Shabana Mahmood, Islamophobia, and the Politics of Fear
My Asian friends, who I trust and whose experiences I respect, are equally surprised. They tell me plainly that her account is not their reality.
When Shabana Mahmood, the new Home Secretary and MP for Birmingham Ladywood, spoke recently about her family being subjected to vile racist abuse in Small Heath, she drew national headlines. She said relatives had been called the “f****** P-word” near their home, that she had endured sleepless nights as a result, and that she now “second-guesses” whether she can visit certain parts of Birmingham
It was a powerful, emotional intervention. Mahmood described anti-Muslim hatred as being on “a scale I’ve never known in my lifetime,” recalling how her family once suffered so much abuse in Sutton Park that they did not return for thirty years.
The impression left hanging was stark: Birmingham, her own city, has become a hotbed of racism.
Yet when I listened carefully to her words, and when I compared them to both my own experience and the testimonies of friends and family, including many from the Asian community, I could not help but feel a deep sense of disconnect.
I have lived, worked, and raised my children in Birmingham and Sutton Coldfield. In all those years I have never witnessed the kind of sustained hostility Mahmood describes. My Asian friends, who I trust and whose experiences I respect, are equally surprised. They tell me plainly that her account is not their reality, and they are disappointed that she appears to portray white Brummies as aggressive and intolerant when their lived experience is one of community, respect, and integration.
That is not to dismiss Mahmood’s personal account. If her relatives have been abused, that is appalling and deserves condemnation. Racism does exist, and even isolated incidents can leave lasting scars. But when a Home Secretary tells the country that parts of Birmingham are effectively unsafe for her, she is not simply describing an isolated incident. She is painting an entire city in the darkest of colours. That has consequences. It risks stigmatising whole communities and sowing the very divisions she claims to fight.
This is not the first time Mahmood’s words have raised eyebrows. Only a few years ago, she was listed among the parliamentarians endorsing the APPG on British Muslims’ definition of Islamophobia. That definition was controversial, criticised for potentially restricting free speech and for conflating criticism of Islam with hatred of Muslims. At the time, Mahmood seemed content to be associated with it.
Now, as Home Secretary, she takes a very different line. She has rejected the formal adoption of that definition, warning that it could give Muslims “special treatment” and might “impinge on our ancient right of freedom of speech.” She is right to take that more cautious view. But what explains the shift? Was she wrong then, or is she being politically expedient now?
Either way, the impression is of a politician who bends her message according to circumstance. That may be the pragmatism of government, but it also looks like inconsistency. And when you combine that inconsistency with her recent comments about Birmingham, a troubling pattern begins to emerge.
On the one hand, she warns against giving Muslims “special treatment” through law. On the other, she claims Birmingham has become so hostile that she fears to walk in parts of her own city. The common denominator is not consistency of principle but a readiness to present whichever story best fits the political moment.
There is also a danger here that cannot be ignored. By reaching so quickly for the language of race, Mahmood herself risks making ethnicity the dividing line in our politics. Birmingham is a city where, by and large, people do not see their neighbours as “white” or “Asian,” but as fellow Brummies. If the Home Secretary talks as though communities are locked in hostility, she risks creating the very environment she claims to oppose, setting ethnicity against ethnicity, and sowing suspicion where most people see trust. That does not serve the city well. It offends no community to say this plainly, though it may offend some individuals. If the cap fits, so be it.
And then, as she closed Labour’s conference in Liverpool, Mahmood reached for another phrase: ethno nationalism. It is a word borrowed from academia, not from the streets of Birmingham. Few Brummies use it, fewer still recognise it. Yet suddenly it is cast as the menace at our gates. When a politician starts inventing or monopolising language like this, it smacks of desperation. It allows Labour to claim it waves the Union Jack more sincerely than its rivals, but it does nothing to address the real concerns of people on the ground.
It reminds me of an evening some years back at the Metropole Hotel at the NEC, where the comic Chubby Brown took to the stage. His brand of humour, reliant on dated racial stereotypes and offensive gags, quickly fell flat. The room turned against him. Far from lapping it up, the West Midlands audience, white, Asian, Black, wanted none of it. He did not even finish his set.
That night showed me something about this region: we do not have much patience for divisive nonsense. We live together, work together, and raise families together. By and large, Birmingham and the West Midlands are tolerant, integrated places. That does not mean racism does not exist, it does, and when it happens it should be challenged. But the idea that our city is riddled with no-go areas of hate simply does not ring true.
Which is why Mahmood’s rhetoric feels less like truth-telling and more like politics. Labour is under immense pressure on immigration and community cohesion. The party has been in power for a year and has little to show on migration. Nigel Farage, Reform, and even some Conservatives are seizing the initiative with tough talk and promises of action. For Labour to hold its ground, it needs to frame the debate. One way of doing that is to emphasise the dangers of racism and nationalism, and to present Labour as the bulwark against them.
But that strategy carries dangers. By suggesting that Birmingham is a place where Asian families cannot safely walk the streets, Mahmood risks alienating the very people she claims to defend. Many Asian families do not recognise her description. Nor do many white families. Instead of uniting communities, her words may divide them, fostering resentment among those who feel unfairly portrayed and disbelief among those who simply do not see what she describes.
It is possible to fight racism without exaggerating it. It is possible to address immigration honestly without framing Britain as either a fortress or a cesspit of hate. That is the balance good politicians must strike.
Mahmood has the intelligence and, I believe, the potential to be a strong and good Home Secretary. But on this evidence, she risks falling into the trap of being just another politician, one who shifts positions when convenient, and who reaches for rhetoric that suits the political battle of the moment rather than the lived reality of the communities she represents.
Birmingham deserves better. It deserves to be recognised for what it is: a largely tolerant, resilient city that does not fit into the easy narratives of Westminster. If the Home Secretary wants to win respect, she should trust the city she comes from, not talk it down.