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Whose Town? Whose Future? When Racism Comes to Your Doorstep

I have called Stafford home for 32 years. It is where I have lived, raised my family, built friendships and spent much of my life working to bring communities together. It is a town I care deeply about and one that I have always been proud to call home.

So imagine my disbelief when, walking through Stafford town centre on a beautiful, sunny autumn Saturday, I found myself listening to some of the most vile and openly racist rhetoric I have heard in a very long time.

I was informed that those speaking were associated with the Restore party. I cannot independently confirm their affiliation, but I can certainly describe what I heard.

There were passionate declarations about wanting “our town back”. There were complaints about children supposedly being the only white child in their classroom. There were familiar grievances about wanting to celebrate Christmas rather than some imagined imposition of “Winterfest”.

And then came the words that stripped away any pretence that this was simply about local identity, cultural traditions or community concerns.

They wanted to secure the future for white children.

There it was. Not a call for a better future for all children. Not a demand for stronger schools, safer streets or improved opportunities for everyone living in Stafford. But a chilling echo of the white supremacist David Lane’s infamous 14 Words, a slogan rooted in the belief that the future must be secured for white children.

For someone who spent ten years working in the world of counter-terrorism, counter-extremism and Prevent, hearing this in my own town centre was both deeply disturbing and profoundly sad.

I have spent years challenging extremist narratives, recognising the warning signs of radicalisation and helping others understand how hatred takes root. Yet here I was, on an ordinary Saturday afternoon, listening to the very language of racial division that I have spent so much of my professional life trying to challenge.

And I found myself asking: How have we reached a point where people feel so comfortable expressing such sentiments openly, in broad daylight, in the middle of our town?

The Myth of a Town Being Taken Away

The suggestion that Stafford has somehow been taken away from its white population is not simply offensive. It is fundamentally at odds with the demographic reality of our town.

Stafford remains an overwhelmingly white area. The notion that its identity, culture or traditions have been erased by ethnic minorities bears little resemblance to the place in which we actually live.

According to the 2021 Census, 93.4% of Stafford Borough’s population identified as white, while just 6.6% identified with other ethnic groups. Let those figures sink in. More than nine out of every ten residents are white, yet we are being asked to believe that the white population is somehow being displaced, its culture erased and its future threatened. By whom, exactly? The 6.6%? These figures expose just how detached from reality some of these claims have become.

But facts rarely seem to matter when fear becomes more politically useful than truth.

And what exactly does it mean to want your town back? Back from whom? From families who have lived here for generations? From people who work in our hospitals, teach in our schools, run local businesses, volunteer in our communities and contribute to the life of Stafford every single day?

Diversity does not diminish a community. It enriches it. Different backgrounds, cultures, faiths and experiences bring new ideas, skills, perspectives and opportunities. They help our children understand the world beyond their immediate surroundings and prepare them to live and work in an increasingly interconnected society.

And celebrating Christmas has never required us to deny anyone else’s right to celebrate their own traditions (you can read more here).

Faith, Festivities and the Fiction of a Christmas ‘Threat’

Christmas celebrations do not disappear because Muslim families celebrate Eid, Hindu families celebrate Diwali or Jewish families celebrate Hanukkah. Our traditions are not weakened by respecting the traditions of others.

What troubled me almost as much as the speeches themselves was the familiarity of the language.

These were not new arguments. They were the same tired narratives repeated across social media, amplified by online personalities and promoted by those who present themselves as fearless defenders of free speech.

Claims that Christmas is being cancelled. That white children are being displaced. That British culture is under attack. That immigration and diversity are responsible for every difficulty facing our communities.

These narratives are repeated so frequently that some people begin to accept them as established facts, even when the evidence tells a very different story.

And that is how misinformation becomes dangerous.

It creates grievances where none need exist. It encourages people to view their neighbours with suspicion. It turns difference into threat and ordinary social change into a conspiracy.

I have seen throughout my professional life how extremist ideologies exploit fear, uncertainty and a sense of injustice. They offer simplistic explanations for complex problems and identify convenient groups to blame.

The language may be dressed up as patriotism, cultural preservation or freedom of expression, but when the message becomes one of protecting the future of one racial group above others, we must recognise what we are hearing.

That is not patriotism. That is racial exclusion.

Freedom of speech is a fundamental democratic right. It protects the right to question government policy, challenge immigration decisions and express concerns about social change. Those are legitimate subjects for debate.

But freedom of speech also brings responsibility. It does not make every claim truthful, every argument reasonable or every expression of racial hostility beyond criticism.

Those who claim to defend free speech must also accept that the rest of us have the freedom to challenge their rhetoric, expose misinformation and reject racism.

Perhaps the saddest part of what I heard was the repeated reference to children.

Children were being used to justify fear and resentment towards other children.

What does it teach a white child to be told that having classmates from different ethnic backgrounds represents a threat? What does it teach a child from a minority background to hear adults publicly declaring that the future should be secured specifically for white children?

Our children do not arrive in this world fearing people because of their skin colour, religion or heritage. These attitudes are learned, reinforced and normalised by the adults around them and increasingly by the online spaces they inhabit.

We should be teaching young people to think critically, challenge misinformation, recognise manipulation and value the humanity of others.

Instead, some are being taught to see their neighbours as enemies.

