AdvertisementRacism in the U.K. & the Weight of Belonging
By Marsha Jones · · Empowerment Edition · 4 min read
There are moments in life when the world feels unfamiliar; when even the things you have grown accustomed to suddenly feel heavy, fragile, or out of place. Hurricane Melissa has been one of those moments for me.
From thousands of miles away in the U.K., I watched my homeland—Jamaica—battered in a way that felt almost apocalyptic. The images looked like scenes from a movie: collapsed homes, flooded communities, uprooted livelihoods, and devastation stretching beyond what the eye could take in.
And yet, in the middle of all that chaos, my mother—87 years old and full of faith—sat in her home without electricity, without the comfort of light, but thankfully spared from structural damage. Her resilience is humbling. But knowing she is safe doesn’t silence the ache I feel for the rest of the island, where more than half the population is grappling with destruction I can only imagine from afar.
THE DISPLACEMENT YOU FEEL EVEN WHEN YOU’RE NOT DISPLACED.
I live in the U.K., a place that has given me opportunities, but also one that constantly reminds me that this is not truly my home. As a Black Jamaican woman in healthcare—specifically nursing and midwifery—I have seen and felt the quiet and not-so-quiet ways racism embeds itself in the workplace and wider society.
The Royal College of Nursing has reported a rise in racism experienced by nurses. For those of us who have lived it, this is not surprising; it is simply a truth finally given a platform. Whether it is being overlooked, undermined, excluded, underestimated, or forced to work twice as hard for half the recognition, the experience remains a painful undercurrent in day-to-day life.
Racism isn’t just about personal interactions; it lives in systems, structures, policies, and the unspoken rules that guide who gets heard, who rises, and who remains invisible. The infrastructure itself is shaped in a way that requires Black people—especially Black Caribbean people—to constantly justify their place.
So when people say, ‘Home is where the heart is,’ it resonates deeply.
MY HEART HAS NEVER LEFT JAMAICA.
I have always given my best wherever I serve, but my soul remains tethered to the land that shaped me. Every storm, every crisis, every triumph—my spirit feels it. Hurricane Melissa was no different.
THE SILENT GRIEF OF WATCHING HOME HURT.
The strange thing is this: even though I am safe, with electricity, heating, clean water, and all the comforts of the U.K., this is the first time I have felt truly displaced.
Not homeless, but heart-displaced. Not physically affected, but emotionally uprooted.
Watching Jamaica’s suffering from a distance has shaken something in me. It has made me question my place here in the U.K.; a place where I am often reminded that I am ‘other’ and at the same time made me yearn more deeply for the belonging that Jamaica provides.
But the Jamaica I long for is hurting. And the U.K. I live in is tiring. So where does that leave people like me; living in diaspora, stretched between two worlds?
THE DIASPORA BURDEN.
Diaspora life is often spoken about in terms of remittances, opportunity, or ‘making something of yourself abroad.’ But what is rarely discussed is the emotional burden—the weight of loving a country that is constantly vulnerable to forces outside its control, while navigating a country that frequently questions your worth.
Hurricane Melissa has left debris on the island, but it has also stirred debris in my spirit, memories, loyalties, questions, and longings that keep resurfacing.
I am grateful my mother is safe. I am grateful I can help from afar. But gratitude doesn’t cancel grief.
HOLDING TWO WORLDS, STILL CHOOSING JAMAICA.
Perhaps this is what it truly means to be Jamaican in diaspora: To build a life abroad while your heart beats to the rhythm of home. To excel professionally while knowing your identity is still misunderstood or marginalized. To sit in comfort while feeling discomfort because your people are suffering. To be physically present in one world while emotionally residing in another.
Hurricane Melissa reminded me—painfully, beautifully—that no matter where I live, Jamaica lives in me. Even in devastation, even in distance, even in diaspora, my heart knows exactly where home is.
And perhaps that is why this moment feels so heavy.
Because the love for home never weakens; it only deepens.
