Moving the boundaries

Observations on Macedonia

In 1993 I received a letter so bizarrely addressed I felt compelled to keep it. Despatched through the Bureau de Poste Macédonie, it arrived emblazoned with the stamp: "Recognised by Greece as FYROM. Macedonia does not exist." The sender had mischievously addressed it to me in Athens, "Freece".

The row over the name of Greece's northern neighbour has smouldered on, flaring with a vengeance in the run-up to the Nato summit early this month.

As passions soared, so did the insults: on the eve of the summit, billboards of Greek flags defaced with a swastika sprouted up across Skopje, the tiny landlocked state's capital. Caricatures of a chubby-cheeked Kostas Karamanlis, the Greek prime minister, dressed as a Nazi SS officer, also appeared in the local media.

But why do the Greeks insist on calling the multi-ethnic country above them the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, or Fyrom, and its two-million-strong population Fyromian, when the former Yugoslavia disintegrated long ago? After all, if there is a Macedonian language, there can surely be a Macedonian people and a Macedonian state.

But Athens doesn't see it that way. Not only is it blocking Macedonia's membership of Nato until the name row is resolved, it has since threatened, again, to use its right of veto to stop the former communist nation joining the European Union later this year.

The message is that, until the Fyromians accept a composite name that denotes their geographical designation (such as "Upper Macedonia)", Athens will veto their joining any club.

This being the Balkans, the origins of the problem go way back (though not actually to Alexander the Great, even if the Greeks were thoroughly riled after Fyrom named its international airport after the soldier king).

From 1944, when Tito designated the area formerly known as "southern Serbia" the People's Republic of Macedonia, Greece has contended that the nomenclature conveys thinly disguised territorial claims on its own northern province of Macedonia, whose "Hellenism" it says has been indisputable for more than three millennia.

Such perceived irredentism became very real during Greece's bloody civil war of 1946-49, when Tito, with the help of slavophone Greek communists, attempted to create a Greater Macedonia that would have included the warm-water port of Salonica, much coveted by Stalin.

In more recent times, the land-grab fears have been reinvigorated by textbooks, maps, articles and even banknotes depicting the former republic expanding into Greek-held "Aegean Macedonia".

In February, Skopje's prime minister was photographed, under a map that portrayed the state stretching to Salonica, laying a wreath at the tomb of Gotse Delchev, a 19th-century freedom fighter widely seen as the progenitor of modern Macedonia.

Politicians in Athens privately concede that the row is absurd but they know that Macedonia could be a make-or-break issue for any government. The ruling conservatives (with a one-seat majority) have already agreed to accept a "compound" name. Previously, Greeks had indicated that they would not countenance the neighbouring state bearing a title which included the M-word.

Nobody, today, really believes that impoverished Macedonia would invade Greece, the Balkans' pre-eminent EU member state.

But in a region where borders have a habit of changing, and Kosovo's recent declaration of independence has awakened territorial fears, the Greeks have drawn a line - the kind of line that has always spawned troubles in the Balkans.

This article first appeared in the 14 April 2008 issue of the New Statesman, Belief is back

Peter Macdiarmid/Getty Images
Show Hide image

Archbishop Welby and the hidden price of being Mister Nice Guy

Doubtless Welby’s supporters will find such a description rude to the point of impiousness – but for those of us who live in an uncloistered world, the most significant indicators of his true nature lie first in his appearance.

The most important thing about Justin Portal Welby, the 105th Archbishop of Canterbury and Primate of All England, is that he’s not Rowan Williams. How we all miss Rowan Williams! The whole point of the Established Church is that its ministry is for all Britons, not just confessing Anglicans; and Dr Williams achieved this difficult task brilliantly. That he did so was, in large measure, due to his appearance: the most fanatical adherent of sharia law hearkened to his fluting emollience, because, resembling as he does a fictional wizard straight out of central casting, they assumed he was either Gandalf the Grey, or Albus Dumbledore, or possibly both.

With Dr Williams’s successor we must bear witness to a marked decline in the archiepiscopal phenotype. Far from resembling some wand-waving sorcerer, and despite all the rich caparisoning, Justin Welby still looks like exactly what he is: a superannuated Old Etonian oil executive from west London with a sideline in religiosity. His is not a bonny countenance; rather, he resembles a constipated tortoise with sunburn. Frankly, he could do with a beard – the more patriarchal the better – simply to cover up that sourpuss.

Doubtless Welby’s supporters will find such a description rude to the point of impiousness – but for those of us who live in an uncloistered world, the most significant indicators of his true nature lie first in his appearance, and second in the manner of his ordination.

Welby is one of Sandy Millar’s men. (And I say “men” advisedly.) When Welby heard the call to be ordained in the late 1980s he was initially rejected by the then bishop of Kensington, who said: “There is no place for you in the Church of England.” Prophetic words, indeed. It was Sandy Millar, one of the founders of the evangelical – indeed, charismatic – Alpha course, at Holy Trinity Brompton, in London, who came out to bat for Welby. The evangelicals must have been delighted when they got one of their own into Lambeth Palace, yet ever since he took up his crosier he’s been insidiously sticking it to them. I’m going to explain why, but first a word or two about evangelicals.

It’s disconcerting the first time it happens to you: you’re standing up in church, ready to groan your way apathetically through another fusty Victorian hymn, when instead of the moaning of a clapped-out organ, an electric guitar strikes a resounding chord and the worshipper next to you bursts into enthusiastic song. Worse is to follow: for, as she warbles, she slowly raises one arm, extends it, and begins to wave it about like a tree bough while the other arm remains rigidly at her side. Looking around you, you see that the congregation is like unto a forest: so many raised and undulant limbs are there. Yes, you have fallen among evangelicals – and if you thought ordinary Anglicans were a bit too nice then you ain’t seen nothing yet.

Purely to show open-mindedness, my wife attended an Alpha course run by one of our son’s schoolfriend’s parents, who was an evangelical minister. After a few weeks she began to seem a little – how can I put it? – spiritually pained, and when I asked her what the matter was, she said she was having something of a crisis of no faith. “It’s just that they’re so very nice,” she said, “and the God they believe in is so very nice, too. They make me feel anxious I might be upsetting Jesus by not believing in Him as well.”

Nice as he may be, Welby remains an evangelical, and evangelicals have a tricky time when it comes to homosexuality, because although not exactly fundamentalists, they nonetheless cleave strongly to the Word of the Lord, rather than chipping up to the church fête from time to time to buy a few tombola tickets. So, simply by looking into his own heart, Welby knows the situation is intractable: those homophobic Africans and redneck Americans cannot be appeased, and though he personally is opposed to gay marriage, he has said he’s “always averse to the language of exclusion when what we are called to is to love in the same way as Jesus Christ loves us”.

Welby seems to feel Jesus loves us by letting us go, because he is now making noises about a “looser relationship” between the various Anglican churches: one in which – while they all remain attached to the Church of England – the connections between them become more attenuated. Some of his evangelical chums must be swaying with anxiety rather than enthusiasm but they should rest easy; on all other important matters the archbishop is behaving in an exemplary fashion.

Not a week goes by without him making some anodyne statement or futile gesture condemning food banks (then asking people to give to them), offering refugees tokenistic accommodation in the grounds of Lambeth Palace, and generally mithering on about the scourge of poverty while giving spiritual succour to those who’re doing very nicely out of the status quo. ’Twas ever thus: our Established Church may well be for all Britons, but, in Justin Welby, we have a prelate who speaks eloquently for the . . . few.

Next week: Madness of Crowds

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis