Men in black suits control the doors, checking people’s mandatory name tags and wristbands. It isn’t a huge conference and the level of security feels irritating, but after all, we live in a post Charlie Hebdo Europe, where saying what you think can cost you your life. Perhaps the organisers are afraid that PEN International’s commitment to free speech makes us a target.
It turns out, though, that there’s a particular reason for the ramped up security: a very special guest, unpublicised and unannounced on the conference schedule - Zineb El Rhazoui, the 33 year old Charlie Hebdo columnist who was on holiday in her native Morocco when 12 people were killed and 11 injured at the satirical newspaper in an attack by Islamic militants, the brothers Saïd and Chérif Kouachi.
Zineb is accompanied by her personal men in black suits, two bodyguards who stay with her throughout her time at the conference. She has paid dearly for writing what she thinks - after the January shootings she had multiple death threats and now lives everywhere and nowhere, moving from friends’ houses to hotels, accompanied usually by her husband and always by the men in black suits.
One IS threat warned they would separate her head from her body. Later a Twitter campaign against her bore the hash tag #findherandkillher. ‘At Charlie Hebdo we knew we were targeted. All my colleagues knew they were risking their lives,’ she says. ‘Before the massacre I never took events seriously, but after what happened to my colleagues I do. I must be careful - all those who defend freedom of speech have to be careful now.’
What she has now is less a life than an existence. She is constantly on the move, never alone. Daily life is difficult, it’s hard to practise her profession, and she misses her dead colleagues, particularly her mentor, the magazine’s editor-in-chief, the cartoonist Stéphane (‘Charb’) Charbonnier. She can’t even pop out to the shops for a loaf of bread. ‘My whole life is in my bag,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I change my dress in the car, hidden by the policemen. When you go to the toilet they’re with you. They don’t enter but they’re next to the door so they know everything about you. They become your best friends.
‘I miss things like going for a coffee somewhere without deciding two hours before or letting your bodyguards choose the place and verify it before you go. I miss something I feel the terrorists have taken from me, a kind of unconsciousness.’
It’s a touchingly human admission from a woman whose life has been lived with a fierce kind of consciousness - opposing her religion, her government and the misogynistic views of her culture. Born in Casablanca to a French mother and a Moroccan father, she lived a typically middle class life, with compulsory classes in Arabic and Islam from kindergarten to high school before going on to university in Paris to study foreign languages.
’I’m an atheist but I was born Muslim and brainwashed a Muslim. No-one asked me for my opinion. When I started to have intellectual independence I started to ask questions, started to have doubts on what I was growing up in. You don’t become an atheist because you desire it, you become an atheist after years of deep questioning. It’s a deep process. You need to search the truth where you find yourself. I started to have some doubts, to feel that Islam is not for me, by the age of 15. By the age of 19, for the first time in my life I was convinced I will not need God again. I was intellectually and spiritually convinced that God did not exist - and I did not need him.’
Without wishing to contribute to the objectification of women, it has to be noted that she is exceptionally beautiful and charismatic and a mesmerising public speaker, not just for the passion and articulacy of her views but for a kind of guileless candour that is the opposite of speechifying by politicos. Camera phones start clicking all around as soon as her words start tumbling out.
That personal magnetism is no doubt one of the factors that led her to become a prominent spokeswoman during the time of the Moroccan Spring, explaining the country’s revolution to foreign journalists.
After university she taught Arabic for a couple of years at the French University of Egypt but in 2007 made the decision to return to her home country.
‘It was not an easy decision,’ she says. ‘As a woman you have to think before going to settle in a country where women are not free, where as a woman you don’t have the same legal rights, where society doesn’t look at you in the same way as men. But I thought to myself, maybe Morocco needs me now.’
She began working as a journalist on an independent weekly newspaper and co-founded a movement called MALI (Mouvement Alternative pour la Liberté Individuelle), a play on a common Moroccan phrase meaning, What’s wrong with me? MALI was an informal group dedicated to funny and provocative direct action involving the public. In September 2009, Zineb and her co-founder, psychotherapist Betty Lachgar, decided to stage a public picnic during the month of Ramadan, when Moroccans could be jailed for eating in public.
That led to Zineb’s first fatwa, issued by Moroccan state theologians, who said the event was offensive to Allah and the Prophet. She went into hiding, though the police announced in an Arabic newspaper that they’d arrested her. They had not, though they had arrested many of the people at the picnic.
After a week they released everyone.
’They were very stupid,’ says Zineb, unable to hide her amusement. ‘They couldn’t sue us - they arrested us before we ate.’
MALI’s next stunt was a street happening against sexual harassment. Girls wore T-shirts with moustaches and the slogan, Do you respect me now? Boys wore pink T-shirts. Their slogan was Big Pink Porks, which may say something forZineb’s sense of humour. She and Betty were arrested and not only interrogated but insulted by the police. Bitches, they called them before releasing them.
