Death of a terrorist

Noordin Top, leader of al-Qaeda in the Malay Archipelago, has been shot dead in Indonesia. But there

Just over a month ago, Indonesian police claimed they had shot dead south-east Asia's most notorious terrorist. Unfortunately, it turned out that Noordin Mohammad Top, wanted in connection with both sets of Bali bombings and a further series of bomb blasts in Jakarta, had got away from the house in a village in central Java before the shoot-out. This time, say the police, they really have got their man. The Malaysian-born leader of al-Qaeda in the Malay Archipelago, a splinter group from Jemaah Islamiyah, was caught in a raid in Solo, also on Java. Asked to surrender, he continued firing until he was killed instead.

Islamist terrorist groups in south-east Asia make the news when they are successful in perpetrating outrages: either the bombings of the past decade, or when groups based in the Philippines, such as Abu Sayyaf and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, come into conflict with government forces or engage in kidnapping and beheading.

These incidents often lead western observers to imagine that the region is dangerous (which, apart from the far south-east of the Philippines, it is not) and a hotbed of religious fanaticism. In fact, it has historically been home to a very moderate form of Islam, one that has happily accommodated many of the animist and Hindu traditions that preceded the arrival of Islam between the 12th and 15th centuries.

But this relatively easygoing and tolerant approach is under attack. I have written about "creeping Islamisation" in Malaysia for the New Statesman before, and I recommend this article, "Indonesia drops the ball on radical Islam", from the excellent Asia Sentinel, to read further about what's happening on the other side of the Malacca Straits.

While capturing or killing terrorists like Noordin Mohammad Top is naturally to be welcomed, it is also vital to look at the culture from which he sprung. The vast majority of Muslims in south-east Asia would condemn his actions without reservation. But more fundamentalist Islam is gaining ground, with the result that at the same time as Indonesia and Malaysia slowly become more democratic, the liberal and secular freedoms we associate with democracy are increasingly under threat.

As the region is home to 250 million Muslims, more than in the Arab Middle East, wouldn't it be wise for us to pay it a little more attention?

 

Sholto Byrnes is a Contributing Editor to the New Statesman
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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war