As I got on the train in the first class section, I noticed that the carriage was empty, except for one white man who appeared to be in his 50s and was reading the Daily Mail by the window. As I sat down, he said: “I think you’re in the wrong section of the train.” Even after I assured him that I had the correct ticket, he proceeded to call the train guard and urged him to check my ticket – after all, how wild would it be that someone that looks like me could be in the same section of the train as him?
Throughout the journey, he never stopped looking at me, and as I listened to music while wearing my headphones, he nudged me and accused me of having my sound on too loud (again, despite wearing headphones, just like literally everyone else on the train). Without even giving me a chance to explain, he stood up and raised his voice, repeating: “Is that how you behave in your country? Is this how things are done wherever you come from?”
I don’t quite know why, but I froze. I don’t understand why I couldn’t defend myself, speak up or walk away. I remember bursting into tears, feeling utterly humiliated and powerless. In fact, I felt so ashamed of this whole situation that I didn’t even have the guts to report this. I simply went on about my day and reminded myself to swallow it up… again.
@deniseprimbet
@deniseprimbet
Yet, after every similar incident, I would always find a way to blame myself for either being too sensitive or not having thicker skin. One of the most humiliating parts of feeling that you don’t belong is realising that, realistically speaking, you never will. It will never feel exactly like home, I won’t ever have to stop reminding myself to be vigilant when I’m out in the city alone, I will never fully relate to someone who has spent their entire life here. But does that also mean that I don’t have the right to live in this country? I don’t think so.
I’d also be lying if I told you that I remain unaffected amidst the craziness of recent events. As a first-generation Central Asian immigrant and a less visible Muslim woman who chooses not to wear a hijab, I have never felt so anxious about my future in this country. Having lived here for nearly a decade, becoming a naturalised British Citizen has always been my dream, even if to do so, I would have to renounce my Kazakh passport as my home country doesn’t allow dual citizenships.
It’s heartbreaking to know that some people genuinely believe that immigrants like me have “stolen their jobs” and “invaded the country” – and apparently we’re the reason why “England doesn’t look the same anymore.”
But I wonder whether they will ever understand what it’s like to always miss your loved ones’ birthdays, weddings, funerals, and never be there for Mother’s Day or Father’s Day because your family lives halfway across the globe and it would sometimes cost over £1,000 just to be able to see them. And when you do visit, it’s only once a year at most, and for some of my friends, it’s once in half a decade.
I’m also fully aware that my experience of moving to this country is much more privileged compared to others, especially refugees and asylum seekers. After all, I migrated to the UK by choice, and unfortunately, a lot of people aren’t nearly as lucky.
The sad reality is that even some of the people I know don’t quite understand the scale of this whole situation. To some, it’s just another buzz in the news, another topic to discuss over a pint down at the local pub. But let’s not forget that for immigrants like myself, it’s a glimpse into a very dark potential future and another reminder that we may not ever feel welcome – no matter how much we try to improve our English or immerse ourselves in British culture.
For more content from Glamour UK Beauty Commerce Writer Denise Primbet, follow her on Instagram @deniseprimbet.