Poornima Manco

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culture

Families

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What constitutes a family?

Is it the one we are born into, the one we create for ourselves or the people we choose to surround ourselves with?

In the course of a lifetime, one person can have several families. There is, of course, the birth family – mother, father and siblings. Then the extended family from both sides of the parents – grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. In modern lives, there are also the possibilities of step-parents and half-siblings. While there may well be a blood tie with many of these people, how strong one’s connection to them is depends on various factors. For instance, has that family feeling been fostered from the very beginning? Or, has it been a distant relationship, more in name than in deed?

In my case, being an only child, I was always extremely close to my parents. In fact, it was a wrench to move away and start living independently. However, sadly and due to circumstances, I never developed a close bond with much of the extended family, save a few people. In the absence of siblings, my friends became that extended family. I invested time and energy in a family that I chose to create, or so I thought.

Lately though, in these lockdown days, I am starting to understand that in many, many ways, blood is thicker than water. I have my own nuclear family around me – safe and healthy, thank goodness! However, unaccountably, I am feeling the need to reach out to members of the family that I haven’t seen or spoken to in years. Perhaps it’s the knowledge, particularly at this time, of how ephemeral our lives really are … how fleeting and transitory. Soon, an entire generation of people who came before me, people who were connected by blood to my mother and father, will no longer exist. And although, I will carry that bloodline forward as will my children, in time that gene pool will dilute, taking with it times, places, languages and memories.

How one views oneself or one’s place in society often comes from cues accumulated over a lifetime. For instance, I am Indian because I was born in India. I am also lucky enough to have been a well educated and well-heeled Indian, affording me opportunities that weren’t available to the majority of my countrymen. Through a fortuitous mix of North and South, a marriage between my father and mother, I was able to straddle two cultures as well. Growing up in the North, the balance always tilted heavily in that favour, but my south Indian genes could never be denied in my complexion, hair or features. Annual summer holidays spent in the homes of aunts and uncles reinforced the fact that one half belonged to a culture and language I had yet to explore fully. However, age, migration and my own inability to invest time left those relationships and that side of me, unfinished and to a large extent, unfulfilled.

Any one person has only a certain amount of time and energy to harvest, and chances are, they put those towards aspects of life that they deem to be more significant than others. My little family, my job, my passion (writing), my hobbies and my friends have taken up the bulk of my lifetime. Yet strangely, now I feel that perhaps I should have taken some of that time and put it towards the people I have a history with; familial ties, after all, cannot be denied. However, this strange pull aside, I also recognise the fact that some of my hesitance to reach out was rooted in a deep antipathy towards the politics that permeated the extended family dynamics. The ‘he said, she said’ toxicity of my childhood that I had vowed internally to never be a participant in. The long stretches of angry silences, the holding on to grudges long past their sell-by dates, the misunderstandings, the slights, the judgement calls of adults functioning like toddlers in the throes of a tantrum. My deep-seated dislike of drama such as this had put a continent of disapproval between us. One that I am trying to make rapid strides over, to reach across and say, “I’m still here and I still care.”

Maybe it’s all too little, too late. But I cannot leave it as it is. For it is in this bizarre, surreal time that I have truly appreciated those who have reached out and asked, “How are you?” It’s shown me how certain relationships that I felt were strong were in actual fact, very weak indeed. Whereas others, the ones I hadn’t paid much attention to at all, were the ones that were unbreakable. In my belated reaching out, I hope I am able to convey some of my own love and bonding to the family that I, in some ways wilfully and in others, unwittingly, neglected. Yes, families are social constructs, but they are also instinctual ones created from blood, genes, memories and love.

“So much of what is best in us is bound up in our love of family, that it remains the measure of our stability because it measures our sense of loyalty.” – Haniel Long

Half of a lifetime

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Today is a pretty significant day in my life. I haven’t tom-tommed about it everywhere, in fact not even my nearest and dearest know, but I have been thinking about it all day long. Today marks exactly half my life of being in Britain. This was the first day, all those years ago, that I entered the United Kingdom with a work visa in my hand, stars in my eyes and trepidation in my heart.

It was meant to be temporary, no more than three years and then I would’ve transferred to Hong Kong. Three years seemed like a very long time, but here I am, more than two decades later and it seems to have gone in the blink of an eye.

