The jackals who cry 바카라go back home바카라 are reflective of a system that suppresses uncomfortable history and accepts citizens of foreign origin only gingerly
Donald Trump바카라s recent 바카라Send them back바카라 comments have ignited a debate here, in Great Britain, about what 바카라immigrant communities바카라 should and should not say to the 바카라host바카라 community. As Matthew Parris, a columnist for the Times put it: 바카라We do still speak of 바카라second generation immigrants바카라 and the expression has meaning바카라yes, there is such a thing as courtesy to a host country바카라.
Is it discourteous to be critical? Does it make a person less British, even if they were born here? As a so-called 바카라second generation바카라, I think about these questions a lot. I am a political broadcaster covering current events and an author who writes about the British Raj. You might say I have skin in the game.
The 바카라Go back to where you came from바카라 debate has rubbed raw some old scars. I was born in London in the 바카라70s, when the National Front바카라a far right political group바카라daubed their anti-immigrant manifestos, or rather their pithy summaries like: 바카라Pakis go home바카라, 바카라Get out바카라 on walls. My experience is by no means unique. Sajid Javid, Boris Johnson바카라s pick as chancellor of the exchequer, said of the Trump tweets: 바카라I바카라m from an immigrant family, I know what it바카라s like to be told to go back.... We must confront the myths about immigration that extremists use to drive divisions.바카라
On the other side of the political divide, Sadiq Khan, the Labour mayor of London, told a radio programme: 바카라Language like 바카라go back to where you came from바카라 and 바카라you don바카라t belong바카라 is the sort of language I바카라ve heard in my lifetime바카라 I바카라ve heard it from racists and fascists. Never from a mainstream politician바카라.
These phrases, 바카라go back바카라, 바카라go home바카라 and 바카라get out바카라 made our parents frightened. It is a terrible thing to see that. That is why such phrases reach down deep into the psyches of British Asians today. Is it discourteous to talk about that discomfort?
Sathnam Sanghera is columnist born, like me, in the UK. Openly criticising Parris, his own Times stablemate, Sanghera insisted Parris바카라s words denied him: 바카라바카라citizenship of the only country I have known and loved, because of my race. And if that ain바카라t racism, I really don바카라t know what is바카라.
When I was at school, there was a lament carved into our wooden desks: 바카라History is dead, and now it바카라s killing me바카라바카라 I sympathised, finding it hard to care about Romans and the wives of Henry VIII. There were more relevant histories left untouched. We sat in the very epicentre of what was once the British Empire, yet India바카라s experience under the Raj was never discussed.
We wrote detailed essays about Tommies in trenches, but heard next to nothing about the Indians dying in the Western Front. It was thanks entirely to my father that I knew anything about uncomfortable facts. In particular, the events of April 13, 1919 were vivid. They brought history to life.
My grandfather, a mere boy then, was in Jallianwala Bagh on the day of the massacre. Thanks to a quirk of fate, he left the Bagh to run an errand moments before Brigadier General Dyer and his men arrived. In ten long minutes, 1,650 bullets were fired; the Bagh ran red with blood. It continued to flow through the long night바카라due to the curfew imposed, Indians bled to death as their loved ones were forced to wait till the morning, desperate and helpless. My grandfather바카라s friends were among the dead.
According to legend, a young, low-caste orphan named Udham Singh was shot and injured. He was supposedly driven mad by the sounds of suffering. As the curfew lifted with the first rays of the sun, he is said to have picked up a handful of blood-soaked earth, smeared it across his forehead and vowed to kill the men responsible.
The truth is more complicated, but what is certain is that Udham dedicated the next 21 years of his life to revenge. He courted enemies of the Raj, learning all he could from them. Rex Dyer died of natural causes in 1927, so Udham Singh focussed his hatred on his boss, Michael O바카라Dwyer, the lieutenant-governor of Punjab. His obsession took him around the world; it would eventually take his life.
On March 13, 1940, Udham Singh walked calmly into a meeting in Westminster바카라s Caxton Hall and amidst some of the Raj바카라s great and good, pressed his gun into the fabric of O바카라Dwyer바카라s jacket and shot him twice through the heart. When the police came, he gave his name as 바카라Mohammed Singh Azad바카라바카라a sign to his countrymen that he had done this for them.
Most people in Britain had never heard of Udham Singh before I wrote The Patient Assassin. Records pertaining to Udham바카라s life, crime and death were sealed by the authorities in 1940, in the hope that the ugliness of the crime and its causes would never see the light of day. Perhaps it is understandable that the British did not know his name.
What is less easy to understand is how little the British know about the empire, and how it is that many Asians have made Britain their home. They see Maharajas, tiger hunts and heroes in pith helmets on television but there little else. Empire is about railways, not massacres. Little is said about the waves of immigration that came on the eddies of the Raj, nor the later immigration which filled post-war vacancies in a country trying to rebuild itself.
Cameron바카라s words fell far short of the apology. The matter was raised again in the House of Lords just five months ago. Baroness Annabel Goldie, then a government whip, continued to resist apology and offered advice instead: 바카라바카라history cannot be rewritten and it is important that we do not get trapped by the past바카라. Perhaps she felt it discourteous.
Donald Trump바카라s tweets and the reactions to them have raised important questions. If people of foreign ancestry can바카라t criticise the present, then what hope is there of properly evaluating the past? If we are always counted as 바카라second바카라, 바카라third바카라, 바카라fourth바카라 generation Asians, do we ever count as simply British? If this is the 바카라host바카라 community, will we ever be more than guests?
When I read 바카라Go back to where you came from바카라 I have one place in mind바카라an old school desk in the Essex town of my childhood. I would like to carve a hackneyed epithet of my own in the scarred wood: 바카라Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it. And that isn바카라t just rude, it바카라s stupid.바카라
(A broadcaster and journalist, Anita Anand is the author of The Patient Assassin)