Article #12135

On the runway at Gatwick, the visceral reality of forced removals was laid bare. If only more could see what is done in our name

It’s Gatwick airport, mid-afternoon, and on the runway there is turmoil. Public policy playing out in full view of the public. Voters, citizens, seeing what they don’t normally see.

“Murdaar, murdaaaaar,” screams the bucking, brawling, brawny man as a clutch of male security officials, with solid intent and hi-vis yellow jackets, collectively fight to pin him into a seat at the back of the airliner. “Me caaan go back a Jamaica,” he hollers, the visceral sound reverberating around the 777. “Dem kill me bredda. Dem a go kill me.”

Hugh Muir is executive editor, Opinion

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