Racism in Football Isn’t Going Anywhere And That’s the Point

I remember when I was doing my PhD on race, gender, and foreignness in UK higher education, carrying both the weight of my research and the constant doubt of those who insisted racism was already a thing of the past. My title was dismissed by some individuals who argued that times had changed, that racism was no longer an issue. Later, I gave my final document to a white couple who were curious about my research. After reading it, they told me:

“We don’t think in five or ten years there will be racism like this. The world is changing. The younger generation is more understanding. People are less racist now.”

I told them then what I still believe today: that optimism has always existed during the civil rights movement, during Black Lives Matter and yet racism persists. It does not simply vanish with time. It mutates, it hides, but it never disappears.

I have seen this up close. From personal brushes with Thames Valley Police to the wider history of policing Black and Asian communities in places like Brixton or Manchester, the institution itself has rarely been on the frontlines of anti-racism. If anything, it has too often been the other way around. Look at where police resources go: they are deployed in force to arrest peaceful protesters standing up for Palestine, dragged away in handcuffs for exercising their right to dissent. Yet when it comes to racism in football something visible, public, and deeply corrosive where is that same urgency?

Take Saturday’(16th August) 's Premier League match between Liverpool and Bournemouth, where Antoine Semenyo was racially abused. The cameras caught it, the crowd heard it, yet the response will likely be the same as always: condemnation, a statement, maybe a ban for one or two individuals. If the police and football authorities truly wanted to eradicate racism, they could patrol stadiums, eject offenders immediately, and prosecute them as quickly as they do protesters. But they don’t. Because racism in football isn’t just about a few “bad fans.” It’s about institutions that fail to act with the seriousness it demands.

And this is not new. In the 1980s, John Barnes had bananas thrown at him on the pitch. In 2019, Raheem Sterling called out the media for its double standards in reporting on Black players compared to their white counterparts. In 2021, Marcus Rashford, Jadon Sancho, and Bukayo Saka missed penalties for England in the Euro 2020 final and were immediately targeted with racist abuse online, as though their skin colour determined their worth as Englishmen.

Outside the UK, Vinícius Júnior has become the face of this struggle in Spain. At just 25, he has endured repeated racist abuse from La Liga crowds, sometimes breaking down in tears as he asks why the authorities refuse to act decisively. Again, the pattern is the same: outrage, statements, hashtags and then silence until the next time.

Football should be joy. It should be like music, where it doesn’t matter if the artist is Black, white, or brown only that they make us feel something. Football unites people across nations: Brazilians, Argentinians, Africans, Europeans, all on the same pitch. These players are role models for millions. So why, in 2025, are we still seeing Black men attacked in stadiums?

Because this isn’t just about football. It’s systemic. As Audre Lorde reminded us: “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” We cannot expect institutions built on exclusion to suddenly dismantle themselves. Unless the police, the FA, UEFA, universities, and governments take equality seriously not in slogans, not in slick marketing campaigns, but in action then my generation, the next generation, and the one after that will still be talking about racism.

The problem isn’t just that racist fans exist. The problem is that institutions enable them. Authorities act swiftly when money is threatened point deductions for clubs in financial trouble, sanctions for ownership scandals, lawyers dispatched when sponsorship deals are at risk. But when Black players are abused? The response is slow, inconsistent, often symbolic.

Meanwhile, players are told to “rise above it,” to “ignore the abuse,” to “let their football do the talking.” But why should they have to? Why should Semenyo, Rashford, Vinícius, or any Black player carry the burden of being both athlete and activist, when the institutions that profit from their talent refuse to protect them?

Football mirrors society. And in society, racism is not an aberration it is a feature. It is baked into our policing, our schools, our media, our politics. The stadium is just another arena where it plays out loudly, visibly, in a way no one can deny.

So, when people ask me if things are getting better, I think back to that conversation during my PhD. People have always believed racism would fade with time. But time alone does not dismantle systems. Hope alone does not dismantle institutions. Action does.

Until then, football will continue to reflect the society we live in: brilliant, diverse, capable of unity but still scarred by the racism its institutions refuse to root out.

And that is the tragedy.

From Advocacy to Assimilation: When Power Silences the Voices It Once Amplified

There was a time when David Lammy felt like a beacon of hope. His voice cut through the political noise, naming racial inequalities in Britain with a clarity that was both urgent and refreshing. I remember hearing him speak about the structural barriers facing Black students in higher education. For once, it seemed someone in authority was not only listening but prepared to act.

Back then, Lammy was not just a politician he was a symbol. He embodied the possibility that those who came from communities on the margins could speak truth to power without compromise. His interventions felt like lifelines for people like me, who had grown used to being silenced, overlooked, or dismissed.

But symbols have a way of fracturing. Long before his appointment as Foreign Secretary, the signs were there. Lammy’s language grew careful, his criticisms less pointed, his willingness to confront injustice seemingly tempered by the demands of political survival. And then came the image that crystallised my disappointment: Lammy, smiling broadly alongside JD Vance at Chevening House in Kent.

Vance a figure known for his harsh, sometimes racially divisive commentary in the United States looked like an unlikely companion for a man once celebrated as a fierce advocate for equality. Yet there they were: two men in power, sharing laughter. For me, the photograph told a story far louder than Lammy’s recent speeches. It was an image of assimilation, not advocacy. Lammy’s case is not unique, and perhaps that is what makes it so dispiriting. Time and again, I have seen the same pattern repeat across politics, academia, and corporate leadership.

The trajectory often begins the same way. A figure of colour rises through the ranks by being unapologetically outspoken about systemic inequality. They win trust in their communities by naming truths others refuse to confront. They become the firebrand, the disruptor, the conscience that institutions cannot easily ignore.

But once inside the corridors of power, the urgency fades. Their rhetoric softens. The same institutions they once critiqued become the ones they now defend, or at least no longer challenge. In some cases, they even form alliances with figures who stand diametrically opposed to the values they once championed.

The result is not only personal disappointment it is political and social harm. Because when those who once raised the banner of justice fall silent, the communities they represented are left exposed, and the younger generation is left asking whether advocacy was ever more than a stepping stone.

The emotional toll of constantly justifying my presence is exhausting. It’s draining to have to explain to strangers, to acquaintances, and sometimes even to friends, why I am where I am and why I deserve to be there. This isn’t just about access it’s about dignity. It’s about feeling like my body is enough, that I am enough, without having to provide a justification for my existence.

Academia’s Gatekeepers

This dynamic is painfully visible in higher education. I recall a conversation with a prestigious fellow of colour who had secured one of the most coveted positions in the academy. When I raised ongoing issues of racism on campus, their response stunned me: “Is racism really that much of a problem?”

The question carried an air of dismissal. It was not curiosity; it was distancing. Here was someone who could have been a mentor, an ally, a voice in spaces where students of colour remain underrepresented and undervalued. Instead, the message was clear: speaking openly about racism was now inconvenient. Perhaps even career-limiting.

This is how institutions reproduce themselves. Firebrands become gatekeepers, protecting the very systems they once critiqued. Equity initiatives become watered down, diversity becomes symbolic, and structural barriers remain in place while the public image suggests progress.

