Newshour More than 100 trucks of aid sent to Gaza
Also in the programme: as France describes the European Union's trade deal with the US as "submission", the EU's top negotiator tries to make the case for the deal; and Google admits its earthquake warning system failed to alert millions of people in Turkey before the devastation of 2023.
(Photo shows trucks carrying aid lining up near the Rafah border crossing between Egypt and the Gaza Strip on 28 July 2025. Credit: Reuters)
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New Statesman
an hour ago
- New Statesman
How Britain lost the status game
Photo by Stefan Rousseau/AFP I've always been a bit puzzled by the 1956 Suez Crisis. The idea of Britain, France and Israel plotting together but being defeated by the honest, righteous Americans does feel, nearly a lifetime later, a little strange. But the most baffling thing about the Suez Crisis is the idea that it was a crisis. It's always described as this a great national humiliation which ruined a prime minister, the sort of watershed to inspire national soul-searching, state-of-the-nation plays and a whole library of books. And yet, compared to the sort of thing which literally every other European country had to deal with at some point in the 20th century, it's nothing. Britain was not invaded or occupied; Britain did not see its population starve. Britain simply learned that it was no longer top dog. That's all. The event and the reaction don't seem to go together. But this, of course, is to see the world from the perspective of today. Now, we all know that Britain cannot just do what it wants – that the US is the far more powerful player. At the start of 1956, though, large chunks of the map were still coloured British pink (or, come to that, French bleu), and the median opinion at home was that this was broadly a good thing. Suez was the moment when the loss of status we now date to 1945 came home. I wonder, in my darker moments, if we're going through something similar now – a less dramatic decline, perhaps, but a potentially more ruinous one. The loss of empire, after all, was mainly an issue for the pride of the political classes. Today's decline in status affects everyone. Consider the number of areas in which the current British government seems utterly helpless before the might of much bigger forces. It's not quite true to say that Rachel Reeves has no room for manoeuvre – breaking a manifesto pledge and raising one of the core taxes remains an option, albeit one that would be painful for government and taxpayer alike. But her borrowing and spending options are constrained by the sense of a bond market both far flightier than it once was, thanks to an increase in short term investors, and less willing, post-Truss, to give Britain the benefit of the doubt. The thing that much of the public would like Reeves to do – spend more, without raising taxes – is a thing it is by no means clear she has the power to do. Over in foreign policy, Keir Starmer has offended sensibilities by making nice with someone entirely unfit to be president of the United States, and whose actions place him a lot closer to the dictators of the 20th century than to Eisenhower or JFK. The problem for Starmer is that saying this out loud would likely result in ruinous tariffs, or the collapse of NATO before an alternative system for the defence of Europe can be prepared, or both. Again, he has no space to do what his voters want him to do. In the same vein, consider the anger about Britain's failure to act to prevent the horrors still unfolding in Gaza. It is not to imply the government has handled things well to suggest that at least part of the problem is that – 69 years on from Suez – the government of Israel doesn't give a fig about what the government of Britain thinks. The things the public wants may be outside the realm of things the government can actually deliver. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Even in less overtly political realms, the British state feels helplessly at the mercy of global forces beyond its control. The domestic TV industry, a huge British export, is in crisis thanks to the streamers. AI will change the world, we're told, and it's very possible that isn't a good thing: and what is Westminster supposed to do about that? And with which faculties? In all these areas and a thousand more, people want their government to do something to change the direction of events, and it is not at all obvious it can. Ever since 2016, British politics has been plagued by a faintly Australian assumption that, if a prime minister is not delivering, you should kick them out and bring in the next one. That is not the worst impulse in a democracy. But what if Britain is so changed that delivery is not possible? Researchers have found that social status affects the immune system of certain types of monkey – that the stress of lower status can, quite literally, kill. It already looks plausible the electorate might roll the dice on Nigel Farage. This is terrifying enough. But when it turns out he can't take back control either, but only trash what's there – what then? [See more: Trump in the wilderness] Related
The Guardian
an hour ago
- The Guardian
‘The world is on edge': five tumultuous weeks with David Lammy, foreign secretary at a time of crisis
