Scotland: Time to say goodbye?

Allan Little introduces our special report on Scotland with a look back at history, empire and Thatc

I once attended a service at St Andrew's Scots Memorial Church just outside the old city walls in Jerusalem. The sermon was given by a Palestinian Christian who'd been ordained in the Presbyterian tradition. Even now when I think of it, years later, it astonishes me. Its subject was St Andrew himself and why both the Scots and the Palestinians felt such an affinity with him. Andrew was the brother of Peter, the minister reminded us, and there were no doubts about the apostolic pecking order: Peter was the senior partner. Peter fished by net, winning whole shoals of humanity into the early Church; Andrew was a line fisherman, content to save souls one by one. Andrew, he said (I'm not making this up), was like the Scots, content to live in the shadow of a more significant partner, the Patron Saint of Second-Best.

Jerusalem is a long way to go for a lecture on your nation's inadequacies. But the preacher had a point. Scots of my age remember the failed devolution referendum of 1979: I was 19, voting for the first time. The next day the Herald newspaper ran a cartoon of the lion of Scotland, no longer rampant but cringing in a corner, above a caption that read: "I'm feart."

Are we still feart? I don't think Scotland is any more nationalistic than it was in the Seventies; it is certainly far less inward-looking than it was. It is not the rise of a new, self-confident Scottish identity that is the threat to the Union. It is the steady decline, in Scotland, of a convincing Britishness; a slow falling away of a consensus on what being British really means.

"It's ridiculous," an English colleague said the other day, on his return from a trip to Scotland. "The SNP don't even want real independence! They want to keep the pound! They want to keep the Queen!" True. They want an independent Scotland to stick with sterling until the country is ready to join the eurozone. They also want Scotland to be a constitutional monarchy. The SNP is a different beast from the one that Alex Salmond was expelled from in the early Eighties.

I grew up in Galloway, the remote south-west corner that juts into the Irish Sea. Surrounded by water and separated from the rest of the country by a stretch of unfarmable rocky moorland, it felt like an island. Galloway was Covenanting country. As children, we were taken to see the tomb of the 17th-century martyrs Margaret McLachlan and Margaret Wilson. They were sentenced to death by drowning for refusing to renounce their Presbyterian faith, at a time when the king was trying to impose, from London, a detested High Church Episcopalianism. They were tied to stakes on the sands of the Solway Firth, where the tide comes in at the speed of a galloping horse. McLachlan, who was in her sixties, was placed further out so that Wilson, a teenager, would have to watch her being overwhelmed by the sea, to encourage her to recant. Both women drowned - martyrs, we were taught, against the imposition of alien philosophies from down south.

In 1974, Galloway returned a Scottish Nationalist MP to Westminster. I remember the shock. Every public space was plastered with the slogan: "It's Scotland's Oil." My parents, who'd lived in England and liked it, hated the xenophobic tone. We never cheered for England's opponents in football. When my father went to work in England in the Sixties he found it more diverse and tolerant, certainly more confident and meritocratic than the society he'd grown up in. I would experience the same thing 25 years later when I moved to England.

Wounded disbelief

The SNP in the Seventies seemed to me blinded by a romantic delusion: backward-looking, heritage-based, fixated on an unpleasantly ethnic sense of what Scotland was. It was as hostile to the European Community as it was to the British Union. This really was a separatist party in the full-blooded sense of the term. Years later, Salmond and the other "modernisers" finally got control of the SNP and turned it into a more modern, European social-democratic party, purging it of the anti-English sentiment that so many Scots detested and feared. Salmond is a hard man to like, but he redefined Scottish nationalism. My colleague Andrew Marr calls it "internationalist nationalism". When "Independence in Europe" became the party's prevailing appeal, it seemed, suddenly, hardly "separatist" at all. This is a very odd kind of nationalist party. The independence it wants doesn't really amount to "separation" at all, at least not in the Seventies sense. That, to those who love the Union, makes it all the more dangerous.