I refuse to accept that the loudest and angriest voices were speaking for Stafford today.

This is a town of decent, generous and compassionate people. People who look out for their neighbours, support local charities, volunteer their time and recognise that community is built through relationships rather than racial boundaries.

I also refuse to surrender the language of belonging to those who believe it should be determined by skin colour.

My roots, my relationships, my contribution and my 32 years of life in Stafford are not somehow worth less because of my ethnic heritage. And neither are those of anyone else.

After all my years working to counter extremism, I know that hatred rarely begins with violence. It begins with words, with stereotypes, with misinformation and with the gradual normalisation of the idea that some people belong more than others.

That is why we cannot afford to dismiss what we hear in our town centres as simply angry people letting off steam.

We need to challenge falsehoods, question the narratives circulating online and refuse to allow racial resentment to masquerade as concern for our communities.

Most importantly, we need to speak up, particularly when silence becomes easier than confrontation.

Stafford does not belong to one race, one religion or one political movement. It belongs to all of us who call it home.

And the future we should be securing is not one reserved for white children, but one in which every child, whatever their background, can grow up safe, valued, respected and confident that they belong.

That is the Stafford I know. And that is the Stafford worth standing up for.

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Misogyny, Power and Moral Failure

There has been increasing public discussion in the UK, in recent years about misogyny. What it is, how it manifests and why it continues to shape women’s lives despite decades of progress on equality. Yet the term is still often misunderstood or deliberately minimised.

Misogyny is not simply a dislike of women. It is a system of attitudes and behaviours that devalues women, polices their presence and seeks to control or punish no them when they step outside roles deemed acceptable. It shows up in overt hostility and just as often in quieter more corrosive forms such as silencing, undermining, exclusion and character assassination.

And misogyny is not an abstract concept.

It is lived, felt and experienced daily by women in public spaces, workplaces and too often within communities that claim moral or religious authority. It shapes who is heard, who is believed and who is allowed to lead.

In some cultures and community settings misogyny remains deeply entrenched. Women are still treated as secondary, expected to serve rather than lead, to organise rather than decide. Their competence is tolerated only up to the point where it threatens established hierarchies. When women are articulate, confident and capable some men respond not with growth or self-reflection, but with fear.

That fear often manifests as control.

False narratives are created. Motives are questioned. Reputations are attacked sometimes subtly sometimes openly. Slander becomes a tool to put women back in their place particularly when they refuse to be small or silent. Allegations are made without evidence or proof not in pursuit of truth but to preserve male dominance and authority.

This pattern is especially visible in so called community leadership spaces. Women are welcomed to make the teas organise events and tidy up afterwards but leadership, decision-making and public authority remain stubbornly male. The moment a woman challenges that imbalance, the atmosphere changes.

Such behaviour is not only inequitable, it robs communities of talent, insight and balanced leadership and deprives young girls of powerful, visible role models signalling that women’s excellence is unwelcome or threatening.

A community that sidelines women does not preserve tradition. It weakens itself.

Living in a modern democratic society requires honesty. Misogyny is not strength, it is insecurity. And slander is not leadership, it is moral failure. Men who feel threatened by capable women often resort to character assassination, because it is easier than accountability or self examination.

Real leadership demands confidence without cruelty, authority without fear and integrity without ego.

For faith communities, particularly Muslim ones, there is no theological excuse for misogyny.

The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ , often described as the best of men, treated women with dignity, respect and trust. He consulted women, valued their intellect and affirmed their moral and social worth. He taught that the measure of a man’s character lies in how he treats women.

Islam also takes an uncompromising stance on slander.

The Qur’an condemns false accusation as a grave sin particularly when it destroys a person’s honour. These teachings were revealed following the public slander of a woman and they establish a clear moral principle that accusation without proof is injustice. To spread suspicion, rumours or unverified claims is not righteousness. It is corruption.

To malign a woman’s reputation in order to protect male authority or fragile ego is not piety. It is a betrayal of faith.

Islam granted women rights to dignity, property, inheritance and voice at a time when many societies treated them as chattel. Any culture that silences women, excludes them from leadership, or targets them through character assassination, is not upholding religion. It is contradicting it.

Cultural change requires courage. Communities must stop excusing behaviour they would never tolerate if directed at men. Leadership must be measured by integrity not control. And men must learn that equality is not a threat. It is a responsibility.

Respect for women is not a modern concession. It is a moral obligation.

Until that truth is lived rather than spoken misogyny will continue to hide behind culture, silence and misplaced authority. And that is something no ethical or faith based community should accept.

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Under the Shade of the Nyala Tree

There are some holidays that give you photographs, some that give you stories and then there are those that somehow manage to give you both, alongside memories that you know will still make you smile many years from now. South Africa has certainly been one of those.

Our adventure began far away from the bustle of Cape Town, under the vast African sky and quite literally, under the shade of the Nyala tree, in the extraordinary wilderness of the Greater Kruger.

At Nkuwa Wilderness Camp, there are no streetlights, no traffic and very little between you and the creatures whose home you have temporarily entered. In the stillness of the African night, the roar of a lion carries across the bush with a depth that no television documentary can ever quite capture, while somewhere in the darkness comes the unmistakable, almost otherworldly laugh of a hyena.

And there you are, lying in your tent, contemplating the fact that your principal line of defence is… a whistle.

