Alan Coleman

On the way home from work last night there was a Scandinavian couple at Victoria, I helped her up the stairs with the pushchair and an Underground bloke helped him with the luggage.

Helping tourists at Victoria is something that I do on a daily basis and a pattern has emerged. The Japanese, always polite and friendly, seem to head towards Kensington and west London. The Germans, always slightly miffed that they can’t figure out the complications at Victoria for themselves, usually head towards Westminster or the City. Both races of people are amongst my favourites.

Walking through a turnstile I catch a momentary glimpse of a short and wiry man going in the opposite direction, he is wearing a raincoat and carries a leather briefcase like a teacher. The thing is that I only saw him for a fraction of a second so my mind starts to re build his face into some weird fantasy involving a sheep that bleats in a strangely understandable language. As I walk away the imaginary sheep man is right in my face, his mouth and lower jaw looking like that of a mountain goat bleating away like he’s simply asking for directions.

I laugh out loud at the lunacy of it all and bleat back to nobody in particular.

This weekend provided yet another prime opportunity for the family Windsor to indulge in that time honoured royal tradition of dressing up.

Getting decked out in whatever military uniform takes ones fancy for an appearance on the balcony, where an adoring public will clap like sheep at the choice of garment.

Okay let’s start with Edward, whose life has amounted to little more than throwing money at failed business ventures whilst collecting accolades from mummy. He found himself a suitably toothy Sloane ranger to marry as the perfect excuse to concentrate on royal duties, thus saving everyone the embarrassment of watching him try to hold down a job.

So he appears at the WW2 commemorations dressed as a cavalry officer, the nerve of it was quite extraordinary. This is little more than fancy dress; living out some sort of homoerotic fantasy that gets hornier in direct proportion to applause. Remember It’s a royal knockout? They like it camp.

Is this something we can all indulge in?

“Alan, what the hell have you got on?”

“What this? Oh yeah I thought I’d come to work today dressed as the Third Admiral of the Fleet, this sword is quite fetching don’t you think?”

Surely it is completely inappropriate to dress up in the manner of a war hero so as to align yourself with their victorious cause? Essentially hijacking their hard earned glory to your own ends. Not only does this make a complete mockery of having to earn the privilege of wearing a uniform, it trivializes the historical nature of military units that underpins their existence.

The idea of royalty wearing whatever regalia suits them is as openly cynical as that of George Bush landing on an aircraft carrier in a military flying suit. The thought of either him or prince Edward physically confronting anyone to support any cause that doesn’t centre on themselves is of course laughable.

Tapping into the heroism and respect of a uniform is of course nothing new, King George VI always appeared in an army officers outfit, however the reality then was the same as it is with the present royals. And that is that soldiering was beyond him.

There are other institutions that have a mutual interest in royal fancy dress. Like the royal family, the Daily Mail taps into the romance of the war rather than its filthy practicalities. The smart uniforms represent a sanitised version of victory with the men on the balcony as the brave leaders, gentlemen warriors rather than the reality of men stoving each another’s faces in. The Daily Mail recently argued against a statue commemorating the children who were murdered by their superiors after deserting in WW1, yet will go gooey at the sight of royalty dressing up like soldiers that will never have to face a decision of that magnitude.

Ultimately the military are not just there for a sense of occasion or to serve as a reason to look smart. It is for some people a 9-5 job. It’s about low pay, camaraderie, respect, laughter and hard work in often unbearable conditions. None of which could be applied to any member of the royal family at any point in their lives. Consider the proud image of Fusilier Kelan Turrington, facing the camera with purpose and pride standing as a direct comparison to the chaps larking around on the balcony.

A uniform gives a sense of purpose and thus justifying some sort of profession, it is that purpose and the use of its history that the royal family use to safeguard their position as commanders in chief.

By being attached to the uniform the royal family presume any criticism levelled at them is a direct condemnation of the brave that have gone before them.

This whole scenario is simply not acceptable

I came to this book with ‘Arbeit macht frei’ ringing in my ears from a recent TV documentary, as it happens within a few pages the ironwork sign that is ‘Work makes freedom’ rears its ugly head with a morbid predictability.

The unknown is probably the most terrifying aspect of this book, the idea of not knowing where or when or what anything carries with it deep undertones that resonate against the basic instincts of humanity. This is furthered by the knowledge of history that allows the reader a terrifying insight into Levi’s destiny, the level of human naivety is explained in often bizarre but completely understandable circumstances.

The story is told honestly from a first hand account. In that respect the focus tends towards the daily running of a concentration camp rather than the genocide for which it is synonymous. It’s about day to day survival, the wooden shoes, the constant toil and unimaginably inhuman conditions. Some aspects of daily life are depicted throughout in unrelenting detail, the striped prisoners shirt and trousers being a good example. The process of replacing a button involves finding one, then a needle and thread to sow it on with, all which will need to be exchanged for the already scarce daily ration of soup.

