Two-and-a-half centuries ago in 2015 I had a video call with a Canadian friend who lives in my hometown of Toronto. As we spoke, she was putting together a Middle Eastern spice box for the Syrian refugee family she’d sponsored through her daughter’s school, carefully printing the labels in Arabic. Canada had recently committed to accepting 25,000 refugees, compared with the UK’s 10,000, which we both agreed was stingy. I explained to her that although there were lots of charities and refugee initiatives here, the public attitude was different. Not xenophobic, I insisted, just less precious. None of the parents at my son’s school, as far as I knew, were organising welcoming committees for the Syrians, let along putting together spice boxes. Also, I added, no one here would be calling them ‘New Britons’.
‘What will you call them?’ she asked.
‘Foreigners.’
My Canadian friend gasped and touched her throat.
‘So do people call you a foreigner then?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and it’s fine.
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