How Britain wages war: John Pilger interrogates military tradition

The military has created a wall of silence around its frequent resort to barbaric practices.

Five photographs together break a silence. The first is of a former Gurkha regimental sergeant major, Tul Bahadur Pun, aged 87. He sits in a wheelchair outside 10 Downing Street. He holds a board full of medals, including the Victoria Cross, the highest award for bravery, which he won serving in the British army.

He has been refused entry to Britain and treatment for a serious heart ailment by the National Health Service: outrages rescinded only after a public campaign. On 25 June, he came to Down ing Street to hand his Victoria Cross back to the Prime Minister, but Gordon Brown refused to see him.

The second photograph is of a 12-year-old boy, one of three children. They are Kuchis, nomads of Afghanistan. They have been hit by Nato bombs, American or British, and nurses are trying to peel away their roasted skin with tweezers. On the night of 10 June, Nato planes struck again, killing at least 30 civilians in a single village: children, women, schoolteachers, students. On 4 July, another 22 civilians died like this. All, including the roasted children, are described as "militants" or "suspected Taliban". The Defence Secretary, Des Browne, says the invasion of Afghan istan is "the noble cause of the 21st century".

The third photograph is of a computer-generated aircraft carrier not yet built, one of two of the biggest ships ever ordered for the Royal Navy. The £4bn contract is shared by BAE Systems, whose sale of 72 fighter jets to the corrupt tyranny in Saudi Arabia has made Britain the biggest arms merchant on earth, selling mostly to oppressive regimes in poor countries. At a time of economic crisis, Browne describes the carriers as "an affordable expenditure".

The fourth photograph is of a young British soldier, Gavin Williams, who was "beasted" to death by three non-commissioned officers. This "informal summary punishment", which sent his body temperature to more than 41 degrees, was intended to "humiliate, push to the limit and hurt". The torture was described in court as a fact of army life.

The final photograph is of an Iraqi man, Baha Mousa, who was tortured to death by British soldiers. Taken during his post-mortem, it shows some of the 93 horrific injuries he suffered at the hands of men of the Queen's Lancashire Regiment who beat and abused him for 36 hours, including double-hooding him with hessian sacks in stifling heat. He was a hotel receptionist. Although his murder took place almost five years ago, it was only in May this year that the Ministry of Defence responded to the courts and agreed to an independent inquiry. A judge has described this as a "wall of silence".

A court martial convicted just one soldier of Mousa's "inhumane treatment", and he has since been quietly released. Phil Shiner of Public Interest Lawyers, representing the families of Iraqis who have died in British custody, says the evidence is clear - abuse and torture by the British army is systemic.

Shiner and his colleagues have witness statements and corroborations of prima facie crimes of an especially atrocious kind usually associated with the Americans. "The more cases I am dealing with, the worse it gets," he says. These include an "incident" near the town of Majar al-Kabir in 2004, when British soldiers executed as many as 20 Iraqi prisoners after mutilating them. The latest is that of a 14-year-old boy who was forced to simulate anal and oral sex over a prolonged period.

"At the heart of the US and UK project," says Shiner, "is a desire to avoid accountability for what they want to do. Guantanamo Bay and extraordinary renditions are part of the same struggle to avoid accountability through jurisdiction." British soldiers, he says, use the same torture techniques as the Americans and deny that the European Convention on Human Rights, the Human Rights Act and the UN Convention on Torture apply to them. And British torture is "commonplace": so much so, that "the routine nature of this ill-treatment helps to explain why, despite the abuse of the soldiers and cries of the detainees being clearly audible, nobody, particularly in authority, took any notice".

 

 

Arcane rituals

 

Unbelievably, says Shiner, the Ministry of Defence under Tony Blair decided that the 1972 Heath government's ban on certain torture techniques applied only in the UK and Northern Ireland. Consequently, "many Iraqis were killed and tortured in UK detention facilities". Shiner is working on 46 horrific cases.

