The cultural isolation of my Indian immigrant family in the West Midlands during the 1970s and 1980s is probably the kind of thing Lord Goldsmith is seeking to prevent.

We lived in Britain, but in many ways were actually Punjabi villagers. There were no knives and forks in the house. Our lives were governed by the Sikh religion and Indian superstition. Our parents did not speak English and my siblings and I didn’t understand a word our teachers were saying on our respective first days at school. I remember my late grandfather, a giant oak tree of a man, regularly holding forth on the topic of “the goras”, the whiteys, or the Brits, talking about them as if they were a distant African tribe. They were a clever people who conquered our homeland, he would say. They had made many advances in technology, he would say. But they also had bad habits: they treated their dogs like children, and their elders like dogs; their charged their own children rent; and unlike us, they didn’t wash their bums with water after going to the toilet.

In some ways this isolation continues. My parents still don’t speak English, though I sincerely wish they did. The consequences of the language divide are terrible. It means not being able to complain when you have bad customer service, not being able to call the emergency services, not being able to help your grandchildren with homework, learning about 9/11 several days after the event.

But they are changing. They interact cheerfully with their many white, British neighbours. Having resisted British citizenship for decades, they have taken it up. And like many second-generation Indian immigrants, their children and grandchildren have grown up to be active and proud British citizens, with jobs and a sense of belonging.

How did we manage this feat, Lord Goldsmith may wonder? Did inspired teachers force us to swear daily American-style pledges beside the British flag, our brown, turmeric-stained hands placed over our hearts? Did Wolverhampton City Council set aside a British “national day”? Were we injected with HP sauce and forced to sing Jerusalem until we gave in?

No, it was more simple than that. We learnt English. We benefited from Britain’s education system. And then we were allowed employment and opportunity in our chosen fields.

Sathnam Sanghera’s family memoir, If You Don’t Know Me by Now , is published by Viking

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