Of course, the rangers Allie and Keagan, reassure you that the animals won’t come into your tent and because they say it with such calm confidence, you nod sagely and pretend this is entirely reassuring. Meanwhile, something rustles outside and suddenly that whistle feels like the most important piece of emergency equipment you have ever owned.

Then there are the joys of the open-air shower, one of those experiences that sounds wonderfully romantic until you are actually standing beneath it, shampoo in your hair, keeping one eye firmly on the surrounding trees just in case one of the resident monkeys decides what your holiday really needs is a personal shampoo and conditioning service.

But that is the magic of the bush. You are not looking at nature through glass or watching it from the comfort of your sitting room. You are in it. You hear it breathing, moving and calling around you and you quickly realise that you are the visitor here.

From Nkuwa we travelled to Tomo Safari Lodge, with its vast expanse of African bushland and the privilege of searching for the legendary Big Five: the regal lion surveying his kingdom, the elusive leopard melting almost impossibly into the landscape, the magnificent elephant whose sheer size is somehow matched by its grace, the formidable buffalo and perhaps most poignantly of all, the rhinoceros.

To see a rhino in the wild is to understand both the wonder of nature and the appalling capacity of human beings to destroy it. These extraordinary animals continue to be hunted for their horns because there are still people prepared to kill them and others willing to buy, sell and traffic the horn on the black market, fuelled in part by entirely unfounded claims about supposed medicinal properties.

Standing there watching one of these magnificent creatures quietly going about its life, it is difficult to comprehend the greed that could reduce it to the monetary value of a piece of horn.

Nature at its best. Humanity at its worst.

And then, from the dust, silence and vastness of the bush, we exchanged safari for city and headed south to Cape Town.

Cape Town is one of those cities where nature refuses to remain politely in the background. Mountain, ocean and city seem to jostle for your attention and wherever you look there is another view demanding that you stop for a moment.

But for us, Cape Town held something much more precious than scenery.

Perhaps the greatest joy of this trip was reconnecting with The Edwards, our wonderful Capetonian friends after seventeen years.

Seventeen!

It seems impossible that so much time has slipped quietly past since we were last together, until, of course, you look at the photographs from those days and then look at one another. We’re all a little older, a little greyer and perhaps a little more wrinkled. Some of us are considerably more follicly challenged than others! Our children, who were once simply “the children”, are now fully fledged adults with careers, homes and responsibilities of their own and somehow, all of us have become grandparents.

Yet within minutes of being together, none of that mattered.

The thousands of miles between us disappeared, seventeen years collapsed into what felt like seventeen minutes and the rip-roaring, belly-aching laughter returned as though someone had simply pressed play after a very long pause.

And then came the road trip.

Thank you for giving us the most precious thing any of us can give another person: your time. You gave it so generously and what followed was an absolute hoot from beginning to end.

First stop, Hermanus, where apparently we discovered that we had our very own Whale Whisperer amongst us. Who knew? There is something magical about scanning an apparently empty ocean and then suddenly seeing that unmistakable movement in the water, knowing that somewhere beneath the surface is one of the largest and most extraordinary creatures on Earth.

Screenshot

From whale watching in Hermanus it was onwards to Onrus, for fish and chips by the sea, because even on the other side of the world some traditions require no explanation.

Then came somewhere I had wanted to visit for years: Cape Agulhas, the southernmost tip of the African continent.

Ever since learning about the great voyages around southern Africa, of explorers battling their way around these treacherous seas and of the Cape of Good Hope, I had wanted to stand at the bottom of Africa and look out towards that vast expanse of water. Cape Agulhas marks the geographical southern tip of the continent and the conventional dividing point between the Atlantic and Indian Oceans.

There was something strangely moving about finally standing there. So many maps studied over a lifetime, so many stories of voyages, exploration and adventure and suddenly you are no longer pointing at a place on a page.

You are standing on it.

Our journey back towards Cape Town brought another side of South Africa into view, through beautiful landscapes, mountain passes and scenery that seemed to change around every bend. We stopped at Elgin, surrounded by the beautiful countryside of the Western Cape and travelled onwards through some truly stunning places where the journey itself became as memorable as the destination. As did the ice cream!

Back in Cape Town, there was still plenty to explore.

There was, of course, Table Mountain, that great unmistakable presence watching over the city, sometimes standing completely clear against the blue sky and at other times disappearing beneath its famous tablecloth of cloud. You can see photographs of it a thousand times but nothing quite prepares you for how completely it dominates Cape Town.

And then there was the shopping.

Obviously.

Because one can spend days contemplating the majesty of the African wilderness, worrying about endangered rhinos, standing between two oceans and marvelling at mountains and whales, but eventually there are shops to be investigated. It is all about balance.

Then on to Boulders Beach and its famous colony of African penguins, surely among the most entertaining residents of the Cape. They waddle along the sand with the confidence of creatures who know perfectly well that thousands of people have travelled halfway around the world specifically to photograph them.

More sightseeing followed.

And, naturally, more shopping.

Then came the magnificent Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden, nestled against the eastern slopes of Table Mountain, a place where it feels as though someone has gathered together the extraordinary richness of South Africa’s plant life and created a living celebration of it. Walking through the gardens and then above them on the Centenary Tree Canopy Walkway, with its sweeping views across the treetops towards the mountains, gave us yet another perspective on this remarkable corner of the world.