The authorities’ next move was more violent. The police came to her flat at 5.45 in the morning and arrested her and her then boyfriend, who was also an opponent of the regime. Because she was unmarried and alone with a man they intended to charge her with prostitution, an offence punishable by prison. She lights an impossibly long cheroot and blows out a stream of smoke.
‘Once in the police office I said, First of all, I never planned on being the Virgin Mary. I defend the right for modern citizens to sleep with why they choose - and am against these other laws, against homosexuals. A normal Moroccan girl would be afraid of the scandal but when they realised I wasn’t afraid at all they released me because they understood it would be a big scandal for them.’
The authorities continued to harass her and other activists, closing down many independent newspapers - Zineb’s among them, leaving her unemployed. There was no warning, no judicial process - they simply moved in and physically shut down the offices.
‘Many journalists who I met had apartments, cars, normal lives, but they ended up homeless, with nothing to eat.,‘ she recalls. ‘I lost my apartment in Casablanca and was living with a friend of mine in her father’s house. She gave me hospitality like a sister.’
When the Moroccan Spring started in 2009, Zineb, homeless and jobless, was in the perfect position to become one of the movement leaders. She was excited by the fantastic upswing of political energy among ordinary people and vocal in explaining the situation in Morocco, where the King and his cabinet rule everything. A new constitution was written, but if anything, was more repressive than the original. Journalists were regularly being beaten up in the street and Zineb never went out alone.
‘I always took someone with me, not for protection but to witness if anything happened to me,’ she says.
In the end the harassment got too much and she applied to the International Cities of Refuge Network (ICORN), which offers support to writers exiled from their own countries because of political persecution. She was given a home for a year in Ljubljana, the capital city of Slovenia - ‘a country where women can walk alone in the woods at night in short skirts and not be attacked. I thought, That’ll do for me,’ she says with a smile, though her own dress is modestly elegant and falls below the knee. Only the killer stilettos and ankle straps are a clue to her feisty nature - as a young girl she wore black nail polish and low-cut bras to school, refusing to be afraid of her conservative, long-bearded teacher.
While in exile in Europe she met the Charlie Hebdo team and went to work for the paper, one of the cartoonists reportedly taking a cut in salary to finance her place on the payroll. She wrote a book with Charb, the paper’s editor, and contributed to the most contentious issues, but she happened to have gone back to Casablanca for a holiday with her husband, a business lawyer, when the massacre at Charlie Hebdo took place. Immediately she returned to Paris.
‘I wanted to see my surviving colleagues,’ she says. ‘I felt, it’s the place I need to be. Charb was fantastically, extraordinarily courageous. He’d been living under protection since two years before he was killed. His bodyguard was killed with him. The other bodyguard escaped because he was parking the car. Charb felt something will happen. He was really thinking he will be targeted alone or somewhere in the street but never imagined that others will be with him. He said, I prefer to die standing than down on my knees, and he was standing when they killed him. He was a man fascinated with Arab culture and language and he’d say, Allahu Akbar, Let’s do it, as a kind of war cry. These two brothers came and they said Allahu Akbar. It was a real war cry for them. They asked, Who is chief? He stood and they killed him. Then they shot all the others around that table.’
She is fiercely loyal to both Charb and Charlie Hebdo, even though the magazine suspended her in March when she contributed to a letter signed by 15 staff members, urging the owners and management to stay true to its original ideals. So much money has poured in that the group were afraid the magazine’s stance would be softened. They wanted it to become a co-operative and the money - millions of euros - to be placed in a trust fund that would guarantee Charlie Hebdo’s survival for the next 30 years.
‘Charb was my friend, my protector, like an elder brother for me. He was always looking after me in the newspaper. We had a lot of projects to do together. Now I will do those projects, give them life for him,’ she says, recalling a recent event in Canada where she was asked to sign their book. It was the first time she’d done so alone and she burst into tears.
She relaxes in the late afternoon sunshine, a brief moment of respite before the practicalities of the evening ahead of her present themselves, before returning to her life of constantly being on the move, constantly having to reinvent herself. Normality has been taken from her, perhaps forever.
‘When you have such violent death threats and a contract on your head, you think, do I deserve to make children? Do I have the right to have children? I don’t see very clearly into my personal future. Only my future as a freedom fighter seems clear to me. I have no doubt that I have to continue struggling for the values I believe in.’
The price of freedom is high and some people, like Zineb El Rhazoui, pay more than most.
The work of Scottish PEN’s Writers in Prison Committee(WIPC) is often more frustrating than satisfying. We campaign on behalf of imprisoned and persecuted writers, many of whom have been jailed for talking about their governments in much the same way that many of us rage about David Cameron’s old Etonian Cabinet or the bedroom tax or Tony Blair’s promotion of war.
