Mohamed Miah | the-narratives.com
A Deep, Unshakable Sickness
Lately, my chest tightens and my stomach knots when I hear someone who looks like me — same skin, same roots — spit on the very people we once were. It’s a sickness that goes beyond politics. It’s spiritual. It’s generational. It’s grief.
I feel it when I hear Black and brown faces — the grandchildren of the colonised — standing on stages, behind podiums, or in front of news cameras, proudly declaring that borders should be shut, benefits slashed, and refugees treated like criminals.
Not out of ignorance, but with pride.
Not out of desperation, but with contempt.
And the worst part?
They should know better.
The Modern House Slave Wears a Suit
The first image that came to mind while watching this grotesque spectacle was Stephen — the character played by Samuel L. Jackson in Django Unchained. A house slave more loyal to his white master than to his own people. Vicious, proud, polished — a gatekeeper who didn’t just obey the system but enforced it.
Stephen is no longer a fictional character.
He wears a tailored suit now.
He sits in Parliament.
He speaks Queen’s English on national television.
Look around:
– From Kemi Badenoch mocking institutional racism…
– To Shabana Mahmood cheering for “law and order” while Palestinians bleed…
– To Nana Akua of GB News ridiculing refugees while wearing the face of Empire’s survivors…
This is the new plantation.
And these are its most useful tools.
Today’s Stephens don’t need whips — they use words like “British values” and “illegal migrants.”
They don’t need chains — they wear them like ties now, stitched in party loyalty.
They defend the very structures that once spat them out and buried their ancestors.
The Colonised Mind is the Greatest Weapon
This betrayal didn’t begin with an election or a job title.
It started long ago — in the minds of the colonised.
Colonialism didn’t just steal land. It rewired identities.
It taught us to be ashamed of our skin, our names, our languages. It convinced us that survival meant mimicry — becoming more like the oppressor, even if it meant turning against your own people.
That psychological warfare continues today. It creates individuals who:
- See poverty as laziness
- Blame refugees for their discomfort
- Weaponise their success to erase those still struggling
They were once victims.
But now they step on the backs of their own to climb the ranks of respectability.
And once you do that — you’re not climbing.
You’re collaborating.
If Their Ancestors Could See Them Now
I often wonder: what would their grandparents say?
The ones who crossed oceans in search of a better life. Who endured racism in silence, cleaned toilets, stitched clothes, worked night shifts, stayed quiet through slurs — all so their children could have a future.
What would those ancestors feel, watching their descendants…
- Champion detention centres
- Mock single mothers
- Applaud deportations
- Slash welfare for the disabled
Would they feel pride?
Or would they weep?
They didn’t sacrifice so that their bloodline could become the oppressor.
They didn’t suffer in silence so their name could be used to silence others.
They fought so their children could rise with dignity — not with boot prints on the backs of the weak.
Whose Side Are You Really On?
Let’s not pretend this is just about “left” or “right.”
It’s about up and down.
Power vs. the powerless.
Justice vs. cruelty.
The moment you punch down — at the refugee, the hungry, the sick — you’ve chosen a side.
And that side is not with the oppressed.
Not with truth.
And certainly not with God.
“Help your brother, whether he is the oppressor or the oppressed.”
“But how do we help the oppressor?”
“By stopping his oppression.”
— Prophet Muhammad ﷺ (Sahih al-Bukhari)
Our Prophet ﷺ wasn’t neutral.
He didn’t clap for empire.
He opened his home to strangers.
He stood by the weak.
He was a refuge for the oppressed — not a tool against them.
If you close the door on the very people your Prophet would have embraced — then it’s not just politics.
It’s moral bankruptcy.
We Remember So They Can’t Erase
To those of us who feel the fire — you’re not broken.
That anger, that sadness, that ache in your chest — it’s your soul rejecting betrayal. It’s your conscience resisting assimilation. It’s your memory doing what the system fears most: staying awake.
We must speak.
We must write.
We must remember.
Because when others forget who they are, we become the keepers of legacy.
In a world full of Stephens, be the one who remembers the pain of your people — and stands with those still suffering today.
Because when it all collapses — and it will — the oppressed will testify.
And Allah will ask:
“Where were you when the weak cried out?”
When others choose silence,
we choose the pen.
When they forget their roots,
we water ours with remembrance.
Let it be known —
By word and deed —
We stood with honour.
“And never think that Allah is unaware of what the wrongdoers do. He only delays them for a Day when eyes will stare in horror.”
— Qur’an 14:42
© Mohamed Miah | The Narratives
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