I can't remember there being a single day or event which made me realise I was different. There was no name-calling or finger-pointing. There was no bullying or spiteful stereotyping. Instead, there was an understanding that dawned on me slowly. It happened when I was at primary school. I looked around and began to notice that there were hardly any other children with skin the same colour as mine.
Over the years, I began to hear the term 'ethnic minority' repeated. I began to learn what racism was.
This week, headlines have screamed that Britain is becoming more racist. The news items have been based on the annual British Social Attitudes survey - which found that 30 per cent of people described themselves as “very” or “a little” prejudiced against people of other races. In 2001, that figure was 25 per cent.
Whether or not the survey's results signify a rising tide of racism is open to question. But no matter how the statistics are interpreted, the survey has captured the attention of news editors for good reason. It comes at a time when the rhetoric of racism is edging its way back into our mainstream.
Many of us have spent this week digesting the gains made by UKIP thanks to voters swayed by their firm stance on immigration and Europe. As the swell of support for the far-right across Europe becomes unmistakeable, we watch police clear migrants from camps in Calais. If the raw data from the British Social Attitudes survey isn't enough to convince us that racial prejudice is worming its way back into our lives, then perhaps these events should give us pause for thought.
As a British Indian, I read all of this news with a with a heavy heart. It prompted in me a familiar feeling. Fear.
My fear doesn't come from hearing racist taunts. It doesn't come from being the victim of racist attacks. In fact, I would struggle to recall a single instance where I have been treated badly because of the colour of my skin. But that doesn't make me any less afraid.
I was blind to skin colour as a young child. But as I gradually realised that I was one of only a few pupils with dark skin in my school, I felt alone. I felt different. I felt like a significant part of who I was couldn't be expressed. This wasn't because of any outright repression of my identity by others. But it was, perhaps, because I felt that the easiest way to gloss over difference (because don't all children want to do that?) was to concentrate on the parts of life that were the same.
Later, at secondary school, at parties, at sports clubs, at university socials, at corporate events - it was this same feeling of being alone that haunted me. I didn't experience outright racism. But I knew, often, I was noticeable for my skin colour. I also, conversely, felt part of me was invisible. I felt again like a section of my identity wasn't being recognised. A part of my voice, the part which set me aside from the rest of the room, wasn't being heard. That part was instead being ignored - perhaps because life was easier that way.
Certain events over the years have made me fear racist attitudes despite never being a victim myself. The blatant hatred which followed 9/11 shook me. I worried for the safety of my family. Every racist crime which makes its way onto our news channels still has the power to do the same.
My first feeling is always shock. I question how a person can have so much hatred for another, simply because of the colour of their skin or the place they were born. It is, to me, incomprehensible. The fear comes afterwards, because there is a power in hatred which makes me afraid.
And then, after the shock and fear, there is always sadness. Sadness, because racism is a blatant repression of diversity. And it is through diversity that we learn, we grow, and we celebrate each other. Without diversity, we go nowhere. Without nurturing diversity, we silence each other and ourselves.
When I read about racism in Britain, I feel fear. And now that I also have two young children, I also feel immeasurable fear on their behalf. It sickens me that they could ever be treated unfairly because of the colour of their mother's skin. And, as well as the fear, I feel sadness for them. They deserve, like every child, to grow up in a world where their voices aren't silenced. They deserve, as we all do, to grow up being themselves.
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Guest post: 'If Britain really is becoming more racist, I fear for my children'
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MumsnetGuestPosts · 30/05/2014 11:35
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