Looking back on the 2024 UK riots, this story conveys the fear and frustration of many people who no longer felt safe in the country that is their home. Reflecting on her identity as a first-generation British-Sri Lankan, undergraduate Law student Nasha Salahudeen wrote this piece as the winning response to the annual Lacuna Writing Competition.
August 2024. My mother, with a wary glance, dispelled any ideas of leaving the house.
“It’s best to not go outside…” she trailed off momentarily, “Have you not seen what’s on the news? It’s awful for people like us.”
Scrolling through BBC news, I was bombarded with article after article, critics criticising commentators, debates about danger and so on. An uncanny pit in my stomach deepened.
Rioting, looting, destruction; it was hard to tell what wasn’t happening. ‘Remain on high alert’ warned a headline from the Prime Minister’s emergency meeting, pledging action against “extremists” attempting to “sow hate”. This provided little comfort.
Despite the overload of information, what lay at the forefront of my mind was my mother’s forlorn expression, eyebrows furrowed together as she absent-mindedly stirred a curry on the stove.
Her expression remained hardened through the first week of August, and that resolve showed little sign of softening as the month dwindled by. Our previously planned summer, filled with activities and trips, faded into obscurity against the overshadowing concern: the far-right racist riots, and specifically, the English Defence League (EDL).
Forced back into lockdown
For most people of colour in the UK, the beginning of August was spent in a similar fashion – hidden indoors with family members constantly ringing to ensure we’re avoiding the ‘opposition’.
As absurd as it sounds, the simple actions that make up our daily routines suddenly seemed like acts of defiance to those around me. One instance stands out.
I had boarded my usual bus to the town centre, eager to break from the confines of home. But my journey was interrupted by a panicked phone call from my aunt, followed by my father’s insistence that I return home immediately.
As the bus ground to a halt in a predominantly Southeast Asian community, I was startled to find the street that had once been teeming with activity was now eerily desolate. The usual crowd of vendors, shoppers, and general public were scarce – and the few people present exchanged cautious glances with a palpable sense of unease.
It felt as though the street was collectively holding its breath, bracing itself for something. My own inner tension grew heavier and rendered me isolated for a good portion of the summer.
It felt like the Covid lockdowns all over again, except for social media reminding us that everyone else was out and about, clearly immune to whatever was occurring. While many of us remained, thankfully, unharmed by the rioting, the damage to our trust and resolve in this country was shaken.
For a nation built on immigration, we seem awfully intolerant of it.
“There are so many different types of people and culture there! Isn’t that amazing?” people in my parents’ home country of Sri Lanka would remark, in awe of this idealised vision of diversity.
Before August, I would chuckle and smile – “Of course it is! I meet people from corners of the Earth I never even knew existed, and we all have a shared British culture of queuing and tea. Apart from the occasional glares I get from gated communities, it’s a friendly country.”
Now, however, I find myself holding my tongue. What once appeared as a seamless blend of cultures now seems more like a patchwork of division.
Re-thinking “British culture”
Growing up in northwest London as a first-generation immigrant, I was no stranger to bouts of casual racism. My clothes were too outlandish, my food was too smelly, and my family spoke in strange tongues (unoriginal insults but relatively harmless).
Thinking back, I found myself justifying these microaggressions as the price to pay for living here – free education, free healthcare, freedom.
But, last summer’s barbaric show of nationalism and white supremacy made me reconsider this. It now feels like the entire UK is a gated community, and we’re seen as intruders in our own home.
A quiet rage simmered as I questioned whether this was the nation my parents sacrificed their livelihoods and everything they knew to come to.
My mother would often talk about the family and familiarity she left behind in Sri Lanka – the gatherings of relatives, streets where she knew every face, a small clothing business tinged with the salty scent of the ocean nearby.
But she left Sri Lanka (a member of the Commonwealth and a former British Crown colony) because she envisioned diversification and free choice for her own family so, she traded her craft and community to build something new, something more promising for her children.
So, why must we reduce ourselves to an ‘us and them’ mentality? Are we not able to claim the same rights of life and liberty? Is this not our home too, where we were so eager to put down roots with hopes of future generations having a better life?
As I saw families with children, draped in the St George’s flag, cheer on masked men throwing stones and destroying mosques, asylum housing and Muslim-owned businesses, I wondered where this hatred stems from.
“Save our kids!” they’d cheer, “enough is enough!”
I sighed, pitying the home environment of the children, who are being taught that resentment of and confrontation with others for existing is reasonable.
The fact that a 15-year-old boy was among the first to be charged with rioting speaks volumes about the deep, complex consequences of prejudice. Does it start with a parent’s throwaway comment at a dinner table, a friend’s blatant use of racially derogative terms “as banter!”, or an online message board’s echo-chamber of unchecked, intolerant narratives? Regardless, it is evident that this kind of hatred does not manifest itself overnight
By mid-August, the riots, and the EDL along with them, diminished and in an astounding show of solidarity, many people from all walks of life, across varying backgrounds and ethnicities, took to the streets.
These anti-racist protests, brandishing homemade signs against bigotry and a clear intent to protect vulnerable communities, significantly shifted the ‘impending-doom’ narrative many had held. They were the perfect response to the horrific suggestion that “civil war is inevitable”.
The counter-protests vastly outnumbered the far-right in major cities, with up to 15,000 gathering at the United Against Racism demo in Belfast while up to 7,000 people turned out in Walthamstow.
Their chants of “Stop the far-right!” and “Say it loud and say it clear: Refugees are welcome here!” didn’t die down, even after the end of the riots. And the police made 1,280 arrests with many rioters facing substantial jail time for racially motivated hate-crimes.
When the leaves began to turn from green to brown in September, it was safe once more to go outside freely. Yet, as I stepped outside, I found my mother clutching my hand a few seconds longer, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. While she told me to “Be safe”, we both knew this was no longer as certain as it had seemed only a month ago.
How does Britain move on?
I still find myself looking over my shoulder at passers-by, deliberating over what they’re thinking of me. After all, bigotry often hides beneath polite smiles.
Last month anti-immigration riots targeting ethnic minorities broke out in Northern Ireland and just last week, hundreds from the far-right turned their focus on a hotel housing asylum seekers in Epping, Essex – a demonstration that later turned violent. A watchdog has warned that the police must do more to counter false narratives online to avoid similar unrest in future.
The riots have torn a gaping hole in the heart of the UK that cannot be easily mended, and sweeping the problem under the metaphorical rug of ‘harmony’ will only build up resentment across the board.
Perhaps instead of attempting to mend the hole, this is an opportunity to reconsider the very fabric that knits British society together. It’s a chance to better understand the role of immigrants in the UK and the danger of anti-immigrant rhetoric.
Those moments of hope and solidarity displayed by the anti-racist demonstrations show that the majority of the UK is ready and willing to stand against intolerance and hatred – change is possible.
If we stop to ask ourselves, what are “fundamental British values”? Surely respect and tolerance are high up on the list. But values alone are not enough to maintain a stable foundation. Meaningful action is required to uphold respect and tolerance in policies, institutions, and education.
Last summer has taught us that we can’t afford to be passive bystanders to prejudice – even to something as casual as racist remarks between friends and family.
The riots were a wake-up call, a stark reminder that racism and anti-immigrant rhetoric can no longer be ignored.
All artwork by Aura Bamber.
