Them

by Jon Ronson

  “This,” he said, “is the corruption of the western ideology. You want to buy frames. What do you do with the woman in the frames?”

  Nonetheless, he lifted a dozen or so picture frames from the shelf and put them in his trolley, next to the Coca-Cola collection bottles.

  “So I will take these frames,” he said, “and replace the picture of the woman with a decent message taken from the Koran.” He paused. “OK, Jon,” he said. “I am ready to go.”

  “OK,” I said. “I’ll bring the car round.”

  We packed the Coca-Cola bottles and the picture frames into the boot of my car, and I drove Omar to the Finsbury Park Mosque, where he was to deliver a speech at a conference entitled ‘Democracy or Dictatorship?’ Omar was speaking on behalf of dictatorship.

  This was my first opportunity to meet some of Omar’s followers. There were maybe five hundred of them in the audience. Things did not start well.

  “Are you a Jew?” asked a young man.

  “Uh, no,” I said.

  He apologized.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  Omar Bakri was fast-talking on the podium, as if he couldn’t contain the words that needed to be said. He filled the room. He quoted from a letter he’d just received from an old friend of his, Sheikh Omar Abdel-Rahman, the Blind Sheikh.

  The Blind Sheikh was in jail for life in Missouri for ‘inspiring’ the World Trade Center bombing. This law of ‘Inspiration’ had not been utilized since the American Civil War. Omar used to eat with the Blind Sheikh back in Saudi Arabia. Now he was a martyr throughout the Islamic world, who believed he was framed by the New World Order, a secret clique of international bankers and globalist CEOs and politicians determined to crush Islamic freedom.

  Omar reiterated the theory I had heard from Yacob Zaki – that this elite was secretly scheming to implement a sinister planetary takeover. I began to wonder whether I should attempt to locate the whereabouts of this secret room. If it existed it would, after all, have to be somewhere. Could one get in?

  ♦

  The Blind Sheikh’s letter – entitled ‘Sheikh Omar’s Lonely Cry From The Dungeon of “Free” America’ – had been smuggled out to Omar from the jail in Missouri, where the Sheikh was held in solitary confinement. It read:

  Have you heard of the strip searches? They order me to remove all my clothes, open my thighs and bend forward. Then, like beasts, they search my private parts intimately while the others stand around watching and laughing. They humiliate me because I am a Muslim and because what they do is expressly forbidden by God.

  Omar and the audience were enraged by this letter. As Omar read it out, one or two members of the audience gasped and shouted, “No!”

  Omar said, “The world must hear of this. The world must know what they are doing to Sheikh Abdel-Rahman who is, I must remind you, an old blind man who has committed no crime. We will shake up the world. Together, we will shake up the entire world.”

  Afterwards, Omar said he needed to do some errands in town, and could I give him a lift?

  “OK,” I said. “I’m meeting someone in Soho, so can I drop you off there?”

  “No,” he said, anxiously. “It is forbidden for me to go into Soho. Please don’t take me there.”

  Soho would be razed to the ground, explained Omar, once the Holy War had been won.

  “It is important for people to understand these things,” he explained, “so they will be ready to adapt to the new ways.”

  “Which people?” I asked.

  “The people of Britain,” said Omar.

  “Have you ever been to Soho?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Omar. “It is forbidden.”

  “What do you imagine Soho to be like?” I asked.

  “There are naked women everywhere,” he replied. “Naked women standing on street corners.”

  So I drove Omar into town by a route that avoided Soho. We passed a poster advertising the Spice Girls’ debut album.

  “Such a very stupid thing,” mumbled Omar. “Spicy Girls.”

  “What will become of the Spice Girls when Britain is transformed into an Islamic nation?” I asked.

  “They will be arrested immediately,” he replied. “They will not even be existing in an Islamic state. OK. We can go on. Turn right at the lights.”

  Geri Spice was wearing a Union Jack dress in the poster, which made me wonder about the future of our flag.

  “There will be no Union Jack,” said Omar. “The Union Jack represents the old order. And it must, therefore, be eliminated.”

