Human Rights

Stream.me and BitChute cannot ignore us

Patreon have now banned Joshua Conner Moon (as you can see here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nk9bEhPQBEA) and his Kiwi Farms forum from using their platform to fund hate and violence, cyber-bullying vulnerable people and goading them to suicide.

Even Hatreon, which allowed funding for white supremacist hate groups, found Kiwi Farms too vile to allow on its website. PayPal, Uphold, Mastercard, and Visa banned Kiwi Farms from using their services for donations. Google banned Kiwi Farms from using its banner ads service. RedBubble banned Kiwi Farms from selling merchandise on the RedBubble website. Bitcoin mining syndicates banned Kiwi Farms from using their services to raise money.

YouTube is allowing Moon a platform despite the many reports we have filed. Why is YouTube so hesitant to take appropriate action? I reported another Kiwi Farms user, Jason Pullara, for making a an hour long video about me in which he discusses using an angle grinder in my vagina. No response from YouTube as yet.

Stream.me and BitChute have not responded at all.

This is the CEO of BitChute, Ray Vahey.

Ask him why he is allowing neo nazi white supremacist Joshua Conner Moon and his motley crew of rapists and paedophiles to use his platform for the purpose of white supremacist violence and bullying. Ask him why he would choose to ignore Kiwi Farms’ links to school shooter/terrorist murderer William Aitchison and their ‘kill count’, celebrating the deaths of those who’ve been pushed to suicide by their hateful actions.

Stream.me is dependent on PayPal which bans use of its services to promote hate speech. Paypal have previously taken a firm stance on this issue, something Stream.me should consider.

Here are some of Stream.me’s employees.

Ask them whether they are happy to work for an organisation that facilitates gendered and racialised abuse of vulnerable adults. Ask them whether they are happy to promote child sex abusers and bigots.

We live in times where we cannot afford to ignore hate. People have been killed and many more will die if we do not stand up and say we will not stand for this barbaric behaviour. Joshua Conner Moon and Kiwi Farms have expressed intent to wound and kill many women and children. They have described in detail the depraved acts they fantasise about. They have no place in a civilised society.

Industry giants exist because we put them there. We can take them down too.

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Sexism in Healthcare

In my mid 20s I was diagnosed with a 17cm cyst on my left ovary. Prior to this my ex partner would gaslight me, saying I had given myself these symptoms of bloatedness, pain and nausea, because “the brain is a powerful thing”. The diagnosis came after months of to-ing and fro-ing with my GP, then Brixton based, who dismissed my concerns instead choosing to respond with wildly inappropriate remarks like “women don’t drink enough water, you’ve probably given yourself a UTI” and “stop eating your Bangladeshi partner’s cooking then” when I insisted he refer me for further testing. He didn’t and I had to seek alternative treatment, taking myself out of work for a couple of hours without telling anyone (I was a temp on a short-term contract and didn’t get paid for hours I took off) and visited the local sexual health clinic. I asked for a female doctor, because I felt she would take the matter more seriously. I hadn’t always thought of gender as having such a pronounced effect on the sort of service I would receive but here I was.

It didn’t take very long for this doctor to ascertain that something was indeed wrong. Following an internal exam where she pressed down on my stomach simultaneously, she announced there was a mass and it wasn’t small. She wrote a note to my GP insisting he refer me for an ultrasound. He wasn’t too pleased when I turned up with it and grumbled “I’m only the doctor, what do I know?” Not a fat lot of good, as it turned out.

6 weeks later, I had a scan at King’s College hospital where I watched as the sonographer’s face flitted from one part of the screen to another and she rolled the probe further and further up my abdomen. “You have a cyst, a larger one on your left ovary, and I’m just checking to see whether it’s affecting your kidney function”. This was all rather alarming, to say the least. She said she would be recommending an elective surgery to have it removed and they would need to test the mass for malignancy. After my surgery they told me they had drained 1.2 litres of fluid off the cyst but had managed to get it all and it was benign. I was perplexed then, when barely 6 months later, it had grown back to 14cm. Following this surgery I was left with very little functioning ovarian tissue but my doctors said my other ovary would compensate leaving me with about 80% function overall. I read a study that said people who’ve had more than 2 large ovarian cysts have an increase likelihood of premature menopause, which was just the shite icing on the shite covered cake.

