Naseerah Limbada, 25
Organiser of English classes for refugees at Conversation Over Borders, London
On all fronts, it just feels like there’s anxiety and fear for safety. At work, we are concerned for the refugees and asylum seekers we help, but we are also concerned for ourselves.
You hear stories of Muslim women having their hijabs ripped off. My mum wears a hijab, so when she goes out, even though she’s here in London, I’m just constantly concerned because there’s no telling what it’s like out there. Most of my family wear hijabs so they are very vulnerable and at risk of being on the receiving end of this kind of stuff.
I used to wear a hijab. I feel so bad saying it but, in terms of my own personal safety, not wearing the hijab is one less thing for me to be targeted for. Being targeted for the colour of my skin is bad enough.
I have a lot of feelings at the moment, swinging between anger, frustration and sadness. I would say that the anti-racism rallies are just the beginning of undoing years and years of systemic issues. It’s going to take a lot more than one evening of counter-protests to undo the damage of over a decade of our communities being vilified.
This has made me reach out to people I haven’t spoken to in months because I know we are all part of a community that is at risk and, at the end of the day, all we have is each other. More than anything, it’s the community that make this something you can get through.
Osman Yousefzada
Artist and writer living in London, and author of The Go-Between: A Portrait of Growing up Between Two Worlds
Last Sunday afternoon, on the fifth floor in the gents toilets of the Southbank Centre, there were a few other gents in the restroom. I washed my hands and walked out. Just behind me, a voice boomed. I looked back. Someone was annoyed, upset. “Oi … Don’t you hold doors for people where you come from?”. I looked at him puzzled, saying sorry and that I hadn’t seen him.
He carried on: “I was brought up to hold doors for people.” We briefly stopped and I decided to walk in the opposite direction, keeping my head turned and fixed on him, in case something else happened. I just caught it, as he walked off. Under his breath, he said “Paki”. I had heard it before but not for a while.
That word always takes me back. A racial slur that was common when I was growing up in the 80s. The memory is that I am walking home from our primary school with the publican’s daughter. Side by side, and then four houses before the corner pub – her home was up above it – she runs off. Just as she stands in front of her door, she shouts out “Paki” and runs upstairs. I had thought we were becoming friends, and maybe my first girlfriend.
There’s this real idea that you’re never good enough. When I came to London, I felt like I made a world in a cultural space. But on occasions you are always reminded of your difference. You don’t really belong, even if you’re born here.
I think this minority wants to remind you that being “British” is this antiquated idea of exceptionalism, that they conquered the world, colonising most of it, and thus have a right to innate supremacy.
The makeup of this country is changing, and yes, thathas been partly through immigration. And of course, if you feel neglected, you will always feel threatened. However, if you unearth Thatcher’s deindustrialisation of the north, plus years of austerity on top of this, even without the “immigrants” those queues and waiting lists would be long, due to these decades of austerity. It’s always the elite and those in power who mobilise the working classes, who tell them that “swarms” are coming to take their jobs. It’s these working classes that are encouraged to organise against other working class people, predominantly people of colour.
The retreat of liberalism resulted in people looking towards populist leaders as a solution to all of their problems, and people like Trump and Boris and Nigel Farage as their panacea.
It’s during this time that the far right has been given a space as just another ideology in a populist era of politics, rather than being seen as fascist, racist and extremist. I think it’s important to call it Islamophobia, to call it racism and to call it a kind of domestic terrorism.
Wafa*, 42
Moved to the UK four years ago on a student visa from Syria, where she was a political activist working with NGOs. Now she works with organisations helping asylum seekers and refugees in London
I was really terrified when I saw the news. I didn’t understand how they could attack an asylum seekers hotel and burn it with people inside. I felt like I’d seen this scenario before. It triggered memories of some of the events that happened in Syria.