And although as writers we believe fervently in words, all too often we feel we’re casting them to the winds. Few of the governments we write to reply or pay any attention to our criticism. In fact some of them just weigh the letters they receive on behalf of dissidents - they don’t actually read them.
So sometimes you think it’s hardly worth the effort of writing a letter and certainly not worth the postage and sometimes you feel as if nothing you do will ever change a thing. But once in a while something happens to remind you that even if you can’t change the world, you can reach other people in it and they in their turn can reach others and eventually, if enough of you keep reaching out, then change can come.
Or as chaos theory has it, the flapping of a butterfly’s wings can change the course of a hurricane.
This week, our event at the Edinburgh International Book Festival as part of the Amnesty International Imprisoned Writers series, chaired by Regi Claire, led to one of those moments when suddenly progress seems possible.
One of the tools we use in WIPC is campaign cards, which we send to the country’s embassy in the UK. I was trying to order them off the internet but was having problems with the firm’s website so called them. The operator patiently negotiated his way through my ranting and sorted it all out. Then he startled me by thanking us for the work we do. He thought it was important. When I asked him about his interest, he turned out to be an activist himself, campaigning on behalf of Tunisia.
It seemed like serendipity that it was that particular operator I’d spoken to and natural then, in considering what country to focus on for our events at this year’s Festival, to choose Tunisia. Here was where the Arab Spring kicked off, in December 2010, leading to the ousting of PresidentZine El Abidine Ben Aliand a new constitution for Tunisia. Here was where the inspiration came for a wave of protest in countries throughout the Middle East, in Egypt and Syria and Jordan and Iraq, among others.
But the progress made in Tunisia after the fall of Ben Ali was illusory. Although some banned books started being freely circulated, publishers and broadcasters have been jailed for blasphemy, many civilians have been tried in military courts for ‘defaming’ the military, and journalists have been subject to violent attacks by the police. The country is an important reminder that there can be no complacency where freedom of expression is concerned. Although things have progressed there, Tunisia is still in the lowest third in the world for it, only 126 out of 180 countries on the 2015 Index for Press Freedom.
And, in June this summer, a 23 year old engineer called Seifeddine Rezgui strafed a beach in Sousse with shots from an AK47, killing 38 holidaymakers and wounding 39 more in the name of Islamic State.
Tunisia, where the government was already cracking down on free expression in the name of the fight against terrorism, looked like a good choice to highlight at the Edinburgh Festival.
Among the readings we chose for our event was one by a remarkable young woman called Lina Ben Mhenni, a teacher of linguistics at Tunis University, whose blog, A Tunisian Girl, was one of the few during Ben Ali’s regime to be published under the blogger’s real name rather than a pseudonym. Mhenni was one of the few bloggers to report when government forces massacred protesters in Kasserine and Regueb, two major cities in Tunisia’s heartlands. Her courage as a journalist is matched by her courage as a person - she has lupus and has had a kidney transplant, yet continues to battle for democracy in her country. She won the Deutsche Welle International Blog Award and El Mundo’s International Journalism Prize and was nominated for the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize.
In another of those serendipitous turn of events, a former civil servant living in Edinburgh saw her on the BBC news and admired her commitment and her bravery. Iain Allan decided to email her. ’I like the idea that you can use the internet to speak to people on the other side of the world,’ he says. He and his partner had been on holiday to Tunisia and seen a number of Tunisian films at the film house, but had no particular personal connection to the country. He just wanted to tell her what he thought. Lina replied to him though they didn’t have an extensive correspondence.
Still, when he saw that Tunisia was to be featured in the Edinburgh Festival programme, he contacted her again to let her know. She in her turn sent a message to us at the Festival. From a problem in ordering cards off the internet to an international book festival… a fluttering of butterfly wings has started.
This is Lina Ben Mhenni’s message:
I am so happy to see that a panel in the Edinburgh Festival is dedicated to my country, Tunisia. My happiness was even greater when I knew that the panel was organised by Amnesty International. I grew up amongst the militants of Amnesty as my father is one of the founders of its Tunisian section. Amnesty activities were banned in Tunisia and some of the meetings were held in our house. It is thanks to Amnesty that I became aware of the injustices in the world.
Well, it is true that the situation in Tunisia is relatively good in comparison to what is happening in other countries of the so-called Arab Spring but let me say that when it comes to Human Rights things did not really change. Until today people are jailed for their opinions, some people die after being tortured in arrest stations or prisons…
Using the pretext of the fight against terrorism, security forces are back to their old repressive practices. This is very dangerous and would probably lead to the return of the police state.
Today we are talking about reconciliation without really paying attention to the establishment of a transitional justice process. Reconciliation in the way they want to do it is synonym (sic) to impunity. All the people who were involved with the regime of Ben Ali will benefit from it. It is true that we drafted a new constitution applauded by the entire world but what is the benefit behind having a good constitution which is just ink on paper? It should be put into practice.
Well, I won’t take much more of your time and end my message by inviting you to visit my country. Today we need your support more than ever. It is true that tourists lost their lives in my country but what happened in Tunisia happens everywhere. The majority of Tunisians are really sorry for the big human losses and we are trying our best to get rid of terrorism but we need your support. Again my condolences to the families of the victims and I hope to see you in Tunisia.
Lina Ben Mhenni
I am the daughter of Dido, Kahina, Aziza Othmana, Saida Manoubia and my mom who gave birth twice and I won’t kneel down.
PAMPHLETEERING AT THE SALTIRE SOCIETY
I wasn't expecting to have to censor myself at an event on freedom of expression. But just at the moment when the words fuck and off coalesced in my brain, I suddenly remembered there was a wee girl of about four in the audience. Having to search for the more discreet alternative of Get lost was a reminder that freedom of expression is not an absolute and that all societies have boundaries.
The event was at the Saltire Society in Edinburgh, the launch of a new pamphlet, Freedom of Expression in the New Scotland, written by me and the novelist, Alan Bissett. Where Scotland's boundaries will be at this crucial moment in our history, the moment when we must choose what we'll be as a nation, was what Alan and I had to wrestle with in the pamphlet, a new joint venture between Scottish PEN and the Saltire Society, who aim to stimulate debate about important issues in our culture. Ours was the third in a series. (The other two are A Plea for a Secular Scotland by Dr Richard Holloway and The Artist and Nationality by Meagan Delahunt.)
I hadn't met Alan Bissett before we started our dialogue, though knew he'd be fun as he describes himself on Twitter as your friendly neighbourhood Falkirk novelist. It was like meeting Tigger. As a child I refused to let my mum read me AA Milne's books, which I considered silly, (Ed. This seems like a rather draconian act of censorship from a champion of free expression.) but Alan, warm, unquenchably enthusiastic, and eminently likable, made the concept of the bouncy Tigger seem absolutely plausible.
We met up in a couple of trendy Glasgow cafes and chewed over Leveson, the McCluskey Report, phone hacking and football chants as well as halloumi salad and tiger prawns in garlic butter. PEN President Drew Campbell directed the discussion, otherwise known as refereeing.
Actually our views weren't so far apart that we had major disagreements, but we did initially approach the subject from different viewpoints. As a former journalist who often saw her best work dropped or altered for economic reasons, I'm dead against state regulation of the press—we censor ourselves enough already. Alan, on the other hand, was deeply concerned about some of the grotesqueries committed by the tabloids prior to the Leveson Inquiry. 'But freedom of expression is like a thread on your jumper,' he said. 'The more you unravel, the more you see how important it is.'
Just how important was flagged up by our chair for the event, PEN President Drew Campbell, who had recently attended PEN International's Congress in Reykjavik. He relayed the inspiring news that PEN America has instigated legal proceedings against the US government for breaking the Constitution by illegally spying on its own citizens. A number of European PEN centres, including Scottish PEN, are exploring European law for the possibility of pursuing their own governments for similar abuses of power. If there's one thing the Bissett and I agree on, it's that we don't trust governments.
Perhaps because the Saltire Society thoughtfully included a glass of wine in the price of the ticket, our audience needed no invitation to indulge in their own freedom of expression. 'Hmm, I thought we'd just have a question and answer at the end,' said Drew Campbell. He was wearing a tie for the first time since I've known him, but a tartan one in deference to the Saltire Society.
Richard Holloway made the point that laws are a blunt instrument in dealing with matters of freedom of expression, one we make in the pamphlet too. More startling was the fact that UEFA had consulted him about whether football supporters' songs were hate speech. I'm still trying to get my head around the thought of the former bishop standing on the terraces with a meat pie in his hand.
Donald Smith of the Scottish Storytelling Centre commented that freedom of expression is not an absolute and is defined by each society at a particular point in time, which is why it's so important to us now, at the moment when Scotland will make itself anew, whatever choice it makes about independence.
There was much discussion on the future of the internet, with Ruth, the mother of the little girl who raised standards among some of us, deeply worried about the amount of pornography constantly being directed at us. Alan Bissett agreed. 'I'm particularly concerned with the pornification of mainstream society, since much of what we call pornography is in fact misogyny,' he said. 'But I can't work out how to resolve that with freedom of expression.'
My fellow pamphleteer had been the victim of extreme internet abuse, with some radical feminists objecting to him writing about the late Andrea Dworkin, whom he impersonates in his show, Ban This Filth! For daring to embody a female icon (otherwise known as acting) they had even branded him a rapist. Ironically, he was performing later that day in aid of the Edinburgh Women's Rape and Sexual Abuse Centre. Depending on his audience's reaction, he might or might not be stripping off. Pornography or art, who gets to decide? Sounded like it might be Alan himself, working out where the boundaries were with his particular audience.
If the multiplicity of voices at the pamphlet launch is anything to go by, Freedom of Expression in the New Scotland is only a starting point for discussion. In Scottish PEN we're proud to be taking part in it and to be working alongside the Saltire Society.
'It feels like a natural fit,' said Jim Tough, the Society's Executive Director.
It feels too like an exciting opportunity for us in Scotland. Not many countries have the chance to consider the basic freedoms they want in their society. We do. I hope people will read all of the pamphlets—and keep talking.
The Divine Ms Anna and her Domestic Accessory
I missed the bit about pants. Unfortunately. I’m sure it was very enlightening, though have no idea where the discussion roamed. Thongs? Those bum-cleaving shorts with the seam up the back? The return of the tanga? (If only.)
That’s the beauty of the literary salon, that you are free to explore the most profound philosophical questions of the age, to debate politics, the economy, history, and books, of course. Plus pants.
The book in question was Dennis O’Donnell’s The Locked Ward: Memoirs of a Psychiatric Orderly, a compelling read whose humour and humanity outweighed the horror of the subject. Dennis, who comes from the spooky sounding 'hinterland of West Lothian,' has also written a series of novels about Jack Black, a Bathgate (yes, really) private eye. His rite of passage novel, I Am the Eggman, is set in the swinging sixties— he says he was once a hippy and you can sort of tell from the natty, Jaggeresque trilby he sports on his Facebook page.
Our hostess, the divine Ms Anna, was sporting a disappointingly muted combination of cropped jeans and soft grey shirt, no doubt to avoid comparison with her household appliances. But she surely can't think we failed to notice her planting of a domestic accessory?— her one male guest, former Herald writer Ken Wright, was wearing pink socks the exact shade of that kettle of hers.
After the gazpacho, fresh and tangy on Glasgow's brief attempt at a summer evening, we went through to Ms Anna's salon, where Dennis read from the book. The section, about a trip to the local garage with an assortment of inmates from the locked ward, was both funny and touching, as so much of the book is.
Dennis swore he'd fictionalised the characters by merging characteristics and even changing people's gender, but the pen portraits are so truthful and vivid that I can't help feeling people recognised themselves and were pleased to be included. I once wrote a book (The Cruel Game) about a year on the snooker circuit and found that few minded being lampooned or teased— what people really objected to was being left out.
The Locked Ward raises enormous issues about how we treat the mentally ill, questions about drugs, restraints and above all, compassion. Some in the group, which this time included museum curators, teachers and the unsinkable Maggie Lennon with yet another vivid hair colour, had actually had experience of the locked ward through family and friends, so there was much discussion of the ethics of it all, the black humour of the staff, and the need for commonsense. RD Laing's theories of mental illness being a valid response to the craziness of people around us was condemned by various members of the group, who saw mental illness as just that, illness that (like any other) would need treatment.
I think we were all agreed on one thing, that if we were to end up in the prison of the mind, Dennis O'Donnell would be the person we'd choose to help us through it, though I have to say he occasionally regarded the group with a look of both bemusement and amusement, the sort of look we might have for his collection of eccentric patients. Probably it was the far-ranging nature of the discussion, which was not confined to literature or mental illness.
Plus the pants.
THE HUMAN COST
I'm fortunate. I've actually met the person I campaign for, Ragip Zarakolu, a Turkish publisher who has been hounded for over 30 years by his country's legal authorities. This is unusual in the world of Scottish PEN's Writers in Prison Committee (WIPC). We work on behalf of writers who have been persecuted, threatened or imprisoned for speaking their minds, but we rarely meet them.
I met Ragip in 2005, when I went to Istanbul in a group of international observers of one of his trials. There have been many over the years. In fact in all the time I've known him, there has only been one short period of just over a month when he wasn't on trial for something. That followed a surreal verdict when the writer who had written a novel about the Kurdish minority was convicted of breaching the notorious Article 31 of the Turkish consitution; Ragip, the publisher, was found to be innocent. The decision made one wonder what the Turkish version of Mr Bumble's 'the law is a ass,' would be.
That first trip to Istanbul taught me a lot about the cost of free speech. Ragip had been in prison in the 1970s; his late wife Ayse Nur had been there a decade later, when she was tortured for giving a job to a dissident student. The police interrogated her to find out where he was living but she refused to reveal his hiding place—which was in the home of her mother.
