Pakistani protesters shout anti-US slogans at a rally against US drone attacks. Photograph: Getty Images
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Drones and the "bugsplats" they cause

Drone attacks are anything but impersonal for the Pakistani civilians on the ground.

What do you think about when you hear the word “drone”? President Obama in the White House, authorising the “kill list”. American soldiers pressing buttons. Bearded Taliban militants in faraway, dusty villages, being swiftly, sharply zapped out of existence.

The impersonal language used to describe drones – “targeted”, “accurate”, “enemy combatant” – compounds these impressions. Yet, as ever, the reality of this computer game warfare is significantly messier.

Pakistan’s tribal area has been home to the most sustained drone campaign of anywhere in the world. The attacks started in 2004 and have been stepped up under President Obama. The main defence of drone war is that it results in less “collateral damage” than airstrikes – another impersonal euphemism, this time for civilian deaths. But investigations and anecdotal evidence show that this is not the case. Collating exact figures is difficult, but local activists say that of around 3,000 casualties in Waziristan, just 185 were named al-Qaeda operatives. The Brookings Institution estimates that ten civilians die for every militant killed.

“The problem we have with Obama is this notion that if they have a beard and they are the right age then they are presumed to be terrorists,” says Clive Stafford Smith, head of the legal aid charity Reprieve. “I would estimate that the majority of people being killed are not the people who should be killed under anyone's definition.”

Shahzad Akbar is a Pakistani lawyer, representing 80 cases from Waziristan, the majority of whom have lost relatives to drone attacks. In a landmark case, he is attempting to prove firstly that these people can press charges for murder, and secondly, that their cases can come under the jurisdiction of the Islamabad courts. This is important because the Pakistan’s ungovernable tribal areas are federally administered and operate outside the normal bounds of law and order.

When we speak on the phone, he lists the cases: houses that were targeted while people were sleeping. People who died while attending funerals. Others killed while at jirgas, or meetings of tribal elders. Children asleep in targeted houses. Children playing and killed by shrapnel. Pharmacists. Local policemen. Schoolteachers. “These are Pakistanis employed by the state,” he says. “That is about as civilian as you can get.” And, as with any war, death is not the only outcome. Hundreds of people maimed, blinded, and disabled by the attacks, left with few prospects in an area beset by poverty.

The 800,000 people in Waziristan live under constant threat of death. Strikes frequently take place in the middle of the night, so they are not even safe sleeping in their homes. As standard, four or five drones circle the air, giving a sense of imminent danger and paranoia. The buzzing sound is a relentless presence; people refer to drones as “bees”.  In a chilling echo of this colloquialism, US operators refer to victims as “bugsplats”.
Local doctors report an “exponential” increase in the number of people requiring prescriptions for anti-anxiety drugs or anti-depressants. “Living under constant threat of death – that’s about as stressful as it gets,” says Stafford Smith.

Akbar says that at a meeting in Peshawar last month with people from the tribal areas, nearly everyone carried tranquilisers. “Everyone is constantly thinking about drones. They would take calls from home and their children tell them how many drones they have spotted. Women are possibly most worried. They aren’t allowed to go outside because of local traditions. They don’t know where their husbands, brothers, or sons go, and live in fear that they might not see those people again.”

A few years ago, public opinion in Pakistan was divided, with many liberals supporting drone strikes as a legitimate attack against the terrorists who threaten their way of life. But that was before the extent of civilian casualties was revealed, and now feeling is such that parliament has passed three resolutions condemning drones since 2011. A recent Pew poll found that 97 per cent of people viewed the attacks negatively, and it is set to be a key election issue. Seen as yet another assault on Pakistan’s sovereignty, it has cemented intense anti-US feeling in the country.

The population of Pakistan’s tribal areas operate under their own rules of rough justice and revenge. They are largely uneducated and live by traditions which Akbar describes as “centuries behind”. This compounds their disempowerment: they feel that they are outsiders, not part of the system, and that no-one cares what happens to them.  As the 80 families in Waziristan await the verdict on whether they will be able to press charges for the deaths of their relatives, Akbar explains that an important part of the process is trying to empower the local population, caught up in a remote-controlled war in which they are entirely defenceless. “If you protest, if you come out, if you contact the courts, you can actually do a lot. This is what we are trying to make them understand.”

