Why our parents and grandparents loved the Queen so much

A chicken and potato curry, cooked and ready to be eaten, was packed tightly into a plastic container; all washed laundry was neatly folded away; every inch of the floor was vacuumed and swept.

She even bathed in advance. For nothing was going to get between her and the television set on the day of the one of the most significant - and for many, deeply poignant - days in British history. 

On the morning in question, she rushed to my house in good time and settled herself on the sofa while I handed her a cup of tea and a plateful of biscuits. From that moment on, woe betide anyone who dared disturb her for the next 9 hours.

It was the same for the funerals of Princess Diana, the Queen Mother and Prince Phillip, as it was for weddings of Princes William and Harry, not to mention other members of the British Royal family. 

For her, the Royals are not simply a distraction from her daily life; they stir in her something profoundly emotional and, importantly, relatable. So unsettled was my mother by Diana’s death that she didn’t cook for several days – a first in our household and a decision that left the rest of us frantically hoping from fridge to cupboard in search of sustenance. 

For my Bangladeshi-born Muslim working-class immigrant mother is, and always has been, an ardent Royalist. As was my late father. My childhood home of the 70s and 80s was testament to their reverence: A ceramic plate nailed clumsily to the living-room wall adorning the Queen’s face staked its place atop the fading yellow and brown floral wallpaper. In the kitchen, tea-stained rings slowly accumulated inside the Silver Jubilee mugs through years of regular use.

PA (Image: PA)

The Silver Jubilee itself was an event of considerable note in our household. I recall riding the number 52 bus with my parents and two younger brothers to Buckingham Palace, where our father placed each of us on his shoulders in turn so that we would not miss a thing, while as a family we chanted ‘We Want The Queen!” at the top of our voices in unison with the rest of the crowd. And my memories of watching the Trooping The Colour remain to this day; albeit memories that betray an aching for a lost childhood and a long-gone father as much as an innocent - and in hindsight, naïve - affection for those under whose elusive reign we lived.

My parents’ unquestioning veneration for the Queen, and by extension, the rest of the Royal family, was echoed by many of my aunts, uncles and other South Asians of their generation.

For them, there was little question that Elizabeth II could be viewed with anything other than tender affection. Her existence, though distant and ethereal, was ever-present in their consciousness, even as young children, long before they stepped foot onto British soil, thousands of kilometres from Britain in a land that had only recently released itself from the clutches of its colonial masters. 

To them, she was a beacon of dignity and decency, a woman whose life was devoted to duty; to serving her country; a stoicism that not only resonated with them personally, but that they associated with what they perceived to be a quintessentially British characteristic and one of the highest order.

Their vision was, of course, in many ways blinkered, the legacy of the Empire a mere blot in the recesses of their consciousness as they went about their simple lives.

And, in the absence of any meaningful access to the true, violent nature of the colonisation of my ancestors, it was a vision we as children also subscribed to, our school history lessons making little room for Britain’s shameful overseas legacy. It was only when I entered adulthood, through contact with more learned persons and my own research, that the truth revealed itself, bringing with it a myriad of conflicting emotions.

For while it is true that Elizabeth II, who oversaw the end of the British Empire, is admired and respected by many from the Commonwealth - evidence of which was apparent by the attendees at her funeral - we also know of numerous atrocities committed by the British during her reign that many believe she could have had a hand in preventing, had she so wished. 

These include British authorities in Kenya suppressing a rebellion against the colonial regime known as Mau Mau, which, according to the New York Times, “led to the establishment of a vast system of detention camps and the torture, rape, castration and killing of tens of thousands of people”. 

Thus, it was only later in life that I began to see the Queen as the embodiment of the British empire’s ferocious exploitation of so many nations, an exploitation that resulted in years of suffering, death, and economic and social devastation.

And yet, I could not help but like the Queen. I liked her constancy, her understated dignity, her work ethic and, yes, her dress sense. How does one reconcile this oscillation of opinion? I confess, I have yet to come up with an answer that fully satisfies my conscience.

Still, I am a champion of truth; an advocate of a revisionist accounts of history, thus far accepted unquestioningly. I believe we must at the very least concede to a true version of the past if we are to move forward. It is something I will continue to fight for. 

But they are battles for those of us who have taken on the mantle. They are not for our parents, who have already fought long and fought hard, their British experience punctuated with prejudice, hardship, alienation and more. And all the while the Queen represented an alternative reality; a reality that was an antidote to their lived experience. 

For them, Elizabeth II was a benchmark of a Britain they wanted to believe in as they waded through the fog of the life they found themselves in. 

That is why, as my mother sat transfixed in front of the television, sighing and lamenting through the pomp and pageantry, I watched alongside her in silence, keeping my contrary emotions to myself. In her old age, she needs more than ever to cling on to something that nurtures her faith in Britain, even if the foundation of that faith is shaky. It is what gets her through. I am not about to take it away from her.

Shamim Chowdhury is a journalist and writer