Photograph by Nathaniel St. Clair
I lie in bed listening to the birds in the trees. Living with a true artist means no art on the bedroom walls, only in the studio. In the background is the hum of London traffic. Above all this, the first passenger jet of the morning. I have recounted this before—the birds, trees, traffic and planes of London.
London is home to as many as 1.5 million wild birds and more than 300 species. Even in the eaves above the bedroom window they nest.
It also contains some eight million trees—almost one for every resident—including oaks, planes, birches, sycamores and horse chestnuts, making it one of the world’s largest urban forests.
I am also writing beneath some of the world’s busiest air corridors. Some Londoners can identify aircraft types from sound alone. On a clear day, more than a thousand will cross the sky. Seeing a commercial airliner every few minutes is entirely normal.
We are forever peering upwards. So are the birds.
This particular morning, a single robin has much to say:
“The misery heaped on Lebanon deserves a mention.”
“As for Tony Blair?” says a blackbird, cocking its head at the wrong angle.
“Board of Peace?” nods the robin.
“Bored of peace, more like,” corrects the blackbird.
Cars are less sympathetic, except for the music. I hear the Daft Punk track Veridis Quo play loudly through the window of a black Audi. I see a drummer with all his kit clamber onto a red doubledecker bus. If vehicles spoke, what would they say?
“All day long I go up and down this bleeding road.”
(Amazon van.)
“Got another bod in the back.”
(Ambulance.)
A series of terrible attacks in London appeared to point towards a broad eruption of anti-Semitism in the capital. Authorities later alleged that several of the most high-profile incidents—including the torching of ambulances and attacks on two Jewish Londoners—had in fact been orchestrated by a single Iraqi-Iranian man operating at a distance—the violence outsourced through FaceTime and distributed like a delivery service. He has since been arrested by US authorities.
Someone who should know better posts an article calling for the rehabilitation of Enoch Powell. Division, it seems, remains easier to market than unity. The comments beneath the article arrive in formation: Powell was not a racist, they insist; he was merely warning of problems to come.
Yet Powell amplified fears around immigration and racial coexistence, giving them a kind of toxic legitimacy and forcing opponents to react—much as today’s populists amplify claims designed to deepen existing divisions.
Whatever his defenders say, what is hard to swallow is how his portrayal of immigrants as a threat to British society helped create—like some malevolent prophet trying to push up his own ratings—some of the very tensions he claimed to foresee. As Jonathan Miller once remarked in conversation with Powell, “difficulties are in the nature of human coexistence.” Politicians, he argued, have a responsibility to promote understanding and cooperation rather than division and fear.
Aerial footage shows us the rioting in Southampton. From above, the scene looks like spontaneous public anger. On the ground, it proves rather more organised than that. Later, from Belfast, overhead shots of protesters after a Sudanese man is charged with attempted murder.The sky above London is porcelain blue. Facing south, I watch a flock of birds cross the sky and envy their freedom to fly. What could they possibly envy about us?
Our drones fly but do not sing.
Birds sing but do not report.
Somewhere between the two lies a great swathe of modern history.
My skilful brother-in-law is a peacetime drone operator. Others operate them in war. From Iran to Ukraine to Sudan they cross borders more routinely than migrating swallows, though with very different intentions.
Perhaps one day there will be so many in the sky that the sky itself will seem a historical artefact. We will speak of clouds as we speak of vanished forests or melting glaciers. Anti-drone netting will be draped across our streets like apocalyptic webbing, just as it already is in Ukraine. We will tell stories about sunsets. Before the drones.
And yet, to many, drones are life-saving. Even unpeopled ground drones are now capturing Russian fighters and whisking them off to captivity.
I spotted two moths above my wardrobe the night before and killed them. I still feel bad about it. At our last home—in a basement—there were many insects. That was where my kilt—the one made in my late mother’s tartan—was shredded by an invasion of large yellow underwing moths.
My pillow is cool. While on TV is something called World War II: Secrets From Above, the news on my phone is also full of flight. France—with some help from the Brits—boarded and seized from the air a sanctioned Russian oil tanker in the Atlantic. Then authorities said Hezbollah had pulled out of the so-called ceasefire, though reports suggest Netanyahu had already ordered new air strikes against Beirut, threatening the so-called US-Iran peace deal. (“What did you expect?” said the blackbird.)
Following the flight paths eastwards, my thoughts turn to Iran. Not the Persian reed warbler, I might add. Another little bird tells me that Tehran keeps outlining its terms for the Americans while some of Iran’s more determined hard-liners search for ways to sink them. Who knows what is true?
I have flown across Iran many times. From thirty thousand feet it always appears immense: mountains, deserts, empty expanses, the accumulated geography of an enormous history. Violence begets violence. The regime in Tehran may be hellish, but that does not make its enemies heavenly.
Somewhere below, invisible from thirty thousand feet, people will be arguing, plotting, mourning, enduring blackouts and preparing fresh reasons to love and hate one another. Many simply will have to get on with their grief.
The birds, meanwhile, get on with their morning.
