Our Writing

On the Map: Stories from Barking and Dagenham

Each month we’ll be celebrating one piece of writing by young people on our programmes here. If you like to read more from our young authors please come to one of our events or get in touch.

STORY OF THE MONTH - 1,138 Kilometres

Chapter 1

Leaving Barcelona, Spain.

My friend who drove me to the airport was waving at me as we said our last goodbyes.

‘Adios.’ We both said to each other, giving one another a very big hug. I turned around one last time hoping she would too, but I guess I was too late, she and her mum were already inside the car.

Today is a clear and sunny day; on this side of the world the breeze of warm hair kissed my cheeks as I entered the airport.

The one thing I could think of was that it was finally happening. After many years being told I would go to England, it was finally coming true. Who would have thought a simple girl like me would be coming to such a place? I had high hopes and a very happy spirit.

Arriving in London, England.

As I stepped a foot out of the airport, I could instantly feel the gale of dry and cold wind coming from the opposite side to where I was standing. I immediately wore my coat so I could cover myself from the cold weather. The man that was taking us to our house honked for us to come and meet him, I got my stuff and then walked towards where he had parked his car.

I arrived at the apartment and dropped my things on the floor, looked up at the white ceiling and then back down at the marble floor. This new place had nothing my old house had; this made me think of how you never know what you have until it’s gone. In that moment I was comparing every single object in the room to the ones at my house in Spain. The marble floor in here compared to the wooden floor in Spain, the textured white ceiling here compared to the plain white ceiling in Spain, the thin tile wall here compared to the thick brick wall in Spain, and I went on and on until there was nothing else to compare but the air.

I went straight to bed as I was so exhausted from the long trip.

Wait! Did I say bed?

I meant to say the sleeping bag we had brought with us. Funny isn’t it?

While I was ‘sleeping’, more like laying down with my eyes closed, I thought to myself that many things are to happen and that this is a new chapter in my life. I also thought about what I could eat the following morning.

Chapter 2

I got up at 6:00 am, my eyes wide open ready for a new day. I get up, wear my brand new uniform and head for the door, looking back one more time to take in the reality of what was about to happen.

My first day of school: I'm feeling shy and nervous all at the same time.

Time passes and I still don't have many friends or at least the ones I want. I have a flashback of how my life was back at home where I had friends who knew me, then I think about the reality of my life: that I don't know anyone and that I have to make friends from scratch like in primary school.

It’s a bit frustrating that I entered the school in year eight, because now everyone has their friendship group, everyone knows each other since year seven and even since primary school. So that makes me feel even more like an outsider.

Chapter 3

I tried to talk to others and socialize with them but I found trends and patterns in how people behave and how they really are under the mask of positivity and kindness. I see right through them.

I have made a few friends and I have detached myself from others but that doesn’t matter to me as now I feel even lonelier than before; I feel as if my friends from home have forgotten me, because we never ever talk. It’s so bad, we don’t even send each other a text message, asking how our day went or how are our siblings.

I have a flashback of how I imagined my life vs how it is, perfect family house and the perfect friendship group.

Weeks before we started packing for the trip, I was in the playground of my school. Thinking.

I remember imagining myself getting to school and seeing my 5-7 friends and walking, laughing and giggling together on our way into the building. I even imagined the feeling inside of me: the feeling of amusement, joy and satisfaction. In contrast, this is what it is really like when I get to school: I walk all alone walking and crawling my way through the corners trying to get to class in time in order not to see everyone else in their already-formed friendship groups. I dread the feeling inside of deviation, sadness and anger, dreading to come and having only one thing in mind:

When will it all be over?

Then I went to my ‘self place’, a place in my mind where I go when I'm feeling overwhelmed. This is where my imagination runs wild, where I bring my biggest dreams to reality, where I transform the things in my life I’m not satisfied with into a whole new adventure of happiness, enthusiasm and hope.

In this scenario, I imagined my life as a perfect Cinderella story, from the beginning to the end, even adding in a subplot to make it seem more realistic to myself. As soon as I came out from the airport, I imagined the weather to be a little less cold, being driven by a nice jeep into my new beautiful house, not apartment, with beautiful white walls and fancy stairs, 2 bathrooms and 3 bedrooms. At some point right in front of the airport, I wanted one of my friends to be there with me saying our last goodbyes as I was leaving but that didn’t happen, it was all in my head.

I love to plan, but I also hate when things don’t go according to plan. It’s almost like life had something else planned for me.

I planned (more than just hoped) to:

Wake up 6 am

(School starts at 8:00 or 9:00 am so)

6:20, take my shower.

