A Dietary Deficiency

Soon after the year of Indian Independence, in 1947, when Muslims and Hindus decided to massacre each other in the name of religion, I saw the plight of the displaced. The refugees reached the far south where I lived, more than a thousand miles away, on foot -- their plight was pitiable. The families that came begging to my home were hungry, shabby, and their eyes looked upon the world without hope. We gave them rice conjee, more starchy liquid than rice, but they were grateful. 

 The latest Tory assault on the refugees trying to escape persecution of one sort or another defies comprehension. I was a migrant when I came to the U K; I found a tolerant people with a capacity for laughing at themselves. I now know that there is racism and an aversion to the other. But, we are also generous and compassionate.

 You could not invent Priti Patel if you tried. Reminds me of Lady Macbeth. A severe deficiency of the ‘milk of human kindness.’ A dietary deficiency that is irreversible, in her case. That level of cold heartlessness that she displays is sub-human. How does a person reach that nadir of cruelty? Yesterday my daughter and I talked about how disappointed we were in the people of this country, to have voted this monstrosity of a Tory mis-government into power. This is a conversation we have at regular intervals. In this instance, we were talking about the rise in National Insurance! Today we are ashamed, aghast, disgusted; there is nothing more to say; Hilary Mantel is so ashamed of the people who voted the Tories in that she wants to emigrate and change her citizenship. 

  

  Is this the same country that welcomed me here in 1974? I was on my way to Nigeria when I got a message from a Secondary School Headmaster in Wickford, saying, 'Please just come and see us.' The school was desperately short of Maths teachers and the Headmaster asked me to 'help out for a few months.' I had run away from an unsatisfactory marriage and was in a state of confusion and conflict. A few months to stop the dizzying swirl and think, I decided. I stayed for seven years. From Wickford I moved to a post in Dagenham. This country was kind to me. I loved my work, my friends. I grew in self-confidence. 

 

  So, I think, the border patrols are now instructed to drive the immigrants back into the angry waves, in their over-crowded, pathetic little boats? Are there people willing to do this for a wage? I hope not. This is a country that has always, in the past, given succour to the unfortunate, the displaced, the dispossessed. I have difficulty visualizing the RNLI pushing women and children back into the frothing sea. 

  We could of course get Priti puffed-up Patel into one of those boats and send her back ‘where she came from.’