DURING a beautiful walk with a cherished old friend and her dear husband, along the shore from North Berwick to Canty Bay, I suddenly found myself telling a personal story which I had never spoken of before, except to the closest of family.

It was a beautiful day and the tide was out, which makes this walk even more stunning, as the golden sandy beaches reveal themselves. Craigleith island seemed to accompany us along the way, sitting calmly in the sparkling sea, while The Lamb and Fidra remained distant silhouettes.

We sat on the edge of a beach in the sunshine to have lunch. I ate the delicious sandwich which my friend had made and insisted on bringing in case I was hungry. And that’s when I spoke of it, while my friend listened, in the way she is so good at.

Why hadn’t I spoken of it openly before? Guilt, perhaps. Yes, I do still feel guilty, but I’m not sure that’s why I have kept it unspoken for so long. Perhaps it was also a sense of loyalty to those who were my friends at the time.

I personally learnt from it and tried to change as a result, so I think I had told myself it was a story which no longer needed telling. But on that beautiful sunny day, sitting with a trusted friend, it clearly was still an issue that burned in my heart, and it all just flooded out.

The story begins just before my 18th birthday. I had joined the Army and I was happy I’d made some friends. I felt a sense of belonging for the first time in a long while. Then, a week into our basic training, a new recruit arrived to join our squad. To my shame I cannot remember his name for sure, but I think it was Ishaan.

I remember our corporal assembled us to welcome him and in doing so he made comments about his religion, which on the surface seemed accepting, but which I realised were, in a subtle way, sarcastic.

But I didn’t say anything.

I spoke to Ishaan briefly on that first evening. I discovered he was a Hindu, not Muslim as the corporal had suggested. His father was originally from India but he was born here and wanted to serve in the army. But there was an atmosphere in the room and, although nobody said anything explicitly, I knew I wasn’t supposed to befriend him.

So I didn’t.

Later I’d see him in the canteen and NAAFI and he always sat and ate alone. I knew what it felt like to be an outsider, so I felt empathy for him. I wanted to go over and sit with him.

But I didn’t.

One evening, he was physically bullied in a manner I can’t describe here. I knew what it felt like to be bullied and I wanted to intervene.

But I didn’t.

Afterwards I came into the barracks and Ishaan was sitting on his bed, looking at the floor with his head in his hands. There was nobody else there, so I went over to him and sat on the opposite bed. He looked up and I smiled at him, trying to let him know that I wasn’t part of what was happening to him.

But he didn’t smile back and just lowered his head, looking back at the floor. Then one of my friends came into the room and I felt I had to quickly move away from Ishaan.

Not long after this, we discovered that Ishaan had applied for a PVR, which meant he was leaving the army.

On the following day, we were marching and suddenly the corporal let rip. This time it wasn’t subtle. He shouted out a barrage of blatant and crude racist insults at Ishaan and a couple of my fellow squad members cheered. I was horrified and wanted to stop marching and challenge the corporal.

But I didn’t. I kept marching and said nothing.

After Ishaan left, I felt a strange sense of relief. I persuaded myself I was glad because he was now away from the abuse. But if I’m being honest, I was relieved mostly because I no longer had the dilemma of having to choose between defending him or potentially losing my friends and risk being bullied myself, with the corporal making my life a misery as well.

If I had stopped marching and made a stand on that day, I’m sure my friends and many others would have supported me, just as I would have supported anyone else with the courage to do so. But nobody had that courage, me included. So the racism went unchallenged.

That was the story I told my friend on the beach, 44 years after the events had happened, but which still felt raw on my conscience. She told me that I should no longer feel guilty because I’ve learnt the lesson and have been guided by it ever since. She’s kind and I know she’s right.

I’ve shared the story here, not to virtue signal or blame others, because I know the blame was wholly on me. No wonder Ishaan didn’t smile back at me when I tried to communicate that I wasn’t part of what was happening to him, because I was. It’s not what I did, but what I didn’t do, that made me just as culpable as the corporal in the racist abuse.

That was the lesson I’ve tried to never forget. I know it was a very long time ago, and thankfully times have changed – although not enough, and it sometimes feels these days the clocks are being forced back.

If I could meet Ishaan again, I’d say sorry for being such a coward and not standing up for him.

And I’d promise him, never again.