6:20 to 6:50 have breakfast

7:00, leave the house to go to the nearest bus stop or get a ride from my mum’s car

Get to school and meet friends: my perfect friend group was 3 boys and 3 girls, including me, meeting at the front gate of the school, talking and then walking in to the school building

Going into school

Finish school at 2:30 or 3:00

Get home 3:30 or 4:00

Eat a healthy snack 4:15 to 4:30

Do homework 4:30 to 5:30

Take a shower 5:30 to 6:00

Have dinner 6:30 to 7:00

Watch TV 7:00 to 7:25

Read bible and pray 7:25 to 7:45

Then do the exact same thing the next day and for the rest of the week unless I had a club to go to, which is a whole other topic on its own…

Chapter 4

Prior to Lockdown: I'm actually feeling happy because I don't have to go to school and eat lunch alone, but I miss my old real friends back at home. In school things weren’t going as planned. I didn't have many friends, in fact I felt I had none, none from here or from Spain and I was also feeling very depressed, sad and hopeless for the future.

Happy I don't have to make friends as I'm in lockdown but then sad I can't see old friends, I never thought it would be harder to make friends going back to school from lockdown.

Post lockdown: I started school on the 6th of September, like everyone one else. At first there wasn't any change, my school only added that we have to sanitize before we go in a class and as we leave as a new protocol to ‘stop’ the spread, but that didn't help anything. Then they said we had to be in ‘group bubbles’ to also stop the spread. It didn't help at all because, when we had in order to go from class to class, we had to go up and down the stairs, left and right through the corridors, and as a result we all mixed, all the year groups, so I think it doesn't have any effect.

And, in the end, 7 weeks into school, they said we had to start wearing masks, but only in the restrooms, changing rooms, corridors and when entering the building, so not in class, not in the playground and certainly not when talking to a teacher.

Things got a bit out of control as many students and teachers got infected and had to isolate, the school tried to hide that there were cases in the school after only the first week in, but eventually the truth was told: almost all the students and staff had caught the virus at least once in that period.

Well this came in the form of a letter saying ‘we have our first case of Covid-19 in the school, any student in close contact with the person infected will have to be isolated for the period of 14 days.’ This sounded so crazy to me, as we just came from seven months of self-isolation and now, on top of that, they want us to spend another two more weeks in our houses attending annoying Zoom calls they force you to show your face in. I have four words to say to that.

NOT! Going! To Happen!

Let me be honest the real reason why I hate this whole situation is because I feel like I’m in a box with no light that makes me feel closed from the outside, and makes me feel isolated and confined.

This makes me reflect on how life is short and how you only have one chance to do what you really want to. That you should always think about your mental health and wellbeing.

Chapter 5

Post Lockdown (again): I'm finally allowed back into this crazy world. The box I was trapped in for months has finally been shown light causing it to be opened again. I can start a new beginning and with a different approach, with a different perspective and with more energy.

Let’s see what happens! Wish me luck!

STORY OF THE MONTH - DEAR COVID

Dear COVID-19

Where did you come from? Why are you shutting our schools? Please don’t do this, I am actually liking school more than I used to. Now this. Jeez, could this get any worse?! I’m just getting to know my friends more than I ever did, then you came along and RUINED IT! We’re now trapped in our homes till I don’t know when! Thanks a lot COVID, thanks very much.

Dear COVID-19

You know it’s the weekend, right? Usually I like the weekend, but I can’t even be bothered to get out of bed. I’m so worried about what’s going on, what’s going to happen to us. Will the schools close till 2021? I’m worried about my friends. Am I even going to be the same after this? Are my friends going to be? I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see, won’t I?

Dear Mr COVID-19

HA! Well, you thought you could control my life but one thing you couldn’t control was the weather! It was glorious, we were outside all day! We had a BBQ, me and my brothers chilled out in the paddling pool, and when it got dark, we made s’mores. We forgot you even existed, that life outside our bubble was falling apart. So how do you feel about that COVID? I’ll tell you how I feel right now: fantastic!

Dear COVID

I’ve decided to spend time on finally learning to play the guitar. My dad has a few so can teach me and my brothers. You have made me really appreciate this time with my family, no distractions, no games, no school, just family. I have time to do anything. Well, not anything, we’re still not free from you... but hopefully soon.

Dear You

The walls in my bedroom feel so much closer now. I’ve been here trapped for so long it’s like a coffin, a coffin I can’t escape from. Why can’t you leave? Just die already.

Dear COVID-19

Even on the bad days I try very hard to see the light on the other side. It will happen soon and I’ll get to see my friends and family again. I hate you so much COVID but you won’t break me. Everything and everyone has a weakness, one day we’ll find yours and you’ll be nothing but a distant memory.

