We're not going to allow them to divide us.
In the wake of Reform UK's significant gains in local elections — including becoming the largest party in Birmingham — minority communities across Britain are confronting a familiar and deepening unease. The numbers on a ballot sheet have translated, for many Black, Muslim, and migrant residents, into a felt shift in the atmosphere of daily life: a sense that rhetoric once kept at the margins has moved closer to the centre of power. History has often shown that electoral results do not merely reflect a society's tensions — they can also license them, and it is this possibility that community organisers and equalities campaigners are now working urgently to resist.
- Reform UK's emergence as Birmingham's largest party — and its gains across Britain — has sent a wave of anxiety through minority communities who fear the results will embolden hostile rhetoric and discrimination.
- The fears are grounded in concrete evidence: a newly elected Reform councillor in Sunderland was suspended after a deleted post surfaced in which he suggested Nigerian residents be 'melted down' to fill potholes.
- Community members describe not just political disappointment but existential dread — questioning whether they can live safely in the UK at all, with Muslim communities particularly alarmed by Reform's stated deportation policies.
- The campaign season itself was marked by divisive rhetoric from multiple directions, with a Labour-aligned candidate recorded making antisemitic remarks, prompting warnings that the political climate is corroding basic norms of civic life.
- Organisers are responding with resolve rather than retreat — pledging to double their efforts, build unity, and hold newly elected officials accountable for the language and disinformation that shaped their campaigns.
When the results came in at Birmingham's Utilita Arena, the outgoing Labour council leader stepped to the microphone with a plea for the city's diversity to be protected — words aimed, it seemed, at whoever would now hold power. Reform had won twenty-two seats, not enough for outright control, but enough to change the terms of the conversation. Nationally, Labour had lost over fourteen hundred councillors. Nigel Farage called it a historic shift. For many in Black, brown, and Muslim communities, it felt like a door closing.
Organisers who had spent months trying to make Birmingham a safer city described the results as deeply concerning. Shaista Gohir of the Muslim Women's Network spoke of widespread worry and anxiety — not just about rhetoric, but about services, safety, and what an emboldened Reform presence would mean in practice. These were not abstract fears. Days after the election, a newly elected Reform councillor in Sunderland was suspended after anti-racism group Hope Not Hate uncovered a deleted social media post in which he had written about the number of Nigerian residents in his town and suggested they be 'melted down' to fill potholes. The post had been written, deleted, and found.
From Oxford, campaigner Shaista Aziz described communities bracing for a surge in racism, with many British Muslims feeling scared and saddened that their neighbours had voted for a party openly calling for deportations. In Edinburgh and Glasgow, equalities campaigners warned that Reform's gains in the Scottish parliament would be read as permission by those already targeting marginalised communities. Hundreds joined a unity march in Glasgow, where one refugee rights campaigner declared: 'We've entered a new era of politics where racism is in our parliament.'
The campaign had also surfaced troubling rhetoric from other quarters — a Labour-aligned candidate was recorded making remarks about Zionists, which he denied were antisemitic, while a Labour councillor described it as the worst campaign he had ever fought, marked by rising homophobia and transphobia. When a Reform MP was asked about minority communities' fears, he deflected, questioning why they would vote Reform if they were truly afraid, before pivoting to other concerns entirely.
For the organisers on the ground, the election's end was not a moment to pause. 'We have to work harder, we have to double our efforts,' said one Birmingham activist, 'because our futures depend on it.' The votes had been counted. The harder work was only beginning.
The count was still underway at Birmingham's Utilita Arena on Friday night when John Cotton, Labour's outgoing council leader, stepped to the microphone with a warning wrapped in a plea. For fourteen years his party had run the city. Now it was gone. Reform had swept in with twenty-two seats—not enough for control, but enough to reshape the conversation. "Whatever form the next administration takes," Cotton said, "it must champion the diversity of this city." He was speaking to someone, though perhaps not to those who had just voted Reform into prominence.
The election results rippled outward with a particular weight for people already accustomed to feeling watched. Across Birmingham, across Britain, members of minority communities began to reckon with what the numbers meant. Labour had lost more than fourteen hundred councillors nationally. Reform had positioned itself as the largest party in Birmingham. Nigel Farage called it a historic shift. For many in Black, brown, and Muslim communities, the shift felt like a door closing.
