Book Review - In the Shadow of the Sword - Yes It's F*cking Political, Everything's Political

Tom Holland has made quite the name for himself with his narrative histories. His first, Rubicon, is about the rise of Julius Caesar and the transformation of Rome from the Republic it had been to the Empire usually envisioned by those of us raised on Hollywood sword and sandal epics and the UK history syllabus.




Here, Holland covers a far more complex and controversial era of history, the world of late antiquity centred on what we now refer to as the Middle East. This fits in nicely with my current undertaking of patching the massive holes left in my knowledge of world history by the aforementioned UK school syllabus. It particularly snuggles like a jigsaw piece against Judith Herrin’s superlative history of Byzantium which, naturally, focused on that great city itself and the world beyond only inasmuch as it bore directly upon it.




The setting here is the Eastern edge of the late Roman Empire where it abuts the most Westerly of the great Asian empires - initially the Parthians, then succeeded by the Sassanians. Each, much to the surprise of most people with a Western Classical education, was easily a match for mighty Rome and inflicted at least as many defeats and humiliations upon it as it upon them (the most striking of which is the fate of Emperor Valerian who, after being captured by the Parthians, spent the rest of his life being used by King Shapur I as a stool to mount his house and, on his death, having his skin flayed and gilded as a throneroom trophy).




Holland throws in vignettes like this to wonderful effect - such as the introductory account of the bloodthirsty religions zeal of Yusuf As’ar Yath’ar, before ending with the startling line “So perished… the last Jewish king to rule in Arabia.”




The author spends most of the book with background of how the two great empires grew and changed through the first 600 years or so of the Common Era - more detail on the Sassanids as Rome is more familiar to his audience, although he sketches in such things as the Gothic conquest of Italy and Spain and refers to a few things with which we are more likely to be familiar to ground the narrative. He takes us through the difficulties that Parthia has with the ‘barbarians’ on its Northern and Eastern frontiers that it massively underestimates and leads to its collapse (if I’ve learnt one thing from reading history, it is NEVER pursue bands of mobile mounted archers however much the taunt you), along with an overview of their culture and religion.




Along with this, as part of the timeline of Constantinople, we are shown the rise of Christianity in Palestine - the response of Rome to the various Hebrew insurrections, leading ultimately to expulsion from Jerusalem, the foundation of the Holy Land as a place of pilgrimage from Europe following Constantine’s conversion, the ascetic monks such as Simeon on his pillar. We also get a potted history of the schisms of Christianity, Nicea and Chalcedon, the Arians and the Copts.


Then, in the third part of the book, we are introduced again to that fragment of the region under the control of neither superpower. To the south of the fractious border is Arabia, a land considered barbarous by both Romans and Sassanians, although they are both also quite happy to pay the tribes as mercenaries. This disregard despite the fact that this area has housed the kingdom of Sheba, made wealthy beyond imagining by being the major supplier of Frankincense but fallen on hard times by the rise of Christianity and their dislike of such pagan practices as the burning of incense. From this area comes a third force, one which gives some editions of this book its alternative (and rather inflammatory) subtitle, “The Birth of Islam and the Rise of the Global Arab Empire”.




And this is where the controversy comes in. Holland shows how Islam rose not only as a political force as much as a religious one, but that it was a melange of the Hebraic history of the Arabian peninsula (as foreshadowed by that introduction with King Yusuf), the Manichaeism of late Iranshahr (Sassania), along with influences from others in the area such as the Biblically maligned Samaritans, the philosophy generated by the Christian schisms and the close textual analysis and argumentation of the Jewish yeshivas. Most controversial of all, the author points out the signal lack of contemporary accounts of the Qu’ran, Mecca and Mohammed’s direct influence. He shows Islam (or the Mohammedan faith, which came to be called Islam almost a century later) as a political construct, as riven with dissent and infighting as any other human political process. Perhaps most shockingly of all, he suggests that the hadiths, the sayings of Mohammed used as an adjunct to and expansion of the Qu’ran, are made up out of whole cloth the best part of a century after his death to justify interpretations of the extremely vague Qu’ran - or, indeed, to entirely re-write it, such as to upgrade the punishment for adultery from lashes to the traditional Jewish death by stoning. Mixed in with the jockeying for position as the power behind this new and vast empire, this shows that Islam and its holy texts are no more trustworthy and god-given than those of Christianity or Judaism, Zoroastrianism or Hinduism. They are products of human societies, of political power struggles that have a background and a frame, that both use belief and are a vector for it.




