But despite all this, some kind of identification with England remains.
It is strange to go away to the land of your ancestors, to find out how much you have in common with people there, yet at the same time to realise how British you are, the extent to which, as Orwell says: ‘the suet puddings and the red pillar boxes have entered into your soul’. It isn’t that you wanted to find out. But it is part of what you do find out. And you find out what little choice you have in the matter of your background and where you belong. You look forward to getting back; you think often of England and what it means to you — and you think often of what it means to be British.
Two days after my return I took my washing to a laundrette and gave it to the attendant only to be told she didn’t touch the clothes of foreigners: she didn’t want me anywhere near her blasted laundrette. More seriously: I read in the paper that a Pakistani family in the East End had been fire-bombed. A child was killed. This, of course, happens frequently. It is the pig’s head through the window, the spit in the face, the children with the initials of racist organisations tattooed into their skin with razor blades, as well as the more polite forms of hatred.
I was in a rage. I thought: who wants to be British anyway? Or as a black American writer said: who wants to be integrated into a burning house anyway?
And indeed I know Pakistanis and Indians born and brought up here who consider their position to be the result of a diaspora: they are in exile, awaiting return to a better place, where they belong, where they are welcome. And there this ‘belonging’ will be total. This will be home, and peace.
It is not difficult to see how much illusion and falsity there is in this view. How much disappointment and unhappiness might be involved in going ‘home’ only to see the extent to which you have been formed by England and the depth of attachment you feel to the place, despite everything.
It isn’t surprising that some people believe in this idea of ‘home’. The alternative to believing it is more conflict here; it is more self-hatred; it is the continual struggle against racism; it is the continual adjustment to life in Britain. And blacks in Britain know they have made more than enough adjustments.
So what is it to be British?
In his 1941 essay ‘England Your England’ Orwell says: ‘the gentleness of the English civilisation is perhaps its most marked characteristic’. He calls the country ‘a family with the wrong members in control’ and talks of the ‘soundness and homogeneity of England’.
Elsewhere he considers the Indian character. He explains the ‘maniacal suspiciousness’ which, agreeing, he claims, with E. M. Forster in A Passage to India, he calls ‘the besetting Indian vice …’ But he has the grace to acknowledge in his essay ‘Not Counting Niggers’ ‘that the overwhelming bulk of the British proletariat [lives] … in Asia and Africa’.
But this is niggardly. The main object of his praise is British ‘tolerance’ and he writes of ‘their gentle manners’. He also says that this aspect of England ‘is continuous, it stretches into the future and the past, there is something in it that persists’.
But does it persist? If this version of England was true then, in the 1930s and 1940s, it is under pressure now. From the point of view of thousands of black people it just does not apply. It is completely without basis.
Obviously tolerance in a stable, confident wartime society with a massive Empire is quite different to tolerance in a disintegrating uncertain society during an economic depression. But surely this would be the test; this would be just the time for this much-advertised tolerance in the British soul to manifest itself as more than vanity and self-congratulation. But it has not. Under real continuous strain it has failed.
Tolerant, gentle British whites have no idea how little of this tolerance is experienced by blacks here. No idea of the violence, hostility and contempt directed against black people every day by state and individual alike in this land once described by Orwell as being not one of ‘rubber truncheons’ or ‘Jew-baiters’ but of ‘flower-lovers’ with ‘mild knobbly faces’. But in parts of England the flower-lovers are all gone, the rubber truncheons and Jew-baiters are at large, and if any real contemporary content is to be given to Orwell’s blind social patriotism, then clichés about ‘tolerance’ must be seriously examined for depth and weight of substantial content.
In the meantime it must be made clear that blacks don’t require ‘tolerance’ in this particular condescending way. It isn’t this particular paternal tyranny that is wanted, since it is major adjustments to British society that have to be made.
I stress that it is the British who have to make these adjustments.
It is the British, the white British, who have to learn that being British isn’t what it was. Now it is a more complex thing, involving new elements. So there must be a fresh way of seeing Britain and the choices it faces: and a new way of being British after all this time. Much thought, discussion and self-examination must go into seeing the necessity for this, what this ‘new way of being British’ involves and how difficult it might be to attain.
The failure to grasp this opportunity for a revitalized and broader self-definition in the face of a real failure to be human, will be more insularity, schism, bitterness and catastrophe.
The two countries, Britain and Pakistan, have been part of each other for years, usually to the advantage of Britain. They cannot now be wrenched apart, even if that were desirable. Their futures will be intermixed. What that intermix means, its moral quality, whether it is violently resisted by ignorant whites and characterised by inequality and injustice, or understood, accepted and humanised, is for all of us to decide.
This decision is not one about a small group of irrelevant people who can be contemptuously described as ‘minorities’. It is about the direction of British society. About its values and how humane it can be when experiencing real difficulty and possible breakdown. It is about the respect it accords individuals, the power it gives to groups, and what it really means when it describes itself as ‘democratic’. The future is in our hands.
Bradford
Some time ago, I noticed that there was something unusual about the city of Bradford, something that distinguished it from other northern industrial cities.
To begin with, there was Ray Honeyford. Three years ago Honeyford, the headmaster of Bradford’s Drummond Middle School, wrote a short, three-page article that was published in the Salisbury Review. The Salisbury Review has a circulation of about 1,000, but the impact of Honeyford’s article was felt beyond the magazine’s readership. It was discussed in the Yorkshire Post and reprinted in the local Telegraph and Argus. A parents’ group demanded Honeyford’s resignation. His school was then boycotted, and children, instructed by their parents not to attend classes, gathered outside, shouting abuse at the man who weeks before was their teacher. There were fights, sometimes physical brawls, between local leaders and politicians. The ‘Honeyford Affair’, as it became known, attracted so much attention that it became common every morning to come upon national journalists and television crews outside the school. And when it was finally resolved that Honeyford had to go, the Bradford district council had to pay him over £160,000 to get him to leave: ten times his annual salary.