SS Windrush
I am in the club. I
am numbered among the congregation.
Watching the
fulminations about the West Indian generation who came to Britain in
the 1950’s and subsequently found that they were not as welcome as
they either thought or were promised, brings to mind some experiences
of mine.
For, I have the same
bit of paper one of the victims was proudly clutching on TV last
evening. It resides in my passport and except for its size it is
identical. It’s dated 9 June 1975. It’s almost exactly like the
TV one – except it is on A5 paper, not A4 (saving money in 1975?)
I dug out my old
passport. On 8 June 1974 I entered the UK having debarked from the
QE II at Southampton. My passport stamp says I have leave to enter
the UK for two months. On 16 July I have another stamp which says my
leave to remain will expire on 8 June 1975 – I confess I do not
remember how I got that stamp. Finally I have a stamp from the Home
Office on 9 Jun 1975 saying that the time limit to enter the UK is
hereby removed.
Am I of the Windrush
generation? No. I am neither black nor West Indian. The cut-off
date for Windrush migrants, as reported in the press is 1974. I’m
just a “legal” immigrant.
How did all this
happen?
Well, in 1974 I
graduated from Central Missouri State University and wanted to begin
my teaching career. At the same time my wife was pregnant with our
oldest son – now over 40. We decided to return to her country of
origin. So, we did. At about that time there was a furore in the
press regarding wives of British men who had come to the UK to join
their husbands.
Was not what’s
good for the goose, good for the gander? Eventually the government
agreed and therefore husbands of British women were accorded the same
rights. Hence my 9 June 75 passport stamp. Clear?
In the intervening
years I had no problems citizenship-wise. I had vacations in the
USA. I traveled on the continent. I went through immigration and
customs without problems.
Once I lost my Home
Office letter. Luckily, I arrived back at Heathrow from the US on
the first plane to land that morning. Happy Days! I grabbed my
luggage and rocked up to Immigration with no queue in sight! Very
Happy Days! Because it was so early, I half expected to be waved on
my way. No. The immigration officer quizzed me: where are you
going? Norwich. Why? I live there. How long? 20-odd years. How
am I supposed t know that? Damn it I lost my letter (soto voce)
BTW- We had an
Australian lady here who was stuck for weeks! Come on, give me a
break, please? Okay, on your way. Lucky. I wonder how I might have
fared if I had a black face? (I found the letter eventually and it is now safe again in my passport)
Is
it stretching it to assume that the Windrush migrants were/are having
so many problems because they are black? I don’t think so.
This
is a result of government policy and TRUE BRIT. We must guard our
borders! Why? We must be wary of strangers/foreigners. The WOGS
start at Calais. This government – and to be fair – previous
governments of all parties - have created an atmosphere where the
Windrush migrants became easy targets. Immigration Officers believed
they were carrying out government policy by making it as difficult as
possible for black people to enter the homeland. What TOSH.
In
his grave, and celebrating the Rivers of Blood speech he made 50
years ago, Enoch Powell must be having a good laugh at the mess he
helped to create. The sooner the government and the people move on
from the completely ridiculous idea that the whole world is laying
siege to Britain the sooner we might get some compassion and sense
into the problem.
Two
chances: fat and slim.
