On Political Organising

Nadia Whittome is the Labour MP for Nottingham East. She was elected in 2019 aged 23 and is the first person of colour to represent Nottingham in Parliament. She was named Pink News’ Politician of the Year 2020 and Diva Magazine’s Unsung Hero of the Year 2023 for her work on LGBTQ+ rights.

It’s not a history we learn about at school, or often see commemorated with public celebrations. But this South Asian Heritage Month, I’ve been reflecting on an integral part of our communities’ history in the UK: our organising in the labour movement and resistance to racism and fascism.

Much of what I know about it, I learned from my dad who arrived in the UK from Punjab in the 1970s, and became an active trade unionist and member of the Anti-Nazi League. It didn’t take long for him to be exposed to racial discrimination: he recalls being rejected for a bank loan, having a job offer withdrawn and being called the p-word by a colleague. When interviewed for a job at the Cotgrave colliery, he was asked how he would deal with racial abuse. “I will face it in my own way,” he responded. What else could he say?

Working class Asians in Britain faced a double struggle: against exploitative bosses, and against racism among their fellow workers. As is still the case today, migrant workers were frequently accused of “stealing” jobs and undercutting wages. Feeling sidelined by the mainstream labour movement, many decided to form their own organisations.

The Indian Workers Association was founded in 1938, both to represent the interests of marginalised migrant workers and to agitate for India’s independence. While its membership initially declined after Partition, it experienced a revival in the 1950s and 60s thanks to new waves of migration. The IWA defended workers from unscrupulous employers and workplace discrimination; campaigned against deportations and formed part of Britain’s growing anti-racist movement. At its peak, it counted over 20,000 members.

In the 1960s and 70s, migration from former colonies was met with a far-right backlash. Fascist groups like the National Front marched through diverse neighborhoods, and Enoch Powell’s infamous Rivers of Blood speech inspired attacks on South Asian immigrants. An Asian youth movement sprung up across the country in response. Grassroots groups of primarily second-generation migrants formed to stand up for their communities, organising across ethnic and religious divides, confronting fascists in the streets and campaigning against the injustice of Britain’s border regime. The murder of 18-year-old Gurdip Singh Chaggar by a white gang sparked a wave of anti-racist activism, as did the case of Anwar Ditta—a young Pakistani mother who was separated from her children by immigration laws.

In 1979, the Anti-Nazi League demonstrated against a National Front assembly in Southall—an area of London with a large South Asian population. The protest brought together diverse communities, and was met with an aggressive police response: around 3,000 officers deployed to protect the far-right meeting. During the clashes, teacher and anti-racist activist from New Zealand, Blair Peach, was fatally struck on the head. His funeral was attended by up to 10,000 people, and his coffin was carried by members of the local Sikh community. It took 30 years for the Met Police to release the report of the case and admit that Peach was “almost certainly” killed by one of its officers, although no one was ever charged.

Despite the far right’s concerted efforts to sow division, it was the experience of shared class struggle that inspired many white workers to join the anti-racist movement. Standing side-by-side with colleagues from around the world it’s easy to see that, far from undercutting wages, migrant workers are part of the fight to raise them. For instance, when the National Union of Mineworkers went on strike in 1972 and 1974, and then again in 1984-85, black and Asian miners joined their white counterparts on the picket line. In some cases, the experience of discrimination also inspired workers from racialised backgrounds to build solidarity with other marginalised groups. A family friend of ours, the late Pushkar Singh Lail, was a bus driver and trade unionist in Nottingham who campaigned for City Transport to allow women to drive buses.

But one dispute in particular came to symbolise a turning point in Britain’s labour movement. The Grunwick strike started in August 1976, when a young man, Devshi Bhudia, was dismissed from the Grunwick film processing plant. Three other workers walked out in solidarity with their colleague—and were sacked as well. That same evening, 43-year-old Jayaben Desai stormed out of the building after being ordered to work overtime at short notice. These acts of defiance sparked a strike which would go on for two years and become one of the most important labour disputes in Britain’s contemporary history.

Like Desai, most workers at Grunwick were South Asian women. Their employer exploited the poverty and desperation faced by migrant women to pay them wages which would have been unacceptable to many white workers. But low pay wasn’t the only humiliation: Grunwick workers were routinely disrespected by managers, expected to work longer than contracted hours and forced to ask for permission to go to the toilet. “The strike is not so much about pay, it is a strike about human dignity,” Desai would say.

Their struggle attracted a great deal of support: as many as 20,000 people joined its biggest picket, and post office workers refused to deliver to Grunwick in solidarity with the strikers. But despite widespread public enthusiasm, institutional support for the dispute was far from a given: when the TUC (Trade Union Congress) withdrew its backing, Desai organised a hunger strike in front of its headquarters. While the Grunwick strike was ultimately crushed, it left a lasting mark on British trade unionism: it was the first time that the labour movement rallied in such numbers in support of a strike led by migrant women.

In today’s political discourse, the rights of minorities are often contrasted with issues concerning the working class — which is implied to be white, male, British-born and straight. But the working class has always been diverse, and many of its battles have been led by people with intersecting marginalised identities. Whether that’s South Asian women in Leicester sweatshops, who worked for fast fashion brands for just £4 an hour; or Deliveroo drivers organising for fair pay and conditions, and against immigration raids at the same time — to this day, migrant and racialised workers often find themselves at the sharp end of exploitation, and at the forefront of resisting it. Rather than a distraction from class struggle, anti-discrimination work is a key part of it.

This South Asian Heritage Month, let us remember the radical history of our communities. And as we celebrate those who came before us, we should be inspired to continue their legacy.