It’s a question I’ve asked many times on train journeys. “Excuse me, mate, would you mind keeping an eye on my stuff while I pop to the loo, please?” It’s normally met with a friendly “sure”. This time I was already turning to go when my fellow traveller, the upper-middle-class white man in a pinstripe suit, said: “Actually, I’m not really comfortable with that …”
There is a contract in polite society: usually, if asked nicely, we do things for each other. It is a shock when that breaks down.
As a preacher, I’m rarely lost for words but, on this occasion, I simply repeated what he said with an uncomprehending question mark at the end: “Not comfortable?!” He stood his ground. “Well, when a stranger asks me to look after an unidentified package it makes me nervous, yes.” “I see,” I replied, possibly triggered by the rebuff. “And does the fact that I’m Asian make it worse … ?!”
He vigorously denied that my race had any bearing on the matter, but I didn’t believe him – and nor, it would seem, did the only witness to the incident, who gave me a sympathetic smile as I headed towards the toilet. Which was, of course, engaged. But as I waited for it to become free, it struck me as odd that the man was still in his seat: if he genuinely thought that I was a terrorist, why hadn’t he moved or alerted the guard? And would he really have responded as he had done if I’d looked like a Church of England vicar: if I had been wearing my clerical collar instead of jeans and a hoodie?
Heading back to my seat, I toyed with the idea of making this a “teachable moment”: helping him to see the irrationality of his position and the possible unconscious bias behind it, but once there, I contented myself with a passive-aggressive shake of the head and went back to my book. And then it happened.
Before I’d read a word, the man leaned across and said: “I want to apologise profusely: on reflection, what I said was rather uncharitable. But as someone who used to work in counter-terrorism, I have a literal degree in paranoia …”
Well, like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction, I believe that “once a man admits that he’s wrong, he is immediately forgiven for all wrongdoings” (and I think that Jesus said something to that effect, too). So, without hesitation, I enthusiastically shook his hand and thanked him for his, frankly, humbling humility. Sincere apologies are rare in today’s world, but the speed with which he went from defensiveness to reconciliation was truly remarkable. This is the other social contract, or should be. If you’re wrong, do something about it. Do unto others … or something like that.
So then we had a very interesting conversation about the ongoing problem of Islamist terrorism and the increasing threat from the far right, before exchanging details and agreeing to carry on the conversation over a drink some time.
Just a snapshot of life as it is and could be, but I was positively walking on air as I changed at Waterloo and shared this restoring-faith-in-humanity story on my socials, getting more “likes” than anything I’d ever posted before. I guess that at a time of unprecedented social division in this country, a real-life, real-time example of two strangers not just resolving a potential conflict but establishing a potential friendship as a result of it is as encouraging as it is surprising.
Not everyone saw it thus. The only vaguely negative comment I received was from one of my more rightwing, “anti-woke” acquaintances (as an Old Etonian, former anarcho-punk who was converted in a Pentecostal church but now inhabits the liberal wing of the Church of England and the lower levels of the UK comedy circuit, I have an exceptionally diverse selection of friends). He pointedly asked me if I had also apologised; for, effectively, calling the man a racist …
A fellow priest leapt to my defence, suggesting that my gracious acceptance of his apology had more than fulfilled my moral obligation, a tacit absolution after an explicit confession, but I was challenged by the question. I had definitely attributed a motive to my fellow traveller that the evidence no longer supported. So, perhaps I had been blind to my own unconscious bias, assuming that the man in the pinstripe suit had an issue with brown people when, in fact, he was merely better informed about the tactics of contemporary terrorist groups (of whatever persuasion)?
My anti-woke friend would probably call my stance “reverse racism”, but I don’t really think that that’s a thing. As the comedian Aamer Rahman describes in his fantastic routine on that subject, it’s not like for like – white people weren’t oppressed for hundreds of years. And given the recent history here of blatantly racist rhetoric and actions, it’s hardly surprising that people of colour are somewhat on edge. Understandable, too, that someone who has studied terrorism is hypervigilant: a literal degree in paranoia.
So, here perhaps is the teachable moment: we were both triggered, but we both managed our triggers. Me, by deciding not to argue with him; he, by reflecting on his behaviour and apologising quickly. Maybe I will apologise to him when we meet for that drink. Maybe we should all walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.
Ravi Holy is the vicar of Wye in Kent, and a standup comedian
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