A wall of silence has always surrounded the British military, its arcane rituals, rites and practices and, above all, its contempt for the law and natural justice in its various imperial pursuits. For 80 years, the Ministry of Defence and compliant ministers refused to countenance posthumous pardons for terrified boys shot at dawn during the slaughter of the First World War. British soldiers used as guinea pigs during the testing of nuclear weapons in the Indian Ocean were abandoned, as were many others who suffered the toxic effects of the 1991 Gulf War. The treatment of Gurkha Tul Bahadur Pun is typical. Having been sent back to Nepal, many of these "soldiers of the Queen" have no pension, are deeply impoverished and are refused residence or medical help in the country for which they fought and for which 43,000 of them have died or been injured. The Gurkhas have won no fewer than 26 Victoria Crosses, yet Browne's "affordable expenditure" excludes them.

An even more imposing wall of silence ensures that the British public remains largely unaware of the industrial killing of civilians in Britain's modern colonial wars. In his landmark work Unpeople: Britain's Secret Human Rights Abuses, the historian Mark Curtis uses three main categories: direct responsibility, indirect responsibility and active inaction.

"The overall figure [since 1945] is between 8.6 and 13.5 million," Curtis writes. "Of these, Britain bears direct responsibility for between four million and six million deaths. This figure is, if anything, likely to be an underestimate. Not all British interventions have been included, because of lack of data." Since his study was published, the Iraq death toll has reached, by reliable measure, a million men, women and children.

The spiralling rise of militarism within Britain is rarely acknowledged, even by those alerting the public to legislation attacking basic civil liberties, such as the recently drafted Data Com muni cations Bill, which will give the government powers to keep records of all electronic communication. Like the plans for identity cards, this is in keeping what the Americans call "the national security state", which seeks the control of domestic dissent while pursuing military aggression abroad. The £4bn aircraft carriers are to have a "global role". For global read colonial. The Ministry of Defence and the Foreign Office follow Washington's line almost to the letter, as in Browne's preposterous description of Afghanistan as a noble cause. In reality, the US-inspired Nato invasion has had two effects: the killing and dispossession of large numbers of Afghans, and the return of the opium trade, which the Taliban had banned. According to Hamid Karzai, the west's puppet leader, Britain's role in Helmand Province has led directly to the return of the Taliban.

 

 

Loans for arms

 

The militarising of how the British state perceives and treats other societies is vividly demonstrated in Africa, where ten out of 14 of the most impoverished and conflict-ridden countries are seduced into buying British arms and military equipment with "soft loans". Like the British royal family, the British Prime Minister simply follows the money. Having ritually condemned a despot in Zimbabwe for "human rights abuses" - in truth, for no longer serving as the west's business agent - and having obeyed the latest US dictum on Iran and Iraq, Brown set off recently for Saudi Arabia, exporter of Wahhabi fundamentalism and wheeler of fabulous arms deals.

To complement this, the Brown government is spending £11bn of taxpayers' money on a huge, pri vatised military academy in Wales, which will train foreign soldiers and mercenaries recruited to the bogus "war on terror". With arms companies such as Raytheon profiting, this will become Britain's "School of the Americas", a centre for counter-insurgency (terrorist) training and the design of future colonial adventures.

It has had almost no publicity.

Of course, the image of militarist Britain clashes with a benign national regard formed, wrote Tolstoy, "from infancy, by every possible means - class books, church services, sermons, speeches, books, papers, songs, poetry, monuments [leading to] people stupefied in the one direction". Much has changed since he wrote that. Or has it? The shabby, destructive colonial war in Afghanistan is now reported almost entirely through the British army, with squaddies always doing their Kipling best, and with the Afghan resistance routinely dismissed as "outsiders" and "invaders". Pictures of nomadic boys with Nato-roasted skin almost never appear in the press or on television, nor the after-effects of British thermobaric weapons, or "vacuum bombs", designed to suck the air out of human lungs. Instead, whole pages mourn a British military intelligence agent in Afghanis tan, because she happens to have been a 26-year-old woman, the first to die in active service since the 2001 invasion.