I am a naturalised British citizen now and very proud of the fact too. However, somewhere within me, an umbilical cord still binds me to my birthplace. I miss the seasons, the colours, the clothes, the food and most of all, my family and friends who still remain in India. However, Britain has given me so much as well. I have my own family here, I have many friends, my job, my hobbies, the freedom to be who I want to be, to reinvent myself, to be fearless and experimental, all of these are boons granted to me by this land.

I cannot lie though and say that everything has been smooth sailing. Adopting a new country as your own and adapting to its culture and norms can be quite terrifying. Even being fluent in English wasn’t enough at times, because my accent wasn’t right. The Indians here weren’t like the Indians in India, and I had to learn a new subset of behaviours and beliefs. Similarly, with the Britons, I had to understand that it could take years before acceptance and true assimilation could occur.

In all of this, I have learned to grow, to evolve, to change that which needed changing and hold on to that which I refused to change. My value system is Indian and will continue to be so, but my outlook has broadened enough to see the fault lines in what I left behind.

What would I consider myself today? An Anglicised Indian? I think not. The world is shrinking at a breathtaking pace. Not in terms of geography, but certainly in terms of connectivity. I am fortunate enough to have travelled to many parts of the globe, and if there’s one thing I can say confidently, it is this: I find myself falling in step with a country and a culture almost seamlessly, even if the language, currency, food and features are palpably alien.

Hence, even though I detest labels, the one I would most identify with at this point, is that of a global citizen. A hokey sentiment? Maybe. But one that feels most true to who I am today.

All those years ago, when I left home to pursue my career ambitions, I had no idea where I would end up and what I would end up doing. In twenty-odd years, I have lived a life I could only have dreamed of. A life filled with love, laughter, happiness, sorrow, career highs and career lows. I have been delighted to discover some wonderful facets to myself and been equally dismayed to find that I am also chock full of flaws. I have become a wife and a mother, I have become a teacher and a writer. I have travelled the world and I have retreated into superlative books.

If I am fortunate enough to have another few decades of life left on this planet, then all I could ask for, with humility and gratitude, is more of the same.

The bane of body shaming

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“You’ve gained weight,no?”

A cousin of my husband’s stated this gleefully, looking at me for agreement. She wanted me to say yes and look ashamed, as I had done many times before in the years gone by.

You see, I have had a peculiar relationship with my body. I have gained and lost weight multiple times in the course of my forty odd years on this planet. Each time I’ve lost weight, I’ve felt wonderful, as though I’ve conquered Mount Everest. Each time I’ve gained weight, I’ve beaten myself up internally, seeing it as a failure at the most basic level – my inability to overcome my appetite, my greed, my love of food. So, it is no wonder that people looking for my Achilles heel have zeroed in on this and hoped that a snide comment or a ‘concerned’ suggestion might trigger the reaction they are looking for.

My relationship with food and my body go back a long, long way to my childhood. My mother was, for a period of time, severely obese, triggering that corrosive disease, diabetes, in her. Consequently, she drummed it into my head that being overweight was a state to be avoided at all cost, if I wanted to stay healthy and disease free. Her suffering became my cautionary tale.

My entry into aviation was another reason to stay trim. After all, in the glamorous world of flying, who wanted to see a fat flight attendant? Vanity and a fear of ill health have, more or less, kept me within my ideal weight range. But it hasn’t been without its share of pitfalls and heartburn.

I am not naturally a slim person. My Malayali genes along with my Punjabi appetite is a lethal combination when it comes to maintaining my figure. I wax and I wane, pretty much like the moon of my name (Poornima means a ‘full moon night’).

Lately, I have been waxing more. Whether that is because I am heading towards peri-menopause, or whether that’s because I honestly can’t be bothered to put in the effort into dieting and exercise, I don’t know. What I DO know is that it’s nobody’s business what size I am.

I said as much to this ‘well-meaning’ sister-in-law. As you can imagine, that went down like a lead balloon. Instead of being fat shamed, I had responded by saying that people’s opinions on my body bothered me not a jot! Even as she stuttered and stammered, I felt liberated.

At long last I was in a place where even if I wasn’t the slimmest person in the room, I was happy and comfortable in my skin.

My body, this wonderful body, that has taken me through life, given me two babies and stayed healthy despite the deprivation and abuse I’ve subjected it to, isn’t my foe. It needs love and nurturing, and regardless of what anyone else might think of it, I will give it just that.

