As a Black woman, I find myself once again navigating a whirlwind of emotions—anger, sadness, frustration, and deep exhaustion. The recent racist riots in the UK have been nothing short of a nightmare. These incidents have served as yet another painful reminder that, for many, the colour of my skin is seen as a threat, as something that can be met with violence, hatred, and cruelty.
When I first heard about the riots, my heart sank. I wish I could say I was shocked, but the truth is, this is a story that has played out far too many times. The senseless violence, the hateful chants, and the venomous rhetoric are all too familiar. It’s a cyclical pattern where the lives and dignity of black and brown people are repeatedly devalued and disregarded.
What hurts the most is that this isn’t just about isolated incidents of violence. These riots are a manifestation of deep-seated racism that has been allowed to fester in the UK for far too long. This country, which I call home, has a long history of colonialism, exploitation, and systemic racism. And yet, every time racism rears its ugly head, there’s a collective pretence that this isn’t who we are. I beg to differ. It is part of our history, and, as recent events have shown, it is still very much a part of our present.
As I watched footage of the riots and listened to the n-word and p-words that littered their lexicon, I couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of vulnerability. The thought that there are people who would harm me or anyone dear to me simply because of the colour of my skin is terrifying. I am left questioning my safety, my worth, and my place in a society that so often turns a blind eye to the suffering of black and brown people.
But beyond the fear, there is anger. Anger at the way these incidents are often downplayed or dismissed. Anger at the media for sometimes portraying these rioters as “concerned citizens” rather than the racists they are. Anger at the authorities for failing to protect Black communities and for often responding to these events with a lack of urgency or empathy. Anger at those pointing out that it is only a tiny proportion of the white population that are involved. To those doing this, it does not make us feel better that it is only a small proportion. They may be small in numbers but the damage they are doing to our health and wellbeing is immense. To fixate on the proportion in a vain attempt to pacify only demonstrates that you feel we are making an unnecessarily big show of being affected. You are demonstrating your privilege in the most pathetic way and not using it for allyship. You’re alright, Jack, I am not.
And then there’s the exhaustion—the bone-deep exhaustion of having to explain, defend, and justify my fight for equity time and time again. It’s exhausting to have to keep fighting for basic rights, for recognition, and for justice. Add to that the turmoil and upheaval it causes in interracial relationships. It’s exhausting to see history repeat itself, knowing that the lives of Black people are still not valued equally, and it begs the question what exactly have organisations been doing in the last four years to tackle racism? Answers on a postcard please.
As a Black woman, I can’t help but internalise these events. They weigh heavily on my mind and spirit. They are a stark reminder that, despite the progress we’ve made, we are still far from the world I want to see—a world where my children can grow up without fear, without prejudice, and without having to constantly prove their worth.
But despite the anger, the fear, and the exhaustion, I still have hope. I have to. I hope that these riots are not the start of something worse but the final throes of a dying beast. I hope that those in power will finally take a stand against racism in all its forms. I hope that the people who share this country with me will recognise the humanity in each other, regardless of race.
I hope that this isn’t just the eye of the storm, a temporary calm before the next wave of violence. Because if it is, I fear for what comes next. But for now, I choose to hold onto hope—that this will be a turning point, that we will emerge from this storm stronger, more united, and more committed to creating a world where everyone, regardless of race, can live with dignity, respect, and peace.
This isn’t the end. The fight for justice continues, but I refuse to let the darkness consume me. I will continue to speak out, to stand up, and to hold onto hope because we deserve better. We all do.