Multiculturalism v the “big society”

Or should that be: multiculturalism AND the “big society”?

Multiculturalism has had a bit of a kicking of late. Over the past decade and a half, it has been accused of pretty much everything, from refusing common values, to fostering segregation, to harbouring terrorists.

European heads of state have queued up to proclaim that, "under the doctrine of multiculturalism", different cultures have been encouraged to live separate lives (Prime Minister David Cameron), that it is "too concerned with the identity of person arriving and not enough about the identity of the country" (the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy) and, as a result, "society is too watered down" (the Dutch deputy prime minister, Maxime Verhagen).

In other words, multiculturalism has "utterly failed" (the German chancellor, Angela Merkel).

It is pretty clear at whom these proclamations are directed; such statements are invariably qualified by a need to tackle Islamic extremism and terrorism.

What multiculturalism actually is, however, is not always rendered particularly clear. Indeed, multiculturalism has become so synonymous with Muslims that it is hard to think of in any other way. What is multiculturalism? Is it a policy? Or is it the physical condition of people of many cultures living in the same place? Or is it a more personal, intimate condition? Or perhaps a combination of the three?

In his own denunciation of multiculturalism, Cameron gave a hint of his political understanding, stating that, in Britain:

. . . we have failed to provide a vision of society to which they feel they want to belong. We have even tolerated these segregated communities behaving in ways that run counter to our values.

"They", of course, are Muslims, whilst "we" are British. Such sleights of language may seem unimportant, or even a necessary means of distinction, but they have a profound organising and hierarchical effect on how we imagine society.

Academics have long argued that such "us" and "them" dichotomies serve only to reinforce the kind of segregation that Cameron opposes. It is the very opposite of integration (though assimilation is perhaps a more appropriate word). "They" must subscribe to "our" values. Who "they" are is clear, but who "we" are and what "our" values are is much less so.

The answer, says Cameron, is the "big society". To summarise, in his vision for the future of Britain, the big society will foster localism and devolution of power away from central government; volunteerism within local communities; and support for entrepreneurism, charities and co-operatives.

And at the heart of the £200m big society is a return to what Cameron calls "family values":

Family is where people learn to be good citizens, to take responsibility, to live in harmony with others. Families are the building blocks of a strong, cohesive society.

Strong family values, in other words, precede a strong society.

Ironically, perhaps, many of these values are already firmly at the heart of most of Britain's Muslim communities. British Pakistanis and Bangladeshis account for 59.3 per cent of Muslims living in Britain and events such as the Honeyford affair, the Rushdie affair, the Bradford fiots and the 7/7 London bombings have often put them at the centre of debates on multiculturalism. Indeed, it is precisely these events that have usually been cited as evidence of multiculturalism's failure.

Much less often cited are the Muslim communities' values that, in fact, embody much of Cameron's vision for the big society. British Pakistanis have an incredibly strong sense family value and unity; as Muslims, rather than getting into costly debt with banks, they support one another with interest-free loans; they run successful community centres; and, as part of their obligation as Muslims, they donate 2.5 per cent of all their earnings to charity (zakat).

Of course, I may be accused of overgeneralising here. There are, after all, always exceptions. Yet what is interesting is that it takes only a slight shift in emphasis to turn these generalisations into evidence of multiculturalism's failings: strong family units = forced marriages; strong sense of community = self-segregation; internal financial support = not contributing to society.

Unfortunately, it is these latter interpretations – which truly are gross overgeneralisations – that are most commonly emphasised. If a group of white, middle-class families sets up a community reading group in somewhere like Oxford, is this evidence of self-segregation? I imagine this would probably be seen as a triumph of the big society.

It is one thing to say that multiculturalism has failed, but it remains that we live in a country where a great variety of cultures, ethnicities and religions coexist. This is what makes Britain such a wonderfully diverse place and somehow we need a way of talking about that. The choice of language by politicians doesn't merely reflect a view of society, but actively shapes and informs it. At the moment, that language marginalises a great majority of people who contribute positively to Britain.

T S Eliot once wrote that:

Just as a doctrine only needs to be defined after the appearance of some heresy, so a word does not need to receive this attention until it has come to be misused.

Eliot was writing about culture, yet one can't help but notice strong resonances when the prefix "multi" is added on.

So, if multiculturalism is now a dirty word in political circles, how are we supposed to talk about the diversity of people living in Britain? The big society may be one way, but only if it takes into account the positive values and voices of the very people that are excluded through anti-multiculturalism discourses: Muslims.

One general characteristic of British Pakistanis worth finally mentioning is their common propensity to look after their elderly at home, as a family. This reduces the burden on the National Health Service and pre-empts many of the coalition's proposed health-care reforms.

Surely Cameron, of all people, would be pleased with that? And, if he is, he should say so.

Tom Hodgson is a DPhil candidate in music at St John's College, Oxford.

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Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue