24th June. 4.30 am. I cannot sleep. I get up and put the TV on. I watch history in the making.
Oh. Please. No.
During the last couple of weeks xenophobic sentiments have been rising predominently in areas with little immigration, we were told by the media. When talking to friends and acquaintances or to people at my local hairdressers or in the pub or to fellow ramblers during an organized walk through South England’s beautiful countryside, our talk soon turned to the referendum, or “Brexit”. What followed was usually a heated discussion. Its main topic immigration. It’s not about you, I’ve been told. Perhaps not in their eyes. But I am an immigrant, too, and I feel part of the “other”. Yesterday I was overwhelmed with sadness. Sandness because of the feeling that I no longer belong here, and that I am no longer welcomed. But I know that emotions change, they always do. And after the initial shock and anger I thanked Britain for having given me a wonderful life packed with so many exciting opportunities and a home filled with joys and friends.
When I woke up this morning excitement got the better of me. Excitement of a new beginning, perhaps in another country, who knows. And I sat down to the first draft of my possible new journeys.