss some of these things as the work of lunatics, the actions of people still living in the past, in primitive feudal societies. But there was something else nearer home, much older than the “killing fields” of Cambodia, or the Ayatollah Khomeini’s rise to power in Iran, and it was the work of “civilised,” educated and refined white men of European stock. I am of course referring to the apartheid regime in South Africa. There, carefully thought out and enshrined in a framework of law, was a system of discrimination, calculated to keep blacks, coloureds and Indians in South Africa, in a state of poverty and subjection; a sure-fire way of guaranteeing white supremacy. But fortunately there was an alternative voice, that of the anti apartheid movement; that in Britain as well as elsewhere around the world, protested in public, and campaigned relentlessly for the boycotting of South African produce in supermarkets, and the breaking of sporting links with South Africa.
This was a regime that could not be dismissed as an aberration. And coming as I do from Ireland, with its complex colonial history, and from Northern Ireland in particular, where gerrymandering was the norm, I instinctively identified with the suffering and struggle of “black” South Africans against the injustice of apartheid. And it was in this context, and before the world of Poll Pot impinged on my consciousness, that I read: “Cry, The Beloved Country”. A novel by Alan Paton, set in South Africa that in effect, documented life under an apartheid regime. And a particular part of this story that has stayed with me for more than three decades, (as a reminder of the power of the written word), is that moment when, the Rev Kumalo, (whose Church is in an impoverished black township,) calls at a house to enquire about a missing servant girl. The man who comes to the door is white, and the narrative as it moves along, switches between the different perspectives. Here it is, (with all its subtle nuances), a pivotal moment in the story:
“While he was reading there was a knock at the kitchen door, and he went out to find a native person standing on the paved stone at the foot of the three stone steps that led up to the kitchen. The person was old, and his black clothes were green with age, and his collar was brown with age or dirt. He took off his hat, showing the whiteness of his head, and he looked startled and afraid and he was trembling. —Good morning, umfundisi, said Jarvis in Zulu, of which he was a master.
The person answered in a trembling voice. Umnumzana, which means Sir, and to Jarvis’s surprise, he sat down on the lowest step, as though he were ill or starving. Jarvis knew this was not rudeness, for the old man was humble and well mannered, so he came down the steps, saying. Are you ill, umfundisi? But the old man did not answer. He continued to tremble, and he looked down on the ground, so that Jarvis could not see his face, and could not have seen it unless he had lifted the chin with his hand, which he did not do, for such a thing is not lightly done. – Are you ill, umfundisi? – I shall recover, umnumzana. – Do you wish water? Or is it food? Are you hungry? – No umnumzana, I shall recover.
Jarvis stood on the paved stone below the lowest step, but the old man was not quick to recover. He continued to tremble, and to look at the ground. It is not easy for a white man to be kept waiting, but Jarvis waited, for the old man was obviously ill and weak. The old man made an effort to rise, using his stick, but the stick slipped on the paved stone, and fell clattering on the stone. Jarvis picked it up and restored it to him, but the old man put it down as a hindrance, and he put down his hat also, and tried to lift himself up by pressing his hands on the steps. But his first effort failed, and he sat down again, and continued to tremble. Jarvis would have helped him, but such a thing is not so lightly done as picking up a stick; then the old man pressed his hands again on the steps, and lifted himself up. Then he lifted his face also, and looked at Jarvis, and Jarvis saw that his face was full of a suffering that was of neither illness nor hunger. And Jarvis stooped, and picked up the hat and stick, and he held the hat carefully for it was old and dirty, and he restored them to the person. - I thank you umnumzana. – Are you sure you are not ill umfundisi? – I am recovered, umnumzana.
- And what are you seeking umfundisi?
The old parson put his hat and his stick down again on the step, and with trembling hands pulled out a wallet from the inside pocket of the old green coat, and the papers fell out on the ground, because his hands would not be still.
- I am sorry to detain you, umnumzana.
- It is no matter umfundisi.
At last the papers were collected, and all were restored to the wallet except one, and this one he held out to Jarvis, and on it were the name and address of the place where they were.
- This is the place umfundisi.
- I was asked to come here, umnumzana. There is a man named Sibeko Of Ndotsheni …
- Ndotsheni, I know it, I come from Ndotsheni.
- And this man had a daughter, umnumzana, who worked for a white man uSmith in Ixopo –
- Yes, yes.
