No one has skewered the Saudi royal family as gleefully as Ghanem al-Masarir.
In hundreds of videos posted to YouTube — which have now been viewed more than 300 million times — Mr. al-Masarir sits at a desk, usually at his home in North London, offers a jovial greeting in Arabic, then launches into a series of embarrassing Saudi-related stories. The tone is sharply satirical, the delivery a bit hammy.
One of his favourite targets is Mohammed bin Salman, the Saudi crown prince, whom he long ago tagged with a nickname, now widely used by detractors, that translates to “the bear that has gone astray.” As mild as this may sound to Western ears, calling someone a bear in the Middle East is tantamount to calling him fat and ugly, and “astray” in this context means immoral, corrupt, essentially a gangster.
“There are academics in prison in Saudi Arabia for criticising policy, and they haven’t even mentioned leaders by name,” said Madawi al-Rasheed, a visiting professor at the London School of Economics. “So imagine what they think of Ghanem.”By now, it seems pretty clear.
In October 2018, Mr. al-Masarir says, the British police visited his home to deliver an official warning about a threat to his life. They left him with a “panic button” system, attached through his phone line, that summons the authorities when activated, but they offered no specifics about the source of the threat.
To Mr. al-Masarir, it’s no mystery. Years ago, he says, he was quietly alerted to an apparent Saudi plan to kidnap him, a heads-up that came from an unlikely source: the Saudi intelligence agent later accused of masterminding the murder of Jamal Khashoggi, the Washington Post op-ed columnist killed in 2018 in the Saudi Consulate in Istanbul.
And the Saudi regime has spent years trying to intimidate Mr. al-Masarir, he says, through cyberattacks on his social media platforms.
A few months before the police showed up at his door, Mr. al-Masarir says, the campaign against him escalated.
His smartphones had turned unaccountably sluggish, and at the behest of a friend — familiar with the side effects of covertly installed spyware — he asked a cybersecurity watchdog group to figure out why.
After examining his smartphones, Citizen Lab, a nonprofit organisation based in Toronto, told him that they had been infected with Pegasus, a virus created by an Israeli tech company, NSO Group. It turns smartphones into all-purpose surveillance tools, hoovering up texts and emails, eavesdropping on calls and tracking locations.
Citizen Lab found digital footprints on Mr. al-Masarir’s smartphones leading directly to Saudi Arabia. That discovery, and the police visit, prompted Mr. al-Masarir to take an unusual step: He sued the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, demanding an apology and unspecified damages, for ruining his phones and causing personal distress and anxiety.
“You’re dealing essentially with the mafia,” Mr. al-Masarir said, during a meeting at the offices of Leigh Day, a law firm that is representing him on a “no win, no fee” basis. “Except they have diplomatic passports and a lot of money.”
Saudi officials in the United States, Britain and Saudi Arabia did not return calls and emails for comment.
Mr. al-Masarir came to Britain 16 years ago, seeking both an education and a way to denounce his native country from afar. Along the way, he discovered his inner performer and YouTube, an online platform that provided both a steady flow of income and a prominence he had never imagined. A 2018 list of thought leaders in the Arab world compiled by Global Influence ranked him No. 17, far ahead of Mr. Khashoggi.
Today, Mr. al-Masarir finds himself in an odd kind of purgatory. It has been months since he uploaded new “Ghanem Show” videos, which he once recorded three or four times a week. A rotation of repeats now provides the bulk of his income.
©2020 The New York Times News Service
Source: Business Standard
