Cause Celeb (34 page)

“You are disappointed. Why?” Muhammad glanced witheringly around the group. “Did you come here to make your success out of our misery?”

After lunch, at Muhammad's suggestion we assembled in his shelter for a meeting. Through the entrance you could see the satellite dish perched on the edge of the hill above the camp.

“The salient question is this. Is there a need for the appeal? Do we have grounds to make an appeal?” Oliver was asking.

“Yes,” said Muhammad.

“Are you mad?” said O'Rourke. “There is no question. Do people have to be on the point of death to deserve help?”

“An appeal saying what?” said Vernon. “They're doing all right 'ere? They've got one lot of food from the EEC. They've got another lot from us. They've got another lot coming from the UN. They don't do a stroke of work, just sit on their arses waiting to get fed. What's
this
appeal going to say: could you send some money so this lot can buy themselves ghetto blasters?”

“That's completely unjustified,” said Oliver.

“Oh, don't give me that namby-pamby, middle-class, bleedin'- 'eart carry-on. It's dicks-on-the-table time, son. You've cocked up.”

“It is you who is cocking up,” said Muhammad. “And it is fortunate for you that your dick is not on my table.”

“Eh, eh. Don't you give me that, Sambo.”

“SILENCE,” roared Muhammad. “You are in my home now, and you will listen. You have come here, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, understanding nothing, and now you will listen.”

He moved into the center of the earth floor, leaning on his stick.

“Do you believe that we want to beg for food? Do you believe that we have no pride?” he said. “What has caused this situation, that we are reduced to beggar men? Tell me,” he said, looking at Vernon.

“Drought, war and a bloody lazy waiting-for-handouts attitude,” said Vernon belligerently.

“Did you starve in England when you had to fight for your freedom? Do they starve in Arizona when there is drought? Do you understand what it is to live balanced on the blade of a knife?”

Kate Fortune coughed uncomfortably.

“Lazy?
Lazy?
You call us
lazy?
Do you know what it is to walk for five miles to find water, to carry it home for five miles, fastened in an earthen pot to your back? To work all day, from the gray, smoking mist of dawn, to the last red rays of the sun . . .”

Don't overdo it, Muhammad, I was thinking, don't overdo it.

“. . . coaxing the dry earth with your bleeding, callused hands to bring forth food for your children? To scour the barren mountains for firewood to keep your family alive through the freezing night, knowing that every branch which is cut, every tree which dies, is causing the earth to die with it, the desert to creep towards us? And to rejoice when the first green shoots burst from the dust, knowing, still, that if the rains fail, then we will starve, and if the rains come, then the insects may come too, and we will also starve?”

“Well, you don't have to start a bloody war, to add to your troubles, lad, do you?” said Vernon.

“What little we had was taken in taxes. The army came in tanks and took our children to fight for them, raped our women. Our land was taken. We were persecuted for our beliefs. Would you not fight? If you were in the same position as us, would we not help you too?”

Muhammad paused, and touched his forehead with his fingers. “Had we been given a little help—had we been given seeds, pesticides, hoes, medicine . . . then we could have stayed in our villages, and survived. But the West would not help the country of Abouti to develop. They were opposed to the Marxists. They did not want them to develop. We, too, were opposed to the Marxists. But to the West we were Aboutians, too.”

“But you're here now, aren't you? You're all right now.”

“For how long? If the refugees come, and there is no more food, then in a few weeks we will die. We are like lamps in the wind. It takes only a breath to snuff us out.”

“You've got a river. In fact, you've got two rivers. There are bloody weeds growing down there. Why don't you get off your backsides and grow yourselves some food, instead of asking everyone else for it?”

“We are not permitted.”

“By who?”

“The government of Nambula. They do not permit us to cultivate lest we stay.”

“Well, it's their fault, then, isn't it?”

“Is it? When they cannot afford to feed their own people?”

“Nambula gets enough help from the West.”

“Not anymore. But even before Saddam, what kind of help? A tractor factory—to furnish contracts for Germany. A cement production plant from Holland. The people cannot eat cement.”

“It's all very well, lad, but we're talking popular television here. They don't want to sit there watching an economics lesson. It's not the Open bloody University.”

“The West is rich. The third world is poor,” said Muhammad. “It is obvious, it is stupid. It is the obvious, stupid truth. Is that not simple enough to explain?”