Over the years, the couple continued to publish books upholding the rights of the Kurds or discussing the genocide of 1915, when over a million ethnic Armenians were slaughtered by the Ottoman government. The Zarakolus didn't make money from it (Turkey doesn't have the big glossy publishing industry that we have in this country) but they believed in what they were doing. Their publishing house was torched and they were under constant surveillance, but still they carried on. After Ayse died of cancer in 2002, Ragip continued the work himself.
It was the night before the trial in 2005 that I really saw at first hand how much pressure the judicial harassment by his country was placing on him. Now married to his second wife, Katrin Holle, he lived across the Bosphorus Bridge on the Asian side of the city. In the mornings, the bridge was jam-packed with traffic and it could take as long as two hours to cross to the European side. Rather than put himself through that, he and his wife stayed in a hotel in the city centre. He had high blood pressure and was afraid that the stress of getting to court on time would send it soaring.
Ever since, I have been anxious about the human cost of freedom of expression. Being able to speak our minds is something we take for granted in this country, despite the encroachments into our rights that are constantly being proposed. For the most part, though, we can pontificate down the pub to our heart's content, without worrying that a government agent is listening in at the next table, as happens in Burma. WIPC hosted an event in late 2012 for a group of Burmese poets whose anthology, Bones Will Crow, had just been published. Several of the poets who read that night had left their native country, unable to deal with the intrusion into their private lives. When you close down ordinary conversation you're annexing people's minds, their souls.
That's why it's so important to campaign for freedom of expression. From that basic freedom to think and speak, all others flow. Some of the writers we support think it's important enough to place their own lives at risk for it. Lydia Cacho, for example, exposed a paedophile ring that went right to the heart of the Mexican Establishment in her 2003 book, Los Demonios del Edén. Cacho has been raped for her work on behalf of battered women, kidnapped and driven 900 miles across country, threatened with death. In a country which has seen 28 journalists murdered since 2002, and many more disappeared, she is no longer safe and now moves around Europe, unable to live for any length of time in her home country.
It's not just the writers themselves who suffer. Those around them often end up being persecuted. When Liu Xiaobo was imprisoned on Christmas Day, 2009, after signing a document calling for human rights to be observed in China, his wife Liu Xia, was put under house arrest and deprived of access to a computer. She has recently been released briefly from her isolation to attend the trial of her brother, Liu Hui, charged with a £318000 fraud which is believed to be politically motivated. As she was driven from the court, Liu Xia shouted, 'I'm not free,' from the car window to reporters and diplomats. 'When they tell you I'm free, tell them I'm not.'
Her husband was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2010, but was unable to attend the ceremony and will be in jail till 2020. Will her house arrest be as long? The powerful poems Liu Xiaobo has written are testament to the profound love between them and the punishment that Liu Xia too is undergoing.
There's always a human cost and it is that which drives the work of Scottish PEN and WIPC. We care about the people we campaign for. Last year Ragip Zarakolu was arrested, after years of unfinished court cases, and taken to a high security prison, where he was incarcerated with terrorists and drug dealers. At first he wasn't even allowed books, though after he was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize he became a minor celebrity inside and was able to communicate more with the outside world. He sent me a beautiful letter asking for Scottish poems as he wished to translate them into Turkish. Naturally one of the books I sent him was a collection by our own egalitarian poet, Robert Burns.
The Turkish government and all those around the world who persecute their own citizens would do well to take note of his words:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
It was supposed to be a quiet night at the Scotia Bar in Glasgow, hearing people's poetry, reading out my latest dramatic monologue. But the place was crazy busy, exploding with noise and raucous singing. I lost count of the number of times I heard the words, The witch is dead.
It turned out that many of those toasting the demise of Margaret Thatcher had come from the celebration party in George Square, where champagne bottles were popped and people chanted Maggie Maggie Maggie, dead dead dead.
What a bizarre demonstration of humane values, to dance on the grave of a woman who has just died. She may have been hated by millions—and her policies were certainly hated by me—but she was also an ordinary person, who had family and friends. If you claim to care about people, how could you bring yourself to celebrate the death of any one of them? It's not a question of taste, as some people have said. It's a question of the most basic of values, that a human life is worth something in itself.
The cacophony of opinion about Margaret Thatcher has been deafening, even 21 years after she left government. Much has been what you'd expect, an examination of her political and cultural significance, dividing across party lines, but there has also been the usual misogyny, the visceral fear of powerful women that permeates our culture. It is, as far as I can remember, the first time a recently deceased figure has been pushed so publicly and unceremoniously into the medieval pit since the death in 2002 of the Moors Murderess, Myra Hindley, wrote Peter Stanford in The Telegraph, noting that he couldn't imagine the equally hated Tony Blair being celebrated in death as a warlock.