And finally, Eden on the Bay, with the ocean stretching before us and Table Mountain forming one of those almost ridiculously perfect Cape Town backdrops. A place to sit, look back and realise just how much we had managed to pack into one journey.

South Africa gave us lions roaring in the darkness and hyenas laughing beyond our tents. It gave us elephants moving silently through the bush, endangered rhinos, whales breaking the surface of the ocean and penguins waddling along the beach. It gave us mountains, oceans, gardens, endless roads, spectacular scenery and yes, rather a lot of shopping.

But perhaps its greatest gift was the reminder that the things we treasure most are rarely things at all.

They are experiences. They are memories. And, above all, they are people.

Because some friendships simply refuse to disappear.

The best friendships can withstand time, distance, changing lives and long silences because somewhere beneath all of those things remains the affection, laughter, shared history and above all trust, that brought you together in the first place.

Holidays are always wonderful and coming home is invariably tinged with sadness, but this time leaving felt just that little bit harder because we weren’t simply leaving behind the sunshine, the wildlife, the mountains or the ocean.

We were leaving behind people we love.

Seventeen years was far too long, guys. Let’s not be quite so ridiculous next time.

And perhaps that is what I will remember most when I think back to this journey: sitting beneath the shade of the Nyala tree, surrounded by a world that has been turning for millions of years, reminded that life moves extraordinarily quickly and that the people who make us laugh until our stomachs hurt are the ones we should never allow time or distance to take away.

Because the miles may separate us and the years may change us, but true friendship has a remarkable way of finding its way home.

“Friendship is always a sweet responsibility, never an opportunity.” 

Khalil Gibran

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Pakistan: Independence, Sacrifice and an Unfinished Dream 🇵🇰

On 14 August 1947, Pakistan was born. But independence did not come gently.

It came at an almost unimaginable cost to human life. Partition displaced millions, tore families apart and saw communities that had lived alongside one another for generations descend into fear and violence. Muslims fled towards Pakistan, Hindus and Sikhs towards India and countless men, women and children never completed their journeys.

For me, this is not simply history. It is my family’s story.

My parents, my grandmother and the eldest of my siblings, who had been born in India just five months before the creation of Pakistan, were among those who made that journey. Miraculously, they made it alive to Pakistan.

My mother had been married for just a year and a half. Like many young brides, she had a wedding trousseau lovingly gathered for the life she was beginning, but when Partition came there was no question of taking it all with her. Heartbroken, she left it behind, carrying with her only her jewellery and her wedding veil.

That veil survived the journey and became part of our family story. Over the decades it has been used in the wedding ceremonies of her children and grandchildren, a piece of cloth that somehow carries within it the memory of a young bride, the home she left behind and the new life she was forced to begin.

And little could she have known that less than twenty years later, she would travel some 8,000 miles further to begin yet another new life, this time in Britain.

Today, four generations of her family continue to live here. We have put down roots, raised families and contribute to the society we call home, but that journey from India to Pakistan remains woven into who we are.

Stories like ours were repeated millions of times across the subcontinent. Families left homes, possessions, livelihoods, neighbours and everything familiar behind. Some carried suitcases. Some carried babies. Some carried nothing at all. What they shared was the hope that beyond the fear and bloodshed lay the possibility of something better.

And that is why, for me, Pakistan Independence Day cannot simply be about flags, fireworks, patriotic songs and renditions of Dil Dil Pakistan. It must also be a day on which we remember what Pakistan was supposed to be.

Muhammad Ali Jinnah, affectionately referred to as the Quaid-a-Azam, Founder of the nation, envisaged a country founded upon justice, equality, religious freedom and the equal citizenship of its people. In his famous address to the Constituent Assembly on 11 August 1947, he spoke of a Pakistan in which people were free to go to their temples, mosques or any other place of worship and in which religion would not determine the rights of citizenship.

It was an extraordinary vision for a nation being born amidst religious bloodshed.

A country where Muslims could live freely and securely, but where the rights and freedoms of minorities would also be protected. A country governed by justice and fairness. A country in which ordinary people could build better lives for themselves and their children.

That was the hope for which so many sacrificed so much.

Seventy-nine years later, perhaps the most meaningful way of celebrating independence is not simply to ask how far Pakistan has travelled, but whether it has remained faithful to those principles.

When minorities fear for their safety, when religious intolerance is allowed to flourish, when corruption and political instability overwhelm public life, when poverty denies millions the opportunities enjoyed by a privileged few and when speaking truth can itself carry a price, we have to be willing to ask difficult questions.

That is not an attack on Pakistan. Surely loving a country also means wanting it to live up to the ideals upon which it was founded.

Today I think particularly of my mother, that young bride leaving behind almost everything she owned, clutching the few precious things she could carry. I think of my father, my grandmother and that five-month-old baby making a journey into the unknown. I think too of the millions of Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs whose stories of Partition contain unimaginable courage, suffering and loss.

Their sacrifices deserve more than an annual celebration.

They deserve a Pakistan committed to justice, equality and dignity. A Pakistan where faith is protected but never weaponised. A Pakistan where minorities know that they belong. A Pakistan where the poor matter as much as the powerful and where the next generation can look towards the future with hope rather than wondering whether their future lies somewhere else.