STORY OF THE MONTH - HERE WE GO AGAIN

The test is tomorrow, you must get a 100%. Anything lower, see me. Did you get to sort out the issue? Have you apologised yet? Did she see your text? Homework due tomorrow: did you forget? Miss is going to shout! What will your mum say about the detention? Are you falling asleep? What time did you go bed? Where’s your mask? Keep 2 metres away! Unfortunately, we have to ask Year 9 to stay home. Don’t forget your homework!

It’s all too much.

I need to press pause.

Breathe; in, out, again, slowly.

Slow down and Rewind.

I’m here - my pulse is beating. I’m able to learn. I’m able to understand some things, maybe not all. But Jamoi, you got this. When that bell rings I’ll be going home, yes home, be grateful you have a roof over your head and food on your plate. I have myself and what is more powerful than that? Than me? I am Jamoi, who can beat me? No one. Yes, Jamoi you can do this!

6:50 Bzz Bzz Bzz

         The dreadful sound of my alarm awaking me. Having to drag and pull myself out of my wonderful bed every Monday morning.

8:00 Lacing my shoes.

         Packing my bag.

         Off we go.

Oh wait, I forgot to tell you today is my chemistry test. I’ve been revising every day for this! You might be thinking don’t stress it’s not big of a deal, this is only your first term of Year 9. You only just started your GCSEs.

No, not in my mum’s eyes, anything under a grade 7 is a fail.

Sigh.

10:45 ‘You guys have 45 minutes for this test, no looking at other people’s paper or an automatic 0.’

‘Turn over your paper you can now start’

Flicking through the test page by page seeing nothing you revised, nothing you learnt, nothing you understand.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound of time passing replaces your heartbeat.

20 minutes left. 10 minutes left. 5 minutes left.

‘Pens down.’

Wait, no miss that’s not enough time.

‘Jamoi, you’re not special, pen down like everyone else’

3:15 The reality has hit me.

         That test will not give me a grade 7, nowhere close. I’ll be lucky if I get 7 marks. But what can I do? Nothing. It’s okay Jamoi, just breathe.

3:30 How did the test go? What do you think you’ll get? Make sure it’s up to my standards! No phone, no TV, no nothing. What did I tell you? This is embarrassing, Jamoi. Why can’t you learn to play a sport like your brother?

Ahh, here we go again...

STORY OF THE MONTH - THE TUNNEL

Childhood is a dream, a book of fairy tales. However, growing up for him wasn’t so fairy tale like or even the bare minimum of what he imagined it to be. At this point all he craved was the feeling of peace and the ending of misery but, sadly for him, his journey was written to be a painful one.  As for ‘him’, who was he? You’re free to create or imagine your own ‘him’ with your personal insight after reading the rest of this story…

Pain is said to be bitter but, in his case, the bitter was sweet. He just couldn’t see it. And what was it that made him turn a blind eye against his blessings? It was the people around him who hurt him unknowingly.

Right from the beginning, he was always the happiest in the room, the life of a party, the brightest flame of any fire. He would never radiate an ounce of bad energy, instead he was said to be an angel with this contagious lively smile of his. He wasn’t the richest, nor was he the most academically talented but he was content with what he had. He knew even if what he had wasn’t the best, he was living a life that was better than tonnes of people out there who had no option but to mute their bickering.

Unfortunately for him, things didn’t go exactly how they were ‘supposed’ to go.

His beautiful smile turned upside down and, soon after, his life became pretty much a game of dominos. One incident straight after the other; he got back up again and again but was continuously pushed back down.  He’d come to school with a mask on, not the one that you could see with a naked eye, but one you’d see if you knew the story of his life. That mask wasn’t made up of plastic or strings, it was one he tailored through his own strength and courage.

Even today as we speak flashbacks occur. 4 years’ worth of healing hasn’t erased anything, it’s simply formed a scab over the wound. He may have not witnessed it all but the aura, the atmosphere, it rings in his head. The appearance of 5 ambulances, the blue and red sirens… The unexpected faces, being taken out halfway through his lesson, the tears, the screams, the worries. It formed a dent, a scar. An indentation that refuses to let go. Despite no longer causing him grief inside, these events left scratches. As for the people who hurt him unknowingly, they were the ones who hadn’t bothered checking up him. 

