“You can always go back home”, read one comment beneath an article I’d written on my experience growing up as a second-generation immigrant.

“I predict 850 stabbings”, read another, this time below a story about a new rap and R&B festival supporting ethnically diverse youths in Kent.

The keyboard warriors behind these posts are just two of the many trolls I’ve encountered in my six months of writing for KentOnline about underrepresented communities in the county.

“It’s very rewarding work,” I tell people. And it is - for the most part.

For half a year, I have written stories about different cultures, religions, charities and figures who make great contributions to the county.

And every time I do so, I receive kind comments and words of genuine gratitude for the coverage I provide them.

But, unsurprisingly, I also receive an equal amount of unwanted - and unsavoury - responses.

A few months ago, I wrote an article about my own experience of growing up as the child of immigrant parents who had sought a better life for us in Britain

Inspired by my lifelong struggle to pinpoint my identity, it was intended to provide comfort to those who may have felt as lost as I did.

On the morning it was published I had emails filling up my inbox. It was the first time I’d had such a response to something I had written.

The first, written under the name Please Don’t Call with a stock image profile picture, told me I “will never be a part of the society” my parents had moved to.

Another, from Andi, said: “Because you have Indian blood you are a drama queen without a doubt or you would not be a non news story.”

To be fair to him, he was also closing to proposing, adding: “It’s a pity you are so young and beautiful or I would be happy to marry you.”

I wasn’t quite sure whether to be creeped out or flattered by that one - maybe both?

Half curious and half-entertained, I began scrolling through the comments on social media too.

“You can always go back home,” said one.

Now that’s a classic, I reminded myself.

“Next week she will be me-tooing some poor guy for asking where she comes from and asking her out,” said another.

I laughed as I read through the comments at a family barbecue that Sunday, but soon realised I was the only one finding any humour in them.

I’ve prided myself on my thick skin, but as my relatives lectured me on how I should report these comments to my boss, I started to realise something.

I’m sitting here judging these people, but maybe I’m the unhinged one for not being upset?

At what point did I become immune to what should be offensive remarks?

So, I began reading the comments under every story I wrote, looking at all the responses on social media and saving every intentionally nasty email I received.

It soon became clear to me that I was more upset when people were saying horrific things about the communities I was writing about.

In April I had spoken to the chair of a local mosque in Gravesend who talked to me about the excitement of Ramadan ending.

He had sent me pictures of the community hugging one another, sharing sweets, and smiling as they posed together.

In response to that story, one reader wrote “disgusting”, while another replied to the post’s caption of “everyone will be excited for Eid” by saying: “Not everybody”.

The next story I wrote was about the Eid prayers they held in the park.

One person responded: “Why should this be held outside, should stay in your mosques and keep it inside, I don’t want to see it out in the open.”

I was shocked. How could people be filled with so much bitterness that they would unprovokedly say such awful things?

These groups are being hated for simply existing.

But it didn’t stop there, as I continued to look at other stories I had written.

One was about a lovely man who runs a charity to help ethnically diverse youths make it into the entertainment industry.

He had dedicated himself to putting on a free Kent-wide festival to showcase the rap and R&B music they had been creating.

The main image used with the article was of three young black musicians.

“I saw the photo and thought it was a story about migrants,” said one user, adding: “I suppose, at least it will show the issue we have with knife crime.”

“I predict 850 stabbings,” said another.

A story about the return of a Caribbean festival in Medway attracted similar comments.

One man wrote: “Keep it away from Kent, although it’s turning into London more with each year passing, this c**p will soon be the norm.”

Another user responded: “Do we get stabbed and mugged as well, like Notting Hill?”

And there are so many more hateful comments like these across my stories and in my email inbox.

Worse still, some of these people think they’re the victims.

One of my articles was on councillors from various political parties encouraging people of different backgrounds to become involved in local government.

“There is no group more discriminated against these days than white men,” said another.

It seemed so ridiculous that I laughed, but it highlights a genuine and concerning issue.

Platforms that provide a space to comment offer the opportunity to compliment, criticise and debate stories.

But when vile remarks such as those I’ve mentioned are made, where do we draw the line between free speech and words that are just hateful?

We’re told everyone has the right to an opinion, but that’s not a justification for having a clear prejudice against certain groups, and furthermore, vocalising it.

It seems this is a growing problem too.

According to the UN, “70% or more of those targeted by hate speech on social media are minorities”.

“Allowing and tolerating this incitement to hatred and expression or advocacy of hatred against people of marginalised groups” through online platforms “ encourages the perpetrators”, the organisation argues.

In 2021 KentOnline shone a light on those who had laughed on Faceook at the deaths of 27 people crossing the Channel in a small boat.

And today I respond to those making odious comments about my stories and the wonderful people in them by writing this article.

Maybe it will raise awareness of what marginalised groups go through on a daily basis.

Maybe it will offer online trolls a chance for self-reflection and hopefully even redemption.

And maybe some people just won’t care.

But if there is one thing I do know, it’s that I won’t be laughing at these comments anymore.