The corporate world offers another stage for this quiet assimilation. Executives from underrepresented backgrounds often begin as champions of inclusion, visible role models in industries still shaped by whiteness and privilege. But once they climb the ladder, many adopt the priorities and language of majority leadership.

Diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives that once defined their advocacy are pushed to the margins. Business pragmatism replaces moral clarity. Assimilation is rebranded as professionalism. And while the boardroom may look more diverse, the lived realities of those in the lower ranks change little.

The logic is always the same: survival in these spaces requires silence or compromise. Yet the cost of that compromise is borne not by those at the top but by the communities still waiting for meaningful change.

Why does this happen so often? Part of the answer lies in the seduction of proximity to power. Being invited into spaces once closed off can feel like a victory. The trappings of influence prestige, networks, security can recalibrate priorities, making once-radical positions feel expendable.

There is also the reality of risk. Speaking too loudly about inequality from the inside can carry real consequences: stalled careers, isolation, withdrawal of institutional support. Some choose self-preservation over confrontation.

But there is also something deeper at play: the way institutions absorb dissent. When voices of colour are brought into positions of power, they are often celebrated less for their principles than for their presence. Once inside, the pressure to assimilate to prove one’s belonging by adopting the language and priorities of the majority becomes overwhelming.

The result is a cycle in which advocacy is not amplified by power but neutralised by it.

The consequences of this pattern are profound. Communities learn that advocacy may be conditional, that those who once spoke boldly may falter when it matters most. Younger generations see their role models compromised, and cynicism sets in the belief that entering positions of power inevitably means abandoning one’s community.

This cynicism is not unfounded. When politicians like Lammy embrace alliances that contradict their earlier commitments, or when academics of colour dismiss the very realities, they once named, they send a signal: the fight for equality is optional. Negotiable. Convenient only when it serves personal advancement.

And yet, the responsibility does not disappear. Leadership is not simply about personal survival it carries an obligation to those who believed in your voice, those who needed your advocacy to remain steady.

The lesson, however, is not simply to place blame on individuals who change once they ascend. The deeper issue is structural. When entire systems are built to absorb, neutralise, and silence dissent, it is inevitable that some advocates will bend.

That is why communities must be cautious about investing too much in single figures, no matter how inspiring they may seem. Hope built on individuals is fragile; hope built on collective, structural change is harder to break.

Lammy’s trajectory, like that of many others, is a cautionary tale. A reminder that power can blunt principles, and that the louder someone once spoke, the sharper the disappointment when they fall silent. But it is also a call to vigilance: that we must hold our leaders accountable, and that the work of justice cannot rest on their shoulders alone.

From politics to academia, from corporate boardrooms to government offices, the message is clear: advocacy only matters if it survives the ascent to power, otherwise, it becomes a story of potential unfulfilled, a promise surrendered, and a community’s hope deferred.

David Lammy’s image with JD Vance may fade from the headlines, but the lesson should not. We cannot allow advocacy to become a personal commodity traded for access and status. We cannot afford to let symbols substitute for substance.

Real change requires persistence. It requires voices that do not falter when inconvenient. And most of all, it requires communities willing to demand that advocacy be more than a stepping stone it must be a principle that endures, even in the corridors of power.

The Systemic Disadvantage of AI for Black Communities

Artificial intelligence (AI) is often hailed as a tool that can bring efficiency, fairness, and progress. Yet, when we dig deeper into its design, application, and impact, it’s clear that AI is not neutral. Far from it. It reflects the biases and systemic inequities of the society that created it. And, for Black communities, this means that AI is perpetuating the same cycles of disadvantage that have existed for centuries, exacerbating racial disparities rather than eliminating them.

A glaring example of this is AI in recruitment, which has been increasingly used by companies to streamline the hiring process. AI-powered tools are now deployed to assess resumes, screen candidates, and even conduct initial interviews. On the surface, this technology seems like a solution to bias in hiring a way to remove human prejudice and ensure that everyone is evaluated based on their qualifications rather than their race or background. But in practice, these systems are built on data that is inherently biased, and as a result, they often perpetuate the same racial inequalities that they were designed to fix.

Hiring algorithms are trained on historical data data that reflects the biases of past hiring practices. For decades, Black individuals have been excluded from many opportunities or relegated to lower-paying, less prestigious roles due to systemic racism and discrimination. When these AI systems are trained on that data, they are learning to value the qualifications, experiences, and backgrounds that have traditionally been associated with white candidates. As a result, AI recruitment tools often favour applicants who fit a narrow and predominantly white standard. They favour candidates from predominantly white universities, those with work experience at certain companies that are historically less diverse, and those with backgrounds that reflect traditional norms in the workforce.

The impact on Black job seekers is profound. Studies have shown that AI recruitment tools are more likely to filter out applications from Black candidates because they don’t fit the narrow criteria these algorithms are trained on. For instance, if a job requires a certain set of “preferred” experiences or qualifications that reflect historical biases such as leadership roles that are overwhelmingly white or networks built within predominantly white institutions Black candidates may find themselves excluded, even if they are equally or more qualified.

In 2018, a study by ProPublica found that predictive hiring tools used by companies in the United States were more likely to penalize Black candidates compared to white candidates, even when their resumes were identical. These systems were less likely to advance Black applicants, reinforcing the racial disparities in hiring. This doesn’t even touch on the subtler ways in which AI impacts recruitment. In some cases, AI tools assess personality traits or “fit” with company culture, often based on data from past hiring patterns. These systems tend to favour candidates who fit the existing culture of the workplace, which, in most cases, is overwhelmingly white and male. As a result, Black candidates are often deemed a “poor fit,” simply because they don’t match the traits of those who were hired before them.

This issue doesn’t just affect the initial stages of recruitment. AI is also being used to determine promotion opportunities, assess performance, and predict career trajectories. But again, these tools are trained on biased data. For example, when an AI system is used to evaluate employee performance, it may use historical data that reflects the lower starting salaries and slower career progression of Black employees. As a result, Black employees may be unfairly penalized by these systems, even though they are performing at the same level as their white counterparts.

To address this, we need stronger accountability in AI development and deployment. Companies and governments must work to ensure that AI systems are audited for bias, that they are tested against diverse datasets, and that the people developing these systems reflect the communities they are meant to serve. There needs to be a concerted effort to build technologies that actively dismantle the barriers they perpetuate, not reinforce them.

It’s also crucial that we, as a society, stop viewing AI as the solution to our problems without recognizing the potential harm it can cause when built and applied without equity in mind. If we allow AI to continue reinforcing racial disparities, we risk creating a future where these biases are even more deeply ingrained, where entire generations of Black people are systematically excluded from opportunity by a machine that is supposed to be neutral.

AI is not just a tool; it is a reflection of our values. Until we ensure that it works for everyone, it will continue to work against those who need it the most.

Britain’s Rage and the Politics of Misdirection

Britain is angry. And with good reason.

For more than a decade, wages have stagnated, rents have spiralled, and public services have been stripped back to the bone. The promises of prosperity and security that once underpinned the social contract feel increasingly hollow. The NHS strains under record waiting lists; housing has slipped beyond the reach of ordinary earners; and energy bills, food prices, and transport costs have become constant sources of anxiety. For many, the sense is not simply of decline, but of abandonment.

This anger is neither irrational nor fringe. It is the predictable consequence of political and economic choices that have favoured austerity over investment, deregulation over stability, and private profit over public welfare. Yet the energy of this collective frustration is not being channelled toward the structures that have failed so comprehensively. Instead, it is being diverted toward migrants.

I was compelled to write this after scrolling through Facebook and seeing a headline from The Independent (UK) appear between unrelated posts. I wasn’t seeking it out, I don’t read the hate stuff they write or go looking for such coverage but in just a few words, it captured how effortlessly public anger is redirected toward migrants and away from the policymakers, institutions, and systems truly responsible for the crises we face.

This redirection is not accidental. It is a deliberate political strategy one with a long history in Britain and far beyond. By encouraging the public to associate complex social crises with immigration, leaders and media outlets absolve themselves, and their policies, of blame. The slogans are familiar: “deport them,” “take back our streets,” “protect our children.” They present as moral imperatives. But beneath the urgency lies a politics of scapegoating that collapses under scrutiny.

Perhaps the most potent narrative is the claim that immigrants are responsible for rising violent crime.

High-profile cases, especially those involving violent acts by non-British nationals, are seized upon, amplified, and repeated until they appear to form a pattern.

The evidence tells a different story. Official data from the Office for National Statistics and repeated independent fact-checks show that such cases are statistical outliers. When examined in context, offending rates vary by group, by social and economic conditions, and by the specifics of local contexts. The blanket assertion that “foreigners are driving crime” is not supported by the data. It is an emotional trigger designed to conflate the actions of individuals with the character of entire communities.

A third claim

often made in the same breath as the previous one is that migrants undermine public services. Here, the contradiction is almost self-parody: the same voices that label migrants as a drain simultaneously overlook the fact that many of those services would collapse without migrant labour.

The NHS is a case in point. Nearly one in five NHS staff is a non-British national. In adult social care, agriculture, and logistics, overseas workers are equally indispensable. Removing these workers would not improve the services on which Britons rely; it would deepen the crises already straining them to breaking point. The House of Commons Library and The King’s Fund have both documented the structural nature of these shortages: they are the product of workforce planning failures, poor pay, and chronic underinvestment not immigration.

Underlying all of these claims is a more subtle one: that public perception is itself evidence. If people feel that crime is rising, or that the economy is collapsing under the weight of immigration, then it must be true.

But perceptions are shaped by what is most visible, most repeated, and most emotionally charged not necessarily by what is most common or most significant. Social media and rolling news cycles privilege stories that provoke outrage, and algorithmic amplification ensures that such stories dominate the public imagination. This does not mean that problems do not exist, but it does mean that the causes we assign to them are often filtered through distortion.

What is happening in Britain is not unique. Across the Atlantic, the United States has deployed the same playbook.

When Ronald Reagan came to power in the 1980s, he inherited an economy struggling with inflation, deindustrialisation, and wage stagnation. Rather than confronting corporate deregulation or tax cuts for the wealthy, his administration amplified fears of “illegal aliens” taking jobs and draining welfare programmes. This rhetoric persisted through the Clinton years, intensified under Trump, and remains a central plank of American right-wing politics. Yet the data has been consistent: immigrants, documented or not, commit crimes at lower rates than native-born Americans, and their labour underpins vast swathes of the U.S. economy from farm work to tech innovation.

Europe has its own versions. Margaret Thatcher’s infamous 1978 warning that Britain was being “swamped” by immigrants preceded her government’s austerity measures and industrial restructuring, which hit working-class communities hardest. In France, politicians from the far right and centre alike have linked North African immigration to social disorder, even as many of these communities supply vital labour to construction, public transport, and healthcare. In Italy, successive governments have blamed migrants arriving by boat for economic woes, despite their small proportion of the population and measurable contributions to GDP. In Hungary, Viktor Orbán’s government has used anti-immigration campaigns to deflect from corruption and democratic backsliding, painting asylum seekers as an existential threat to national identity.

The pattern is strikingly consistent: in moments of economic or political crisis, migrants become the chosen scapegoat. The formula works because it offers a simple, visible “enemy,” and because migrants, lacking political power, cannot mount a proportionate defence. The public energy that might have been mobilised toward structural reform is instead channelled into border crackdowns, deportations, and cultural hostility none of which address the underlying issues.

Learning from History: Refusing to Be Divided

The use of scapegoats in times of hardship is as old as politics itself. But history also offers a counternarrative: moments when people recognised the manipulation and turned their anger toward the real sources of their suffering.

In 1930s America, during the Great Depression, corporate and political leaders attempted to pit white and Black workers against each other in the competition for scarce jobs. But the most successful labour movements of that era from the integrated picket lines of the Congress of Industrial Organizations to local tenant unions refused that trap. They understood that division only served the bosses, and that solidarity was the only route to better wages, shorter hours, and safer conditions.

In 1970s Britain, amid economic turmoil and rising unemployment, far-right groups sought to channel public frustration into anti-immigrant violence. They met resistance from multi-racial anti-fascist coalitions like the Rock Against Racism movement and the Anti-Nazi League, which combined cultural power with street-level organising to turn the tide against scapegoating politics.

In post-war Europe, too, reconstruction succeeded where societies rejected ethnic blame games and instead focused on rebuilding infrastructure, investing in public goods, and strengthening democratic institutions.

The lesson is clear: when we are invited to believe that our neighbour is the cause of our hardship, we should ask who benefits from that belief. Division is not a side-effect of scapegoating it is the point. The more we fight each other, the less we fight the policies and interests that created the crisis in the first place.

We have been here before. And we know how to resist. It requires refusing the easy, false comfort of blaming migrants, and instead demanding accountability from those in power. It requires cross-class, cross-community alliances strong enough to challenge corporate influence, demand fair housing, secure living wages, and restore public services to the standard we all deserve.

Britain is at a crossroads. We can repeat the cycle allowing fear to be weaponised against the wrong targets or we can learn from history, fight together, and refuse to be brainwashed into turning on each other.

Why Sydney Sweeney’s Ad Isn’t Just Tone-Deaf—It’s Harmful

When I first saw Sydney Sweeney’s now-infamous American Eagle ad, I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even roll my eyes. I felt angry. The video plays on the words “genes” and “jeans,” with Sweeney a blonde-haired, blue-eyed actress saying: “Genes are passed down… eye colour, hair colour… my jeans are blue.” To some, it was “cute.” To me, as a Black person, it felt like a slap in the face.

That ad doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It exists in a world where whiteness is constantly celebrated, while Blackness our resistance, our features, our history is policed, punished, or turned into a punchline. I’m writing this not from America, but from Britain. And still, I feel the sting. Because what happens in the US rarely stays there. American whiteness is global. It sets standards that travel through advertising, fashion, celebrity culture, and social media. We consume these messages daily in the UK. We live in their aftermath. The idea of “good genes” being synonymous with whiteness, with blue eyes and blonde hair, isn’t just American it echoes through school corridors here, in casting decisions, beauty trends, and assumptions about what is “normal,” desirable, or professional.