The sack he carried, it started to become unbearably heavy. He couldn’t do it anymore… He couldn’t push through – well at least that’s what he convinced himself to believe. He complained, cried and questioned himself to sleep; hoping that the next morning would be the day he long waited for. But fate wasn’t exactly planning to give his desires the easy way… It weakened him, pressed a stain against his heart but somewhere inside, out of the tiniest of atoms, faith still flickered. Regardless of being stranded, abandoned, isolated and alone, that flicker wasn’t ready to die out. If only he had known that in a few years’ time all his composure would be worth it, he would’ve never shed a tear again…

Note from the author: Just in case someone hasn’t reassured you today by saying things are going to get better, hear it from me. Don’t seek any validation from others, nor rely on other people apart from yourself. Things get easier, blossom independently, grow independently but please, by any means necessary, don’t stop. You’ll see the light at the end of the tunnel very soon and one day you’ll be thankful for all these hurtful experiences. It isn’t easy. It wasn’t meant to be. Whilst you witness others growing to face difficulties, you’ll soon come to the realisation as to why everything that happened to you happened. You’ll no longer question fate nor reality; you’ll come to the point where you simply spread your wings, ready to fly and ready to write a new chapter in your life. Sadness and pain isn’t the book, it’s a chapter in everyone’s life. How you deal with it is up to you…

STORY OF THE MONTH - PILOT

 I always enjoyed going on holiday, especially when it required a plane journey. The airports were fascinating, the range of outlets seemed endless, and the crowds of people all waiting for their flight was exciting to me. Of course, when at the airport one has to follow the formal airport procedures before being allowed to explore the sheer wonderland that is airport shopping. There's checking in and getting your tickets, sending your luggage off, and finally the security checks.

When I was a child, around 7 or 8, I couldn't understand why random people would be stopped. I certainly didn't understand why only families of colour would be stopped. I didn't question it much, just assumed it was done randomly and that it was just a coincidence that my family would be stopped and searched every time. It was usually my mum and sister that would be checked.

Until one time a security guard stopped and searched me: a child. I remember feeling embarrassed as strangers would walk past and stare at me as I was being checked. My mind was racing with questions, the main one being "why are they searching a child?" I felt guilty, like I'd done something wrong even though I knew I was innocent. Other children (mainly white) would walk straight through security without being stopped. I tried to brush these thoughts off my shoulder and continue on with my airport adventures... But I couldn't. I spent the rest of my time pestering my mum, desperate to figure out why we were always stopped. As I grew older, I became more aware of the challenges that I would face as a result of the colour of my skin. Now I'm only surprised if I'm not stopped and searched.

STORY OF THE MONTH - FILTER

Yellow to Red

Throughout my whole primary school life, I've never stayed in one school. I never questioned why it always happened. Sure, I would get mad at my parents because, anytime I finally made friends, I would have to leave them behind and make new ones. But I got used to the cycle: being shy and quiet then making friends then, after a while, leaving for my new school to repeat the process again. Being young, I was ecstatic to meet new people and see new things, never knowing how soon I would get tired of this cycle. Then my cheerful and adventurous self shifted to despise everyone. My filter slowly started to turn from yellow to red.

Black

It was the beginning of my last year in primary. You know the time when you were so excited to leave your childish self behind and become mature like they told you. I had this fantasy that growing up was going to be so cool, wondering how many things I was finally allowed to do like staying up late or watching shows past midnight. But, as the months went by, I became less… me and more… someone else. This someone else didn’t like to trust people and began to worry about what other people thought of her. She thought a lot about the future, even the littlest things like arguing would make her think that other people hated her. I realised ‘she’ was me: I didn’t want to trust people; I thought a lot about the future. That year my filter blackened from the fear of failure, the fear of entering a new world - secondary school.

Blue

I can’t really say Year 7 was my best year as I still carried that someone else with me everywhere. I didn’t feel like me but it was okay because of just the thought of staying in the same school, seeing the same people, sharing memories and growing a connection. I was more than content with that. I felt like I had a place to belong to. Then came Year 8. During the winter I had to change schools again. I got so frustrated because every single time I finally felt comfortable in a new school, the sense of familiarity disappeared and it wasn’t like I even got to say goodbye properly. I just left. Joined the new school and got on with my life. At times I would cry myself to sleep because I regretted moving. Questions in my head swirled like a tornado. Do they miss me? Will I fit in? Why do I feel so tired of everything? Getting lost in my own world, I wouldn’t speak a lot and I kept to myself. I started staring out of the bus window watching the rain fall and the world go by, my facial expressions were depressing to look at. I couldn't even face myself in the mirror and, if anyone asked why I looked like that, I wouldn't say. But inside my head I just felt so blue, so tired of everything.

Grey

One night I couldn't sleep. I was exhausted with this thing we call emotions. It was driving me insane. I couldn't keep acting like I was fine and nothing was affecting me. All this fear and hatred and sadness I kept bottled up for the past 2 years led me to feel an emotion that I never thought I could feel. Emptiness. I couldn’t feel anything and it scared me. I was scared of myself. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to see any signs of feeling but saw nothing. My face was expressionless and my heart felt heavy. I went back to my room and laid in bed staring at nothing. After five minutes or so my cheeks felt wet, my cries weren’t audible but I heard them loud and clear. I wasn’t okay. I felt like I was suffocating and falling into a hole of nothingness. That’s when I realised that that person in the mirror was still me. I had got so immersed in thinking what everybody else thought of me and how to portray myself that I had changed - and not all for the better. I realised my filter was mixed with red, blue, yellow and black.