'Remind me: why weren't we able to meet in Washington DC?' David Lammy asks, spoon of Pret chicken laksa suspended in front of his mouth. It's lunchtime in the foreign secretary's office, a vast room of gilt edges, damask drapery and waxed oak. 'Because Israel bombed Iran, and your trip was cancelled,' I say. 'Oh, yes.' He scrapes the bottom of the pot, perhaps remembering the snap Cobra session on 13 June, the world holding its breath, the shared feeling we were on the brink of global war. It's three weeks on and the heat of imminent conflict has lessened, if not the actual temperature, shining in the faces of staff. Lammy apologises for squeezing me into his lunch break. His schedule, running down a whiteboard in the ante office, is precision-timed. After our chat, he will be whisked off to Cyprus to see British troops, then to Beirut overnight, then a car ride through the mountains into Syria, where he'll meet the new president, Ahmed al-Sharaa, formerly the head of the Islamist group Hay'at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS). Lammy will be the first British minister to set foot in the country in 14 years. He lifts his chin to prevent yellow soup dropping on his 'sombre' green tie. You can sense his mood, he'll tell me later, by his tie choice. Ordinarily he brings miso from home in a flask, but sometimes he's left too early, or sped from an overnight flight, and then it's the laksa, 296 calories. He's on a diet, an intermittent fasting, 'little bit no carby' regime. Plus he hasn't drunk alcohol since taking the job: 'I can't drink and fly. It interrupts my sleep.' His last was a teeny half-pint watching England v Switzerland in the Euros on his first official trip last year. He's taken 90 flights and visited 62 countries since, mostly on the UK government Airbus that gives him a stiff back – he is 53. Sleeping pills are an essential part of the job, he says. 'There's always a trip to the CVS pharmacy in Washington DC to buy the best melatonin gummies.' This interview was originally set up to mark Lammy's first year as foreign secretary. It's also 26 years since the young lawyer, brought up by a Guyanese single mother, was elected as Labour MP for Tottenham, London. What it becomes is a snapshot of a foreign secretary in international crisis. Not that Lammy seems to break a sweat. I tail him for five weeks on foot, in cars, on trains. Even when the heatwave melts train tracks, he doesn't loosen the Tyrwhitt tie or shed his TM Lewin jacket. Mostly he's cheery, slipping between bursts of uproarious laughter, which involves table banging, and thunderous rhetoric, which involves table banging. In a foreign affairs select committee hearing, his foot beats the seconds as he's grilled on Israel, Iran and Ukraine. During a French state visit, he shows his counterpart an original Enigma machine and spells out how it works. In a constituency community centre, he lets West Indian aunties pinch his cheeks and cry into his lapel. Only once do I see him nettled, prodding a cross finger in my direction because I inadvertently hit a nerve. We finish in the week he signs a joint statement with 28 other foreign ministers demanding an immediate stop to the bombing of Gaza. On Radio 4's Today, he energetically rebutts the suggestion that he hasn't blocked all arms exports to Israel. On LBC, Nick Ferrari reminds him it's the sixth time he's called for a ceasefire: 'Why would they be listening now?' Lammy sounds downcast: 'I regret hugely that I've not been able to bring the horrendous war to an end.' But Gaza is the wound that will not heal. I wonder if it will be Lammy's diplomatic apotheosis or his undoing. It's the issue that impels protesters to put fake baby body bags in his front garden, that brings them to a sleepy village church with loudhailers to amplify the death toll, now surpassing 59,000, according to the Gaza health ministry. It's the issue that focuses outrage directly on to him, that right now he's under most pressure to solve. The last time we speak, against dire warnings of impending famine, he has hardened his line. He calls shooting civilians waiting for aid 'grotesque', 'sick'; demands 'accountability' from the Israeli side. He says things are 'desperate for people on the ground, desperate for the hostages in Gaza', that the world is 'desperate for a ceasefire, for the suffering to come to an end'. He tells me he wants to go to Gaza 'as soon as I can get in'. In person, on the ground? 'Absolutely. One hundred per cent.' So what is Lammy's mission as foreign secretary? He has described it as 'progressive realism' – using pragmatic methods to achieve progressive outcomes as Britain's stature dwindles. So far this has meant reassembling our relationship with the EU, reimagining how we use our influence on the world stage and – crucially – managing the relationship with Donald Trump. As a cocksure backbencher, Lammy had described the American president as 'deluded, dishonest, xenophobic, narcissistic', a 'neo-Nazi-sympathising sociopath' and a 'tyrant in a toupee'. One can only imagine whether his collar felt tight as the lift doors clamped shut and he rose to the penthouse of Trump Tower in autumn last year. It was the run-up to the US election; Trump had invited both Britain's new prime minister, Keir Starmer, and his foreign secretary to dinner at home. Lammy says Trump was a 'very gracious host', giving them a guided tour of his Louis XIV-inspired triplex and art collection. Floor-to-ceiling windows insulated them from the blaring midtown horns 58 storeys below. Lammy was awe-struck by the gold, he says, how ornate it was, 'how expensive'. And later, Trump extinguished the lights and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the dark, admiring the glittering Manhattan skyline. 'It was pretty incredible.' Overall, his impression was that Trump wanted them to feel at ease, wanted them to like the roast chicken he served; joshing when Lammy had a second helping. It was not long after Trump had been shot in Pennsylvania. He was really shaken, Lammy thought, obsessed by it, 'as you would imagine', but at the same time going out of his way to make sure his guests were OK. 'The thing running through my mind was post-traumatic stress disorder,' Lammy says. 'The years it takes to recover from shocking events like that. How would I be feeling weeks later, if someone had tried to shoot me?' He thought of constituents who had experienced knife crime and gun violence, and felt, 'that whilst [Trump] was shaken, he didn't want to dwell on it. He could have said, 'I'm going to do the very minimum now because I'm not feeling great.'' Lammy clocked Trump's two chefs staring at him. 'I couldn't work out why I was of such import in the context of Donald Trump and Keir Starmer.' Finally, they approached. ''Please, please, can we have a photograph? We know your family is from Guyana, we want to send it home.'' Did Trump see that, I ask? 'Yeah,' Lammy says. 