Let’s talk about that phrase “good genes.” It’s not innocent. It’s not clever. It has a history soaked in blood. In the US, it was used to justify slavery, to promote the forced sterilisation of Black, Indigenous, and disabled people, to build systems that categorised people as “fit” or “unfit” to reproduce. Eugenics wasn’t a fringe belief it was taught in schools, endorsed by governments, and applied in law. The very foundations of American progress were shaped by beliefs about who deserved to pass on their genes and who didn’t. And the belief in genetic superiority didn’t stop in the US. It found deadly expression in Nazi Germany, where “good genes” came to mean white skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. That ideology killed millions Jews, Roma, disabled people, and others who didn’t fit the violent, narrow idea of purity.

In 2025, we now have a white actress in a denim campaign laughing about “genes” as a marketing gimmick. It’s not clever wordplay. It’s erasure. It’s the rebranding of historical violence into a fashion campaign. What she says and what her whiteness represents does not exist outside of this context. Especially when we know it’s not her first brush with controversy. In 2022, Sweeney faced backlash when her family hosted a MAGA-themed party, complete with Blue Lives Matter gear and Trump merchandise. She didn’t engage the criticism. Her fans rushed to defend her, insisting she shouldn’t be punished for her family’s views. But silence is never neutral especially when you benefit from what that silence protects.

Now we’ve learned she’s a registered Republican voter in Florida a state that has become synonymous with voter suppression, anti-Black legislation, and attacks on LGBTQ+ and immigrant communities. These aren't distant political choices they’re active alignments. Whether conscious or not, they signal something. And when the backlash to this ad came, Sweeney said nothing. No reflection. No accountability. She didn’t have to. Because whiteness shields her from consequence. Black celebrities don’t get that grace. We speak out, we’re “angry.” We challenge something, we’re “too political.” We misstep, we’re cancelled. But Sweeney? She gets a stock bump. More brand deals.

After the ad went viral, American Eagle’s stock rose 20%. Not because the jeans were spectacular but because controversy sells. Donald Trump praised Sydney Sweeney. Senator Ted Cruz reposted the ad, calling it “brilliant.” These are people who’ve spent their careers dismissing racial justice, mocking Black pain, and actively working to dismantle equity. And they love this ad. That should tell us everything. They see themselves in it. They see a world where whiteness is unchallenged, where nostalgia for “better times” can be smuggled in through a pretty face and a pun. It’s comfort food for white fragility. It’s a nod to supremacy wrapped in denim.

This isn’t just about Sweeney. It’s about the systems that allow white celebrities to dance on the edges of racism, profit from it, and retreat. Meanwhile, the rest of us carry the fallout. We feel the weight. We know what “good genes” has meant for our communities. We know how our features our hair, our skin, our names have been held against us. And we’re not being sensitive. We’re being honest.

This ad hurt because it reminded us, once again, that our trauma is considered marketable. Our histories are punchlines. Our bodies are never the standard, only the target. It hurt because we know what it means to be told, again and again, that we’re not the ones with “good genes.” That our beauty, our bloodlines, our survival are always somehow less than. It hurt because it keeps happening, and they keep getting away with it.

I thought about my own ancestors. Stolen. Enslaved. Silenced. Sterilised. Erased. I thought about how they never got to celebrate their genes. How they were told they were a threat, not a legacy. And then I thought about how white features thin lips, blonde hair, blue eyes are praised, replicated, made profitable, while ours are shamed or appropriated. We’re told to be quiet, to move on. But I won’t.

This essay is my refusal to be silent. It’s my declaration that this kind of harm cannot be allowed to pass unchallenged, just because it was dressed up in denim. I will not support brands that exploit Black pain for profit. I will not idolise celebrities who align themselves—directly or indirectly—with systems that harm my people. I will not be gaslit into believing that racism is ever just a joke.

If you’ve felt the same way angry, tired, unseen you’re not alone. You’re not overreacting. You’re living in a world where harm is often aestheticised and history is conveniently forgotten. But we remember. We carry the weight. We keep speaking truth. And we refuse to let it be repackaged as entertainment.

This isn’t just about an ad. It’s about power. It’s about whose genes are celebrated. Whose pain is ignored. And who gets to profit off the bodies and histories of others.

Who Fights for Us? The Forgotten Disabled Voices

As a Black, female wheelchair user in the UK, I live a life filled with constant obstacles—visible and invisible. In this so-called age of inclusion and progress, my everyday reality often feels stuck in the dark ages, as if society still views disability as a curse to be hidden away.

We talk endlessly about diversity and inclusion, about smashing glass ceilings for women and racial minorities. But where is the same energy for disability? Where is the urgency to address the systemic barriers that keep so many of us excluded from the workforce, public spaces, and even conversations about equality? We are the forgotten ones, marginalized within marginalized groups.

The Barriers We Face

Heavy Doors and Broken Promises

Let’s start with something as simple as a door. For wheelchair users, heavy, inaccessible doors are often the first indication that we are not welcome. And it doesn’t stop there. Workplaces claim to be “inclusive,” but once you get through the door—if you can—you find a host of other obstacles.

Managers have no clue about disability or how to support disabled employees. They bury us in unnecessary paperwork, often more about ticking boxes than taking meaningful action. Accessibility audits? Policies? They exist on paper but are rarely implemented on the ground.

Invitations Without Inclusion

Recently, I was invited to the House of Commons by a lawyer friend to discuss the policing of BME people in the UK. It should have been an incredible opportunity to share my perspective and be part of an important conversation. But the room booked for the meeting wasn’t wheelchair-accessible. Imagine that—a discussion on equality and inclusion in one of the most prominent institutions in the country, and I couldn’t even attend.

How can we expect progress when change isn’t modelled from the top? Accessibility must begin at the highest levels of government and filter down. Otherwise, all we have is a piece of legislation gathering dust

The Invisible Bias

Even when you get the job, the barriers don’t disappear. As a Black disabled woman, I face multiple layers of discrimination. Employers may claim to value diversity, but the truth is they often see disability as a liability. The whispers, the side glances, the unspoken assumptions—they’re constant. And when managers don’t understand disability, it leaves us stuck in a system that fails to support or uplift us.

The Legislation That Isn’t Working

The Equality Act is supposed to protect us, but what good is legislation if it isn’t enforced? Employers get away with ignoring accessibility requirements because there are no real consequences. They talk about being inclusive, but without action, their words are hollow.

What Needs to Change

1. Government Leadership

Change must start from the top. Parliament and government institutions must lead by example by ensuring that every building, meeting room, and process is fully accessible. If the House of Commons can’t get it right, what hope is there for the rest of society?

2. Enforce the Equality Act

We need stronger enforcement of accessibility laws, with penalties for non-compliance. Employers must be held accountable for failing to create truly inclusive work environments.

3. Accessible Workplaces

Physical Accessibility: No more heavy doors, poorly designed lifts, or inaccessible meeting rooms. Accessibility should be a basic standard, not an afterthought.

4. Disability Training for Managers

Employers need to educate their leadership teams. Managers must understand disability—not as an inconvenience, but as an essential part of building a diverse, thriving workplace.

Employers need to educate their leadership teams. Managers must understand disability—not as an inconvenience, but as an essential part of building a diverse, thriving workplace.

5. Representation in Decision-Making

Disabled voices must be included at every level of decision-making. It’s not enough to consult us; we need to be in the room, shaping policies and driving change.