It is not only Scotland that has changed, but Britain. In the Eighties, I often found an unpleasant pattern emerging when I argued about Scotland with English friends. A typical reaction came in two phases. The first was wounded disbelief: how could you treat us this way after all we've done for you? That would be followed by a petulant defiance: go then - we don't care (subtext: you'll soon come crying back). Now, English friends no longer seem hurt; they're more likely to be bored or irritated by the endless indecision. In the Eighties, too, Scots complained of the "democratic deficit". Opinion polls showed that the English sympathised with this, and support for Scottish devolution was sometimes higher in England than it was in Scotland. The English could see no harm in it if that was what the Scots wanted.

But they see harm in it now. Dilettante fellow Scots beware: one of the stereotypes of the English character is that they really do care about fair play. And there is a growing sense that the current settlement is not fair. It's not just the West Lothian question. Why, when the UK Treasury pays the bill north as well as south of the border, should nurses in Scotland get their pay rise immediately while their counterparts in England and Wales have to wait till November? Whatever the rights and wrongs, a sense of unfairness is taking hold in England. It seems that the risk for the Union has shifted: the Scots may not be any more ready to vote for independence, but if they're not careful they might be "pit oot". Increasingly, the rest of the UK wants us to put up or shut up.

A trip the other day to my local independent bookshop in south London was revealing. The bookseller is a cultivated man. I told him I was making a radio programme about 1707. "1707?" he said. "War with France?" The Union, I said. Treaty of Union. "Sorry, still not with you." It has genuinely surprised me how little hold this date has on the popular consciousness in England. Is there another country in Europe whose people don't know the date when their state was created? If dates were celebrities in Scotland, this one would be top of the bill, a bigger star by far than 1066. By the end of primary school, we had learned that it was the year our country had decided to abolish itself.

My wife and I have a home in a part of Edinburgh where the Union is celebrated in the elegant architectural proportions of the Enlightenment. Every street is a hymn to the twin virtues of liberty and commerce that the Union bestowed on Scotland: Rose and Thistle Streets symbolically adjacent; George Street intersecting with Hanover and Frederick, in celebration of the dynasty whose future the Union was designed to secure (although there is a seditious nod at Scotland's dark past, too: Great Stuart Street lurks just down the hill). There was even an early plan to lay out the streets of Edinburgh New Town in the shape of the Union Flag (it was abandoned because it made some of the drawing rooms in the centre blocks triangular). It is 18th-century Edinburgh's magnificent gesture of gratitude.

And Scotland had a lot to be grateful for. When England and Scotland ceased to exist and became Great Britain on 1 May 1707, the Scots gained access to what was becoming the world's greatest trading empire. Glasgow grew rich on tob acco and sugar. Industry would soon follow trade in the crashing turmoil of the Clyde shipyards and steel mills. Within a generation, Scots knew that they had traded sovereignty for something much more valuable: prosperity.

Pride of empire

When I was a child, our family home was a solid brick-built Edwardian house that had a name, rather than a street number. It was called Rhodesia. The house next door was Transvaal. They'd been built by a man who had come home after a life lived in the service of empire. We learned to identify parts of the world where we had cousins we never expected to meet: Pietermaritzburg, Nova Scotia, Dunedin, Melbourne. My mother, whose maiden name is Clive, told us we were descended from Robert Clive of India. Thus was our country, Scotland, even our tiny remote corner of it, plugged into the entire world through the blessing of the British empire, which we Scots almost alone had built, not through our money (we'd had none of that), but through our genius and good Protestant discipline.

Except it wasn't. Empire was long gone by the time I was a child. The Commonwealth was what people meant when they said Empire, but even this was losing its potency. Britain had thrown its lot in with the Europeans under Edward Heath. Generation by generation during the 20th century, the Union was valued for something different. For my grandparents, it was the empire. For my parents' generation, it was the war against the Nazis.

