Well… here we are.
Nigel Farage’s Reform UK has pulled off a shock victory in the Runcorn and Helsby byelection.
A party whose campaign often sounded like a viral Facebook comment section—just angrier and with worse grammar. And for people like me—Muslims, immigrants, minorities—it feels like we’ve just been told, politely but firmly, to step out of the photo of Britain’s future.
We’ve never needed the government to tell us we belong. We’ve built our lives, families, businesses, and communities in this country without waiting for approval. But still—this one stings. It wasn’t just about policies. It was the tone. The message behind the manifesto: “This place isn’t yours.”
When the election results came in, a friend texted: “Do we start packing now or after the next press conference?” We laughed. Then we paused. Because beneath that humour lives something real: not panic, but a kind of quiet unease. The feeling you get when a room you thought you were welcome in suddenly feels… unfamiliar.
Let’s not pretend this discomfort is new. Britain’s relationship with its minorities has always been complex. From Windrush to “Go Home” vans, from Prevent to endless questions about “where we’re really from,” we’ve known how it feels to be both needed and mistrusted. We’ve driven ambulances, delivered parcels, made curries, run the NHS, and still been told we’re the ones to blame when society coughs.
But this time feels different. Reform didn’t dog-whistle—they brought out the brass band. They ran on a platform that didn’t bother to code its language. It painted anyone with a non-English name, a headscarf, or a different shade of skin as a problem to be solved, not a neighbour to be understood. The irony is rich: while they questioned our place here, we were the ones keeping the country running.
So, what do we do? Stay quiet? Moan on group chats? Book one-way tickets to anywhere with sunshine and less stress?
Not likely.
We do what we’ve always done—we show up. We organise. We vote. We support our young people to run for school governing bodies, councils, Parliament. We refuse to let this country be defined by fear, and instead remind everyone what makes Britain truly great: its layers, its mix, its endless cups of tea shared between neighbours of all backgrounds.
We also laugh. Because laughter has always been our resistance. It keeps the soul warm. One uncle told me, “If they really want us gone, who’s going to run the corner shops, the takeaways and the weekend cricket league?” And just like that, in one sentence, he restored my faith and appetite.
Let me say it clearly: we’re not going anywhere. We have roots here, prayers here, childhood memories and community halls and wedding videos filmed in questionable lighting. We’ve buried our loved ones here. We’ve celebrated Eid, Diwali, Christmas and the Queen’s Jubilee—sometimes all in the same month. This is our home.
We won’t pack up. We’ll pack resilience, chai, and a good pair of shoes—for walking forward with purpose. Because we’re not leaving—we’re leaning in.
Reform may have won the headlines, but compassion, unity, and justice have longer staying power. We’ve seen uglier seasons, and we’ve endured. We’ve marched, we’ve mended, we’ve made peace where others pushed division. Maybe this is the moment we stop hoping someone else will save us and realise: we’ve been saving ourselves all along.
So no, we won’t disappear. We’ll get louder—but with kindness. Funnier—but with fire in our bellies. And more determined than ever to prove that no political wave is strong enough to wash away a people who’ve already made this island their home.
Kettle’s on. There’s work to do.
