Tag Archives: New Forest

Sometimes Black Just Means Black

Back in the mid-1980s when I was an undergraduate at the University of Southampton, a leftie housemate told me not to say ‘black coffee’. 

‘It’s racist,’ she declared, quite categorically. 

At the time I was young and naïve. For a few months I actually stopped using the phrase ‘black coffee’, until I worked out what a load of rubbish it all was. 

Unfortunately, the sort of baloney spouted by my former housemate appears to have infected British institutions. There’s no other way to explain the behaviour of police officers in the Henry Nowak murder case.

On 3 December 2025 Nowak, at the time a student at my alma mater, was stabbed on his way home. He had been out with friends celebrating the end-of-year exams. Alas for him, he crossed paths with a lying, weapons-obsessed Sikh on Belmont Road in Southampton. It was still early, not even midnight.

Belmont Road is in Portswood, a leafy, safe part of Southampton. I lived in the area as a third-year undergraduate, so I can imagine the scene very well. Police arrive. It’s winter, and quiet. There’s a white boy on the ground, weak but alive, and a black boy on his feet. The black boy tells them he has been racially abused. 

Officers accept the latter’s version of events uncritically. They handcuff Henry Nowak even while he bleeds to death. Henry pleads for help, to no avail. Harrowing footage is recorded on the officers’ body cameras. 

Henry Nowak died. Officers realised too late that he’d been telling the truth: he really had been stabbed and wasn’t able to breathe. Somehow, they had failed to check. 

We should not be surprised. It strikes me that every organisation in this country — be it the BBC or the British Museum, the National Trust or a NHS trust — every single one is obsessed with race, and not always in a good way.

In 2025 London’s Metropolitan Police Force commissioned and paid for a pamphlet with the grand title ‘30 Patterns of Harm: A Structural Review of Systemic Racism within the London Metropolitan Police Service’. You can download it here for yourself (though I really wouldn’t bother).  

Its basic premise is simplistic: if you’re black, you have necessarily experienced ‘harm’. Indeed, the author invites Black readers (Black being always capitalised, whereas white is just white) with this warning: 

Please approach the text at your pace, with what you need around you. Step away when you must. This was not written to retraumatise, but to confront what has been systematically denied. 

In this vein I read parts of the pamphlet and was duly traumatised. 

I, privileged brown lesbian immigrant that I am, was traumatised by the complete absence of balance and objectivity shown by its author. I hesitate to call the pamphlet a ‘report’ — ‘report’ gives it more weight than it deserves — this is very much a pamphlet, written in the preachy style favoured by activists.

I was traumatised time and again by its incessant use of meaningless jargon. Colourism. Misogynoir. Adultification. Apparently, Adultification makes Black childhood an impossibility (section 9.23).

I mentioned the above to my Nigerian neighbours. They are a family of 5: she arrived as a child; he came as a teen to boarding school and then stayed, choosing to build his life here; they have 3 daughters. The girls attend local schools and are therefore living out varying stages of impossibility in awful, racist England. 

Frankly, my neighbours were perplexed. First they scratched their heads, at a loss as to what it all meant. When I explained, they laughed. Finally, when I told them where this came from, they were incredulous. 

It beggars belief that London’s Metropolitan Force, Britain’s largest, would waste tax-payers’ money on such drivel. The quality of the pamphlet is risible. I would also laugh, were it not for the very real-world consequences.

Too many people regard racism as a white problem. It isn’t — and I should know: I grew up with Chinese supremacist ideology. My own father (may he rest in peace) believed that everything superior came from China. As a child in Malaysia, I heard snide comments about other races and groups: Malay, Indian, Sikh, white, black, you name it and we Chinese can come up with a put-down. Needless to say, we’re highly talented at spotting other people’s racism; at the same time we’re quite unwilling to even examine, let alone admit to, our own.

My mother lives in Florida. On a visit to England roughly 10 years ago, I took her to the New Forest, where we stayed with a friend. 

On Mum’s last night, a Saturday night, we went out for a meal à deux at a local pub. It’s a very popular pub and because I had been foolish enough to only book the night before, I was amazed they had a free table. It was their only available table, cramped and not in the best location. 