So today I celebrate the country my family risked everything to reach, but I also remember the dream that accompanied its birth.

And seventy-nine years after that extraordinary August in 1947, perhaps we owe it to everyone who sacrificed so much to ask one uncomfortable but necessary question:

Where is the dream of the founding father now? 🇵🇰

My mother’s wedding veil loving preserved by my older sister, over 81 years since it was first worn
The actual plane that brought the Haroon Family to the UK in June 1965
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Chatham Historic Dockyard: Finding the Human Story

I will be honest: when the invitation arrived to visit Chatham Historic Dockyard, I was not especially excited. A dockyard filled with ships and submarines, while clearly important historically, did not immediately feel like something that would capture my imagination. My life has been spent working with people, building stronger communities and trying to understand what brings us together, so I found myself wondering why a naval dockyard could possibly be a place I should visit.

By the end of the visit, however, I realised that I had been asking entirely the wrong question, because this was not just about ships at all; it was also about people.

Our visit began with a memorable evening in the beautifully restored Commissioner’s House, where we were honoured to be guests of the Chairman of the Chatham Historic Dockyard Trust Admiral Sir Trevor Soar KCB OBE DL and hosted by the Lord-Lieutenant of Kent Lady Colgrain. It was made even more special knowing that the Lord-Lieutenant of Staffordshire and her Deputy Lieutenants were the first official guests to dine in the newly refurbished building. The setting was magnificent, but it was the warmth of the welcome that left the greatest impression.

The following day, history unfolded before us. Founded by Henry VIII over 450 years ago, Chatham Dockyard helped build the ships that shaped Britain’s maritime history, yet as we wandered through the vast workshops, storehouses and slipways, I found myself looking beyond the timber, brick and iron and beginning to imagine the people who had once filled those spaces.

I thought of the apprentices beginning their working lives, the master craftsmen whose skills had taken decades to perfect, the families who depended upon the Dockyard for their livelihoods and the sailors leaving home without knowing whether they would ever return. History suddenly stopped being a collection of dates in a textbook and became something deeply personal.

One of the most moving experiences was stepping aboard HMS Ocelot, Britain’s last operational Royal Navy submarine, because nothing can really prepare you for the reality of life beneath the sea. The narrow passageways, tiny bunks and machinery packed into every available space made it impossible not to think about the young men who lived there for weeks at a time, separated from their families, often in silence and carrying enormous responsibility.

It was not simply a submarine, but their home, their workplace and, at times, a place from which there was no escape until they surfaced once more. Visiting HMS Ocelot was made all the more special by the knowledge that our host and guide Sir Trevor, had once commanded her. It was easy to understand his passion for preserving both the submarine and the Dockyard, because this was not simply part of Britain’s naval history, but part of his own. Listening to Sir Trevor recount his experiences of life beneath the waves gave an authenticity that no museum display could ever replicate and every compartment came alive with stories that transformed cold steel into something profoundly human.

Then came the Ropery, stretching for almost a quarter of a mile and remaining one of the longest brick buildings in Europe, where, remarkably, rope is still made today. Watching skilled craftspeople continue traditions that have survived for centuries was unexpectedly emotional because, in a world driven by speed and automation, there was something reassuring about seeing craftsmanship still valued and skills patiently passed from one generation to the next.

Perhaps that is what heritage really is: not simply old buildings or ancient artefacts, but the passing of stories, knowledge and values from one generation to another.

Chatham has also found a new purpose, with its remarkable streets and buildings continuing to provide the backdrop for productions including Call the Midwife, Sherlock Holmes and the forthcoming Christmas film Ebenezer. Watching history become the stage upon which new stories are told felt entirely fitting, because places such as this do not belong only to the past; they continue to inspire the future.

As the day drew to a close, I realised why the visit had affected me so deeply. In my own work, I often encourage people to understand one another’s stories because communities become stronger when we recognise our shared humanity rather than our differences and heritage does exactly the same thing.

It reminds us where we have come from, helps us understand the sacrifices, ingenuity and determination that built the society we have inherited and perhaps, if we listen carefully enough, teaches us something about the society we want to leave behind.

I arrived expecting to see a collection of historic ships, but I left feeling that I had encountered generations of people I would never know and yet, somehow, felt connected to. That, for me, is the true magic of Chatham Historic Dockyard.

My sincere thanks go to the Chairman of the Chatham Historic Dockyard Trust, the Lord-Lieutenant of Kent, our wonderful volunteer guides and everyone whose dedication keeps this extraordinary place alive.

Some museums preserve objects, but Chatham preserves lives, memories and the enduring spirit of those who helped build a nation.

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Walking Together in a Time of Fear

Yesterday evening, I joined a peace and faith walk in Birmingham following the horrific attack in Golders Green. Organised by the Lord Mayor, the walk ended at Singers Hill Synagogue and brought together people of different faiths and none in a shared stand against hatred and division.

I was asked to speak and reflected on something I believe deeply: that this walk was about far more than one incident. It was a reminder of who we are and who we refuse to become.

Living in Britain gives us one of the greatest gifts of all: democracy. We have the right to gather, to march and to speak out against injustice, war, violence and the failures of governments. Those freedoms matter deeply and should be protected.