6. Quotas for Disability

Race and gender quotas exist, but what about disability? If employers truly care about inclusion, they must set targets for hiring and promoting disabled employees, backed by meaningful support.

A Cry for Inclusion

This is my story, but it’s not just mine. It’s the story of countless disabled people who are excluded, dismissed, and forgotten. We are not asking for pity or special treatment. We are asking for equality, for accessibility, for the opportunity to contribute without having to fight every step of the way.

If no one fights for us, who will? Change must come from above, or we will remain trapped in a system that sees us as an afterthought. We are not invisible. We are here, and we deserve better.

Decolonising the Mind in the Digital Age: Reclaiming Truth from the Junk Food of Misinformation

We live in an age of cognitive clutter. Our minds, once colonized by the imposed languages and histories of empire, are now bombarded by a new invader: the algorithmic chaos of social media. Far-right conspiracy theories, climate denialism, and xenophobic lies spread faster than facts, their toxicity amplified by platforms designed to profit from our outrage. This isn’t just “fake news”—it’s digital colonialism, a 21st-century extension of the mental subjugation Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o warned us about in Decolonising the Mind.

The parallels are uncanny. Colonial powers weaponized education and language to erase Indigenous cultures; today’s tech empires weaponize engagement algorithms to erase critical thinking. Where missionaries once burned sacred texts, influencers now peddle hashtags that reduce complex truths to memes. But just as Ngũgĩ urged Kenyans to reclaim Gĩkũyũ storytelling, we too can resist this new frontier of mental colonization—by decluttering our minds, recalibrating our attention, and rebuilding our relationship with truth.

The Colonial Playbook, Repackaged

Colonialism was never just about land or resources. Its most enduring violence was epistemological: the systematic erasure of local knowledge, languages, and ways of seeing. British colonizers in India burned Sanskrit manuscripts, dismissing them as “primitive.” French colonizers in Algeria replaced Arabic with Parisian French in schools, framing Berber traditions as backward. These acts of cultural arson weren’t incidental—they were strategic. A people stripped of their stories, Ngũgĩ argued, become prisoners of someone else’s narrative.

Today, the arsonists wear hoodies and work in Silicon Valley. Social media platforms, like colonial schools, are factories of mental conditioning. They don’t burn books; they drown them in noise. Algorithms feed us a diet of sensationalism and spite, privileging lies that provoke over truths that heal. A 2023 MIT study found misinformation spreads six times faster than factual content—not because we’re gullible, but because platforms reward emotional virality, not accuracy.

The far right understands this better than anyone. White supremacists repackage colonial myths like the “Great Replacement” theory into TikTok skits. Hindu nationalists flood WhatsApp with AI-generated voice notes vilifying Muslims as “invaders.” These lies aren’t random—they’re modern-day cultural bombs, detonating solidarity and rewriting history in real time.

Ngũgĩ wrote that colonialism sought to “control… the entire realm of the imagination.” Today, that realm is your Instagram feed. Tech giants mine our attention like colonial powers mined gold, extracting data to fuel an economy of outrage. The average user scrolls 300 meters of content daily—a cognitive marathon where truth competes with celebrity gossip, partisan rants, and ads for weight-loss tea.

This isn’t an accident. It’s by design. Colonialism thrived on fragmentation; so does the attention economy. When our focus is fractured, we lose the capacity for nuance. We share headlines we haven’t read, retweet threads we haven’t fact-checked, and absorb narratives crafted to keep us addicted. The result? A populace too overwhelmed to question why Facebook allowed Myanmar’s military to incite genocide—or why Elon Musk reinstated 61,000 banned accounts, many tied to extremism, within weeks of buying Twitter

Decluttering the Mind: A Survival Guide

Decolonising the mind in 2025 isn’t about burning your smartphone or swearing off English. It’s about rebuilding cognitive sovereignty—the right to choose what occupies your mental space. Here’s how to start:

Audit Your Information Diet

Treat your social feeds like a colonial archive: question who controls the narrative. Unfollow accounts that traffic in perpetual outrage (e.g., “THEY’RE DESTROYING OUR COUNTRY!”). Mute keywords hijacked by extremists (“freedom,” “tradition”). Follow historians like @NataliaNatalia7 (Indigenous climate justice) and @BlackAtlas (African diasporic history).

Relearn How to Read Slowly Colonial education prized rote memorization; decolonized thinking prizes critical interrogation. When you encounter a viral claim, ask Ngũgĩ’s questions: - Who benefits if I believe this? - What voices are missing?

Reclaim Oral Traditions

Before colonizers imposed written languages, communities relied on oral storytelling—a practice that demanded dialogue, not passive consumption. Revive this digitally: - Join a virtual “truth circle” to dissect news stories. - Listen to podcasts like The Red Nation(Indigenous perspectives) or Echoes of the Ancestors (African epistemologies).

Starve the Algorithms

Engagement is the currency of misinformation. Break the cycle: - Use ad blockers to defund clickbait farms. - Spend 10 minutes daily on apps which prioritize depth over dopamine hits. - Boycott platforms that amplify hate (e.g., Truth Social, Gab).

Decolonisation is not a one-time purge but a daily practice—a commitment to nourishing our minds with stories that heal rather than harm. This means amplifying the Palestinian poet who tweets her resistance in Arabic, the Māori elder who streams land rights lectures on Twitch, and the Dalit feminist who counters casteist lies with Substack essays.

It also means demanding more from tech giants. Why does Instagram flag #StopGenocide posts as “sensitive” while promoting anti-vax memes? The answers lie in the same power imbalances Ngũgĩ exposed: colonial logic, repackaged as code.

Ngũgĩ’s greatest lesson was that decolonising the mind is an act of love—love for languages silenced, histories erased, and futures stolen. Today, that love requires us to log off autopilot and rewire our digital lives.

Imagine a world where we curate feeds as intentionally as we curate playlists. Where we measure our worth not in likes, but in our capacity to hold complexity. Where we reject the junk food of misinformation for the slow-cooked truths of our ancestors.

This isn’t naivety; it’s resistance. As Ngũgĩ wrote: “The oppressed, having lived through a history of humiliation, have a collective memory to reclaim.” Let’s reclaim it—one scroll, one fact-check, one story at a time.

Further Resources

Algorithms of Oppression by Safiya Umoja Noble – Exposes search engines’ racial biases

The Right to Be Cold by Sheila Watt-Cloutier – Inuit wisdom for the climate crisis.

Twitter and Tear Gas by Zeynep Tufekci – A blueprint for digital resistance.

Turn your attention into action. The mind liberated is the first frontier of revolution.

The Hidden Faces of Race and Gender in the Digital Age: Who’s Really Behind the Keyboard?

The internet is like a giant digital jungle. It's vibrant, ever-changing, and filled with possibilities. But behind the neon lights and the infinite scroll, there lurks a darker side—a world where people can hide their true identities behind screens, unleashing toxic behaviour without fear of consequence. It’s the anonymity that empowers this, allowing people to say things they would never dare utter face-to-face. And when it comes to race and gender, this facelessness is a breeding ground for some of the most harmful, damaging rhetoric.