Baha Mousa, tortured to death by British soldiers, was also 26 years old. But he was different. His father, Daoud, says that the way the Ministry of Defence has behaved over his son's death convinces him that the British government regards the lives of others as "cheap". And he is right.

www.johnpilger.com

John Pilger, renowned investigative journalist and documentary film-maker, is one of only two to have twice won British journalism's top award; his documentaries have won academy awards in both the UK and the US. In a New Statesman survey of the 50 heroes of our time, Pilger came fourth behind Aung San Suu Kyi and Nelson Mandela. "John Pilger," wrote Harold Pinter, "unearths, with steely attention facts, the filthy truth. I salute him."

This article first appeared in the 14 July 2008 issue of the New Statesman, ‘I’ll leave when I finish the job’

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The working class revolts

In the spirit of William Cobbett, a young writer travels by bicycle through Britain’s former industrial heartlands before and after the vote for Brexit.

One recent afternoon I set out on my old Raleigh bike on a tour of post-Brexit Britain. Two years earlier I had travelled the country on my bike as I researched a book. Now, after the vote for Brexit, I began another journey, this time with an even stronger sense of political disorientation. I wanted to discover what had become of the euphoria and, indeed, anger so present after the referendum of 23 June. For two weeks I cycled through the ex-industrial towns and cities of the Midlands and the north of England, two of the regions I visited in 2014.

My method then had been basic and, to some, ill-advised. Over the four months I cycled, I either wild-camped or stayed in the homes of people who had heard about my venture by word of mouth, or whom I’d met along the road, and I asked people, simply: “What is life like here?” I received a bewildering range of responses, from ­worries about wages or what world their children might inherit, to explanations about ecological and community projects built on a sense of renewal and hope. I encountered generosity and insight into different ways of life in Britain, and last summer published my findings as Island Story, a travelogue in the spirit of William Cobbett and Orwell.

Many of the areas I had written about are now readily associated with Brexit, such as Barnsley (68 per cent Leave), the former mining town in South Yorkshire. Covering the immediate aftermath of the referendum, Channel 4 News sent a crew there. Its report featured a local man who explained why he had voted Leave: “It’s not about trade or Europe or anything like that, it’s all about immigration. It’s to stop the Muslims coming into the country, simple as that.”

The presentation of what people in this town or Sheffield and Wakefield nearby had called “Barnsley Man” had been a sore point. In Sheffield (51 per cent Leave) Allie, an artist and teacher, felt it absolved the wealthier south of responsibility, even though the south had voted in far greater numbers to leave. Barnsley Man – old, white, working class, ignorant, racist, and unable to speak without losing his temper – was a sign of a prevailing narrative of Brexit as a catastrophic revolt by a misinformed and alienated northern working class, an explanation that became increasingly unsatisfactory as I travelled and talked to people.

“Damn good thing it were, too,” said one former miner at a working men’s club, as we discussed Barnsley’s vote to leave. Some agreed, others shook their head. I had passed “Vote Leave” stickers plastered on the walls of a derelict social club, and encountered common justifications that cited uncontrolled eastern European migration, resulting in the loss of local jobs. But people’s concerns were not about immigration itself, or cultural identity; rather, they centred on low wages and employment. “There’s nowt round ’ere ’cept call centres,” said Rory, a young betting-shop worker.

Many customer-service centres operate in the nearby Dearne Valley. The work is insecure, stressful and subject to a demeaning level of surveillance (call response rates, targets met, time spent in the toilet). Other sources of employment include distribution warehouses and factories of several major clothes retailers. I was told repeatedly that these companies recruited and bussed in Polish workers from Warsaw to work on a seasonal basis for low pay, at the expense of local people.

