The Mail on Miliband: What does it mean to call a Jewish person “un-British”?

We are not so far from a time when Jews were treated as undesirables, when right-thinking people preferred to ignore what was happening to them. We must not ignore the plight of those - the illegitimate, the rootless, the "illegal" - who fall on the wrong

This is an online extract from this week’s New Statesman magazine, published on Thursday 3 October.

My grandmother left Germany for England at the end of August 1939. She was able to leave because the Nazi official who stamped her passport once a week had taken a liking to her and warned that the following week they would be confiscating Jews’ documents. She was only able to enter England because a friend had gone ahead and procured her a false offer of work, such were the British laws designed to keep out undesirable “aliens”. She wasn’t to return to Germany until some time in the 1950s.

When she did go back, it wasn’t to Berlin, where she had spent most of her youth, but to a provincial town – and she was accompanying my grandfather on a business trip, with children in tow. (Such trips doubled as family holidays, since my grandfather’s business was frequently in crisis.) At some point they stopped in the town square, perhaps at a cafe: of course, I only heard this story from my grandmother decades later, and now, nearly 10 years after she died, the details even of her anecdote are hazy to me. The two children, my mother and uncle, were left to run around in the square, while my grandparents sat down. As they were doing so, a German woman turned to them, smiling, and told her: “was für schöne Kinder” – what lovely children. My grandmother felt an intense flash of anger, although all she did was sarcastically mutter “Judenbälge” - Jewish brats - under her breath. What went through her mind, as she later told it to me, was: “Twenty years ago, you’d have spat at them.”

She had a lot of stories about her past: and most of them were funnier, or sadder, than this one. But her description of what she felt at that moment has always stuck with me. It would have required a huge erasure of memory to feel anything else.

***

I’ve thought about this story twice in the past week. The first time was when I saw the photographs of Golden Dawn’s senior members being led in handcuffs to police cells. The sight of the neo-Nazi group’s leader, Nikos Michaloliakos, with arms outstretched, his expression contorted into a mixture of fear, contempt and injured pride, has provided a moment of collective relief both inside and outside Greece.

Online, the photograph of Michaloliakos – he stands, facing the camera, with outstretched arms clutching a briefcase – was gleefully detourned by Facebook users. He has been likened to Davros, the shrivelled creator of the Daleks; to Psy of “Gangnam Style” fame; to the Penguin from Batman Returns. The jokes are good. Even for an outside observer like me, it’s gratifying to see the man humiliated. To those residents of Greece who have had to watch the rise of fascism on their doorstep, I can only imagine the elation.

Yet it would be disastrous to assume that just because the symptom of a crisis has been tackled, however temporarily, that its roots have disappeared. I stopped finding the meme funny when details of the indictment against Golden Dawn – accused of being a criminal organisation by a justice system that suddenly appears to have discovered evidence of alleged crimes dating back years – began to filter through to English media. Chief among them was the allegation that Golden Dawn may be linked to the disappearances of more than 100 migrants, all of whom are presumed dead. Greek-speaking Twitter users were quick to bring up a gruesome story from May, in which the dismembered bodies of Asian men were found at an Athens rubbish dump. It may or may not be linked, but what’s clear is that many such crimes were happening in plain sight.

This made me think back to an encounter I witnessed a year ago in Athens. I had just been out to the suburbs to interview a family of Afghan refugees, and was making my way back to the centre by metro. The story they had told me was disturbing enough: penniless since the husband had lost his job after being hospitalised by a racist attack, the wife was forced to scavenge in bins for food under cover of darkness. Such was her fear of abuse from neo-Nazis, from the police, from members of the public – they didn’t make much of a distinction – that she would only go out as part of a group, with other Afghan women who found themselves in the same situation.

But the shock came on the journey back, as I was standing on a crowded escalator at Syntagma station. A man of African origin was standing just in front of me with his tiny son who, although he barely came up to knee height, was dressed immaculately in a black suit, bright white shirt and tie. I don’t need to go into great detail to tell you how cute a sight it was. The boy, standing ever so slightly unsteadily on his feet, but dressed like a man, was kept from falling by his father’s hand on his shoulder. Two middle-aged Greek ladies in front of us had turned round and were looking at the child and smiling. I started smiling. I caught their eyes. We smiled at each other. Then I remembered my grandmother’s story.

I don’t mean to imply that the women, who I did not speak to, would have expressed racist views in another setting. The shock was at seeing “normal” life continue in a city where I had just seen people so desperate and under such pressure. Still, I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since.

***

The second time I thought about my grandmother’s story was when reading the Mail’s hatchet job on Ralph Miliband, headlined “the man who hated Britain”. A far more trivial affair than the events in Greece, but unsettling nonetheless. To me - regardless of the author being one “Geoffrey Levy” - the piece drew its venom from a well-worn anti-Semitic stereotype: that of the rootless Jewish subversive who hates his or her adoptive country and even works to undermine it.