I knew we were lucky to have even secured it, but there was no shifting my mother. She was convinced we’d been short-changed. Her rationale? Our race. 

I didn’t bother arguing. When someone is utterly convinced they are right, discussion isn’t possible.

Viewing every outcome, every situation in life, no matter how big or small, through the prism of race gives you a wonderful excuse. 

Not chosen for a job you really wanted? Well, it’s never because you didn’t work hard enough or simply weren’t good enough, heaven forbid — it must be your race, my friend.

Arrested and charged? Again, nothing to do with the gang you joined and the drugs they found on you, mate, nope, you were searched because you were targeted. And you were targeted because of your black skin. 

In this ridiculous ideology, if you’re black you’re always a victim and if you’re white, you’re part of the perpetrating class. We need to stop this nonsense. At once. 

I fought hard for equality in the 1980s and am absolutely appalled by what the movements we helped start have morphed into. So-called Diversity, Equity & Inclusion, or DEI, is the polar opposite of what we sought to achieve.

The ‘E’ in DEI doesn’t necessarily stand for Equality, as you might have assumed; no — at times it stands for Equity, which means fairness. Some DEI campaigners consider Equality with disdain. Take the following from an organisation that calls itself Race Forward:

Distinction Between Equity and Equality

Equality uses the same strategies for everyone, but because people are situated differently, they are not likely to get to the same outcomes. Equity uses differentiated and targeted strategies to address different needs and to get to fair outcomes. Equality-focused strategies don’t work for, or benefit, everyone

In other words, there are DEI campaigners who want us to treat people differently, depending on our perceptions of how advantaged or disadvantaged people are. This is an invidious, slippery slope. 

Such woke madness has found its way into Britain’s police forces. In an op-ed published in the Telegraph on 5 June 2026, Lord Tony Sewell, the Tory peer and educational consultant who chaired a Commission on Race and Ethnic Disparities, highlights current guidance from the National Police Chiefs’ Council (NPCC). Officers are to respond to ‘individuals and communities according to their specific needs, circumstances and experiences, with understanding that these will be racialised’. Furthermore, the NPCC is clear that ‘racial equity’ is not ‘racial equality’, it is not treating everyone the same or being colour blind

Britain’s police officers are being told to deliberately treat members of the public as not the same! The officers who arrived at Belmont Road on the night of 3 December 2025 did just that. They ignored Nowak (white boy, therefore presumed privileged) while responding with the utmost care to the Sikh boy’s needs (a differentiation which lefties seem to think will improve racial equity). 

Where is common sense in this debacle? Did officers not stop to ask what the hell they were doing? Evidently not, so terrified were they of being called ‘racist’. What happened is an insidious consequence of DEI. 

If equality is no longer the bedrock of our institutions, how is this country supposed to be governed? Equity should be the outcome, not a governing tool. You don’t achieve racial equity by applying racism in reverse. 

Lord Sewell puts it bluntly. ‘Racial equity is dangerous madness — and the opposite of justice.’ The sooner we ditch this woke nonsense, the better. Sometimes black just means black.

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Filed under Cultural Identity, England, Identity, Politics, United Kingdom

My First Book Reading

It is a wonderful time to be in the New Forest (the brown blob at the bottom of the map). The New Forest lies in Hampshire, and is now one of England’s national parks. In early October the trees are still green, but the oranges and gold of autumn have crept in.

Ponies meander in open fields; along the streets of Beaulieu village, famous for its National Motor Museum, wild donkeys poke their curious nozzles into the doorways of shops.

It was in this pastoral setting that I gave a book reading on the evening of October 3. I had been invited by Monty’s Book Club, whose members meet once a month in the Montagu Arms, a pub and hotel located in the heart of Beaulieu. The club reads the whole range of literary fiction, from contemporary works through to classics. This book club has existed for three years and is thriving; it even has a waiting list. Membership is restricted to ten at any time, because the club borrows books from the local library and ten was felt to be a manageable number. A member told me the size is just right, as it allows for varied discussion without being intimidating.

I was only the second writer to read to Monty’s, the first being Natasha Solomons. To publicise her debut novel Mr Rosenblum’s List, Ms. Solomons went on a quest to visit as many British book clubs as she could. She duly arrived in Beaulieu. There, she paved the way for others, because her reading was such a success that Monty’s members welcomed me too.

My own invitation came about through personal links. During the six years I spent at SouthamptonUniversity as a theoretical physicist, I often sought refuge in the New Forest. I loved its peace, its trees and the colour of its skies. I still visit, to see a long-standing friend whenever I can. On one such visit in the summer, I heard about Monty’s Book Club, and wondered aloud whether the club would be interested in a reading of my novel.

The club said yes. Like Ms. Solomons’ reading, mine was also to be a special event, held not in the Montagu Arms but in a member’s house. I arrived with some trepidation. I had never given a book reading before and didn’t know what to expect. I knew the atmosphere would be genteel and its members polite, but I didn’t want people to say nice things just because they felt obliged to. If anyone became bored during the half hour or so while I read, it would have been obvious to me – and the rest of the audience.

So I practised, many times. I recorded my voice on a sleek, silver Olympus recording machine my partner had given me as a present. It’s a fabulous gadget: pocket-sized yet powerful. On it, you can hear everything, even the rustle of paper. I listened to my enunciation, making sure there was enough nuance in my voice to keep everyone’s attention. I learnt to pull my stomach muscles in when my voice fell, so that I could better project sound across a room. I imagine that this is what singers have to do.

I read from a Kindle reader with a special leather cover that has its own discreet lamp at the top. The light flicks in and out; it can be fully tucked in unless needed, a highly ergonomic design. Much as I love holding a physical book, I also love my Kindle and its cover. Its leather feels wonderful in my hands, and the fact that its light shines directly onto the page is a huge bonus. The Kindle proved incredibly useful during my reading. 

In the end, I read two sections, one short, the second longer. The first was the ancestral story of the Nyonyas, the people from whom my main protagonist, Chye Hoon, is descended. I looked at my audience as I read, watching for any sign of a yawn or of eyes glazing over. None came. I could see that the members of Monty’s Book Club were imagining the scene in their own minds, seeing the character in my story who is herself telling a story.

When I began the second, longer section, the eyes of my audience were still on me. The scene takes place on the island of Penang, which a few in the room had been to. But my Penang is the Penang of 1898, and I invoke a place covered in virgin jungle, where elephants are still a form of transport. In this scene, Chye Hoon is about to get married. It is a huge celebration, because Chye Hoon is an independent-minded girl with a fearsome temper and no one believes she will ever find a suitor. But get married she does, in the colourful Nyonya-Baba tradition of the day which left my modern British audience wide-eyed.

Afterwards, the members of Monty’s asked many questions. We talked about the Nyonyas and Babas, whom none had heard of previously. We talked also of Malaysia, the real Malaysia, not the one touted on Tourism Malaysia billboards. I was impressed that this group – educated women, some with careers, many who stayed at home, some now pursuing post-graduate studies, and all juggling a host of family commitments – remained late into the night to engage in a culture they had never heard of, in a country some had yet to visit. I took it as a good sign that there would be interest from a Western audience in my multi-cultural novel. Its themes are topical today: the ongoing tension between modernity and tradition, and the invisible cost of the cultural assimilation which some of us must face.

In my novel, the characters speak like real-life Malaysians. I mentioned this in a previous blog-post What Does it Cost to Write a Novel?, in which I had said I was unsure about this point of style. A member of Monty’s, a speech therapist, said she loved my dialogue. She especially liked the way I had changed the order of words. She put it very aptly: “Language isn’t just about communication; it also conveys a sense of place.” In a number of novels she had read, the characters had spoken in ordinary English even though the stories were set in foreign lands, and she had felt this sense of place to be missing. Others in the group agreed. I breathed a sigh of relief, because my audience had validated an intuition which I, as a Malaysian writer, have long had.

My grateful thanks to Monty’s Book Club; they made the evening what it was, and also helped clarify an ambiguity in my own mind. A few members asked when my novel would be published. Some worried it might not. But it will – because I write to be read, not so that my script remains as bits on a motherboard. When and in what form my novel will be published, I cannot say. But I will work to get it there, even if it means having to start a publishing company.

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Filed under Malaysia, Novel, Nyonya