Local Race Relations In Britain

My wife and I live in an ‘end terrace’ house. A ‘terrace’ is a row of houses that are joined together. The ‘mid-terrace’ houses are joined at both sides whilst the ‘end terrace’ houses only at one side. Our house is an ‘end-terrace’.

Now, terraced houses are as much a part of Britain as real ale or cockney rhyming slang or the Royal Family or Doctor Who and so forth. Terraced houses have existed since the 19th Century – or probably the 18th Century. Anyway, they’ve been around for a very long time.

Terraced houses, being so ‘British’ in their design, have ensured one thing. Neighbours get along and respect their neighbours if only because the alternative is to really piss off their neighbours which, clearly, isn’t a great thing to do if you want a peaceful life.

That isn’t to say that, being connected in a ‘building sense’ that you won’t ever hear your neighbours.

“Hello, the neighbours are off” being one common comment as the plates fly and voices are raised and a glass is placed on the wall to hear what the argument is about – we Brits are naturally nosy sods you know.

Arguments occur, New Years Eve party’s occur – although if you are joined to them with your house unless you’ve really and royally pissed them off you’ll be invited – neighbours friends pop over for an evening and, if you haven’t got your TV switched on, you may here the odd voice in conversation. It’s all part and parcel of living in a terraced house.

Then, one day, an Asian family moves in next door. Not a problem. You have Asian friends across the street and two doors down. They occasionally supply you with a nice home made curry and you’ve never judged anyone by the colour of their skin or their country of origin or their religion. They are nice people and they are nice to you so you, in turn, are nice to them.

You have the occasional summer BBQ and invite neighbours and your Asian friends turn up with various curry delights and help you grill their home made kebabs and chicken tikka on your BBQ and the world is a wonderful place with all your different race friends in your garden chatting and drinking and laughing. Poles, Asians, Ukranians, Irish, Lithuanian, English. The United Nations in your garden. Lovely.

Then a family of Sikhs move in next door. They happen to speak not only Punjabi but German. Not a word of English amongst them. No matter. They are your neighbours and you invite them to one of your summer BBQ’s. They don’t turn up but no matter again. You invited them. You are a good neighbour.

Within one day of their arrival arguments ensue. Not occasionally but every day. Not once or even twice a day but pretty much all day every day. All you can here through your wall is ‘jibber jabber’ at maximum volume. You say nothing, you do nothing. After several weeks of all day every day maximum volume ‘jibber jabber’ you snap. You walk to their door and you see the family mother through the window cowering in a chair with her son punching her and screaming something that is ‘jibber jabber’ and you knock on the window.

The son, looking startled, turns to the window and stops punching his mother and you say “OI! Dickhead! You want to come out here and try that with me then?” and your wife tries to wave you to come back home and not get involved.

Inexplicably when you do return home and there is no ‘jibber jabber’ at maximum volume what so ever for the first time in weeks.

The next morning is silent and so is the next.

A few mornings of peace and tranquility later you leave your home and, at the same time, an elderly Sikh emerges from the terraced house next door. He sees you and calls you over.

He takes your hand and says, in faltering English, ‘Thank you’.

You smile and leave for work.

Silence is golden for days and days and suddenly, you realise, the young Sikh is no longer there.

The old man tries very hard to learn English and, eventually, you hold a faltering conversation with him over the garden fence. He owned a farm in Afghanistan. When the troubles started he lost his farm and everything he had. He has five bullet wounds. He tells you that his son is scared of you and won’t return home. You ask him if that is a problem and he says ‘No. I want peace’

He then thanks you for giving him peace and you have to go back inside your terraced house because you can feel tears welling up.

Mass immigration has been a disaster for Britain but, when you meet an immigrant face to face how can you tell them that? Especially when you have found not only a new neighbour but a friend.

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