In compiling this issue, it has become clear that the catalyst for turning religion from a unifying force to a divisive threat is ignorance. Ignorance of other religions, of other peoples and of other cultures. Refreshing, then, to read of the work of the organisers of the Children of Abraham internship in creating real opportunities for people of diverse backgrounds to share their own experiences of religion and, more importantly, to learn from the experiences of others.

In his interview with the LIP, broadcaster Rabbi Lionel Blue observes that the mix of ‘politics with religion is a lethal cocktail.’ Belonging to a religion carries with it certain political and social consequences and the headlines in recent months have shown a blurring between the political and religious domains. For those of us living in societies in which expression of religious conviction is allowed, the stories of those oppressed in other parts of the world (see Dharma Police page 9) should be a reminder that it is a right which should not be taken for granted.

Religious diversity is one of the central tenets of a successful multicultural society. It is in a climate of ignorance and fear that the paranoia kicks in, prompting the questioning of loyalties – can an individual be true to both religion and country (see our Film Reviews) as though the two are mutually exclusive. As American writer Elbert Hubbard pointed out, ‘religions are many and diverse, but reason and goodness are one.’ The true common-ground that exists between us all, regardless of creed and colour is our humanity, and that is what should exist at the core of all religions.

His biography lists the greatest hits: educated at Kingsbury High School then LSE; freelancing for three years before becoming Assistant Editor of The Face, then editing Arena; currently writing for The Observer, The Sunday Times and Sleaze; will publish his first book, Black Gold of the Sun, in March 2005. But biographies leave so much to the imagination: how did Ekow get into writing? How do aspiring writers get into journalism? How did Ekow ascend so quickly? What’s the view like from the top?

The LIP: Why did you go into journalism?
Ekow Eshun: Before I ever started writing for anyone, I’d read loads of magazines, loads of newspapers, watched TV. And I’d get quite vexed because it seemed to me there weren’t any voices like mine represented. For a start, there weren’t many black people involved in magazines and TV, and also there wasn’t me involved. In a pretty egotistic way, I thought I’d rather be writing than having someone else taking up the same space, than having someone else writing about the things I was interested in. So one of my first incentives, really, was just to have me instead of someone else occupying the space. And I think that’s ok.

The LIP: How did you get into journalism?
EE: The first story I ever did was on Kickers shoes. I noticed a section in The Face called ‘Intro,’ which had only little pieces. This was pre-email, so I sent my story to the section editor, who liked it. I talked to her on the phone about the best way to get a gig and went from there. I freelanced for three years, starting at The Face as a staff writer then moving onto Assistant Editor. The Face and Arena were owned by the same company, so I literally went from one office to the other.

The LIP: Most immigrant parents (like mine) want their children to become doctors or lawyers. How did your parents react when you said you wanted to write?
EE: (laughing) It’s always been quite hazy. After I went to university, I didn’t do a law degree; I read history at LSE and they were quite happy with that. They were slightly concerned when I said I wanted to write but they pretty much left me to myself.

The LIP: What do you think about the common claim that black writers should write about ‘black’ issues?
EE: I think it’s absurd. No writer should be bound by his own experience; each is entitled to freedom of expression in the full sense of both words. At the same time, not being bound by experience does not mean being blind to experience, and that’s the crucial distinction. I think the deeper you get into your own sense of identity, the more nuanced, the more complex it becomes.

The LIP: What advice would you give to an aspiring journalist, black or otherwise?
EE: Five things come to mind. (1) Tell a story, (2) Secure your reader’s imagination, (3) Read, (4) Cultivate your obsessions; (5) The Truth hurts.

The LIP: What do you mean by that?
EE: Joan Didion’s written an excellent book called Slouching Toward Bethlehem. In it she says: ‘A writer is always selling someone out.’ I think she’s right. As a journalist, you’re involved in this business of truth and lies, really. Stories aren’t the truth – if you want, they’re lies; they’re fiction. But at the same time successful stories have a kernel of truth to them, even if they’re completely made up. The resonance they have is an emotional honesty.

The LIP: Can you give an example?
EE: Some years ago I went to Minneapolis to interview Prince at Paisley Park. We sat down and kind of talked for 40 minutes and it was all good. It was only afterwards that I realized or I came to realize that I couldn’t actually trust a single word he’d said.

What had happened was that Prince and his wife had just had a baby the same week I interviewed him. During the interview, he didn’t talk about the baby at all, but about how he was having the best time of his life. That same week Prince’s baby was dying of a rare condition, and had died by the time I got back to London. He didn’t mention anything about it.