“I’ve been trying to take it to the papers,” a young woman said to me as the issue was raised in the back room of the Red Shed, the Labour club in Wakefield, West Yorkshire (66 per cent Leave). She had become aware of the practice of bussing in through a friend at one factory, but my later research showed that it’s an open secret. One must attribute some validity to such stories, at least in terms of how local people feel. They hint at the complex and contradictory stories and motivations behind Brexit in former industrial areas such as these.

“It’s divide and rule,” said a woman who had earlier told me about her involvement in the miners’ strike pickets thirty years earlier. “We have to fight to push up their wage, and challenge the bosses.”

 

***

 

In what the political economist William Davies calls a “shadow welfare state”, many people across the north are employed in poorly paid call-centre or service-sector jobs, subsidised by in-work tax credits. Child and working-tax credits, implemented by the New Labour government, in effect benefit low-wage employers as much as workers, and cost the state £30bn a year. A further £9.3bn in housing benefits was paid to private landlords last year. Though tax credits and housing benefits provide a lifeline to workers and their families struggling to make ends meet, they do nothing to address the underlying problems of low wages or unemployment, or the need for a new public strategy to encourage higher-skilled, higher-waged work.

Cycling from one former industrial town to the next, I observed that the primary contributions to the built environment in the past three decades or so are the retail park and out-of-town supermarket. Like the call centre or the distribution warehouse, they are the principal points of Britain’s service sector, and are enabled by unskilled local workforces on state-subsidised low wages and the complex logistics of globalised trade. Spread across Britain and similar in appearance everywhere, these bland structures signal the possibilities and pitfalls of state investment guided by short-term economic gain.

Workers are increasingly caught in a cycle of insecure and unpredictable shift patterns, thanks to zero-hours contracts. This makes claiming housing benefit difficult, and includes spells of unemployment during which credit cards, payday loans or borrowing from friends and family become the main means of subsistence. A recent Trades Union Congress report found that 3.2 million households were in “problem debt”, spending more than 25 per cent of their household income on unsecured debt repayments. Of this number, 1.6 million households are in “extreme debt”, handing over more than 40 per cent of their earnings to creditors. Some of the poorest households choose not to join the electoral register, fearing that their details will be shared with debt collection agencies, and are thus locked out of political representation.

In the wilted yet cheerful seaside town of Morecambe, Sonya painted a stark picture of her work as a private lettings agent. Over £9.3bn of public money was paid to private landlords in housing benefit last year, a doubling over ten years, and far more expensive than building affordable accommodation. Sonya’s tenants are “trapped” in cycles of poverty and debt, with no obvious reprieve or refuge. “What good are food banks when people can’t afford to pay their gas or electricity to heat the food?” she said.

Although such stories illustrate the UK’s gaping wealth inequalities, they also show the dismal progress in some areas in the quarter-century since John Major’s pledge of a “classless” society and the infamous (mis)quote of John Prescott that “we are all middle class now”. The political effects of such social shifts have not yet fully come to light. The surge in support for Ukip across the ex-industrial north and east over 2014-15 has been stalled, for now, by uncertainty about the party’s leadership since Nigel Farage’s resignation. But I was struck by a pessimism in these communities, so many of which felt overwhelmed by an unfair fate. The horizons of political possibility had been hemmed in by the miseries of economic hardship.

Many I met felt untouched by politics, perhaps because politicians of all stripes rarely speak with any insight into the difficult decisions involved in juggling household debt, or the mixed feelings involved in claiming benefits. It has become a banality to invoke the Stakhanovite image of “hard-working families”; less often do we hear directly from these individuals, with the occasional exception of exploitative TV series such as Channel 4’s Benefits Street or The Great British Benefits Handout (Channel 5).

On the road, few people spoke about political leaders, and Labour’s spate of self-flaying in its second leadership election since May 2015 prompted indifference or disappointment. Talk of Trident or renationalising the trains may be too theoretical, even middle class, in places where basic poverty is an elementary concern. Usually, luminaries on the left, such as the polemicist Owen Jones, address the comfortably converted, gathered punctually in town halls, immune from the debate among the depoliticised masses in the pubs, supermarkets and bedrooms of this island.