There was still yellow.

Green

After that night I didn't want to let go of that yellow I still had in me, I wanted to expand it but I just didn't know how to do it. So, I did the only thing that came to my mind and that was remember the reason my filter was yellow in the first place. The happiness I felt when seeing new people and gaining this sense of adapting no matter the situation. In the past I had experienced new things and not once did I care to think about what was wrong. Replaying my filter change, I moved onto black and blue, it would be no good letting those colours hold me down. Instead, I accepted them with open arms as these colours helped me grow into who I am today, I just paid too much attention to the negatives instead of the positives.

That’s when my filter transformed into a fresh green. Yellow: appreciating the little things in life and the people I have around me. Blue: letting out the sadness instead of bottling it up. Black: assuring myself that it’s okay to fear the future. Now green: not forgetting who I truly am no matter what the future holds.

STORY OF THE MONTH - NOT AFRICAN ENOUGH

I’m an African who lives in the UK. I’m African but I’m forced to prove myself to Africans living in Africa. Engraved in their reasoning, or lack thereof, lies a common misconception that living abroad somehow causes this fragmentation in your memories and suddenly you lose your origin and where you came from. I remember visiting Nigeria recently and what a splendid country it was. I was urged to meet various family members, every single one of them with different features and a distinctive appearance. However, they all shared one common trait. Each family member seemed to queue up to ask me one question. “Do you speak Yoruba?” Yoruba is the tribe that I come from and this language is used to communicate amongst many people in this part of Nigeria. Now, the problem didn’t lie with the fact that they asked this question, but it was the sarcasm within these words that left a bitter taste in my mouth. The question was almost a declaration that if you don’t speak Yoruba then you’re not part of their community. I do understand Yoruba and speak a little of it. This wasn’t good enough for them and when I spoke Yoruba, it was as though I was being ripped apart with criticism if my accent didn’t resonate with theirs.

My uncle tried to teach me Yoruba and ignored the fact that I understood a lot of it. Instead, he naturally assumed that I was so disconnected from my origins that I couldn’t even understand my native language. When he was ‘teaching’ me about my culture he failed to realise that it was coming less from a place of love and more from a place of mockery. The focus was on questioning me about my language. The hawk-like eyes and ears of my relatives were fixed on me. They were waiting for me to make a mistake so that I could be the source of their amusement. Often I was put in a position where I had to prove that I was a ‘true African’. Often I was patronized and quizzed on a long chain of questions. All of this in order to show that I was African. That I was Nigerian. That I was Yoruba.

The blood running through my veins that contains traces of my African ancestors is proof enough. I am African, I am Nigerian, I am Yoruba. These are features that I’m proud of and, even if I were to try, they will never be erased from my being. This stereotype needs to be defied. The stereotype that the moment you move to any western country it is assumed that you are abandoning your people. That you are forgetting your people. That you’re ashamed of your origins, the building blocks of who you are. This leads to a division that causes Africans to compete against one another. Conflict. That is the horrible residue that stereotypes leave. It causes disunity in a group of people who, if they were to take a step back, would realise that they are one and the same. Well I can say I will always be African and I will always be proud of where I came from.

STORY OF THE MONTH - YOU’RE SUCH A FEMINIST

‘You're such a feminist.’

I don't know if that's supposed to be an insult because I never ever took it as one. If you think it’s an insult to be compared to Emma Watson or Meghan Markle, I think you are completely and utterly mistaken. Some people think that feminism is when people think that women are better than men, and that it is unnecessary and annoying, however I believe that it is about equality, not just between men and women, but all genders alike.

Feminism applies to men too, which is why I never got why the majority of men aren't feminists. Have you ever heard a boy being called 'such a girl'? That's because the people think that, by saying so, they are belittling them and calling them weak. Ever heard of a boy wearing makeup or dressing and people stopping them because it's for 'girls only'? Or that cooking and cleaning is a ‘women's job’?

Did you know that in most of America abortion is not easily accessible? And yet to carry out experiments on people when they are dead, you need permission, otherwise it is not allowed? It's called bodily autonomy. Apparently, women need less rights than dead people and they aren't supposed to be allowed to make choices that can potentially stop them from ruining their future. Right? Wrong.

It may be controversial to say it, but if blacks and whites, gays and straights, poor and rich are seen as equal human beings by most, why aren't men and women?

STORY OF THE MONTH - SEWED ON

Sometimes my group of friends feels like a teddy bear.

From the outside we seem really close, get on well and are almost family-like.

But I feel like that one arm or leg with a tear in it, slightly detached from the rest.

Over time the rip gets bigger.

And bigger.

And bigger.