In a way, that was his prerogative. But at the same time it struck me as weird. On the one hand, his baby is dying and on the other, he claims he’s having the time of his life. Those things didn’t fit together, and the whole thing felt false. So, what I wrote about was my own feelings about that strange contradiction. Whoever Prince was, whoever Prince is, I hadn’t really quite seen him then. I ended up with possibly the sense of selling someone out but also an honesty in terms of writing. That’s all you can do as a writer. That’s all you can aim for.

Ekow Eshun’s Black Gold of the Sun will be published by Penguin in March 2005

Yael Bartana’s video projection, ‘Trembling Time’, is an eerie film, depicting traffic passing under a flyover in Tel Aviv, periodically slowing to a halt at the sounding of a siren marking the commemoration of Soldier Memorial Day, a state sanctioned ritual in honour of Israel’s war dead. Her focus is on collective experience, her attention drawn to ritualised acts intended to strengthen national identity. ‘Profile’, another video installation, follows an anonymous female soldier repeatedly firing a rifle during target practice, a very different ritual which echoes the memorial for those who fell in battle. Killing and mourning form part of the same, ritualistic, painful cycle. The soldier’s anonymity is crucial for Israeli-born Yael; ‘For me, that soldier becomes a symbol that reflects my own feelings and emotions about the situation.’ Questions are fundamental to her work; ‘In what kind of place did I grow up? How long will this country continue the patterns of ignorance?’

Palestinian artist Emily Jacir has questions of her own. For her, art is a provocation, a force which can be used to ‘pollute’. Her piece ‘Sexy Semite’ hijacks the medium of the printed press to question Israel’s law of return policy. Emily ran personal ads in New York’s Village Voice seeking Israeli mates for displaced Palestinians, ‘so they could return home utilising Israel’s law of return.’ Its humour is one with a bitter aftertaste. Adverts for a ‘Dusky Eyed Beauty …no fatties’ sit uncomfortably next to the overtly political, ‘You stole the land, might as well steal the women. I’m ready to be conquered by your army.’ As well as questioning Israeli policy, Emily is questioning the role of art by challenging a crucial given; that of context. Her newspaper ads are in people’s houses, in their shops, on their subway trains. When we see the adverts framed alongside the speculative news articles which they provoked in the safe-haven of a gallery, the cycle is completed. The lines between humour and pathos, art and life, never appeared so indistinguishable.

Yet it is another of Emily’s pieces which is most striking, ‘Where We Come From’. She asked a number of Palestinians ‘If I could do something for you anywhere in Palestine, what would it be?’ The granting of the exiled Palestinians’ wishes is facilitated by her possession of an American passport allowing freedom of movement. The result is heartbreaking. Faced with the chance of one wish, the simple desires of the people are laid bare. Alongside photographs illustrating the fulfilment of their wishes, are transcripts of what was requested, in English and Arabic. ‘Go to my mother’s grave in Jerusalem on her birthday and put flowers and pray’ requested Munir, born in Jerusalem, now living in Bethlehem, unable to return. When Emily went to fulfil Munir’s wish she was perplexed by the crowds around a neighbouring grave. When they cleared she was able to read the name on the headstone: Oscar Schindler. Jihad’s request could not be more moving, ‘Visit my mother, hug and kiss her and tell her that these are from her son. Visit the sea at sunset and smell it for me and walk a little bit…enough. Am I greedy?’

The parallels between Emily and Yael’s work are clear enough, though it is important not to assume that the two artists are addressing two sides of the same coin. Whilst Emily’s work is filled with a longing for a return to normality, to home, Yael’s representations of supposed normality through tradition and repetition are equally unstable and alien. Less obvious is the relationship with the third artist exhibited alongside the Israeli and the Palestinian, Lee Miller. Lee remains unique in her field. Moving from high fashion photography she found herself on the frontlines in the Second World War covering allied progress for Vogue. The influence of Man Ray, for whom she modelled, leaves a clear surrealist impression on both aspects of her work. The blurring between the glamorous world of haute couture Paris and the terror of wartime Europe is most clearly illustrated in ‘Fire Masks, Hampstead, London 1941’ a surreal image of models wearing protective military equipment. It is through these juxtapositions that the links between her and the other two artists emerge. Lee, like Emily, plays with the audience’s reliance on a familiar context by juxtaposing suffering and beauty, and like Yael, betrays a fascination with individuals and communities caught up in events beyond their control.

