'I'm a child of an immigrant and I back Jim Ratcliffe's view' - West Midlands educationalist calls for an open debate on immigration
Roshan Doug is an educationalist and a former Birmingham Poet Laureate. Today he explains why Jim Ratcliffe's language might be in dispute, but not his views.
I grew up in a narrow terrace house on a drab, grey street in the Midlands. I was the child of immigrants who arrived in Britain in the mid-1950s with two suitcases and a belief that hard work would be enough.
My parents used to describe their first morning in England – the thin winter light, the damp that crept into the walls, the unfamiliar quiet of streets so unlike the noise they had left ‘back home’. My mother spoke about trying to fit in with the neighbourhood as best she could, navigating a culture that felt entirely strange. She learned by watching: how women dressed, how they queued, how they spoke to neighbours over garden fences. She was determined not to be a burden.
They never pretended it was easy. There were long shifts and small humiliations. But there was also pride – pride in earning, contributing, belonging. My father often said that if a country allowed you to build your future there, you owed it respect and effort in return.
Because of that upbringing, immigration has never been an abstract issue to me. It is the story of my family. It is my childhood. It is the reason I am here.
That is why I have watched the recent controversy over Jim Ratcliffe’s comments with mixed feelings. When he suggested that Britain was being ‘colonised’ by immigrants, the backlash was immediate. The Muslim Council of Britain described the remarks as racist, and some others agreed. For them, such language evokes a history in which minorities were portrayed not as neighbours or fellow citizens, but as threats.
I understand that reaction. Words like ‘colonised’ are loaded with meaning. My parents were not colonisers; they were newcomers trying to survive, adapt and contribute. It could be argued that most immigrants today are no different. To frame them as an invading force risks stripping them of dignity.
And yet, I worry about what happens when the argument stops at condemning the language, without engaging with the anxieties beneath it.
It is possible – and necessary – to reject inflammatory rhetoric while still acknowledging that many ordinary citizens feel unsettled by the scale and speed of change. When people talk about pressure on housing, crowded GP surgeries or overstretched schools, they are often describing what they see around them.
They are not necessarily expressing hatred. They are expressing concern.
My parents’ generation experienced change too, but it was gradual.
Expectations were clear: work hard, participate, adapt. Integration was not a slogan but an assumption. Today, immigration operates on a very different scale.
Numbers are far higher than in the 1950s and 60s, systems are more complex, and the strain on public services is more visible. Entire neighbourhoods can transform within a decade. That pace can be disorienting.
Acknowledging this does not diminish anyone’s humanity. It simply asks whether policy is keeping pace with reality.
I sometimes think my parents would be puzzled by the idea that raising such questions could itself be treated as prejudice. They believed in democratic debate. They believed governments could be wrong and that citizens had both the right and the duty to say so. At the same time, they believed deeply in treating others with dignity. Those two principles were not contradictions.
Today, however, many people hesitate before speaking. They preface their views with disclaimers. They worry that clumsy phrasing will be interpreted as moral failure. That atmosphere is not healthy. Silence does not resolve tension; it buries it.
If we describe immigration in the language of invasion, we risk deepening division and alienating communities. But if we dismiss every concern as racism, we close down the honest conversation that democracy requires.
Britain is more than an economy or a border. It is a web of memory, institutions, habits and shared expectations. Immigration can enrich that web – my family is proof of that. But cohesion is not automatic; it requires clarity, time and mutual effort.
My parents loved this country enough to build their lives here. I love it enough to believe we can face difficult questions without descending into caricature – without branding immigrants as invaders or critics as racists.
We should be able to distinguish between people and policy. We should be able to defend dignity while debating decisions. In honour of the hope that brought my parents here, we must remain confident enough to speak honestly – and generous enough to listen – about the future we are shaping together for us and our country.
* Roshan Doug is an educationalist from the West Midlands and a former Birmingham Poet Laureate