  We got talking about the word ‘fundamentalist’. Omar said it had been redefined by the infidels of the West as a pejorative term.

  “You use it as an insult,” he said. “Turn left, please.”

  “But surely you are a fundamentalist,” I said, “in the sense that you live your life by the rules set down in the Koran.”

  “That is true,” said Omar. “The Koran rules every aspect of my life. It tells me how I eat, how I sleep, how I fight, and even how I will die.” Omar paused. “You know,” he said, “the Koran even tells me which direction I must break wind in.”

  There was a short silence.

  “And which direction do you break wind in?” I asked.

  “In the direction of the non-believer!” Omar said. “Ha ha ha! The direction of the non-believer!” Omar laughed heartily for some time and slapped me on the back.

  “OK,” said Omar, as I pulled up near Piccadilly Circus. “Thank you very much. Goodbye, Jon.”

  As I drove away, I gave my horn a little beep and I mouthed the words, “I’ll call!”

  Omar Bakri nodded and smiled, and he disappeared into the crowd.

  ♦

  A month or so later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of a Porsche listening to ‘Benny And The Jets’ by Elton John turned up very loud. We were tearing up the balmy streets of Torquay, the jewel of the English Riviera. The ocean glistened past us, as the driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. He wore a blue blazer and an open-necked shirt. His hair was bouffant, and his glasses were tinted. All in all, he cut a dashing figure. He went by two names. He was Nigel West, the internationally acclaimed spy writer, and rarely had a novelist so resembled his characters. He was the image of a debonair gentleman spy. And he was also Rupert Allason, the Conservative Member of Parliament for Torbay, which included the town of Torquay. Rupert and I were on our way to a garden party.

  Rupert was leading a campaign in the House of Commons to see Omar Bakri deported. Rupert was determined to ensure that Omar’s passport application was rejected. He wanted to see Omar sent back to Saudi Arabia, or Syria, or anywhere but here.

  “He can preach his message of hate anywhere he likes,” said Rupert, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “But not in Great Britain.”

  As we drove to the garden party, it crossed my mind that perhaps Rupert and Omar were not as unalike as they imagined. For instance, both were opposed to gay and lesbian rights and both were vigorously in favour of the death penalty. But Rupert considered my thesis to be fanciful and inaccurate.

  “I believe,” he said, “that every man is entitled to a fair trial. If he is convicted, he would be taken to a lawful place of execution where he’d be put down in the most humane method known to science, either by hanging or by lethal injection. Whereas Omar Bakri believes in dragging someone to the nearest square and stoning him to death in a manner I consider to be not only barbaric, but also wholly uncivilized.”

  We pulled up at the garden party, a Conservative party fundraising event, and Rupert made his way into the crowd. There were maybe a hundred of his supporters there, and they gathered around him, shaking his hand and offering him words of condolence. This was the week that the Daily Mirror had exposed Rupert, in a four-page spread, as an adulterer. Adultery was a crime which, under Islamic law, is punishable by stoning to death.

  An elderly lady approached Rupert with a
reproachful wag of her finger.

  “I saw you in the newspaper,” she said, “and I thought to myself, Rupert! You made me a promise!”

  Rupert smiled urbanely.

  “Did I?” he said. “Oh, dear.”

  “Never mind,” she chuckled.

  I imagined that Rupert’s constituents would forgive him anything.

  “You know,” I said to Rupert, “under Islamic law a quint-essentially English occasion like this one would probably be outlawed.”

  Rupert nodded. He played the garden some more, a glass of white wine in his hand. Then it was time for him to make a speech about Omar Bakri. He took his place next to the raffle stall, and the garden fell silent.

  “I’ve long been campaigning against an Islamic extremist,” he began, “a terrorist who believes in planting bombs and blowing up women and children in Israel.” Rupert paused. “This man is applying for a British passport. Well, my message to him is that he can apply for a passport anywhere he likes, but not in Great Britain.”

  There was a smattering of applause.