For all three artists, art is itself a questioning force. It asks who we are, what we want and how we can achieve it. This exhibition forces us to think about both where art belongs in our society and where society belongs in our art. There might not be a right answer to either question.

Furthermore – and this is seldom mentioned – it needs to be understood primarily as a sonic force, an aesthetic. Much as its critics might like to dispute it, rap is a musical tradition which, more than any other, explicitly references the past to create a dialogue between old and new. It borrows liberally, and is frequently blue. Though it may ‘all sound the same’ to a middle-aged English white man, it is also a wide church. Yet while someone immersed in the culture such as the rapper Common will ask ‘who am I to judge one’s perspective?’ there are plenty of reactionaries eager to bang the gavel.

In 1988, Los Angeles’ NWA (Niggaz Wit Attitude) sent the suburbs into spasms of rage by inciting their listeners to ‘Fuck Tha Police’. Cultural illiteracy and the age-old fear of out-of-control urban blacks crippled many commentators, who confused the message that the band would no longer turn the other cheek to police brutality with an endorsement of murder. The song attracted the attention of the FBI, police authorities and mainstream media. Crucially, it also found its way onto young suburban whites’ stereos. As Kim Howells implied when he remarked that the most worrying issues of the ‘cultural problem’ were the ‘methods of popularising this stuff’, violent black music is only society’s problem when it reaches beyond a predominantly black audience. However, neither the respectable young white rebels nor their parents really understood the record, which they both read as expressing a hatred of authority per se.

‘Fuck Tha Police’ is the product of a specific situation in postindustrial America. Even before the arrival of crack cocaine in the early ‘80s, LA’s working classes were ravaged by poverty and violence. In 1982 the median income for residents of the South Central district was just $5900, youth employment in LA county stood at c.45% and government investment in recreation, affordable housing, programs for employment and inner city youth were all slashed. Crack turned the inner city into a war zone, complete with police helicopters and tanks. Housing projects were built in the style of minimum security prisons with fortified fencing and an LAPD substation. Fifteen blacks died from police chokeholds, which a police spokesman claimed represented the discovery of a weakness in African-American physiognomy rather than police brutality. In short, the lyrical content of ‘gangsta rap’ and the riots of 1992 are the results of the same environment.

It is an environment that affords little status to young black males, who realise at a young age that respect, success and justice will probably not be forthcoming in mainstream society. Rap offers an opportunity to win respect and influence, while graffiti (one of the four elements of hip hop alongside DJing, MCing and breakdancing) reappropriates an urban terrain which its exponents are not allowed to own. Hip hop is based on competition, whether it’s who’s the best dancer, the best DJ or the hardest motherfucker out there. Braggadocio is an essential part of the culture. Since the days of slavery, African Americans have ‘played the dozens’, boasting about their prowess and insulting that of their peers. It is a test of wits not without significance, for as stories such as Brer Rabbit and the Signifying Monkey suggest, it is by his wits a black man must live if he is to survive and prosper.

If this game of survival appears twisted and misanthropic, that’s because it frequently is. Yet contrary to popular belief, rappers do not advocate killing or glorify drug dealing. Furthermore, many lyricists are quick to point out the parallels between the illegal life and the naked capitalism which pushes them to the margins. America is labelled a ‘gangsta’, committing drive-bys on countries such as Panama and Iraq, facilitating the drug trade through inaction or the CIA. This comparison also rings uncomfortably true with regard to the misogyny in hip-hop, one of its most undeniably unpleasant elements, if not so omnipresent as is often implied. Sexist lyrics should be censured, but not censored. Where the right of free speech conflicts with the right not to be subjected to hate speech, the latter must give way. As JS Mill observed, truth will be reduced to stale dogma if not opposed, and even the wildest opinion must contain a kernel of truth.

