On 4 August 1972, all Uganda’s Asians were given 90 days to leave the country. The decree was issued by Ugandan dictator Idi Amin. All non-citizen Asians had just 90 days to organise themselves. Of about 80,000 people, around 28,000 went to the UK, making and building their lives in their coloniser’s homeland. Fifty years on, we have all settled with our children born and brought up here.
I was only nine years old when I arrived in England from Uganda. Our family was initially split up. My father and some of my three siblings first went to Naples because of a passport problem. The rest of us including my older sisters, landed at an airport in Somerset in November 1972. It was a typically cold November morning in England. Most of the Ugandan Asians stayed at the camp in Somerset before moving on to Northern cities.
For a child, being in a new country was an interesting journey. It was full of adventures, seeing different people in a different place and different environment. I was mesmerised by everything; my new life, the variations in food, and making new friends. Far from being inhibited, I loved the unexpected that new surroundings bring.
My family naturally moved on to Manchester as my elder brother was already here on an international scholarship to study abroad. His fiancée had had to escape to Pakistan, and my brother went to Pakistan to marry her and bring her home. It was so lovely to see both of them arrive back safely. The whole family was now reunited.
Before we left Uganda, my mother had passed away and I was looked after by my elder sister who became like a surrogate mother to all of us. She was very kind. It was a huge responsibility caring for five sisters and five brothers. I guess it was a typical family circle in those days, but it must have been very hard and living outside of our homeland through a tumultuous time-period was as frightening as it was exciting.
Nobody knew what the future was going to be like. How could we? A future in any new country is necessarily going to be unpredictable. As with many Asian communities who have migrated, I became a part of the Diaspora.
Diaspora is a word that has always fascinated me. One definition puts it as: ‘The movement, migration, or scattering of a people away from an established or ancestral homeland.’ ‘Scattering’ is the word I most associate with diaspora. And ‘dispersed’. We are all over the place. For my family, because of one dictator and his dream, a speech, and a three-month deadline, we became scattered. What was home was no longer.
The idyllic notion of generation after generation living in the same village, let alone the same country, had gone. All that is left are stories, told and retold, of playing games under mango, passion, and custard apple trees. I still remember running with my bucket to the mango orchard during rainy season to pick the juicy fruit falling on the wet ground.
We lived in a small town called Ngora. The nearest city was Soroti. We had a small plantation with exotic fruits. Often in the evenings I would hear the wild sounds of hippos and other animals. It was like chanting. I saw myself as Jungle Book star ‘Mowgli’, the wild boy who lived with animals. It wasn’t exactly like that, but one hot afternoon I remember carrying some shrubs on my shoulder and to my astonishment there was a snake curled up within them. Frightened, I immediately threw them away.
Living in a natural tropical environment provided so many things to do. I used to love going out with friends. We moved around with complete freedom. Nothing worried us. The independent lifestyle suited me, and I think that was true for most of us, growing up.
Though small, Ngora had a university and a very good education system and we played all kind of wild, and wildly competitive, games. These included Carrom Board, a very popular Indian tabletop game where players flick disks into pockets, a bit like Pool. Also, Gili Danda (or Gulli-Danda) which is also a favourite in clubs and cafes. Both originate from the Indian subcontinent. We played it in Uganda, and we have played it in England.
My children have always been fascinated by my background and personal history. I have shared the stories I grew up with. They know of a Uganda that is mostly warm, evocative, familiar, an idyllic, tropical childhood; stories I heard so often that sometimes I felt like they were my stories. In some way they are, as for nine years I was part of that sunny lifestyle and I carry them all with me even now.
There are stories of my Bapu’s (paternal grandfather’s) grocery store on Kampala Road. Thanks to his adventurous palate it was the place in Uganda to get good food. Others are of my mum and her friends playing badminton with saucepan lids and a broken shuttlecock. Of my dad coming to UK after being in Naples for a short period. Of my Naniba (my maternal grandmother) peeling pomegranates on the veranda. Of dressing up on Sundays for the weekly drive-in cinema trip. I feel quite jealous of my older cousins who had so much more time in the land of our birth.
But I knew there was more. Other realities, darker stories, disparities unacknowledged.