A decade on and I am settled back in Birmingham. It’s not been more than a few weeks since I changed my GP (for the umpteenth time). I had an exceptional experience with them when I first fell ill with mental health in 2010. My female GP was a rock, she made all the right referrals and got me started on therapies and medication, honestly without her support I dread to think what could have happened. She left the practice a short while later and I was seen by 3 male doctors, whichever one was on duty. I felt as though I was a nuisance and they were just patching me up instead of looking at the causes of my symptoms. It all came to a head when one of their new partners, whom I’d never seen before, withheld my pain meds just before a weekend and only relented when all hell broke loose (me blubbering on the phone and my aunt actually marching on reception, plus the local pharmacist having a word). He said I was due a review for these meds they’d never put on repeat prescriptions because I was ‘a suicide risk’ and candidate for cardiac arrest. When I attended the surgery on the Monday following the weekend, he shouted at me, and threatened me and my aunt with police action, prompting me to run out of the surgery.

I registered with a new GP who did a review of my pain meds and decided to keep me on them because I ‘wasn’t abusing them’ and the risks of taking me off one drug and putting me on a new one outweighed the potential fallout from codeine. No surprise this was a female GP. She even put it on my repeat prescriptions so I wouldn’t need to speak to a GP to have it prescribed. When I mentioned the palmar erythema and tingling on my top lip and how I’d read that these symptoms are caused by elevated oestrogen levels and how I’d suffered with ovarian cysts when I was younger, she booked me in for a blood test to check my hormone levels. She was surprised this hadn’t been done before but I wasn’t. She said I’d need to be tested on my period, so they can gauge what is and isn’t normal. That must have been what done it for the male GPs, all that icky period talk, who can be bothered with that eh? What is most unsettling is that the symptoms all point to a bunch of scary conditions that can be life threatening, things like lupus or ovarian cancer, other auto immune diseases, cirrhosis of the liver.. things you don’t take chances with and yet.

Doctors are putting women at risk of premature death because sexism. All that power goes to their heads and they cannot conceive of a scenario in which a patient knows their own body better than they do. Yes, I use Dr Google, with the caveat that I am not a trained medical professional and am only seeking clues as to what could be wrong. I can understand medical jargon and make reasonable assessments that I would then like a doctor to follow-up on. I think this pisses them off because being a doctor is such hard work that mere plebs shouldn’t even attempt to understand. Perhaps it diminishes their self-worth, to be shown up like the sexist job’s worths they are.

I am proof that those of us on multiple axes of oppression will fall through the net, again and again. We’re easy to write off and brush under the carpet. I say this as someone who will scream injustice even when I’m on the floor and giving up, but most people aren’t like me. Most people do curl up and die, without a whimper.

So over the DWP

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It has been almost a full year since my personal independence payments were stopped on the 27th January, a whole year sat around waiting on a tribunal and I still haven’t heard anything. A whole 550 pounds taken off my budget, impacting my recovery in ways that have only become apparent this many months on. I was awarded the higher level, based on my conditions and medical reports. My spine is fusing at L5/S1 following two surgeries to remove a prolapsed disc that had caused marked damage to the nerves in my left foot, leg and buttock. The second op was an emergency and doctors were amazed to discover I wasn’t incontinent considering the position of the disc. A stroke of luck. Adhesions following the surgeries have left me with chronic pain in my lower back and surrounding areas. I also suffer from complex post traumatic stress disorder. Commonly affecting prisoners of war, this condition was inflicted on me. PTSD happens when a life threatening event causes trauma that is still evident more than a month later. Complex PTSD arises when your life has been threatened multiple times. I am due to see a rheumatologist, to find out whether I have lupus or rheumatoid arthritis. Lupus is an autoimmune disease that seems to affect groups affected by white supremacist imperialism, funnily enough.

Of course I would rather have a life filled with new experiences. I would have liked to do a bungee jump. I would have loved to travel the world a bit more, gone to more music festivals, and taken that foodie holiday I used to dream about. A tour of all the foodie heavens; Italy, France, Spain.. I also wanted to go on a walking holiday, Camino de Santiago, even as a non believer, because it sounds delightful and you get to meet lots of people along the way, and I love people, despite all their bullshit. I would have liked to take in the world’s ruins and visited Frida Kahlo’s Blue House. I would eventually settle far away from the rainy fascist island I was birthed on, once I’d got my bearings in the world.

