Good morning lovely people
“Yin o’ oos”
My Twitter bubble has been punctured with an X. Is it time to say ciao to the community formerly known as Twitter? What was an informative, balanced and often very funny platform has me scrolling faster than ever to get away from some of the content.
Younger members of our community get most of their information from TikTok. At home we can come to the debating dinner table with vastly different information on the same subject, neither party often knowing what the facts are.
My father was a man of few words but clear views. He was collateral damage of the first round of fascism. The anti-immigrant and counter-anti-racism protests taking place around Europe have made me even more mindful of my father’s journey and our own world.
My family was the only Italian or Catholic in the village in the 1920’s. Nonna was Italian but was born in London and had a distinctive Cockney accent. Undoubtedly this helped the family settle into a very small fishing community. At the time there was an unwritten agreement between Italians; families wouldn’t trade in the same towns out of respect. By default, they were the minority and never overpowered the locals. Out of their four children, one married an Italian, one half Irish half Italian (Nonna G) and two local Scots.
With Italy’s declaration of war on Britain in June 1940, Churchill famously said: “Collar the lot”. Only a handful of sympathisers living in Britain had links to Mussolini’s Fascist Party and those were more expat romantics than revolutionaries. I’ve shared before, 7500 men (young and old) were shipped abroad including Victor’s grandfather and my grandfather who both lost their lives on the torpedoed Arandora Star on 2 July 1940. 722 Italians, 438 Germans and 274 British seamen and soldiers perished.
Communities that had for years been the hub for family fish suppers and children’s ice cream cones overnight became the enemy aliens. My father was scarred by his internment on the Isle of Man. There was no benefit in recalling the sadness which I imagine never left him but he did have some happy memories. Stories of creative bingo and his mother organising a tailor to measure for a new suit would always bring a smile. Cadbury’s chocolate brought a chuckle recounting the night he and my Nonno were taken away from their home above the Cafe.
He recalled a large crowd of people (all of whom he knew) at the bottom of the stairs. The policeman (who was one of his friends) said “Johnny I’m sorry but you have to go”. His mother tucked a 1 lb bar of Cadbury’s chocolate into his pocket. “You’ll need it”. Sharing this moment with me, sombered for over 40 years, he was able to laugh. Donaldson’s School in Edinburgh, (now the stunningly beautiful housing development) was the make-do Home Office sorting centre prior to interment or deportation. Family and friends from across Scotland found themselves gathered together, unaware of what fate was to follow. He said they hadn’t eaten all day. Everyone was cold and hungry. Lying on the floor trying to get some sleep, putting his hand in his pocket, he remembered the chocolate. He started to unwrap the bar. The noise of the foil paper woke everyone around him. Daddy being daddy shared. The chuckle was the memory of the two small squares that were left for him to taste. (I know why he always hid his chocolates at home.) The following day he would say goodbye to his father. He was released in 1943 and was sent to work on a farm in Haddington under supervision: sad times but no bitterness. If there was, it was very well hidden and never shared. Fear subdued emotion.
My family were economic migrants caught in the middle of an unexpected war. They were not refugees. They had permission to live, work and support their families before and then after the war. The Windrush Generation suffered different injustices. Now we have a Channel Crossing Generation. Some legal and others illegal. Willingness to integrate and contribute to communities and not overpower them is perhaps as big an issue as the illegal issue. I can understand the frustration of seeing some financed by the state when times seem to be hard for others. Those working and contributing to society regardless of their country of origin should be welcomed regardless.
My father was determined that his family would never be exposed to what he faced. One of his happiest moments was a year or so before he died. He was in the Thorntree pub, only a few yards along the road from his home where he had been taken away. His pipe in hand with a nip and a half. One of the local fishermen, a friend he’d had practically his whole life, said “Johnny, you’re yin o oos”. You’re one of us. It had taken many decades but that moment of acceptance removed the sadness that had lasted almost a lifetime.
I do find it ironic that most big cities have a Little Italy and a Chinatown. Food speaks volumes, integrating communities. It’s time for our social media platforms to start speaking in equal volume and sharing a “Yin o’ oos” culture for both right, centre and left views. We can leave the far all on its own. It might help our new communities to be and feel more of an equal part too, so we’re never a little Briton bubble.
Keep well and we’re having mince and potatoes for dinner
Carina