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 18 June 2012 issue of the New Statesman, Drones: video game warfare

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No peace after progress

How the death of the industrial way of life gave us choice – and stoked resentment and fear.

Now that the making of useful and necessary things in Britain is only a shadow of what it once was, we can see more clearly the effects of the Manufacturing Age. The cost was high to the producers of prodigious wealth; a ten-year difference in life expectancy remains between people living in the richest areas and those in Glasgow. The (fleeting, it now seems) visitation of industrialism has made life more comfortable and its dismantling has liberated millions from choiceless occupations. The legacy is one of spectacular improvement, unequally shared.

Perhaps the most dramatic experience of the 20th century was the suddenness with which profligate plenty replaced a skinflint subsistence. Was it the speed of this that distracted us from wondering why, instead of the secure sustenance that generations of needy people had asked of an unyielding economic system, we were offered a promiscuous spillage of goods, promoted with quasi-religious zeal by the converts of a capitalism that had previously delivered to most of its captive workers a life of penury? Such a rapid reversal might have alerted us to changes beneath the surface that elided losses incurred.

The greatest of these was certainly not the extinction of the industrial way of life itself, release from which has been an unqualified blessing. But the transition from relentlessly work-driven lives (in the 1950s, two-thirds of Britain’s workers were still manual labourers) was marked by perfunctory obituaries for the disintegration of industrial communities, with no acknowledgement that, for a century and a half, they had represented the inescapable destiny of the people they sheltered.

Even less recognition was given to the fortitude with which they had borne a long, coercive labour. A way of life, buried without ceremony in the unmarked grave of progress, could not be mourned; and this has generated some social pathologies of our time: resentment over an arbitrary obliteration of industry, disengagement from a party of labour by those it called, like feudal lords, its “own people”, loss of memory of the economic migrants we also were, passing from the goad of industry into the pastures of consumption, and thence into the liberating servitude of technology.

Grief makes no judgement on the intrinsic value of what is lost. Absence of the known and familiar is the object of melancholy in its own right, even if replaced by something immeasurably better. Objectively, there was little to mourn in the vanished industrial way of life: insufficiency and humiliation, malice of overseer and manager, officiousness of poor-law administrator and means-test man. Male industrial workers exhausted in body and spirit, instead of protecting those for whom the power of their hands was the only shelter against destitution, visited similar punishment on their wives and children. There is nothing to be lamented in an end to the penitential life of women, scrubbing not only the red tiles of the kitchen floor, but even an arc of pavement outside the front door; their interception of men on payday before wages were wasted on beer and oblivion; the clenching against joyless invasion of their bodies in the boozy aftermath. But it was the only life they knew, and they adhered to it with grim stoicism and even pride.

There is much to be said for their resistance. The fragile lattice formed by women’s arms was often the only safety net against destitution. Trade unions and friendly and burial societies that shielded folk from economic violence foreshadowed the welfare state and the National Health Service.

The life of labouring people in Britain was strikingly homogeneous, despite diversity of occupation, dialect and local sensibility. There was the same collective experience: terraced house with parlour reserved for celebration or mourning; the three-piece suite, plaster figure on a stand behind the window, chenille curtain against the draught, engraving of The Stag at Bay on the wall; the deal table and Windsor chairs in the living room, the mantelpiece a domestic shrine with clock, candlesticks and pictures of soldiers smiling before they died; the music of cinders falling through the bars in the grate; cheerless bedrooms where husband and wife slept in high connubial state, more bier than bed, where sexual enjoyment was ritually sacrificed as flowers of frost formed on the inside of the window.

And everywhere photographs: wraithlike children with ringlets or in sailor suits, fated never to grow up; weddings in the back garden, a bouquet of lilies and a grandmother in boots and astrakhan hat; the smudged features of a kinsman no one can now identify. Identical memories, too: the shotgun wedding in the dingy finery of a Co-op hall; the funeral tableau around the grave, amid ominous inscriptions of “Sleeping where no shadows fall”; queues outside the ocean-going Savoy or Tivoli to watch Gone With the Wind; the pub where “Vilia” or “The Last Rose of Summer” was hammered out on a discordant piano.