“They won't buy it, lad. They need to see the kiddies starving before they get their checkbooks out. It can't be done. We'll just make ourselves look bloody idiots.”

“That's not altogether—” Oliver began.

But Muhammad was looking up ahead of him, as if he was alone. He looked despairing and sad: sadder than I had ever seen him.

“I understand,” he said. “I understand.” Tears were starting to form in his eyes. “As far as the West is concerned, if they cannot see our children starve on their television sets, in their homes, if they cannot see them trying to stand on their skeletal limbs, and failing, if they cannot see them reaching out to the camera and crying for pity, if they cannot see them writhing, as the walls of their stomachs begin to digest themselves, then there is no problem. And for us, when we see our children starving to death in our homes, then it is too late.”

Muhammad gave the assembled group a terrible look, then turned and limped slowly out of the shelter, leaving silence behind him.

“I wish we'd had the camera running,” said Oliver angrily, and rubbed at one of his eyes.

I went out after Muhammad. He was standing with his back to me, looking over the camp. I did not know what I could say to him. I did not know how to explain, how to say sorry. I reached out nervously, touched his arm.

Muhammad turned. He smiled wickedly. “How did I do?” he said.

By nine o'clock the next morning, lines of thick cabling were running all over the camp, along the path to the feeding center, up to the food depot on the hill. The TV mobile control room was parked outside the hospital with the technical crew climbing in and out, fiddling with switches. The dish was working, but seven hours from transmission the Charitable Acts team were still up in the cabana, arguing about what they were going to do. Thanks to Muhammad's outburst, Vernon was now putting the full force of his personality behind the broadcast, which was precisely the problem.

Oliver was attempting to take control. “Each of us, Kate, Julian, Corinna, me, does a different insert from a different location, the hospital, the cholera clinic, the feeding center, explaining how it all works, and why they need help.”

“What about Muhammad?” I said. “We have to let him speak.”

“Now, wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Vernon, getting to his feet. “Don't start talking bloody daft. I've said we'll go ahead but we're not going to go all silly. The public want people on that screen who they know and who they trust. We're not having every Abdul Doodah in the camp doing his party piece. And we're not doing this by bloody committee. I'm in charge. You do and say what I tell you to.”

“Well?” said Oliver after a moment. “Go on, then.”

“We stick that camera in the hospital with those sick kiddies and it stays there and we play some sad music over those shots and there won't be a dry eye in the house.”

“What music?” said Corinna.

“‘Hello,' by Lionel Ritchie,” said Vernon. “It's a cracker. Beautiful song. Fabulous.” He cleared his throat and began to sing it.

“Jesus Christ,” said O'Rourke.

“Oh, puh-lease,” said Corinna.

“We don't mention the EEC food,” Vernon continued, ignoring us. “We show a shot of our lorries and we tell 'em this whole camp was starving to death before we arrived.
Comprende?
”

“Listen, old boy.” It was eleven o'clock, we were down in the camp and Henry was trying to reassure O'Rourke. “Bit on the Tania Tasteless side, no two ways about it, but all in a good cause, end justifies the means, etcetera, etcetera. No point getting in a stew about it.”

“I WILL NOT HAVE IT.” O'Rourke was in an uncompromising mood. I respected him hugely when he got like this, but it also made me want to laugh.

“Is there no such thing as a gift anymore? Banners for Capital Television, logos for Circle Line Cargo, the jeep company. This isn't giving, this is using the misery of the disadvantaged world to make commercials.”

“BE QUIET.” Vernon was shouting at the crowd of kids he had assembled, and banging with a thick stick on an oil drum. They stared at him now, wide-eyed and silent.

“Now, hold it up,” he said, gesturing with his hands. “Hold it up.”

In the center of the crowd a long red roll of fabric appeared.

“Hold it up,” he yelled, raising his arms above his head to reveal two oversized rounds of sweat.

The long red roll unfurled into a banner which read, “THANK YOU CAPITAL DAILY TELEVISION.”

“Oh, my bloody God and fuck,” said O'Rourke.

“Now, cheer,” Vernon shouted. “Come on, hip, hip, hurray, hip, hip—”

“Hurray,” went the kids uncertainly.

“This is gross,” said O'Rourke. “This is obscene.”

“I say, steady on, old boy,” said Henry. “It may be a bit Christabel Crass, but it's not
obscene
.”

“Come on, hip, hip . . .” went Vernon.

“Hurray,” the kids said again.

At that moment Muhammad appeared.