Comment on the web included the thought that if people didn't hold street parties when Myra Hindley died, did that mean they thought she was better than Margaret Thatcher?
It seems a preposterous idea—Myra Hindley participated in one of the most sordid crimes of the 20th century, the killing of five young people, sordid because their youth made them vulnerable, sordid because she used her femininity to entice them to their deaths. But is it so outrageous to see some kind of moral equivalence between murder and war? Is it outrageous to think that foreign dictators are not the only ones who inflict great damage on other people and that leaders of Western democracies could be tried for war crimes? Margaret Thatcher didn't get her hands dirty—her tools were rhetoric and political vision—but she was nevertheless responsible for the deaths of 323 people on the Argentine ship ARA General Belgrano during the Falklands war, by giving orders for its sinking while the ship was heading away from the exclusion zone. Her politics led to far more deaths than the Moors Murderers ever contemplated.
Thatcher's longing to be a great war leader has infected most of her successors since and infected our country with an acceptance of militarism that had begun to disappear during the draft-dodging 1960s. It's entirely appropriate that they bring out the gun-carriages for the woman who opened up the possibility of war in the British psyche after those few heady years of resistance to it. As a woman who responded with great vivacity to good looking men, she would no doubt have been gratified by the presence of 700 armed forces personnel.
Despite the costs, which will no doubt seem punitively high in the middle of recession, this overblown, militaristic pomp and ceremony is a far more fitting and dignified epitaph on behalf of all of us than people singing and dancing in the streets. You don't have to respect Thatcher's policies to object to people making petty political points out of someone's death. The people who belittle the passing of another human being are the people who dragged two British soldiers out of their car 25 years ago in Northern Ireland and beat them bloody. They're the people who taunted Saddam Hussein at the moment of his execution. That level of hatred is not what creates a warmer, more caring society.
I'm still not sure why the people in the streets in Glasgow and Liverpool and Brixton were celebrating anyway. Maggie Thatcher may have passed away but her policies are still with us. Ask the women who can no longer have their grandkids to stay because of the Bedroom Tax. Ask my friend Marion, who has cerebral palsy yet will lose her Disability Living Allowance. And above all, ask the people who watched their sons' and daughters' coffins being carried through the streets of Wootton Bassett because today's politicians want to be war leaders like Falklands Maggie.
The Nobel Peace Prize is generally accepted as one of the highest honours a human being can win, a recognition of exceptional courage or integrity, affirmation that you have lived your life honourably and decently. But sometimes it's even more than that. It's currency.
Publisher Ragip Zarakolu is currently in a high security prison in Turkey, along with terrorists, drug dealers and other scary people. After his arrest at the end of October last year, he was deprived of the lifeblood of every literary person - books. But now that he has been nominated for the Nobel, the authorities are realising they were perhaps a little hasty. He has been given permission to visit the library and to use a computer once a week.
In prison, values tend to be the reverse of those in society and the tougher the criminal you are, the more kudos you get, but the Nobel nomination has boosted Ragip's standing and he is now looked upon as a leading figure in the prison.
'Everybody knew about the nomination, and that changed the conditions remarkably,' says Eugene Schoulgin of PEN International, who campaigns tirelessly on his behalf. 'Even the guards wanted to assure the visitors that they took good care of him.'
It's hard to under-estimate how important such affirmation from the world outside is to a political prisoner like Ragip. Letters of support and friendship from all over the world have helped keep his spirits up, though he often has to wait to receive them as the prison censors mail and there isn't always an officer on hand to translate them.
F-Type prisons like Koceali, where Ragip was moved from Istanbul, have been criticised by both Amnesty International and the Human Rights Foundation of Turkey for their harsh regime. Prisoners are often kept in isolation and many are subjected to 'harsh and arbitrary disciplinary punishments.'
Ragip appears to be allowed to associate with other inmates - he sent out photos of himself with two of them - and has access to a small radio. The prisoners are able to watch television for short periods in the evening and the prison pipes its own music channel into the cells. Sometimes it's even Ragip's much loved classical music. 'He said that when he listened to Bach's Brandenburg concerto he cried for the first time since his imprisonment. (If you start to cry listening to the Brandenburg you are actually in a worse shape than you think, if you ask me!),' jokes Eugene Schoulgin.
Most of us would cry long before we heard Bach. It seems surreal to us that in a purportedly civilised society someone can be locked up arbitrarily for protesting about injustice, as Ragip did about the Kurds. Few writers or publishers in Britain would be able to stand it, and given the amount of self-censorship that goes on for economic reasons in UK newspapers, you can bet that few would continue to speak out. (If you don't agree, just check out the comparative number of articles about foreign affairs and about celebrities.)
