Snapshot: How I learned to stand up and be counted
This photograph was taken 13 years ago, when I was three. I am playing Ring a Ring o’ Roses with my father’s parents in their garden in Lytham St Annes. This house holds special memories: it was here that the extended family came together, and so it always felt like a celebration. There was a lot of noise, love and laughter, and I always felt happy and comfortable there. I miss those days: sadly, the house had to be sold after my grandfather died.
My family is diverse. My father is a Muslim from Pakistan. His father, pictured here, built the first mosque in Blackpool in the face of much local opposition, including acts of violence. My mother’s father is a South African Indian and came from a family who were active in the struggle against apartheid; my mother’s mother is an Irish Catholic.
My great aunt, Fatima Meer, my mother’s aunt, was the most important Indian woman in the struggle against apartheid. She fought for what she believed was right, and spent much of her adult life incarcerated.
With a different agenda, but with the same determination, my grandfather succeeded in his dream of providing a place of worship for Blackpool’s Muslim community. He responded to the opposition peacefully and gained the respect of the local community.
In this photograph, we are dancing happily in a sunny English garden, but I come from a family of great struggles. Maybe because of that, I was given the space to develop my own values.
At seven, I made the connection between living, breathing animals and the chicken dinner sitting on my plate, and became a vegetarian. I am now a vegan. It can be hard making my voice heard in a meat-eating family, but I see a parallel between my family’s struggles for what they believed in and my own. It is activism repeated.
My father faced his own struggles, too. He moved from Pakistan to the UK when he was six. Raised in a religious family where tradition and culture were retained, he had to find an identity that fitted his family’s values and those of the western world. I also see in him concern that his family culture has become even more diluted within myself and my sister, and that he feels he has failed to impart his values to his own children.
My struggle is not the same as theirs, but I, too, have sometimes found it hard to get my voice heard. I have had many battles with my family about veganism and animal rights. I am constantly told that eating meat is natural, but I believe that, just as racism was taught to children during the time of apartheid, we now unknowingly teach children species-ism – that it is OK to discriminate against some animals, while revering others – and so that, too, seems just the way things are.
Families try to hold on to their own cultural and moral values because this is what makes them feel safe. It’s hard to diverge from this, hard to think outside of what we know. But when I look at this photograph I remember that it’s good to be different, to stand up for what you believe in, even if you are in the minority.
Sami Baloch, 16
Playlist: It’s a shame about Ray but he’d had his day
Autobahn by Kraftwerk
“Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n auf der autobahn / Vor uns liegt ein weites Tal / Die Sonne scheint mit Glitzerstrahl” (Trans: “We are driving on the Autobahn / In front of us is a wide valley / The sun is shining with glittering rays”)
It was like we were in church but the people were worshipping music instead. My dad always played lots of the techno German band Kraftwerk at home and in the car and especially Autobahn, which is like 20 minutes long or something. It sounds as if they are saying “the fun, fun, fun of the autobahn” but then I found out it’s actually in German. One summer we went to Camp Bestival in Dorset with my sister Zarify and on Sunday morning me and my dad went into this spacious basement underneath Lulworth castle. There were several rows of chairs laid out and bean bags inviting people to lie down. We got there a bit late so they ushered us in between tracks. In the far corners were massive speakers blaring out songs from the album.
We almost didn’t make it into the camping ground, with our old Peugeot struggling to get up the steep grass banks – embarrassingly, we had to get a push. Our car was called Ray after Ray Charles blared from the immensely unreliable stereo at the front of the car and a beautiful ray of light burst through the clouds and somehow managed to find its way through our bird poo-stained windows (there were lots of trees where we parked him).
He was a battered old car, but we loved him. Recently we sadly had to say goodbye to him after he started making funny noises. We went camping again a few months ago and it was the first time without Ray and we hired a sleek, comfy new car with a proper sound system. But we all missed Ray’s muffled old cassettes and annoyingly squeaky windscreen wipers.
Aidan Szabo-Hall, 13
We love to eat: Grandma Reid’s cherry cheesecake
Ingredients
150g digestive biscuits
80g soft butter
300g cream cheese
50g icing sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp lemon juice
250ml double cream
A tin of cherry pie filling
Whiz the digestives with the butter in a food processor, or bash down to crumbs in a plastic bag with a rolling pin. Press the mixture into a greased 8in cheesecake tin. Beat the cream cheese, icing sugar, vanilla and lemon juice in a bowl. In a separate bowl, whip the cream until it forms soft peaks, then fold it into the cream cheese mixture. Spoon over the base, smoothing with a spatula, and leave it in the fridge for a few hours. Before serving, take it out of the tin and spread the cherry pie filling over the top.
My mother used to tell me stories about my grandmother making this when she hosted dinner parties – Mum would join forces with her twin brother and older brother to steal the cherries off the top before it was served. If there was any left, they would finish it for breakfast next morning.
While I’m not sure I can recommend it as a breakfast dish, it is a stunning addition to any occasion but quick and simple for anybody to make.
Maya Reid-Cain, 13
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