Opinion Piece: Starmer’s White Paper

As an icebreaker for a meeting, we have been invited to bring an object that
represents “you & the work you do.” I wish I could be funny or trite. I’d like to
make my colleagues chuckle. I felt slightly foolish that the first thing I thought
of was my gran’s Bible that I have on the shelf upstairs. I’m not even Catholic.
My mom left the church when she entered adulthood, so I was never
christened or confirmed. But my gran’s ethics were profoundly shaped by her
faith – she believed that people – all people – deserve compassion and
generosity. This belief shaped how she raised her eight children in South
Africa. My grandparents never had much money and had plenty of mouths to
feed, but there were always extras at their dinner table. They shared what
they did have with those who had less. These principles sound common, but
in apartheid South Africa their universalism made my white grandparents
distinctly unusual. My mom – and many of her siblings – went on to be anti-
apartheid activists.

In turn, my family’s ethics have shaped me – I’ve always worked to make the
world a better place, in my own small way. My current job is improving support
for people living with homelessness, domestic abuse, substance use, mental
health challenges and contact with the criminal justice system. It’s tough work,
but meaningful. I spend every day trying to improve the lives of people in my
community. That’s why it ached so much last year when the racist and
xenophobic riots shook our town – when parts of that community made it clear
they do not want me, a migrant, here. When a colleague heard me simply
using the word, he rushed to reassure me: “You’re not a migrant, you’re a
guest.” I reject that. Migrant is not a dirty word – it just means I moved here
from somewhere else. He meant well, I know - he’s simply absorbed the toxic
narrative that’s been cavorting around British politics for years that migration
is some kind of evil. Still, in the aftermath of the riots, as I worked hard to
support people who were terrified to leave their homes for fear of being
attacked for even perceived ‘otherness’, many people sought to reassure me
that this did not represent the view of all British people. And then, on Monday,
the Prime Minister stood up and announced that migration has done
“incalculable damage” to Britain. My colleague from Poland who worked on
the frontline of homelessness for seven years; my colleague from Sierra
Leone who has worked tirelessly as a community worker for over 25 years;
my colleague from Canada who works in decarbonisation… we were written
off as damage by the leader of this nation we’ve chosen to call home.
Because that was the other part that burned when my colleague called me a
guest – I’ve lived here almost a decade. I don’t want to be a guest in my own
home.

But all the forms I’ve filled in and fees I’ve paid have apparently made no
difference. According to the Prime Minister’s speech, I am not even a guest. I
am a stranger, as Starmer echoed from Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood
speech. The announcements launched an explosion of fear in my circles, as
we all wondered what it would mean for us – would the new ten-year route
apply, and could we afford the additional visa applications and health
surcharges and English tests? But in my case, it wasn’t even the policies that
terrified me – despite their potentially devastating impact on my life. It was the
hate they were couched in. Because let’s be clear – that’s what it was: hatred.

It was politically expedient hatred. And that’s what has echoed in my head for
the past 48 hours. “They hate us.”

That’s what happens when you feel your most traumatised self – you think in
binaries. Them and us. I’m still struggling not to dwell in that fearful place. But,
my friend said, “Don’t lick your wounds too long.” Many British people I’ve
spoken to over the past 72 hours are also feeling betrayed – not just us
migrants. I work alongside people who – as my gran did - believe in
compassion, generosity and standing up for what is right. They are the
lifeblood of my sector. So maybe it isn’t just sappy to take my gran’s Bible to
my meeting. It’s my refusal to give in to the fear.