Time Bites: Views and Reviews. Doris Lessing

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       Censorship

      Towards the end of the reign of the late unlamented Shah of Iran a certain lowly citizen named his beautiful cat Shah-in-Shah, King of Kings, a title claimed by this king who was the son of a common soldier. The culprit was arrested, and disappeared into Iran’s system of prisons, tortures and hangings. It is safe to assume that the Shah, while a petulant tyrant, could not have approved of the unfortunate being executed for calling a cat a king, but then he would not have known about it. Rulers more than anyone else may complain that they really cannot be expected to keep an eye on everything. Our age of terrors is often characterised by the grotesque, the inconsequent, the simply silly, and this incident is such a perfect example it must be cherished by connoisseurs of the politically surreal. But surely what must interest us is not the Shah, nor even the victim, whose fate is too familiar to merit much notice, but the state of mind of the man responsible. If, as is usual, the machinery of the secret police was simply transferred from shah to ayatollahs, then the same official was probably at it for years, but he must have retired by now, growing roses and generally cultivating his garden. How does he see himself? Is he secretly thinking, but what got into me? What got into me is the secret theme of the thinking of successive waves of people who were part of persecution’s machineries, but later became appalled at the past – at themselves. As for the many citizens who thought, ‘And quite right too, he shouldn’t have insulted our dear Shah’, then there isn’t much to be done about them, for the lovers of authority, no matter how cruel, will always be with us. And they will have forgotten about it by now, as the white supporters of apartheid may now murmur, ‘I was always a bit of a liberal you know.’

      Direct and unambiguous censorship, as part of state control, is easier to combat than the indirect results of it. Books, works of art, and their authors, may be banned, reviled, made non-books and non-people, but what is hard to see is a prevailing wind of opinion, most particularly if it blows fitfully. Jack Cope, the writer, having been a communist, wanted a passport to leave South Africa, where he was under threat. At last he found himself sitting opposite the relevant official. ‘Ach, hell, Mr Cope, look at it from our point of view. How can we give you a passport? You are a commie and you are a liberal too.’ Impasse. Recently Jack had written a little tale about a bird caught in power lines. A linesman saw it, notified base, the machinery for power was shut down for the district, a man climbed up and rescued the bird, and with tears in his eyes watched it fly away. The official with life and death in his hands – passports were that then – confessed he hadn’t read Jack’s books, he didn’t read commie books, but he remembered a nice little story, and he told Jack the tale of the sparrow. ‘I wrote that story,’ Jack modestly confessed. ‘Ach, hell, man, but that is a nice story.’ And he gave Jack his passport. Never say that literature cannot have practical uses. Meanwhile South Africa’s prisons, some of the cruellest in the world, continued to flourish, and so did censorship, which was arbitrary, to say the least. For instance, Black Beauty was banned, for reasons obvious to the white censor. Many writers’ books were banned, mine among them, and then we authors might hear they were on sale somewhere, but then banned again, all this giving rise to much satirical laughter. If you are white – and privileged, or privileged anywhere, then it is easier to maintain a stoical attitude towards persecution, petty or otherwise, and easy to make jokes. The white progressive writers could fight with ridicule, but the appealing little scene of the white immigration official, white writer and released bird could never have happened with a black writer, and they fled from the country when they could. But I wonder about the books not written, and here I come to my concern. When certain winds blow they wither everything that is unprotected. Let us imagine a poor black man – these days it could be a woman – who has managed because of frightful sacrifices by his parents, and then himself, sometimes walking miles to school every day, to get himself some kind of certificate, and with that, a clerk’s job. He has read enough to know that his everyday experiences could make tales that would be printed and admired. He dreams of writing them. But he lives, let us say, in old Soweto, and his working conditions make it hard for him to sustain creative energy, and then he cannot help observing how the black writers still in South Africa are treated. Those who have fled, sometimes a few steps in front of the police, are in exile in London and New York and in universities which these days so often give shelter to victims of persecution. He heard some are drinking too much, dying young, often not writing much. In the evenings he sits at a table where his mother and then his wife have cleared the supper things, he lights the oil lamp, he gets out his exercise book, he takes up his biro, and then – he stops. What he would like to write about are his daily struggles, the miseries of poverty, the attentions of the police, the efforts of his women to feed him and the children, how it feels to watch and – this is the worst – how his talented children are going to waste. He knows that simply to describe his life could be seen as an act of sedition; these days everyone knows what the daily lives of people are in luckier countries. He sits on, staring at the bricks of his wall, which he may have built himself. Would he have to leave his home, his family? Who would look after them? His exercise book remains empty. His own talents, let alone his children’s, will remain unfulfilled.

      How many of such people were there? How many now in various parts of the world? In Zimbabwe the police may sit in on writers’ meetings, nothing secret about it; or they harass writers, or influence reviewers and editors against them. They drop in to say to a writer they hear such and such a book is being planned, but it would be better to think again. At this very moment, everywhere from China to Indonesia to South America to parts of Africa, a woman or man is thinking, But I daren’t write it. Talent is not necessarily allied to a readiness for martyrdom, or even courage. Why should it be? Such is our time’s history that our paradigm has to be an Ernst Toller, Solzhenitsyn, the killed or persecuted writers of some Muslim countries. A good thing for writers to be talented, but to be noticed it is even better if they are in prison or fighting cancer or, like Rushdie, sentenced to death. Writers as victims, that’s our mental set, but we scarcely notice the wasted or disappointed ones.

      There are times and places when we collude with tyranny, in ways more direct than simply not noticing what goes on. In the old Soviet Union writers might claim proudly that they were developing censors that stopped them writing anything critical about communism. A shocking thing: but we all have inner censors, and often don’t suspect it. It is hard to step outside a prevailing way of thinking, particularly when you are convinced you are living in a free society. If you travel outside your culture, let’s say to the Fat East, or to a Muslim country or even somewhere in the United States, you may catch a glimpse of how we seem to others – or are not seen at all. In Iowa or Dakota for many people a state boundary can be their horizon. Britain – what’s that? In China Europe seems simply to drop over the edge of the world. If Europe ceased to exist СКАЧАТЬ