 

 

***

 

Cycling around Britain, I would set out most days without knowing where I’d end up. Such nomadism came not without stresses. But it was a fair exchange for serendipity – sunset conversations with shepherds along Loch Eriboll, blue jokes in the lock-ins of Liverpool and Dalmellington, or the drama of lugging a weighty steel mule up the steeps of Snowdonia and the eye-watering wonder of plunging down the other side.

I had no map, and sometimes relied on the tent and a discreet field or park for a place to kip, but more often I found contacts through a blog and social media. Pulling over on street corners or stopping at fast-food outlets, supermarkets and pubs, I would mine passers-by for clues.

As I travelled through Northamptonshire, Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, I listened to people projecting the effects of austerity on to migrants. In Corby, Scottish workers told me that Poles had “overrun” the area. “I just don’t like the ones claiming [benefits],” said a barmaid in one town-centre pub. Others such as Ashgar, a former steelworker in Rotherham, blamed the “greed” of “London” or factory owners for the loss of local steel jobs, rather than any government policy or trend towards deindustrialisation.

Stories of feeling left behind by the economic development of “London” were common. “London” had privatised industries and utilities, and cut funding from communities to prop up a corrupt banking system while people outside the capital were sanctioned for minor or non-existent benefit improprieties. “London” had imposed a narrow political and cultural vision on the rest of the country which gave communities no great say in how they were governed. To many of the people I met, the word “London” carried the same negative connotation as “neoliberalism” or “globalisation”, and had a similar meaning.

The chain stores may stock the latest cheap gadgets and clothes from the Far East, but for many communities the loss of jobs, community buildings, social care and affordable rents has been too high a price to pay. Voting Leave became a kind of protest button, pushed in anger at decades-long disempowerment. Brexit, a largely English independence movement ostensibly against the EU, is at times indistinguishable from a movement for independence from “London”. Voters judged that the potential hardships associated with leaving were a price worth paying to regain sovereignty from the capital.

In Nottingham (51 per cent Leave), David talked of friends in his home town of Long Eaton, Derbyshire, who had voted overwhelmingly in favour of Brexit. “A whole two generations of massively disenfranchised people put two fingers up to the elite,” he said. To Jeremy Corbyn’s chagrin, many Brexiteers live in safe Labour seats.

For the painter John Wilkinson, the problem was clear: “In England it is already yesterday.” Among left-wing artists in the exhibition “Fighting for Crumbs” in Sheffield, the mood was disillusioned yet reactive. In these pessimistic visions, the future seemed lost or abandoned. Beside Wilkinson’s paintings were photos by Connor Matheson capturing teenage ravers, food banks, Grimethorpe miners celebrating Thatcher’s death, and more mundane moments amid allotments and council estates festooned with St George flags. Reconstructions of the past seemed to preoccupy many people, as they struggled to identify new sources of pride in their decaying environment.

Dependency on benefits to subsist in boring, insecure or difficult low-wage work does not inspire gratitude. Writing in June in the London Review of Books, James Meek made a similar observation about farmers, many of whom supported Brexit even though they are heavily reliant on EU subsidies to augment the plummeting prices paid by supermarkets. “It’s an unholy mess that’s developing,” said Eden, as we spoke on his sheep-rearing smallholding beside a large Argos distribution centre in Darlington, on Teesside. Globalisation has reduced prices and forced many farmers into a race to the bottom. “People want to blame the poor for the situation they find themselves in,” he said.

But it’s not only farmers who feel beleaguered, their pride or way of life tested by recent developments. The collapse of manufacturing, mining and steel since the late 1970s has resulted in what Jeremy Seabrook, interviewing people in the West Midlands last summer, called “unhealed social and psychological lesions of class”. In his book Cut Out: Living Without Welfare, Seabrook argues that these areas were not given the chance to grieve for the industries they have lost and around which generations of communities had developed.

