by Indra Sinha
‘I know it is difficult,’ she says. ‘We are painfully democratic and everyone wants to have their say.’
A week later the phone rings and a man from the Green Party says ‘I am very sorry, but I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. Mouche shouldn’t really have contacted you . . .’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, it’s the wrong team, you see. She’s ComCon, but you fall more into ComPol [or some such] territory. I do apologise.’
‘Oh I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘Tough brief but the beer was good.’
‘My name is Sipple,’ he says. ‘I am head of the ComPol team. My project is rather unusual. I think I had better come to see you.’
The following afternoon our Irish doorman, Patrick, calls me and whispers, ‘Bear, there’s a fella here got up like Doctor Who askin’ for you. Will I tell him you have gone away and are not expected back for a month?’
Sipple is in reception, engrossed in a copy of Solar News, quite oblivious to the curious looks he is getting from two immaculately suited Army clients who are waiting to see the Chairman. I like him immediately. He’s in his fifties, a capable looking man with grey curling hair and a ready smile. His threadbare coat trails a long knitted scarf. Despite the icy weather he wears ecological looking sandals. Installed in my office with a cup of tea, he comes straight to the point. ‘Bear, I hate violence and I want to prevent this Gulf War. Military threats aren’t working, so we must use something more powerful . . .’
He hands me a letter. It reads:
“Dear President Hussein, as a friend of Britain’s Prime Minister . . .”
‘Is this true?’
‘Absolutely,’ says Sipple.
“. . . and as an officer of Britain’s fastest growing political party, I wish to propose a plan that will enable you to secure peace and become a hero in the eyes of the Iraqi people and all our Arab brethren.
You can sieze the moral high ground from George Bush by challenging him to a live debate on CNN. Say that you will announce your final peace offer on live television to the entire world. Invite him to do the same.
Right up to the debate you must make warlike noises.
On the day, catch him completely unprepared by announcing that you have unilaterally decided to leave Kuwait.
He will be stunned and speechless. Defeat him utterly by announcing that before you go, you will establish a free and just democracy in Kuwait, with votes for all, freedom of speech and full human rights . . .
Creating a modern democracy out of the mess left by colonialism will be no easy task. If you achieve it you will be the most famous Arab leader in history . . .”
‘Are you serious?’
‘Never more so,’ he says. ‘There is only one thing stronger than a dictator’s army, and that is his vanity . . . Bear, I have spent my life trying to do impossible things. To have the slightest hope of success, you must learn to apply imagination without fear of failure.’
He tells me about his work, bringing inexpensive low-tech solar power generation to poor countries.
‘The same sunlight that parches fields and kills cattle could also be used to desalinate seawater and irrigate the land. The poorest countries are richest in solar energy. I help them harness it. One day, they’ll export energy. We’ll do away with the need for nuclear power. The problem is that solar power is hard to store. This is the one thing we need to crack. All we need is some imagination.’
We talk for hours and he enumerates his principles.
1) Assume that human beings are basically good.
2) Choose impossible goals, because they compel you to be innovative.
3) Trust your imagination.
4) Accept uncertainty of outcome (the universe is chaotic whether or not you admit it), by doing this you harness the power of chaos.
5) Only work for people you like, and whose work you can admire.
A week later the phone rings and it’s another person from the Green Party, a woman in a temper.
She barks at me, ‘I understand you’ve been got at by Sipple.’
‘Well, he came to see me.’
‘He had no business to do so. I’m the head of the ComMed [or some such] team and you should be working for me.’
‘Couldn’t I work with both of you?’
‘No!’ she snarls. I begin to imagine her as one of Carmine’s friends, in thigh-high oberstgruppenführer boots adapted for stiletto heels, carrying a braided horsewhip.
‘I won’t have Sipple muscling in on my people. What I want you to do is write a slogan that sums up our defence policy.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘What is your defence policy?’
‘Conflicts are about natural resources. They arise because some countries have too much and others don’t have enough. Nations with adequate natural resources don’t start wars.’
‘Ah, has anyone told Saddam Hussein?’
‘You being funny?’ she snarls.
‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Perhaps I could include it in this letter I’m writing him.’
Later the same day the agency Chairman walks in and slumps onto the sofa.
‘Problems, John?’
‘What on earth is this?’ he asks, toying with a long, limp object which I recognise as Sipple’s scarf.
‘Just something a client left behind.’
‘Problems, Bear?’ he sighs. ‘Yes, it’s this fucking party political broadcast for the Conservative Party. I’m getting nowhere.’
‘You’re lucky. I have to come up with a defence slogan for the Green Party.’
He stares at me distractedly and then a gleam enters his eye. The idea hits us both at the same instant.
‘Swap?’
Memorial to the dead of Balisan
This list was posted by Sarbast in mideast.kurds on April 6, 1991. The youngest victims are one day old. The names are still there today, a virtual tombstone that so far as we know is the only memorial to the dead of Balisan.
16.4.1987
Osman Haje Shekhe
16.4.1987
Salmy
16.4.1987
Heybet Wesman
16.4.1987
Hewla Shynkw
16.4.1987
Fwrde Mwlad Esmael
16.4.1987
Abdul Ibrahym
16.4.1987
Ibraheym Amin
16.4.1987
Hamed Hamed Amyn
16.4.1987
Sedradyb Hamed Amyn
16.4.1987
Khanzad Rahmin Amyn
16.4.1987
Khatwyn Hamed Amyn
16.4.1987
Azar Hamed Ibrahym
16.4.1987
Fathwle Azar Amyn
16.4.1987
Ismayl Azar Amyn
16.4.1987
Kurdistan Azar Amyn
16.4.1987
Aesha Khider
16.4.1987
Hamed Hama Abdul
16.4.1987
Hussain Ismayl Yousif
16.4.1987
Safye Hussain Ismayl
16.4.1987
Faryde Hussain Ismayl
16.4.1987
Hymen Hamed Sktiny
16.4.1987
Hayat Hamed Sktiny
16.4.1987
Haje Ismael Yousif
16.4.1987
Yousif Hamed Amyn
16.4.1987
Sywr Hamed Amyn
16.4.1987
Star Ahmed Ismayl
16.4.1987
Zeyan Hamed Ismayl
16.4.1987
Aesha Hamed Ismayl
16.4.1987
Behar Hamed Ismayl
16.4.1987
Khajyj Mahmud Abas
16.4.1987
Mryam Majyd Salym
16.4.1987
Khajij Slyman Khider
16.4.1987
Fatma Hassen Jaha
16.4.1987
Abdule Hassan Ali
16.4.1987
Shyryn Husse
n Mustafa
16.4.1987
Shadye Hussen Mustafa
16.4.1987
Mustafa Azez Mustafa
16.4.1987
Meram Azez Mustafa
16.4.1987
Sozan Aziz Ali
16.4.1987
Fatma Aziz Ali
16.4.1987
Sadek Abdule Hussen
16.4.1987
Fatima Ahmed
16.4.1987
Rahym Hamed Abdule
16.4.1987
Frmysk Khurshyd
16.4.1987
Kadre Khurshyd
16.4.1987
Shwkrye Khurshyd
16.4.1987
Omar Khurshyd
16.4.1987
Hashem Azez Hamed
16.4.1987
Aesha Azez Hamed
16.4.1987
Sywa Azez Hamed
16.4.1987
Muhamed Rasul Bapyr
16.4.1987
Ali Bapyr Ali
16.4.1987
Zwlykha Hassen Taha
16.4.1987
Rasul Hamed Amyn
16.4.1987
Aram Mustafa Rasul
16.4.1987
Awat Mustafa Rasul
16.4.1987
Asmar Ahmed Hamed Amyn
16.4.1987
Rwnak Jalal Ahmed
16.4.1987
Rwpak Jalal Ahmed
16.4.1987
Rwkye Mustafa Abdula
16.4.1987
Bykhal Maulud Kader
16.4.1987
Zyrak Hamed Amyn
16.4.1987
Chyman Hamed Amyn
16.4.1987
Hyrsh Hassen Mustafa
16.4.1987
Haymn Hassen Mustafa
16.4.1987
Halyme Salym Mahmud
16.4.1987
Abubakr Muhamed Slyman
16.4.1987
Mryam
16.4.1987
Hawsat Abdula Kadir
16.4.1987
Sartep Saleh Alyas
16.4.1987
Ali Eyssa
16.4.1987
Haybat Wasman
16.4.1987
Ali Eyssa
16.4.1987
Hamdye Muhamed Khider
16.4.1987
Shyryn Ahmed Hussen
16.4.1987
Chymya Kala Amin
16.4.1987
Chymya Hussen
Chaos
Snow is falling in the Zagros mountains of Kurdistan. The war has ended with Saddam still in power. There’s a sense of anticlimax. We have grown used to our nightly light-shows on CNN, how can soap operas command our attention after we have witnessed cruise missiles flying through the blacked-out streets of Baghdad and the high-explosive firework shows put on by the stealth bombers and patriot missiles? The news channels do not have to spend long in the doldrums, for Saddam’s defeated army, which had fled from the allies, turns its tanks and helicopter gunships on defenceless civilians and suddenly the snows are black with fleeing Kurds. Great television is back. Night after night the TV news carries shots of weeping women, old men carrying children on their backs. The media, which for years had ignored the Kurds and their stories of chemical atrocities, now piles on the pathos: the Kurds are sleeping in the snow, they have no food, no medicine, we must help them. Sarbast, who had failed for weeks to be interviewed by a single broadcaster, is now never off the TV screens. Everyone wants to save the Kurds but, incredibly, the world’s leaders turn their backs. President Bush goes fishing. John Major dithers. Bizarrely, it takes a re-emergent Margaret Thatcher (whom I had accused in the ad about Halabja of doing nothing) to shame these politicians into action. Meanwhile at the Kurdish Cultural Centre, we’re busy trying to get an advertising appeal written on behalf of the people who are huddled, hungry and cold, in the mountains. We soon have the ad, but still no money to run it.
