Common Ground Poem by Levan Thomas

They marched beneath old crosses,
wrapped in flags of red and white,
speaking loud of "taking back"
a country no one owns by right.

And at the front, the merchants stood,
selling anger by the pound,
imposters dressed as patriots
while whole communities drowned.

Like slick TV preachers from America
selling salvation for a fee,
wrapped in flags and righteous anger
while cash rolls in relentlessly.

The Tommy men grow rich from outrage,
all fury, flags and martyrdom,
while living it up in bars in Benidorm
off donations sent from struggling mums.

They speak of "unity" the loudest
while teaching people who to blame,
turning neighbour against neighbour
just to build themselves a name.

Because some concerns are real, of course.
People worry, struggle, fall behind.
Housing scarce, wages stretched thin,
towns neglected for a long, long time.

And ordinary people deserve answers
when their future feels unsure.
Politics should hear those worries,
help communities feel secure.

But there's a difference, clear and plain,
between real answers and blame,
between asking difficult questions
and setting whole groups up in shame.

Because scapegoating is the oldest trick,
dividing "them" from "us",
while those with power keep profiting
from the anger and distrust.

The people causing most division
rarely stand beside the poor,
they stir the fire, then walk away
while others bear the cost of war.

Real leadership does not need enemies
to convince us we belong.
It builds people up without tearing others down,
and makes communities more strong.

Because Britain's always been divided
long before a single migrant came.
North and South, rich and poor,
class and power shaping pain.

Mining towns left slowly hollowed,
council estates ignored for years,
young people priced out of living,
families worn down by pressure and fear.

None of that was caused by neighbours
praying differently down the street.
Sometimes the deepest fractures in a country
are the injustices we choose not to see.

And not agreeing is not a weakness.
Democracy was never meant
to mean one voice, one view, one story,
or blind unquestioning consent.

Britain has always argued with itself;
that's woven deep within its soul.
Trade unions, suffragettes, protest marches,
people demanding something more.

The danger comes when disagreement
stops seeing others as human too,
when every difference becomes betrayal
and every debate becomes us or you.

And somehow, if you speak of kindness,
or say whole groups are not the same,
you get called a "traitor" to your country
just for refusing hate and blame.

As though love of where you come from
must depend on fear and rage,
as though decency and empathy
have become acts to be ashamed.

But I refuse to hate my neighbours
to prove I love this land.
I think Britain's at its strongest
when different people still can stand

beside each other in hard times,
without needing all to agree,
understanding that compassion
is not weakness, but community.

And somewhere in that noise, I think
about my godmother who came
on a crowded boat from Vietnam,
fleeing terror, loss and flame.

She arrived with almost nothing
except survival in her hands,
and somehow built a life with courage
in a cold and distant land.

She helped my single mum to raise us,
two tired women doing their best,
sharing dinners, sharing worries,
carrying each other through the stress.

We grew up on a Lambeth council estate,
not wealthy, but we still felt rich,
surrounded by a hundred cultures,
every accent, every dish.

And despite what some now try to claim,
we felt lucky to belong,
because being British never meant
that everybody looked the same.

It meant learning from each other,
finding joy in all that's new,
understanding your own small world
is made much bigger by the view.

And in a country growing older,
where loneliness can hollow souls,
many immigrant families still carry
their elderly within their homes.

Not because they're told they must,
but out of love, respect and care;
the kind of values people praise
yet somehow fail to see are there.

I think about Mohamed too,
when I'd first started work there lost,
he gave his time so generously
without once counting up the cost.

The first to offer help or kindness,
never asking for applause,
a loving father, loyal husband,
full of patience, full of warmth.

And yet men online who've never met him
speak as though they somehow know
what millions think, or who they are,
from headlines, clips, and viral shows.

Because every culture holds contradictions,
like every nation, faith and creed.
There is kindness, beauty, wisdom
and there are darker parts we need

to challenge, question, move beyond,
as all societies have done.
No country on this earth was built
without mistakes beneath the sun.

But judging millions by extremists
is a dangerous road to choose.
You could condemn all English people
by the worst football crowds and booze.

You could say all men are violent
because some commit abuse,
or claim all Christians must be hateful
because extremists twist the truth.

The world falls apart when human beings
become stereotypes instead of faces,
when fear paints whole communities
with the sins of the smallest and darkest places.

Because the vast majority of people,
whatever language, faith or skin,
are just trying to build decent lives
and protect the ones they love within.

That may be the saddest thing;
watching people that you love
slowly swallowed by propaganda
they would once have risen above.

Friends and family pulled away,
algorithm-fed suspicion growing,
until every problem in the country
has one convenient place for throwing.

And it breaks your heart because you know
fear can make good people hard,
especially when life feels smaller,
bills are rising, hope is scarred.

But Britain was never built through purity.
It was built through common ground.
Dockyards, factories, hospital wards,
different voices, one shared town.

Real love for a community
is not a chant or marching line.
It is checking on your elderly neighbour,
giving food, or giving time.

It is coaching kids on muddy pitches,
sweeping glass from battered streets,
raising funds for someone struggling,
knowing every face you meet.

A country is not blood or birthplace.
Not who prays or who arrived.
It is whether, when things fall apart,
you help another person rise.

And maybe that's the strangest irony
of all we saw that day:
the loudest men spoke most of "unity"
while pushing fellow Britons away.

Because Britain, at its very best,
has never stood for fearful pride.
It stands for ordinary people
leaving hatred at the side.

Not perfect. Never spotless.
But strongest when it chooses grace.
A thousand different stories
still belonging to one place.