One of the most shocking aspects of everything that is forced upon the prisoners is the humiliating nature of dehumanization, the process of reducing of a body people to a level far below that of the lowest animal imaginable. For me personally the idea of adults being forced to stand naked in front of each other is for some reason particularly harrowing. Compared to the idea of death itself nudity shouldn’t really be an issue, but I’ve always thought that if humans are stripped of the simple modesty that clothing affords then a collapse in dignity and self respect results. It’s this simple lack of dignity and respect that reduces the characters in the book to the sub human.

Death is never far away, whether it be through simple exhaustion or the grotesquely whimsical nature of selection, the destiny of which is left in no doubt whatsoever. The prisoners submissive resignation in the face of death being the result of a continuous cycle of starvation and grinding brutality, the likes of which formed a pivotal point surrounding ideas of humanity in the 20th century.

The cold also features heavily. The prisoners anticipate winter like it will probably be the one in which they wont survive, day after day of forced labour in freezing conditions often being too much for a starved and essentially naked person. The nature of the cold is beyond the comprehension of the reader, and as with many other aspects of daily life the levels extend beyond the descriptive abilities of any human language.

The fine detail also describes the absurdity of the situation in which the prisoners find themselves. For instance, on arrival they are left naked in a dark room a foot deep in freezing water, thinking that this is for them to bathe they ask for their tooth brushes. Not an unreasonable request given their knowledge at the time, but an utterly insane and even a darkly humorous one in an historical context.

The book also serves as a fascinating insight into the basics of a market economy, the swapping of lumps of bread for a homemade spoon or bowl without which one cannot eat the merge daily ration. The supply, demand and availability of obscure items like a broom, piece of cotton, matchsticks or string. Influence also plays a great part in the mini economy as well as the day to day survival effort, it’s all about who knows who and what that person can steal or make. Even the smallest contact could somehow put a prisoner one step ahead of the next man, which in turn could mean the difference between life and death. With the everyman for himself nature of survival Levi finds himself questioning the behavior of his own people as he does that of his oppressors.

The second book in this edition, The Truce, is an altogether different vibe that details Levis friendships and scrapes as he journeys back to Italy via Russia and eastern Europe. It is a fascinating account of how humans manage to get by through improvisation, bartering and relentless persistence. His description of his traveling companions and how they deal with the unknown nature of almost everything is warm with humility and humor. Like If This Is a Man, Levi refuses to indulge in self pity and hatred, preferring instead to highlight the more positive nature of the human under pressure

At the end of the book the author answers a number of questions that have been asked over the years, like why the Jews didn’t rebel or refuse to go along with the Nazi solution. A ridiculously naive question that I’ve always posed and to which I now know the answer.

If This Is a Man is without doubt one of the most profound stories I’ve read. The human decency and intelligence displayed in the writing has a deeply moving quality that leaves the reader as inspired as it does horrified. Despite everything that occurred Levi manages to tell the story in fine detail and with a brutal honesty. That he manages this without allowing himself to indulge in an understandable hated of Nazism stands as a testimony to his character, that of a fine example of humanity.

This week Hurricane Katrina exposed the obvious shortfalls in American society, demonstrating in the most dramatic manner how rampant capitalism stumbles so easily into an apocalyptic despair, and how like anywhere else in the world it’s the poor that suffer most.

I’m amazed to see those people who even before the hurricane had nothing, pulling the stars and stripes from the water and flying it aloft, the symbol that more than any other represents a nation divided. Despite my head shaking in a way I can see why, maybe people need something to believe in at a time of dire desperation, if everything is gone at least pride and identity can be salvaged.

The reality of their leader will surely tarnish any comfort the victims may derive from token gesture nationalism. George Bush, never the sharpest tool in the box, epitomises an America run exclusively by obscenely wealthy white businessmen for their own ends. A society that prides itself on raw power, free enterprise and widely held myths surrounding entrepreneurship and the lack of social class. The very same society that can launch astonishing military campaigns anywhere and against anyone who incurs their displeasure, yet is incapable of helping its own people on the doorstep.

Now the Bushmeister, talking slowly enough to prevent all that shit spilling from his gob, announces that he will personally oversee the inquiry.

Almost every American I have met has had about them the endearing qualities of friendliness, honesty and humour, and it’s for this reason that as a body of people I have always held them in high regard. A naive view maybe, but despite their slightly embarrassing demeanour I can’t help but see a general level of decency. With this in mind I refuse to believe that the people of New Orleans where left to their fate because they where black or poor, more probable is the idea that America sees itself as invincible and would simply not believe that it could spiral into third world chaos.

Despite all that’s happened it’s good to see that they haven’t lost any of their brilliant, if unintentional sense of humour.

“Don’t call us refugees. Call us survivors, or heroes”.