While Tom Holland’s fourth history book (he also write fiction - I really should investigate that!) is not without flaws, it is remarkably well written, well argued, as well as well researched and referenced. I have yet to read a narrative history as good as his debut, Rubicon (although that is on a par with saying that I have yet to hear a symphony on par with Beethoven’s ninth or Mahler’s fifth. Okay, anything by Mahler) but I think that is because the relatively narrow focus of the internecine power plays of Roma perhaps lend themselves more easily to the narrative history style without oversimplification. Holland obviously must simplify somewhat, but he really does seem to try to include as much relevant information as is humanly possible. As with his book Persian Fire about the Greco-Persian wars (Thermopylae and all that) this can lead to a temporary overload of information, that I dealt with by putting aside the book for a few days on occasion to allow my brain to process it. I do also feel that he sometimes gives myths of Christianity an easier ride that those of other religions, putting them down with argumentative foot- or endnotes. While this may be purely as he expects the audience to be already more familiar with these, it does mean these appear to be accepted more uncritically.




In all, an utterly superb addition to my knowledge of the history that has formed our world, told in an utterly compelling, absorbing and informative manner.

Book review: Crossed by Garth Ennis and Jasen Burrows

This is a tough book to rate. To say it is disturbing is putting it mildly. There are scenes of graphic, often sexual, violence that are difficult to see. And as this is a graphic novel (graphic being the appropriate word), you do see them. Are they entirely necessary for telling to story, or just for shock value? To some extent it is shock value, and the shock and horror and disgust created by the images has an effect on the story, so I guess it is also necessary for the story to be what it is.


The format is the basic zombie/infected set up, the mass outbreak coming out of nowhere as a bunch of disparate survivors flee for their lives. These infected are not dead. Bites or bodily fluids spread the infection almost instantly, turning the victims into ravening monsters of the worst kind, powered by the desire to kill and torture and rape and eat their prey. The infection also marks their faces with a rash that forms a cross, hence the survivors name for them and the title of the book. In themselves, the crossed are nothing new; they are an embodiment of the basest evils perpetrated by psychopaths and war criminals, just like the Reavers from Serenity/Firefly. But here we are actually shown what they do.


The cross can obviously be seen as a religious reference - especially as this is Garth Ennis, who has always been obsessed with Christianity and masculinity. Is it the metaphor for an antihuman religion brainwashing people into acts of depravity? Perhaps, but this seems rather too obvious. The reddish crosses on the faces of the infected actually made me think of England football fans made up with greasepaint, an in-joke which is, I'm sure, entirely deliberate. And there are jokes, there is humanity in here, which is what makes it worth reading. The survivors have to try and keep hold of their own humanity despite the horror, despite some of the things they do to survive. At the end, the book does close with a note of hope and beauty that is achieved because of - not in spite of - the horrors we have witnessed.


So, would I read it again? No. Am I glad I read it? I'll get back to you on that. Is it well written and superbly drawn, is it gripping and affecting? Without a doubt.


However, if you are thinking of reading it, be warned. This is the sort of book that was beyond the worst nightmares of the guy who dreamt up the Comics Code Authority in the 50s.

Book Review: Children of God, by Mary Doria Russell

Mary Doria Russell’s sequel to her astonishing debut, The Sparrow, finds Jesuit priest Emilio Sandoz still struggling with the trauma of the events that left him the only survivor of the mission to the planet Rakhat. He is beginning to be able to accept love and friendship and meaning in life to replace the hole left by his loss of faith, when the church tries to convince him to return - as the foremost expert on Rakhati languages and the only human being with any experience of the complex social structures of the two sentient species. Sandoz’ resignation from the society of Jesus and the priesthood leaves the leadership with a dilemma; if Emilio’s return to Rakhat is vital to God’s plan, does this end justify the means?

This is another terrific book, with superbly drawn main characters and startlingly beautiful prose, that explores some deep philosophical questions - although mostly the personal, universal ones of belief, doubt and purpose. What drives us and how we come to terms with tragedy and failure and loss and injury. It is about forgiveness, of others and of ourselves.

There is one Big Issue touched upon; should contact with a pristine culture respect their social structures and allow harm to some of its members to continue, or try not to intervene at the risk (perhaps certainty) of destroying it? Leaving aside the fact that change from contact may be inevitable, this book makes no easy answers; Rakhati society is turned upside down - quite literally, with the ‘oppressed’ becoming the new rulers and the previously dominant species possibly facing total extinction and, in any case, a decades-long war with millions of casualties.

The book is not without fault. The space travel took me out of suspension of disbelief somewhat; while the idea of relativity is well used, there is only the merest attempt to make the travel realistic (gravity approximated by the acceleration of the ship), while the ‘crew’ (who seem more like passengers) cook meals on a stove and drink wine from glasses.

There also seems to be an odd gap, perhaps an omission due to editing. The storyline featuring Sofia Mendez, thought killed with the the rest of the mission in the first book is riveting as she teaches Runa a different way of life than subservience and her son Isaac - a severely autistic savant - explores the music of Rakhat and of Earth. They disappear from the story for several decades (if not many pages, due to the way the book is structured) and this feels like a loss. More could be made of Sofia’s transformation into the stateswoman she becomes and, in Isaac’s final brief appearance, he seems reduced from the fascinatingly focussed person we knew to some sort of holy fool happy to impart his message.

