My friend Anthony Williams, a campaigner and survivor of the Windrush Scandal, died last month. I first met him in June 2020 after reading a bone-chilling account in this newspaper of how the Windrush Scandal swallowed his life whole.
Anthony arrived in Birmingham from Jamaica in 1971, aged seven. After school, he served with the Royal Artillery for 13 years. Later, he became a successful fitness instructor. But in 2013, his life suddenly, inexplicably, unravelled. The Home Office had declared him an illegal immigrant. He lost his job and was plunged into extreme poverty. Unable to register for a doctor or dentist, a tooth infection caused him to lose most of his teeth.
I thought I understood the scandal – the systematic deprivation of the rights of mainly Black people and their descendants who helped to rebuild Britain in the postwar years – better than most. Nothing could have prepared me for that first conversation I had with him. Most people have little idea of how something as ordinary as a missing passport can unravel a life. Since hearing Anthony’s story, I have encountered dozens more victims in similar positions.
Telling your story is difficult – every telling dredges up pain, humiliation and grief. But by far the most poisonous effect of reliving your trauma in the public domain again and again is having to face the aftermath, if, as in the case of the Windrush Compensation Scheme (WCS), nothing really changes.
The brief flicker of hope that sparks when someone – a journalist, activist, or film-maker – seems to confirm that what happened to you is not OK, is rapidly superseded by the realisation that you may as well be screaming into the void. The WCS opened on 3 April 2019. A little over five years later, 8,015 claims have been received. As of the end of December 2023, the Home Office reported that 2,097 claims had been paid. Thousands of applicants who have been denied compensation or have received unacceptably low offers have been caught up in a long arduous, time-consuming “appeal” process, riddled with the same inefficiencies. I once saw a decision letter from that office denying an appeal that got the applicant’s name and basic case details wrong. Anthony’s own appeal stages in his fight to receive compensation lasted nearly a year and a half.
When the Windrush scandal first broke, the government adopted a tone of sombre acknowledgment, promising to “learn lessons” and “right the wrongs” done to Windrush victims. In January 2023, those last vestiges of lip service were dispensed, with Suella Braverman’s decision to nix several important pledges for reform of the dysfunctional scheme.
One of the junked proposals – to run reconciliation events for Windrush victims – is particularly telling. Truth and reconciliation projects, where official bodies take detailed evidence from victims in public hearings, are a cornerstone of reparative justice. You cannot fix a problem that you will not admit.
Anthony did ultimately accept a settlement from the WCS. It came more than three years after he first applied, and only then following a concerted publicity campaign, and top-tier legal representation. It was less than he deserved, but so many victims get nothing at all. He was tired of fighting. Soon after his award was finalised, he relocated to Jamaica. Before he left, he texted me to say he couldn’t wait to leave – the very process of “righting the wrongs” had thrown into sharp relief the scale, depth and intentionality of those wrongs. “Nothing changes for Black people,” he told me – more than once.
The effect of protracted, state-inflicted trauma on physical health in Black people requires urgent academic research. I recognise that grief clouds memory but, to me, Anthony’s untimely passing makes no sense. He retained the discipline of his army training, often walking or running in the early hours when the streets were quiet. To his friends, including me, he seemed in good physical health, and he was still young – only just into his 60s when he died.
Whether the trauma of the scandal – compounded by having to deal with the WCS – is itself a cause of rapid, unexpected decline in physical health is unclear. But two things are certain: first, a demographic that is already ageing is obviously more prone to health issues worsened by age, such as cancer, and death by natural causes. If you are dealing exclusively with people in that position, you have an obligation to work fast and get it right. Second, Windrush victims have seen this happen over and over again, to the point that “they’re just waiting for us to die off” has become a common refrain among victims.
Anthony left this country because he was devastated by how he was treated. He should have been here, with his friends, and been cared for by the NHS, which he helped fund with the taxes he paid. He served this country. This country should have cared about him. It did not.
But I also want to honour the life he lived. He battled through his nightmare, then tried to forge change so others wouldn’t have to go through what he did. He was brave, and a huge comfort to others who came forward because he told his story. It was the ultimate rebuke to an establishment that told him he did not belong – conviction in the foundational principles of justice and equality that should be core values to every Briton. I will always miss him.
Ramya Jaidev is a lawyer and co-founder of Windrush Lives, which campaigns for the WCS to be removed from government control, and for a statutory, judge-led Windrush Inquiry. The group is also running an appeal for help with the costs of making final arrangements for Anthony – you can see the campaign and donate here.
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