On Political Organising

Nadia Whittome is the Labour MP for Nottingham East. She was elected in 2019 aged 23 and is the first person of colour to represent Nottingham in Parliament. She was named Pink News’ Politician of the Year 2020 and Diva Magazine’s Unsung Hero of the Year 2023 for her work on LGBTQ+ rights.

It’s not a history we learn about at school, or often see commemorated with public celebrations. But this South Asian Heritage Month, I’ve been reflecting on an integral part of our communities’ history in the UK: our organising in the labour movement and resistance to racism and fascism.

Much of what I know about it, I learned from my dad who arrived in the UK from Punjab in the 1970s, and became an active trade unionist and member of the Anti-Nazi League. It didn’t take long for him to be exposed to racial discrimination: he recalls being rejected for a bank loan, having a job offer withdrawn and being called the p-word by a colleague. When interviewed for a job at the Cotgrave colliery, he was asked how he would deal with racial abuse. “I will face it in my own way,” he responded. What else could he say?

Working class Asians in Britain faced a double struggle: against exploitative bosses, and against racism among their fellow workers. As is still the case today, migrant workers were frequently accused of “stealing” jobs and undercutting wages. Feeling sidelined by the mainstream labour movement, many decided to form their own organisations.

The Indian Workers Association was founded in 1938, both to represent the interests of marginalised migrant workers and to agitate for India’s independence. While its membership initially declined after Partition, it experienced a revival in the 1950s and 60s thanks to new waves of migration. The IWA defended workers from unscrupulous employers and workplace discrimination; campaigned against deportations and formed part of Britain’s growing anti-racist movement. At its peak, it counted over 20,000 members.

In the 1960s and 70s, migration from former colonies was met with a far-right backlash. Fascist groups like the National Front marched through diverse neighborhoods, and Enoch Powell’s infamous Rivers of Blood speech inspired attacks on South Asian immigrants. An Asian youth movement sprung up across the country in response. Grassroots groups of primarily second-generation migrants formed to stand up for their communities, organising across ethnic and religious divides, confronting fascists in the streets and campaigning against the injustice of Britain’s border regime. The murder of 18-year-old Gurdip Singh Chaggar by a white gang sparked a wave of anti-racist activism, as did the case of Anwar Ditta—a young Pakistani mother who was separated from her children by immigration laws.

In 1979, the Anti-Nazi League demonstrated against a National Front assembly in Southall—an area of London with a large South Asian population. The protest brought together diverse communities, and was met with an aggressive police response: around 3,000 officers deployed to protect the far-right meeting. During the clashes, teacher and anti-racist activist from New Zealand, Blair Peach, was fatally struck on the head. His funeral was attended by up to 10,000 people, and his coffin was carried by members of the local Sikh community. It took 30 years for the Met Police to release the report of the case and admit that Peach was “almost certainly” killed by one of its officers, although no one was ever charged.

Despite the far right’s concerted efforts to sow division, it was the experience of shared class struggle that inspired many white workers to join the anti-racist movement. Standing side-by-side with colleagues from around the world it’s easy to see that, far from undercutting wages, migrant workers are part of the fight to raise them. For instance, when the National Union of Mineworkers went on strike in 1972 and 1974, and then again in 1984-85, black and Asian miners joined their white counterparts on the picket line. In some cases, the experience of discrimination also inspired workers from racialised backgrounds to build solidarity with other marginalised groups. A family friend of ours, the late Pushkar Singh Lail, was a bus driver and trade unionist in Nottingham who campaigned for City Transport to allow women to drive buses.

But one dispute in particular came to symbolise a turning point in Britain’s labour movement. The Grunwick strike started in August 1976, when a young man, Devshi Bhudia, was dismissed from the Grunwick film processing plant. Three other workers walked out in solidarity with their colleague—and were sacked as well. That same evening, 43-year-old Jayaben Desai stormed out of the building after being ordered to work overtime at short notice. These acts of defiance sparked a strike which would go on for two years and become one of the most important labour disputes in Britain’s contemporary history.

Like Desai, most workers at Grunwick were South Asian women. Their employer exploited the poverty and desperation faced by migrant women to pay them wages which would have been unacceptable to many white workers. But low pay wasn’t the only humiliation: Grunwick workers were routinely disrespected by managers, expected to work longer than contracted hours and forced to ask for permission to go to the toilet. “The strike is not so much about pay, it is a strike about human dignity,” Desai would say.