All routes (should) lead to love

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What an incredible weekend I have just had! My first ever Pride parade and attendance at the Attitude Pride awards. It has been illuminating, educational, poignant and exhilarating.

My first contact with a gay person was at the age of twenty. Trinny was charming, funny and ever so handsome. He was also clearly not interested in women. Having just finished an English literature degree, I had a hazy sense of what homosexuality meant because of the multiple references in the various texts I had studied, but this was the first time I was encountering a homosexual in person. Luckily, having been brought up in a very liberal environment in India, this did not faze me in the slightest. Trinny and I struck up an instant friendship. He brought to the table something my other straight male friends never had – an irreverence, a crazy sense of humour and a complete lack of toxic masculinity. Of course, at the time I wouldn’t have been able to describe it in those terms. All I knew was that I felt completely safe with him and we had a blast together.

Time, circumstances and life moved us apart, but I never forgot my first encounter with a gay person. This was to colour all my future interactions. There was always an immediate sense of kinship and safety, and I relished the cutting sense of humour I inevitably came across. Over the years, I have had many, many gay friends and I consider myself privileged that they have embraced me and accepted me into their fold.

Therefore, it is heart rending to note that even today, in so many parts of the world, they are not accepted. Lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender are just labels. We are all living, breathing human beings underneath all of that. Yet, they are discriminated against, criminalised and marginalised in so many ways, big and small.

At the Attitude Pride awards, each of the winners had intensely moving stories to tell. From losing a lesbian partner to a stray bullet, to being sexually attacked as a man by another man, to having to suffer abuse while playacting as a woman in a gay marriage, to fighting to decriminalise an archaic law against homosexuality in India, each story was powerful and disturbing. Yet, in hugely difficult circumstances, they had overcome all sorts of obstacles and in proudly accepting who they were and what they stood for, forced the world, to not just recognise, but also to reward them for their efforts. I was alternately moved to tears, while cheering them on from the sidelines.

We are who we are. None of us choose our sexuality. It is built into our DNA. So why do we view with contempt those that are different from us? Look at the multiple colours that Nature grants to the world. Doesn’t that make for an exciting and varied life experience for all of us? Imagine if every landscape was the same, if there were only two colours to choose from and if everyday was a repeat of the one before? Wouldn’t we just die of boredom?

The LGBT people amongst us are all the colours of the rainbow. They are what add spice and flavour and beauty to our lives. They are, in their differences, in their multiplicities, in their abundance and profusion, as unique and talented and incredible as any of us.

50 years ago, the Stonewall riots, started a movement, which allowed the LGBT community to fight for their rights and let their true colours fly proudly. 50 years on, the Pride parade is a celebration of all people: it’s about diversity, inclusion, acceptance and most importantly, about love.

Even as I sprinted through the various groups marching in the parade, trying to catch up with my own group, I was struck by how much happiness and love there was in the onlookers and the procession. Everybody who was there wanted to be there. This wasn’t just people wanting to watch a spectacle, this was about people wanting to be a part of history. In supporting the LGBT community, we are paving the way to erode all kinds of discrimination, whether that is on the basis of sexuality, colour, caste or creed.

50 years from now, let us hope that humanity will understand and accept that differences are important. They allow growth, change and progress. In learning to love another, despite all perceived disparities and diversities, we ultimately learn to love ourselves. All routes, must and should, lead to love. ❤️

 

 

The ubiquity of abuse

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I was having coffee with a bunch of ladies I didn’t really know. A common hobby had brought us together and as we met (some, for the first time) and chatted and ordered coffee and cake, the conversation veered off course as it inevitably does when you put women together. This wasn’t a business luncheon, it was very much a ‘getting to know you’ do. Our common hobby had brought us together, but we wanted to know if there was something else, beyond that, which could connect us.

As we talked backgrounds, languages, cultures, careers, husbands and children, we delved into each other’s lives, hesitantly at first, and then boldly, asking forthright questions and receiving some compelling and often hilarious answers. A sisterhood was emerging right there in that little coffee shop.

Interestingly, because we were, in effect, strangers to one another, there was a frankness and a candour to our conversation. There was no previous baggage nor was there any judgement. Each one was free to divulge as much or as little as they wished. Which is perhaps why some shocking truths emerged.

I have thought long and hard about writing this blog post. Am I betraying these ladies’ confidences if I do? Is this a kind of treachery to the very sisterhood I espouse? Am I worthy of being a confidante if I am unable to zip my lip?

However, upon reflection, I decided that yes, I would indeed write about it. No names or details of the women in question will be revealed here. That is not the purpose of this post. The purpose is to highlight the vulnerability of young children and how, it is so important for us as adults – parents and carers, to be vigilant about any possible signs and symptoms of abuse.

70% of the ladies at that table had been subject to some kind of sexual abuse as children. This ranged from an elderly relative using his trustworthy position in the family to inappropriately touch a child, to older children molesting a young girl in their midst, to a cousin leveraging his way into his sister’s affections to try and rape her.

Where were the adults when all this happened? Oblivious, too trusting or incapable of translating the traumatised child’s words and actions as a symptom of their ordeal.

Following on the heels of the #MeToo movement, the awareness of society’s ability to use and discard vulnerable adults has emerged strongly into the forefront. Yet, child abuse is so much more rampant and ubiquitous than anyone of us could have imagined.

All of these women were educated, erudite professionals who had carved out amazing careers and on the outside looked as put together as anyone else. Yet, fragments of their abusive past still lingered, making them feel ‘less than’ and handicapped in ways that even they could not articulate. If our pasts are the foundations to our future, it must have been doubly hard to build their future on the quicksands of trauma, betrayal and abuse.

I have spoken freely about the kind of sexual harassment I encountered growing up in India. Thankfully, because my mother was a very forward thinking individual, she was particularly circumspect about the adults who had access to me as a child. I had been told time and again to tell her if anything inappropriate was said or done to me. I was amongst the lucky few.

How many others had to stay ‘schtum’ because of the joint families they were growing up in wouldn’t tolerate any rent in its fabric, even if the casualty was a child’s innocence? How many parents believed that shrouding the truth or simply disbelieving the child were the only ways forward? How many ‘uncles’ or manservants got away scot-free because the ‘good name’ of the family was far more important than offering the victim love, support, understanding and challenging the perpetrator’s dirty deeds?

Too many.

Which is why it is so important that we talk about childhood sexual abuse. Children have nothing to be ashamed of. They are completely innocent of any wrong doing. It is the sick and depraved adults who choose and groom their victims alongside their families, that need to be brought to task.

I hope there comes a day when that coffee table conversation will not be limited to the tales of abuse suffered by young children, but will go on to elaborate the punishment society accorded to the abuser, and the counselling that was offered to the child to overcome that early trauma. As things stand right now, most children have to find their own coping mechanisms and unlike my ladies, can and do, spiral into self destructive behaviours.

I am not naive enough to believe that we will eradicate child sexual abuse completely. Wherever there is a power imbalance, abuse will exist and thrive. Sadly, there will also always be individuals with a sexual predilection for children. A multi-pronged approach that includes awareness, education, therapy, counselling, stricter laws and most importantly, a gradual erosion of patriarchy, may bring about the much needed change that will protect our children and ensure a safer future for them.

 

 

The trouble with Brexit (Part 2)

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2. The ‘unique’ British media

When I first moved to London from The Netherlands in 1990, there were quite a few things that struck me as more than a little odd about the UK. Carpet in the bathroom? What was that all about? Separate hot and cold water taps? Weird…Why did some people leave a little bit of tea at the bottom of their cup? Who was Del Boy? And what exactly were Yorkshire puddings?

I also soon realised that, unlike The Netherlands, the UK didn’t really see itself as being part of Europe. If you were going to the continent from the UK, you were ‘going to Europe’ – as if you weren’t already in it! I reminded my English friends that London was not in Asia or South America, much to their amusement. It was also a long-standing British joke that Germans were Krauts, Italians were Wops and the French were Frogs. Even if there was no malice in these terms and it was meant to be funny, it still underpinned an underlying feeling of ‘us’ versus ‘them’. 

In spite of (or perhaps because of?) all of its eccentricities, I did fall head over heels in love with this beautiful country though. I loved the language, the “hello mate!” and “alright, darling?” greetings, the wit, the banter – and pretty much everything else! I even found myself an English boyfriend, and asked him what the British, in general, think about the Dutch. “We tolerate you”, my boyfriend answered with typically dry British humour.

His father read several British tabloid newspapers every day: the Sun (with its famous Page 3 Girl), the Daily Mail and the Daily Express. It was my first brush with something I found even more puzzling than anything I had seen before: anti-EU sentiment on a massive scale.

I couldn’t believe just how many hostile articles there were in these newspapers, and that pretty much all of them were blatant lies. Where I came from, nobody really talked about the EU – most people didn’t really have an opinion about it. But in London, they most certainly did – and it was all extremely negative! “Oh, it’s just a bit of a joke”, I was told, “these silly stories are not meant to be taken too seriously”.

Interestingly enough, I later found out that the origins of some of these so-called “Euromyths” – funny but completely fake news stories about the EU – could be traced back to none other than good old Boris Johnson. He had been hired by The Times during the 1980s (a job he got through family connections), was fired for making up two stories, and was hired by The Daily Telegraph almost immediately afterwards to become its Brussels correspondent between 1989 and 1994.

Boris loved ridiculing the EU for his own amusement, and invented plenty of stories about it. His Euromyths always followed the same pattern: they started off with a tiny element of truth, but soon turned into completely made-up conspiracy theories – ones that were so crazy that it was almost funny! There was supposed to be an EU plot to ban prawn cocktail flavoured crisps, Brussels bureaucrats wanted to standardise condom sizes, and one of his most memorable headlines was “Snails are fish, says EU”. Years later, Boris was quite happy to admit that he enjoyed telling complete porkies about the EU: “I was sort of chucking these rocks over the garden wall, and I listened to this amazing crash from the greenhouse next door over in England, as everything I wrote from Brussels was having this amazing, explosive ­effect on the Tory party. It really gave me this, I suppose, rather weird sense of power.”

Over the next 30 years, EU bashing became a staple of most British tabloids, and Fake News became fashionable long before the expression was even invented. Here’s just a small selection of some newspaper headlines over the years:

  • “Bureaucrats declare Britain is ‘not an island'” (The Guardian)
  • “Eurocrats say Santa must be a woman” (The Sun)
  • “Scotch whisky rebranded ‘a dangerous chemical’ by EU” (Daily Telegraph)
  • “Domain names – .uk to be replaced by .eu” (Daily Mail)
  • “EU plot to rename Trafalgar Square and Waterloo Station” (Daily Express)
  • “EU to ban zipper trousers” (The Sun)
  • “2-for-1 bargains to be scrapped by EU” (Daily Mirror)
  • “New EU map makes Kent part of France” (Daily Telegraph)
  • “Corgis to be banned by EU” (Daily Mail)
  • “EU forcing cows to wear nappies” (Daily Mail)
  • “Brussels ban on pints of shandy” (The Times)
  • “Now EU crackpots demand gypsy MPs” (Daily Express)

This is just a tiny, tiny part of it – and these are just the headlines, so you can only imagine what the accompanying stories are like! Sadly, deliberate misinformation, half-truths and outright lies are still the order of the day in some newspapers. It is no wonder that the British press has been amongst the least trusted in Europe for years.

Hardly any British politicians challenged this negative portrayal of the EU in the media. Nobody said: “Hey, hang on a minute! How come we still have playgrounds, corgis and bendy bananas, if we’re constantly being told that they have been banned?” It probably suited them that the EU could be used as a convenient scapegoat for their own unpopular policies.

At first glance, all of this anti EU-ism may seem quite harmless, and even a bit of a laugh. However, it is probably fair to say that after many years and decades, the ‘drip, drip’ effect of this narrative did start to influence British opinions. And not just those of tabloid readers, but, as you can see above, also readers of more respectable newspapers like The Times, The Daily Telegraph and The Guardian. A persuasive portrayal of an EU full of spoilsports getting rid of British playgrounds, double-decker buses and truckers’ fry-ups became a powerful ‘alternative fact’ in the UK: surely everybody knew what those patronising busybodies in Brussels were like? They were the enemies of common sense and the British way of life, so it was high time that the UK started fighting back against these oppressors. And this is exactly how some very influential Eurosceptic newspapers portray themselves: as noble representatives of the man on the street, fighting against those nasty elites in Westminster and Brussels.

You might therefore be surprised to learn that most of the UK media is owned by just a handful of extremely wealthy men with very strong ties to Westminster and the political establishment. One of them, Ukip donor Richard Desmond, sold the Daily Express not long ago – but that still leaves four billionaires with a huge amount of power and influence.

Media mogul Rupert Murdoch owns The Sun, The Times, the now-defunct News of the World (shut down after the phone hacking scandal), and also pro-Trump Fox News in the US. His company News Corporation has subsidiaries in the Bahamas, the Cayman Islands, the Channel Islands and the Virgin Islands. From 1986, News Corporation’s annual tax bill averaged around 7% of its profits. Anthony Hilton, columnist for the Evening Standard wrote during the referendum campaign: “I once asked Rupert Murdoch why he was so opposed to the European Union. “That’s easy,” he replied. “When I go into Downing Street they do what I say; when I go to Brussels they take no notice.”

Identical twins the Barclay brothers are the owners of the five-star Ritz hotel in London, as well as pro-Brexit publications The Daily Telegraph and the Spectator. Currently number 17 on the Sunday Times Rich List, they have houses in both the Channel Islands and Monaco. In 2012, BBC’s Panorama reported that they had paid no corporation tax for the Ritz, and in 2017 the Barclay Brothers lost a £1.25 billion tax case against HMRC.

The Daily Mail is owned by the 4th Viscount Rothermere. His great-grandfather was a friend of Adolf Hitler, and supported the Nazis when he owned the newspaper in the 1930’s. He also wrote an interesting article entitled ‘Hurrah for the blackshirts’, supporting Oswald Mosley and the facist movement in Great Britain. The current Viscount Rothermere is said to be richer than the queen, he has non-domicile tax status and owns his media businesses through a complex structure of offshore holdings and trusts.

So, not exactly ‘men in the street’, but billionaires with direct access to Downing Street, influencing opinions all over the country through their newspapers.

Regardless of their owners, does this mean that we should not have any critical Eurosceptic newspapers at all? Is the EU, in reality, just a perfect club of countries happily working together, holding hands and singing Kumbaya, that shouldn’t be questioned?

No, of course not.

There is nothing wrong with a healthy dose of scepticism towards the European Union. The Eurozone crisis, the migration crisis, the banking crisis, problems in Eastern Europe: it has plenty of problems – some outside of the EU’s control, some within it. But this is about fairness and balance. The world is not black or white – there are always fifty shades of grey in the middle. So let’s be sceptical of both sides. Let’s look at the pros and cons of the EU, without painting it as some kind of one-dimensional monster.

Why, for instance, do British newspapers never write about the good things the EU has achieved: clean beaches, no roaming charges, the protection of children that is enshrined into EU law? Why does nobody mention that the British film industry has received nearly £300 million in funding from the EU in the past 10 years? And why do you never hear about about all the money the European Regional Development Fund (ERDF) and European Social Fund (ESF) have spent in poorer regions within the UK?

How about the £640 million it has paid to save old buildings in  Birmingham city centre? A £2 billion investment for Wales? £1 billion for South Yorkshire? €60 million to help repair flood damage in the UK, and a similar amount for Cornwall over the last ten years? Not a peep about any of this in the British media.

And while we’re at it: apart from some more balance, can we also have a discussion that is based on evidence-based facts please? I know that it it is not always easy to separate fact from fiction, but there are plenty of fact-checking websites out there these days. Take the famous fake Lisbon Treaty post doing the rounds on Facebook: “OMG!!! WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THE LISBON TREATY THAT COMES INTO FORCE IN 2020??” Because it’s fake news, that’s why. And it is not just the Brexiteer side that makes things up, by the way. A recent claim that Nigel Farage was involved in the far-right National Front as a teenager is based on an old photograph, that is almost certainly not him.

Media bias, alternative facts, Russian bots, fake Twitter accounts: they are all a threat to democracy and our ability to separate truth from fiction.  Apparently, it will soon be possible  to make photo-realistic HD video, audio and document forgeries, even for amateurs, and some of these forgeries will be good enough to fool even some types of forensic analysis. Imagine what damage a Fake News story can do, when it’s accompanied by a very convincing Fake Video?

And whilst talking about media bias towards the EU, we haven’t even touched upon newspaper stories regarding some other groups of foreigners: immigrants, asylum seekers and refugees. More about that next time.

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Johanna Brunt was born and raised in The Netherlands. She has spent half her life there on the continent, and half her life in the UK. After studying English and European Studies at the University of Amsterdam, she moved to London where she started working for an international airline. She is married to a Brit, and they have three children together.