I was disconcerted to be told by Hercules over dinner last week that I am a racist. He based this assessment on his reading of my article Progressing Back to the Middle Ages in which I wrote this;
Perhaps the Yom Kippur attack in Manchester is not a pogrom as it’s just one killer and not a mob? Either way, it’s a fall from grace. I am ashamed for my nation and furious that our “leaders” are still wittering on about “Islamophobia.” A phobia is an irrational fear. There is nothing more rational than fearing Islam — a religion conceived as if to justify the sins of its founder – one of the worst men who ever lived.
Contrast him, the principal prophet of his religion, with Christ during his brief life on Earth. A warlord, slaver, rapist, racist and paedophile vs the embodiment of kindness, forgiveness and love.
He asked if I meant what I had written. I said that I did. I told him that in my opinion Allah is another name for Satan. As is evidenced by the actions carried out in his name. I am judging the tree by its fruits.
He said I was going too far and that I was now actually a racist. It wasn’t going to affect his friendship with me. He’d known me for a long time. He was aware of my other virtues. However, I should be aware that most “ordinary” people in Britain would perceive me as such. I should expect to be cut off by family and friends if I persisted. He wouldn’t blame anyone for doing so.
I was stunned. I am used to being called bad names by leftists. Being thought of this way by an old friend was a blow. I have spent over a week now reflecting on it and asking myself if it is true.
I asked another good friend her view. You’ll remember my journey from Prague to Aquitaine with Babicka last year. She didn’t regard me as a racist but considered me an extremist. She didn’t know anyone else who thought as I did. She could not understand why I wrote as I did for all to read, including my family and friends. She thought it crazy that I shared so much with my modest readership.
They’re strangers, who cares what they think, FFS?!
So two out of three of my friends in this country (I haven’t yet discussed this with the third, known here as the Navigator) think I’m extremist at best and racist at worst.
Neither wants to offer any arguments as to why my views are wrong. They’re addressing mainly my tone and the way it’s perceived by others out of genuine concern for my well-being. They’re not saying openly it’s a mental health issue. Given their advice to me to self-edit to avoid offence, maybe they’re doing the same?
It’s hard to know if they’re right of course. If I were mad, I wouldn’t know. My only comfort is something I read somewhere. It said that if you’re considering the possibility that you might be mad, you’re probably not!
I don’t have an opinion that would not have been considered normal by the great thinkers of the Enlightenment. None of my thought is original. It’s all derived from them. I think of my views as conformist to the norms that shaped our civilisation – rather than current fashions. Is it crazy now to think like Locke, Smith or Paine?
This is very much a first world problem, I realise, but it’s difficult. I don’t want to alienate my family. I love them. My hopes for a happy future depend upon spending time with them. The idea of dying isolated and estranged is frankly terrifying.
I also don’t want to alienate my friends close at hand. Three of them is not really enough! I have more friends in Poland and Russia. However, my mobility is now so poor. I’d find it hard to visit them any more.
If keeping the people I love requires playing a part, I suppose I could. I aspired to be an actor in my youth. I told Babicka, rather emotionally I admit, that I might as well die as live pretending to be someone else. Yet I have been giving it more thought since we spoke.
The relevant people would probably pretend it was real even if my performance was unconvincing. The price of not doing it is likely – if I take the kindly, well-meaning advice of Hercules and Babicka at face value – to be dire.
The fear of violent retribution from Mohammed’s chums wouldn’t persuade me to change. I’d love to die a noble, meaningful death. It’s the fear of being cut off from everyone I love that gives me pause.
In the end though, what else is there for any man to do but follow Shakespeare’s advice:
To thine own self be true
Is it too much to ask that the others in my life should not accept, but at least respect, my views that differ from theirs? I would certainly hope not. I never had a problem hearing some of the (by modern standards) outlandish views of my elders in my youth. I listened and then went on to live according to my own ideas. I didn’t need their permission and I didn’t need them to change. What’s so different now?
The Last Ditch by Tom Paine 
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