When in Spain! : silence, sangria and systematic oppression

I’m a talker, a yapper, an extrovert. My day is made by having one kind interaction with a stranger. So when I went to Madrid on my first solo trip back in September, I was nervous to not have someone to share each moment with, but I was thrilled by the idea of adventure and the potential friends to be made by the end of the 5 days. 

I usually like to have an itinerary to lean back on should I be overwhelmed by choice when I land, but this time round I was kinda winging it. However, I did do the essential “ *insert city name* Black people” search to scope the scenery out. If I try to avoid anti-Black countries, I won’t ever travel, but on a scale ranging from racist stares to physical violence, I need to know what I’m working with, and my internet cousins said I’d be okay so I went forth with confidence! 

On my first day in Madrid, I took a stroll around my area and did my favourite thing when visiting a new country, I went to a supermarket! I then sat outside and enjoyed my assortment of unknown snacks as I braced myself for the days ahead. Whilst watching the people go by, a young Black girl came over to me in a slight panic. Concerned, I removed my headphones to help her but when she spoke all I could see in my mind was “Error Code 404 - file not found”. Now would be a good time to mention that I cannot understand or speak Spanish. I atrociously stumbled through the very little Spanish I did know to tell her “I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish. Do you speak English?”. Her shoulders dropped and she gave me a faint smile as she said “Ah. Okay, sorry” before walking away.

I felt so defeated! Firstly, it felt like I let the whole Black community down at that moment because she could have asked literally anyone else in the square, but I know she came over to me because I was the only other Black girl in the area, so we trusted each other, and couldn’t deliver. Secondly, and I know this is going to sound silly, but even though I knew I couldn't speak the language, I hadn’t factored that in at all when it came to my ability to make friends. And that isn’t because I was stepping into the role of the ignorant British tourist who is certain that everyone should speak English, I genuinely thought that in the face of Spanish, I could get by with vibes and occasional miming, but that was not the case. After a long day of starting interactions I couldn't see through, little miss Tuso the extrovert was silenced because I didn’t want to keep embarrassing myself. Well, at least that’s what I thought.

On day two, I went by a corner shop on my way to the club to get a cheeky little pre-drink. I scanned the shelves in the fridge for a beverage I recognised, landed on a can of sangria and made my way to the till. I was determined to get through this interaction without speaking English because the previous evening, a bartender taught me a couple phrases to get me through the weekend. The shopkeeper was hunched over the til and had a blank expression on his face. I mentally rehearsed how our conversation could go, took a deep breath and began with a confident “hola!”, he retorted “hola? You’re British, no?”. I didn’t even get the chance to try, he clocked me so fast! I asked him what gave it away, he replied, “your clothes, you don’t dress Spanish”. I laughed as my ego was willing to accept that and placed my drink on the counter. “How are you?” I asked. He scanned the can and I quickly learnt that he was just like me, waiting for someone to talk to.

He told me he was tired, not just sleepy but exhausted. He moved to Madrid from Afghanistan fourteen years ago, but he had to leave his wife and kids behind. He began tidying the shop front as he went on. “I send them money and try to visit when I can, but it’s hard, it’s hard to not be with them.”  I tapped my card whilst holding back tipsy tears. He waited for the card reader to accept my payment before he asked, “and you? You are from…?”, “I’m from Zimbabwe, I was born and raised in England though”. He passed the drink to my side of the counter. “Do you like it here?”, “It’s okay. It’s warm!” he responded. “Haha, see, we don’t have much of that in England”. He chuckled and I went to ask more about his family but a large group came in and he was straight back into work mode. I shuffled out of the way to let the group by the till. I waved goodbye and he gave me a nod. 

When I think back to our interaction, I can’t stop thinking about how much his demeanour changed; he instantly switched into being distant and reserved to make his sales. I’m not suggesting that he should have ignored his customers to continue speaking with me, but he put a part of himself away to make his money, the need to make money cost him something. It costs us all something, right? That’s the nature of the game, and that cost can range from as little as missing out on conversation in my case, to the cost of losing connection with family in his case, to the horrific cost of living with your life on the line for the comfort of others, as is the case for the millions that live in sacrifice zones across the earth. A reminder that the mission is still Free Congo, Free Palestine, Free Sudan, Free Ghana, Free Hawaii, free all nations that are still suffering from colonisation, extractivism and imperialism.