  Rupert scrutinized the garden. The sunlight made the swimming pool glitter. By a meteorological quirk involving the positioning of nearby hills in relation to the Atlantic drift emanating from the Gulf of Mexico, Torquay is one of Britain’s very warmest places. This geographical fluke, says the Torbay Meteorological Department, makes Torquay’s climate uncannily similar to the climate of Istanbul.

  “This man,” announced Rupert, “would like to see quint-essentially English occasions like this lovely afternoon outlawed. In his totalitarian vision for Britain, the ladies would not be allowed to bare their arms nor wear the clothes of their choice, and doubtless there would be other disagreeable constraints on the men present. And I for one am not having it.”

  There was thunderous applause. And then Rupert announced the raffle winners.

  After the prizes were handed out, Rupert became solemn.

  “So, ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much indeed for attending what is, we all agree, a quintessentially English occasion. We have much to be proud of. But we’re not going to win the next election without the grassroots support only you can provide. Go out onto the streets. Campaign and campaign and campaign. Let’s not hear gripes and groans. Let’s remember all the wonderful things that the Conservative party has done for this country. Thank you.”

  There was more applause, and we took our place at a table of elderly ladies. The conversation quickly turned to the issue of Omar Bakri.

  “I believe in hanging,” said a local magistrate called Margaret. “I believe in flogging. I believe in bringing the young people up to respect someone in higher authority. But this man…”

  “This man,” agreed Rupert, “is living among us, and he’s trying to overthrow our way of life.”

  “Well,” muttered Margaret’s husband, Frank, “I don’t think he’ll get very far. Particularly not in Torquay.”

  “Torquay in particular wouldn’t stand for this sort of extremism,” agreed Margaret.

  “I suppose,” said Frank, “everyone is entitled to their freedom of speech…”

  “But it is extremism,” said Margaret. “It really is. And not only would the people of Torquay not stand for it, I think that the whole West Country would feel the same way.”

  “I’ll be seeing Omar soon,” I said to Rupert. “Would you like me to deliver a message to him?”

  “Yes I would,” said Rupert. “My message to him is this: Peddle your extremism elsewhere.”

  Rupert folded his arms. He sat back in his chair. I was impressed at the way in which he’d stolen my line about the Islamic assault on quintessentially English afternoons and turned it into the centrepiece of his address. It takes a skill to be able to plunder a fragment of fleeting small-talk in this manner. I imagined that Rupert could turn pretty much anything to his advantage, even the Daily Mirror’s elaborate chronicle of his adultery, a scandal the likes of which had destroyed many a backbench politician in these times of political sleaze. But today Rupert responded with a glint and a wily smile, and I heard one young woman turn to her friend and describe Rupert as foxy.

  I considered Rupert’s warnings about the two encroaching foes, Omar Bakri and New Labour, to be overly cautious. It was a beautiful, hot Istanbul-esque afternoon. The garden party seemed indestructible, and so did Rupert.

  But I was wrong. Rupert’s political career was shattered by a bizarre chain of events that began one evening soon after the garden party at the Thatched Tavern in nearby Maidencombe. It was a Saturday night, a fortnight before the 1997 General Election. Rupert had taken a break from his campaigning schedule to have a quiet meal with a friend. Perhaps he felt he’d earned a respite from the intense affability a politician must display during the weeks leading up to polling day, for that night, at the Thatched Tavern, Rupert was demanding.

  “We went out of our way,” said Suzanne Austin, Rupert’s waitress that night, “and got him the very best table in the restaurant. I noticed that the flowers on his table were red, so I even rushed out into the garden to find him some blue ones.”

  “Do you think Rupert appreciated the attention you paid to him?” I asked.

  “I don’t think he even noticed,” said Suzanne. “Anyway, he wasn’t rude, he was just very demanding.”

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “Well,” said Suzanne, “at the end of the night, the waitresses always sit down, have a chat, and share out the tips. So another waitress said to me, ‘I bet Rupert gave you a very big tip.’ And I said, ‘No. As a matter of fact, he didn’t give me a tip at all.’ And she said, ‘I can’t believe it. You were running around after him all night. I bet you’re not going to vote for him now.’ And I said, ‘Certainly not. I’m going to vote for the Lib Dems.’”

