Daily Times

No one minded their language in England. Not back when the Rivers of Blood were still foaming from the threshold of No 10. Not when the Beeb didn’t mind.

Snatches of childhood memories are filled with scenes from television sitcoms watched at tea time, or perhaps, rather decadently, just before bed and the inevitable furtive attempts at reading Enid Blyton after ‘lights out’. For some reason, I used to amble over to the screen whenever Sid James of Carry On fame appeared. Too young was I to understand the toxic ethos of these films that sought to body shame certain women whilst others, younger and perkier, had their bras pop open at every turn, as if by magic. Seemingly my fascination with Mr James stemmed from his wrinkled forehead; the arrogance of youth at its most wanton, perhaps. By the time this gentleman starred in Love Thy Neighbour, I was absolutely smitten. Though being part of a bi-racial family — the punch lines, delivered almost scene-by-scene and built on the single premise of a white working-class couple getting to grips with having a black couple move in next door, used to for the most part escape me.

When it came to dropping the P-world, it didn’t matter whether this was delivered with the gritty realism of an archetypical East End baddie. Or whether thoughtlessly dished out by such ‘loveable’ national treasures as Del Boy from Only Fools and Horses. The plonker

Television has come a long way since then. Quite how much was brought home to me rather recently. To commemorate its flagship soap opera East Enders turning 30 — the BBC decided to re-broadcast the very first episode, originally screened back in 1985. It was as if time had stood still. There was the Queen Victoria public house that had behind its family-friendly bar, on full view for all to see, a Pirelli calendar; full of provocative images of scantily clad women dressed up as art, which were so exclusive that they couldn’t be found at the local newsagent, not even on the top shelf.

A few minutes into the episode and there it was: the racist language, the word ‘Paki’. And in keeping with the times an Asian couple were running the corner shop, on little more than a Brimful of Asha. Despite Auntie having this time offered a disclaimer — something along the lines of warning audiences that the show contained language no longer deemed acceptable — I had not been prepared. Not for the recollections it stirred up. Of watching my favourite shows as an early teen and bracing myself for the inevitable dropping of the P-word. It didn’t matter whether this was delivered with the gritty realism of an archetypical East End baddie. Or whether thoughtlessly dished out by such ‘loveable’ national treasures as Del Boy from Only Fools and Horses. The plonker. For each prompted a response that was at once both physical and emotional. And it was so much worse if someone else were there to witness this certain humiliation. But having my parents hear such pejorative terms was by far more awful than anything else.

Today, it might be easier for others to believe that I would have felt more protective of my Pakistani father. Yet the truth is this: I also felt this way towards my English mother. We were, after all, a single family unit. And such, I felt embarrassment for both of them and shame for myself. Such was the impact of what appeared to be England’s casual racism back in the 1980s. The truth, however, was far more damning. Given that the BBC is funded by the state and the taxpayer, which may or may not be one and the same thing, this was nothing less than institutionalised racism. And what is normalised on television screens shapes attitudes in playgrounds and in workplaces.

This is about more than semantics. It is about the line between media responsibility and artistic freedom.

Today, such profanity has no place on mainstream television. Naturally this doesn’t mean that Britain has rid itself of the plague of racism. We only have to look at how Ukip has successfully co-opted much of the far-right’s ideology to understand this. But it has led to the non-normalising of such name-calling. Which makes all the more disgraceful the relentless racist abuse suffered by Shadow Home Secretary, Diane Abbott — some thirty years after she made history as the country’s first black woman parliamentarian — at the hands of social media trolls. Yet almost as disheartening was how a morning show presenter apologised to viewers at home for Ms Abbott’s use of the N-word to highlight what she goes through on a daily basis. Thus have we seemingly come full circle. Whereby mainstream television effectively tries to retrogressively silence those on the receiving end of racist abuse while offering no such censure to those who dole it out.

Recently, here in Pakistan, I had revision lesson on the power of language from a male subordinate. Unhappy at my giving him a few instructions he retaliated by hiding his professional misogyny, instead preferring to make it about my race. Or, rather my being ‘half- white’. In a flash I was reduced to my teenage self, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t have to hear that word all over again. It didn’t matter that this was verbal attack on my other ‘colour’, the one I carry within. The effect was the same. Because the intent was.

And a final message to he and others: mind your language. There will be no tolerating of racial slurs, just as there will be no entertaining of misogyny at the work place. At least not on my watch. This isn’t 1985. And this isn’t England.

The writer is the Deputy Managing Editor, Daily Times. She can be reached at mirandahusain@me.com and tweets @humeiwei

Published in Daily Times, October 1^st 2017.