Until eventually that limb falls off, now completely separated and cut off from the rest.

Now that piece stays lonely and isolated.

Until it is decided that they can join in again.

And so they are brought back together with a needle and thread.

But the bond will never be the same

Because the rest of the group stayed close and tight together

But you just fell off,

And were sewed back on.

STORY OF THE MONTH - SACRIFICE

Life creates many amazing stories that stick with you forever. I guess that when my skin is wrinkly and my hair is grey to the tips, I’ll have my own story to tell. However sometimes these stories don’t have to be personal for you to have a connection with them. In fact, the stories of others can seem even closer to you than your own. Like a spider’s web, they cling to your heart.

Such a story was my uncle’s. A story of courage, bravery, and aspiration to achieve his goals. His story opened my eyes both to how much people like him have suffered and to what an amazing and dedicated person he is.

 My uncle, at the tender age of 19, was desperate for a life in which he would be happy and successful. He had many goals and was adamant that he would achieve them regardless of any obstacles. However, in a rural village with a widowed mother and eight siblings, his goals seemed to be carried away by a strong wind before he could even have the chance to get anywhere near them. So, what was the choice? It was to migrate to Greece, a country regarded as a sweet haven in the 1990s. Whether this decision was one that showed his bravery, or his idiocy and his risk taking personality, I am not quite sure of. What I’m certain of, however, is that I would never have the courage to do this. Where I like to play it safe, my uncle was a rebel and would not allow any obstacles to stop him from getting what he wanted.

What my uncle wanted was a good life. By good, I mean a place where he could have a family, and fulfil their needs and desires. A place where his work, money and happiness would be secured. Albania was not the place he was looking for. He knew that his life would be equivalent to those of the people that surrounded him, people that spent their time cultivating plants, and never getting anywhere in life. He despised that life. So, with this goal in mind, and eager to get away from the life that seemed destined for anyone who lived in his village, he went to Greece. Or more accurately, he walked to Greece.

He hadn’t taken a car on purpose. A car would be identifiable and visible from a distance. How was he supposed to creep past police on the lookout for illegal immigrants when he was in a massive piece of metal?

It takes three days to walk to Greece and, with no houses around and only an isolated barren landscape surrounding him, sleeping on the ground was the only option.

 Camping is definitely not something I would ever enjoy. Being someone that screams at the sight of a bee, sleeping on a hard floor where a vast variety of different insects and animals are lurking would probably not be a very good idea. Why people actually make the choice to camp will remain forever a mystery to me, but sometimes, camping is not a choice: it’s a necessity to survive.

My uncle was nearing the end of his trek through the unknown wilderness, and had walked all day through the flat isolated land. He knew he had to rest soon. He was tired, exhausted and racked and drained of all the energy in him.  The blistering heat of the sun that had burnt him during the day had lessened in intensity now that the day was coming to an end, but it was still hot, and his hair was plastered to his face with sweat. His muscles ached with the exhaustion of walking all day. He knew that, without some rest, he would just collapse onto the burning rocks and fine sand that blew into his face. Also, night was descending and he could see the stars.

So, creating a mound of sand that would serve as a pillow and lying onto the jagged rocks that pressed painfully against his back, he gazed up at the stars overhead that sparkled and shone in the ever darkening sky. The stars were deceiving: they gave the illusion of peace, hope, and beauty, but the landscape was barren and the stars could not give him any comfort. The stars did not diminish the terrifying thoughts that were churning in his head on how to escape the police tomorrow. He was aware that, if caught, he would be thrown into an unhygienic prison and might not ever be able to see sunlight again. He would be surrounded with prisoners that were eager for a fight, and the police would not serve as protection. In fact they were probably the biggest threat. He knew that getting through tomorrow would be crucial, but succeeding seemed like impossibility now.

At the beginning he had felt invincible, like nothing could take him down, but now lying on the ground, with doubts emerging in his mind, his confidence lessened. He fell asleep with thoughts of failure on his mind, a tear falling down his cheek at the memories of what he’d left behind, wishing that the night would last forever so he wouldn’t have to face what tomorrow held for him.

He woke up a couple of hours later at the sun burning his eyes. Squinting, he got up, dusted himself from the sand that clung to him, put his bag on his shoulder, and started his journey.  The border was so close it was scary. He could feel the pressure getting to him. His heart started beating against his rib cage and he could feel a lump in his throat. He was beginning to doubt himself. He didn’t know if what he was doing was the right thing and whether the pros were worth risking the consequences. He was aching to go back. Every ounce of his body wanted to go back, apart from his heart. Because he knew that danger would not be present in the peaceful village where he came from, but he wouldn’t have achieved his goal. That’s what scared him more than the border. Being a failure, living with the thoughts that he could have created a better life for his family.

