Living with fear
Petronella Wyatt
Ona scale of one to ten, one being the least often, how frequently do you think about terrorism? Be honest, now. I don't mean the temporary shock and sympathy one felt when a group of Spaniards was killed recently in a terrorist attack, or the jolt caused by this week's Israeli assassination of the leader of the Arab terrorist group Hamas.
I mean how often do you really worry that something similar will happen here? Every time a terrorist strikes in another part of the world we are told that London will be next. The Prime Minister warns of horrendous acts that could be perpetrated in Britain. The newspapers speak of tidal waves of bloodshed.
Yet on this scale of one to ten, I would register as a definite and unashamed one. A few days ago, I spoke to one of my more international American friends. She was expressing concern that there would be another assault on New York or Washington. I listened to this and then asked her when she would be coming to England. Are you crazy?' she replied as if I had invited her to Baghdad. 'I'm not getting on an international flight and nor is anyone I know.' Why?' I joked. 'The food isn't that bad.' My friend began to berate me for gross frivolity. 'I'm not playing with my life. We are talking about death here. Every flight could be hijacked.' She then asked me about my Easter plans. 'Well, actually,' I replied, 'I'm going to Morocco. I'm really looking forward to it."Morocco! But that's an Arab country!'
Huh. For once I was grateful to be an ordinary Englishwoman. Imagine the torture of spending every day in a state of nerves. Before it was cholesterol and fags, but now even the dreaded weed has been overtaken by the extraordinary Bush/Blair conviction that everyone in the West is going to die under a pile of rubble.
Yet I live in the Middle East. Honestly. The population of St John's Wood is made up mainly of Arabs and Jews. The shops in the high street are owned by Arabs and Jews. Up the road is a synagogue and down the road is a mosque. Yet though I apparently walk in the valley of death I fear no evil. Only this morning, when I went to collect my dry-cleaning, the Jewish man who owns the establishment chatted away merrily. He then waved to the Arab across the street who runs one of the local cafés.
Every day I am surrounded by Jews and Arabs, but I have never been attacked, insulted or treated anything but courteously. Only once has a sinister-looking Saudi dressed in black cornered me suddenly on the street. 'Please,' he asked, 'can you tell me the way to Queen Mary's rose garden in Regent's Park?'
I don't believe that most people in this country think about being killed by lunatics in turbans. They think about the same things as I do. How are they going to pay the gas bill? Can they afford their annual summer holiday to the Mediterranean? Why have British sit-corns become so bad? Is Prince Charles going to marry Camilla? And so forth. All those big things that really matter.
Recently I took a poll in a nearby bar, using my numeric scale. I approached a rather weedy-looking man in a suit. 'How often do you think about terrorism?' asked him, He replied dismally, 'The only terrorist I think about is my wife.' The other drinkers also said, in so many words, that they couldn't give a hoot.
Perhaps the solution to the world's current problem is to take the whole of the Middle East and dump it in St John's Wood. If Jews and Arabs here can live peacefully, why can't their brethren do the same? The only serious trouble occurs during the cricket season. From the British. My house is next to Lord's and filthy exEtonian terrorists throw beer cans over the garden wall and fight in the street.
My Arab and Jewish friends commiserate greatly. But during the rest of the year peace reigns. Maybe St John's Wood has something about it that deflects hatred or fear. Perhaps the dreary weather causes such apathy that no one can be bothered to think about bombs, let alone throwing them. Or maybe the difficulty of parking without receiving a L400 fine foxes everyone so much that my neighbours can ponder nothing else. Then there is the fact that Paul McCartney lives in my street. Surely it is inconceivable that an Arab would kill a Beatle? Only Americans do that.
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