It’s a deeply unsettling realisation to see the place you’ve come to call home suddenly feel so unwelcoming and even dangerous.
The violent protests by far-right groups over the last couple of weeks seem to have chillingly resurrected Britain’s dark legacy. The cataclysm began on July 29, when the tragic stabbings of six-year-old Bebe King, seven-year-old Elsie Dot Stancombe, and nine-year-old Alice Dailca Aguiar at a Taylor Swift-themed dance workshop in Southport stirred echoes of the nation’s grim history. Their untimely deaths unleashed a storm of anguish and reflection, rekindling the shadows of a past marred by racist rhetoric and brutal intolerance.
At first, I didn’t think much of it, but soon, a creeping sense of uncertainty began to take hold. The fear hit me unexpectedly, starting with a late-night message from my flatmate on Monday. They offered to walk me home or to the station if I felt uneasy, and that’s when it truly sank in — I was scared. Scared to leave the house, scared to return home from work, simply because I am a brown Muslim. As the night progressed, texts from friends of colour began flooding in, checking if I had reached home safely and urging me to stay in, work from home, and avoid going out alone. My mother, all the way in Pakistan, shared the same concern, urging me to seek permission to work from home for safety.
Conversations with South Asian friends in London revealed that we all shared this unease. Many had cancelled plans, opting for safety over routine. The tension in the air was palpable, unlike anything I’d experienced before.
As an immigrant, this was the first time I felt that my ethnicity and religion might make me a target for violence. It’s a deeply unsettling realisation to see the place you’ve come to call home suddenly feel so unwelcoming and even dangerous — especially after leaving Pakistan, a country conventionally considered unsafe and turbulent, to feel safer here.
Disinformation fuels the fire
The heart-wrenching deaths of Bebe King, Elsie Dot Stancombe, and Alice Dailca Aguiar ignited a nationwide uproar, fuelled by a wave of disinformation that spread like wildfire. It was falsely claimed that the attacker was a Muslim man named “Ali Al-Shakati.” To stoke the flames further, a sensational story circulated that he had entered the UK illegally on a dinghy boat in 2023.
The reality is that no such person as Ali Al-Shakati exists. This misinformed narrative incited individuals to take violent measures, who were swiftly labelled as far-right extremists by much of the Western media. However, the use of politicised language obscures the hateful nature of these acts and mischaracterises the protests as mere far-right demonstrations. In reality, they represent far-right extremism, Islamophobia, and extreme levels of racism.
These extremist groups rampaged through the streets, demolishing shops, hotels, and places offering refuge to immigrants in a reckless bid to ‘send them back.’ The violence and fear-mongering soon created a climate of uncertainty and apprehension across the nation, with many feeling increasingly vulnerable in their own communities. While the far-right’s penchant for violence against immigrants and asylum seekers is
well-documented, the specifics of this case require careful verification.
The attack in Tamworth made headlines, where far-right extremists targeted a Holiday Inn housing asylum seekers. The rioters attempted to storm and set fire to the building, reflecting a broader surge in anti-immigrant violence following recent tragedies. These incidents highlight the escalating hostility towards immigrants, fuelled by disinformation and political scapegoating, echoing the UK’s troubled history with racism and xenophobia. The unrest has sparked widespread condemnation as the nation grapples with the resurgence of far-right extremism.
The rhetoric of racism
The far-right-led riots in the UK can be partly attributed to political figures and media outlets using migration as a scapegoat for broader economic failures, deflecting attention from the real issues. With the impacts of the Ukraine war and Covid-19 significantly straining the UK’s economy, some politicians have chosen to focus public attention on migration as a major problem, despite evidence to the contrary. This rhetoric has not only fuelled hostility and violence but also ignored the more pressing challenges. This framing of migrants as the cause of economic and social woes has led to a toxic environment, stoking fear and division within communities.
With the latest developments, the immigrant diaspora vividly recalls accounts of the era when “paki-bashing” was rampant, driving people of colour into their homes out of fear of being targeted in the streets.
The term “paki-bashing” first publicly emerged in 1970 in East London, a period when far-right extremists would routinely attack South Asian immigrants, especially those from Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh. These communities faced physical assaults, verbal abuse, and systemic discrimination, driven by far-right groups like the National Front. This led to a climate of fear and division, underscoring the pressing need for racial equality and protection against hate crimes.
The slur “paki” itself, originating in the UK in the 1960s, was a product of rising racial tensions and the influx of South Asian immigrants. Exploited by far-right groups, this term became a tool of oppression during the 1970s and 1980s, symbolising a broader agenda of racial hostility.