Travelling through the same parts, I found it common to hear of cities spoken about in the past tense. In Wolverhampton it was locks and furniture; Nottingham, bicycles and lace; in Bradford and Halifax, textiles. Each town had its trade. “It’s got a lovely history,” said Ian in Wolverhampton. “Shame it’s a s***hole now.” For there is no belonging or co-ownership in the glut of retail parks left behind, nor in the finance sector or on the property ladder. “We used to make things,” said Steve in Derby, using his own city’s economic uncertainties as a symbol of something broader.

Emma, a part-time teacher working in the Midlands in Tipton and Dudley, told me about young mothers to whom she taught basic budgeting and childcare. “People complain about scrounging . . . Most people I meet, they’re just trying to get by.”

The Brexit vote has exposed rather than initiated this incoherence. If a shared sense of place or identity is defined by making or doing, then those who cannot make or do – from welfare recipients to foreign nationals who use the NHS – become, in the eyes of some, despised. Two implications follow. First, pride in work correlates to a misleading notion of a “traditional working class”, readily linked to manual work, social conservatism and older age, such as that of Barnsley Man. This understanding of class as primarily cultural (through which the concept of a beleaguered, mythically homogeneous “white working class” often arises) obscures what is the original and more obvious economic definition of “the working class”: those who must work, will work, or have had to work full-time for a basic living. Class is no longer clear.

A second implication of pride in work emerges in how this is internalised where such work isn’t readily available, as in Barnsley or Rotherham, or the struggling former industrial cities of the north-east, such as Ashington and Middlesbrough, or Newport in south Wales. In Langley Moor, County Durham, Clarissa and her daughter told me about the high suicide rate among young men. Elsewhere I heard tales told, in hushed tones, of brothers, fathers and friends who had taken their own lives – each for different reasons, but so often in places bereft of investment and hope. Where communities, certainties and “jobs for life” are disarrayed by forces so distant and complex they might well be confused with fate, the individual effects can be terrible.

 

 

***

 

Pessimistic narratives of decline and “Broken Britain” are tedious, and also stand as obstacles to imagining political alternatives. Seismic changes to the fundaments of the United Kingdom will have consequences over the coming decades, but exactly how so remains unclear. Absent from most of the debate during the Brexit campaign was a discussion about the future of the political union between not only Britain and Europe, but also the UK’s member states. What kind of society do, say, the English desire? How will it be powered, how will its people house and employ themselves, and how will it be governed?

Across my post-Brexit journey, I quizzed people about the kinds of political transformation they would like to see. In Nottingham, I heard compelling arguments for a universal basic income and a 30-hour working week, aided by automation and progressive taxation. In Sheffield, the artists Glen Stoker and Anna Chrystal Stephens invited me on a group trespass of a patch of derelict wasteland near the city centre. Discussions about what this site could become in public hands led to wider questions about who owns much of Britain. In Manchester (60 per cent Remain), Jen enthused about rediscovering politics along with neighbours in her community and Steve refused to acknowledge what some would call realism – the necessity of compromising one’s political intentions. In Liverpool (58 per cent Remain), Brian, an indefatigable trade unionist, debated with international students the need to invest in green energy.

All were inspired by developments in Scotland, where a very different-natured independence campaign has led to lasting discussions about a progressive and better future for all. Instead of reactions against low wages, or perceptions of immigration or the effects of austerity, here there are ­discussions about renewable power, buying back local land into common ownership, as well as rediscovering local histories and the Scots Gaelic tongue.

Is it naively idealistic to imagine that the same could happen here, elsewhere in our post-Brexit land? Perhaps, but within such hope lies the motivation to act.

J D Taylor’s book “Island Story: Journeys Through Unfamiliar Britain” is published by Repeater

This article first appeared in the 02 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, American carnage