Migration is a sacrifice. You leave everything behind, and often you leave the comfort of your home country for a place that seems daunting. This is done for us, the future generation. This was the case with my parents, they left their homes behind in Albania to migrate to a country in which they couldn't even speak the language. For me and my siblings. So, although migration may seem like it is nothing to do with you, likely your relatives or friends, have been through this process.

My eyes have been opened, and I am ever the more proud of my uncle and parents.

STORY OF THE MONTH - POCKET FULL OF CHILLI POWDER

You should always carry a non-lethal weapon. By non-lethal weapon I mean chilli powder. Now I will explain the reasons behind this profound statement.

In the early 1960s my grandad moved to England along with his mum and dad. As we all know, there were racist groups at the time called the ‘skinheads’. Skinheads were very dangerous and would beat other races. Skinheads were lacking in mental development. I say this because no matter if you were Pakistani, Indian or Bangladeshi you were a ‘Paki’ in their eyes. You would have to face this type of language every day. Skinheads would target Asians and racially abuse them. My grandad had numerous encounters with them.

My grandad was just an average schoolboy attending Little Ilford Secondary School. The only thing that was not average was the fact that my grandad had a pocket full of chilli powder. Nobody at that time knew about that, not even his parents. Obviously he only carried it with him for serious circumstances and would only use it as a last resort.

It was a normal day at school: my grandad was armed with chilli powder as usual; the skinheads were around as usual. The school day had finished and my grandad was on his way home from school on his own. Suddenly three skinheads came out of nowhere and circled my grandad.  They started to make racist comments and were nearing towards my grandad. He was only a teenager and these three skinheads were grown men. They were going to attack but little did they know that my grandad was fully prepared for a situation like this. They thought he was scared but in reality he was laughing at them. My grandad reached for his pockets, grabbed a handful of chilli powder and threw it into the air and sprinted home. One skinhead held his eyes in agony and the other two rushed to his care. My grandad still doesn’t know what happened to them after that. They were defeated.

That was the penultimate encounter my grandad had with skinheads. Wait for the second instalment to find out what happened in this even more exciting and thrilling edition.

STORY OF THE MONTH - MY TRIP

As the plane swirled around for the best possible landing, I looked out of the window and saw the mountainous landscape of Afghanistan. This is the place where people believe that nang and namoos (honour and pride) is the ultimate thing to live for. If you don't have this, you are considered sinful. As I got off the plane, the moist heat of Afghanistan plastered against my body. It was spring and the aroma of mulberries and fresh air wafted into my nose. The noise there was overwhelming. Farmers guided their sheep across the busy roads while angry impatient drivers pounded the horn on their steering wheels.

I greeted my relatives by exchanging kisses on the cheeks and them asking me about school and my grades. On the car ride to my aunt’s house I took that time to observe to city of Kabul. The city was bustling and there were beggars on every street. Young boys working shaking anti-pollutants called espand, usually used to get rid of evil spirits. Beggars pleading for money, vulnerable, having no shelter from the scorching heat of the sun.  Every one of them working. But what surprised me the most was the fact that children washing cars were fighting over who washes the car. Is this how hardworking they are?! The place people think is a war zone is a place full hard workers, determined people who would risk their body to keep their pride and honour. Not people that carry Kalashnikovs everywhere they go.

My father seemed at home. It was as if he found the missing piece in his life. There is a very old song about a man living outside of Afghanistan who doesn’t feel as if he is at home, as if he is not at his watan. We went to a little village called Kopisa. A peaceful village where everyone knows each other. The place where my father and his 11 siblings grew up. We walked through fields, the majority owned by my grandfather. Young boys were urging the horses and cows to plough the wheat and other things. In my hand I grasped a slingshot that my cousin had made for me. I picked a rock and rested it on the leather pad. Once slung it flew into the nearby school. However, when my father shot it, it hit a bird square on the head. After 20 years of not doing it, he still had it. Not even a sorcerer can take Afghanistan out of an Afghan.

Time to leave. Yet a part of me didn’t want to go. Anyone in Afghanistan would be fortunate to have the opportunity to live in London. But this was my watan. This was where all my ancestors were born and it seemed unbearable to leave. When I got on the plane and started to fly I realised that a little part of me was still in Afghanistan.

STORY OF THE MONTH - Colourism

I'm a twin. Non-identically thankfully as I can't imagine what it would look like if we were seen as essentially clones of one another. I was always thankful for having a twin sister as she was a shoulder I could lean on; to me it's like having a best friend with whom you've lived with since birth. However, with every good thing there are always adverse side effects. I am significantly darker than my sister. Since primary school I've been described as having “dark chocolate skin” and my sister as having “caramel skin”. There's nothing wrong with that and I've always acknowledged this fact. However, it's only when people started to degrade me because of my skin tone that it took a toll on me. I believe that it was the contrast of our skin tones that made people use us as an easy comparison.

