In what was an unfortunate coincidence, it was during this transformative week in Barbados that England became subject to widespread racist riots. After the tragic murders of three young girls in Southport last month, EDL members had hijacked the pain of those mourning in an attempt to justify violent attacks on Muslim people and other ethnic minorities. In Manchester where I live, a Muslim family was chased by a man with a chainsaw; A Black man was jumped by far-right members in the town centre where I frequent. From the safety of palm trees and idyllic beaches, I watched videos of politicians struggling to bend their mealy mouths to say the words “racist” and “Islamophobia”. I watched as “rioters” smashed and burned the very home they said they were fighting to “take back”. I worried for the safety of my family. I was in Barbados, the home of my father and grandparents, but my actual home was in chaos. Since the trip and the riots, I’ve been ruminating on what home means to me ever since.
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