But the right to protest is never the right to hate, intimidate or target innocent people because of their religion, race or identity. No political cause, no grievance and no international conflict gives anyone the right to make ordinary people feel unsafe in their own streets, places of worship or communities.

Peace walks like this matter because they are more than symbolic gestures. They are a form of witness. A way of saying that when one faith community is attacked, we all have a responsibility to stand together. Because solidarity is not a slogan. It is a responsibility.

There are moments in public life when silence feels easier. When people worry that speaking out will draw criticism, hostility or accusations from one side or another. But there are also moments when silence becomes dangerous because hatred grows strongest when good people decide it is “someone else’s problem”.

This walk mattered because it was a public act of solidarity. Not performative outrage. Not political point scoring. Simply ordinary people walking side by side to say: enough.

Anti-Semitism and anti-Muslim hatred are two sides of the same coin. Both thrive on fear. Both rely on stereotypes and dehumanisation. Both convince people that entire communities should somehow carry collective blame for world events they did not create and cannot control.

History repeatedly shows us where that road leads.

Faith walks and solidarity events will not solve everything overnight. But they matter because they reject the idea that communities must live in isolation from one another. They remind us that when one group is threatened, others will stand beside them.

What struck me most was not anger but humanity. People from different faiths and backgrounds walking together, talking to one another, sharing concern and refusing to allow extremists to define who we are as a society.

That matters.

Because the overwhelming majority of people in this country do not want division. They do not want neighbours turning against neighbours. They do not want children growing up fearful because of their religion or ethnicity. Most people still believe in decency, fairness and coexistence.

We should never underestimate the power of simply showing up for one another.

In times of tension, solidarity becomes an act of courage. In times of hatred, compassion becomes resistance. And in times where some seek to divide us into “us and them”, perhaps the most radical thing we can do is keep walking together.

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Lest We Forget: Reflections on Remembrance Day

Today is Armistice Day. Eighty years ago, the guns fell silent at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. Across the country, people will pause in schools, offices, shops and streets to remember all those who gave their lives so that we might live free from tyranny.

I was honoured, on Remembrance Sunday, to lay a wreath as part of a local Service of Remembrance in my capacity as a Deputy Lieutenant of Staffordshire, representing the Lord-Lieutenant and through her, His Majesty the King. It is a privilege to serve in a role that supports civic life, represents the Crown in Staffordshire and celebrates the people and communities that make our nation thrive.

Each year, as the nation falls silent, we come together to honour those who gave their lives in the service of others. We do this not out of ritual, but out of duty. Remembrance is not simply about looking back, it is about safeguarding the lessons of history for the generations that follow. The freedom, democracy and peace we enjoy today were bought at a cost beyond measure. It is a debt that can never be repaid, but must never be forgotten.

As I stood among veterans, cadets, civic leaders and local residents, the words “Lest We Forget” echoed powerfully. Around me were faces of every background, people whose roots trace across continents, yet who share the same pride in calling Britain home. The richness and diversity that define our country today exist because of the sacrifices of those who fought and died to defend freedom from tyranny and fascism.

And we must never forget that among those who served were men and women of many nations and faiths. Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, Jews, Christians and others, who fought side by side under the British flag. More than 2.5 million soldiers from undivided India served during the World Wars, many never returning home. Their courage and sacrifice helped shape the Britain we know today and the diversity of this island is, in many ways, their living legacy.

It is easy to think of war as distant history, sepia photographs and fading medals. But the values for which those brave men and women stood remain as vital now as they were then. The fight against oppression, prejudice and injustice continues in different forms across the world. Remembering them is also about recognising our responsibility to challenge hatred wherever it arises and to uphold the dignity of all people.

As the years pass, the number of surviving veterans from the great wars grows ever smaller. Their voices, once so many, are now few and far between. Schools do their best to teach remembrance, and I have great admiration for teachers who bring these stories to life for young minds. But collective memory needs more than education, it needs community. It needs us all to come together, to bear witness, and to pass on the stories of courage and loss that shaped who we are.

For me, a middle-aged, Pakistan-born British Muslim, wearing the badge of a Deputy Lieutenant on Remembrance Sunday is not only a symbol of service, it is a statement of belonging. It reflects the shared values that bind us as citizens of this country, regardless of faith or heritage. It is a reminder that the freedoms we cherish are built upon the sacrifices of those who came before us and that our duty now is to honour their legacy through unity, respect and compassion.

So when the bugle sounds and the silence falls, I bow my head with gratitude and with hope.

Because remembrance is not just about the past.

It is a promise to the future.

Lest we forget

Faith, Festivities and the Fiction of a Christmas ‘Threat’

Every year, without fail, the same tired myth drags itself out of hibernation, fuelled by headlines like “Outrage as council ‘rebrands’ Christmas to be more inclusive” and “Fury as Christmas events ‘scrapped’ to avoid offending Muslims”.

Never mind that these stories are debunked within hours. Apparently some people genuinely think Muslims spend December plotting the downfall of baubles.

Right on cue, certain commentators, right wing tabloids and so called influencers (the ones who think cultural literacy is a brand of toothpaste) leap into action. Because why let facts ruin a perfectly good culture war fantasy?

So let’s set the record straight.

Again.