Their struggle attracted a great deal of support: as many as 20,000 people joined its biggest picket, and post office workers refused to deliver to Grunwick in solidarity with the strikers. But despite widespread public enthusiasm, institutional support for the dispute was far from a given: when the TUC (Trade Union Congress) withdrew its backing, Desai organised a hunger strike in front of its headquarters. While the Grunwick strike was ultimately crushed, it left a lasting mark on British trade unionism: it was the first time that the labour movement rallied in such numbers in support of a strike led by migrant women.

In today’s political discourse, the rights of minorities are often contrasted with issues concerning the working class — which is implied to be white, male, British-born and straight. But the working class has always been diverse, and many of its battles have been led by people with intersecting marginalised identities. Whether that’s South Asian women in Leicester sweatshops, who worked for fast fashion brands for just £4 an hour; or Deliveroo drivers organising for fair pay and conditions, and against immigration raids at the same time — to this day, migrant and racialised workers often find themselves at the sharp end of exploitation, and at the forefront of resisting it. Rather than a distraction from class struggle, anti-discrimination work is a key part of it.

This South Asian Heritage Month, let us remember the radical history of our communities. And as we celebrate those who came before us, we should be inspired to continue their legacy.

On Challenging Tradition

Tradition. 
The dichotomy of this word conjures images of vibrant culture, rivalled in its magnificence only by the broad diversity across the many people of the world; and, rather more sombrely, sinister tones of oppressive conservatism that opposes forward-thinking, and struggles against the march of progress.

It is the latter of these definitions that many South Asian people living with disabilities, and who also identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community, are faced with on a regular basis. Often, not just by the wider society in which they live, but by those closest to them. Too often, in fact, it is the harsh judgement of these personal elements that has led so many South Asian people to live incompletely, vying to hide parts of themselves for fear of judgement, persecution, or retribution.

My own story is very much one of colliding worlds, growth through struggle, and learning through perseverance. Living in the UK since the age of 7 has largely resulted in a Western socialisation but my South African-Indian heritage is something that still shines. The ‘third culture kid’ status has a lot of perks in that I have met and “vibed” with so many wonderful people, and my mix of nature versus nurture has given me the ability to fit in both everywhere and nowhere. However, inherently in that identity are the aforementioned traditional views. 

Mum and Dad have always been ones to break free from their generations’ (and my grandparents’) views on family, culture, friends, and just about everything else. And yet, when the time came, they were still encumbered with an outdated view on mental health and it’s effects. I am Bipolar, this is one of my major disabilities. Presenting as an ideal student and striving to be the perfect son whilst at school was constantly at odds with how I actually felt on the inside. This turmoil ultimately led to my first suicide attempt, bereft of a support network of family or friends, and at a time when mental health was very much not in the conversation. Fast forward to my second year of University and a second attempt, a leave from my studies, and a final diagnosis and still there was very little understanding from family. 

“If you can’t see it then it’s not there”… “Walk it off”… “Just push through”…

The mantra of people with good intentions and poor execution. 

Happily, and unfortunately a-typically, my story currently resides on a happy note. My parents lived up to their rebellious, forward-thinking natures and are now a solid support network where healthy discourse and empathy are like fluent languages. My Mum is a mental health first aider and mental health champion at work, and Dad is more open about his own past experiences. I am also a demisexual man in a happy relationship with a white, pansexual woman and at no point am I faced with cries of “find yourself a nice Indian girl”. The story is not the same elsewhere. 

For many of the South Asian diaspora, non-heterosexual/-cisgender identity is still seen as a disability of its own. An affliction that must be cured or pitied. More than that, just as with disability, it is seen as a punishment. Not only on you, but your parents and your family. Bad Karma.

“Why, God, must we be punished?”
“What did we do to deserve this?”
“Shame. Poor child. Poor parents.”

The whispers and admonishments that surround living with disability or identifying as part of the LGBTQ+ community permeate the life of someone simply trying to come to terms with their own existence. Not only are they lacking support but they are labelled as a burden. A strain on your household and something to be ashamed of. People I spoke to have shared stories of being pushed to the side, excluded from the picture, and, at the worst, discarded. And while there is some agreement that acceptance and support is far better now than it was 10, 15, or 20 years ago, there is still so much to do.