Britain’s own history of anti-Semitism is something conveniently obscured by its heroic self-image of being the country that defeated Hitler. Yet that anti-Semitism existed, and its traces are still discernible today, even if it largely remains beneath the surface of polite society. The Mail would no doubt aver that it was attacking Ralph Miliband’s Marxist politics, and not his ethnic origins. But the message of that piece was that those politics were not merely objectionable; they were deeply sinister because they were foreign and did not belong here. The subtext, further reinforced by the way the paper worded its refusal to apologise for running the piece, is that there’s something foreign about Ed Miliband himself. Never openly said, of course, but a series of snide digs that say - watch it, Ed, you’ll never be fully British and don’t you forget it.

From the Daily Mail in 1938

Ed Miliband’s response has been defiant, and brave. Until now, I haven’t particularly liked the way he has used his father’s refugee story, which he first aired in a piece for the New Statesman in 2012. I can understand the desire to engage in current debates about immigration, to make a powerful argument that people born abroad belong here as much as anyone else. But it seemed to be contorted for immediate political gain, to bolster the Blue Labour-inflected take on patriotism that Miliband thinks will help him win an election in 2015. Would Ralph Miliband really have seen himself as a “patriot” in the way his son describes? We’ll never know. Just as I will never know whether my grandmother became an ARP warden and ran out into the streets to throw sand on top of incendiary bombs before they exploded out of love for her adoptive country, or simply because she didn’t want to be burned alive. Should it matter?

To me, the stories I’ve had passed down from my grandparents - who were not all Jewish, but Irish and English, too - means saying that “my country” is never enough. Despite the unpleasantness the Mail has stoked up this week, Jews in Britain are safe, secure and thriving. But we are not so far from a time when even here they were treated as undesirables, when right-thinking people preferred to ignore what was happening, and to forget about it as swiftly as possible after the event.

There are people who find themselves in a similar situation today: they are the migrants who fall from the undercarriages of planes, or who disappear into detention centres where they are thensexually abused, or who drown in boats in the Mediterranean, or who have been targeted by paramilitary-style attacks in Athens. It’s the result of a system that has been constructed by European governments, including Britain - and it is perpetuated because we have largely convinced ourselves that these are “non-people”.

Stress patriotism too heavily, and it can end up sounding like those who fall on the wrong side of the line - the illegitimate, the rootless, the "illegal" - have got something to be ashamed of. Yet not belonging is also a strength: it frees us to say that wherever injustices happen, it's our business too.

The images of the arrest of Golden Dawn's Nikos Michaloliakos became an internet meme, but as details of the party's alleged involvement in the disappearances of more than 100 migrants emerged, it swiftly ceased to be funny. Photo: AFP/Getty Images

Daniel Trilling is the Editor of New Humanist magazine. He was formerly an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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Meet the hot, funny, carefree Cool Mums – the maternal version of the Cool Girl

As new film Bad Moms reveals, what the cool girl is to the diet-obsessed prom queen, the cool mum is to the PTA harpy.

I suppose we should all be thankful. Time was when “mum’s night off” came in the form of a KFC value bucket. Now, with the advent of films such as Bad Moms – “from the gratefully married writers of The Hangover” – it looks as though mums are finally getting permission to cut loose and party hard.

This revelation could not come a moment too soon. Fellow mums, you know all those stupid rules we’ve been following? The ones where we think “god, I must do this, or it will ruin my precious child’s life”? Turns out we can say “sod it” and get pissed instead. Jon Lucas and Scott Moore said so.

I saw the trailer for Bad Moms in the cinema with my sons, waiting for Ghostbusters to start. Much as I appreciate a female-led comedy, particularly one that suggests there is virtue in shirking one’s maternal responsibilities, I have to say there was something about it that instantly made me uneasy. It seems the media is still set on making the Mommy Wars happen, pitching what one male reviewer describes as “the condescending harpies that run the PTA” against the nice, sexy mummies who just want to have fun (while also happening to look like Mila Kunis). It’s a set up we’ve seen before and will no doubt see again, and while I’m happy some attention is being paid to the pressures modern mothers are under, I sense that another is being created: the pressure to be a cool mum.

When I say “cool mum” I’m thinking of a maternal version of the cool girl, so brilliantly described in Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl:

“Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot.”

The cool girl isn’t like all the others. She isn’t weighed down by the pressures of femininity. She isn’t bothered about the rules because she knows how stupid they are (or at least, how stupid men think they are). She does what she likes, or at least gives the impression of doing so. No one has to feel guilty around the cool girl. She puts all other women, those uptight little princesses, to shame.