I cracked open my can, chugged the contents, (it was awful) and made my way to the club. It was a Baile Funk night and only ten minutes after doors opened, the room was packed! Every single person in there was dancing and the energy was thick! I ended up dancing with a group of Brazilian people and busting out some very broken Portu-glish, but they made it work and they showed me some new moves to add to my collection that I’ve picked up from watching dance battles from the streets Rio on TikTok (somebody fly me out to Brazil pleeease). Again, it’s these interactions that give me life and make me fall further in love with humanity. 

* 

Apart from the girl I mentioned earlier, the only other time I saw Black people was when they were collecting rubbish, sleeping on the floor or sitting around the outskirts of the city.  When I made eye-contact with them, they looked at me with confusion, which I was used to because I have bleach blonde eyebrows at the moment so I am often met with a double take. But this confusion was different, it’s like they were trying to figure out my story. Why was I so relaxed? Where did I come from? Sometimes there was disdain mixed in with the confusion. Why was I ignoring them? Why didn't I look like them? Where their clothes were torn, mine were whole. Where their eyes were sunken and strained, mine were beaming from a full night's sleep. They could see the privilege in me, forcing me to see it too and admittedly, that made me uncomfortable. The one factor that separated me from the fellow African people I saw in Madrid was the fact that twenty-two years ago, on a random day in September, I was born in England. I am British. 

I didn’t have to make a treacherous journey across the sea, or move here alone to prepare for the rest of my family to join me, or battle through Visa applications, or study for the citizenship exam, or fight for the right to safety. I was just born here. My parents kept a roof over my head, food in my stomach and instilled a work ethic in me that is so vigorous that I have learnt (and am still learning) how to survive under a system designed to destroy us all, the same system that can leave us without a home, the same system that calls us Black and therefore deserving of suffering. 

Quick side note, Pedro Sánchez, the prime minister of Spain, was praised for his speech in Parliament where he stood in “defence” of  migrants. He said “we Spaniards are the children of migrants, we are not going to be the parents of xenophobia”, which seems like a kind message, especially in the midst of the rise of facism right now, but the motivation is not generosity. Migration in Spain is being treated as an economic opportunity, where migrants and refugees can easily be given worker permits so business can continue booming! Why care about people when you can make money? Capitalism has done it again! Of course, this isn't unique to Spain, other European countries share the same white supremist approach.

My holiday bubble burst, as I knew it would, as it always does. My little utopia where I had the luxury of eating out, looking at pretty things all whilst wearing my perfectly pre-planned outfits, was done. I have been fortunate enough to have travelled around the world with my family and in every country I have visited, regardless of the continent, regardless of the ethnicity of the majority, they all maintain the violence of capitalism and white supremacy. 

I feel like I live in a perpetual state of heartbreak. Persistently reminded that we don’t have to live like this, and wanting to do something about it, losing faith and returning to hope. How do we undo that? I don’t have all of the actionable answers, but I’m learning and that’s for a discussion I wish to share soon! But I do know that the future belongs to the collective, not the individual.

*

Yet again, this is another love letter to the power of being present with one another, and a protest against the frameworks that pull us apart. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting too much of a difference between Madrid and London because they are both capitals of European countries that really had a field day when it came to colonisation, there was bound to be overlap in the pitfalls. It wasn’t all bad though, the bars were lovely, I now adore flamenco and the food was tasty! But the highlight for me, as cheesy as it sounds, was the friends I made along the way (and the club, of course !!!). 

So yeah, I don’t understand Spanish (yet), but I do understand connection and the chaos of capitalism. In the same way that the love of money has prevailed, humanity can also prevail, it already has! I knew I'd be fine travelling without speaking the native language because I have access to technology that ensures I can survive alone, but why ask Google for help, when I can ask a bartender? Why rush out of a shop when someone wants to share their story with me? Why dance in silence when I can attempt to learn Portuguese and get equipped for my next dance battle? Yes, these interactions could only occur because the people I spoke to knew a bit of English, but I offered some of Spanish/Portuguese first and they met me where I was! I’d like to think that there are far more people out there willing to love than we allow ourselves to think about. As always, I’d encourage you to seek that love, even more so in these trying times.

Until next time,

Love!

P.s.

• This watercolour comic strip made me so happy - all the lovers of the world stand up!

• My links this time round are all from the guardian but i promise i am a wide reader lol

• Please do your own research and please do pull me up if I said something inaccurate

• Please do just hit me up to chat about any thoughts you may have about this piece!