More importantly, some of the conclusions are, perhaps, a little pat. While in The Sparrow the question of whether the events were simply a combination of chance and human agency or part of God’s plan is left satisfyingly unclear and open to interpretation, here there is a rather blatant authorial shove in the direction of the divine.

Despite these flaws, The Sparrow and Children of God (which are very much as a single work) are wonderful reads and explorations of belief and morality. I am someone to whom the concept of a higher power is quite alien, but the struggles and motivations of those characters with such a thing at their core was made real to me.

The pope is a right Charlie

Pope Francis has just spoken out in support of terrorism. I’m guessing that this isn’t what he meant to do, but that was the meaning of his words. He said that if someone insulted his mother they could expect a punch in the face, and insulting someone’s religion was much the same thing. “You can’t insult someone’s faith,” he said. If that isn’t saying that the Charlie Hebdo people were basically asking for what happened, I don’t know what is.

Do I have the right to insult the Pope’s mother? Yes, I do. Would doing so without good reason make me an arsehole? Yes, it would - and there is but one commandment; try not to be a dick. However, I could criticise the Pope’s mother if I thought I had good reason to do so (I’m sure she is a lovely woman and she seems to have raised a son with, generally speaking, a good social conscience, so well done her). Likewise, I can criticise a religion - or any idea or set of ideas. And that is an important difference; a religion IS a set of ideas and is not a person. It is open to criticism, yes, and if the the ideas are ridiculous they are open to ridicule. And the people who believe those ideas are, by definition, not the ones who decide whether what I say is opinion, criticism or insult. If I say that, because there is no god, Christ was not divine - or, in fact, there is no evidence that such a person actually existed - or that, for the same reason, Muhammad was not inspired by god you may feel insulted by these statements but they are not inherently insulting.

But, you may ask, isn’t Muhammad a person? Well, he certainly was a real person but, as I say, I do have the right to insult a person although doing so may make me an arsehole. However, as a supposed prophet and founder of a religion, Muhammad has become an idea more than a person and, what is more, the very act of saying that you are not allowed to criticise someone or something makes it almost a duty to do so. That is the case whether this is a political figure like the current Turkish prime minister or a religious one.

And, don’t forget, while my criticism of religion may be overt all religions criticise the others by their very existence; for example, the tenets of Islam and Judaism state Jesus Christ was not divine, thereby entirely negating the reason for the existence of Christianity. All religions state that they have the one truth so, by definition, the adherents of the others are at least misguided. As an atheist I say that all the religions are correct, on this one point at least. And it is my right to do so. If there are ridiculous ideas that I think are doing harm, I will ridicule them. If you do bad things and I think part of the reason you do them is the ideas you hold - or those ideas are the reasons you give for doing those things - I will criticise and possibly insult you. If you are a good person, I don’t really care if you hold some beliefs that I find silly; I almost certainly hold some that you do, too. Maybe we can have a friendly debate. I fully recognise that trading insults is not an effective way to win an argument but if you place even the possibility of debate out of bounds, then expect some ripe and inventive abuse.

Dinner and a movie

My usual Sunday evening is going to my dad's, making tea (this evening being chicken breasts in a honey & mustard glaze with creamy leek and mushroom tagliatelle. That's right; all this and I cook, too. Sorry, ladies, I'm spoken for). This is also usually followed by a movie, a DVD I've taken over that I think my dad and Margaret should enjoy. Yes, I do look upon this partly as an educational endeavor, introducing them to good films they probably wouldn't seek out of their own accord and, I confess, success has been mixed. They loved Stranger Than Fiction and Little Miss Sunshine, were bored by The Royal Tenenbaums and confused by The Prestige. I think I'll hold off on Adaptation, Rashomon and Pan's Labyrinth.

Tonight we had a selection but went for Life of Pi, a film I saw at the cinema and loved. I know a lot of religious people came out of it and loved it because it "affirmed the importance of faith" and I know some atheists who hated it because they saw a new-agey, there-are-many-paths-to-god message. I think that both are wrong, although I guess also kind of right.

Firstly, I love this movie because of the quality of the film-making; as well as the visuals, which are utterly stunning, the pacing and storytelling are superb. I think this is a masterclass in film making. But I also love the story. Let me get this straight; I am a hard-line atheist, often anti-theist - I believe that the denial of critical thinking and reliance on moral authority that religion often teaches is a terrible burden on humanity. I think there is a clear correlation; that it is perfectly clear that parts of the world that are more in thrall to this sort of belief are less humans and civilised and those that have shaken it off more so. So, no bush-beating here.