1. Muslims do not hate Christmas.

We don’t mind the lights, the music, the markets, the festive chaos or even George in the gym who starts playing Christmas songs as soon as Halloween is out of the way.

We actually enjoy the warmth, the friendliness and the kindness the season brings even from people who earlier fought someone for a parking space.

2. Muslims absolutely do not hate Jesus.

Far from it. Jesus (upon him be peace) known in Arabic as Isa, is one of the most revered Prophets in Islam. His birth, his miracles and his message are spoken of with deep respect in the Qur’an. Muslims believe he was born miraculously to Mary, who is honoured as one of the most pious and exalted women in history. In fact Mary has an entire chapter of the Qur’an named after her, something not found even in the Bible.

Islam teaches that Jesus was a sign of God’s mercy, a bringer of compassion and justice, and a Prophet whose life is held in profound esteem. So the idea that Muslims somehow dislike Christ could not be further from the truth.

So no we are not plotting to erase him from the calendar.

3. Opting out of commercial madness does not mean hating Christmas.

Some Muslims join in fully. Some don’t.

Some put up trees, exchange gifts and enjoy halal turkey and alcohol free Christmas pudding.

Some prefer something quieter and more reflective.

And in my case I have a grandson born on Christmas Day which means the 25th is less about some imaginary war on Christmas and more about Noahmas. Cake, wrapping paper explosions, excited squeals and a very happy little boy.

None of this means we secretly want to ban:

* Christmas trees

* Christmas lights

* Carol singers

* Nativity plays

* School concerts

Or the neighbour who turns their house into Blackpool Illuminations on a budget.

So why does this myth keep returning?

Because it serves a purpose. Some people need a villain, someone to blame, fear or shout about. Muslims become that target.

But what makes it even more persistent is how certain groups wrap culture, faith and national identity together and then claim any difference is a threat.

Look at the rallies planned by certain divisive individuals, where chants about Christian heritage, defending Britain and reclaiming traditions are mixed with anti Muslim sentiment. The message is clear. Britain must be protected from an imagined enemy, and Muslims are cast as that enemy each winter when the Christmas myths begin again.

By repeating the idea that Muslims are hostile to Christmas these narratives stoke a sense of siege. They create the false impression that our culture is under attack, that Christmas is being cancelled and that someone must be blamed. It is a powerful and convenient distraction.

It is far easier to shout that Muslims are cancelling Christmas than to engage with real issues affecting our country. Loneliness, poverty, people struggling through winter or the fact that commercialisation has smothered much of the season’s spiritual heart. Families up and down the country are also battling the pressure to keep up with the Joneses so their children don’t feel left out. The latest gadgets, computer games, phones, trainers and the endless stream of must-have gifts create a mountain of expectation that many simply cannot afford. For countless parents the real stress of Christmas is not the lights or the carols but the fear that their children will notice what they cannot provide.

Instead we get distraction and division. A ready made wedge.

And it works until you actually speak to Muslims and realise we are simply part of the same festive swirl, sometimes joining in, sometimes not, often juggling our own family celebrations with everyone else’s.

The truth?

Most of us are just trying to get through December. End of term chaos, Christmas nativities and school fairs, winter colds, work deadlines, Noahmas planning and of course the most pressing question of all:

Where on earth am I putting my Christmas tree this year?

The Echoes We Leave Behind

I am sitting in the house I first walked into almost 37 years ago as a new bride.

Today, the house has been decorated for a wedding. There are ribbons and flowers, suitcases and outfits, excitement and exhaustion scattered across every room. But right now, it is quiet. Everyone is either at work, asleep, or elsewhere caught up in the practical chaos that accompanies celebrations.

And so, in the silence, I find myself thinking.

Thinking about the memories these walls hold. The happy ones. The painful ones. The ordinary moments that somehow, over time, become extraordinary simply because they mattered.

This will be the seventh wedding this house has witnessed.

Seven weddings.

A home that once housed a family of eight has, over the decades, seen that family grow to around thirty. Children became adults. Adults became parents. Tiny hands that once clung to dupatta edges now hold babies of their own. New names have entered the family. New traditions have blended with old ones. Some people arrived as strangers and became family. Others left us far too soon.

And through it all, this house has remained.

Steady. Familiar. Holding stories in its bricks and memories in its corners.

The patriarch of the family is no longer physically with us. Yet somehow, his presence still lingers. In the stories retold around dining tables. In the values he quietly instilled. In the habits we inherited without even realising. In the laughter that sounds strangely familiar. Legacy, I have realised, is not always grand. Sometimes it lives in the smallest things.

Then there is the matriarch.

Once one of the most energetic, devoted mothers imaginable. A woman who arrived in a new country unable to speak the language, yet somehow raised six children, navigated an unfamiliar world and built a home that became an anchor for so many.

She cooked endlessly, loved fiercely and somehow managed to stretch herself across the needs of everyone around her.

Today, she can no longer walk unaided.

Removing her socks has become nearly impossible without help. Time, that most relentless of companions, has slowed her body and altered her mind. Dementia, what I sometimes call her “happy dementia”, has softened parts of memory in ways both heartbreaking and strangely tender. There are moments when she cannot remember the names of those nearest and dearest to her.

Though somehow, remarkably, she still remembers her brother.

Memory is peculiar like that. Selective. Stubborn. Mysterious.