Mus, who organizes with Brummies United Against Racism—a group that formed after far-right leaflets arrived at neighbors' doors—described the result as "really concerning." She had been campaigning to make Birmingham a safe space. Now she was watching that work become harder. "We know what a Reform government means for our communities," she said. The words carried the weight of something already known, already feared. Shaista Gohir, chair of the Muslim Women's Network, spoke of people feeling worried and anxious. The questions were practical and existential at once: What would this mean for safety? For services? Would anti-Muslim rhetoric escalate?
The concerns were not abstract. In Sunderland, a newly elected Reform councillor was suspended days after the election when the anti-racism group Hope Not Hate uncovered a deleted social media post in which he had written about the number of Nigerian residents in town and suggested they should be "melted down" to fill potholes. The post existed. It had been written. It had been deleted. It had been found. This was the texture of the moment—the things people said, the things they tried to erase, the things that could not be erased.
From Oxford, anti-racism campaigner Shaista Aziz described communities bracing for a surge in racism. People were expressing fears about whether they could live safely in the UK at all. "Many British Muslim communities feel scared and intimidated," she said, "and feel sad that their neighbours have voted for a party that openly calls for the deportation of members of our communities." In Edinburgh, where Reform had won seventeen seats in the Scottish parliament, equalities campaigner Talat Yaqoob warned that marginalized communities were worried about how these victories would be interpreted on the ground—by those already targeting them. In Glasgow, Pinar Aksu, a campaigner for Refugees for Justice, attended a unity march with hundreds of others. "We've entered a new era of politics where racism is in our parliament," she said.
The campaign itself had been marked by rhetoric that alarmed many. Akhmed Yakoob, a criminal lawyer with a large social media following, had formed an electoral pact to field seventy prospective councillors. During the campaign, he was recorded saying on Sky News that "Zionists control everything." He has denied allegations of antisemitism. A Labour councillor in Birmingham, David Barker, said it had been the worst campaign he had fought in. "Homophobia, transphobia are more acceptable now," he said. "But in a deeply divided election when you can win with twenty percent of the vote, you are going to get sometimes a minority view winning."
When the Guardian asked Reform MP Richard Tice about the concerns minority communities felt, he interrupted repeatedly. "If they were fearful, why would they be voting for us?" he said. He then pivoted to concerns about antisemitism affecting the Jewish community, suggesting other outlets focus on that rather than "one other particular community." For Mus and others like her, the work ahead was clear. "We have to work harder, we have to double our efforts because our futures depend on it," she said. "We're not going to allow them to divide us." The election was over. The organizing was just beginning.
Notable Quotes
We know what a Reform government means for our communities—black, brown, migrant communities.— Mus, Brummies United Against Racism
We've entered a new era of politics where racism is in our parliament.— Pinar Aksu, Refugees for Justice
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
When you say communities are feeling unsafe, what does that actually look like on the ground right now?
It's not panic in the streets. It's more like a shift in the air—people checking social media more carefully, wondering if neighbors voted a certain way, thinking twice about where they go at night. The deleted post about melting down Nigerian residents, that's the kind of thing that gets shared in group chats. It proves something people already feared.
But Reform didn't win a majority in Birmingham. They got twenty-two seats out of fifty-one needed. Why does that feel so threatening?
Because it's not about whether they can govern alone. It's about what their presence signals. When a party that calls for deportations wins that many seats, it changes what feels acceptable to say in public. The councillor who wrote that post—he felt safe enough to write it. That's the real shift.
The Reform MP said "if they were fearful, why would they be voting for us?" How do you answer that?
You don't, really. He's asking a question that assumes fear and voting for a party are incompatible. But people vote for all sorts of reasons—economics, frustration, anger at the status quo. The fear comes after, when you see what else comes with it.
What about the antisemitism allegations against Yakoob? Doesn't that complicate the narrative about who's being targeted?
It does. And that's exactly the problem. When you have a campaign where multiple communities are feeling attacked—Muslim communities worried about deportation, Jewish communities worried about antisemitic rhetoric—it suggests something broader is happening. It's not one community's problem. It's a campaign environment where divisive language has become normalized.
So what happens next? Mus said they're doubling their efforts. What does that actually mean?
It means the organizing work that was already happening accelerates. Community groups, anti-racism activists, they're going to be more visible, more vocal, holding elected officials accountable. It's exhausting work. But for people who feel their safety is at stake, it's not optional.