As such, misogyny in rap – and the fervour of its opponents – reveals much about Western society. Widespread sexism may be explained partially with reference to the socioeconomic conditions in which young urban black males must negotiate their masculinity, and partially in black vernacular culture. It is not, as Kim Howells might suggest, ‘something new’. Jelly Roll Morton sang, ‘Come here you sweet bitch, give me that pussy’ in 1938, but, of course, it did not cross the tracks. The subject deserves much more room, but it should also be noted that hip-hop has always seen sexism and violence as the price of a reckless life in a society where men feel powerless in public, and turn on their women and children. In addition, it is worth considering that the use of the word ‘bitch’ excites much more attention than the over-representation of men on rape juries or gender discrimination in wages. Sexism permeates all of society, from the way children are raised to depictions in television, film and the mainstream music industry. Furthermore, these industries are partially responsible for the de facto censorship of rappers. While individual institutions from Sheffield University SU to the government of New Zealand may limit airplay or sales, considerably more is done by marginalisation and the major labels’ stranglehold on the music industry. In America particularly the homogeneity born of the monopolisation of music radio and television is startling, with airplay going only to those who can afford it. BBC Radio 1 is little better. And which rappers get the exposure? For the most part, ‘modern-day Sambos’ such as Nelly whose ‘message’ boils down to consume, have a party, and then consume some more. His embrace of the American Dream may be more damaging than a thousand small-time crooks talking like pimps on the mic. ‘Forty acres and a mule – fuck that! Nellyville – 40 acres and a pool!’ he rhymed on ‘Nellyville’, and over 5 million Americans rapped along. Nelly preaches love, of Mammon and of self. No one will blame him for any atrocity, as Marilyn Manson was blamed for Columbine, but his influence may well be far more disturbing, more debilitating to the individual soul and the community.

Nelly’s success, of course, has little to do with his lyrical content and maybe much to do with the lack of it. Good looks, force of personality and canny marketing have all played their part, but the at its heart lies the The Neptunes – a production team who have revolutionised mainstream hip hop, and, some would argue, the face of pop music. Hip-hop is music first, energising, neck-snapping noise aimed squarely at the dance floor, as well as at the car stereo and personal headphones. It is music rooted in the black tradition, always paying respect to the innovators of the past. To understand it, to judge whether each song preaches love or hate you often need to know your history. When Large Professor chopped up Gwen McRae’s sublime love song ‘90% of Me’ for Mobb Deep to spit aggressive street tales over, he knew his audience would be struck by the contrast. Love and hate cannot be neatly separated; they are not diametrically opposed emotions. Their complexity is captured by culture, by hip-hop. If David Blunkett, Kim Howells et al want to change its lyrical content they should first learn to how to listen to it. Then, perhaps, they might focus on the true causes of the problem.

October 6th, 2000 was the day that regime finally came to an end. One usually pessimistic columnist wrote: ‘That which I have been dreaming about for years has happened: everything, literally, everything is possible in Serbia! We have won!’ Just nine months previously a survey ranked Belgrade, Serbia’s capital, the twelfth worst city in the world, a cultural no-man’s-land. ‘This was a city’, writes Matthew Collin, ‘which had almost lost its heart, and was fast losing its mind.’

Originally published in 2001, This Is Serbia Calling is an account of a very different battle for hearts and minds long before the coalition rhetoric. Piecing together testimonies from members of Belgrade’s alternative youth scene, Matthew reveals the city’s rebellious underside that refused to be brainwashed by the government. He focuses on the young journalists of Radio B92, a cult radio station airing news and music aimed at opening the minds of the listeners; Veran Matic, B92’s editor, called it ‘liberation through culture.’ Later, concerned that their supporters were swallowing even their anti-establishment line too readily, B92 employed the slogan ‘Trust no one, not even us.’ In ten years, the station was shut down four times by the government.

If Matthew’s style seems a little sensationalised, his sympathy with his subject is genuine. B92 supported Western values and played outspoken Western music – in 1998 they even won the ‘Free Your Mind’ free speech prize at the MTV awards. When NATO bombed Serbia in 1999, the people felt betrayed. Many of those quoted insist that the military action increased nationalistic fervour and put them in an impossible position. They couldn’t support the regime, but neither could they support the bombing of the city they loved. Radio B92 was shut down for the third time. It was to be off air for four months – its longest absence. ‘The NATO bombing has destroyed us,’ its editor told reporters.

With the impact of yet another Western military ‘intervention’ still being felt, This Is Serbia Calling is more relevant than ever. In the wake of a war in which the media has played a leading role, Matthew’s book bears witness to war’s first casualty: truth. Although he focuses mainly on the manipulation of the Serbian media, he indicates that the Western press, heavily influenced by NATO, the Pentagon and the Ministry of Defence, was far from independent in its coverage of that conflict. Television networks such as CNN were altogether more sophisticated; the propaganda was there, but it was more subtle, perhaps ultimately more insidious.

