Democracy and despair. Again. 

I chose my seat on the tube today on the basis of skin colour. I stared at the young Asian lad opposite me, trying to work out what a terrorist would look like. Would he look so relaxed as he browsed on his smartphone? Would a dangerous bag look so new and trendy? 
I feel such a wave of sympathy for this young man. I feel such a wave of fear for me, for my family. And I’m angry. Angry with myself for becoming a small part of the problem. How many obvious stares, coupled with hateful headlines, inflammatory news, rabid social media, does it take to make a happy young man wonder whether he’s really welcome here? Angry with the press, as it knowingly uses fear and disillusionment to breed hatred for cash. And then, above it all, angry with these appalling men who have destroyed so many lives, so quickly.
I am on my way to work on Election Day. We did not need a referendum last year. We do not need an election today. Political games: democracy shouldn’t feel like it’s taking away choices. My son won’t be able to study, travel, work in Europe as I could. As all those who voted could. Our country will be that bit smaller when this is over. That bit poorer. That bit less diverse. Those who voted to leave will be hit hardest; we will all mourn this period in our politics for decades to come. 
I left the little man at nursery this morning as I make my way to a workplace surrounded by guns and police cars and ambulances, just in case. I’m pleased he doesn’t travel with me. I’m pleased he is too young to stay up with us tonight as we grieve the inevitable results. 

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