  There was, said Suzanne, a murmur of agreement. Some of the other waitresses announced that, in sympathy, they would change their allegiance from the Conservatives to the Liberal Democrats also. They went home and told their husbands, some of whom agreed that a man who behaved like that in a restaurant couldn’t be trusted to represent his constituents’ needs in Westminster.

  In total, it was estimated, Rupert lost fourteen votes as a result of his inappropriately demanding behaviour at the Thatched Tavern and his refusal to leave a tip. Two weeks later, Rupert lost his seat in Parliament to the Liberal Democrats. He lost by the smallest margin of the election: twelve votes.

  ♦

  On my return to London there was a message from Omar on my answerphone. The Israeli Army had bombed a UN safe haven in Qana, southern Lebanon, killing a hundred Muslim civilians, women and children. Bill Clinton referred to the massacre as ‘a tragedy’, as if it was a natural disaster. This choice of words angered Omar almost as much as the attack itself.

  “It was not a tragedy,” he said. “It was an act of terrorism.”

  Omar decided to organize a demonstration outside the Israeli Embassy in Kensington High Street. He needed to get some leaflets photocopied. If I had a minute, could I drive him to Office World?

  I agreed, although I feared I was beginning to cross the line between journalist and chauffeur.

  Also, I didn’t think Omar had realized I am Jewish. He hadn’t mentioned it, and neither had I. He had once called Jews the lowliest disbelievers on Earth. I felt I was letting down my people somewhat in helping him co-ordinate his Jihad.

  ♦

  Office World is a hub of revolutionary political and religious activity in north London, primarily because of their special Price Promise.

  “If you find a photocopying service that’s cheaper,” explained Omar on the way, “then Office World will give you a discount.”

  “Capitalism,” I said.

  “Capitalism,” said Omar. “Oh, yes. I benefit from your capitalism to convey the message. I benefit from your freedom of speech.”

  A Hasidic Jew stood next to us at the Office World counter. He wanted sheet-music copied for a barmit
zvah. Omar sized up the Hasidic Jew, and the Hasidic Jew sized up Omar. Then the Office World employee said, “Finished!”, and handed Omar two hundred leaflets.

  The Hasidic Jew glanced at them with some curiosity. They read: ‘Crush the Pirate State of Israel’. He glared at us. Omar smiled awkwardly.

  “This,” he whispered to me, “is a very sensitive moment.”

  We paid and left. As we walked towards the sliding doors, I looked over my shoulder and grinned apologetically at the Hasidic Jew, but he pointedly turned away, back to the man doing his photocopying.

  “Come on!” said Omar. “Very busy. Very busy.”

  And so I brought the car around.

  ♦

  When I arrived at Kensington High Street for Omar’s Israeli Embassy demonstration, I was surprised to see only ten or so of his followers sporadically yelling, “Down, Down Israel!” and “Israel You Will Pay!” at the passing traffic. I asked Omar why the turnout was so disappointing. He explained that when he telephoned Directory Enquiries to get the address of the Israeli Embassy, they deliberately gave him a false address in Knightsbridge. By the time Omar discovered the correct address it was too late. Many of his followers were already on their way and they didn’t have mobile phones. They were now presumably lost, wandering the streets of Knightsbridge. This, Omar said, was proof that Scotland Yard’s Muslim monitoring unit was in league with British Telecom’s directory enquiries service.

  “It cannot be a coincidence,” he said.

  “So,” I said, “let me get this clear. You dialled 192, and asked for the address of the Israeli Embassy – ”

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  “And they gave you a false address in Knightsbridge?”

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  “But how did they know that you were an Islamic militant?”

  “Oh, Jon,” said Omar, sadly. “You are naive. Anyway. I have higher plans. Just you wait and see.”

  “Mmm?” I said.

  “I will stage an event that will shake up the entire world,” said Omar. “Just you watch. I will put London at the centre of the Islamic map.”