And perhaps that, too, is part of the circle of life.

Because while one generation weakens, another strengthens. While one story slowly fades, another begins. Somewhere between wedding decorations and medication boxes, laughter and loss, beginnings and endings sit side by side.

We spend so much of life imagining milestones as separate things: births, marriages, ageing, grief. But perhaps life is not a series of disconnected chapters at all. Perhaps it is simply one continuous story, looping endlessly around itself.

The wedding downstairs.

The walking stick in the hallway.

The photographs on the mantle piece of faces now gone.

The grandchildren lounging around the same spaces their parents once occupied.

Joy and sadness coexisting, refusing to take turns.

And perhaps that is what growing older teaches us: that life was never supposed to be neat. It was always meant to be layered.

Today, this house prepares to celebrate love once again.

A new beginning.

Another chapter.

Another branch added to an ever-growing family tree.

And as I sit here, almost 37 years after first entering this home as a nervous new bride, I realise something.

The circle of life is not just about endings and beginnings.

It is about continuity.

About legacy.

About love quietly passing from one pair of hands to another.

And perhaps the greatest privilege of all is simply this: to have stayed long enough to witness the circle turning.

The Long River: Why Exams are Just One Step Toward Your Future

If you are sitting exams right now, whether they are GCSEs, A-levels, university assessments, end-of-year papers, coursework deadlines or finals, I want you to pause for a moment and hear this clearly: I know this season can feel heavy. Exam halls can feel painfully quiet, clocks can seem louder than usual and every paper can carry more pressure than it should. You may be tired, overwhelmed and wondering whether all the effort you have put in will ever feel worth it. But this moment, as intense as it feels, is not the end of your story. It is one part of it and an important one but it is still only one part.

I often think of life as a long river. It keeps moving, whether we feel ready or not and each of us has to find a way across it. The future you want can sometimes feel far away, as though it is sitting on the opposite bank, just out of reach. In moments like this, exams can seem enormous, as though they decide everything. But they do not. They are more like stepping stones across that long river. They matter, of course they do, because they help you move forward, give you something firm to stand on and mark a stage in your journey. Yet one stone is not the whole river and one difficult step is not the same as failure. There is more than one path forward and there is more than one way to build a meaningful life.

That is true whether you are taking your GCSEs and building your first real academic foundations, studying for A-levels and trying to work out what direction comes next or navigating university exams and the pressures that come with increasing independence. Each stage asks something different of you. Each stage stretches you. Each stage teaches you about yourself. Even now, when the reward may feel distant and the outcome reduced to a grade or a number on a page, something much deeper is taking place. You are learning how to persevere, how to think, how to recover from pressure, how to keep going when things feel uncertain. Those lessons will stay with you far longer than any exam paper ever will.

One of the hardest things about exam season is that the work feels so much bigger than the visible result. You revise for weeks, sometimes months and then it can all seem to come down to a short window of time and a final mark. That can feel unfair, even deflating. But please do not make the mistake of thinking the grade is the full measure of what this season means. It is not. The real growth is often quieter. It sits in the habits you have built, the discipline you have shown, the resilience you have developed and the courage it has taken just to keep turning up. You may not fully see that now, but it is there.

And beyond this season, there is so much life waiting for you. There are careers you have not imagined yet, places you may travel to, ideas you may create, people you may help and communities you may shape. There will be opportunities to lead, to serve, to build, to question and to begin again. Exams can open doors, but they do not build your whole future for you. You will do that, step by step, choice by choice over time. Your worth has never been decided by a grade and it never will be. Your value is fixed, even on the days when your confidence is not.

So for now, be gentle with yourself and focus on the next step rather than the whole river. Try not to carry every paper, every possible outcome and every worry all at once. Come back to today. Come back to the next task in front of you. Breathe properly. Sleep when you can. Drink water. Move your body. Let rest be part of the plan, not something you feel guilty for. If the pressure starts to spiral, speak to someone. Talk to your teachers. Reach out to mentors. You do not have to carry this season on your own.

At RE-Engage HHI, we understand that education is about far more than tests and results. It is about people, pressure, belonging, resilience and the kind of support that helps individuals grow with confidence and dignity. That is why our work focuses on helping schools, colleges and wider communities create spaces where young people feel understood and supported especially when life feels demanding.

I also want to say a word to the adults standing beside students in this season. Parents, carers, teachers and mentors matter deeply right now. Young people do not only need reminders to work hard; they need reassurance that they are more than their results. They need calm voices, safe spaces, patience and encouragement. They need to know that effort matters, that stress can be spoken about and that support is not a sign of weakness. Sometimes the greatest gift an adult can offer is not more pressure but more perspective.

Years from now, many of you will not remember the exact wording of the questions in front of you today, but you will remember how this season felt and what it taught you. You will go on to face new challenges and celebrate new victories. Some things will work out exactly as planned and some will not. That is life. The river keeps moving. Success is not the end of the journey and setbacks are not the end of it either. Both are temporary. What lasts is the person you are becoming as you keep moving forward.

So take this one step at a time. Breathe. Prepare. Do what you can. Rest and then begin again. The river is still there, the bank is still reachable and the stones are still set before you. You do not need to cross it all at once. You only need to take the next step.

To all the Rozina’s, Zains and Sophie’s out there, good luck!