Home

The notion of Home is something quite dear, and one we all share. I am delighted to be home, for a number of reasons, though I must write it with a small “h.”

Perhaps it was the notion of staying in the airport at Traverse City , or huddled on a bench in the vastness of Chicago O’Hare International, that brought the concept home so solidly.

It was my fault. I should never have scheduled a flight late in the day originating at a Regional airport. But the price was compelling at the moment that I mashed the “purchase” button on the computer. I should have remembered that schedule problems cascade through the flying day. The connection at the hub in Chicago was close as it was.

But I was still bitterly disappointed after the seventy-mile drive along the lake to make the flight, did not receive the news that I could not go home until the next day well. 

I won’t whine. I take full responsibility for my travel disasters, and think the State Trooper on road to find a place to sleep was courteous, as those things go. Taking responsibility is the first step on the road to recovery.

How am I to complain, when despite it all, I did successfully arrive at my residence, even if it was a day late.

I walked in and knew that someone had used the place in my absence. They left beer in the refrigerator, so I assumed it was someone friendly. But it was disconcerting, none-the-less, poised as I am between two homes at the moment. Clothes and food are in one, with the Murphy bed, and another place is filled with books and curios. It is much larger, and sunnier, and the larger of my two televisions is there.

That might be the definition of home, where the good TV is located. But it would be a false one. It is where the bed is, and I have a dream, regrettably a waking one, that the bed will arrive on Friday. This one does not fold into a wall unit. It will sit flat on its feet, all the hours of the day, welcoming with it’s pillow-top embrace.

So to a degree, home is where the bed is. There are more than a few friends of mine who hate the place where their beds are located. But that may be a function of who else might share it, I am pretty sure. We are creatures of relationships, after all. And the presence or absence of a particular companion can make the difference between ‘home’ and an alien landscape.

I was traveling, after all, and the news came in snatches around the conversations with the extended family. There were more than a dozen present at the compound by the Lake , and it was a thoroughly enjoyable time. The generations were all represented. The little ones were only knee-high, the teens had That Look, the twenties were optimistic, the adults all had their plans and responsibilities, and the retired were gratified at the fruit of their loins and dreams.

So I place I don’t live is very much home, since like my real bed, it is a dream.

I was thus not overly disconcerted to hear that the London bombers were all home-grown Britons. I thought that the Special Branch probably had a fairly good handle on the terrorists who land at Heathrow, and go to ground in the neighborhoods of London , or percolate to the Midlands , seeking to hide in the close-knit communities that were established as the Empire closed up shop.

But they are outsiders and would stand out. A less than optimal solution to bringing the attack to land of the infidels. The Bad Guys have been desperate to find home-grown recruits. The little village of Tipton in the West Midlands is home to Shafiq Rasul, Asif Iqbal, and Ruhal Ahmed. They became known as the Tipton Taliban, after they were picked up by the Americans in Afghanistan . They did time at Guantanamo Bay , and were eventually released when no concrete evidence was produced that they had done anything wrong.

Circumstantial evidence, was the verdict. Nothing could be proven. They were released. When last heard they were negotiating their stories of brutality with the Fleet Street press. Still, it was a curious affair, these young men who left their homes and fish-and-chips shops to join the jihad. It was unsettling at the time, and more so now.

I was attempting to settle into the one home I have that has a bed when I heard that the London bombers came from the Midlands . I heard the words as I wriggled against the springs of the Murphy bed that had seemed so comfortable when I assembled it two years ago. Now I could feel the springs digging at my back.

Lord Stevens was the Metropolitan London police chief until he retired earlier this year. He apparently had the same feeling yesterday. He did not seem surprised that the bombers were from the UK . He said that Richard Reid and Saajid Badat had been convicted for attempted airline bombings. Two other British suicide bombers killed themselves in Israel . He said there were more, that he could not discuss for legal reasons, and as many as two hundred others willing and able to slaughter innocents for their view of Islam.

He called it perverted, which I’m sure it is, and he took some heat for his remarks. But I visited the web site of the Middle East Media Research Institute’s TV Monitor project. It is a useful site, and has no particular axe to grind. You can find it at www.memritv.org , if you want to see that there is another way to think about the horror.

The head of the London Center for Islamic History is a fellow named Hani Siba’i. He is very learned in his faith, though since there is no equivalent to the Pope in Islam, it is a matter for some discussion. It is his opinion, voiced on Al Jazeera last Friday was that there are no “civilians.” He had looked at the literature, and could find no reference in holy script to the term.

The closest he could get was the phrase “Dar al-Harb,” by which he refers to a region where Muslims are not in control, and Sharia law is not in effect. It can also refer to a single human’s inner struggle to accept the will of God, but in the context of the bombings, he concluded that there are no such things as civilians, and that al-Qaeda “rubbed the noses of the world’s eight most powerful countries in the mud.”

The deputy minister of religious endowments in Saudi Arabia is named Abd Al-Rahman Al-Matroudi. It is an important position, since the Kingdom is home to the two holiest shrines of the Faith. He told Iqra TV last week that he thought it was acceptable to impose your culture on others, and if you have no such strength, you should do whatever you can to get what you want in peaceful and diplomatic ways.

It reminded me a little of brother Malcom, who observed that he was going to get what he wanted “by whatever means necessary.” I always respected a man who said what he thought. I think we should listen.

It’s possible that I am taking their remarks out of context, since justifying the murder of fifty people is a monstrous thing in my universe. But the meaning appears clear enough.

The young men who carried the bombs to London in their backpacks were described as thoroughly normal English kids, much like the Tipton Taliban. It is reported that one of them worked in his father’s fish-and-chips shop, but at the age of fifteen had begun to travel the road to devotion and submission.

They may have grown up in England , but at some point they did not feel that they were home there. I understand the concept, since I have had to deal with it on the matter of where my bed is located, and where I must make my decision on where I want to be.

I wonder if we all ought to roll over and look at who we are sleeping with, and whether or not they feel comfortable and at home.

Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

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