- And when the daughter of uSmith married, she married the white man whose name is on the paper. – That is so.
- And they came to live here in Springs, and the daughter of Sibeko came here also to work for them. Now Sibeko has not heard of her for these twelve months, and he asked – I am asked – to inquire about the girl.
Jarvis turned and went into the house, and returned with the boy who was working there. You may inquire from him, he said, and he turned again and went in to the house. But when he was there it came suddenly to him that this was the old parson of Ndotsheni himself. So he went out again.
- Did you find what you want umfundisi?
- This boy does not know her, umnumzana. When he came she had gone already.
- The mistress of the house is out, the daughter of uSmith. But she will soon be returning, and you may wait for her if you wish.
Jarvis dismissed the boy, and waited until he was gone.
– I know you, umfundisi, he said.
The suffering in the old man’s face smote him, so that he said, Sit down, umfundisi. Then the old man would be able to look at the ground, and he would not need to look at Jarvis, and Jarvis would not need to look at him. There is something between you and me, but I do not know what it is.
- umnumzana.
- You are in fear of me, but I do not know what it is. You need not be in fear of me.
- It is true umnumzana. You do not know what it is.
- I do not know, but I desire to know.
- I doubt if I could tell it umnumzana.
- You must tell it, umfundisi. Is it heavy?
- It is very heavy, umnumzana. It is the heaviest thing of all my years.
He lifted his face, and in it there was suffering that Jarvis had not seen before. Tell me, he said, it will lighten you.
- I am afraid umnumzana.
- I see you are afraid, umfundisi. It is that which I do not understand. But I tell you, you need not be afraid. I shall not be angry. There will be no anger in me against you.
- Then, said the old man, this thing that is the heaviest thing of all my years, is the heaviest thing of all your years also.
Jarvis looked at him, at first bewildered, but then something came to him. You can mean only one thing, he said, you can mean only one thing. But I still do not understand.
- It was my son that killed your son, said the old man."
__________
Now all of these things brought together, help, I hope, to explain why it took me almost fourteen years before I felt able to read “An Evil Cradling,” why I didn’t have the stomach for it. But now that I have read it, What?
Not withstanding the fact that he shared his captivity with John McCarthy and others, the book is written from Brian Keenan’s own perspective, and it deals not just with his suffering, but with the strategies that enabled him to survive. On this, I wish to remain silent. Not only does Brian Keenan not need anyone to speak for him, not even to elaborate on what he has to say, (which would be pointless, even if it were possible). But, in the context of the current fighting in Lebanon, I want to share some passages with you about Lebanon, the Lebanon that Brian Keenan knew before he was kidnapped and taken into captivity. And though these passages were written all those years ago, and some things have changed (i.e. the Syrians no longer occupy Lebanon, and Yasir Arafat is dead), I suspect that the generality of what he has to say is still largely true.
On the general state of Lebanon he quotes from an article by Robert Fisk, whom he describes as “one of the best writers on the Middle East, if not the best.” He read it on the flight out to Beirut:
“New notes a hollow boost to ill economy"
“A few weeks ago, one of the Middle East airlines’ ponderous old Boeing 707s flew into Beirut national airport on a scheduled flight from London, with a six ton cargo of cash. De La Rue’s printing works had just produced the latest financial drip-feed for Lebanon’s collapsing economy; and there, next to runway 1-8, the Lebanese army were waiting to collect it.
"Stashed in boxes, the brand new banknotes were loaded into armoured personnel carriers. The Army’s Sixth Brigade had brought along heavy machine-guns, rocket launchers and even a couple of Saladins to guard the cash on its four mile journey to Central Bank in Hamra Street.
"However, it was not until the powerful little convoy actually left the airport runway that the real protectors of the national treasury revealed themselves; four scruffy youths in combat jackets holding AK47 rifles, waiting to climb on board one of the vehicles. They travelled into Beirut perched atop an armoured personnel carrier with the government troops sitting meekly beside them. Nor was anyone surprised. If Lebanon’s economy has to be defended by the Army, the Army has to be defended by the local militias.
"It is not just a question of erosion of power. The legitimate state authorities in Lebanon long ago forsook even the basic governmental duty of raising taxes. So many illegal ports have now been built by the Christian and Muslim militias that the Finance Ministry believes the private armies are now collecting taxes worth more than £175 million sterling that should rightly have gone to central government funds. Every Militia in the country – Christian Phalangist, Shia Muslim, “Amal,” Druze, Palestinian, pro-Syrian and pro-Israeli - now levies its own taxes on shopkeepers and businessmen.