'They were also pleased that I had eaten more than everybody else.' I ask him to conjure what I would have observed had his trip to Washington DC gone ahead in June. He moves forward in his chair. 'The whole world was on the edge of its seat,' he says, 'so you would've seen foreign policy at its most heightened.' All agreed Iran should not have nuclear weapons: the question was how to stop that. Lammy says that his bridge-building role would have been to enter detailed discussions with secretary of state Marco Rubio and Middle East envoy Steve Witkoff, before shuttling to Geneva to inform the other E3 members, France and Germany. 'I remember as a young student doing history, reading about the Cuban missile crisis in 1962,' he says. 'There are these moments when the world is on edge, worried. This year, that was one of those moments. You'd have had a sense of that.' Lammy says the threat from Iran is real. 'Its leaders cannot explain to me – and I've had many conversations with them – why they need 60% enriched uranium. If I went to Sellafield or Urenco in Cheshire, they haven't got anything more than 6%. The Iranians claim it's for academic use, but I don't accept that. It was Gordon Brown who accused Iran of deceit when they established Fordow [the underground enrichment site] and revealed that to the world back in 2009.' As a rule, Lammy prefers diplomacy to military intervention, but is 'clear eyed' about 'parts of the Iranian system that have a certain objective'. And it's not just nuclear war between Iran and Israel that troubles him. 'Many of your readers will have watched Oppenheimer and seen the fallout of [the US building an atomic bomb]. So it's what [a nuclear Iran] might mean in terms of other countries in the neighbourhood who would desire one, too. And we would be very suddenly handing over to our children and grandchildren a world that had many more nuclear weapons in it than it has today.' Each night, Lammy knows his sleep may be disrupted (his wife doesn't mind; 'She seems to be able to survive on far less sleep than I') and he'd already gone to bed on 21 June when his mobile started buzzing. It was Marco Rubio telling him the US was about to strike Iran. How much warning did they give? He demurs, saying the PM had been told, and military channels, simultaneously. Was it minutes? 'I was also asleep when President Trump was shot,' he continues, ignoring the question. 'In those initial moments the extent of his injuries wasn't clear. I remember waking up, thinking, oh my God!' He insists the US decision to bomb was not in order to topple Iran's government, though he has 'been exposed to' Israeli arguments in favour of regime change. 'Let's face it, there are lots of people in Iran who would like regime change. But there are no guarantees that what would replace the current Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps would not be as bad or worse.' He pats the table. 'So, that is for the Iranian people to determine. I'm focused on what the UK can do to stop Iran becoming a nuclear power.' For much of his political career, Lammy emphasised his friendship with Barack Obama. They met in 2005 at a gathering of Harvard Law School's black alumni. In interviews he's produced evidence of their familiarity, including a written note from the Democrat former president urging him to 'keep up the good fight'. Today, Lammy is keen to stress his ties with Republicans. He has 'a really good relationship' with Rubio, for instance, and they speak every week. 'We joke about the fact that my heritage is Guyanese, his is Cuban; faith matters to him, faith matters to me. He's journeyed a long way to where he is today, as have I. He's incredibly professional, very bright, consumes a brief.' Lammy also calls vice-president JD Vance 'a friend'. I ask why they get on. 'I remember being at the inauguration of the new pope in Rome, with Angela Rayner and JD Vance,' he says. He seems tickled by the memory: 'I don't think JD and Angela will mind me saying that they were having a couple of drinks.' The setting was the gardens in Villa Taverna, the US ambassador's residence, and 'it was one of those lovely warm days in Italy'. Vance dropped ice cubes into wine glasses and filled them with rosé. 'I really wanted a glass'– Lammy says he has a weakness for rosé – 'but instead I had a Diet Coke.' I ask if Rayner was boisterous. 'I wouldn't say she's rowdy when she has a drink because Angela Rayner has a big character. I mean, she is the Barbara Castle of our era. That's not confined to a drink, it is her personality. She has so much character, so much spine, she makes me a bit shy. My personality is not as big as hers and we are there with the vice-president. So, I was probably the shyest of the three.' It occurred to him that they were 'not just working-class politicians, but people with dysfunctional childhoods. I had this great sense that JD completely relates to me and he completely relates to Angela. So it was a wonderful hour and a half.' Like Rubio, Vance is a Catholic. Did they talk about faith? 'I've had mass with him, in his home,' Lammy says, then glances at his spad and cries, 'I can see the adviser twitching. 'He's mentioned religion!' It's an Alastair Campbell moment!' (He's referring to Tony Blair's spin doctor saying, 'We don't do God.') The adviser assures him it's fine. Against expectations, Trump has made unprompted references to how much he 'really likes' Starmer, 'even though he's a liberal'. The UK was the first to secure a tariff deal from Trump, and is still an exception. It's one of the few conspicuous achievements of this Labour government. But Lammy agonises over the hiccups. Not least, Volodymyr Zelenskyy's televised Oval Office appearance, when the Ukrainian president was ridiculed by Trump and Vance in the manner of two cats batting a mouse. 'If I'm being honest, I felt, arrghhh!' Lammy says. 'Why hadn't I done more to support our Ukrainian colleagues in preparation for their meeting?' He quickly supplies the answer: the Ukrainians were invited last-minute, the British were focused on their own Trump meeting, there wasn't time, so 'I was being a bit hard on myself. But I still felt guilty.' Starmer rang Zelenskyy and invited him to No 10 the next day. 