Life dealt me another hand. One full of pain and suffering, of unfulfilled potential. I don’t like asking for my dues. I don’t appreciate having to reel off my trauma history every time my status is called into question. That’s what doctors are there for surely? To confirm the treatment you have been receiving, to give their expert opinions on the state of your health? I asked for a supporting letter to send to the DWP who were insisting I come in for another ESA assessment, a thing I absolutely could not do. They are aware of my mental health, they’ve been advised numerous times. The admin service said a supporting letter would cost £46, approx 1/3 of the emergency rate they have now placed me on (because I failed to provide a GP’s letter). When I explained my circumstances they sent an identical email reiterating the cost and clarifying that supporting letters are considered ‘private work’ and not available on the NHS.

So this is how they’re going to kill us now is it? Make it impossible to jump through the hoops they expect you to jump in exchange for their meagre offerings?

I’ve stopped talking to everyone. I’ve stopped asking the GP for help, stopped bothering the DWP, don’t see any point in talking to my therapist or advocate. I guess I’m resigned, hurtling towards the inevitable. I’m calm, eerily so. I just haven’t enough fight left in me to tackle the system. I haven’t even told my family, because what good would come of it? Nobody is in a position to carry me. I have survived this long only because of the kindness of friends and even strangers. I don’t really have that access any more. I can’t be bothered to do anything about it either.

The British government has wilfuly caused the deaths of many thousands of sick and disabled British citizens. I have seen firsthand how they’ve implemented this, every step of the way. I have only made it this far because of all the support I receive but even that is insufficient now. I truly have no vision for tomorrow. I don’t see how my circumstances will improve and more to the point, I am done trying. This isn’t a statement of intent, just a heads up that I’m sitting down now and I’m not getting up.

Harry Leslie Smith: A Hero for All Ages

It’s not often I cry at the news, get angry yes, feel afraid too but not so common to feel deep in the pit of my stomach gutted, for all that is lost and will never be. I felt that way when Leonard Cohen passed away and here I am again, with the devastating news that Harry Leslie Smith, a world war veteran exemplifying the best in human nature has died at the age of 95.

Harry Leslie Smith grew up in poverty and provided firsthand accounts of the inequality he witnessed over the course of almost a century. Whether he was describing the TB his sister succumbed to whilst the king of England received the best in care for his lung cancer or the hellscape he encountered during and after the war, it was honest and powerful and spoke to a wide section of people. I had no patience for the weasels who’d attack him on Twitter for standing up for refugees. Or the trolls who preferred their seniors frail and tucked up in bed and bullied Harry and his family for his active lifestyle, promoting his work and visiting refugees to highlight their plight. Although I’m not one to espouse respect for your elders without condition, I took it personally when these bigots targeted him. They were attacking his legitimacy as an advocate for the poor and needy because he was so effective, slandering him is all they had. It was my duty to shut them up. Harry always liked those tweets where I stood up for him and I’m glad that he knew there were people who appreciated everything he was doing.

Harry was a special human being because he’d been there and seen it with his own eyes, things none of us should ever have to see and his heart broke instead of turning to stone. He was a white man and it would have been so easy for him to ignore the hardship and suffering of others. He’d have had a much easier life if he’d chosen to only care about himself and his loved ones but he didn’t. He made hard choices, even when they were detrimental to him. He was brave and he was strong and the world will be poorer without him in it.

Harry Leslie Smith was proof that human kindness is timeless, that there are no excuses for Churchill’s genocides. He was ‘from a different era’, ‘things were different back then’, of course ‘it was another time’, but he wasn’t a hateful murderous sod, ever. Harry was proof that white people can do better and when they don’t, that is their choice. We couldn’t ignore history for as long as he was around to remind us. Now we must honour his memory and keep it alive for future generations.

I don’t know what, if anything, happens when we die but I *hope* he is ecstatic to be reunited with his wife and his other son and they are drinking champagne and toasting his long and remarkable life together.

harryand wife

RIP good sir, your efforts will never be forgotten.

White Supremacy Kills Jews

The police have launched an investigation into allegations of antisemitism in the Labour Party, an extraordinary feat considering they are usually too frightened to do anything about other pressing societal issues like establishment child sex abuse (lest they upset the ethnics for their cultural practices) and tory electoral fraud, which is oh so politically sensitive (and might get them sacked). A dossier was handed to the police by an LBC journalist, those bastions of anti racist activism. I’ve tried to report racism to the cops before but been on the wrong end of a white supremacist agenda and somehow ended up being warned for my political beliefs, because I could kill all the men without batting an eyelid, obviously.

