Lesley Riddoch: Thank heavens for stubborn men who won't play by the rules

Published on Sunday 21 December 2008 20:47

THE Iraqi shoe thrower, Muntazer al-Zaidi, has reminded every anti-war campaigner about the downside of abiding by the rules. Away from the safety of crowds, far from the security of collective chants and slogans, right at the heart of a press conference stiffened with security and protocol, one man created massive international impact with a small, well-timed, powerful, personal and lone gesture.

"This is a farewell kiss, you dog! This is from the widows, the orphans and those who were killed in Iraq." The YouTube video of those words and those shoes have been viewed at least five million times; an internet game called "Sock and Awe" has been so popular its website has crashed; a Saudi businessman has offered $10 million for one of the shoes; a Palestinian has offered $30,000 to pay for Zaidi's legal defence; the TV journalist has been proposed as the next president of Iraq, and he has been offered sanctuary by Venezuela's president, Hugo Chvez.

Zaidi could face a two-year jail sentence for insulting a foreign leader, or further beatings in jail. But so far, his pair of shoes have made more impact than mass protests across the world. Like Walter Wolfgang, the old man ejected from the 2005 Labour conference for heckling, Zaidi commanded attention by breaking the rules of polite society, whilst being a full-time member of it.

This TV journalist was not an exile from Iraq's new elite. He did not protest or insult for a living. He was a man who stood to gain everything from biting his lip, shaking the hands that continue to feed and pouring any angry misgivings on to the next film script or piece to camera.

Instead, he decided to act – and brought meaning to an event bordering on parody. Like a lightning conductor, he charged the soporific proceedings of George Bush's farewell press conference with the angry energy of Iraqis facing an almost hopeless future. Like any good journalist, Zaidi also managed to challenge both sides of his broken society. Not only did he break the rules of hospitality, he also broke the violent rules of his most militant countrymen. If a member of al-Qaeda had been in that room, more would have been thrown at the US president than a pair of shoes. The repercussions would have been almost unthinkable.

How would the doveish Barack Obama have been able to disengage from Iraq? How could British troops withdraw by next July? Instead of attacking George Bush, Zaidi disrespected him. He made the most important man in the world duck, cower and babble: "I don't know what the guy's problem is."

Really? Is there anyone else in the world having the slightest problem understanding why the man behind "Shock and Awe", Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib might be called a dog by Iraqis?

Zaidi's protest was effective because he was not a "usual suspect". He got close because he conformed. Professionals know there is a time and place for the angry outburst. Like never – in public at least. In the West, professionals are too often silenced by this fear of being considered unreasonable, unmanageable or – the ultimate seal of fate on a once-promising career – difficult.

Had Zaidi simply heckled, his Arabic words would have meant little. Had he thrown an object, it would have seemed like an attack. By throwing his own shoes, Zaidi personalised the protest, and gave dignity to a whitewash.

There has been precious little middle ground in Iraq between the anaesthetised response of politicians and the murderous response of al-Qaeda. In only 20 seconds, Muntazer al-Zaidi reclaimed invaluable political space from both.

Over 20 years, Jim Swire, the father of a Lockerbie victim, has tried to do the same. In 1994, as assistant editor of The Scotsman, I worked with him on the only Scottish public showing of Maltese Double Cross – a film that suggested Iran, not Libya, had been responsible for Lockerbie. I encountered a man so determined to know the truth, he was prepared to break every social rule about acceptable behaviour to consider a hideous possibility – that the official version didn't stack up.

Now Peter Fraser – the Lord Advocate who drew up the indictment charging Abdelbaset Ali Mohmed al-Megrahi – has suggested Jim Swire is experiencing a form of Stockholm syndrome, for unconditionally forgiving the man convicted of killing his daughter Flora and 269 others 20 years ago, when Pan Am flight 103 exploded over Lockerbie.

Jim himself might even acknowledge that's possible – that his familiarity with the case has drawn him into a self-deluding intimacy and identification with his tormentors. But it's precisely that degree of open-mindedness and self awareness – that determination to hold nothing sacred in his search for a more plausible account – that prompts public respect. Jim Swire may be a trouble-maker – he may even be a perfectionist who can't abide the fact that each alternative explanation is also riddled with inconsistencies.

But the plain fact is this: when Megrahi dies, Jim Swire's best chance to find out what really happened to Flora dies with him. Maybe Jim hopes his own sincerely meant and unconditional forgiveness may encourage a death-bed revelation. Let's face it – the only gift Megrahi has left to give is the truth. Jim Swire is the only man whose bravery in the face of western convention might yet give Megrahi a motivation to tell it.

The single shoe thrower could yet prove more powerful than the shoe bombers or the shoe polishers of Iraq. And the single act of forgiveness by Jim Swire could one day elicit some truth about Scotland's worst peace-time atrocity.

Stubborn men prepared to go against the grain are godsends in any society. Not the usual message of hope for Christmas – but then we live in unusual times.