In a development so profoundly predictable it could have been scripted by a particularly cynical BBC dramatist, the United Kingdom has graciously extended a ‘helping hand’ to our froggy friends across the Channel following the shocking murder of a young woman named Lyhanna. The crime has plunged France into what the papers are calling ‘a crisis of national confidence,’ though one suspects the actual crisis is more about whether the French can still produce decent baguettes while their government wrestles with the knotty problem of how to appear tough on terror without actually doing anything that might upset anyone.
Let’s be brutally clear here: a woman is dead. A young woman, with a name that sounds like it belongs in a Disney film for very sad children, has been brutally murdered. And what does the British government do? It offers the French ‘counter-terror cooperation,’ which I can only assume means dispatching a team of MI5 spooks to sit in a windowless room in Paris, drinking terrible coffee, and exchanging cryptic glances while muttering about ‘sharing intelligence’ – by which they mean ‘we have some stuff you probably already know, but we’ll pretend it’s top secret so you owe us one.’
This is the theatre of the absurd that passes for international relations in the 21st century. The French, whose intelligence services have the penetrative subtlety of a sledgehammer in a china shop, are now apparently in need of British assistance to solve a crime that, if the tabloids are to be believed, was committed by a radicalised loner with a suspicious amount of tin foil in his recycling bin. But no matter! The UK stands ready, as ever, to offer its ‘expertise’ in counter-terrorism, an expertise honed through years of successfully preventing precisely zero terrorist attacks while simultaneously managing to alienate every minority community in the country.
One can only imagine the scene in the Élysée Palace. Macron, looking suitably grave, rings Downing Street. ‘Bonjour, Rishi, we ‘ave a leetle problem. A woman, she is dead. We think it ees zee terrorism.’ Rishi, who has been practising his ‘concerned statesman’ face in the mirror, adopts a tone of robust sincerity. ‘Jean-Claude (or whatever his name is), you have our full support. We will send our finest minds. They will bring clipboards and a profound sense of superiority. Together, we will solve this.’ And the French, with the grace of a nation that has not yet had to endure a full series of ‘The Apprentice,’ accept.
But what does ‘counter-terror cooperation’ actually mean in practice? It means more acronyms. More acronyms being bandied about in rooms that smell of stale air and desperation. It means GCHQ sharing data with the DGSE, which will then be analysed by a team of interns who are only there because they can’t get jobs at Google. It will lead to a report, likely titled something like ‘The Lyhanna Review: Proposals for Enhanced Interoperability in Cross-Channel Security Frameworks,’ which will be filed away in a drawer marked ‘Things We Promised To Do But Can’t Be Arsed.’
And Lyhanna? She will become a footnote. A hashtag. A brief spike in the news cycle before we all move on to the next outrage. Her death will be used to justify more surveillance, more police powers, more of the same failed policies that got us here in the first place. Because that’s what we do now: we turn human tragedy into bureaucratic busywork, hoping that no one notices we have absolutely no idea what we’re doing.
So bravo, UK. Bravo, France. You’ve managed to turn a murder into a diplomatic photo opportunity. I’m sure Lyhanna would be thrilled to know that her death has brought about the chance for some highly paid civil servants to exchange platitudes over espresso. The rest of us can only watch, heads in hands, as the great and the good of Europe perform their solemn little dance, all the while knowing that the next Lyhanna is out there, waiting for the system to fail her too.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a gin. A large one. Preferably from an airport.