The opening up of such sombre lives might have been expected to call forth cries of gratitude. Instead, a synthetic joy has emanated largely from the same sources that, until recently, offered people grudging survival only, the change of tune outsourced to producers of manufactured delight, purveyors of contrived euphoria to the people – a different order of industrial artefact from the shoes, utensils and textiles of another era.

***

A more authentic popular res­ponse exists beneath the official psalmody, a persistent murmur of discontent and powerlessness. Anger and aggression swirl around like dust and waste paper in the streets of our affluent, unequal society. As long-term recipients of the contempt of our betters, we know how to despise the vulnerable – people incapable of work, the poor, the timid and the fearful, those addicted to drugs and alcohol. Sullen resentment tarnishes the wealth of the world, a conviction that somebody else is getting the advantages that ought to be “ours” by right and by merit.

Rancour appears among those “left behind” in neighbourhoods besieged by unknown tongues and foreign accents: people who never voted for unchosen change, as all political options are locked up in a consensus of elites. “Give us back our country!”
they cry; even though that country is not in the custody of those from whom they would reclaim it. There was no space for the working class to grieve over its own dissolution. If, as E P Thompson said, that class was present at its own making, it was certainly not complicit in its own undoing.

Grief denied in individuals leads to damaging psychological disorders. There is no reason to believe that this differs for those bereaved of a known way of living. The working class has been colonised, as was the peasantry in the early industrial era. When the values, beliefs and myths of indigenous peoples are laid waste, these lose meaning, and people go to grieve in city slums and die from alcohol, drugs and other forms of self-inflicted violence. Though the dominant culture’s erasure of the manufacturing way of life in Britain was less intense than the colonial ruin of ancient societies, this subculture was equally unceremoniously broken. It is a question of degree. The ravages of drugs and alcohol and self-harm in silent former pit villages and derelict factory towns show convergence with other ruined cultures elsewhere in the world.

Depression is a symptom of repressed grief: here is the connection between unfinished mourning and popular resentment at having been cheated out of our fair share, our due, our place in the world. If we are unable to discern our own possible fate in suffering people now, this is perhaps a result of estrangement from unresolved wrongs in our own past. Nothing was ever explained. Globalisation occurred under a kind of social laissez-faire: no political education made the world more comprehensible to the disaffected and disregarded, people of small account to those who take decisions on their behalf and in their name.

Anyone who protested against our passage into this changed world was criminalised, called “wrecker” and “extremist”. The miners’ strike of 1984 was the symbol of this: their doomed fight to preserve a dignity achieved in pain and violence was presented by the merchants of deliverance not only as retrograde, but also as an act of outlawry. Resistance to compulsory change was derided as a response of nostalgics protecting the indefensible, when the whole world was on the brink of a new life. Early in her tenure of Downing Street, Margaret Thatcher, that sybil and prophet who knew about these things, warned that Britain would become “a less cosy, more abrasive” place: a vision confirmed by the Battle of Orgreave – redolent of civil war – and the anguish of Hillsborough.

It is too late to grieve now. Scar tissue has healed over the untreated wound. Though no one expects the ruling classes to understand the distress of perpetual “modernisation”, the leaders of labour might have been able to recognise capitalism’s realm of freedom and a gaudy consumerism that concealed hardening competitiveness and the growth of a crueller, more bitter society.

The ills of this best of all worlds, its excessive wealth and extreme inequality, are on show in hushed thoroughfares of London, shuttered sites of “inward investment”, where the only sound is the faint melody of assets appreciating; while elsewhere, people wait for charitable tins of denutrified substances to feed their family, or sit under a grubby duvet, a Styrofoam cup beseeching the pence of passers-by.

Unresolved feelings about industrialism, enforced with great harshness and abolished with equal contempt for those who served it, are certainly related to the stylish savagery of contemporary life. The alibi that present-day evils are an expression of “human nature” is a poor apology for what is clearly the nature – restless and opportunistic – of a social and economic system that has, so far at least, outwitted its opponents at every turn.

Jeremy Seabrook’s book “The Song of the Shirt” (C Hurst & Co) won the Bread and Roses Award for Radical Publishing 2016

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain