They called me Abdul They called me Andy Though my name is Akbar They called me Isis They called me a terrorist Though my home was lost My business taken My family lost, separated Exploded by the men in fiery black And raging merciless eyes They called me a bastard They called me a shit Though their words had no impact Compared to pistol whip And street lashings And the injustice meted out By righteous boots And stones and rocks and bricks and bullets That smashed skulls and broke bones And painted the streets red They called me a foreigner They called me an immigrant Though they never called me a friend Or a colleague Or a neighbour Or even human
They called me Abdul They called me Andy Though my name is Akbar
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Sadly, the reality for those refugees who make it to a new life in the UK or elsewhere in Europe is often much harder than expected. Cultural, climate and linguistic adjustments, but the rise in racist attitudes and physical or verbal attacks. A dehumanisation of the outsider. A failure to try to understand how and why someone had to flee their home, to leave everything, to risk everything.
People are people. Cut us and we bleed. Though some have had to bleed far more than others.
