In early February, when I left Seattle for a two-month trip to England and India, the Iraqi crisis was headline news. Most Americans supported the president's plans for an invasion of Iraq. How would the English and the Indians view this crisis, I wondered.
The news on London television was immediately different in tone. Most Britons were against an invasion of Iraq; I heard no one call it a "liberation." As was only proper in Britain, their relatively small island became huge in importance, while the gigantic United States shrank. Yet the influence of the States was everywhere felt: to be countered, admired, questioned, raged at and, above all, mocked.
Still present in the British consciousness is the reality that, once upon a time, America was an English vassal. The English commentators, scarves elegantly folded about their necks, were in no doubt of their continued dominion, if not in size and military power, at least in fine-tailored clothes, cultural heritage and wry humor.
They even made fun of the humiliations they suffer because of America. One well-spoken Englishman joked that the U.S. military trusts Brits for mop-up jobs only; after the Americans do the tough fighting, the Brits tidy things up. Comedians had a field day at my country's expense. One late-night wag joked, "And now for your springtime entertainment, we will present 'It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad War' starring George Bush."
On another late-night show, the host interviewed a man swathed in Middle Eastern robes who claimed to be the ambassador of "Turbekistan." Said the ambassador, "We are developing nuclear weapons, so that the United States won't attack us."
The host exclaimed, "What! Is the United States planning to attack your country?"
The ambassador answered, "Not yet. But we figure that, sooner or later, they'll get around to us."
In mid-February, I went to India for two and a half weeks. There the view of the war underwent a radical shift; in fact, it disappeared. An American resident in India explained that, in that country, the war was second-page news, no big deal. According to her, even the so-called nuclear crisis between India and Pakistan had bothered hardly anybody. That kind of news, she said, just makes the Indians want to take a nap.
The anxious international political scene faded. The year could have been 2000 B.C. Women in richly hued saris and Punjabis stood out against the yellow land. Men lounged in tea stalls. Bazaars were a labyrinth of small, brightly decorated stalls where everything from silver to vegetables, incense to fabulous silks, was sold.
Back in London a month later, war tensions ran high. On the morning of March 21, just after the war began, American pop star Mariah Carey signed autographs and charmed a small group of fans outside Claridge's Hotel. She was poised and kind. As she disappeared into the limo, the fans called, "Bye, Mariah," as if she were their best friend.
A tall, hugely enthusiastic girl told me, "She's always that way. And she always takes time for us, unlike Madonna who sneaks out the side door." She said that Mariah had been advised to delay her trip because of security concerns. But the singing star insisted on coming. Thus, a little good press for America on a troubling day.
A week later, another crowd was gathered outside the Royal Opera House waiting for the Queen, who was inside dedicating a plaque to her late sister, Margaret.
When Queen Elizabeth emerged, wearing a bright blue suit, she appeared small, quiet and, to me, a little sad. She must miss her sister. And she had already witnessed too much war. Now, in the midst of yet another, she was taking time to affirm the perennial values, both of family and of the performing arts.
The next night, after the Royal Opera's mesmerizing performance of "Madama Butterfly" - another fable of cultural dislocation, as it chanced - I rode back to my hotel through nighttime London on the top deck of a red bus. I wondered how the city had looked to Queen Elizabeth when she was a girl here, during World War II.
All the glittering lights would be black, the old stone buildings silent and eerie, tension edging the darkness. But tonight, as I got off the bus on Oxford Street, there were crowds of people and many-colored signs and lights.
On the way to the hotel, I bought a piece of the English equivalent of American chocolate cake at a deli in St. Christopher Square. As the Middle Eastern waiter wrapped the cake, we discussed the war.
"Most everyday people don't want to go to war, so why do we keep having war?" he asked.
As I left the restaurant, from across the quiet, sequestered piazza came the strains of "Moon River": "We're after the same rainbow's end...."
Freelance writer Ina Gilles is a resident of Queen Anne. She can be reached via qanews@nwlink.com