Basic kindness, such as when those who wish to engage culturally in places such as temples are ignored and belittled, seems to be completely bereft. For the task of requiring assistance to eat and be told “no, if you are here, you must feed yourself”. Lacking in understanding of identity in real life and hosting secret accounts just to be able to express yourself. 

Not long ago, disability was seen as the ultimate barrier to success in life, and for many people would indicate a future secured only by struggle and loneliness. My uncle Jerome is a prime example of how inaccurate that is. As a quadriplegic man, he has conquered physical challenges some able-bodied people dare not even think about. On top of that he runs a terrifically successful business, has a family, is one of the best people I know and an all-round inspiration in his own right. But even he shared his experiences of sometimes being shifted off the to side in the past, and shared his insight of how many barriers still exist in today’s society. 

In the wake of an Olympics and Paralympics, which both featured prominent trans athletes and LGBTQ+ representation, amid the Covid-19 pandemic, when many people were exposed to isolation and loneliness, we hope that the people who emerge are equipped with greater empathy for those made to feel like they should hide. We hope they understand that just because someone identifies a certain way, or presents with a disability, they are not a lesser human-being. We hope that people are more accepting and understanding of what it means to be an ally. We hope that society continues to move forward, and progress is made to include those that should never feel excluded. We hope that, as a global community, we have discovered our humanity.

We hope. We must.

On Trans Histories

With trans and non-binary identities being the subject of so much contention in society, it would be easy to assume that this is the way it has always been: that gender non-conforming and non-binary people have always faced opposition. However, this is very far from reality. 

South Asia’s religious and cultural heritage has celebrated multiple genders and sexual expressions uncommon to Western societies for thousands of years. Hinduism's first sacred texts depict various stories of same-sex love and gender-morphing figures. These texts, dating back as far as 4000 years, also celebrate a “third gender” which was used to identify people who did not fit into the binary categories of man or woman. 

Hindu mythology also has several examples of deities changing gender, manifesting gender fluidity or combining genders to form androgynous beings and even blessing people by giving them different gender identities. 

These celebratory mentions of trans identities in ancient texts like the Kama Sutra and the Mahabharata are a testament to the sexual diversity that is an integral, yet often overlooked aspect of South Asian culture. 

The people who identify as the “third gender” in those sacred writings are also known as the Hijra. According to one text, when Lord Rama (one of the most prominent Hindu deities) went into exile for fourteen years many people from his kingdom followed him out of love and respect. When Lord Rama found out about this, he ordered all the “men and women” to return to their homes. After returning from exile fourteen years later he saw that the Hijras, who were neither men nor women, had stayed in that same place. Pleased with the devotion of the Hijras, Lord Rama blessed them and said that they would bring good fortune on various auspicious occasions like childbirth and marriage. 

These accounts lead to the celebration of the Hijra in pre-colonial South Asian society. They often held positions of high esteem, belonged to a special or holy caste and were considered to hold religious authority with the ability to cast blessings upon others. They even held demi-god status and were hired to dance, sing and bless households, newly-weds and newborns. 

Then came the British colonists with their Western ideas of what society should look like. Binding their binary and patriarchal structures around a beautifully colourful culture, the Hijra’s identity stood at odds with Western morality and the coloniser’s concept of sexuality and gender. In 1864, Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code was put in place which criminalised non-procreative sexualities and whilst it was not specifically targeted at the Hijras, it criminalised them as a group. They were also placed under the ‘Criminal Tribes Act’ in 1871, labelled a threat to society, stripped of their inheritance rights and a campaign was launched to rid them from public consciousness. 

This policing of identity and individuality had specific repercussions on the Hijra’s way of life and status within society. The community was stigmatised to the point that it still lasts to this day in many parts of South Asia and after being ostracised for more than a century, the Hijra community find themselves in a complex and contradictory position in society. Whilst Hindu mythology worships them, British colonists demonised them, meaning that today they are admired by many as demi deities and vilified by others as deviant and dangerous. 

Along with many in the trans community, both in South Asia and the rest of the world, Hijras nowadays have few employment opportunities available to them due to discrimination and obtain their income through begging, sex work and performing at ceremonies. They are frequently subjected to brutal and public violence, even in police stations, which is often not investigated. 

Their very being is viewed as a commodity for religious blessings, removing and despising any other form of their identity. In reality, the hijra identity is actually a unique blend of biological, gendered, and sexual identities underpinned by religion and bound by a tight-knit social structure.

Seeing how our native lands have been obscured by colonialism and Western societies is painful. These structures birthed and fed rampant homophobic and transphobic beliefs in cultures that once held fluid beliefs on sexuality and gender, which displays just how toxic the foundation of today's society is. 

With a lense on the South Asian community, when you merge the white-washing of our native cultures along with cultural stigmas and internal barriers within the community it is clear to see that LGBTQ+ South Asian people require additional support. GAYSIANS are working to support this community with various projects and campaigns directly focusing on the needs of these vulnerable people with a unique set of experiences. You can read more about how we are doing this here. 

To any trans or gender-queer people reading this, regardless of your religious beliefs or background, you are godlike. Not only because ancient civilisations celebrated you in this way, but because in being who you are you show a supernatural strength to exist in a society that tells you you shouldn’t. 

And for the rest of us, in a world that vilifies us as LGBTQ+ people; that tells us we’re dangerous and demonises us—let’s glorify one another and praise ourselves as the deities we truly are.

 

On Living While HIV+

Like many others, 2020 has been a very reflective year for me and as December 1st will mark the 32nd Annual World Aids Day, I am reflecting on my experiences as a Gay, HIV-positive man. 2020 will always be the year dominated by a new virus, COVID–19, which has widely changed the landscape of human life. There have been various parallels drawn between the two viruses, but for me, the fear of the unknown and, with that, developing a fear of each other is one of the most defining similarities.

In the West we are fortunate that HIV is no longer considered the death sentence it once was, it might not make the headlines that it once did, but it hasn’t gone away. In 2019 there were still approximately 38 million people across the globe living with HIV/AIDS and I am one of them.

Of these, 36.2 million were adults and 1.8 million were children younger than 15 years old. An estimated 1.7 million individuals worldwide acquired HIV in 2019 which marks a 23% decline in new HIV infections since 2010. This drop-in number is in part due to access to medication but it is also due to education.

My HIV journey began in 2005 while in my final year at university, I didn’t get an official diagnosis till the year after. Circumstances forced my hand and I plucked up the courage to take a test and confirm something that I already knew but didn't want to confront. 

I’d consider myself to be an intelligent person and most of the time, rather rational. Looking back, that avoidance was bound by fear and denial. I was partaking in what would be considered ‘risky’ sexual behaviour, but I didn’t want to face the guilt and deal with the potential unchangeable repercussions this could have.

15 years ago if you indulged in the kind of sex I was exploring and enjoying, it was not a case of ‘if’ you became positive, but ‘when’ you became positive. In my naivety at the time, because I’d had a few lucky escapes, I thought I'd be fine and get away unscathed. However, unfortunately for me, viruses don’t discriminate and I became another one of the growing HIV statistics.

At age 24, receiving my positive diagnosis wasn’t a huge shock but it was also far from welcome news. I was a little indifferent at the time and very matter of fact, knowing I only had myself to blame. Looking back at that time I can say that I was in a state of shock and my indifference was denial about the impact that this news was about to have on me. 

My diagnosis felt like a fulfilment of a prophecy that my mother had made when I came out. She told me “you’re going to get AIDs and die.” Those words played on a loop in my head that day and they have done, on and off at many a dark hour.

Like many LGBTQ+ South Asians, my sexuality has been the cause of both physical and emotional distance between myself and my family. They superficially tolerate me and my ‘choices’, but in avoidance of confrontation, they will never ask about who I’m with and the ins-and-outs of my life. My diagnosis made me create an even greater emotional distance between us, catalysed by the fear of being seen as more of a pariah and becoming a leper that was carrying a gay plague, which would have tipped the balance closer to disownment.

This was both a form of preservation for the relationship I had with my parents and also self-preservation to avoid any further rejection. In addition, it was a method to avoid having to live out the painful hypothetical scenario of what they would say or do if they found out, re-living the disgust and disdain that I had experienced when coming out. To this date, they still don’t know of my status. 

Carrying all of this emotional trauma is part of the reason why I dragged my heels with starting treatment, a stint in intensive care with Pneumonia changed that. Up until that point, I’d been living “live fast die young” and pushing myself and my body harder, trying to prove a point; that I wasn’t this virus and that I wasn’t weak. I’d been fighting to be myself for so long and this became one more thing to fight.

Current HIV treatment practice now involves starting AntiRetroViral treatment as soon as possible, which works to bring a patient's viral load down to an undetectable level. This reduces the damage the virus can do to the immune system and helps stop the spread of HIV, as a person whose viral load is undetectable, is also untransmittable.

Modern treatments for HIV are far kinder to the recipient than those of the past as there are far fewer side effects. I have had very understanding HIV consultants at the clinics I've attended in the past 15 years, they have helped me adjust to a life which isn’t all about this virus and I’m fortunate enough that I’ve been given a treatment which is as close to swallowing a daily vitamin pill as can be. When I started treatment, seeing that pill was triggering. It forced me to face up to my mortality and meant I couldn’t hide from this virus anymore—up until that point I’d been running from it.

To date I’ve been on treatment for approximately 12 years, currently, I’m on my third treatment regime. I have been relatively lucky with my treatments and I’ve had limited side effects to my physical health, I’ve been able to go about my day to day life quite normally. There have been good periods and also bad periods but I am happy to say that currently, the balance between my regime and any side effects is good. 

When it comes to my mental health however, the impact of the virus has taken a much deeper toll. It’s only now that I feel comfortable to discuss it publically—10 years ago, at a time before PrEP, there was still a lot more stigma attached to HIV. To this day, disclosure of my status is often met with rejection. This has led to a level of secrecy and anxiety around discussing my status and not wanting to put myself into a vulnerable position. There have been many times, post-disclosure, that I’ve been treated differently by partners, both emotionally and sexually and not wanting to be subjected to being asked if I was ‘clean,’ has led to me developing my own avoidance and prejudices towards HIV-negative men.

Post-diagnosis I’ve only had one relationship with an HIV-negative person and even this was very short term. This comes from not wanting to have to explain to the other person the ins-and-outs of living with HIV. Relationships are hard enough, and having the pressure of HIV on top of this isn’t something I have the emotional labour for, at this moment in time.

I’ve had a relatively normal work-life since my diagnosis, HIV has been the cause of much anxiety at times. I’ve abstained from disclosing my status on application forms to avoid prejudice and I’ve had some very difficult moments while adhering to medication and the side effects. In a previous role, I believe I was managed out of the position due to my HIV status and the impact my medication had on me. HIV is covered under ‘The Equality Act’ and all people diagnosed with HIV are considered to be ‘disabled’ regardless of their health status. All employers need to make acceptable adjustments around these. However, many people like me continue to face discrimination regarding their HIV status even to this day. The trauma and the stigma attached to HIV has dented my self-confidence and it’s often stopped me from exploring working positions overseas.

Living with HIV as a South Asian man has been lonely. It's isolated me from my community even more than coming out did. Partially due to my self-imposed exile but also through the distance that keeping a secret and having to continue to do so does to your personal relationships. When you combine these feelings with my initial experience of being rejected, and the trauma that I faced when I came out from within my community, it has made me wary of other South Asians. I can only assume this is a similar experience that others within our community have too. HIV is still very much seen as a 'gay disease’ and carries with it all of the cultural and societal prejudices of that label.   

However public I can be about other aspects of my life and my sexuality, living with HIV is one area that I keep very private and only share with those I truly trust. The fear that I had around coming out is nothing compared to the anxiety I have of my parents finding out about my status; I feel the tolerance that my family has towards me would be completely negated and I would be disowned. This secret would force them to be confronted with me as a sexual being, would highlight the sins I have committed in their eyes and with this revelation, I would bring shame to them. For them, HIV would be a testament that I was being punished by Allah. 

I admire those who have been public about their status such as Ash Kotak. It is through their work and visibility that we can start to educate our communities around HIV and AIDS.

I hope my words can help others and to let them know that they aren’t alone.

