Windrush: a landmark in British history
Seventy years ago this week, the Empire Windrush landed at Tilbury docks, carrying hundreds of West Indian migrants
Who invited the Windrush migrants?
Nobody: it was a completely unplanned event. In mid-1948, HMT Empire Windrush, a troopship taken as a prize from the Germans at the end of the War, was carrying home British servicemen from Australia via Mexico and various stops in the Caribbean. In Kingston, Jamaica, where the Windrush went to fetch West Indian RAF servicemen back from leave, the enterprising captain, finding that he had many empty berths, placed an advert in the Daily Gleaner offering passage for £28/10s – half the usual price, but still about six months’ wages in Jamaica. After a 22-day journey, the ship arrived at Tilbury docks in Essex on the night of 21 June.
Who was on board when it docked?
There were 1,027 passengers on the ship, 802 of them from the Caribbean (mostly from Jamaica, but also from Bermuda, Trinidad and British Guiana). Some were still serving in the British services; but about half were migrants – 492 is the figure usually given – many of them former RAF servicemen who’d been stationed in Britain during the War, and had seen opportunities for work, education and new experiences in the “mother country”. Most had marketable skills – occupations ranged from carpenters and mechanics, to musicians and boxers, engineers and students – and were armed with affidavits signed by their local justices of the peace testifying to their good character. There were more than twice as many men as women.
How were they greeted?
The reception was mixed. The ship’s arrival was a big story: small boats full of newsmen and sightseers surrounded the Windrush at Tilbury. The London Evening Standard greeted the arrivals with a “Welcome home” headline for the “sons of Empire”, while the Daily Mail offered “Cheers for the men from Jamaica” who had come to help rebuild postwar Britain. The press described the exotic strangers with their “dazzling tie design” and “zoot suit style”; the Calypso singer Lord Kitchener, a passenger, sang a new composition, London is the Place for Me, for the cameras. Clement Attlee’s Labour government, however, was thrown into a panic. Officials examined the possibility of turning the ship back, or barring the migrants entry. MPS fulminated. In a letter to a parliamentary colleague, Attlee defended the principle that colonial subjects “of whatever race or colour... should be freely admissible to the United Kingdom”, but said: “If our policy were to result in a great influx of undesirables, we might... have to consider modifying it.”
Where did the migrants settle?
Most headed to London. Many had nowhere to stay, so the Colonial Office housed 230 of them in a former air raid shelter at the Clapham South Tube station. As a result, Clapham and neighbouring Brixton, which housed the local labour exchange, became centres of black British culture. Sam King, who would later become the first black mayor of Southwark, found that he was no longer treated with the respect that he received while serving in the RAF in the War. “‘What you come back here for? The War’s over.’ That was the attitude,” he remembered. Migrants found housing and employment barred to them. “They tell you it is the mother country, you’re all welcome, you all British,” said another Windrush passenger, John Richards. “When you come here, you realise you’re a foreigner, and that’s all there is to it.”
Why was their arrival a surprise?
It was unprecedented. True, there were communities of Africans, West Indians and Indians in Britain’s big port cities – sailors, students and adventurous types – but an influx of non-white immigrants on such a scale was entirely new. While, by convention, all imperial subjects had long been allowed into Britain (see box), the freedom to move about the Empire had largely been exercised by Britons emigrating to the colonies and by white people from the “Old Commonwealth”: Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa. But after the War, two factors altered the complexion of migration within the Empire: Britain reached near full employment, and travel became cheaper.
Why did so many West Indians choose to migrate?
Mainly for the jobs. Jamaica’s main agricultural industries had been devastated by the hurricane of August 1944 and the drop in world sugar prices. For many, jobs were hard to find, whereas in Britain there were significant labour shortages, notably in the newly established NHS and the nationalised railways. In the 1950s, the Ministry of Health and London Transport began mass recruitment from the Caribbean; adverts in local papers offered jobs and travel fares. Rebuilding the bomb-damaged cities also provided plenty of work. But jobs weren’t the only lure: many Windrush migrants were seeking adventure because their horizons had been broadened by the War. “As a matter of fact, I had a reasonably good job in Jamaica and things were looking up,” remembered Arthur Curling. “It just a matter of the island is too small. You don’t realise how small until after you’ve travelled.”
What impact did Windrush have?
It didn’t actually trigger an immediate influx of new migrants; in the aftermath, the authorities took a series of informal measures to limit West Indian migration. And it wasn’t even the first arrival: two other ships, the Ormonde and the Almanzora, had arrived without ceremony in 1947, carrying smaller numbers of West Indian migrants. In fact, the ship’s arrival had largely been forgotten before the 50th anniversary in 1998, when, under New Labour, it began to be celebrated as an important symbol of multicultural and black Britain. In 2010, a public space in Brixton was renamed Windrush Square; at the 2012 Olympics, the ship featured as part of Danny Boyle’s pageant of British history. Since then, the term “Windrush generation” has become the established currency for the first wave of Commonwealth migration.