Mr Calvin Bailey

Hon. Members may be wondering about my jacket today, and the truth, frankly, is that I am tired of being upstaged by the threads of my hon. Friend the Member for Brent East (Dawn Butler). However, this jacket is also a symbol of my identity. I got it when I went to Zambia in July in my role as trade envoy to southern Africa. The fabric is what we call chitenge, and it is the same kind of material that my mother, and indeed her mother, Joesphine Hambelele Nakun Tunga, wrapped me in at birth. That visit was important to me because I am proud of my heritage, but my home is here in London. That is my identity—I am British Zambian. That is my story. Last Friday, I visited Centrepoint in my constituency and had a great conversation about opportunities for young people. One conversation with a young woman has stuck in my mind because of what she said, which was “I am Black British. That is who I am, and I want you to know both of those things.” Why is that such an important thing to say? For me, it is about what we are proud of. It is about freedom, democracy and the rule of law. We must remember that those ideas were first written into the story of this nation on the fields of Runnymede in 1215. Magna Carta laid down the truth that still binds us: that no one, not even the most powerful, is above the law. Those are the foundations on which our democracy was built—the freedoms from which so many nations, such as the United States, derive their own, and the freedoms that underpin the very concept of a free world. They are the principles of democracy for which our country fought in the face of fascism and Nazi Germany in this nation’s finest hour—our greatest generation. Yet standing quietly above those meadows, looking down on the birthplace of liberty, is another monument: the Commonwealth Air Forces Memorial, which bears the names of more than 20,000 men and women who have no known grave. Above the place where freedom was first signed into existence stands a memorial recording the names of those who gave their lives to defend it. When I led the Royal Air Force’s ethnic minorities network, we used to visit the memorial every year. We would walk among those names—black, brown; Christian, Muslim, Sikh, Hindu—from across the Commonwealth, remembering the people who came not as visitors but as defenders of Britain, standing shoulder to shoulder against fascism and tyranny. Among them is Noor Inayat Khan, a British Indian woman raised in London who trained as a wireless operator in the Royal Air Force and worked for the Special Operations Executive. She was captured, tortured and executed in Dachau for refusing to betray her comrades. Her final word was the cry of “Liberté”, or freedom—the same freedom signed into being below her memorial on the fields of Runnymede. Her life and her death complete that circle—from the parchment that promised liberty to all peoples to the courage she displayed in preserving it. Though his name is not carved on the walls of Runnymede, Flight Lieutenant Johnny Smythe stands in that same lineage of service, sacrifice and selflessness. A Sierra Leonean who flew with the Royal Air Force, he was shot down and held in a prisoner of war camp. Yet when he returned to Britain, he chose not to turn away, but to help to rebuild it. Working in the Colonial Office, it was Smythe who conceived the idea of recalling a troopship, the Empire Windrush—a troopship filled with our veterans who had fought for our freedom, who we know as the Pilots of the Caribbean—back to our shores, full of servicemen and nurses. That act gave birth to a new chapter of our shared history. So when hon. Members hear the words “You called…and we came”, let us remember that it was not the voice of a white official, but the voice of a Sierra Leonean man—a black British man and RAF officer who had already fought for his country’s freedom. That is how deeply black history runs within, not beside, British history. This is how we counter division and exploitation. This is how we undo the false narrative and understanding of our history and our British identity that caused the Windrush scandal and that is enabling our enemies—the enemies of freedom, equality and British values—to mobilise today, because we are now seeing those things regularly online, on our streets and in parts of our media, frankly, that we would have never seen a few short years ago. We are seeing vicious hate speech and open racism. Racists are speaking out with not only impunity, but the sense that they speak for the spirit of the moment, and we must be clear that they do not. That is what we are fighting against. But what are we fighting for? I think we can see a positive narrative emerging in our communities. I want to give an example from South Woodford, where the community came together after a sequence of events that caused real fear in our community and across Leyton and Wanstead. After the racism and extremist violence we saw during Tommy Robinson’s march last month, the appalling antisemitic attacks in Manchester, the firebombing of the mosque in Peacehaven and the calculated vandalism designed to intimidate—including the flags raised on the viaduct across from the South Woodford Islamic centre—we were brought together by Councillor Joe Hehir, Dr Fahim from the Islamic centre, Rabbi Richard Jacobi from East London and Essex Liberal synagogue and Reverend Dr Elizabeth Lowson from St Mary’s parish church Woodford. Dr Fahim united us with his words, but they were also the words of the broader community and the leadership of South Woodford society, including Pearl, Louise, Rena—and her excellent tea, I must say—Elaine Atkins MBE and Andy Pike. Their simple message was: “Love South Woodford. Hate racism.” Here is what I think we can do next. We will raise our flags. We will celebrate our synagogues, our mosques, our churches and our community in South Woodford. We will gather together as a community and talk about our history under our flag. We will do that across the constituency, and celebrate with pride all the people in our community, regardless of where they come from. We will celebrate with other migrants like me and our beloved Okan Aslan, who next week will also identify as being British. If we are serious about tackling hatred, and standing up to those who would tell us that this is not our land, then we must ensure that these stories are not confined to a single month, or to those who already know them, like me. The stories of Noor Inayat Khan and Johnny Smythe, and the people like me who have come after them, must be owned by and taught to and by us all. When every child in this country knows that our history is all of our history, we will not defeat the far right; we will remove the ignorance that fuels and creates it. Ultimately, we need to do that—otherwise, we cannot defeat it. We are not yet in the same place that Noor Inayat Khan and Johnny Smythe were. We need to defeat the want, ignorance and fear from which hate is drawn. We need to prevent malign actors from exploiting anger and alienation, and the evils that create them. Black history—black British history—is our greatest weapon in doing so.