Motus Mentis

Here’s a thing Donald Trump and I have in common: we both had Scottish mothers — mine from Glasgow, and his from the Hebrides.

Here too is a thing that the Scots and many of the peoples of the Middle East have in common: they are tribal societies from remote places. In such circumstances — and this is especially true of herding cultures in which one’s wealth is movable and easily stolen, and one is far from the organized legal institutions of the State — cultivating a reputation for ferocious retribution for willful injury or public insult is necessary to avoid being preyed upon. (The “honor culture” of the backcountry American South is due to its having been settled by fiercely independent Scots-Irish colonists in the 1700s.)

This prickly spirit is alive and well in Scotland (or at least it was when my mother and Mr. Trump’s were growing up there). I have no doubt that it is alive and well also in the Middle East. Strength and honor are respected; weakness and appeasement are despised.

Back in 2007, I wrote a post about a poem my mother used to read to me, about one “wee Jock Elliot” (a glossary of terms is here):

Ma castle is aye ma ain,
An’ herried it never shall be,
For I maun fa’ ere it’s taen,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wi’ ma kit i’ the rib o’ ma naig,
Ma sword hingin’ doon by ma knee,
For man I am never afraid,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Fierce Bothwell I vanquished clean,
Gar’d troopers an’ fitmen flee;
By my faith I dumfoondert the Queen,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Alang by the dead water stank,
Jock Fenwick I met on the lea,
But his saddle was toom in a clank,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?

Whar Keelder meets wi’ the Tyne,
Masel an’ ma kinsmen three,
We tackled the Percies nine –
They’ll never mair meddle wi’ me.
Sir Harry wi’ nimble brand,
He pricket ma cap ajee,
But I cloured his heid on the strand,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?

The Cumberland reivers ken
The straik ma airm can gie,
An’ warily pass the glen,
For wha daur meddle wi’ me?
I chased the loons doon to Carlisle,
Jook’t the raip on the Hair-i-bee,
Ma naig nickert an’ cockit his tail,
But wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?

Ma kinsmen are true, an’ brawlie,
At glint o’ an enemie,
Round Park’s auld Turrets they rally,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Then heigh for the tug an’ the tussle,
Tho’ the cost should be Jethart tree;
Let the Queen an’ her troopers gae whustle
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Wha daur meddle wi’ me?
Oh, ma name it’s wee Jock Elliot,
An’ wha daur meddle wi’ me?

I rather suspect that Mr. Trump’s mother may have read her boy that poem as well. So, for those of you trying to understand that Reaper strike on Qassem Soleimani the other day, perhaps it suffices to note that he pricket our cap ajee, and got his heid cloured.

It’s a Scottish thing, you see. But I have a feeling it translates quite naturally into Farsi, too.