Anna Matsushita

There was a deafening bang, followed by a deep, rumbling tremor that shook the ground beneath me.   The elderly pedestrians all dropped to the pavement in unison, as if rehearsed.   Across the street, an old man lay flat on his stomach, waving urgently in my direction. “Down!” he bellowed.   Instinct took over. I flung myself onto the pavement without a second thought.   Moments later, the wail of sirens filled the air—fire engines, ambulances, police cars, all racing past in a blur of flashing lights.   And then, just as swiftly as they had dived for cover, the prone figures around me picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, and strode away as though nothing had happened.   I had arrived in Britain in the 1980's at the age of fourteen, dragged along by my parents on account of my father’s job. I hadn’t wanted to come. Life had been perfectly fine back home, thank you very much. Germany was still split into East and West, Marga...

      Allow me to indulge in a little rambling from my twilight years. It was some forty years ago, on an otherwise ordinary day at school, when I was abruptly asked, “Anna, why did you go upstairs?”   It was in late 1980’s, and at the time, my family had been relocated to London due to my father’s job, and I was attending an international school. The weekend prior, we had ventured to London’s Chinatown for a much-anticipated dinner. The memory still lingers—savouring stir-fried greens, steaming noodle soups, fried rice, and tapioca in coconut milk. Bliss.   On the way to the restaurant, I’d run into a classmate and their friends quite by chance. Later, I learned that they had trailed us, curious about where Japanese families dined. Apparently, the sight of us entering a Chinese restaurant had intrigued them enough to follow us inside.   The restaurant, like many in those days, operated on a system of subtle (or not so subtle) racial disti...