They are very loud. But the rest of us have a duty to drown them out.
A decade after the murder of Jo Cox by a far-right extremist, Britain finds itself navigating a more sophisticated and accelerated form of the same hatred that took her life. Digital platforms — particularly X under Elon Musk's ownership — have transformed fringe radicalization into a transnational organizing infrastructure, one that converts online grievance into offline violence with alarming speed. Ethnic minority families have been burnt from their homes in Belfast, Glasgow, and Southampton, not by spontaneous rage, but by coordinated mobilization that exploits tragedy as fuel. The question Britain now faces is not merely legislative, but civilizational: whether its institutions retain the collective will to treat the abuse of platform power as the abuse of power it is.
- Far-right networks have abandoned encrypted backchannels and now organize openly on X, with Elon Musk personally amplifying demonstrations to 240 million followers — turning a billionaire's timeline into a command structure for street violence.
- Each new tragedy — a stabbing, a sentencing, a killing — is rapidly attached to anti-immigration narratives regardless of the facts, triggering protests that have left ethnic minority families homeless and communities fractured across Belfast, Glasgow, and Southampton.
- AI-generated images, fabricated videos of 'migrant gangs,' and algorithmically supercharged memes migrate from X to TikTok, reaching politically disengaged audiences and quietly normalizing language — like 'remigration' — that once marked the outermost edge of acceptable discourse.
- The UK government has pledged to amend the Online Safety Act by mid-July to compel faster content removal during outbreaks of offline violence, but the regulatory body tasked with enforcement is led by figures who have themselves questioned whether white majority concerns are being heard.
- Critics warn that legislation alone cannot hold: without trade unions, civic organizations, and political institutions willing to treat platform abuse as an abuse of power rather than a free speech question, the machinery of radicalization will simply adapt and continue.
Ten years after a far-right extremist murdered MP Jo Cox in the shadow of the Brexit referendum, her sister Kim Leadbeater — now a Member of Parliament herself — has warned that political hatred in Britain has not receded but deepened. The voices stoking division remain a minority, she insists, but they have acquired tools of extraordinary amplification. Chief among them is Elon Musk, who has reinstated Britain's most prominent far-right agitator to X and uses his own account, followed by 240 million people, to promote a transnational movement with remarkable consistency. Guardian analysis found he has posted almost daily about alleged threats to the white race.
The mechanics of radicalization have shifted dramatically. Where far-right activists once plotted in encrypted Telegram channels, they now organize in the open on X, with Facebook lending the appearance of grassroots legitimacy. The pattern has grown grimly familiar: a tragedy occurs, networks attach it to an immigration narrative regardless of the actual facts, and calls for street protest follow. In Belfast, ethnic minority families were burnt out of their homes. AI-generated images, fabricated videos of 'migrant gangs,' and algorithmically amplified memes spread rapidly across platforms, crossing into TikTok's vast politically unengaged audience and normalizing the ideologies behind them.
The language itself has migrated. Terms like 'remigration' — advocating the mass expulsion of non-white residents — are now used routinely by prominent far-right figures and risk seeping into mainstream conservative discourse. X has refused to remove posts containing racial slurs, prompting the thinktank British Future to accuse the platform of granting racists outright impunity.
The far right has also learned to exploit authentic local grievance, blurring the line between genuine community concern and extremist mobilization — as seen in protests at the Bell Hotel in Epping, where Reform councillors, local residents, and far-right activists marched together. The government has promised a mid-July amendment to the Online Safety Act requiring faster content removal when violence erupts offline. But critics argue that Ofcom's leadership is itself compromised, and that legislation without institutional backbone is insufficient. 'Where are the trade unions? Where is civic society?' asked one media consultant. Without collective action from unions, civic groups, and a political culture willing to name platform abuse as an abuse of power, the machinery will simply keep turning.
Ten years after a far-right extremist murdered MP Jo Cox in the run-up to the Brexit referendum, her sister Kim Leadbeater—now herself a Member of Parliament—has sounded an alarm. In a recent podcast interview, she argued that political hatred in Britain has actually worsened since her sister's death, though she insisted the voices stoking division remain a minority. "They are very loud," she said. "But the rest of us then have got a duty to drown them out and tell the good stories of this country."
The problem is that some of those loud voices now belong to people with extraordinary reach. Elon Musk, the world's richest man and owner of X, has reinstated Britain's most prominent far-right agitator to the platform and uses his own account—followed by 240 million people—to amplify a transnational far-right movement with remarkable consistency. Earlier this year, Guardian analysis found he has posted almost daily about alleged threats to the white race. The mechanics of online radicalization have shifted dramatically in just two years. Where far-right activists once planned in private on encrypted channels like Telegram, they now organize openly on X, with Facebook used to create the appearance of grassroots community involvement. After the sentencing of Henry Nowak's killer, planning happened explicitly on X, with Musk himself sharing details of proposed demonstrations across Britain and Northern Ireland—posts that were then seized upon by far-right politicians across Europe.
