I’ve spent most of my formative years living in the UK. Since moving here at the age of 17, I graduated university, got married, established life-long friendships and built a career as a journalist at my dream magazine. On paper, that’s everything (and more) that I could’ve asked for when I was leaving my life and my immediate family behind in Kazakhstan in hopes of “a better life in the West.”
That said, the thought of abandoning my home country and my family didn’t sink in for quite a long time. Having grown up in a Muslim household, I didn't entirely agree with the post-Soviet mentality and the societal expectations, so I couldn’t wait to “leave the nest” – I was ready for a fresh start. But reality crept up on me quicker than I expected.
I still can’t forget that overwhelming feeling of embarrassment when, in an attempt to join a discussion regarding the previous week’s reading material in the middle of a university seminar, I would simply freeze because I was so self-conscious that my English wasn’t as good as everyone else’s. I also remember how, while I was putting my makeup on in the morning, I would often record my voice to check whether my accent sounded “too strong” or “too foreign.”
Once, on my way to university, I bumped into an adult English man who kept saying “ni hao, Ling Ling," while stretching out his eyes. When I tried to ignore him, I was accused of being “rude” – ironic, isn’t it? And yes, this happened while I was underage too.
Internally, these situations slowly but surely made me feel increasingly ashamed of my heritage: I can’t tell you how many times I thought to myself: “Why couldn’t I have been born more European-looking? Why wasn’t English my first language? Why do I have such small upper eyelids that no amount of eyeshadow can help change? ...Why couldn’t I have been born here?”
Nearly every time anyone asked me “where I was from from” and I responded with “Kazakhstan,” I was always met with the same reactions: “Oh, I thought you were Chinese” or “I don’t think you look like you’re from a ‘Stan’ country” – even though I knew fully well they had absolutely no clue what Central Asians looked like.
Looking back, am I even slightly surprised that I used to dye my hair blonde, wear coloured contact lenses, and even use eyelash glue to help enlarge my eyelids in an attempt to make myself look more “Western-friendly”? Not really.
I wish I could tell you that it ended there, but it so didn’t. My personal low was meeting/dating men who had the audacity to fully fetishise me based on my ethnicity – ranging from the occassional dirty look as I walked down the street to someone outright saying that ‘they’ve never been with an Asian woman before’ while winking and giggling.
One of my most painful experiences happened when I was 20 and I was commuting from Central London to my husband’s family house in Surrey. For context, I was travelling during peak hours and carrying a lot of bags as well as a carry-on, so I decided to buy a first class train ticket to ensure a more comfortable journey. I looked like an absolute mess – my hair up in a messy bun and a hoodie with stains on – still freshly damp from a coffee that I had spilled earlier that day.
As I got on the train in the first class section, I noticed that the carriage was empty, except for one white man who appeared to be in his 50s and was reading the Daily Mail by the window. As I sat down, he said: “I think you’re in the wrong section of the train.” Even after I assured him that I had the correct ticket, he proceeded to call the train guard and urged him to check my ticket – after all, how wild would it be that someone that looks like me could be in the same section of the train as him?
Throughout the journey, he never stopped looking at me, and as I listened to music while wearing my headphones, he nudged me and accused me of having my sound on too loud (again, despite wearing headphones, just like literally everyone else on the train). Without even giving me a chance to explain, he stood up and raised his voice, repeating: “Is that how you behave in your country? Is this how things are done wherever you come from?”
I don’t quite know why, but I froze. I don’t understand why I couldn’t defend myself, speak up or walk away. I remember bursting into tears, feeling utterly humiliated and powerless. In fact, I felt so ashamed of this whole situation that I didn’t even have the guts to report this. I simply went on about my day and reminded myself to swallow it up… again.
Yet, after every similar incident, I would always find a way to blame myself for either being too sensitive or not having thicker skin. One of the most humiliating parts of feeling that you don’t belong is realising that, realistically speaking, you never will. It will never feel exactly like home, I won’t ever have to stop reminding myself to be vigilant when I’m out in the city alone, I will never fully relate to someone who has spent their entire life here. But does that also mean that I don’t have the right to live in this country? I don’t think so.
I’d also be lying if I told you that I remain unaffected amidst the craziness of recent events. As a first-generation Central Asian immigrant and a less visible Muslim woman who chooses not to wear a hijab, I have never felt so anxious about my future in this country. Having lived here for nearly a decade, becoming a naturalised British Citizen has always been my dream, even if to do so, I would have to renounce my Kazakh passport as my home country doesn’t allow dual citizenships.
It’s heartbreaking to know that some people genuinely believe that immigrants like me have “stolen their jobs” and “invaded the country” – and apparently we’re the reason why “England doesn’t look the same anymore.”
But I wonder whether they will ever understand what it’s like to always miss your loved ones’ birthdays, weddings, funerals, and never be there for Mother’s Day or Father’s Day because your family lives halfway across the globe and it would sometimes cost over £1,000 just to be able to see them. And when you do visit, it’s only once a year at most, and for some of my friends, it’s once in half a decade.
I’m also fully aware that my experience of moving to this country is much more privileged compared to others, especially refugees and asylum seekers. After all, I migrated to the UK by choice, and unfortunately, a lot of people aren’t nearly as lucky.
The sad reality is that even some of the people I know don’t quite understand the scale of this whole situation. To some, it’s just another buzz in the news, another topic to discuss over a pint down at the local pub. But let’s not forget that for immigrants like myself, it’s a glimpse into a very dark potential future and another reminder that we may not ever feel welcome – no matter how much we try to improve our English or immerse ourselves in British culture.
For more content from Glamour UK Beauty Commerce Writer Denise Primbet, follow her on Instagram @deniseprimbet.