We’ve all been there—scrolling through Twitter or Facebook, minding our business, when a comment or a post stops us cold. It’s a racial slur, a sexist remark, or a disgusting stereotype. And it's coming from someone who you can't even see, can't confront, and can't report with the ease that would come in person. This is the dark underbelly of online anonymity, where racism and sexism can run wild, unchecked. The lack of a face behind the words strips the person of their humanity, making it all too easy to disregard the hurt they’re causing.

This digital anonymity shields the worst of us. People who would never walk up to someone in real life and spew hatred feel emboldened online. They get to hide behind a fake name or avatar, disconnected from the consequences of their actions. And for people of colour—especially Black, Indigenous, and Asian folks—the attacks aren’t just occasional. They're constant. In these spaces, people of colour can be reduced to nothing more than stereotypes, often facing a barrage of racist comments that make it clear: their humanity is up for debate.

But it’s not just racism we’re dealing with here. It’s the way the internet has become a warzone for women. And when race and gender collide? The damage is multiplied. The digital world doesn’t just target women; it targets women who are seen—who speak out, who challenge the status quo. For women, the internet often feels like a place where their voices are silenced with one hand while their bodies are objectified with the other. And behind all of it? The beautiful, ugly shield of anonymity.

Online harassment takes a gendered form that’s often far more disturbing than anything most men will experience. Women are constantly bombarded with degrading comments, unsolicited sexual advances, and threats. And these attacks aren’t just coming from faceless people—they’re coming from the same society that has long tried to silence women in the physical world. In digital spaces, though, these men have found a place to speak without fear of immediate consequence. It’s easy to hurl insults or threats when you don’t have to look someone in the eye.

Now, think about the double whammy for women of colour. Black women, in particular, face not just the usual sexist abuse, but also a compounded racialized hatred. Their opinions are often dismissed or twisted into anger or hostility, simply because of the way they look or the way they speak. They’re not just “angry women”—they’re “angry Black women,” or “hostile Black women.” This is where the intersection of race and gender plays out in the digital realm in a particularly toxic way.

This isn’t just about harassment for harassment’s sake. This is about silencing voices—about making people feel invisible, unsafe, or unworthy of space in the digital world. But here's the thing: it doesn't have to be this way. The internet can be a place for empowerment. It can be a platform for marginalized voices, for women and people of colour to rise and speak up in ways we never could before. But it needs to be a safer, more accountable space.

Platforms need to stop hiding behind weak moderation policies. They need to do more than just flag harmful comments—they need to create real, lasting accountability. No more allowing people to get away with this kind of behaviour under the guise of “freedom of speech.” We’re past that. We need a digital culture shift, and it starts with real action.

And it’s not just on the platforms. We all have a role to play here. We can’t just sit idly by while people are harassed or silenced. It’s time to start amplifying the voices that are being crushed under the weight of hate. We need to support those who are targeted, whether that means calling out harmful comments, reporting abuse, or standing up for marginalized voices in our own communities. Change starts with each one of us.

So the question remains: what kind of internet do we want to create? A place where we hide behind faceless hate, or one where we own our words, stand by our actions, and make space for everyone, no matter their race or gender? The power to change the narrative is in our hands—we are the ones who can stop this cycle of abuse. We just have to choose to do it.

Thank you for reading. Please share and leave comments

Is America Erasing Black History—And More—by Abolishing DEI?

An Observer’s View from the UK From across the Atlantic, it’s hard not to watch what’s happening in the United States with a sense of unease. As an observer from the UK, I’ve always regarded DEI—Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion—not as a threat to democracy or tradition, but as a mechanism for healing, representation, and justice. Yet now, in state after state, and even at the federal level, America is aggressively rolling back DEI programs. And with that rollback comes something far more sinister: the erasure of history, identity, and progress.

In the past year alone, we’ve seen tangible consequences. The U.S. Department of Education has removed DEI language from its websites. The National Park Service quietly scrubbed Harriet Tubman and explicit references to slavery from its Underground Railroad pages, replacing them with watered-down themes of “cooperation.” Books like I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings have been pulled from libraries. This isn’t just bureaucratic reshuffling—it’s the sanitization of truth.

And it doesn’t stop with Black history. The abolition of DEI frameworks has also cast a long shadow over gender equality and trans rights. Programs supporting LGBTQ+ students and staff have been quietly dismantled or defunded. In some states, educational content about gender identity has been banned outright from classrooms. Teachers are afraid to even mention the word "trans." It’s not just policy that’s being erased—it’s lives, stories, and futures.

To someone looking in from the outside, this wave of anti-DEI legislation appears less about governance and more about control—about suppressing narratives that don’t conform to a narrow, nostalgic version of America. A version that centres whiteness, patriarchy, and heteronormativity as the standard, and treats anything outside of that as a threat.

Let’s be honest: DEI was never perfect. But it provided a foundation—a starting point—for addressing the deep, systemic injustices woven into American institutions. Its dismantling sends a chilling message, especially to young people from marginalized communities: that their stories don’t matter, that their identities are not valid, and that their history is negotiable.

Here in the UK, we are far from innocent. Our own debates over history, race, and identity are ongoing and often contentious. But watching the U.S.—a country that so loudly proclaims itself the land of the free—silence those very freedoms is deeply concerning.

What’s being lost isn’t just funding or policies. It’s memory. It’s truth. It’s the chance to build a more inclusive and honest society.

The question we should all be asking now is: if the United States can so quickly unravel decades of progress, who’s next? And what will we do to ensure we don’t follow the same path?

How Can Workplaces Truly Embrace Neurodiversity? A Policy-Driven and Supportive Approach

Neurodiversity refers to the natural variations in human brain function and cognition, encompassing conditions such as autism, ADHD, dyslexia, and other neurological differences. While awareness of neurodiversity is increasing, many workplaces still struggle with creating genuinely inclusive environments. A neurodiverse workforce enhances creativity, innovation, and problem-solving. Neurodivergent individuals often bring unique strengths, such as heightened attention to detail, strong pattern recognition, and unconventional thinking. However, many traditional workplace structures create unintentional barriers that limit the full potential of neurodivergent employees. Understanding neurodiversity requires more than just policies—it demands active efforts to create workplaces that value diverse cognitive styles.

Real Challenges Neurodivergent Employees Face

Many neurodivergent employees encounter obstacles that make it difficult to thrive professionally. Here are some of the most pressing challenges and how they impact individuals:

Unclear Communication and Workplace Norms

Many workplace expectations, such as reading between the lines, unspoken social cues, or indirect feedback, can be difficult for neuro-divergent employees to navigate.

Sensory Overload: Bright lights, loud noises, open office layouts, and frequent interruptions can lead to anxiety and decreased productivity.

Unfair Hiring and Promotion Practices: Traditional interviews often favour neurotypical candidates who excel in social interactions. Neurodivergent applicants may struggle with interviews but excel in hands-on work.

Lack of Adjustments and Support: Many employers fail to provide reasonable accommodations such as flexible work arrangements, assistive technology, or clear instructions tailored to different cognitive styles.

Actionable Strategies for Employers

Employers have the power to create workplaces where neurodivergent employees can succeed. Here’s how:

Rethink Hiring Practices

Offer alternative assessment methods, such as work trials or skill-based evaluations, rather than relying solely on traditional interviews.

