The rise of the UK far-right: Pending pogroms or a passing wave?

Ever since the racist, far-right outpouring in the UK this August, several people have come up to me and asked, "How bad was it back in the day?"

What they're referring to are the 1970s and the 1980s, a time when Blacks and Asians had to fight a sea of fascist violence on the streets and institutional racism at work. 

Every day, before leaving the house, I double-checked if I had my knife in my pocket — a precaution many of us were forced to take.  

But unlike the recent far-right riots — which viciously exploited the murder of three little girls in Southport — back then, when I walked through a major city centre, I was never as frightened as I was a couple of months ago as I walked through a northern city. 

This summer, racists revealed themselves up and down the UK. They set buildings ablaze, rampaged through streets, and attacked Muslims — as well as those who looked like Muslims — all because they were enraged by murders falsely attributed to a Muslim asylum seeker. But this lie didn't matter to them, of course. Their target was premeditated.

In the 1970s and 1980s, coming home at night — especially after the pubs had closed — was a dangerous endeavour. Only the foolhardy walked alone in certain areas. 

This was the era of 'Paki Bashing', where white youths, sometimes drunk, would hunt us down on the streets. I lived through and fought this wave of violence in Bradford, and my city was not unique, neither in the violence it endured nor in its measures of resistance. 

'Paki' didn't just mean Pakistani; it was a slur used against Arabs, Latin Americans, Chinese people, Africans, and Indians — much like the 'Muslim lookalikes' of today. And if a racist mob caught you, you were in for a bloody beating. Stabbings were not infrequent. Death was not a stranger, sometimes even massacres took place, as was the case of the New Cross Massacre, where 13 Black British teenagers were murdered in cold blood.

Just like the current wave of racist violence, which targeted mosques, the waves of the past also targeted our places of worship, including Sikh and Hindu temples. 

The major difference between then and now is that irrespective of religious background, we would rush to each other's defence. For example, around 1980, in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire, a large number of youth, including Sikhs and Hindus, went to defend a mosque under attack. I was among them. We were united in confronting street violence, regardless of religion.

How to defeat the UK far-right

Back then, young Asian and Black men began training to fight the fascists, particularly in the discipline of martial arts. In Bradford, in the United Black Youth League, we believed that self-defence was primarily a political issue that required social organisation. We had to mobilise quickly and in large numbers to confront the racists.

It didn't matter if you were big or small, woman or man, we believed that by organising ourselves we could defeat our attackers. When we organised and displayed a face of force, like when we stood on the corner of Lumb Lane and Carlisle Road in Bradford with hockey sticks and baseballs nearby, the racist gangs would see us and move on without stopping. 

Here we see the similarities with today. The recent wave of racist outpouring was quickly beaten back by mass mobilization of people, particularly youth and large numbers of the Muslim community.

But whilst it's indeed heartening to see the formation of Muslim defensive organisations — such as in Blackburn and Middlesborough — it is imperative that this isn't left as a solely Muslim issue.

Islamophobia, the new manifestation of state-sponsored racism in the UK, isn't a theological phenomenon, after all. It builds on the old white-on-black racism and runs hand in glove with it, all the way from the top of the political establishment down to the bottom of society. 

Subscribe Now and Listen to our Podcasts On

Fifty years ago, I did not recall one occasion where the protesting slogans ever had a religious connotation, even when mosques were under attack. Our line always was: "Black people have a right — here to stay, here to fight" and "Racists attack, we fight back." 

This August, however, something felt different. As I strolled through Manchester city centre in broad daylight, the vibrant, multiracial atmosphere I was used to had been overtaken by an exclusively white crowd. The far-right was mobilising. 

My experience was not isolated. Friends in Bradford called to see if I was safe and told me that he had just been to a funeral where announcements were made for volunteers to sleep in different mosques to protect them from attacks. My brother who lives in London sent me a video of his virtually deserted neighbourhood.

Soon after, the far-right rampage began. I heard about attacks: the hijab-wearing woman having acid thrown at her face outside Piccadilly Station, the stabbing of a man outside a mosque, and the van full of white people driving through Longsight, hurling abuse at 'Muslim-passing' passersby. Expectedly, these incidents were ignored by mainstream media. 

In the fifty years I've been in the UK, I don't recall a time when people desperately rang each other to check if everyone was safe.

What is happening in England now feels unlike previous waves. It feels like a pre-pogrom surge.

But the difference this time is that Britain has not only lost the empire from which it could rob and pillage but has lost the fat it had accumulated from the empire.

Instead, the regime mindlessly squanders what little is left on supporting wars abroad, like Israel's genocide in Gaza.

The 1970s and 1980s taught us that the battle against racism and the far-right within the UK is not an event but a process.

It must continue. We must organise, and defend ourselves by any means necessary — a right first established in the acquittal of the Bradford 12. 

Tariq Mehmood is an award-winning novelist and filmmaker. He was one of the leading defendants in the case of the Bradford 12 in 1981.

He co-directed Injustice, the ground-breaking film into deaths in British Police Custody and the writer of its follow-on, Ultraviolence. He is currently making a film on the Bradford 12. He wrote his first novel Awaiting trial: Hand On The Sun, Penguin 1983. He has since written a number of novels, the latest being The Second Coming, Daraja 2024. He is also an Associate Professor at the American University Of Beirut, Lebanon.

Follow him on Twitter: @TariqMehmood000

Have questions or comments? Email us at: editorial-english@newarab.com

Opinions expressed in this article remain those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The New Arab, its editorial board or staff.