The irony is that here we actually hire professional rabble-rousers to express strong opinions. Can you imagine how Jeremy Clarkson would cope if his obnoxious comments about striking public sector workers had led to detention in prison? How many times would Jeremy Paxman have challenged Michael Howard in his famous interview on Newsnight if he knew it would lead to being accused of insulting the British state?
But then neither of the two Jeremys is ever likely to be in line for the Nobel.
To support a petition calling for the release of Ragip Zarakolu please follow this link: http://chn.ge/vu4AxI
I first met Ragip Zarakolu six years ago, in Istanbul. I was there as part of a team of international observers to watch his trial - for what? I can't remember the specific charge now, but there are two things the Turkish authorities hate. One is the suggestion that the Kurdish people are an ethnic minority with their own needs and rights; the other is to call the Ottoman Empire's 1915 genocide of over a million Armenian people... well, genocide. (In fact the word was invented for this massacre.) Ragip is a publisher and regularly publishes books saying one thing or the other.
Picture by Katherine Holle
Throughout the six years of knowing him, I have been one of many members of PEN all over the world who write every month on behalf of Ragip. Throughout those six years there has been only one month when he wasn't charged with anything. Now he has been arrested and is being detained in prison, along with his son, Deniz, the prominent academic and writer,
Professor Büşra Ersanlı, and 40 other activists.
The charge is new. Up until now Ragip has always been charged under Turkey's Article 31, a catch-all law that seeks to control freedom of expression. But this time he's being held under anti-terror laws - for daring to speak at a public meeting about Kurdish rights.
There are no stockpiles of explosives here, no teams of suicide bombers lining up to claim their celestial date with 72 virgins. All Ragip deals in is words, and ideas. What puzzles me is, why do the authorities care? Why is it so important to dictatorial governments that everyone parrots the party line? Why does it matter so much to them that a middle-aged publisher insists on standing up for human rights?
Ragip Zarakolu is not running Harper Collins; he is not the head of a Murdochian publishing empire or a Waterstonian chain of shops. He operates out of a small, shabby office in an Istanbul side street, where books are stored in boxes, on shelves, in teetering piles on the floor. They are not glossy coffee table books, nor mass market paperbacks - they are modest, unadorned texts, most of them too academic or polemical to reach the mainstream reader.
I doubt whether Ragip prints more than a hundred copies of any one book.But he clearly threatens a government which requires its citizens to be as zealously on-message as a member of Tony Blair's cabinet.
In person Ragip has always made me think of a woodchopper in a fairytale. He is sturdy and powerful, with an intrinsic kindness that means you instantly trust him. But his charisma, humour and charm mask unusual determination. Most people would have given up by now, would have decided that life is too short and that it was time to be happy rather than right. Not Ragip. He doesn't know how long he'll be held, he doesn't know when he'll be tried, but today he cocked a snook at the authorities and released an open letter from prison: My arrest and the accusations of being a member of an illegal organisation are part of a campaign to intimidate all intellectuals and democrats living in Turkey and, more specifically, to isolate Kurds, he said.
A union colleague once asked me why Scottish PEN was campaigning for people like Ragip. 'Turkey's a modern country,' he said. 'People don't go to prison there for stuff like that.' And to a certain extent that was true. People like Ragip were constantly being charged, constantly being put through the mill of the judicial process, but they were no longer shackled or beaten or tortured as writers in more primitive countries were, as they themselves had been in the past. Ragip had been imprisoned; his first wife, Aysenur, had been tortured; their publishing house had been firebombed. Forty days after Aysenur's death from cancer, when the initial period of mourning was traditionally over, the police had arrested Deniz Zarakolu for the emotional speech he made at his mother's graveside.
So no, the authorities were no longer persecuting Ragip in such an extreme way, but his physical and mental health were constantly being eroded by the stress of uncertainty. It took him two hours across the Bosphorus Bridge from the Asian shore of Istanbul to get into the city centre, so the night before his court appearances, he and his second wife (the American photographer Katherine Holle) would come in early and stay overnight in a hotel. It was the only way to be in a peaceful frame of mind when the legal proceedings began.
Inevitably there have been consequences for Ragip. He has had heart problems and has been in hospital several times over the last few years. At 63 he is no longer a young man. Yet the authorities have put him in a high security prison where conditions are harsh. I have not been asked a single question regarding the organisation I am accused of being a member of; rather, I have only been pressed on works that I have written or edited, speeches I have given, and free and public meetings I have attended, he wrote from prison. Tyrannical regimes understand guns and explosives, but Ragip deals only in words, and ideas, and that seems to frighten them more.
I'm afraid for him, and angry. I hope others will be too.
For more information and to write on Ragip's behalf, go to:www.internationalpen.org.uk and www.internationalpublishers.org