More resources:

https://www.worldaidsday.org/about/ 

https://www.hiv.gov/hiv-basics 

https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/hiv-and-aids/ 

https://www.tht.org.uk/ 

https://www.nat.org.uk/ 

https://stopaids.org.uk/ 

On the True Cost of Silence

There's so much that goes unsaid. So many feelings folded over a samosa, and tucked away. The South Asian community instills a culture of silence. Whether it’s words, or actions, or feelings, or mental health, we have been taught to just tuck it into that little extra bit of dough when you finish making the kachori and toss it to the side. Have you ever looked under your rug? Mine is filthy. What does it take to reclaim that which has not been named? At what cost?

The trauma inflicted over generations of silencing is exponential. The way in which our bodies carry that trauma impacts our health dramatically. Inter-generational trauma acts as a trigger for hereditary auto-immune diseases living dormant within us.

For the first 5 years of having Gastroperesis, I was undiagnosed. I would go to the doctor and complain about my symptoms, we would run some tests that usually came back normal, and I would be sent home without answers and questioning my lived reality. Baa would recommend ajma, and it would help a little, but I was still experiencing so much pain and nausea without relief. ER visits and endoscopies would yield nothing more than PTSD and unpaid bills.

Once I got my diagnosis, I learned that while the cause and cure are unknown, physiologically, the Vagus nerve in my body is damaged. It becomes unable to send the correct neurons to my brain in order to remind my stomach to contract. It is silenced. Damaged and traumatized, it is unable on its own to perform its duties.

IN 2021, 10 years after the diagnosis of my stomach disease, I am yet again sitting across doctors with test results that say one thing, and my body saying another. I can feel the ancestors with RA conjuring posterity in my bones. They are calling me. Reminding me that they have trauma I carry.

Queerness in the community is approached the same way, unspoken of, silenced, undiagnosed as if ‘other’. People move in and out of spaces transforming and shape shifting to fit a role, or risk excommunication in every sense of the word. Choice becomes coercion, and sacrifice is for the sake of the family, never the individual. The complexities and manifestations of queerness are blatantly ignored for the sake of tradition.

Mental health and those struggling with depression are often silenced into tragedy. The statistics are only rising, and queer and trans youth are struggling more than ever before. Image has always been everything in the community, and the preservation of that image has come at the cost of life cut short, addiction, and isolation. It’s time to erase the stigma of labels, of pronouns, and of truth.

We are taught to use the word “community” as if it’s a monolith for South Asian people. The reality is that we are complex, and fluid. Things are changing as traditions continue to be challenged. I don’t want to carry all this anger that I know is not mine. I don’t want
to constantly feel like things are not going to get better. Instead of thinking about the community as one of judgement and disapproval, we can take an active role in creating and shaping ‘the community’ we are a part of. We deserve to hold whatever, and how many labels we want without reserve. I am a queer desi womxn who is disabled. I also struggle with depression and chronic pain. I’m also bad ass, creative, sarcastic, and stubborn as hell.

We deserve care. Deserve to be seen and supported. Us, children of the diaspora are forced to hold our histories on our backs while simultaneously experiencing shame for living out ours. We deserve to heal.

Our generations can break the cycle of living in silence; of not naming our depression and chronic illness; of not living our true authentic selves. This is not your masi’s generation.

On Black Lives Matter

I’ve been thinking about how to add something meaningful to the conversation surrounding George Floyd, Tony Mcdade and Christian Cooper, and more widely the systemic abuse, incarceration and murder of Black people at the hands of the state.

In search of a valuable addition to the discourse that’s already been happening, I’m going to write about what I know.

My experience as an South Asian person of colour, is not the same as a Black person of colour. The terms BAME or POC are often used to paint with an extremely broad brush over the experiences of a large group of communities that come with their own network of privileges and oppressions. The term POC centres non-white people against a backdrop of whiteness, and in focusing us only in relation to whiteness, often robs us of any identity that we try to claim beyond this term.

While this term can be useful in many ways—for political organising, or diversifying homogenous institutions—I fear its over-use is in danger of perpetuating the same systems we’re trying to fight against. It acts as a banner for non-black people to shroud ourselves in, invisible from those holding us accountable.