It’s been almost a week since I was suspended from Twitter for calling a white supremacist a dirty rat. I haven’t stopped thinking about the 11 Jewish elders brutally murdered by a white supremacist. Robert Bowers, a white American male reported to have an online presence demonstrating a “vitriolic hatred of Jewish people and other bigotry” has pleaded not guilty to the murder of his 11 victims and although we all know he did it, recovering as he is from the multiple gunshots he sustained in the showdown with Pittsburgh police, in which a couple of officers were also injured, Bowers most likely believes he can get away with it. In what world could a man of colour shoot 11 people to death and injure law enforcement but still escape with their life intact, free to claim up is down an blame someone else for his barbaric actions? Not in this white man’s world. But Bowers is going to have a go. His white privilege will protect him, it has so far.

The white supremacist establishment have made themselves clear; racism against black and brown people does not exist but antisemitism is criminal behaviour. This will hurt Jews ultimately but 84% do not care about that currently, so long as those socialist bastards don’t get in. I wonder if the 84% are willing to consider a white supremacist killed 11 Jews because he is white and Jews are a threat to white supremacy. No? Not even out of respect for memory? Or personal safety? Of the 84% of Jews afraid of Corbyn’s socialist vision for all ethnicities, how many would consider themselves white? How many are European? How many are white passing?

Surely an interesting study to undertake given the implications of such an investigation by the police? That the people who suffer most as a result of ethno-religious conflict in Britain today is its minority of white passing Jews? Just not Muslims. Or travellers. Or black people. What an unpredictable twist. And by that I mean predictably twisted and untrue.

Holding Nazi Collaborators to Account

As you know, Nazis have made several attempts to dox me these past few weeks. They have included my personal information, forcing me to come out with my real name and when that didn’t provoke the response they wanted, they went after my family, many of whom don’t even have social media. They’re currently in control of a comrade’s Twitter account, that they’ve hacked, which I’ve reported and blocked. This is all in an attempt to silence and isolate me.

Kiwifarms has so far been implicated in at least two murders. ‘Joshua Moon’ the administrator denies any involvement but it was partly his rants threatening mass murder that inspired William Atchison to murder two people before turning the gun on himself, just as police stormed the building. It is with this in mind that I emailed the company hosting the site @versaweb to report abuse. It was a Saturday so I figured I would wait until the end of the next working day before I raised concerns regarding their inaction. On May 26th I tweeted them, inquiring why they had not acknowledged my email and encouraged my followers to do the same but despite this, they remained silent. Throughout the course of this past week they have ignored various attempts to engage them, but yesterday, Thursday 31st May I noticed they had a picture of their accounts assistant. Finally, a human face. Someone real to hold accountable.

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I clicked on the website link in their Twitter bio and found more faces.

meetthenazis

I was offline for a short while but when I went to access Twitter via my phone I was suddenly prompted for my password. Now if I didn’t have a healthy distrust for Twitter and the way they enable nazis and their numerous attempts to fish for my identifying information every time I’m locked out, I might have inputted it. Luckily I was so put out by this I scanned the screen for more information, some clue as to why they’d had the audacity to spring this on me and I noticed an ‘ignore’ option in the corner. It took me straight through to my Twitter account. Alarms bells blaring I asked my followers what it meant when this happened and was advised that it was a phishing attempt, someone was trying to hack my account. Out of curiosity I opened my internet browser and saw this.

..Had Versaweb just tried to phish my Twitter password? To what end? I managed to avoid being hacked but my comrade didn’t. There are nazis on his Twitter account currently.

Twitter seem to be taking their sorry ass time about it. A number of us have reported the account has been hacked and also various tweets that most definitely violate their terms of service but it doesn’t seemed to have alerted them.

Reading about the incel who murdered two with a view to many more I can’t help but balk at the statement from New Mexico law enforcement:

“It’s a shame he wasn’t on our radar,” San Juan County Sheriff Ken Christesen told Fox News last week. “I don’t think he had anything so much as a traffic ticket.”

And yet online, the 21-year-old New Mexico resident lived a prolific life as a white supremacist, pro-Trump meme peddler who was most known for his obsession with school shooters. For a half-decade, Atchison spent most of his days online, repeatedly posting threats of violence and cries for help.