What the cool girl is to the diet-obsessed prom queen, the cool mum is to the PTA harpy. The cool mum doesn’t bore everyone by banging on about organic food, sleeping habits or potty training. Neither hyper-controlling nor obsessively off-grid, she’s managed to combine reproducing with remaining a well-balanced person, with interests extending far beyond CBeebies and vaccination pros and cons. She laughs in the face of those anxious mummies ferrying their kids to and from a multitude of different clubs, in between making  cupcakes for the latest bake sale and sitting on the school board. The cool mum doesn’t give a damn about dirty clothes or additives. After all, isn’t the key to happy children a happy mum? Perfection is for narcissists.

It’s great spending time with the cool mum. She doesn’t make you feel guilty about all the unpaid drudgery about which other mothers complain. She’s not one to indulge in passive aggression, expecting gratitude for all those sacrifices that no one even asked her to make. She’s entertaining and funny. Instead of fretting about getting up in time to do the school run, she’ll stay up all night, drinking you under the table. Unlike the molly-coddled offspring of the helicopter mum or the stressed-out kids of the tiger mother, her children are perfectly content and well behaved, precisely because they’ve learned that the world doesn’t revolve around them. Mummy’s a person, too.

It’s amazing, isn’t it, just how well this works out. Just as the cool girl manages to meet all the standards for patriarchal fuckability without ever getting neurotic about diets, the cool mum raises healthy, happy children without ever appearing to be doing any actual motherwork. Because motherwork, like dieting, is dull. The only reason any woman would bother with either of them is out of some misplaced sense of having to compete with other women. But what women don’t realise – despite the best efforts of men such as the Bad Moms writers to educate us on this score – is that the kind of woman who openly obsesses over her children or her looks isn’t worth emulating. On the contrary, she’s a selfish bitch.

For what could be more selfish than revealing to the world that the performance of femininity doesn’t come for free? That our female bodies are not naturally hairless, odourless, fat-free playgrounds? That the love and devotion we give our children – the very care work that keeps them alive – is not something that just happens regardless of whether or not we’ve had to reimagine our entire selves to meet their needs? No one wants to know about the efforts women make to perform the roles which men have decided come naturally to us. It’s not that we’re not still expected to be perfect partners and mothers. It’s not as though someone else is on hand to pick up the slack if we go on strike. It’s just that we’re also required to pretend that our ideals of physical and maternal perfection are not imposed on us by our position in a social hierarchy. On the contrary, they’re meant to be things we’ve dreamed up amongst ourselves, wilfully, if only because each of us is a hyper-competitive, self-centred mean girl at heart.

Don’t get me wrong. It would be great if the biggest pressures mothers faced really did come from other mothers. Alas, this really isn’t true. Let’s look, for instance, at the situation in the US, where Bad Moms is set. I have to say, if I were living in a place where a woman could be locked up for drinking alcohol while pregnant, where she could be sentenced to decades behind bars for failing to prevent an abusive partner from harming her child, where she could be penalised in a custody case on account of being a working mother – if I were living there, I’d be more than a little paranoid about fucking up, too. It’s all very well to say “give yourself a break, it’s not as though the motherhood police are out to get you”. Actually, you might find that they are, especially if, unlike Kunis’s character in Bad Moms, you happen to be poor and/or a woman of colour.

Even when the stakes are not so high, there is another reason why mothers are stressed that has nothing to do with pressures of our own making. We are not in need of mindfulness, bubble baths nor even booze (although the latter would be gratefully received). We are stressed because we are raising children in a culture which strictly compartmentalises work, home and leisure. When one “infects” the other – when we miss work due to a child’s illness, or have to absent ourselves to express breastmilk at social gatherings, or end up bringing a toddler along to work events – this is seen as a failure on our part. We have taken on too much. Work is work and life is life, and the two should never meet.

No one ever says “the separation between these different spheres – indeed, the whole notion of work/life balance – is an arbitrary construct. It shouldn’t be down to mothers to maintain these boundaries on behalf of everyone else.” Throughout human history different cultures have combined work and childcare. Yet ours has decreed that when women do so they are foolishly trying to “have it all”, ignoring the fact that no one is offering mothers any other way of raising children while maintaining some degree of financial autonomy. These different spheres ought to be bleeding into one another.  If we are genuinely interested in destroying hierarchies by making boundaries more fluid, these are the kind of boundaries we should be looking at. The problem lies not with identities – good mother, bad mother, yummy mummy, MILF – but with the way in which we understand and carry out our day-to-day tasks.

But work is boring. Far easier to think that nice mothers are held back, not by actual exploitation, but by meanie alpha mummies making up arbitrary, pointless rules. And yes, I’d love to be a bad mummy, one who stands up and says no to all that. Wouldn’t we all? I’d be all for smashing the matriarchy, if that were the actual problem here, but it’s not.

It’s not that mummies aren’t allowing each other to get down and party. God knows, we need it. It’s just that it’s a lot less fun when you know the world will still be counting on you to clear up afterwards.  

Glosswitch is a feminist mother of three who works in publishing.