'That embrace with Keir – I still feel quite emotional when I think about it – was a moment where the whole world breathed a sigh of relief.' Indeed, for Lammy this moment – Starmer and Zelenskyy locked in a bear hug on the pavement in Downing Street – was the 'epitome of Britain being back in the place the global community wants us: bridge building, a glue, with a history that helps connects us to much of the world'. He describes travelling to Ukraine, the night trains from Poland to Lviv and on to Kyiv, arriving early morning to demolished apartment blocks, sandbags and bunkers, all reminiscent of war-torn Europe. 'You asked me what it means to work in the Foreign Office building and the room I have. In a way, Ukraine powerfully connects me to Attlee, to Churchill, to that story, because we've got war on the continent. It's an old seam and it's a very fundamental part of the job.' He says he's building on the work of previous foreign secretaries; of David Cameron, James Cleverly, Boris Johnson, Liz Truss. 'You are at the centre of European security – probably the most fundamental part of my job. Here, Britain is absolutely in a leadership role.' Where will the war be in a year's time? 'My sober assessment is that Putin is not ready to seriously negotiate. He still has maximalist and imperialist ambitions. The battle Ukraine has fought, with UK, European and American support, is immense. I suspect that in a year's time, talks will be going on. The question is how serious Russia is about those talks.' He admires the people of Ukraine, 'their tenacity, their sort of steadfastness. The fact that even if the world left them behind, they'd still be waging a guerrilla war, such is their belief in their country. It's deeply inspiring.' Lammy's efforts to fit everything into his insanely packed schedule has come with a cost. In the Easter holidays, he and his wife, the artist Nicola Green, interrupted a family ski trip in France to travel to Italy to join King Charles on a state visit. After three days, 'minding our ps and qs and being on best behaviour', they waved the king off at the airport and 'collapsed into' a pre-paid taxi to go back to the Alps. After a work trip like that, Lammy says, 'you're knackered'. The subsequent ride was first reported from the point of view of the French driver, who said that he realised Lammy was a VIP and argued he should be paid an extra £600. Lammy refused. An altercation ensued and, fearing the British foreign secretary had a gun, he drove off with their suitcases still in the boot. Newspapers devoured this version, but the driver has since been arrested for theft. A court date is set for the autumn. Lammy's version: towards the end of the six-hour journey, he and Green became suspicious that 'the driver was taking longer than necessary'. They asked why and 'it culminated in him demanding more money and pulling a knife'. Lammy did not see the knife – he was in the back seat because Green speaks better French – but 'my wife saw it. He opened the glove compartment and showed it to her. She was terrified'. Although 'it was scary', Lammy did not panic. 'I've got a pretty cool head. I've experienced quite a lot of things in my 53 years on the planet. I am not easily fazed.' When he and Green got out, the driver accelerated off. 'We went to the police and they got our stuff back.' It was a bitter experience, 'just awful, is the truth'. I ask if he was carrying a gun, and Lammy roars with laughter. 'No. I don't think I've ever held a handgun. Or shot one on a firing range.' Before I leave, an official photographer gets me to pose with Lammy, either side of a glass case holding an Enigma machine. Lammy, cropped hair speckled grey, straightens to his full 6ft, grin switching on like a lighthouse beam. As I slip out, he's tucking into a pot of yoghurt, officials closing in to brief him. Five days later, we're in Room 8 at the House of Commons as Lammy faces the foreign affairs select committee. The room is humid, the mood intense. Emily Thornberry asks in a voice of sweet menace what the British reaction is to a report that the Israeli government plans to move 600,000 Gazans into a humanitarian transit camp on the ruins of Rafah. Lammy says they are focused on a ceasefire, and briefs on the sticking points. Thornberry says the government has repeatedly said it would recognise Palestine: 'I know today the two-state solution feels like a million miles away, but increasing numbers of people are concerned that if we continue to hold back on the recognition of Palestine, there won't be anything left to recognise.' Lammy says he is working on a timetable with allies, including France, and agrees that there has been 'more expansion in the West Bank in the last year than in the 15 preceding it. More violence … that the viability of two states is being put in question by those who are determined to pursue this.' Abtisam Mohamed MP asks for an assurance that the UK would oppose any deal that allowed any part of the West Bank to become part of new Israeli territory. Lammy says the settler violence flouts international law and Oslo. Thornberry flips open a black fan like a flamenco dancer, wagging it with impatience at her face. Afterwards, I am bustled into Room 5 for a catchup. Lammy seems distracted. He was strong on the criminality of settlers in the West Bank but why, given the accepted definition of terrorism – the use or threat of use of violence for political ends – does he not consider these acts terrorism? He sighs. A clock ticks like the tap of a teaspoon on china. 'They're criminal acts. They're illegal acts. They're acts that we condemn and they're acts that we've sought to sanction. They're reprehensible and they're designed to thwart those of us who believe that 'two states' is the only viable alternative. There is a set of voices in Israel that are determined to see a greater Israel [and] no [Palestinian] state at all. I stand against those voices.' I press: why are they not seen as terrorist acts by the UK government? 