![ Protestors throw fireworks as the riots continue into the night in Liverpool on August 3, 2024. — Reuters (https://i.dawn.com/primary/2024/08/09133847ff8b9bf.jpg?r=134036)
The London Chest Hospital, where a third of the staff were people of colour, became a focal point for these attacks. One night, two South Asian employees were brutally assaulted by far-right extremists on their way to work. The Observer’s coverage of this incident was the first public mention of “paki-bashing,” likening the actions of the extremists to those of the Hitler Youth. Just days later, Tosir Ali, a 50-year-old South Asian man, was murdered by far-right extremists on his way home, a chilling escalation that made national headlines.
The murder of Altab Ali in 1978 was another tragic milestone, where the textile worker from Bangladesh, was stabbed to death in London, in a racially motivated killing. His death galvanised the local community to take a stand against racial violence. This act of brutality highlighted the pervasive nature of racism in the UK, particularly in East London, where far-right extremists and far-right elements frequently terrorised South Asians. Altab Ali’s death spurred a movement, leading to organised protests and the eventual renaming of a park in Whitechapel in his honour, serving as a stark reminder of the community’s struggle against hate.
Over the years, however, these acts of violence only became more frequent and organised, with “paki-bashing” becoming a horrifyingly common practice across the UK. In the 1970s and beyond, this form of racial violence also spread beyond the UK, with incidents reported as far as Toronto, Canada. A defining moment of this resurgence occurred when a woman in Belfast paraded the streets with her daughter, chanting “paki’s out, paki’s out,” marking a harrowing moment of racial hatred.
Is there any hope?
Today, groups like the English Defence League (EDL) — far-right, Islamophobic organisation — use Telegram and other platforms to mobilise their supporters and orchestrate mass protests against asylum centres, immigration offices, as well as mosques. These far-right factions leverage social media to propagate their divisive and inflammatory agendas.
In response to the surge in far-right violence, thousands across the UK rallied in counter-protests, showcasing their commitment to unity and tolerance. The far-right’s planned marches largely failed to materialise as counter-protesters flooded the streets in cities like London, Birmingham, and Manchester.
On August 7, thousands of protesters in London participated in a major demonstration against far-right groups. This rally was organised in response to a far-right march planned for the same day. Demonstrators shouted slogans such as “Nazis out” and “No place for hate” as they marched through central London. Over in Manchester, another anti-far-right protest too saw a significant turnout of counter-protesters opposing a far-right event. The demonstrators were vocal with chants including “Nazis out” and “Racists, get out,” reflecting a broad community rejection of far-right ideologies.
These demonstrations saw people from diverse backgrounds coming together to oppose the far-right’s xenophobic and violent rhetoric. The large turnouts underscored a collective resolve to reject hate and uphold multiculturalism, with many emphasising the need for solidarity in the face of growing extremism.
The new government faces mounting pressure, with newly elected Prime Minister Keir Starmer convening a COBRA [Cabinet Office Briefing Room] meeting and vocally denouncing any tolerance for racist rhetoric. He has proposed severe penalties, including up to 15 years in prison for rioting, violence, and hate crimes. While Starmer’s commitment to combating racism is clear, the specifics of COBRA’s deliberations and legislative proposals require confirmation from recent official statements.
The resurgence of such violent rhetoric and actions forces Britain to confront its unsettling past, casting a glaring spotlight on the persistent challenge of eradicating deeply ingrained racism and ensuring that such dark chapters are not relived.
As a first-generation immigrant who arrived in London in 2017, I am part of the contemporary wave of individuals who came to the country, seeking educational and professional opportunities. My family remains in Pakistan, and my journey is emblematic of modern migration patterns.
In the wake of last week’s violence, as a Pakistani Muslim woman, I felt utterly alienated by the nation I hold deep respect for and have found a home in. The spread and impact of disinformation as well as the hateful rhetoric amplified by media platforms and politicians have deeply frustrated not just the South Asian diaspora, but people of colour broadly.
It is heartbreaking to constantly check in with loved ones to ensure their safety and to have to inform my loved ones of my safety, while advising those in the country with me, to stay indoors due to the pervasive climate of fear. The media platforms that have contributed significantly to the spread of hate speech only deepen the sense of alienation and danger.
Yet, witnessing the anti-far-right protests and receiving heartfelt support from my friends and colleagues filled me with a profound sense of hope. It was incredibly moving to hear their expressions of solidarity and care. Despite the pervasive negativity and hatred, their actions reminded me that a far broader majority stands for humanity, unity, and strong moral values. This outpouring of support reassured me that, even in the face of deep-seated prejudice, there is a powerful and enduring commitment to kindness and solidarity.