In year 7, I had a group of friends that was predominantly of the same racial group as me. I could say that we (my sister and I) we're both always the outsiders of the group, we were almost the opposite of their personalities. Looking back at it now, I guess the reason why they chose me was because I was an easy target, just like how a predator chooses to pounce on the weakest prey. My younger self was unable to fight back so the insults kept on building and filling up my cup of low self-esteem.

 The climax to all of this was when somebody asked “who is the darkest one on the table?” Immediately all of their eyes slowly ogled at me, waiting for me to react or retaliate. I didn't do either. The silence engulfed and devoured, time had stopped and it felt like a million years had passed before somebody said anything to break the silence. The same person gawked at me and I could see the amusement building in their eyes. They proceeded to list the names of the people sitting at the table, they started with who had the lightest skin, to who had the darkest skin. It just so happened to be that my sister was the lightest person and I was the darkest. The person acknowledged this fact and used it to ‘jokingly’ question whether or not my sister and I were related to one another. They claimed that my sister was ‘mixed’ and the perfect baby, whereas I was formed from my mother’s excretion, hence why I was so dark. They all started laughing, myself included, but I think I was just using laughter to distract myself the anguish clogging up my throats and the immense worthlessness that I felt.

Ever since then, it sprung the series of events that each of which would add little drops to my ‘cup’ until the point where it was half full. There was term being used at the time: ‘lightie’. This refers to someone that has light skin. There was another term: ‘Blick’ which was used to describe someone with dark skin. My sister would be the one who received cheers and compliments for her skin, and the term ‘lightie’ would be glorified and uplifting. Whereas when the term ‘blick’ was used on me, it had negative connotations and was typically followed up with other phrases such as “burnt toast” or “you can't even see her when the lights are off”. I often wondered why there wasn't a term used to compliment individuals with darker skin and why the term ‘blick’ was used as an insult. Those with darker skin often try out lightening creams as an attempt to make their skin lighter so that they could feel more beautiful. I would often at times, come home and start crying, cursing my worthless dark skin. The stereotypes of dark being associated with being worthless and inadequacy had gotten under my skin and cause me to believe those fables and loathe myself.

Do you know what it feels like to go over your limit? One has to cross the line just to remember where the limit lies. There was one particular event, one moment that caused the cup to spill over; it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. In art class we were painting self-portraits. Somebody came up to me whilst I was painting my skin brown and came up with black paint and said, “stop painting yourself lighter, we all know this is your real skin colour”. The room suddenly exploded into sniggers. It wasn't anything that extreme but this was the event that sticks in my mind. This one event caused my cup to overflow. I didn't even try to hide my feelings and laugh along with the class, I just cried. Some people started to comfort me, even the person who had insulted me. But it felt as though they were apologising to me for having dark skin and not because they had just said something extremely rude. They promised they would stop but they never did. After this moment it didn't matter anymore. I was already broken; the insults no longer had an effect on me. I was a worn out punch-bag that had tried to endure so many hateful hits. My cup was already overflowing; it made no difference anymore, I was desensitised to all upcoming insults. What made it worse is that it was something uncontrollable, every time my reflection stared at me, all I saw was a grotesque monster because of my skin.

There was one day when I felt completely low. My mother sensed this, even though I was trying to put up a façade. She asked me what I was feeling insecure about and I told her everything reluctantly. After hearing this, she then proceeded to show me beautiful models with my skin tone and told me that I was beautiful the way I was. I didn't need to lighten my skin to feel beautiful. She told me that the people that made me feel bad about my skin were just feeling insecure about themselves and wanted to bring me down to their level. Now that I think about it, the people that were teasing me about my skin were often darker individuals that wanted to feel better about themselves by insulting me.

There is this belief that people with darker skin are poorer and less beautiful or desirable. This links back to the past to the days of slavery when a paper bag was used to determine where you would work. If you were lighter than the bag, you would work in the houses and cook and, if you were darker, you would work on the farms in dirty conditions. This has caused a ‘hierarchy’ of beauty and the darker you go, the less worthy you become, causing many people to bleach or lighten their skin just to fit into what society defines as beautiful. Why should people need to alter their skin colour to feel more accepted? Isn't beauty in the eye of the beholder? Skin colour gives us diversity and is very unique and we should learn to accept everyone for what they were born with. The ‘blondes are dumb’ stereotype also fits into Colourism, as blondes were at the top of the ‘hierarchy’ and back in the day they were considered to be the most beautiful. This meant that they were the ones that would become the models in the magazines and photo shoots so they wording have to be smart.

I say that we should not be clinging onto the past, but looking to a future of acceptance and for an ideal world where men and women do not feel the need to bleach their skin to feel loved.