"If corruption and smuggling permeate Lebanon’s financial affairs to an unprecedented degree, however, the civil war militias have ironically become a mainstay of the economy. Many of the leftist Muslim groups are paid in dollars by other Arab states while Mr Yasir Arafat channels millions of US dollars – funds given him by the Saudis - into Lebanon to buy the continued loyalty of the PLO guerrillas. The Syrian Army, whose troops are spread across more than a quarter of the country, generates its own economy. Militias have meanwhile initiated their own housing projects, hotels and businesses, which in turn replenish Lebanon’s depleted financial resources.
In one sense, therefore, an end to Lebanese conflict would bring almost as many financial problems as it would solve. Yet as long as hostilities continue, so Lebanon’s economy is going to decline."
___________
Much later, when narrating the details of his imprisonment, Brian Keenan recalls a previous experience of going to the cinema in Beirut with a friend, an experience that he first puts in context:
“It is always the case that when a people feel themselves so totally dispossessed, so unjustly condemned to a condition of absolute poverty that the anguish of it forces them to seek an escape. The need to escape becomes stronger as each community acknowledges its dispossession. Such acknowledgment always carries with it, hidden beneath the surface, a kind of shame and guilt, an admission of loss of identity, of full humanity, and that shame and guilt grows into anger. When the anger can find no outlet, when there is no recourse within the social structure for redress of grievances, the anger turns inwards and festers. They cannot find value in themselves. A man can then no longer surrender to such a monstrous condition of life. He seeks power, power that will restore his dignity and his manhood; that will let him stand with other men and know himself to be their equal and restore him to the community of humanity. But so filled with anger is he that he must act to reclaim meaning and purpose. With one great leap he tries to exercise his fury.
"The man unresolved in himself chooses, as men have done throughout history, to take up arms against his sea of troubles. He carries his Kalashnikov on his arm, his handgun stuck in the waistband of his trousers, a belt of bullets slung around his shoulders. I had seen so many young men in Beirut thus attired, their weapons hanging from them and glistening in the sun. The guns were symbols of potency. The men were dressed as caricatures of Rambo. Many of them wore a headband tied and knotted at the side above the ear, just as the character in the movie had done. It is a curious paradox that this Rambo figure, this all-American hero, was the stereotype, which these young Arab revolutionaries had adopted. They had taken on the cult figure of the Great Satan they so despised and whom they claimed was responsible for all the evil in the world. Emulating Rambo they would reconquer the world and simultaneously rid themselves of that inadequacy which they could never admit.
"I told John, how one evening, I had gone with some friends to a cinema near where I was living. They were showing a war film set somewhere in Vietnam. It had a story, which was not a story about men killing each other to no purpose. There was no meaningful exploration of the war or the inhumanity of it. We sat there in the darkened cinema and as each character pulled out his weapon and began firing furiously, the young Arab men around us would groan and moan in a kind of ecstasy, crying out the names of the weapons. All around us in the cinema we could hear the words “Kalashnikov, Kalashnikov, ; Beretta, Beretta.” These young men knew the names of every type of gun, even the names of mortars and rocket- launchers. The cinema rang with a chant of excited worship.”
__________
There are two other books sitting on my shelves that have remained unread for almost as long as "An Evil Cradling," and for the same reason. The first is “Political Murder In Northern Ireland," a joint work by Martin Dillon and Dennis Lehans. In fact, I have had this book since 1973. The other, I was given as a Christmas present by my wife Jenny, in 1995. It is “The Long Walk to Freedom.” And what an apt title it is in the circumstances. It is of course, the autobiography of Nelson Mandela. I will read them now. Why? Because the time is right - and I haven’t finished.
______
© Cormac McCloskey
An Evil Cradling
By Brian Keenan
First published in the United Kingdom in 1992 by Hutchinson
My edition: Vintage, published by Arrow in 1993
ISBN 0 09 999030 X
Cry, The Beloved Country
By Alan Paton
First published by Jonathan Cape in 1944
My edition, Penguin 1966
Note: This blog, "An Evil Cradling" - A Personal Profile, was first published in Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 8th August 2006
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