Why has the nazi problem been allowed to spin so far out of control? Why hasn’t anyone listened to their victims? This isn’t my first run in with kiwifarms, nor any other chapter of incels, self confessed rapists, racists and paedosadists, there are many mutations of the ‘chans’ that plagued us 4-5 years ago. We reported it then and we were told to log off. We were told by the authorities they could not prove we were distressed or intimidated by nazis threatening to rape and kill us because we talked back. They’ve been allowed to propagate, organise and galvanise themselves. Where is the authority?

No one can say at this stage they ‘didn’t know’. In the aftermath of genocides this is the coward’s lament. Everyone knows nazis are here. Everyone knows they want to force women into having sex.

What are we going to do about it?

Britain’s Rejects

My 72 year old immigrant grandmother died in 2002, prompting a rushed visit to Pakistan. She had specified her wishes to be repatriated to her final resting place when the time came. Growing up we’d always objected to their pipe dream plans to show us the motherland, even going so far as likening it to death, given that we were never short of a cautionary tale or two of what could go wrong if they were not truthful of their intentions. There was always talk of so and so’s kid who’d gone off the rails so the folks took them ‘back home’ to straighten them out. This usually meant a forced marriage but there was always the worry you’d never return.

For 20 years I’d ignored their pleas to at least give them a chance and see what they had built with their own hands, for us, so that we had roots and a place we could always call home. My gran, or dhaadhi as we called her, would look at us in disbelief and shake her head, unsure of how else to sell it to us; the stories she’d tell of exotic fruits abundant in the courtyard, trees grown especially for us, her face wrinkled up in a smile as she recalled the exceptional quality of, as she put it, the juiciest mangoes on God’s green earth and other fruits I don’t know the English word for.

Whilst I love listening to her and seeing her clear delight I wasn’t convinced. I considered myself British, English even, and harboured an unhealthy self hate; I wasn’t above sneering at Pakis. Eager to set myself apart I believed the things white people said about Pakistan and Pakistanis and asserted my Britishness whenever it was required of me. I do cringe whenever I think back to that mindset. I think about the sort of white person who’d get off on hearing my disgust for people like me, the kind to collect tokens and play brown people off each other, dividing Muslims and Hindus for example and profiting off the misery that inevitably follows. Divide rule and conquer works to this day.

It didn’t matter when she died though, I suddenly felt I owed her a trip. Almost immediately I was consumed with guilt that I hadn’t honoured this wish of hers whilst she had been alive but I hoped she knew I was with her for her final journey. Barely six hours after she took her last breath we (my twin, dad, aunt and I) were in business class on a PIA flight bound for Islamabad. It was the first time I’d ever flown and my nerves were shot, I’d barely slept or processed what had happened but the hot cloths and silver service made up for the turbulence a little bit. My dad even let twin and I smoke a cigarette! It was that kind of a day, normal programming abandoned, venturing into the unknown out of a sense of duty and family pride. I tried not to think of her, alone, entombed in a wooden box, along with the rest of the cargo.

We landed at Islamabad airport at 6am. I was hit by the heat, as if I’d walked into a wall of hot air and it would suffocate me, upon exiting the plane. The sun hadn’t been up long but it was already 27 degrees. My thoughts went to my gran and the effect these conditions would have on her lifeless body. We waited for her coffin to be released and clung to each other through the chaos and din of the arrivals lounge, we weren’t in Kansas anymore. Random strange men pawed at our luggage offering to carry it, not being entirely forthcoming about the tip they expected for this service. It smelt funny, and the people were scary, staring at us as if we’d fallen from the sky. An uncle herded us out of the terminal and explained we looked different to regular Pakistanis and they were probably trying to figure out if we were worth anything.

It didn’t feel like a homecoming but the worst day of my life and the natives weren’t exactly helping. I didn’t want my worst fears to be confirmed, that we were easy pickings and could be disappeared, never to return. Dad’s cousin thought we were hilarious, batting furiously at the flies that seemed to throng the air, shrieking at the various creepy critters that had dared to greet us. We were a novelty. Fragile. Typical of desis who’d lost their way. A highly amusing form of entertainment for the locals.