'I don't think they're described as terrorist acts traditionally. I've sat with families who are subjected to violence and threats. Those families experience them as criminal acts. We support those families both financially and to advocate for their rights. We support the Palestinian Authority speaking up for many of those families.' Two weeks later, he finally shifts this position, describing 'settler terrorism' in comments to the House. While he was in Damascus, I say, the Home Office declared the UK group Palestine Action a terrorist organisation. Are their protests 'terrorist acts traditionally'? And while Lammy shook hands with President al-Sharaa, a former member of al-Qaida, and pledged UK support in the rebuilding of Syria, Sue Parfitt, an 83-year old vicar, was carted off by the police under counter-terrorism laws. Does that feel like a contradiction? 'That's a decision for the home secretary,' he says, adding of Yvette Cooper, 'She sees warrants on a daily basis that are deeply challenging and worrying. Hers come from MI5. I see warrants based on threats overseas from MI6. She has to make assessments about terrorism. She's made that assessment. She has my full support.' What was Sharaa like? 'Measured. Presented well. Calm. Suit. Articulate.' Suit? 'He was suited.' As opposed to wearing combat fatigues? 'Yes. I was aware – and I pushed him on it, of course – that he once was a terrorist.' What did he say? 'He said that was in time of war. He has learned. His focus is on bringing his country together, getting past the economic hardship – 90% of Syria is living in poverty. I said, 'When I go back to my country, people will ask me, is he still a terrorist?' He wanted to convince me that was the past. He recognises that he has to operate as leader in an inclusive way, face the future, rebuild the nation. We're working with him on counter-terrorism – against Daesh [Isis] and others in the country that are deeply worrying. This is a very fragile time, but all of us want Syria to succeed. So we've got to work with him.' The young David Lammy was well-known for his political activism. Before his postgrad at Harvard Law School, he read Law at the School of Oriental and African Studies and practised as a barrister in London and the US. When he won his seat aged 27, he was the youngest MP in the house. He was spotted early by Blair and Brown, and moved through a series of jobs. Later, in opposition, he was seen as being on the left of the party and combined his work in Westminster with trigger-happy tweets and his own popular radio show on LBC. He says that although he is wearing 'a diplomatic hat' today, 'underneath it all is an activist and a social campaigner for sure'. I ask then, in the light of so many people protesting to little effect, what actually works? 'Well, perhaps it's best to look back on my career. I advocated for those [discriminated against] in the Windrush scandal, which led to an inquiry and a compensation scheme. I was also the first politician the morning after Grenfell to call for an inquiry.' His friend Khadija Saye, a 24-year-old artist and assistant at his wife's art studio, lived on the 20th floor and died in the fire. He's conscious that while some conflicts are highly visible, others are not. It grates that there isn't more interest in the war in Sudan, which affects him personally. Privately, he'll say it's because those dying are African and black. Today, he says, Sudan is 'the worst in terms of life lost and civilian catastrophe. Millions of women and children are suffering, raped, burned, killed. It's not commanding global attention. It's not on the news regularly. I have probably been the most prominent foreign secretary in the G7 and in Europe on the issue of Sudan.' He convened the London conference, put down a UN motion 'which the Russians vetoed' and promises to 'keep returning to the issue. Today I'm not acting as an activist. I'm the country's chief diplomat. And diplomacy is often failing until it wins, is the truth. Look at Northern Ireland.' Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion Does the Israel-Gaza war affect him personally, too? 'Oh, there have been many days of deep frustration, deep sadness.' Has he shed tears? 'I haven't shed tears because … I don't know the last time I cried. It was a long time ago, probably when my mother died. But have there been moments in this last year where I've felt deep sadness? Yes.' Lammy's constituency – one of the most diverse in the world, he says – includes a significant number of Charedim in Stamford Hill. The ultraorthodox Jewish community, who are particularly visible because of their distinctive traditional dress, have borne the brunt of rising antisemitism including violence, damage to property and, Lammy says, 'horrible scenes of abuse in the streets'. When he visited a Jewish girls' school soon after the Hamas atrocities of 7 October, there was a palpable sense of shock, Lammy says. 'I could feel the fear. It was very strong. There was a vulnerability among those women. And among their elders were Holocaust survivors.' He says the community tell him 'they are focused on the hostages, on Hamas and terrorism'. Lammy was closely involved with the family of Emily Damari, the British hostage who was released, aged 28, in January 2025 after being held in Gaza by Hamas for 471 days. While not a constituent, she was a Tottenham Hotspur fan, so 'her mother and I met many times. She gave me a plastic flower to keep in a vase in my office and said, 'You can take it out when my daughter is free.'' It is still on his desk: Lammy talks about the need to get the remaining hostages released as part of a ceasefire. He also works with constituents with ties to Gaza and the West Bank. 'Palestinian groups and NGO workers I have met are also bereft and feel a desperate gnawing pain. It goes back to a visceral and almost ancient discourse around land and two communities who have experienced injustice for so many years.' How does he cope with the protests outside his home? 