My generation were children of a different, but equally coherent, Britain: the postwar welfare state and the NHS. The British state promised to look after you from cradle to grave. The strategic industries belonged to the British nation: the National Coal Board, British Steel, British Rail. The Post Office installed your phone. The British state sent you the gas you cooked with and the electricity that lit your home. And Scottish Nationalists wanted to disentangle all that!

It was in the Eighties that things started to get sticky, because someone did disentangle all that. Margaret Thatcher swept away the postwar consensus. She transformed the economic topography. The market is now open and global. The company that lights my home isn't even British. In rolling back the frontiers of the state, the Thatcher revolution had an unintended consequence: it also rolled back the frontiers of British sentiment in Scotland.

But Scotland never had an indigenous That cherite revolution. For a decade, England voted enthusiastically for the change that she offered; Scotland resisted it. Until the mid-Seventies, there was little difference between the ways people voted north and south of the border. After that, voting behaviour started to diverge until, by the Nine ties, the divergence was extreme. That was highly corrosive for the Union. Its place in the popular imagination shifted. It was no longer a beneficial partnership, but an in strument of English control, a means by which England imposed on Scotland changes that had been rejected at the ballot box.

Elephant in the room

It is time to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Scotland spends £11bn more a year in public money than it contributes in taxation. The unionist parties argue that that means an independent Scotland would have a huge hole in its budget. Although some high-profile entrepreneurs support independence, business leaders for the most part fear that an independent Scotland would have to raise taxes, causing a flight of industry and capital. The SNP says this £11bn figure doesn't include oil revenues (which the UK Treasury does not count in Scotland's total fiscal contribution) and argues that in the short term the North Sea would fill the hole. In the long term, the party also says, Scotland would have control of its own destiny and would be able to implement growth-promoting policies that aren't currently available to the devolved Scottish Executive.

More and more, this argument is taking place in a European, not a British, context. I went to Finland last year to make a film. The similarities were compelling: it is a nation of about four million people on the geographical periphery of Europe; it has a larger, more powerful neighbour with whom it was once joined in a union. But it doesn't have an £11bn hole in its budget. Unlike Scotland, Finland can pay its own bills. How?

In 1991, when the Soviet Union collapsed, the Finnish economy went into free fall, shrinking at a rate of 10 per cent a month. Finland's new government took drastic action to restructure the economy. Classically, things got worse before they got better. In little more than a decade, Finland found itself near the top of world league tables. Would this have been possible if it had not had control of its economic policy? A businessman who runs one of the world's biggest internet security firms told me: "When I started in the late Eighties, Nokia was still making rubber boots. Our economy was based on wood pulp. We rent ed a small office in New York so we could claim that as our head office, even though our workforce was in Helsinki. We thought no one would take a Finnish high-tech company seriously."

Of the 27 EU states, about half (including Finland) have populations smaller than Scotland's. So, if Finland can pay its own bills and if Ireland can pay its own bills, why can't we? The danger for the Union is this: if its defence rests on a fear of losing an £11bn subsidy, then it has turned Scotland into something anachronistic in a Europe that aspires to be the most competitive economic space in the world - one big national dependency culture. Perhaps the Palestinian preacher was right. The danger is the poverty of aspiration that lies at the heart of this argument.

Years spent reporting the war in the former Yugoslavia have left me with a distrust of national sentiment. I have seen its dark power. And there is nothing like a bit of distance to dull the senses. "Look I am looking at my sweet/Country enough to break my heart," wrote the Scots poet W S Graham. Fine - but he lived in Cornwall. I am emphatically a Scotsman, but I fear I am too sceptical to be seduced by poetical pat riotism. For those who want the Union to survive, there is a real long-term danger. If Britain is reduced to not much more than a community of sentiment and a big subsidy flowing south to north each year, it could wither on the vine. For most of its 300 years, until recently, it has meant something more inspiring than that.

Allan Little is the BBC's foreign affairs correspondent. "1707: the birth of Britain" will be broadcast on Radio 4 and Radio Scotland on Sunday 1 April at 5pm

This article first appeared in the 26 March 2007 issue of the New Statesman, Scotland: Time to break free?

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Inside the minds of the Isis murderers

As pressure on the terror group who claimed responsiblity for the Manchester attack intensifies, the threat to Britain will only become more acute.

The police and security services had consistently warned that a significant terrorist attack in Britain was inevitable. Yet no warning could have prepared us for the horror of the suicide attack on the Manchester Arena on Monday night. Twenty-two people were killed and at least 60 were wounded as they were leaving a concert by Ariana Grande in what was the most deadly attack in Britain since the London bombings of 7 July 2005, in which 56 people died.

Like the London bombers, the Manchester suicide attacker, Salman Ramadan Abedi, was British. He was 22, lived in Manchester and studied business management at Salford University before dropping out. He worshipped at Didsbury Mosque. The son of Libyans, Abedi is said to have returned recently from a visit to the North African country, where Islamic State has a foothold.

Ariana Grande is a former children’s TV star who made her name on channels such as Nickelodeon. Her fan base is overwhelmingly young and female, and many of those killed or wounded were children, including Saffie Rose Roussos, an eight-year-old girl from Leyland, Lancashire.

Islamic State inevitably claimed responsibility for the massacre, dismissing the victims as “crusaders”, “polytheists” and “worshippers of the cross”. This is not the first time Islamist terrorists have targeted children.

A Chechen jihadist group calling itself ­Riyad-us Saliheen (meaning “Gardens of the Righteous”) took more than 1,100 hostages, including 777 children, in a school siege in Beslan, Russia, in September 2004. In the event, more than 330 were massacred, including 186 children. Gunmen from the Pakistani Taliban also stormed a school in 2014, killing 148.

For terrorist actors, these are neither whimsical nor irrational acts. Contemporary jihadist movements have curated a broad and expansive intellectual ecosystem that rationalises and directs their actions. What they want is to create an asymmetry of fear by employing indiscriminate barbarism to intimidate and subdue their opponents into submission.

We have grown accustomed to a wave of terrorist attacks being carried out in the name of the self-styled Islamic State ever since the group’s official spokesman Abu Muhammad al-Adnani began prioritising them in 2014. (He was killed in an American air strike on Aleppo province in Syria in August last year.)

The US-led coalition against Islamic State has weakened the terror group in its former strongholds of Mosul in Iraq and Raqqa in Syria. In response, IS has been forced to concentrate more on what it calls “external operations” – by which it means inspiring its sympathisers and operatives to carry out attacks on Western countries. Indeed, al-Adnani encouraged the group’s supporters not to migrate towards IS-held territory but rather to focus their efforts on attacks in their home countries.

“The tiniest action you do in the heart of their [Western] land is dearer to us than the biggest action by us,” he said in an audio statement released last year. “There are no innocents in the heart of the lands of the crusaders.”

Islamic State refers to its strategy as “just terror”. Its framing places culpability for attacks on Western states on these nations themselves by claiming that IS actions are a response to aggression or assault. That much has been outlined in the group’s literature. “When will the crusaders end their hostilities towards Islam and the Muslims? . . . When will they recognise that the solution to their pathetic turmoil is right before their blinded eyes?” the militants ask in the IS magazine Dabiq. “Until then, the just terror will continue to strike them to the core of their deadened hearts.”

IS offered a rationale of this sort as justification for its bombing of a Russian commercial aircraft – Metrojet Flight 9268, travelling from Sharm el-Sheikh in Egypt to St Petersburg. That attack in October 2015 killed 224. Similar reasoning was offered for the attacks in Paris the following month in which 137 people were killed, in a series of co-ordinated, commando-style gun and bomb outrages across the city.

