Why political Blackness went out vogue - and why we need something like it again?
- Maz T Collins
- Sep 15
- 5 min read
Updated: 6 hours ago
It feels strange to realise that before the 1990s, "Black" was a political term proudly claimed by Caribbean, Asian, and African communities. Today, divisions between these communities often seem insurmountable. Yet, when our team began researching UK Black history from the 1950s to the 1970s, it became clear that these diverse groups once worked together.
Young Caribbean, African, and Asian youths collaborated to combat racism and fight for equality. While researching our theme for UK Black History Month, Legacies of Action, we were surprised to learn that two of the founding members of the British Black Panther Party were of South Asian descent. Additionally, Black, Asian, and white youths stood side by side against the far-right National Front during the Battle of Lewisham. Pockets of unity still exist today through organisations such as the Society of Black Lawyers, Southall Black Sisters, National Black Police Association (United Kingdom) and and Black History Month Scotland. This is particularly encouraging at a time when the UK seems to be slipping back towards the divisive climate of the 1970s and 1980s.
In this blog post, we explore why political Blackness once served as a unifying concept for Black and Asian communities in the UK, why it was abandoned, and why, in the context of rising far-right rhetoric, the principle of collective racial solidarity is urgently needed again.
In the 1970s, "political Blackness" emerged as a rallying cry across Britain. It was never about skin tone alone but served as a unifying identity for everyone racialised as non-white. Second-generation Caribbean, African, and South Asian Britons bonded together out of necessity. They provided a collective voice for communities facing hostile policing, exclusion from housing, workplace discrimination, and societal marginalisation. Political Blackness offered strength, visibility, and solidarity at a time when fragmented activism struggled to achieve meaningful change.
Political Blackness was never just about skin colour. It was a political identity rooted in shared struggle. It gave Caribbean, African, and South Asian Britons a collective voice at a time when the state and society too often ignored them. Sir Lankan born Briton and editor of the journal Race & Class, Ambalavaner Sivanandan captured it perfectly when he wrote, "Black is the colour of our politics, not the colour of our skins."(1)
Young activists came together to challenge police harassment, housing discrimination, workplace exclusion, and far-right violence. When 13 young Black people died in the New Cross Fire in 1981, communities mobilised across racial and cultural lines to demand justice. The power of political Blackness lay in this solidarity, in its ability to turn shared struggle into collective action. It fostered coalitions that amplified voices too often ignored by mainstream society.
By the 1990s, however, the banner of political Blackness began to fray. Official categories such as “Black African,” “Black Caribbean,” “Indian,” “Pakistani,” and “Bangladeshi” replaced the umbrella term. While these distinctions helped to recognise specific experiences, they also introduced bureaucratic distance. The broad political identity that had mobilised change became a set of administrative labels.
The adoption of the term BAME, widely used by government, institutions, and media, further eroded solidarity. Critics argue these acronyms reduce lived experience to statistics and strip away political consciousness. Internal tensions also contributed to the decline. Some South Asian communities felt erased under the “Black” umbrella while anti-Blackness persisted within certain minority communities. Women’s experiences, intersecting with both racism and sexism, were often overlooked. Younger generations sought recognition of religion, heritage, and personal identity, and broad labels no longer resonated. Over time, the ethos of solidarity weakened, along with the political leverage of racialised communities.
The consequences of this decline have been tangible. Divisions exist between Black and Asian groups, and even within the Black community between Africans and Caribbeans. Under David Cameron, the Conservative Party was able to exploit these divides. The 2020s saw a Tory leadership team that appeared more diverse than Labour — the self-proclaimed party of equality — with three female leaders and two of Asian and African heritage, achievements Labour has yet to match. But these “firsts” masked deep divisions within communities. Divided groups are easier to marginalise, creating fertile ground for anti-immigrant rhetoric that thrives when solidarity is weak.
Racism intersects with class, gender, religion, and immigration status in ways that isolated activism often misses. In the year ending March 2024, police in England and Wales recorded 140,561 hate crimes — 70% of which were racially motivated. These numbers reflect not just prejudice but the real vulnerability created by fragmentation. (2)
Language also reflects and reinforces this divide. Broad terms such as BAME often fail to inspire connection, while more precise identifiers, when used thoughtfully, can strengthen solidarity. Yet labels alone cannot succeed; they must be accompanied by action, mobilisation, and collective accountability.
However, terminology still matters. BAME has been criticised for being bureaucratic and detached from lived realities. Alternative concepts like “Global Majority” or “racialised communities” aim to be more inclusive, but no label can succeed without activism. Political Blackness succeeded not because of the word itself, but because it provided a banner under which communities could organise, advocate, and demand systemic change. Its legacy is about unity, shared struggle, and collective accountability.
Despite the decline of political Blackness, its principles remain visible in contemporary movements. Black Lives Matter UK has reignited debates about anti-Black policing and systemic racism. Anti-deportation campaigns and initiatives seeking justice after Grenfell have united diverse communities in pursuit of common causes. Artists and writers like Osman Yousefzada continue to advocate for “ethnic solidarity” rooted in action rather than symbolic gestures or hashtags (3). These examples show that unity is not nostalgia — it is strategy, an essential tool in resisting systemic injustice.
Reviving political Blackness today requires a framework that is intersectional, historically informed, politically grounded, and inclusive yet strategic. It must recognise how race overlaps with gender, class, faith, and immigration status. It must link contemporary struggles to colonial and diaspora histories and focus on dismantling structural inequality rather than symbolic representation. Respecting differences while uniting against shared injustices is essential. Language may evolve, but the ethos of collective action remains timeless.
The idea of political Blackness was a very British invention, born from necessity, not theory.
Quatz website 2018
Legal protections alone cannot dismantle systemic racism. Grassroots advocacy, coalition building, and shared accountability are vital. Political Blackness once provided a framework for these strategies, and something like it is urgently needed again. Reviving its spirit could counter rising xenophobia, protect vulnerable communities, and amplify marginalised voices. This is not about returning to the past; it is about building solidarity for a future in which racialised communities can stand together — informed by history, empowered by action, and united in the pursuit of justice. The question is not whether political Blackness can return, but whether Britain’s racialised communities have the courage, vision, and commitment to stand together once again.
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