folio

Dear Right Honourable,

You won’t remember me, but I remember you. I used to sit on your left in our Politics tutorials at college — both literally and metaphorically.

When I saw you speaking in Parliament recently, I recognised you instantly, despite the passage of thirty years.

Occasionally we would spar in our tutorials. Supposedly, my humanitarian leanings were the politics of envy. I was one of those despicable lefties.

But that was just a misreading of the facts. Actually, my family lived in the affluent suburbs, five miles from college, the culmination of a culture of aspiration.

Like you, my paternal grandfather had been a working class lad. Unlike you, he left school at 14 and never went to university.

But as a result of persistent hard work, he became director of a major manufacturing firm in our city and travelled the world for trade negotiations.

His two sons in turn became successful solicitors. By the time I arrived at college, my father was managing partner of the foremost law firm in the region.

Who was to know why I stood for the things I stood for? I could easily have been just another reactionary socialist in a city dominated by the Labour Party. But I don’t think that was it.

If anything defined my family, it was not economics but religion. Ours was a profoundly ethical upbringing. We were raised to believe in the equality of all people, to be charitable and to champion human rights.

My mother was a hospital chaplain and had just been ordained priest. My father was a long-serving lay preacher who had just been made canon for the diocese. And me?

I considered myself an agnostic then, but I was still heavily influenced by my upbringing. I had a passion for poverty alleviation and was fiercely anti-racist.

When I arrived at your side in those Politics tutorials, I had just returned from a Christian youth festival on the Isle of Iona, orientated around the theme of social justice.

Naturally, in our tutorials, you had humour on your side, whereas I was a bit too serious. But then those were serious times, I thought.

South Africa had just had its first democratic elections, post-apartheid, but we were witnessing war in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and an unfolding genocide in Rwanda.

How could a compassionate soul not be stirred by the events taking place all around them? We had Bosnian refugees in our college, some of whom I had been asked by my tutor to assist.

You might say I was radicalised by those events. You went off to study Politics at university, and I eventually went to study International Development. Politics with a humanitarian slant.

In the intervening years, it seems, we were both moved to pursue that natural monotheism our souls yearn for. At least that was what it was for me: seeking the Oneness of God.

I took up the path of faith a quarter of a century ago, which has given me time to grow more reflective. Gone the zealous convertitus which characterised the early years along the path.

To me, these journeys of faith are about striving to create a better world for all. Often it starts with inner reform, as we strive to be the best versions of ourselves we can be. But eventually that task moves outwards.

The call of faith — if that is what has attracted us — is a humanitarian mission towards creating a healthy and safe environment for all, founded on justice and concern for the dispossessed.

That may mean advocating on behalf of our downtrodden brethren, but it might also demand we stand against them if they take to oppression or injustice.

We are not called to communitarianism, but to witness to the truth, even against ourselves. “And do not incline toward those who do injustice,” say the scriptures.

We are called to be just. To put things right between people. To treat people equitably. Not to deprive them of their rights. Nor to transgress the limits. Nor to cause harm.

You would not find me advocating on behalf of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Qatar or Pakistan, despite the apparently unifying factor of faith.

Why not? Because that’s not what we’re called to. A Muslim is not duty-bound to support a Muslim, but they are duty-bound to support the just. Many of our Jewish brethren would say the same.

It is right that we all decry the rising tides of hate towards the eternal other in our communities and beyond. It is good to advocate for those who seemingly have no voice. In this I stand with you.

But our advocating on behalf of one wronged group should not render us blind to the suffering of others. If we are guided by truth and justice, it should not matter on whose behalf we speak.

Without a doubt, there are amongst us the hateful and cruel. This, of course, is true of all peoples. There are the good, the bad and everyone in between; both the pious and the criminal.

A soul touched by the light of faith should be one capable of seeing this diversity. Such a soul does not divide the world into camps, siding with one against others come what may.

Where there is good, they champion it. Where there is evil, they strive to counter it. “O you who believe! Stand firmly for justice, as witnesses to God, even as against yourselves…”

Perhaps one day, you and I will sit down for a cuppa, and realise we have more in common than we thought. Perhaps we will compare notes on our journeys of faith and politics.

Hopefully that will be in happier times, though, when we have all truly reflected on the lessons of the past.