'Something has changed in politics, particularly in this social media age. When I started, people wrote to you in green ink. Now the immediacy, the personalisation, the way your family, your children are involved ... I'm not going to pretend that in terms of my wife and my children I don't feel protective.' He says the 'dehumanising elements of politics are very troubling, very wounding, painful'. We are outside the British Library in St Pancras, waiting to greet the French foreign secretary. Lammy is exuberant. 'My wife said as I left, 'That's a nice tie, darling.'' It's bright blue, flapping in the breeze. Cars disgorge French officials, including the lean foreign secretary Jean-Noël Barrot, who has a graze of stubble and is pulling on a chic black vape. There's handshaking, smiles, pictures, then a brisk walk up the side of the building, past rat traps and the smell of skunk, and into the lift for lunch at the Alan Turing Institute. Lammy peers at their Enigma machine, an upgrade from the one in his office, he says. On a table, someone has laid out La Durée macarons next to Fortnum & Mason fudge. A lot of public diplomacy requires standing next to symbolic objects and being photographed with folders containing signed 'understandings'. Most of the work is done on WhatsApp. I overhear one of the French team whispering about how strong Emmanuel Macron's cologne is, how it leaves a trail in his wake. Lammy and Barrot exchange details of their summer holidays, then Lammy leaves – bolting to see his daughter's school play. He won't be at the state banquet tonight because he's on a flight to Malaysia. In opposition, he said he would travel at the pace of a US secretary of state. While he's making good on that promise, British stalling over the recognition of a Palestinian state is frustrating the French. But, recognition, Lammy says 'is, a card you can only play once'. The imperative, he says, is to end the violence. As we go to press, Macron commits to recognise Palestine at the UN in September. The next time we speak, he's eating a pork pie. It's the day after Diane Abbott's second suspension from Labour, having said she did 'not at all' regret the events that led to her suspension in 2023. Back then, she had written to the Observer saying Jews, Travellers and Irish people do not suffer racism in the way black people do. But that they experience prejudice that is 'similar' to racism. Lammy says he had previously intervened to ensure she would be readmitted to the party, 'because I was sad such an immense politician, the first of her kind in parliament, had found herself in this situation'. He had been doing all he could 'behind the scenes' to bring her back in. 'So I was very frustrated and upset that this had arisen again as a result of her out-of-nowhere backtracking on that statement.' He says whatever the outcome of the latest investigation, 'I will continue to consider her a friend and have respect for her.' While we are on the subject of his colleagues, I ask how he felt about Starmer's 'island of strangers' speech on immigration, and the echoes of Enoch Powell in that phrase. 'I think the use of language was poor,' he says. 'Poor choice. And if someone had shown me the speech, I would've said, 'Take that out.'' How does he reflect on a year of Labour in government? He lists their 'big successes', the 'dozens of things' they have done to improve people's lives' from planning reform to early years provision. But adds, 'I slightly worry we have not conveyed that as well as we could.' I ask if I can add to that quote the wink he just gave me. He laughs. It's boiling in the Grace Organisation community centre in Tottenham, a meeting place for older, predominantly West Indian constituents, some with disabilities or incipient dementia. Paulette Yusuf, who runs the place, is explaining the dilapidated state of the building and Lammy is nodding, deferring to an official on ways they might be able to help. In the main hall, an uplifting reggae gospel mix is playing. Scattered on tables are puzzles, colouring-in sets, books and games, including a box of Royal Bingo with William and Kate on the lid. At the back, there's the snap of dominoes from a table of men, the occasional outburst. People look round when Lammy enters wearing his biggest smile yet. 'My mum had her 60th here,' he says. 'Hello, my good MP!' An elderly lady in large pearl earrings calls him over. She lives on his street. Another in a blue lace jacket is eating a pot of yoghurt. 'We love you,' she says, but he's being enveloped in a hug by a lady in a white hat. 'You exist!' 'I do exist,' he says. 'Who's that, Lammy?' another asks. 'I've been hearing about you for years,' she tells him. 'Good things?' Lammy wonders. She pinches his cheek. One woman knew his mum when she arrived in London: they worked together at the tube station in Camden. 'That's a long way back,' Lammy says, 'You can't have been more than 12.' She bats him away. Some attendees are in hi-vis, Sharpied with 'If you see me walking alone, please call this number' followed by the Grace mobile. 'I think I need one of those,' Lammy whispers. Next, he's on the mic. He gives a shout out to all the countries in the Caribbean – 'Do we have anyone from St Lucia? Jamaica? Barbados?' Each time there are cheers. Swaying to the music by the stage is a man in a pink cowboy hat. Lammy approaches. The man puts his fists up. For one heart-stop instant it looks as if the foreign secretary will be punched. Lammy doesn't flinch. He puts his fists up and the two play at shadow boxing. His security detail un-tense. Afterwards I ask if it bothers him or his team that he is hugged and handled so much. 'I'm quite touchy,' he says with a note of glee. His spad tells me I can't use that in the wrong way. 'No, I am quite touchy,' Lammy insists. 'I don't care. I am a bit old-fashioned that way. I have a lot of respect for the elderly. That's how I was brought up. My mother worked at the end of her life in sheltered housing as a housing officer. That human contact is important and I'm very comfortable with it.' Up the road at the Marcus Garvey Library, Lammy will take his constituency surgery, then record a podcast in the car on the way to King's Cross. We're taking the train to Peterborough – a journey of significance as a teenager. Not only was this the train that took him to his state boarding school aged 11, it was also on a platform here one spring Saturday in 1985 that he last saw his dad. David Lammy senior bent down to his son's height, told him he loved him, to look after his mother, and kissed him goodbye. He had left the family home and later moved to America. Lammy says it was the single most 'scarring' event in his life. 