The funeral was as expected; the outpouring of grief par the course but I had never imagined my dear gran knew so many people. I was bewildered by the number of women sat around smoking, a practice that was almost entirely gendered amongst the older generations in Britain. I only ever knew one lady smoker, my granddad’s sister in law and she had a free pass on account of her mental status. Here it just seemed to be a way of life, the chilum, similar to a shisha, was a permanent fixture. Granted they weren’t holding penis shaped cigarettes as they do in the west (cigarettes were originally marketed to women on the basis that women envied the penis and smoking would achieve equality or something) but this was really a sight to behold for someone who’d been brought up in a strict household where women most definitely did not smoke. I was also surprised at the relative freedom my girl cousins had with regards to their personal grooming. We’d been forced to keep our hair long, our eyebrows natural and our sleeves below the elbow and yet my cousins had no such restrictions. It’s when I first started to believe our grandparents were trying to preserve something of our culture in the west, that we were a snapshot frozen in time of an era pre colonialism whereas the rest of the world had just moved on.

They referred to us as the English princesses, for being so vulnerable to the elements. In our hurry to bury dhaadhi according to Islamic law within 24 hours, we’d had to forgo the usual preparations; shots for foreign diseases and the like. Within 48 hours we were struck with a mystery bug that was determined to shoot itself out of both ends and stifling temperatures in the mid 50s weren’t helping the situation, especially when the electricity was guaranteed to give out at least twice a day. I had never felt more miserable in my life and decided there was nothing else for it, we had to go home. Everyone else had other ideas though; we hadn’t given it a chance, we needed to eat more and think about getting better, the airline wouldn’t carry us if we were too sick and for a brief time I was petrified they weren’t going to let us leave at all. Maybe this had been the plan all along.

Fortunately the bug seemed to attack in waves and a day later our uncle took us shopping, we hadn’t come with very much stuff, in my case I didn’t even own more than one pair of salwar kameez. All was going well until we actually spoke to the vendors and my uncle clocked they were hiking up the prices. He said if we liked the look of anything to point at it rather than say anything aloud. I was confused, we’d been conversing in Punjabi but apparently even that sounded different to them and English people could afford to pay more.

I felt personally attacked, not gonna lie. I didn’t belong here, as people were keen to point out with every interaction. I didn’t like the heat, I didn’t like the food, or the people even, they were rude and looked at me the way closeted racists did in England. I didn’t feel safe. All I wanted was a cheese and tomato sandwich and my bed, at home in rainy blighty. I asked for fries on one occasion, thinking there isn’t a place in the world you can’t get fries, and bawled my eyes out when they arrived dusted with chilli powder. In the end, I shook off as much of it as I could and sliced up some tomato and onion for the weirdest chip butty ever. I dreamed of Nandos. I vowed to kiss the ground when I got home and never complain about the cold ever again (delirious or delusional, you decide) and made it my mission to pester the folks at all times, ET had to go home. Eventually, 10 days after the ordeal began we boarded a flight home, excited like you wouldn’t believe I made lists in my head of everything I would drink and eat.

I wasn’t sorry to say goodbye to my dysfunctional country of origin, but I did think of what it might be like, 50 years on. There’s no doubting Pakistan is a hellhole for many reasons but it was made this way. It was a consolation prize given to the victims of the British empire, those who once considered themselves Indian, those of my grandparents generation who would’ve been young children at the time of partition. They’ve seen horrors we can only imagine. They are the product of such horrors. To show humanity you must be shown it and Pakistanis are amongst some of the first to be dehumanised. They are the losers of the empire and all the alliances that followed, between extremists bound by mutual desires for power and control and must be mocked and denigrated in order to maintain the global hierarchy. They are Muslims and they were once proud rulers of India, loved by moderates of all faiths. Their fall from grace is the only lasting legacy for young Pakistan, it simply hasn’t had enough time to recuperate.

Our grandparents were refugees of a kind, the land they occupied was destroyed by the British who busted a dam, destroying everything. Britain promised those people refuge from a disaster of their own creation and so they came, naive to the racism that awaited them. They never accepted they were British, my grandparent’s generations, their hearts were too broken, unable to mend. Such is the life of the stateless citizen. I had tricked myself into believing I belonged in the UK but 9/11 changed all of that. The unspoken hate bubbled to the surface and became impossible to ignore. It’s gotten exponentially worse in recent years, there’s no denying it now. They say we don’t integrate but when we do they want to ban us from getting involved, just look at the furore over the Xmas ads, life is impossible for those of us who do not belong anywhere.

There’s no love lost between me and centrist Sadiq Khan but I felt for him today. We don’t belong anywhere, we only have an idea of what it is to belong somewhere and our place of birth is the nearest we can get to realising it, despite what the racists might say.