“You know Mohammed? He had this Jewish neighbour, every day he brought his rubbish to the same spot Mohammed used.” A handsome man, draped in a patchwork cape of the Syrian and Palestinian flags combined, is telling me a religious parable. It’s not yet clear where it will lead.
Thankfully, my conversation mate is without the diatribe fervour that those who hold court on this part of New Street sometimes possess. Peace, he emphasises, is his message. His name is Anis, and he’s a Kurdish-Syrian immigrant from Damascus who now spends some of his days manning a stall giving out keffiyehs, as well as flags from countries stretching from the Balkans to South Asia. On a grey May day, his kaleidoscopic internationalism certainly catches the eye. “I love his stall,” a passerby coos. But Anis isn’t merely here to spritz the area with colour. As he said, he’s on a mission.
“One day this neighbour didn’t turn up and Mohammed went to see where he was,” Anis continues. “Mohammed finds out he’s sick. You see, they were friends: Jewish, Muslim, Christian, together in peace.” In these fractured times, the message sounds good. Now commanding a small audience, Anis expands on his teachings, which include not just his hope for future religious harmony but a litany of anti-Bashar al-Assad — the former Syrian dictator — talking points that wouldn’t be out of place on the Rest is Politics podcast.
There’s also his dreams for a skyscraper-style, economy-boosting future in his home country. “Syria can be like Dubai with British, American, and German tourists,” he exclaims. I wonder if the UAE influencer pack has heard of Homs.
Anis’ evangelism is right at home on New Street. It’s Birmingham’s (far less verdant) version of Speaker’s Corner, with considerably more buskers and not as much pretension. The entire thoroughfare is populated by a mix of musicians, preachers, pamphleteers and charity hawkers. Walking down the busy run can feel like you’re a pinball being levered from left to right by loud volleys of sound from different religious denominations and musical genres.
Or, as one New Street walker I guiltily collared said: “It’s so ingrained I rarely think about it [the preaching] but I do zigzag as I walk down the street to escape, no matter the cause.” The hubbub sparked promises from Birmingham City Council last month to clamp down with a three year Public Space Protection Order that would prohibit musical instruments and public speaking in the area in the near future; a consultation on the proposal is now underway.
I’m interested in what draws the missionaries, preachers and musical aficionados inexorably to New Street. What hopes and dreams parcelled up with their leaflets and reedy Adele covers? It’s not like they receive a particularly friendly reception. The area has a heavy, roving police presence — almost the first thing Anis tells me is that he has the right papers to permit his colourful table.
Meanwhile, the public seem to resent the experience. “It’s always me getting hammered by the Christian preachers,” laughs one middle-aged bloke in an optimistic short and t-shirt combo. I ask Zoe, a young woman who’s never previously been to Birmingham and is on New Street vox popping for a national research institution, what she thinks. “The buskers can be fun,” she says. “And so can the preachers, but it can be overwhelming if they’re trying to push religion as you’re shopping.”