If the book ends on a high note, with the defeat of Slobodan and a dream of the future, the events of the ensuing years lend it a rather different colour. This is a timely reissue: the story of Serbia’s liberation, and underlying it, a moving critique of Western values and the price we pay for them.

Over the course of two and a half years, Arundhati builds a narrative around world events and institutions, discussing 9/11, the outbreak of the Iraq war and numerous other issues. In fact, so much is discussed – from the ubiquitous Michael Moore to call centres in India, that readers may find themselves overwhelmed by her expansive erudition. However, it is by focusing on her native India that she reveals the true nature of globalisation; one of the most memorable and pointed passages is her description of India’s privatisation of its electricity infrastructure to Enron.

At times this is an uneasy book to read. Arundhati’s opinions are dazzlingly forthright, exposing facts about the balance of power in our world that we daily choose to ignore. Her personality and way with words are at once compelling and distracting: the conversational format and her complicity with David, means they pass over some topics more quickly than some readers might like. The contradiction that Indian women must rail against tradition, yet at the same time ‘against the kind of modernity that is being imposed by the global economy,’ is one that she herself seems to embody.

A recommendation from Noam Chomsky and an introduction by Naomi Klein make this prescribed academic reading, but for those wishing to gain an insight into the mind of a gifted writer’s politics this an immensely readable book. Arundhati Roy’s aim is clear, seeking ‘to create links, to join the dots, to tell politics like a story, to communicate it, to make it real’, and although she offers no real answers to combating the problems she so passionately explores, this is an inspiring book.

Yasmin is the product of extensive research through workshops with members of the local Pakistani communities of Oldham, Bradford and Keighley. Simon Beaufoy, writer of The Full Monty, was brought on board as scriptwriter. He recalls one man who attended the workshops saying to the team, ‘I bet I know pretty much everything about your life and you know nothing about my life’. The researchers soon realised he was right.

Yasmin presents real issues, based on stories told by real people, in the context of actual events. To dismiss them as anecdotes is to ignore the bigger picture. The result is a warts-and-all picture of a section of society that most people know little about, set against the backdrop of the 9/11 tragedy.

The film follows the story of a young woman who has rebelled against her culture to the extent that she could be deemed racist. Imagine then, her frustration at being forced into marriage with an illiterate goat herder from Pakistan in order to gain him citizenship. The events of 9/11 force Yasmin and her family to re-evaluate their lives and their identities, both as individuals and as members of their society. She becomes increasingly ostracised by her colleagues at work, and when her husband is later arrested as a potential terrorist suspect, she finds herself unexpectedly returning to her roots.

I ask Kenny whether he thinks Yasmin’s response to feeling discriminated against is representative of the way other individuals dealt with a hostile public post-9/11. ‘We observed a trend – lots of young people going back to religion after 9/11 as a way of re-identifying, re-solidifying who they were. But on their own terms. There’s a lot of guilt in these communities and this film is partly about “Who is your responsibility to?” – is it to your family, your religion, your community or to yourself. This film is about Yasmin’s journey and the stance that she ultimately finds herself taking.’

Is this process a constructive thing to have come out of the 9/11 tragedy? Kenny is undecided. ‘You have to be hopeful that this generation of young people will define itself through positive change. I worry that the authorities’ knee-jerk reaction to try to contain terrorism is affecting many innocent people and distancing an already marginalised community. As long as the same mistakes are being made, I am concerned that we are going to see more radicalised young men, before we see any improvement in the situation.’

Kenny wanted to make a ‘positive film about British Asian Muslims’, in response to the current climate of Islamophobia. Yet Yasmin would not have been representative had some of these more complex issues not also been brought to the forefront. One of the most important questions concerns whether people of different origins have the capacity to truly mix together, rather than just tolerate one another. ‘If integrating means letting go of one’s deep-rooted beliefs and culture in favour of an immoral consumer culture then I can understand why people don’t,’ says Steve Jackson, who plays Yasmin’s white work colleague and potential love interest in the film.

We still live in a society where the children of immigrant parents are required to take sides in every aspect of their lifestyle. ‘There’s always a conflict of interests within my house,’ says Shahid Ahmed, who plays Yasmin’s husband in the film, ‘It’s like you’re leading two lives.’ Their parents want them to remain true to their roots. Yet fitting in to the world around them requires them to renounce many of their parents’ ideals. Many of those who could be described as ‘well-integrated’ have in fact, much like Yasmin, distanced themselves entirely from their parents’ culture.

