Commonspace columnist James McEnaney responds to the xenophobia and racism on display at the Conservative Party conference
ON the 4 October 1936, Oswald Mosley's British Union of Fascists – known as the Blackshirts – attempted to march through the East End of London. In response, 20,000 people took to the streets and forced the abandonment of the procession.
The Battle of Cable Street, as it came to be known, was won by ordinary men and women who refused to allow fascism to, quite literally, walk by unopposed; exactly 80 years later, the Conservative Party conference has reminded us why unwavering and ever-vigilant opposition to racism and hatred matters so much.
First we had the disgraced former defence secretary Liam Fox describing EU citizens – men, women and children who have made Britain their homes – as a valuable "card" in the upcoming negotiations around our exit from the European Union.
Then Home Secretary Amber Rudd, in a speech that has already been compared to a section of Mein Kampf, announced a crackdown on overseas students and plans to force companies to disclose how many foreign workers they employ.
Theresa May dove headfirst into the sort of "divisive nationalism" she claims to oppose.
Finally, it was the turn of Prime Minister Theresa May, who dove headfirst into the sort of "divisive nationalism" she claims to oppose by stating that: "If you believe you're a citizen of the world you're a citizen of nowhere." The new prime minister also took aim at "low-skilled immigration" and nailed her colours to the mast when she decreed that British soldiers would be shielded from "leftwing human rights lawyers".
So far so awful but, then again, it's par for the course for people like me to be repulsed by the rhetoric that oozes from Tory conferences.
But this feels different.
For the first time, I find myself staring at the world we're going down into and finding it to be a genuinely frightening prospect.
When I go to work – in an FE college in Glasgow – I am surrounded by human beings from all over the world. When I walk from my office to a teaching room it is normal to hear four or five languages, maybe more, bouncing back and forth between students from Europe, the Middle East, Asia, Africa and South America. That walk is one of the highlights of my day.
For the first time I find myself staring at the world we're going down into and finding it to be a genuinely frightening prospect.
In my classes I meet people from across the city and country I call home, but I also have the privilege of working with students who have come here from, to give just four examples, Kurdistan, Zimbabwe, Italy and Poland. Colleagues teaching English as second or other language courses spend their professional lives talking to people from a list of nations too long to print here.
Today I found myself wondering how it must have felt for these people to see the supposed leaders of the land they now call home deliver speeches that Kezia Dugdale has rightly described as "one of the most disgusting spectacles in recent political history".
I tried to imagine how it must feel to be told in such clear terms that you are not welcome here, that you are not good enough to be one of 'us', that you should go back where you came from.
But of course I can't – how could I?
Now, as I continue to internalise and process the events of the last few days, I can't help but wonder what this country will look like when my son – now just two years old and mercifully oblivious – finally begins to understand the reality of the world around him.
Is he to grow up in a society where lists of 'foreigners' are posted on the office doors of every workplace?
Will he see newspapers and blogs 'out' companies who have failed in their patriotic duty to hire a sufficient number of 'indigenous' Brits?
I tried to imagine how it must feel to be told in such clear terms that you are not welcome here, that you are not good enough to be one of 'us', that you should go back where you came from.
Will he be forced to witness the effects of policies designed primarily to appease the racist, post-colonial, little Englander mentality driving the new narrative of this nation?
This world we're going down into is a dark and dangerous one, built on foundations of cancerous insularity, an abhorrent 'us and them' mentality, and the sort of poisonous racism that draws a direct line from party-conference bluster to angry mobs and blood on the pavements.
And the worst part is that people will vote for it, at least at first.
A YouGov poll has shown that the 'foreign workers' plan is supported by 73 per cent of Tory voters, 51 per cent of Labour voters and, for those who think that Scotland is entirely above all of this, 46 per cent of SNP voters. Overall, 59 per cent back it. That's where we are.
That's exactly why this toxic, ignorant xenophobia must not go unchallenged. 80 years on from Cable Street we must not stand aside and watch as this latest wave of racism – on which the Leave campaign rode to victory – grows ever more destructive; instead, it must be broken on the wall of our collective resolve.
Once the 'sharp lines of distinction' are drawn there will be no going back.
When faced with this sort of challenge to our fundamental values and basic humanity silence is not just inadequate – it is consent.
It was reassuring to see most of the Holyrood debating chamber unite to condemn the Tories' xenophobic populism, and a commitment to support businesses refusing to comply with sinister lists of foreigners may well prove to be important in the months and years to come – but this is just the start.
It falls to every single person appalled by Theresa May's brave new Brexit world to fight back, both for the sake of our 'foreign' friends and – ultimately – ourselves, for once the 'sharp lines of distinction' are drawn there will be no going back.
Picture courtesy of Pug50
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