A Syrian friend called me and said: “Why do we have such a life? Why do we have to face this again?” I told her that we don’t have a choice, this is how it is. We didn’t choose where we were born. We don’t know if, all our lives, we will be fleeing from something or if we will be accepted. I heard other people saying: “We know that we are not accepted here. Even if we work, whatever we do.”
My mental health is down. I try not to share that but my mood is low. I feel very afraid and like I need to cry all the time. I am afraid of these seeds of hate. If these seeds of hate are there, what do we do?
What makes me most scared is when I see children engaged in those riots. These children should be educated. That makes me wonder: what is the government doing? Is what we are seeing just the tip of the iceberg?
I hope the government makes a programme or a real policy instead of hate speech like the last party did. Each time Suella Braverman spoke, I feared that would start a crisis.
I wonder if I am in a safe space. If the nightmares that happened in Syria will happen again here. I am paranoid now when walking down the street. But I will try not to change my lifestyle or be fearful all the time. I don’t want to be waiting for people to accept me – I just want to be myself.
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John Streatfield, 33
Support worker and master’s student, Hertfordshire
I’ve experienced racism in my life, whether that’s at school or the racism embedded in institutions. But this is the first time I have ever feared for my life as a Black man. It also makes me feel sad because these people hate me for the simple fact of the colour of my skin.
Over the past week, I’ve stayed inside, kept myself to myself, going out only for essentials. I’ve never had to do that before. I was hyper-vigilant going to Tesco. It was a bit crazy – I was thinking with every random white person that went past me: “Is this guy a thug?”
The fact that the government has dealt such heavy sentences to those rioting will hopefully give them pause about doing this again. And to see the scale of the anti-racism demonstrations has given me hope that this doesn’t define who we are as a country.
But what needs to happen next is a genuine, grown-up conversation about racism in the national consciousness. Because I understand the anger some of these people are feeling – they feel left behind after consecutive governments have left them with a lack of opportunity and economic disenfranchisement. But they’re blaming the other. And their ills are not represented by the person of colour, the immigrant, the asylum seeker.
Once rioters get out of prison, they’re still members of society and of Britain.
If we’re a country that is serious about rehabilitation, about them not offending again, we need to break down the barriers of racism and hatred. Populist politics has played a major role in facilitating these riots. Words have power. Politicians for years have attacked immigrants – but now they’re running away from the repercussions. I wish people like Suella Braverman would come out and say: “Yes, I’m sorry, my words helped contribute to this hatred.”
I’ve still been feeling hesitant to go outside, but I’m going about normally again now. I can’t let the fear of being attacked and verbally abused stop me from living my life.
Alex*, 55
Professional living in Preston
I’m old enough to remember racism in the old days. I was beaten up for being south Asian after my dad came to the UK in the 1960s to work in the cotton mills. So I’m not surprised that there’s still racism in society, but I didn’t expect it ever to be this bad today.
When I saw the footage of people targeting the asylum hotels in Rotherham and Tamworth, I thought: “How can somebody even think about burning down a building when you know there’s people in there who might die?”
It’s beyond belief and completely inhuman to do that. I think it comes back to the fact that some people think Black and brown lives don’t matter. There were no riots when we allowed 250,000 Ukrainian refugees into the country.
What’s really sad is that people seemed so gullible to misinformation. They’re saying immigrants are nicking accommodation and taking jobs, but it’s just not true. And the whole reason why hotels are full of asylum seekers is because the government was not processing claims for months or years.
As the riots kicked off, I was really worried that, with the Tories underfunding the police over 14 years, that they wouldn’t be able to defend the communities who were most at risk. Earlier in the week, we had discussions at the local mosque about having to do some volunteer protection of the building.
At the start of the week, I was very worried for my family’s safety. When I was at work, I was asking my 18-year-old son to accompany my wife to the shops. We felt we had to be looking over our shoulders.
It seems that common sense has now prevailed and the good people of this country have come together to say no to the fascists and the racists. But there’s still a sense of being on the edge, of looking over your shoulder.
* Some names have been changed