“Revenge was exacted upon those who felt safe,” IS declared in Dabiq. “Let the world know that we are living today in a new era. Whoever was heedless must now be alert. Whoever was sleeping must now awaken . . . The [caliphate] will take revenge for any aggression against its religion and people, sooner rather than later. Let the ­arrogant know that the skies and the lands are Allah’s.”

***

Through my academic research at King’s College London, I have ­interviewed scores of Westerners who became foreign fighters in Syria and Iraq to quiz them about their motives. Last year, one man from High Wycombe who had joined IS told me that it wanted to attack British targets in response to the vote in the House of Commons to extend British air strikes against IS targets to include sites in Syria (the British had only been targeting the group in Iraq until that point). “Do they [the British government] expect us to sit back and do nothing? ­Idiots,” he said.

In this respect, IS frames its attacks as acts of “revenge” and predicates its response on the Islamic principle of qisas, which is comparable to lex talionis or the doctrine of “an eye for an eye”. Qisas was always intended to be a tool of private redress for an individual or his/her family to seek justice in matters relating to bodily harm. Typically, it relates to cases of murder and manslaughter, or acts involving physical mutilation (say, leading to loss of limbs). The principle creates a framework for retributive justice.

The contemporary Salafi-jihadi movement has adopted a particularly innovative approach to the concept of qisas in two ways. First, groups such as IS have taken the idea and construed it in a way that justifies indiscriminate terrorism, such as the attack in Manchester. They argue that qisas has a political dimension and that it can be applied to international affairs in a way that holds civilians responsible for the perceived crimes of their governments.

Second, qisas is normally applied only in cases where the aggressor is known. IS, by contrast, holds every citizen-stranger of an enemy state responsible for the actions of his or her government. Thus, when it released its statement claiming responsibility for the Manchester attack, it said that it had struck against a “gathering of the crusaders . . . in response to their transgressions against the lands of the Muslims”.

It is this militaristic construction of qisas that allows IS to rationalise the bombing of a venue where large numbers of young girls had gathered to watch a pop concert, dismissing them as “crusaders”.

This is not new. In 1997, Osama Bin Laden told CBS News that “all Americans are our enemies, not just the ones who fight us directly, but also the ones who pay their ­taxes”. His rationale was that all Americans, by virtue of citizenship alone, are vicariously liable for the actions of their government.

Just a few years later, Bin Laden used the same idea to justify the 11 September 2001 attacks and also invoked it in reference to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. “The blood pouring out of Palestine must be equally revenged,” he wrote. “You must know that the Palestinians do not cry alone; their women are not widowed alone; their sons are not orphaned alone.”

IS used the concept most dramatically in January 2015, when it burned alive a Royal Jordanian Air Force pilot, Muath al-Kasasbeh, whose plane had crashed in its territory. A video of the killing was circulated on the internet and social media. The group claimed his bombing raids had killed civilians and that it wanted to punish him with “equal retaliation”, in keeping with qisas.

What is well known about al-Kasasbeh’s murder is that he was burned alive inside a cage – but that is not the whole story. To understand how IS tethered this to the principle of qisas, it is the end of the gruesome video that is invested with most significance. After al-Kasasbeh has died, a truck emerges and dumps rubble over the cage. It was claimed this was debris from a site he had bombed, thus completing the “equal retaliation” of returning like for like. The idea was that IS had retaliated using the two principal forms in which a missile attack kills – by fire or debris.

***

The Manchester attack came on the fourth anniversary of the brutal murder of Fusilier Lee Rigby in Woolwich, south London. Rigby was killed by Michael Adebolajo and Michael Adebowale in the middle of the afternoon on a street outside a military barracks. That attack was in keeping with a pattern we have become increasingly accustomed to in Europe: an unsophisticated plot that employs ordinary, everyday items – a car, say, or a knife.

