Cutting the ham

This is a Spanish jamón being cut as it should, in fine, almost transparent slivers. Some consider it an art. Others see it as an offence.

Articles appeared recently in Europa Sur and in CampoPulse -and probably in other media as well - about a Muslim family in La Línea de la Concepción who denounced (a Spanish term meaning 'make a report or complaint') their son's teacher for mentioning ham during a geography lesson - a lesson about climate, using as an example one of Spain's 'cathedrals' of ham, Trévelez in the Alpujarras, which is 1700 m above sea level and dry and cold enough to produce some of the country's very best jamones. Apparently, the boy asked the teacher not to mention the pork product because it injured his Muslim sensibilities.

The matter came to the attention of the boy's family, who supposedly rushed round to the National Police station to file a complaint, accusing the teacher of maltrato de obra ('factual abuse'), racism and xenophobia, and the Judicial Police (an arm of the National variety) is investigating. The teacher's colleagues and the school's administration are indignant. So am I.

This is the kind of thing one might have expected from namby-pamby all-too-politically-correct Britain, where the authorities (nice generic term that) seem to eschew every possibility of confrontation. You wouldn't expect Spain to look on this incident with kindliness.

In the bar this morning, where I went to drown my indignation in coffee, I couldn't help mentioning the jamón incident. The immediate  reaction from my fellow breakfasters was a unanimous "¡Que se vayan a su país! They should go back to their country!"

Anyone who reads me will tell you that I have a permanent bee in my bonnet about racism, xenophobia and such. I have a particular problem with racists who try to hide their prejudices but crack unfunny racist jokes and forward stupid racist e-mails. If it were up to me, I'd eliminate passports everywhere, but I don't live in Utopia. (While I'm eliminating things, I might as well eliminate religion, too. And the 'Forward' button on e-mails.)

I couldn't help but agree with my breakfasting colleagues. If you don't like it, leave. Go back 'home'.

Which brings me rather neatly to another bee in my bonnet. All too often I hear and read my fellow countrymen and women (I hold a British passport) complaining about how things are not the same in Spain as 'at home'. Home? They've only lived here for years and years... And anyway, Spain is not, repeat not, the UK with sunshine.

You know what I mean: "At home they do it this way." "In the UK, they wouldn't accept that." (Please fill in the space with any such conversation  "                                                            ")

That doesn't mean that everything in Spain is right or perfect. Far from it. But to me it means that things here are less imperfect than other places I've also called home.

Although I no longer consider myself a guest in Spain -thanks to the EU- I do believe that I am here because I prefer it to wherever else I have lived. In particular, I prefer it to my native country. That's why I live here: because I prefer it; I choose to be here.

And so did the Muslim family that started me off on this rant. (Now I'm going back to the bar for a 0/0 beer and a ración de jamón.)

(c) Alberto Bullrich 2010