Untitled, Alnoor Mitha ©Alnoor Mitha
Artistic Achievements
At secondary school in Manchester, Plant Hill High, it was rough. The young people were racist. They used abusive language. My favourite subject at school was art. It was an escape. I loved it and was actually very good at it. My art teacher Ms Brennan always praised me in front of the class. I remember drawing, painting, and making collages out of magazines.
I loved the idea of making pictures. My sister became a muse. She was happy to pose for me, and I created a visual narrative that spoke of that time. It was almost a still life, but my sister was the centre of the subject matter. I made several paintings and a massive collage on canvas. Our lounge walls became a gallery space. I hung my pictures there for a long time, until my elder brother got fed up and removed them.
I was really upset, as the walls became bare – not exactly bare, but highlighting the ugly 70’s wallpaper. I hated that wallpaper; it was brown with a mixture of cubes. My pictures were so much better! I guess at the end of the day it wasn’t my house and I couldn’t argue. On a positive note, I have my own house now, which has no wallpaper. It’s simply white: pristine whitewash. I have covered the walls of the whole house with original paintings. My work as well as other artist’s work. Its lovely to wake up to in the morning.
Each artwork tells a unique story. Some paintings are figurative; others are abstract. I have a particular favourite, very large, made with silver leaf. It looks amazing. The silver is known as varak. It is used for decorating Indian sweets. The whole canvas is smothered with varak and sometimes the silver flakes off. I love this. As a piece of art, it becomes performative. It’s in a constant state of evolution.
Another painting of mine, Aniqah’s Orange, is in a collection at the Cartwright Hall Gallery in Bradford. When young, my daughter Aniqah loved the colour orange. I painted it as a tribute to her. Most recently, I was invited by Cartwright Hall to talk about this painting as young people especially liked viewing it and were curious about the title.
At the start of my career, I was very fortunate to win a scholarship to study both in France (Anger) and in India (Baroda). It was another opportunity to change environments and meet new people, a truly transformative experience. India is simply magical, and it is also where my mother was born. I remember my mother choking on her food and being rushed to the local hospital for medical intervention. Sadly, they couldn’t resuscitate her. She passed away. What I still have are her stories. She was a wonderful storyteller.
Aniqah's Orange ©Alnoor Mitha
Both my parents were born in India, it was my grandfather’s idea to migrate to Uganda. In those days they had to get a boat to cross the Indian Ocean. They were rebuilding a new life, in a new country. In many ways it was a new beginning. In my family there have been many new beginnings, some by choice and some enforced.
Coming to the UK during the 70’s was not the easy option. The conservative Member of Parliament Enoch Powell was against these communities coming to the UK. His famous speech ‘Rivers of Blood’ did not portray a happy picture, but Manchester was full of close relatives and for all the rhetoric, it is a multicultural city of familiar and secure communities.
On that happier note, my other creative output was music. I loved playing the guitar. I went to evening classes to learn the acoustic guitar. I was so enthusiastic about music and so dedicated to it, I asked my dad to give me some money for an electric guitar. Coming home after evening classes I’d get the guitar and start playing like a rock star. My siblings were outraged, but I stubbornly ignored their very noisy protests, even though they could clearly be heard above my own very loud output. I really thought that I was super cool!
It’s been over 50 years since we arrived in Somerset, and I have learned many new things since the expulsion of my family from Uganda. One of the most positive is the way my children have grown up in England and now enjoy their rich and independent lives with close family and their own friendship groups. My elder daughter has moved very happily to New Zealand. My youngest daughter is working in Liverpool which, luckily, is not far from us. Both are very creative, working in the creative industries.
Five years ago, I travelled back to Uganda to retrace my family history – no longer a nine-year-old boy but a grown man with his own family. Sadly, I was unable to locate my mother’s grave as the gravestone was no longer there, but I stayed to offer prayers and to ask for her blessing. It was a cleansing experience. Beautiful. I feel grateful for what I have.
Enormous change is frightening, but I have had a happy creative life in a country I have grown to love. A country where my children have flourished. It is their home. Life brings new adventures. I have learned, and love, to seize the moment.