Provide interview questions in advance to help neurodivergent candidates prepare.

Create a Sensory-Friendly Workplace

Offer quiet workspaces or noise-cancelling headphones.

Provide flexible lighting options and reduce unnecessary background noise.

Encourage Flexible Work Arrangements

Allow remote work options, flexible hours, or task-based performance evaluations instead of rigid schedules.

Enable employees to work in ways that suit their cognitive styles.

Educate and Train Managers and Teams

Provide neurodiversity awareness training to help managers and colleagues understand and support neurodivergent employees.

Normalize discussions about different working styles and communication preferences.

Go Beyond Compliance—Foster Inclusion

Ensure that company policies align with disability rights legislation (such as the Equality Act 2010 in the UK)

Set up neurodiversity employee resource groups to provide peer support and advocacy.

Practical Advice for Neurodivergent Employe

If you are neurodivergent and facing workplace challenges, here are some ways to navigate them:

Advocate for Yourself: If possible, communicate your preferred working style and any accommodations that would help you perform better.

Seek Mentorship and Support Groups: Connecting with other neurodivergent professionals can provide valuable insights and encouragement

Use Assistive Tools: Many apps and tools can help with organization, time management, and sensory regulation. Explore options like text-to-speech software, noise-cancelling apps, or structured task planners.

Educate Your Workplace: If you feel comfortable, share resources or request neurodiversity training for your team to foster understanding.

Building a Future of True Inclusion

Supporting neurodiversity in the workplace is not just about compliance—it’s about valuing and leveraging diverse perspectives. Companies that actively embrace neurodiversity experience higher innovation, stronger team dynamics, and increased employee satisfaction. By implementing thoughtful policies and fostering understanding, businesses can create a culture where all employees, neurodivergent or neurotypical, can thrive.

Let’s move beyond awareness and into action—one workplace at a time. I shudder to think of the challenges they face in developing countries

The Danger of Conspiracy Theories and the Spread of Hate: A Personal Encounter

The moment someone you think you know reveals a deeply ingrained prejudice, it feels like the ground beneath you shifts. It’s disorienting, frightening, and deeply unsettling. This is exactly what happened to me when a person I had invited into my home to help me with my blog casually dropped a series of anti-Semitic remarks, cloaked in the language of “research” and conspiracy theories. What made it even more shocking was that this individual was educated—a white British man in his early 40s with a degree in law. His words were not just hateful; they were a stark reminder of how misinformation, conspiracy theories, and miseducation can fuel division, fear, and hatred. The conversation took a dark turn when he claimed, “Jews run the world, especially America, and control the rest of the world.” He insisted that he had done “research,” though I knew such “research” likely came from dubious websites and echo chambers that perpetuate harmful stereotypes and conspiracy theories. What struck me most was the certainty with which he spoke, as if his beliefs were indisputable facts. He even added, “Everyone is equal except the Jews,” a statement so contradictory and hateful that it left me speechless. But his bigotry didn’t stop there. Before launching into his anti-Semitic tirade, he had scanned my blog and taken issue with my use of the word “Black” and my discussions of racial inequality. He told me I should “take away the word Black” and accused non-white people of “always playing the victim card.” Then, in a stunning display of projection, he called *me* a racist and claimed I was “full of rage.” The irony was not lost on me—here was a man spewing hateful rhetoric, yet he had the audacity to accuse *me* of being divisive. This was my first direct encounter with such blatant anti-Semitism and racism, and it shook me to my core. Here was someone who, on the surface, seemed rational and educated, yet harbored deeply divisive and hateful views. It was a chilling reminder that prejudice knows no boundaries—it can exist in anyone, regardless of their background, education, or profession. The Role of Conspiracy Theories and Misinformation Conspiracy theories like the ones this individual repeated are not harmless. They are dangerous. They dehumanize entire groups of people, reduce complex global systems to simplistic and false narratives, and create an “us versus them” mentality. The idea that Jews “control the world” is one of the oldest and most pernicious anti-Semitic tropes in history. It has been used for centuries to justify discrimination, violence, and genocide. Hearing it repeated in my own home, by someone I had trusted, was horrifying. What makes these conspiracy theories so effective is their ability to prey on fear and uncertainty. They offer a false sense of clarity in a complicated world, providing scapegoats for societal problems. But this clarity comes at a devastating cost: the erosion of empathy, the spread of hatred, and the perpetuation of division.

The Hypocrisy of Selective Equality

The individual’s claim that “everyone is equal except the Jews” was particularly jarring. It revealed the hypocrisy and irrationality at the heart of his beliefs. Equality is not a conditional principle—it cannot be applied selectively. To say that one group is exempt from the rights and respect afforded to others is to undermine the very foundation of justice and human dignity. This selective equality is a hallmark of bigotry. It allows the perpetrator to maintain a self-image of fairness and rationality while justifying their prejudice. It’s a way of saying, “I’m not a bad person, but…”—a phrase that has been used to excuse countless acts of discrimination and violence throughout history.

I won’t lie—I was scared. Not just because of the hateful words themselves, but because of what they represented. This encounter was a stark reminder of how easily hate can spread, especially in an age where misinformation and conspiracy theories are just a click away. It also highlighted the importance of education—not just formal education, but the kind that teaches critical thinking, empathy, and the value of diversity. Challenging this individual in my home was terrifying. His tone was aggressive, and his beliefs were so deeply entrenched that any attempt to reason with him felt futile. In the end, I told him to leave. It was the only way to protect my own peace and safety. But the encounter left me shaken, a reminder of how dangerous and pervasive hate can be.

A call to Action

This experience has left me more determined than ever to use my blog as a platform for promoting understanding and combating hate. We cannot afford to be silent in the face of bigotry. Silence only empowers those who seek to divide us. Instead, we must speak out, share our stories, and challenge harmful beliefs wherever we encounter them. To anyone who has experienced something similar, I urge you not to let fear silence you. Share your story. Challenge the hate. And to those who harbour such prejudices, I ask you to reflect on the harm your beliefs cause—not just to others, but to yourself. Hatred is a heavy burden to carry, and it only isolates you from the richness of a diverse and interconnected world. In the words of Elie Wiesel, a Holocaust survivor and Nobel laureate, “We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” Let us all take a stand against hate, in all its forms, and work toward a world where equality is not just a principle, but a practice. Thank you for reading, and for joining me in this important conversation.

The Term "Woke’’ and how many people don't even know its origin

The term "woke" originates from African American Vernacular English (AAVE) and initially referred to being aware of social and political issues, particularly those related to racial injustice. Its earliest usage can be traced back to the mid-20th century. For example, in 1962, African American novelist William Melvin Kelley used the phrase "stay woke" in an article titled "If You’re Woke, You Dig It" to describe being socially and politically conscious (Kelley, 1962).

The term gained broader prominence during the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement, which began in 2013 after the acquittal of Trayvon Martin's killer. Activists used "woke" to encourage people to remain vigilant about systemic racism and police brutality (Richardson, 2020). The phrase "stay woke" became a rallying cry for those advocating for racial justice and equality.

Evolution of "Woke" in Popular Culture

Over time, the term "woke" expanded beyond its original context and entered mainstream discourse. It began to encompass a broader range of social justice issues, including gender equality, LGBTQ+ rights, and environmental justice. By the mid-2010s, "woke" was being used to describe individuals or organizations that were perceived as socially aware or progressive (Oxford English Dictionary, 2017).

