Luckily James Baldwin wasn’t too keen either. In The Fire Next Time he describes a visit to Elijah Muhammad. He tells of how close he feels to Elijah and how he wishes to be able to love him. But when he tells Elijah that he has many white friends, he receives Elijah’s pity. For Elijah the whites’ time is up. It’s no good Baldwin telling him he has white friends with whom he’d entrust his life.
As the evening goes on, Baldwin tires of the sycophancy around Elijah. He and Elijah would always be strangers and ‘possibly enemies’. Baldwin deplores the black Muslims’ turning to Africa and to Islam, this turning away from the reality of America and ‘inventing’ the past. Baldwin also mentions Malcolm X and the chief of the American Nazi party saying that racially speaking they were in complete agreement: they both wanted separate development. Baldwin adds that the debasement of one race and the glorification of another in this way inevitably leads to murder.
After this the Muslims weren’t too keen on Baldwin, to say the least. Eldridge Cleaver, who once raped white women ‘on principle’, had a picture of Elijah Muhammad, the great strength-giver, on his prison wall. Later he became a devoted supporter of Malcolm X.
Cleaver says of Baldwin: ‘There is in James Baldwin’s work the most gruelling, agonizing, total hatred of the blacks, particularly of himself, and the most shameful, fanatical, fawning, sycophantic love of the white that one can find in the writing of any black American writer of note in our time.’
How strange it was to me, this worthless abuse of a writer who could enter the minds and skins of both black and white, and the good just anger turning to passionate Islam as a source of pride instead of to a digested political commitment to a different kind of whole society. And this easy thrilling talk of ‘white devils’ instead of close analysis of the institutions that kept blacks low.
I saw the taking up of Islam as an aberration, a desperate fantasy of worldwide black brotherhood; it was a symptom of extreme alienation. It was also an inability to seek a wider political view or cooperation with other oppressed groups — or with the working class as a whole — since alliance with white groups was necessarily out of the question.
I had no idea what an Islamic society would be like, what the application of the authoritarian theology Elijah preached would mean in practice. I forgot about it, fled the suburbs, went to university, got started as a writer and worked as an usher at the Royal Court Theatre. It was over ten years before I went to an Islamic country.
TWO: PAKISTAN
The man had heard that I was interested in talking about his country, Pakistan, and that this was my first visit. He kindly kept trying to take me aside to talk. But I was already being talked to.
I was at another Karachi party, in a huge house, with a glass of whisky in one hand, and a paper plate in the other. Casually I’d mentioned to a woman friend of the family that I wasn’t against marriage. Now this friend was earnestly recommending to me a young woman who wanted to move to Britain, with a husband. To my discomfort this go-between was trying to fix a time for the three of us to meet and negotiate.
I went to three parties a week in Karachi. This time, when I could get away from this woman, I was with landowners, diplomats, businessmen and politicians: powerful people. This pleased me. They were people I wouldn’t have been able to get to in England and I wanted to write about them.
They were drinking heavily. Every liberal in England knows you can be lashed for drinking in Pakistan. But as far as I could tell, none of this English-speaking international bourgeoisie would be lashed for anything. They all had their favourite trusted bootleggers who negotiated the potholes of Karachi at high speed on disintegrating motorcycles, with the hooch stashed on the back. Bad bootleggers passed a hot needle through the neck of your bottle and drew your whisky out. Stories were told of guests politely sipping ginger beer with their ice and soda, glancing at other guests to see if they were drunk and wondering if their own alcohol tolerance had miraculously increased.
I once walked into a host’s bathroom to see the bath full of floating whisky bottles being soaked to remove the labels, a servant sitting on a stool serenely poking at them with a stick.
So it was all as tricky and expensive as buying cocaine in London, with the advantage that as the hooch market was so competitive, the ’leggers delivered video tapes at the same time, dashing into the room towards the TV with hot copies of The Jewel in the Crown, The Far Pavilions, and an especially popular programme called Mind Your Language, which represented Indians and Pakistanis as ludicrous caricatures.
Everyone, except the mass of the population, had videos. And I could see why, since Pakistan TV was so peculiar. On my first day I turned it on and a cricket match was taking place. I settled in my chair. But the English players, who were on tour in Pakistan, were leaving the pitch. In fact, Bob Willis and Ian Botham were running towards the dressing rooms surrounded by armed police and this wasn’t because Botham had made derogatory remarks about Pakistan. (He said it was a country to which he’d like to send his mother-in-law.) In the background a section of the crowd was being tear-gassed. Then the screen went blank.
Stranger still, and more significant, was the fact that the news was now being read in Arabic, a language few people in Pakistan understood. Someone explained to me that this was because the Koran was in Arabic, but everyone else said it was because General Zia wanted to kiss the arses of the Arabs.
The man at the party, who was drunk, wanted to tell me something and kept pulling at me. The man was worried. But wasn’t I worried too? I was trapped with this woman and the marriage proposal.
I has having a little identity crisis. I’d been greeted so warmly in Pakistan, I felt so excited by what I saw, and so at home with all my uncles, I wondered if I were not better off here than there. And when I said, with a little unnoticed irony, that I was an Englishman, people laughed. They fell about. Why would anyone with a brown face, Muslim name and large well-known family in Pakistan want to lay claim to that cold little decrepit island off Europe where you always had to spell your name? Strangely, anti-British remarks made me feel patriotic, though I only felt patriotic when I was away from England.
But I couldn’t allow myself to feel too Pakistani. I didn’t want to give in to that falsity, that sentimentality. As someone said to me at a party, provoked by the fact I was wearing jeans: we are Pakistanis, but you, you will always be a Paki — emphasising the slang derogatory name the English used against Pakistanis, and therefore the fact that I couldn’t rightfully lay claim to either place.
In England I was a playwright. In Karachi this meant little. There were no theatres; the arts were discouraged by the state — music and dancing are un-Islamic — and ignored by practically everyone else. So despite everything I felt pretty out of place.
The automatic status I gained through my family obtained for me such acceptance, respect and luxury that for the first time I could understand the privileged and their penchant for marshalling ridiculous arguments to justify their delicious and untenable position as an élite. But as I wasn’t a doctor, or businessman or military person, people suspected that this writing business I talked about was a complicated excuse for idleness, uselessness and general bumming around. In fact, as I proclaimed an interest in the entertainment business, and talked much and loudly about how integral the arts were to a society, moves were being made to set me up in the amusement arcade business, in Shepherd’s Bush.