Progressing as a multicultural society involves breaking down invisible barriers that segregate one community from another. But this will take effort from both sides. The terminology is important. ‘I can remember talking to a sixteen-year old in Oldham about integration,’ says Kenny. ‘He said to me, “I’m not interested in integrating into western culture, it’s a term that implies that I have to lose something of what I am. I prefer the word assimilation – let’s celebrate each other’s culture.’” Ethnic minority communities should not be required to forsake their cultural heritage in order ‘to fit in’. But equally speaking, there needs to be recognition by minority communities that life in a new place means that change is inevitable – and that this is not a negative thing. Every individual brings with them their own anecdotal emotional baggage. What Kenny and his team have done is to concentrate some of these strands into the context of a family with whom most of us can identify.

‘If integrating means letting go of one’s deep-rooted beliefs and culture in favour of an immoral consumer culture then I can understand why people don’t.’

Steve Jackson

Hamburg Cell, which is based on real events, is a disturbing, visually arresting film, but one which refuses to provide neat reasons for complex ideological shifts. Directed by Antonia Bird and scripted by Ronan Bennett and Alice Perman, it traces the lives of the most prominent of the 9/11 hijackers over the five years leading up to one of the most sinister attacks of all time. At the centre of the group is Mohammed Atta, whose fanaticism is clear from the outset. He is an angry, alienated young man, who wants to make sense of the ‘confusion’ that is the modern world – a world that wants ‘to take God from him’.

The film’s main focus is on the story of Ziad Jarrah, the pilot of the plane that may have been heading for the White House, but instead crashed into a Pennsylvanian field. A Lebanese national from an affluent, secular family, Ziad arrives in Germany a moderate university student. Within weeks, he embarks on two significant relationships – one with his Turkish girlfriend, Aysel, and the other with a radical Islamic group based on campus. What follows is not so much a theorisation of the reasons for his decline, but a presentation of the facts as they are known. Yet the objective approach that sets out to provide viewers with their own interpretative space has the unfortunate result of undermining the realism of the piece.

Ziad’s portrayal is frustrating; it fails to explain his seemingly abrupt conversion into a fanatic, whilst maintaining every semblance of a ‘normal’ life. When I challenge researcher and co-writer Alice about this, she is adamant that this is Ziad as he was – known to most as a likeable, westernised Muslim. To some he was more religious, but he concealed his emerging fanaticism from everyone.

This explanation still doesn’t account for the insipid Ziad who mumbles his way through the film. There is no commitment to a clear depiction of his character; his detached ambivalence is the one consistent feature. His relationship with Aysel never seems as genuinely affectionate as the facts suggest it was. Equally, his newfound religious fervour feels hollow. This is a man who left me cold, even more so than his more openly fanatical counterparts.

Research for Hamburg Cell which spanned just less than three years, arose from the observation that no one had tried to deduce what the 9/11 terrorists were actually like as human beings. The filmmakers wanted to stimulate debate, to try to present the terrorists as people rather than to demonise them as monsters – a brave decision in the current climate. Alice acknowledges that there were gaps in the information they were able to collect, particularly with respect to what motivated the men to embrace extremist ideology. This is unsettling for those of us who want to ‘explain away’ fanaticism. The filmmakers could have made an educated guess, instead they made a conscious decision not to fabricate an explanation whenever faced with a question to which they did not know the answer.

This is not a film about moderate Islam. Yet one of the problems I have with Hamburg Cell is that moderate Islam is barely represented. Nothing is done to highlight the difference between religious, non-fanatical Muslims and extremists. Sure, a few secular Muslims are portrayed – Aysel, Jarrah’s uncle, his cousin – but they do not practise at all. It is all too easy to deduce from the film that most mosque-going Muslims can become fanatics. The lack of explanation for the radicalisation of the 9/11 hijackers seems only to emphasise that any, every Muslim could become a terrorist. We are given no insight into the way these men interacted with secular German society and the impact that this may have had on their development. Only a few passing comments are made about political crises at the time (e.g. Chechnya) that may have contributed to their decline.

Some people will consider the depiction of the 9/11 terrorists in the film to be too neutral. My main concern is that in its refusal be subjective, individuals are left to interpret the film in line with their pre-existing prejudices. Extremists from both sides of the argument will feel vindicated. The rest of us will come away knowing little more about the workings of these men’s minds than when we started.