And there is undoubtedly a religious message in this film, and the Yann Martell book upon which it is based (I had read the book before seeing the movie - yay for me - so it is possible that I see more layers than the more visual art form allows, although I think Ang Lee and scriptwriter David Magee do a superb job of conveying these). But I do think many people miss a subtlety which, frankly, isn't all that subtle. At the end, after the story of survival, all those weeks at see in a small lifeboat with a Bengal tiger, when asked if this is true, Pi gives another possibility. Perhaps it is all a metaphor. Perhaps the hyena was the vile ships cook and the zebra the Buddhist sailor and the orangutan his mother - and he was the tiger. The the cook allowed the sailor to die and used his flesh for bait to catch fish - maybe even ate some of it - and in an argument killed Pi's mother. And that Pi, the tiger, killed him. That the story the film has told us in those spectacular visuals is a metaphor that Pi has created to allow himself to survive, to live with the events. And when it is put to him bluntly, "But which is true?" Pi answers: "which story do you prefer?"

And this isn't a cop out. Pi's early life of absorbing the ideas of Hinduism and Christianity and Islam, following all of them equally, fits this perfectly. On one level it is saying that there is truth and there is a good story and that, all being equal, sometimes it is fine to go with the good story. But rather than be a pure expression of faith this leaves multiple interpretations. Pi, as the narrator who has laid this tale before us, is fully aware of the disconnect between that which is factual and those stories we tell ourselves to get by. Sometimes it may be better to accept the internally consistent tale that makes us feel better but is just a pretty story. This is by no means a clear-cut, comfortable ending from any viewpoint, and leaves me, at least, pondering how we construct the reality that we live through.

The fact that the film - and the book - can be interpreted in multiple ways, has multiple readings, for me simply reinforces how excellent it is.

Still here

So, to the surprise of very few people, the rapture didn't occur this weekend. The world hasn't ended for most of us, although for many thousands it will have done, as it does every single day. In that respect Saturday 21st May was nothing special. Some of those deaths may be the direct cause of the rapture – or, rather, of the prediction of the End by one individual. I expect that around the world there were several emotionally vulnerable people who took their own lives in disappointment that the messiah did not show up.

Interestingly, as I write Mr Camping, the man whose predictions gained him international publicity, has not been sighted since the time allotted for the coming of the final days. I await with bated breath the announcement that he did indeed ascend bodily to heaven.

Yes, it is easy to mock someone who appears to be at best on the fringes of the Christian faith, or possibly just a crazy old man getting too much publicity. However, just because mocking him and his beliefs is easy, and indeed fun, doesn't make it wrong. The fact is that although very few people believed the world was going to end last Saturday, a significant number of people do seem to believe that it will indeed end, and probably soon, and this group of people are not a fringe but wield a disproportionate amount of power for what is easily, and I think rightly, characterised as a damaging belief system. Damaging because they believe that the coming end is total and inevitable,. Damaging because they invariably believe that they are amongst the chosen group that are going to be saved. Damaging because they believe that this ending is a good thing. Damaging because why should people who live by these beliefs do anything to make the world a better place? Obviously if heaven is coming for all (all, anyway, who accept god – or their version of the divine and the particular rules laid down in a much-bastardised bronze-age text) then why bother with caring for the environment or society around you? At the very worst this affects global political policy – the US Secretary of the Interior (responsible for environmental policy) under the first George Bush who said “When the last tree is felled that will be great day, as it means the coming of the Lord is at hand.” And there can be little doubt that George W. Bush's Middle East policy was at the very least influenced by the belief that the messiah would return to Israel in the very near future.

Most people don't act like this, you may say, even if they claim to believe that the rapture is just around the corner. They continue to put their wages into savings accounts and have children, book holidays and invest in pensions. If asked, many would claim they are doing this because that is how they are instructed to live, or perhaps that “no-one knows when the time will come”, but could it be that they don't really believe what they profess to believe? I'm not knocking them; it is a good thing that they don't. The man who spent his $140, 000 savings on billboards advertising 21st May as the end of the world must be having a few pangs of doubt right now, and I'm sure he wasn't alone. The world goes on, and it is surely our responsibility to not only make the most of every moment that we are in it – because for us it is true that we know not when the end will indeed come – but to extend that privilege to those with whom we share the planet and those who will continue to live on it for the years, decade, centuries and millennia to come.

It has been said before that we become adults when we are able to take responsibility for ourselves and our actions, and no longer rely on our parents to bail us out. Isn't it time that we took the same step into adulthood as a species? Once upon a time we may have needed our hand holding to make us feel better about the big scary world around us. Now we have stepped out from the confines of our garden and see that the world is far bigger, and perhaps scarier, than we could ever have imagined. But it is also more wonderful and inspiring and filled with awe. We can retreat from the universe into superstition, or we can act as responsible adults and recognise that we are part of it.