The pattern has become grimly familiar. A tragedy occurs—the death of Henry Nowak, the stabbing of Stephen Ogilvie in Belfast, the Southport killings in summer 2024. Far-right networks attach these events to an existing narrative about immigration, often disregarding the actual facts of each case, and call for street protests. In Belfast, the result was ethnic minority families being burnt out of their homes. The speed and scale of mobilization has accelerated. AI-generated images, videos, and songs designed to inflame local anger spread rapidly across platforms. Memes proliferate after police release bodycam footage. Fabricated videos of "migrant gangs" circulate endlessly. When such content reaches TikTok, it crosses into spaces where millions of politically unengaged people encounter it for the first time, normalizing the narratives behind it.
The language itself has shifted. Phrases once considered beyond the pale—like "re-migration," which advocates for the mass expulsion of non-white residents regardless of nationality—are now used routinely by prominent far-right figures and may eventually seep into mainstream conservative discourse. On X in particular, hate speech has become normalized. The platform has refused to remove posts using racial slurs, prompting the social inclusion thinktank British Future to accuse it of giving racists "impunity."
The far right has learned that the most effective offline mobilization happens when they piggyback on authentic local grievances. The protests against the Bell Hotel in Epping last year, which began after an asylum seeker living there sexually assaulted a young girl, grew larger because local residents, Reform councillors, and far-right activists all participated. The distinction between genuine community concern and extremist exploitation blurred. Tommy Robinson, Britain's foremost far-right agitator, has proven less effective at generating large crowds through his own organizing—his proposed protest assembly points often fail to materialize—but his ability to amplify events online remains potent. He was meeting Elon Musk's father at a luxury hotel in Moscow while urging his supporters onto British streets.
The government has promised action. After the Belfast riots, Prime Minister Keir Starmer vowed to crack down on platforms fueling division. Ministers plan to amend the Online Safety Act by mid-July to require social media companies to remove inflammatory content faster when offline violence erupts. But the regulatory body tasked with enforcement, Ofcom, is led by people who themselves question whether the concerns of the "white majority" have been properly heard. Some argue the solution requires treating social media platforms as we treat broadcasters and other news organizations—as entities subject to genuine regulatory authority rather than self-governance. Others emphasize that citizens can help by reporting offensive posts and documenting when platforms fail to act. But the deeper problem, as one media consultant put it, is institutional: "Where are the trade unions? Where is civic society? Our institutions are being hollowed out and we need organisations to take a stand." Without collective action from unions, civic groups, and political will to treat platform abuse as an abuse of power rather than free speech, the machinery of online radicalization will continue grinding forward.
Notable Quotes
Planning is being done quite openly and explicitly on X and discussions are taking place there.— Ben Quinn, Guardian political correspondent
This isn't free speech, it's an abuse of power and that's what we need to treat it as.— Pat Younge, media consultant and former BBC Television Production chief creative officer
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does it matter that these far-right networks are organizing on X specifically, rather than staying on encrypted platforms like Telegram?
Because X is public. When organizing happens on Telegram, it reaches only people already committed to the cause. On X, Musk's algorithm and his own posts amplify these plans to hundreds of millions of people who aren't necessarily looking for extremist content. It becomes ambient. It normalizes the ideas.
You mention that local grievances—like the Bell Hotel protests—become vehicles for far-right organizing. How do you separate legitimate community concern from extremist exploitation?
That's the hard part. The assault did happen. Local people had real reasons to be angry. But once far-right figures show up and the narrative gets weaponized online, the original concern gets absorbed into a larger story about immigration and invasion. The specificity of what actually occurred gets lost.
Musk is American and doesn't hold elected office in Britain. Why does his personal posting matter so much?
Because he owns the platform where British far-right organizing now happens openly. He's not just a user—he's the infrastructure. When he shares details of planned demonstrations, he's using his 240 million followers to amplify them. That's not speech; that's platform power being exercised in real time.
The government is planning to amend the Online Safety Act. Will that actually stop this?
It might slow things down. Forcing platforms to remove inflammatory content faster when violence erupts could help. But it depends entirely on whether regulators have the will to enforce it. And there's a deeper problem: you can't regulate your way out of this if the culture itself has normalized hate speech. That requires institutions—unions, civic groups, media organizations—to actively resist.
What would actually work?
Treating platforms as what they are: powerful media organizations that shape public discourse. Regulating them like broadcasters. Requiring transparency about algorithms. And crucially, having institutions outside government—unions, churches, community groups—take a stand and say this isn't acceptable. Right now, those institutions are largely silent.