This film would have done itself more justice as a documentary. It could have stimulated just as much thought without failing to deliver on the promise of a story. Audiences seek more than the bones of a story from a film – they require it to be fleshed out as well. The filmmakers present us with shadowy characters and ask us to believe in them first as men and then as radicals, without providing any means of making the connection between the two. In seeking to portray the 9/11 terrorists without giving an opinion, Hamburg Cell only serves to underline how little we know about any of them.

Until the early 1990s, black British writing remained marginalised and undernourished while the volume of imported books by black American writers distorted the market. It took one book – Yardie – to trigger change. North London publisher The X Press picked up Victor Headley’s tough UK-Jamaican hood fable in 1992, after it had been rejected by many mainstream publishers. The book’s phenomenal success opened up new relationships in the book trade. X Press publisher Steve Pope recalls the initial enthusiasm of W H Smith, who became the first bookselling chain to introduce special ‘Black Interest’ sections in the early 1990s. As other booksellers followed suit, small presses saw their new literary discoveries snapped up by bigger publishing houses: Alex Wheatle, for example, was bought by 4th Estate (now an imprint of Murdoch-owned HarperCollins) after Black Amber published his debut novel Brixton Rock. The big houses began to adopt more writers from ethnic backgrounds (Asian as well as black – although the growth of Asian writing was less dramatic, and came later), not just as fashionable accessories, but for solid commercial reasons.

Today, established authors such as Hanif Kureishi, Zadie Smith and Meera Syal have the branding and resources of big publishing conglomerates to bring their writing to a wider audience. The success of these writers has created new opportunities for publishers and booksellers to support ethnically diverse writing, and the vogue for multicultural literature continues unabated. However, a glance at the UK bestseller lists reveals a different reality. Of the top 100 selling books of 2003 according to Nielsen Bookscan, none are by black or Asian writers. Monica Ali’s Booker-shortlisted Brick Lane, at 179th, was the highest ranked. In March this year, The Bookseller magazine conducted an illuminating survey into cultural diversity in book publishing, which concluded that, even if the industry was eager to change, it had some way to go.

Meanwhile, some feel that the true hotbed of diversity – the literary and cultural fringes – is under threat. In today’s tighter, more centralised book world, competition and sheer over-production are squeezing out variety and risk-taking among publishers and booksellers alike. ‘There isn’t the kind of support there used to be,’ says Steve, claiming that X Press sales have been affected by what he sees as a ‘one size fits all’ ethos in the book trade. Groups and companies that exist on the outskirts in the first place will be hardest hit by any extra financial pressure. While the heavy-hitters hog the limelight, it becomes harder than ever for first-time writers – whatever their background – to find a publisher.

It is probably true that fewer bookshops now devote exclusive space to minority writing than used to be the case in the mid-1990s. Big book selling chains now dominate the trade, and over the last decade booksellers have tended to hand over some of their former autonomy to the control of Head Offices. Dedicated ‘Black Interest’ sections now appear only in designated inner-city branches. Not even Waterstone’s in trafalgar square has one. However, such sections have always provoked mixed reactions: they may be a useful buyers’ tool and they may indeed encourage people to enter bookshops who otherwise wouldn’t, but many argue that they ghettoise minority writing, and that they offer an incoherent, disparate selection. To place ‘Black Crime’ next to ‘Black Erotica’ and ‘Black Social History’ does, after all, seem a bizarre concept. What remains true is that only when writers arrive at a certain level of prestige – Ben Okri, Toni Morrison et al – do they ‘graduate’ into general Fiction A-Z.

Yet we must tread carefully with our zealous cultural fringe theory. Before we rush to damn the bookselling chains, we should remember that it is often the larger stores and those with the higher turnover that can afford to take risks and stock books that they cannot guarantee will sell. While they can never replicate the dedication and range of such specialist stores as New Beacon bookshop in Stroud Green, North London, certain chain branches in areas with high proportions of minority ethnic groups – Ottakar’s in Clapham, South London is one example – do offer larger, well-tended ‘Black Interest’ sections to provide for local custom.

In publishing, as in other areas of our culture, the mainstream today is doing what the fringes struggled so hard to do 15-20 years ago. Authors start small and grow bigger. As their works become commercialised, more widely read – and thus more influential – the more space they occupy in the cultural airwaves. This process must continue, and only by allowing independent publishing room to breathe today will we preserve and promote the creativity and innovation that will forge the mainstream of tomorrow. So read widely, but be selective. Unlike in other retail sectors where manufacturers’ brands dominate, most of us are not influenced by the publisher’s logo in our decision to buy a book. Perhaps we should be. When you pick up a book, check the imprints page at the front: if it doesn’t say ‘subsidiary of’ on it, then chances are this independent firm needs your bucks more than a multinational giant. If a book on a 3 for 2 table catches your eye, just remember that the publisher paid the bookseller to put it there. If we want to prevent publishing from becoming monolithic, notwithstanding the strength and quality of those writers stabled at bigger houses, and instead allow many different publishers the space to cultivate the true breadth of multi-ethnic literary diversity in the UK, we, the consumers, need to go the extra mile.

The author works in Sales & Marketing at Serpent’s Tail, an independent publisher in Finsbury Park, North London

It is perhaps the complexity of this question of identity that has coloured Rabbi Blue’s liberal approach to religion and politics ever since. ‘Ghettoised’ as a Jew and then as a homosexual, Lionel flirted with a seemingly alphabetical array of ideologies, from Anarchism to Zionism before settling down to a long-term relationship with Reform Judaism. Politically, he now appears to hold the deepest respect for a sensible pragmatism and, above all, the virtues of what he calls ‘an open society’.

‘I would never go back to the closed society of my childhood,’ he tells me. ‘There’s a lot of love in it, but it’s much too restricting.’ Born into a London ghetto of the 1930’s, Lionel has seen first-hand how nationalisms can galvanize a people for nefarious ends. He recalls marching against the black shirts of Oswald Mosley as a youngster with fondness, and maintains a healthy disrespect for ‘flags and passports.’ ‘There is a great difference between being patriotic and being [a] nationalist,’ he explains.

Yet Lionel also notes in his autobiography that it was the Blitz that ‘blew together’ London’s Jewish and Irish communities. Is war more unifying than peace, I ask. The Rabbi stalls for a few moments and then defers. ‘I can’t answer that question,’ he says. ‘I can only tell you about the wars I’ve known… [The Blitz] was the first time in my memory that the ghettos we all lived in had really been broken. After that I could never go back to a straightforward ghetto again… It was a very defining experience for me.’

If Lionel has spent a lifetime trying to avoid the narrowness of the ghetto, it has not always been within the context of a welcoming society outside. Just this year, the European Monitoring Centre on Racism and Xenophobia published a report they had commissioned entitled, ‘Manifestations of anti-Semitism in the European Union’. Its findings were disturbing, showing an increase in anti-Semitic activities in EU member states since the escalation of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in 2000.
Does Lionel agree that the current wave of anti-Semitism has been gaining oxygen from accusations made against the State of Israel? ‘Yes it has, though I’m no lover of the Israeli government and its policies,’ he says, citing the problem of Palestinian refugees by way of example. For Rabbi Blue there is also an economic dimension to anti-Semitism. ‘People are usually generous when the cake gets bigger,’ he explains, ‘So in times of prosperity, they’re not anti-Semitic.’ This makes him especially worried about the situation in Eastern Europe, where, he says, ‘although nearly all of the Jews have been killed, the anti-Jewish feeling still remains. You don’t need Jews to have anti-Semitism. In fact, the presence of Jews is inconvenient, because myths flourish better when there is no living contradiction to them.’

It occurs to me that if Jews are now being targeted because they are seen as somehow connected to the actions of the Israeli government, their victimisation is mirrored by the Islamaphobic practice of attacking ordinary Muslims following outrages committed in the name of Islam. I ask how Lionel feels about the politicisation of religion. ‘When you mix politics with religion it’s a lethal cocktail,’ he says, ‘Religion hasn’t yet learnt how to deal with power. It becomes corrupted with power.’

Is it important to him that the Prime Minister has faith? ‘Yes,’ he replies, ‘But whether it will do him any good, I don’t know, because it depends on how he deals with the business of politics. On the whole, I prefer pragmatic Prime Ministers, with their own faith, who keep their politics one step away from religion.’

So, perhaps this comes down to a question of priorities. ‘Grandpa taught me not to be exclusive about Judaism,’ writes the Rabbi in his autobiography, ‘More fundamental than being a Jew was being a human being’. At a time when religious, ethnic and national conflicts are dominating the headlines, it is a worthy lesson from which all of us could learn.

Lionel Blue’s autobiography, Hitchhiking to Heaven is published by Hodder & Stoughton and will be released in hardback on 21 October. The paperback will follow in May 2005.