'I'm not a stranger - neither are millions of others like me'

There's something uniquely chilling in hearing your adopted home described as an "island of strangers." The phrase, recently tossed into the public sphere by politicians, can stir up anxiety and division, but it doesn't just frame migrants as outsiders – it reimagines the notion of belonging as conditional, exclusive, and temporary. As a British citizen, a migrant of 19 years, an elected city councillor, a women's grassroots football coach, and someone who has worked extensively with some of the most vulnerable communities in our society, I find this language concerning.

Because I'm not a stranger, and neither are millions of others like me. I am a father, friend, coach, educator, neighbour, husband, litter picker, taxpayer, Parkrun runner, Sunday roast goer, failed stand-up comedian and Only Fools and Horses lover.

This narrative of Britain as a once-cohesive nation now 'swamped' by newcomers is not just historically illiterate; it is a threat to community well-being, social cohesion, and public mental health. It serves as a psychological wedge, driving distrust, anxiety, and alienation between neighbours. It distorts reality to suit political ends, scapegoating migrants for problems rooted in austerity, policy failure, and profound systemic neglect.

When we allow language like 'island of strangers' to define our national discourse, we legitimise the idea that migrants, regardless of their contributions, citizenship, or lived experiences, remain permanent outsiders. This kind of rhetoric is concerning, cloaking itself in concern for culture or identity, while sowing fear and resentment.

As a psychologist, I recognise the cognitive toll this has on migrant communities and broader society from my students, colleagues and neighbours. Migrants repeatedly told they are not welcome, not integrated, or not 'British' experience what we call minority stress – a chronic psychological burden resulting from discrimination, surveillance, and exclusion. It increases vulnerability to mental distress, reduces trust in public institutions, and can fracture familial and community relationships.

But the damage isn't one-way. Non-migrant populations constantly fed narratives of threat and invasion are more likely to experience anxiety, hypervigilance, and loss of social trust. People begin withdrawing from shared spaces, avoiding engaging with neighbours, and doubting differences. Communities that become fragmented, fearful, and less resilient.

It's vital to understand that this so-called 'crisis of integration' is primarily manufactured. Decades of under-investment in public services, such as schools, housing, and healthcare, have created scarcity. However, instead of addressing the roots of these issues, some politicians resort to the familiar scapegoat: migrants. This is not new. It is the same story dressed in newer, very problematic language.

Rather than confronting the consequences of austerity, deregulation, and privatisation, the narrative shifts to blame the presence of migrants, as if the people caring for our older adults, driving our buses, running our labs, cooking our food, teaching our younger generations, saving lives on the medical ward, and cleaning our streets are the problem.

However, migrants don't cause the NHS to collapse – underfunding does. Migrants don't cause housing shortages –decades of disinvestment and a broken planning system do. Migrants aren't to blame for long waits for service –cuts, understaffing, and political choices are.

Let's change the conversation. Migrants are not guests in Britain's story – we are co-authors.

For nearly two decades, I've lived in this country not as a visitor, but as a participant. I was elected to serve in local government, where I chaired the Health and Wellbeing Board, working to address the complex needs of marginalised residents during a time of deep structural challenge. I coach a grassroots women's football team that brings together players from all walks of life. I've led projects to support homeless people, recognising that social solidarity is stronger when we lift each other rather than compete for scraps.

When I arrived, my English was poor, and my story is not exceptional. Migrants who are teachers, carers, entrepreneurs, volunteers, artists, and organisers echo this sentiment across the country. We enrich Britain economically, culturally, and socially – not as some transactional 'contribution' to justify our presence but because this is our home, too.

Migrants bring something more than labour or GDP: we bring imagination. We gain new ways of seeing and doing, resilience born of our journeys and struggles, networks that bridge continents, and a love for the places we call home. That is not a threat. It is an asset.

It's time to stop asking migrants to prove their worth and start asking what kind of society we want to build together. If belonging is conditional on sameness, it's not belonging – it's assimilation under duress. Real integration is mutual; it requires institutions that are inclusive by design, not tolerance granted at whim.

As a university lecturer and a psychologist, I understand that communities thrive not when they are homogenous but when they are bound by shared purpose, mutual recognition, and care. We cannot build that on a foundation of suspicion or nurture wellbeing in a climate of exclusion.

We must denounce the negative impact on wellbeing of the 'island of strangers' discourse and insist on a different story: that of a country whose strength lies in its openness, complexity, and the everyday solidarity forged between people who may have come from other places for many reasons but now share a common future building Britain.

Dr Bruno de Oliveira FHEA, FRSA, CPsychol 

Lecturer in Psychology

Institute of Psychology, Business and Human Sciences

University of Chichester