A few weeks ago, the first part of my documentary about Israel came out.
The response to that episode was genuinely inspiring. With very few exceptions, people approached it with a real degree of mindfulness (a word that usually makes my eyes roll so hard I fall over but it’s the right one here).
Last week, the second half was broadcast. When the reactions to that one arrived I was, of all places, within reaching distance of the North Pole. I can’t say what took me there, but if rumours start that I’m taking over from Father Christmas I won’t stop them (I mean, I do look spectacular in red).
I was sat in a chilly hut contemplating some excellent icicles when I decided to sneak a look at my phone and see what people thought.
The reaction to part two was less than unanimous in its praise. A number of people wrote fair and thoughtful criticism of the work but my Twitter account and my inbox were stuffed with angry, hate-filled messages (I’ve no idea how anyone got my email address). Regrettably, some were from people purporting to be from my own Jewish community, calling me names I won’t repeat here (or anywhere else, for that matter). A few of the things they wrote weren’t just libellous, they were deliberately cruel and, arguably, criminal.
Yet, they did not wound me, despite their clear intent to do so. I just went back to considering the Arctic starlight.
That’s because ever since I first began work as a barrister I’ve been growing a hide thicker than a concrete rhino. Insults like that don’t get through.
When I was at the Bar, everyone got access to justice, no matter how odious they might be, which meant that for years, in courts up and down the country, I’d handle cases involving the whole seething buffet of spite and cruelty. I remember once defending the guys who ran the local chapter of the National Front who began our conference saying how grateful they were that I “wasn’t a yid or a queer”. Every part of me wanted to give them a jazz-handed “oy vey” or sing a jaunty medley from Fiddler on the Roof and the Wizard of Oz. I refrained (probably for the best).
But after years of that, you either develop some pretty robust emotional armour or you just can’t go on. You have to grow a sort of callus on your soul if you want to do the job well.
It also taught me something crucial: so many of the angriest, shoutiest people (National Fronters included) were profoundly unhappy. Their lives were often an ocean of emotional debris and their fury was simply a bellow of rage against all it. So now, many years on, I let the hatred pass over me.
Of course, I’ll always happily engage with those who hold strongly opposing views so long as they approach me civilly (occasionally they’ll even change my mind) but any criticism has to come from a place of genuine engagement.
Mindless abuse is never the beginning of a conversation, it’s the end.
Passion for arts transcends class
When I find myself at glitzy cultural institutions (at one of our fancier galleries, say, or lengthier operas) I can’t help but notice that everyone sounds a bit like me — and I sound like I’ve been mugged by a Mitford. I certainly don’t often hear accents like the ones I grew up with in north London.
On the rare occasions that people with different voices do come, they face a mass of snooty tuts and raised eyebrows. It’s a crying shame.
I’ve recently spent time with the wonderful TV presenter Rylan Clark, who’s about as Essex as they come — and it won’t surprise anyone to hear that his intuition about culture is as rich and deep as any of the drawling, Received Pronunciation brigade.
I can’t say more about what we’ve been up to, but it’s a reminder that passion for the arts is never confined to any background. And that’s something to yell in every accent.