‘Bear, you are a naif,’ says Luna, when I pour out my heart to her. ‘You have just discovered what is obvious to every adolescent, that society has got its values, like a pair of hastily donned underpants, back to front. Why do you think I live in the Vortex?’
‘You can’t just shut your eyes to what’s happening.’
‘No, but I can do my best,’ she says. ‘It may be mad in here, but out there it’s chaos.’
Thus is born Chaos Communication: a part-time effort by a group of like-minded naifs, to use communication in all its forms to support organisations and people who are working for positive change. Our carefully phrased mission-statement stimulates one Barclays bank manager to ill-disguised mirth (thank you Coutts & Co. for not laughing), but Anita Roddick invites us to spend a day at the Body Shop’s Littlehampton HQ to plot strategy. Sarbast wheedles some money from a Kurdish businessman and Chaos’s first effort, an appeal on behalf of the newly formed Kurdish Disaster Fund, runs under the banner ‘Are we not human?’ and brings in £250,000.
Luna points out to me that this worthy spare-time venture could hardly be in starker contrast to the work (cigarettes, whisky, cars, insurance company) I continue to do at the ad agency.
A chat with Morgan on Shades
Morgan: Dreamy’s disappeared.
Bear: What?
Morgan: Dreamy’s disappeared. Vanished.
Bear: Without a word?
Morgan: She left a note for her brother. Said to close the business and repay Morgan . . .
Bear: Sell her business and give you the money?
Morgan: Yep, but she’s in a massive unnecessary guilt trip.
<*>You hear the screeching of old, stiff gates being opened.
Morgan: She said: What’s left in joint account, give back to Morgan, when the refund from the hospital comes in, give that . . .
Bear: Did you have a joint bank account? And she spent some money from it at Christmas?
Morgan: Yes, but not much.
<*>You hear a scream of rage, awesome in its intensity!
Morgan: . . . him too.
Bear: Him too? You mean her brother spent money from the account too?
Morgan: No . . .
Bear: Sorry, I am not following this very well.
Morgan: I’m not saying it very well. She meant give the refund from hospital to Morgan too.
Bear: What refund from the hospital?
Morgan: She stopped the treatment. She had been paying for it with cheques drawn on our joint account. . .
Bear: This gets more and more worrying.
Morgan: It was with my full knowledge.
Bear: Why did you set up a joint account?
Morgan: It was the easiest way of moving money about.
Bear: How long has it been operating?
Morgan: It’s a long complicated story, but it’s something I went into with my eyes wide open . . .
Bear: What understandings did you have with Dreamy . . . ?
Morgan: . . . realising all the possibilities.
Bear: A joint account is quite a commitment.
Morgan: And yes, there’s a bit of a problem now, but not for her to do anything this drastic.
Bear: Did it occur to you that you were putting a lot at risk?
Morgan: I’d rather be poor/bankrupt whatever with her alive . . .
<*>A horn sounds somewhere, closely followed by an unearthly baying.
Morgan: . . . than rich with her dead.
Bear: You’ve been noble about it. Just like before. How much has all this cost you?
Morgan: Ridiculously small amount of 2.5K I suppose.
Morgan: Which compared to my other problems is sod all.
Bear: Then tell her not to feel guilty. You wanted to help.
Morgan: I personally (nothing to do with her) owe other people some 20K.
Bear: So why does Dreamy feel guilty?
Morgan: She thinks she’s put me well and truly in the brown stuff . . .
Bear: Tell her she hasn’t, and tell her you love her.
Morgan: Don’t you think I would, if I could get in touch with her?
Bear: Has she said she loves you?
Morgan: I haven’t spoken too her, I don’t know where she is.
Bear: Must be worrying – does she have friends in Wales?
Morgan: Neither does her brother, he’s spent all day going round every friend of hers he knows . . .
<*>Lightning flickers briefly, and you hear a scream of mortal agony!
Morgan: Anyway, don’t tell anyone what’s happening.
Bear: Of course not.
Morgan: She’s supposedly on holiday.
Bear: Have you met her brother?
Morgan: Yep, lots of times.
Bear: What’s he like?
Morgan: Very very similar to me . . . I just don’t want her going and doing anything silly.
Bear: No, sure thing. Can I ask something that may seem hurtful?
Morgan: Yeah.
<*>You hear a scream of rage, awesome in its intensity!
Bear: Do you think she’s seeing anyone else, romantically?
Morgan: I’m certain she isn’t.
Bear: Nod, I hope you don’t mind my asking.
