A FRIEND of mine has an eye for a holiday bargain. Which is why he, his wife and their four children — the size of his brood probably explains his parsimony — are sunning themselves in a luxury hotel in Sharm el-Sheikh for a week. It cost a mere £379 per adult, around half the usual extortionate peak-season rate.
And because it’s during the school holidays, there is no grubby need to justify Johnny’s term-time absence on the dubious ground that it will benefit a schoolboy’s understanding of Egyptology (that, in any case, is the job of the withered mummy at the British Museum).
No, there’s just the matter of bombs to consider. The Egyptian resort was hit by a succession of bombs on July 23, including two powerful car bombs, which killed 63 people and injured 124. When the tour operator Thomson offered refunds or alternative destinations to those due to fly to Sharm, one third pocketed the refund, while another third changed destination. Just the remaining third stuck to their original plans. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office website classifies Egypt as having a “high threat from terrorism”.
And so I couldn’t decide, at first, whether my bargain-bagging friend was being reckless or courageous. I was stymied. Should I be appalled or impressed? After all, there were the children to consider. Should he really be dragging his kids to a terrorism hotspot? On the other hand, isn’t London a terrorism hotspot? The body count in Sharm was not far off the death toll of the London bombing on July 7. And how I have pursed my lips disapprovingly at those who have shunned London and its transport system since the terrorist attacks. Could I be — whisper it — a hypocrite? A relative of mine was due to spend the weekend with us the week after the 7/7 London bombing but cancelled. Yet he was brought up on one of the most lawless islands in the Caribbean, where robberies and kidnappings are commonplace, and inevitably have a dark ending. The police there were not always to be trusted; most were uninterested and a few were complicit. From boyhood, my Caribbean relative kept weapons at home and knew how to use them; he was brought up to be always vigilant and always suspicious. To have experienced a childhood soaked in such fear and then to avoid one of the world’s greatest cities because of a one-off incident seemed irrational and defeatist.
Perhaps the risks in a foreign country appear more sinister and unpredictable than the risks at home. Much better the terrorist devil you know than the one you don’t. In April I travelled to Hurghada, another Egyptian Red Sea resort, family in tow. On the way to the airport, we heard a radio report of the fatal bombing of a Cairo tourist market. When we arrived at our isolated hotel, we passed through a metal detector and were nodded into the foyer by an armed guard, which, let’s face it, isn’t the warmest of welcomes. On the beach, my husband and I mused briefly at how easy it would be for terrorists to make a murderous approach by sea. Yet we both knew it was silly and pointless to worry — any nightmare scenario that ended with us expiring on an Egyptian beach would require a truly improbable chain of events, beginning with a group of people either mad or bad enough to wish to take the lives of foreigners. This was unlikely, given that the Egyptians had shown us nothing but kindness and decency since our arrival.
And this is why I felt that I ought to use the Tube after the London attacks. I simply don’t believe that there are that many people who wish such ill on others. And if there were, one would have to be extraordinarily unlucky to become a victim. The chances of being murdered in the London bombing were, I reckoned, akin to the odds of winning the lottery. That is not to trivialise what happened, only to put the risk into perspective.
So, on July 14, I decided that my daughter and I would travel by Tube to the Natural History Museum to see the Diamonds exhibition (we were supposed to attend the media preview on July 7, but for obvious reasons didn’t make it). We observed the two-minute silence at our local station and then descended into the Underground. It was emptier than I had ever seen it on a Thursday lunchtime and, unusually, I didn’t see another child. I wondered whether I was doing the right thing, making a decision not just for myself but for my toddler, who has little option but to trot alongside her gung-ho mother. It did flit across my mind that this might be the last journey we ever made, and how utterly silly I would seem for dragging her down there when I could have taken a taxi.
Of course, we did emerge alive, blinking in the South Kensington sunshine. The day turned out to be thoroughly, stubbornly normal. There’s nothing like a faulty Oyster card for reminding you that, whatever your irrational fears, life steers an unswervingly banal and safe course. The experience reaffirmed my belief in the essential goodness of people. So I’ve decided that my friend should be admired for not only netting himself and his family a cheap Egyptian getaway, but also for showing his children how to live without fear.
A flu scare?
IF YOU really want something to fear, why not try avian flu? Computer models suggest that, if the H5N1 strain evolved the ability to pass from human to human, scientists would have a window of just three weeks to contain it. Miss the window, and it could become a global pandemic along the lines of the 1918 Spanish flu outbreak, which killed at least 20 million.
Now consider the following: bird flu has been found in migratory birds who could pass it on to birds flying to Europe; the WHO has said that the H5N1 strain has mutated into a form that could be more infectious to humans; the British Government has ordered, but does not yet have, millions of doses of an anti-flu vaccine; by the time the vaccines are delivered, they may be ineffective. That’s what I call scary.
'British' is not enough
PEOPLE OFTEN ask me where I come from. The answer varies according to context. Sometimes I’m from Britain, sometimes from India and — when they’re trying to place my accent — from Essex. Origins are about birthplace, upbringing, ethnicity and culture — that is why, for me, “British” is not enough. It’s as if I’m trying to appropriate, inappropriately, a white, Anglo-Saxon heritage when my brown skin shrieks of something else.
So I sympathise with Hazel Blears’s idea that people could instead opt for a double-barrelled description. I already describe myself as British-Asian or British-Indian. And herein lies the difficulty: if I can’t settle on one or the other, how can the Government do it for me?
Bags of fun — again
THE last time I occupied this page, my three specialist subjects were whether a sense of ethics is hardwired into the human brain, the lot of women scientists, and the dilemma over party bags. Readers, friends and parents became preoccupied with the most important of these: namely, whether one should issue party bags at children’s parties. This vital issue even inspired discussion, I am told, among philosophy students at the London School of Economics.
Since so many have asked, I can reveal that, despite my wavering, no party bags were issued. Instead, guests were invited to choose a balloon animal whipped up by the many competitive dads present (well, you have to give them something to do).
But this stance raises another thorny question: is it now right for my daughter to accept party bags at other gatherings? My feeling is that it’s needlessly rude to decline, but perhaps you think it’s greedy to do otherwise.
anjana.ahuja@thetimes.co.uk