'My father didn't come back. Psychologically that is devastating. There must have been a bit of me that blamed myself. I question whether he did in fact love me.' This he works through in therapy: he has 'a wonderful' therapist and GP and has taken Prozac for anxiety. He finds the issue around his father hardest when he looks at his own children. 'I could not imagine leaving them. I just couldn't. I'm troubled that he was so troubled. I tend not to dwell on the past, but I do recognise the way the past informs who you are.' Lammy Sr was a taxidermist and alcoholic, hot-tempered and prone to rage. Previously Lammy has described his parents' marriage as 'tempestuous'. He clarifies that this included domestic violence. Did he witness it? 'Yes.' Did he try to intervene? 'No, no. I was the child holding my ears, crying in my bedroom … This feeling in the pit of your stomach, just this terror.' Was it a regular occurrence? 'Regular enough.' Did the police come round? 'Nooo, absolutely not. No one cared.' He adds that in those days in the communities where he grew up – Irish, Cypriot, 'cockney' working-class, black West Indian – 'a lot of men were going to the pub, coming home and beating their wives. It was the 70s. Violence was common. There were fights in the playground: kids mimicking what they'd seen at home – not that these things are unique to class, either.' His mother Rosalind would not have left her husband, he believes. Like many of her generation, she felt trapped. 'My mother was still very much a country girl at heart. When Dad left, we thought we'd be taken into care. We didn't know if my mum could survive. She wasn't making much money in those days.' She struggled with the bills and bureaucracy, and 'how you handle the state'. Lammy helped her 'a lot': 'I was like one of the kids that comes to my surgery: advocating on her behalf.' When social services came knocking, the family were terrified. 'We'd had a big, big fear of the state. Black families in the neighbourhood lived in fear of the police, a little bit of schools, too. There was a fear that things could happen you couldn't control and that would not be fair. So, yeah, there were moments that we found scary. It's what you perceive.' His father died in the US, 'a pauper', from throat cancer in 2003. Lammy says it was a horrible death. He received news that it was imminent, but chose not to go. 'I was a young minister and I just decided I couldn't emotionally handle seeing my father all these years later, dying desperately in this way. I did subsequently go to his grave. I gave him a headstone. And there was no sense of bitterness. Quite the opposite. I don't bear grudges, it's just not me.' I ask if all this makes loving his dad – the memory of his dad – more complicated. He thinks about this and says no. 'I'm quite a forgiving person, my nature is wanting to build bridges, to reach out. It's why I think I'm actually not bad at this role.' In fact, it's more than 'not bad': 'This is the first time in my life where I do not have impostor syndrome. I genuinely have a sense of being in the right place at the right time for this job.' He seems extroverted to me, but insists he's shy and gauche. He credits Green with helping him 'put on my armour on to walk out of the house and into public life every day'. They met 20 years ago at a singles party thrown by the former MP Oona King. 'Nicola had no idea who I was,' he says. 'I liked that she didn't know that I was in public life, didn't ask me what I did.' He fell for her quickly: 'I think she found it all a bit intense.' A few months later, he took her on holiday to the Caribbean, 'via Haiti, because I was on the board of Action Aid at the time and it had experienced a horrendous disaster. It was gruelling and not really what you do with a date. But she said she saw a window of my life. We were married within a year.' The couple have three children, two boys and an adopted daughter. There's adoption in both families, Lammy says: his own mother and his wife's grandmother. 'There are kids that need a loving home. We talked about it and decided we would embark on this journey. It's been one of the most rewarding things I've done, by some stretch. For my boys as well. I had a tough start, but not as tough as starting off with parents who can't take care of you.' At home he says they talk about art. I am not sure I believe him. Green is 'more political than he is' according to friends. But he likes theatre and film – 'loved Sinners'– and his adviser confirms the only time they can't reach him is when he's in the cinema. Once every five weeks the family visits Chevening, the grace-and-favour country house, and he tears through the extensive overgrown woodland as a form of relaxation. 'A good two- or three-hour walk is my idea of a great weekend afternoon.' Otherwise, he keeps fit with a former para called Alex twice a week. We've arrived in Peterborough and been driven to a country church where he will make a speech. A small crowd of protesters greet us with placards splodged with red paint. They are shouting about genocide, war crimes, children orphaned. Lammy's composure looks shaken. I'm asking about his cherubic choirboy days at the local King's School. His voice broke aged 13, he says, but he joins the parliamentary choir at Christmas 'because I know all the old tunes. Singing is therapy. But if I can't practise, I'm not going to sing.' You don't have to be perfect, I tease. As the shouts grow louder, he looks suddenly cross. He points his finger accusatorially. 'I can see what you're doing, needling away at me.' Later, he admits he's tired. Running on empty: 'But still running.' He's hoping to get away on holiday this month. 'It will be quite enough to absolutely do nothing.' Maybe he will allow himself a glass of rosé. 'I'll have more than a glass – a bottle. Several!'
