These words popped into my mind uninvited the other day, as we walked up New King’s Road past Eel Brook Common, where Fulham is about to become Chelsea.
The eponymous brook is long since gone, and one doesn’t expect to see many slippery fish in that patch of greenery. But then neither does one expect to see hundreds of kneeling Muslims, their backs heaving to muezzin chants piped through giant speakers. Yet that was exactly what we saw – and, most annoying, heard.
You may not know my neighbourhood, but take my word for it: diversity isn’t its most arresting feature (no pun necessarily intended). The only Muslim one typically sees is the chap who runs the corner shop, and even he may be Indian for all I know.
It was the last day of Ramadan, as I found out later. Yet the calendar still doesn’t quite explain the show. Bethnal Green, yes, as Penelope suggested, talking about an impeccably multi-culti area of East London. Eel Brook Common, or anywhere else in our street, well, no.
Still, the words in the title, and especially the genuine feeling behind them, call for an explanation. After all, troglodyte thoughts on race seldom grace me with a visit and, if they still insist on coming, I try to chase them away. So why such visceral rejection?
I first heard the title words in Houston, c. 1974. The chap who uttered them explained that, whenever a black family moved in next door, the house prices went down. He then proceeded to enlighten me further by asking: “What are the five most dreaded words in English?” I didn’t know, so he answered his own question: “Hello, I’s your new neighbour.”
Since then I’ve read a few serious studies on the subject, with the authors united in their conclusion: such sentiments usually originate not in race hatred, but in class resentment. Few Americans object when a black doctor or lawyer moves into the area – yet even fire-eating liberals hate the sight of a neighbour sporting half of Fort Knox on his body and in his mouth.
From a purely empirical observation I can testify that pure racism unsullied by social or economic considerations does exist in Houston, generally in Texas and, even more generally, everywhere else in the world. Yet I know for a fact that I don’t dislike other races.
When living in America, I often preferred blacks to whites in social situations. They were full of life and good cheer, which was more than one could say for dour chaps clad in double-knit polyester. Their speech was rhythmic and idiosyncratic, and one seldom heard my black friends and colleagues mouth the off-the-peg, ready-to-wear clichés Americans (other than my readers, that is) seem to favour in small talk.
In London too I easily mix with blacks and Muslims. Why, once I even complimented a young PLO fundraiser on her legs, which were indeed sensational and amply visible as I walked up the stairs behind her at a dinner party. I did mind the PLO, but I didn’t mind her.
So why that kneejerk NIMBY reaction in Eel Brook Common? What’s so sacrosanct about my back yard that makes me respond that way to a large group of outsiders?
It can’t be concerns about Muslims driving the house prices down by moving in. For one thing, they weren’t moving in – there wasn’t a trace of their presence the next day. Then I don’t really care about the price of my flat since I don’t ever want to sell it. My plan is to be carried out of it feet first, though, God willing, not just yet.
Nor is it class resentment. I have close friends whose social backgrounds are different from mine, and they aren’t reticent about proving that phonetically and sartorially. Being classless myself, I’m at ease with Kipling’s entreaty (“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,/ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch…”), even if I’m ill at ease with Kipling.
Then it occurred to me: my resentment of the huddled Muslim masses was neither racial nor social nor economic. It was emotional, linked to the unique role played by my home and, by extension, its back yard.
I expect and welcome excitement at work, at a party, in a foreign land, even simply talking to Penelope or friends. But the less outside excitement I have in my immediate surroundings, the better. What I seek at home is peace, tranquillity, contentment – that aura of inviolable, perhaps even slightly boring, predictability that’s no less impenetrable for being invisible.
If you have ever driven a car in a foreign country, you’ll know what I mean. For myself, I’m much more relaxed driving around Hyde Park Corner than through the blissful French countryside. In London, I know what to expect from other drivers – their behaviour is predictable and hence unthreatening.
Where we are in France, there are never many other drivers on the road. Yet I’m tense there because I expect something dangerous from every one. The cultural differences between us are small, but they are big enough to punch holes through the protective aura one expects from one’s home.
By the same token, had I seen a crowd of Muslims at prayer somewhere in the East End or, better still, Istanbul, I’d welcome the exotica. Seeing the same crowd of cultural aliens invading my home is a different story. The sight not so much punches a hole in the aura as tears it to tatters.
This may be a case of xenophobia in the real sense of the word, irrational fear of aliens. Or it may simply mean emotional dependence on the safety of home. One way or the other, I’d rather not see such collective devotions within swearing distance of King’s Road ever again.
One important reason why I agree with your objection to a Muslim crowd in the neighbourhood lies in their ovine behaviour. They behave as apparently willing subjects of a dominating ruler. And as such are potentially suspect as oppressors and hence dangerous compatriots. The same cannot be said of crowds of Christians, Jews or atheists, none of whom (as far as I know) are so biddable.
Succinctly put, Bernie. My sister lives in London on a street dominated by Muslims, who can barely contain their loathing of an infidel woman with two mixed race children.
I find Salat viscerally offensive regardless of where it is performed, and who is doing the performance. Salat performances close to home, in public, and with more performers makes it even more offensive. And don’t offend God by calling it “prayer”.
I don’t want to alarm you, of course, but “New King’s Road” sounds kind of ominous. The new king is likely to be a Sultan.
I’m surprised that one other Muslim public activity was not mentioned: the sudden and violent extermination of non-Muslims. That is apt to make one uneasy. It also gives “There goes the neighborhood!” a whole other meaning.
More than anything else these gatherings are a demonstration of power. “You the infidel bend to our power and not us to yours.” “We can do things here in your land we would not allow you to do in ours.” “We have become the head and your have become the tail.”
All good dogs must know their master. The Muslim hates dogs however.