When an Asian man stood by and watched as a Black man was murdered by a police officer, it evoked in the world’s memory a great history of Asian complicity in upholding the status quo.

Asians, for centuries, have scrambled over Black bodies in search of proximity to whiteness. When Gandhi was evicted from a whites-only train carriage in South Africa in 1893, the event catalysed his campaign for a ‘special status’ for Indians. It was not just that he wanted to be closer to the status of white people, but that he wanted to escape being grouped with Black people.

Today, under the guise of ‘diversity and inclusion’, Asians like Sajid Javid are fast forwarded into cabinet, only to implement policies that don’t just illegally deport Black people from their homes, but pass bills that ensure their own parents would never have been able to emigrate to the UK.

Casteism is embedded in Asian culture, to which colourism is inherently attached. Historically, richer South Asians from ‘higher’ castes spent their time indoors, and aligned themselves to the British while under colonial rule, if it meant they could retain their riches. Those from ‘lower’ castes worked outdoors, their skin darkened by the sun, and thus, the idea of lightness equating to desirability was borne. From a lust for skin bleaching, to a renouncing of black partners when white spouses are often seen as climbing the societal ladder, colourism has remained wedded to Asian culture.

What is it that results in this hatred of darkness, and worship of the light? We can claim that colonisation played a role in holding us hostage to our own biases, but those biases existed before the East India Company reached the continent’s shores, and have pervaded our culture for many years after independence was declared. It’s now up to us to decide how we extract these dangerous ideas from our mindset.

Somehow, donating money, arguing with family members and educating myself doesn’t feel enough anymore. I’m still weighed down by the complicity of non-black people in white supremacy. And when I feel jaded or numb, I turn to history.

The British Black Panther party, formed in 1968 as an island echo of their African American friends, operated under the ethos of ‘political blackness’, which brought the Caribbean, African and South Asian communities together. This time chronicled an immense crescendo in ‘multiculturalism’—the publication Wasafiri was founded by Susheila Nasta, platforming writers like Ben Okri and Vikram Seth, while New Beacon Books made space for political organisations like the George Padmore Institute, which archived the struggle of the African, Caribbean and South Asian communities in Britain. These were times where Black and Brown communities worked hand in hand together to battle a common oppression.

What happens when the oppression is not so common any more? When those who once stood beside you are in fact alongside those pushing you down?

I don’t pretend to know all the answers, but what I am sure of is that this work begins in a deep seated place in each of us. Acknowledgment that we are in fact different from the Black community, that we’re not entitled to appropriate their culture and get away with it by labelling ourselves as a fellow person of colour. To understand that in fact, Asian privilege is more insidious and fleeting than white privilege, and because it is less explicit, we have a lot of work to do in unravelling the anti-blackness rooted in our traditions. In fact, it’s not just about anti-blackness any more—we don’t get a pass from the word racism just because we’re people of colour. Going forward, it’s integral to acknowledge Asian privilege by unearthing the racism that festers in our communities.

What can we do? Read. Listen. Speak. Act.

There have been an immense amount of resources floating around social media which serve as educational anti-racist resources—engage with them (@mireillecharper’s ‘10 Steps to Non-Optical Allyship’ is a great place to start). Listen to your Black friends, but also listen to your family members—due to the pandemic, a lot of South Asians are spending lockdown with their families. Use this time to educate them, in the same way you’d want your non-queer allies to use their time to educate those around them. When a parent makes a passing racist comment, speak. Help them understand the interconnectedness between anti-black attitudes and police brutality. These conversations with family are difficult, and come with a whole host of intersectional struggles, but in some ways this is the most critical offering we have. This work starts in the home. Act, and think critically about your actions. If protests are being organised, is it wise to attend a mass gathering during a pandemic which is killing Black people at four times the rate of white people? If you are going to attend in solidarity, what precautions can you take to do so safely?

There is little accountability for acts of racism, which is why we need to wield our privileged status to hold people accountable for their racist actions. Read. Listen. Speak. Act. And remember, in the words of Audre Lorde, ‘your silence will not protect you’.

The official channels for the UK chapter of Black Lives Matter are listed below. Please follow and support them, whilst being mindful of the importance of promoting official information.

UK Black Lives Matter Twitter

UK Black Lives Matter Instagram

Uk Black Lives Matter Facebook