One of my personal favourite things about living in Globalised Earth 2016, right after Internet music and just before chicken wings delivery, is the entitlement to a political opinion, even when you know, or it matters, fuck all. No one like Arabs truly knows the absolute worthlessness of their opinion, and I consider myself lucky being one in that regard because I dread to think that a thought process of mine can have any repercussions. I like to think of my opinion as that proverbial tree in that proverbial forest that nobody has ever heard because no one could be arsed. Once the absolutely-inconsequential value of my thoughts and opinions has been established, I can let them run free; analysing, insulting, suggesting, and my favourite: surrendering to the hilarity of it all.
Sitting here all kinda pretty (bless unnecessary beauty standards for pushing me towards mascara) thousands of miles away from the magical land of Heard Voices, I get to entitle myself to an opinion about e v e r y t h i n g ever. Exhausting, yes, but if you are a person of consequence, you do not understand the pleasure of this at all. It’s like we’re gym addicts and you’re blessed with fast metabolism: we hate you, so we go extra lengths to feel an odd sense of pleasure just to cast you out. And so, I decide to entitle myself to a peculiar opinion, of course, because I only entitled myself to one in the first place to feel special.
British domestic politics. But before you discount this revelation as yet another attempt to feel intellectually superior, you must know that I only did it for comical reasons to begin with before it grew on me… and then I reverted it back to its’ comical origins with angry calls for the return of Nando’s and 2015’s election frenzy (HASHTAG MILLIBAE). I cannot tell you if it serves as a welcome change from the grim politics of the Middle East, if I’m just fond of a certain type of bleak fate that screws people over in fine print and polite discourse, or if it is simply amusing. The neatness of the British huff and puff, the properly-channeled anger of the public, the fact that there is the possibility to have a say in the way your representative statesman actually represents you is nothing short of baffling to someone whose immediate experience of politics is God Save Us.
It could very well be heartlessness on my part; perceiving the minute day-to-day repercussions of some policy or another as sources of amusement, but I live in a part of the world so thirsty for political movement that it takes the London mayoral elections to heart. The winner of the aforementioned election, Mr. Sadiq Khan, with his ideology, has caused a stir-up in our vacuous space of politics; interestingly so, that stir-up was hardly different from the electoral procedure currently happening in the United States during the presidential hullabaloo. The ideological factor, much as we want to dismiss it, remains the force driving our choices. We decided that Sadiq Khan was one of us because he has a name like ours, a faith like ours, and so an ideology like ours. Never mind that we would probably shun him with our acute racism and exclusivity if he were among us, but over there, in the far, far away land of Heard Voices, he was the closest thing to us. Here’s the thing, though, that thought process is exactly the same that Trump supporters possess: he has a name like ours, a faith like ours, and so an ideology like ours. He’s the closest thing we’ve got in the far, far away land of Political Mayhem.
The key to all of this is to try and realise that Mr. Khan’s ideology is that of a stark, brisk Londoner: grey, uncompromising, and cosmopolitan. Debating his policies, we look like the country girls who just read the Sex and The City column and want to be the next Carrie Bradshaw. We don’t even know how to handle 17-degree weather.
But then what do I know? There’s hardly anything cosmopolitan about taking the politics of another city in another country in another continent to the bedroom and dedicating Twitter fights to it. There’s also hardly anything cosmopolitan about eating chicken wings in your parents’ living room with the BBC on mute.