The consequences of such attacks have been seen across Europe, most notably in Nice on 14 July 2016, when 86 people were killed during Bastille Day celebrations after a jihadist drove a truck into crowds on the promenade. Similar attacks followed in Berlin, Westminster and Stockholm.

The security services find that these murderous attacks are extremely hard to disrupt because they typically involve lone actors who can mobilise quickly and with discretion. The Manchester attack was different. Explosives were used, which means the plot was inherently more sophisticated, requiring careful planning and preparation.

We know that two of the 7/7 bombers had previously trained in Pakistan’s lawless tribal regions, where they honed their skills. In other plots, such as the connected attacks in London and Glasgow Airport of 2007, the explosive devices failed mainly because the bomb-makers had found it difficult to travel abroad and develop their skills in safe environments. Whatever Abedi’s connections, the long war in Syria and Iraq has once again created a permissive environment for terrorist training and attack planning.

The devastating impact of this has already been felt across Europe. Since the Syrian uprising began in 2011, more than 800 Britons are believed to have travelled there to fight. From Europe as a whole, the figure is over 5,000, of which a significant number are believed to have joined IS. Of the British contingent, the security services estimate that about half have returned or become disengaged from the conflict. Of those who remained, a hundred are believed to be active, the rest having been killed.

It is improbable that Abedi acted alone in Manchester or that this plot had no international component. Indeed, he was already known to the authorities (and had returned recently from Libya). As pressure on IS intensifies across Syria and Iraq, the threat to Britain will only become more acute as the group’s sympathisers prepare for what they consider to be a fightback.

This speaks to the scale of the threat facing Britain, and Europe more generally. Our police and security services have been stretched and continuously tested in recent years. Just recently, in March, the Metropolitan Police assistant commissioner Mark Rowley told Radio 4’s Today programme that 13 plots had been thwarted since Lee Rigby’s murder in 2013. Put another way, the police have disrupted terrorist plots every four months for the past four years.

Naturally, Islamic State is not the only threat. On 13 May, one of Osama Bin Laden’s sons, Hamza, released a video, titled “Advice for martyrdom-seekers in the West”, on behalf of al-Qaeda. Hamza, 27, who was his father’s favoured successor to lead the group, called on its supporters to concentrate on attacks in the West rather than migrating to conflict zones in the Middle East and beyond. Scenes of previous ­terrorist attacks in Britain played throughout the video.

The central leadership of al-Qaeda is increasingly looking for opportunities to reassert itself after being eclipsed by Islamic State and losing control of its affiliates in Syria. It needs attacks and a cause in the West with which to revive itself. Hamza therefore cited the January 2015 Charlie Hebdo attack in Paris as a critical example, calling for the assassination of anyone deemed to have “insulted” Islam.

The Charlie Hebdo attack was especially important for al-Qaeda because it enabled the group to transcend the fratricidal conflicts that frequently define relations between the various jihadist groups. In Syria, for instance, al-Qaeda’s affiliates (when it had better control over them) and Islamic State have been in open war with each other.

Yet, the Charlie Hebdo attack brought warm praise from the group’s Islamist rivals because none of them wanted to appear ­unsupportive of an atrocity that had, as the terrorists proclaimed, “avenged” the Prophet Muhammad’s honour.

The British man from High Wycombe who joined IS told me the group had welcomed the attack for precisely those reasons. It was something that, in his view, had confirmed the “nobility” of the attackers, even if they had not been members of IS.

Is it too late for the West to save itself, I asked him. What if the West simply accepted all of Islamic State’s demands: would that provide respite?

The answer was as emphatic as it was stark: “We primarily fight wars due to ppl [sic] being disbelievers. Their drones against us are a secondary issue.”

He went on: “Their kufr [disbelief] against Allah is sufficient of a reason for us to invade and kill them. Only if they stop their kufr will they no longer be a target.”

In other words, we are all guilty, and we are all legitimate targets.

Shiraz Maher is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and a senior research fellow at King’s College London’s International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation.

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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