In March 1989 I had a sixth form, a GCSE Mature group. They were a re-sit group of about 30 pupils and one of my favourite classes.
Most had failed their English GCSE because they weren’t English. Many were seeking asylum and refuge from war. Some had witnessed appalling horrors and atrocities. Some had seen their family killed.
They were deracinated, disorientated, traumatised and, yes, radicalised. They’d probably be off-rolled these days. The rest were English or first generation English. We had most religions, many Muslims.
The class buzzed. We got on. Discussion was passionate, sometimes intemperate, always interesting and as serious as your life. We weren’t dealing with first world problems. This was visceral and urgent. Severe Middle Eastern perspectives clashed with louche West London ones, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle. I learned a lot.
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