However, as the term gained popularity, it also became a subject of criticism and debate. Some argue that "woke" has been co-opted and diluted, losing its original meaning and becoming a buzzword or marketing tool (Smith, 2019). Others criticize it as a form of performative activism, where individuals or corporations signal their support for social justice causes without taking meaningful action

How "Woke" is Being Used to Attack Social Justice

In recent years, "woke" has been co-opted by conservative politicians and commentators as a shorthand to critique progressive ideologies and social justice initiatives. For example, in America, Florida Governor Ron DeSantis has repeatedly used the term to attack policies related to critical race theory (CRT), diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs, and LGBTQ+ rights. In 2022, DeSantis signed the "Stop WOKE Act," which restricts how race and gender can be discussed in schools and workplaces, framing such discussions as divisive and harmful (Smith, 2022).

Similarly, figures like Tucker Carlson and Ben Shapiro have used "woke" as a catch-all term to disparage progressive movements, labelling them as elitist, authoritarian, or out of touch with mainstream values (López, 2023). This rhetorical strategy often portrays "wokeness" as a threat to free speech, traditional values, and national unity.

But, what Brought the Attacks on "Woke"

The backlash against "woke" can be attributed to several factors:

1. Cultural and Political Polarization

The rise of social justice movements like Black Lives Matter, #MeToo, and climate activism has intensified cultural divides. For many conservatives, "woke" represents a progressive agenda that challenges established norms and power structures, leading to resistance (Taylor, 2021).

2. Perceived Overreach: Critics argue that "woke culture" has gone too far, leading to cancel culture, where individuals or organizations are publicly shamed or boycotted for perceived offenses. This has fuelled concerns about censorship and the erosion of free speech (McWhorter, 2021).

3. Political Strategy: Attacking "wokeness" has become a rallying cry for conservative politicians seeking to mobilize their base. By framing progressive policies as extreme or dangerous, they position themselves as defenders of traditional values and common sense (Richardson, 2023).

4. Media Amplification: Conservative media outlets have played a significant role in amplifying the anti-woke narrative. By sensationalizing incidents of cancel culture or controversial DEI initiatives, they have reinforced the perception that "wokeness" is a pervasive and harmful force (Versey, 2022)

Implications of the Anti-Woke Backlash

The attacks on "woke" have had significant consequences for social justice movements and public discourse:

1. Policy Rollbacks: Anti-woke rhetoric has led to legislative efforts to restrict the teaching of CRT, limit LGBTQ+ rights, and defund DEI programs. These policies disproportionately affect marginalized communities and hinder progress toward equity (Smith, 2022).

2. Erosion of Dialogue: The polarization surrounding "woke" has made it harder to have constructive conversations about race, gender, and inequality. Critics and proponents often talk past each other, deepening divisions (López, 2023).

3. Stifling Activism: The backlash has created a chilling effect, discouraging individuals and organizations from advocating for social justice out of fear of being labelled "woke" or facing retaliation (Taylor, 2021).Unfortunately this is not only an American issue.

The UK’s Adoption of Anti-Woke Rhetoric

The UK has seen a rise in anti-"woke" sentiment, particularly among conservative politicians, media outlets, and some public figures. This mirrors the rhetoric seen in the US, though it is often adapted to the UK’s specific cultural and political landscape. Key examples include:

1. Political Figures: UK Prime Minister Rishi Sunak and other Conservative Party members have criticized "woke" policies, particularly in education and public institutions. For instance, Sunak has spoken out against what he describes as the "rewriting of history" in schools, particularly in relation to discussions of Britain’s colonial past (BBC, 2023).

2. Media Outlets: British media, particularly right-leaning outlets like The Daily Telegraph and The Sun, have amplified anti-"woke" narratives. These outlets often frame "wokeness" as a threat to British values, free speech, and national identity (Jones, 2022).

3. Cultural Debates: The UK has seen heated debates over issues like critical race theory (CRT), gender identity, and cancel culture, which are often framed as "woke" impositions. For example, the controversy over the removal of statues linked to colonialism, such as the toppling of Edward Colston’s statue in Bristol, has been labelled as "woke extremism" by critics (Guardian, 2021).

The UK’s adoption of anti-"woke" rhetoric can be attributed to several factors, many of which are influenced by developments in the US:

1. Transatlantic Influence: The close cultural and political ties between the US and the UK mean that ideas and rhetoric often cross the Atlantic. The US’s highly polarized debates over "wokeness" have been imported into the UK through media coverage, social media, and political discourse (Smith, 2023).

2. Shared Conservative Ideology: Conservative parties in both countries share similar ideological foundations, including a focus on preserving traditional values and resisting perceived overreach by progressive movements. The anti-"woke" narrative aligns with these values and serves as a unifying theme for conservative voters (Taylor, 2022).

3. Backlash Against Social Justice Movements: Just as in the US, the UK has seen a backlash against movements like Black Lives Matter and LGBTQ+ rights activism by far right movements. Critics argue that these movements promote divisive ideologies and undermine national unity, leading to a rejection of "wokeness" (Richardson, 2023).

The anti-"woke" backlash in the UK has had significant consequences for social justice movements and public discourse:

1. Policy Impact: The UK government has introduced measures to limit the influence of "woke" ideologies, such as restricting the teaching of CRT in schools and opposing gender-neutral language in public institutions. These policies have been criticized for stifling important conversations about race, gender, and inequality (BBC, 2023).

2. Polarization: The anti-"woke" rhetoric has deepened cultural and political divides in the UK, making it harder to have constructive discussions about systemic inequalities. This polarization is evident in debates over issues like Brexit, immigration, and national identity (Guardian, 2021).

3. Chilling Effect on Activism: The backlash has created a hostile environment for activists and organizations advocating for social justice. Many fear being labelled "woke" or facing public backlash, which can deter them from speaking out (Taylor, 2022).

The anti-"woke" rhetoric in the UK is closely linked to developments in the US, reflecting the transatlantic exchange of ideas and shared conservative ideologies. While the UK has its own unique context, the influence of US debates over "wokeness" has shaped British discourse and policy in significant ways. As in the US, the backlash against "wokeness" in the UK has implications for social justice movements, public discourse, and the broader struggle for equality.

Know your facts!!

References

1. BBC. (2023). "Rishi Sunak Criticises 'Woke' Rewriting of History in Schools." BBC News.

2. Jones, O. (2022). "The UK’s Anti-Woke Backlash: How US Rhetoric Crossed the Atlantic." *The Guardian.*

3. Guardian. (2021). "Edward Colston Statue Toppling: A Symbol of Woke Extremism or Justice?" *The Guardian.*

4. Smith, J. (2023). "Transatlantic Woke Wars: How US Debates Shape UK Politics." *Journal of Political Communication, 40*(2), 145-160.

5. Taylor, K. (2022). *The Backlash Against Wokeness in the UK: Causes and Consequences.* Cambridge University Press.

6. Richardson, E. (2023). "The UK’s Anti-Woke Movement: A Critical Analysis." *British Journal of Sociology, 74*(1), 89-112.