It’s the summer holidays and I am content on so many levels. I have a good job, I have a home which I love and above all a wonderful, supportive family.
This year, we’ve had a glorious summer. We’ve had hot, lazy days, barbecues and picnics and the temperature has only just dropped after about five or six weeks of uninterrupted sunshine and heat. Honestly, our little corner in England is a wonderful place to live and grow. We’ve painted pictures and hung them up, we’ve learnt the names of trees and climbed up ropes, swung on swings and fed the ducks. Who could ask for any more?
During all this time, not once was I questioned about the clothes I wore, about my religious affiliations or my loyalty and yet, in the world in which I inhabit, there is still a niggle of fear; now, it’s time to talk about race, so brace yourselves!
Just recently, my husband took a trip to America for work. All his paperwork was completed, he was issued a permit to travel and enter but there was always this doubt and fear that perhaps he might be detained. They might stop him at immigration and question him about his real intent of travel. Was he really going for work or was he actually a bomber? I know this sounds ridiculous! To my white friends. To my brown friends, and especially my brother, this sounds like a legitimate fear. You see, my brother was detained at immigration and was forced to sit through an interrogation on a trip to America. He was terrified. It haunts him still. We laugh about it now, but it’s more of a nervous laugh, the one where we’re really trying to be brave in the hope that our laughter will scare away any ghosts.
This is a small example of what it feels like to be brown.
Now, let me get to the crux of what I’m actually writing about. My father said to my son yesterday, “No matter how much you try to be English, they will never accept you as English.” It was a throwaway remark but it hung in the air just long enough make us stop what we were doing. We moved on quickly but I could not forget it. It’s something he’s told me plenty of times too as I was growing up, in a bid to encourage me to hold on to my roots and my heritage but I had never heard disappointment and resignation in his voice before. This time was different.
A few days ago, our former foreign secretary, Boris Johnson made his infamous Burqa comment. What makes me sad, is not the fact that he made this comment (He’s an ignorant buffoon) but that he made this comment as an MP representing the ruling party in a very public space. What makes me sadder is that there is debate as to whether he should apologise. Yes, he should apologise. In the current political climate we find ourselves in now, with Tommy Robinson and his band of fanatics, yes, he should apologise.
I’m not sure if I believed what my father told me all those years ago, about never being accepted, because here, in this beautiful green land of hope and opportunity, I felt accepted – not for being English, mind you, but for being myself. But Boris is taking that away from me. He’s taking that away from my children. With one fell swoop, he has endorsed the right to be cruel to a section of society because of what they wear. He’s opened it up for debate and it should never have needed to be a topic of debate. Bullying people for how they look, from a position of power and influence is always wrong. Forcing a woman to remove and item of clothing is just as oppressive as forcing her to wear one, surely!
I enjoy wearing my kurtis and saris on occasion and we all love dressing up for weddings and festivals but will I be afraid to adorn myself in the colours and finery which represent another reality of my Britishness? Will I worry about whether people will be ‘tolerant’ (it’s a British Value, after all! Yes, I am tolerated!) of what I choose to wear or will I fall victim to ridicule and harassment? It’s like talking about those ‘Paki-spots’ all over again, a term I had heard for the first time as a supply teacher in the South East many years ago. “Do you wear a Paki-spot, Miss?” asked the little brat in front of the whole class. Some children gasped, others giggled nervously and his friends patted him on the back and cheered. He was referring to a bindi and I was suitably shocked but I couldn’t let him see that! He’d never been exposed to the likes of me, you see, except for the stereotypes and narrow opinions held by his community, who also had never been exposed to my type. How could I blame him? I could blame him though, as I blame everyone whose remarks and questions aren’t for gaining knowledge or understanding or even to debate, but to hurt and wound and to illicit hatred. Much like Boris, you might say.
** For Devjani, writing is a passion and a way to vent and explore the world that she currently finds herself in. She blogs on http://barelyherenorthere.wordpress.com/