The National
2 hours ago
- The National
History will judge monsters who enabled a genocide
Keir Starmer's announcement that Britain will recognise the State of Palestine in September if Israel doesn't agree to a ceasefire and a two-state solution sums up his political project. Starmer himself is an empty vessel, a mere frontman for Labour's most reactionary and self-serving political faction: his own advisers briefed that he thinks he's driving a train, but they had placed him in front of London's driverless District Light Railway. This faction is defined by its cynicism, lacking not just a vision for our disunited kingdom, but a moral core. They saw that growing numbers of MPs were demanding Palestinian recognition, including some of the drones they parachuted into the parliamentary party, whose blind loyalty has been frayed by the realisation they're heading towards electoral apocalypse. READ MORE: Gaza detainees 'tortured and raped' by Israeli forces, United Nations hears The SNP were preparing to force a parliamentary vote on statehood, which would leave Labour exposed. And indeed other European states, like Spain, have already taken this step, with the likes of France making clear they will too. But all Starmer's aides care about is political game playing, rather than what happens to be the right thing to do. And here's the thing – they're not even good at it. They scrapped the universal Winter Fuel Payment because they thought it would win respect as a 'tough decision'. Alas, they project their lack of a heart on to the electorate, who shocked Labour goons by being averse to freezing their grans. They decided to wage war on disabled people with cuts which would drive hundreds of thousands into hardship, and were again shocked at being stopped in their tracks by the consequent revulsion, including from the malfunctioning androids who benefited from their rigged parliamentary selections. In this case, their ruse is as cackhanded as it is morally bankrupt. Any move which recognises the humanity of Palestinians is going to provoke the pro-Israel lobby, who long sank into a sewer of genocidal depravity, and so it proved. What about everyone else – that is, popular opinion, given the polling shows overwhelming public support for recognition of a Palestinian state, an arms embargo on Israel, as well as the arrest of its leader, Benjamin Netanyahu, for war crimes and crimes against humanity? Starmer's team are essentially arguing that if Israel tones down its genocide, then it will withdraw support for Palestinian statehood. The inalienable right of a people to be free is reduced to a crude bargaining chip, a chess piece on a board to be discarded for a greater strategic cause. So who is this supposed to please, exactly? Here's the gruesome truth. Obviously, Britain should have supported Palestinian national self-determination many moons ago. But there won't be any Palestine left to recognise at this rate. Here is the most symbolic gesture on offer, and even that is reduced to a cynical ploy. There is growing pressure on the Government, because they are facilitating what the former UN aid chief, Martin Griffiths, calls the 'worst crime of the 21st century'. Here is an attempt to deflect from action they could be taking, like ending all arms sales to Israel, including crucial components for F-35 jets that are exterminating Palestinians, or imposing sweeping sanctions on Israel. Indeed, earlier this year, Britain joined other Western states in imposing sanctions on two particularly extreme Israeli ministers, Itamar Ben-Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich. They are both genocidal maniacs who belong in jail, sure, but it is easy to make them the bogeymen in order to absolve the wider guilt of the Israeli state. Notably, the sanctions were justified on the grounds of their incendiary comments, rather than their actions, because the latter implicates the British government. Nothing our government has done remotely meets the scale of the crime. A consensus of genocide scholars – including Israeli scholars – long ago concluded this is genocide. B'Tselem was one of two Israeli human rights organisations to reach the same conclusion this week, alongside Israeli author David Grossman, who won Israel's top literary prize in 2018. Gaza has been plunged into deliberate famine by an Israeli state which repeatedly broadcast to the world that it was intentionally starving the strip. More hungry Palestinians have been massacred at aid points alone since late May than the total number of Israeli civilians and soldiers killed on October 7. And even the BBC is now having to report that Palestinian children are being systematically shot in the head or chest – evidence which points in only one direction: that the Israeli army is deliberately shooting kids. The depravity is so extreme, documented and confessed to, that it is difficult to know either where to begin or end. The British government had a choice when confronted with an incontrovertible criminal reality: to make itself complicit in this historic abomination, or to abide by the most rudimentary building blocks of international law. It chose the former, and now it seeks to wash away its guilt by publicly agonising over Israel's crimes while making tokenistic gestures about a Palestinian nation it has literally helped to massacre. You would have to be either terminally gullible, or a dupe, to be beguiled by this. Throughout history, monsters didn't realise that that is what they are, but they were still monsters. The same applies to Westminster's rulers – and that will be the definitive conclusion of history and, we can hope, the courts, too.
