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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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad