thedrifter
07-08-05, 04:40 AM
'Take Courage'
That's what the sign says, and the Brits do.
BY TUNKU VARADARAJAN
Friday, July 8, 2005 12:01 a.m. EDT
An assertion was made yesterday on the Web site of an al Qaeda affiliate claiming responsibility for the terrorist bombings in London: "Britain is now burning with fear."
This is not true; and it cannot ever be true, because it is alien to the British character to "burn." And even if ardor were not so damned un-British, "fear" would never make for kindling in Britannia. Some nations are too stoical, too suspicious of disarray, to panic or wilt in the face of hostility.
I spent much of yesterday morning emailing friends in London--short, worried notes with "You OK??" in the subject line. "Drop me a line," I asked, "so I know you're all right."
The responses were all reassuring, and all marked by that distinctive unflappability that no visitor to Britain can fail to notice, however brief his sojourn. When I moved to London from New Delhi as a boy of 15, I was greatly impressed by the large, stark billboards I saw all over the city depicting a pint of ale. They said: "Take Courage." That was the name of the beer, of course, but I could not help thinking that this counsel was irrefutable proof of national fiber. Which, clearly, it was.
My friend Q.'s response to my note yesterday was a very British jewel: "Yes, tin helmet firmly affixed on bean, sandbags at the door, sticky tape on the windows, but the kettle is on and we'll soon have steaming mugs of sweet tea to hand. Don't panic!"
Q. was chiding me for my note--and I took that as proof of absolute well-being. In his words we find a self-deprecating pride, a gentle mocking of the "Mrs. Miniver" approach that got Britons through the Blitz--and, by golly, was going to see them through this brush with Islamist lunatics.
P., an old sage who has lived in London all his life (except for a brief stint in ghastly Glasgow with his regiment after the war), had this to say about his morning trip into the office: "I'm OK, but am a bit shattered, old boy. It's a hairy thing, walking to work at my age. At Bond Street [tube station] someone went around shouting 'Everybody out. Emergency reported.' Thousands stagger out. Bus queues horrendous. I get in line. Swear. Looked around for a taxi. I must be joking. So hoofed it. Still puffing. How to get home, Zeus knows!"
This was perfect British phlegm: no more than a cursory word about the danger; instead, an ironic, yet detailed, account of how difficult it had been to get to work, dash it. Between the lines, one can read of how intent P. (and thousands of others) had been to maintain the Natural Order. Bombs have just gone off in their midst, yet those Londoners cling to their queues. And who can say they are wrong?
R., a third friend from whom I heard, brought out another, underrated, side to the British character, that of contemplativeness under pressure. Oh, and good manners, too.
"How very sweet of you to think of me," she wrote. "I am fine--thanks very much. London is a ghost-town--but I sense among the few people out on the Soho streets a resignation which borders almost on a feeling of relief that at last the threat which has hung over the city since 9/11 has been realized--it's like seeing the face of the monster in the horror film--thanks v. much again for thinking of me."
Only the day before, Britain was in exultant fettle; there had been--for Britons, the world's most unshowy people--a quite dazzling outburst of national pride. London had secured the 2012 Olympics, and Jacques Chirac, most enjoyably of all, had had to eat some humble (Shepherd's) pie after disparaging British cuisine in an attempt to boost the Parisian bid for the games. After the bombs, all celebration cast aside, there was no breast-beating, no ululation, just sangfroid (how lovely that the Brits use the French language to describe their most natural state).
It really is considered unseemly to complain, or to feel sorry for oneself, among Britons: This aversion to self-pity is bad for the terrorists, who thrive on attention and the sowing of chaos. They won't get much satisfaction in Britain. Londoners will not retreat into their shells, and they are unlikely to do as the Spaniards did and draw out the tragedy with a lot of public recrimination, or to capitulate in any way.
The secret of British composure is that Britons really do feel proud of their civilization. On the whole, they apologize for very little, which is as it should be. Their message to terrorists is always likely to be straight and robust: "How dare you! I'm British!"
Mr. Varadarajan is editorial features editor of The Wall Street Journal.
Ellie
That's what the sign says, and the Brits do.
BY TUNKU VARADARAJAN
Friday, July 8, 2005 12:01 a.m. EDT
An assertion was made yesterday on the Web site of an al Qaeda affiliate claiming responsibility for the terrorist bombings in London: "Britain is now burning with fear."
This is not true; and it cannot ever be true, because it is alien to the British character to "burn." And even if ardor were not so damned un-British, "fear" would never make for kindling in Britannia. Some nations are too stoical, too suspicious of disarray, to panic or wilt in the face of hostility.
I spent much of yesterday morning emailing friends in London--short, worried notes with "You OK??" in the subject line. "Drop me a line," I asked, "so I know you're all right."
The responses were all reassuring, and all marked by that distinctive unflappability that no visitor to Britain can fail to notice, however brief his sojourn. When I moved to London from New Delhi as a boy of 15, I was greatly impressed by the large, stark billboards I saw all over the city depicting a pint of ale. They said: "Take Courage." That was the name of the beer, of course, but I could not help thinking that this counsel was irrefutable proof of national fiber. Which, clearly, it was.
My friend Q.'s response to my note yesterday was a very British jewel: "Yes, tin helmet firmly affixed on bean, sandbags at the door, sticky tape on the windows, but the kettle is on and we'll soon have steaming mugs of sweet tea to hand. Don't panic!"
Q. was chiding me for my note--and I took that as proof of absolute well-being. In his words we find a self-deprecating pride, a gentle mocking of the "Mrs. Miniver" approach that got Britons through the Blitz--and, by golly, was going to see them through this brush with Islamist lunatics.
P., an old sage who has lived in London all his life (except for a brief stint in ghastly Glasgow with his regiment after the war), had this to say about his morning trip into the office: "I'm OK, but am a bit shattered, old boy. It's a hairy thing, walking to work at my age. At Bond Street [tube station] someone went around shouting 'Everybody out. Emergency reported.' Thousands stagger out. Bus queues horrendous. I get in line. Swear. Looked around for a taxi. I must be joking. So hoofed it. Still puffing. How to get home, Zeus knows!"
This was perfect British phlegm: no more than a cursory word about the danger; instead, an ironic, yet detailed, account of how difficult it had been to get to work, dash it. Between the lines, one can read of how intent P. (and thousands of others) had been to maintain the Natural Order. Bombs have just gone off in their midst, yet those Londoners cling to their queues. And who can say they are wrong?
R., a third friend from whom I heard, brought out another, underrated, side to the British character, that of contemplativeness under pressure. Oh, and good manners, too.
"How very sweet of you to think of me," she wrote. "I am fine--thanks very much. London is a ghost-town--but I sense among the few people out on the Soho streets a resignation which borders almost on a feeling of relief that at last the threat which has hung over the city since 9/11 has been realized--it's like seeing the face of the monster in the horror film--thanks v. much again for thinking of me."
Only the day before, Britain was in exultant fettle; there had been--for Britons, the world's most unshowy people--a quite dazzling outburst of national pride. London had secured the 2012 Olympics, and Jacques Chirac, most enjoyably of all, had had to eat some humble (Shepherd's) pie after disparaging British cuisine in an attempt to boost the Parisian bid for the games. After the bombs, all celebration cast aside, there was no breast-beating, no ululation, just sangfroid (how lovely that the Brits use the French language to describe their most natural state).
It really is considered unseemly to complain, or to feel sorry for oneself, among Britons: This aversion to self-pity is bad for the terrorists, who thrive on attention and the sowing of chaos. They won't get much satisfaction in Britain. Londoners will not retreat into their shells, and they are unlikely to do as the Spaniards did and draw out the tragedy with a lot of public recrimination, or to capitulate in any way.
The secret of British composure is that Britons really do feel proud of their civilization. On the whole, they apologize for very little, which is as it should be. Their message to terrorists is always likely to be straight and robust: "How dare you! I'm British!"
Mr. Varadarajan is editorial features editor of The Wall Street Journal.
Ellie