When Sajid Javid remarked that he would not allow people like his own parents to enter the United Kingdom today, he was not making an offhand comment. He was articulating a view that has become increasingly central to British immigration politics. The UK’s first ethnic minority home secretary said he opposed admitting unskilled workers and those who do not speak English. By his own criteria, neither his father, who arrived as an unskilled worker, nor his mother, who did not speak English, would have been permitted to settle in the country. Promoting his memoir, The Colour of Time, Javid was unambiguous: immigration must fall, English-language requirements should be tougher, and entry should be limited to skilled workers.
Far from being exceptional, Javid’s position points to a broader and increasingly visible pattern in British politics. Some of the most prominent anti-immigration positions of recent years have been articulated by ethnic minority politicians.
This pattern is most visible at the Home Office, the government department responsible for borders, asylum, detention and deportation. Since 2018, the role of home secretary has repeatedly been held by ethnic minority politicians, including Javid himself, Priti Patel, Suella Braverman and James Cleverly under Conservative governments, followed by Shabana Mahmood under Labour. Each, in turn, has advanced a tougher approach to immigration control.
Under Priti Patel, a points-based immigration system was introduced and the controversial plan to send asylum seekers to Rwanda was developed. Braverman went further still, declaring that seeing deportation flights take off would be her “dream” and her “obsession”. Yet despite the increasingly punitive tone, overall immigration numbers rose during this period. Rhetoric and outcomes diverged. Even so, the political signal from the Home Office was unmistakable: firmness on borders above all else.
The explanation for this phenomenon lies not simply in personal biography or individual conviction. Drawing on my research on ethnic minority representation in Britain, I argue that these appointments reflect a clear political logic. When political parties harden their stance on immigration, they often rely on minority politicians to act as reputational shields, figures who can front restrictive policies while insulating parties from accusations of racism.
Reputational shields matter because immigration control in the UK has long been racialised. From post-war restrictions on Commonwealth migration to the “hostile environment” policies associated with former Prime Minister Theresa May, border control has frequently intersected with race and belonging. When such policies are championed by ethnic minority politicians, criticism can more readily be reframed as ideological disagreement rather than racial exclusion.
Nowhere is this dynamic clearer than at the Home Office. The department effectively demands a hard line on immigration from its secretary, and appointing minority politicians to the role has repeatedly proven politically expedient. This does not mean white politicians are more liberal, as Theresa May’s record makes clear, but it does help explain why parties have been willing to place minority figures at the forefront of border enforcement. Four consecutive Conservative home secretaries were non-white.
This logic now extends beyond the Conservative Party. Labour’s appointment of Shabana Mahmood as home secretary marks a notable shift for a party that has historically sought to signal greater nuance on immigration. Since taking office, Mahmood has announced and is implementing sweeping asylum reforms, which she has described as “the most substantial reform to the UK’s asylum system in a generation”.
That Keir Starmer has placed a minority politician at the forefront of Labour’s tougher turn on immigration suggests an implicit recognition of this reputational logic. Mahmood’s identity does not determine her policy positions, but it does shape how those positions are received, particularly in a media and political environment where immigration debates are routinely filtered through accusations of racism. In this sense, Labour appears to have absorbed a lesson from Conservative governments about how ethnic minority representation can function as political cover when tightening border policy.
Immigration is now cited by about four in 10 Britons as the most important issue facing the country. For Labour, long uneasy talking about borders and enforcement, Mahmood’s stance represents a recalibration. Her measures include tightening the route from asylum to permanent settlement, reforming human rights legislation to facilitate removals, and suspending visas for countries that refuse to accept returned nationals. She has been unapologetic, arguing that the pace and scale of immigration has destabilised communities and fuelled perceptions of unfairness. While Labour backbenchers and the Green Party have accused her of scapegoating migrants, figures on the political right have welcomed her approach.
It would, however, be a mistake to portray minority politicians as mere symbols or cynical mouthpieces. Many articulate their positions through narratives of fairness, legality and contribution. Javid has spoken of his family’s experiences of racism while emphasising that they entered the UK legally and worked hard. Mahmood has similarly argued that constituents who “did things the right way” feel aggrieved by irregular arrivals crossing the Channel in small boats.
These arguments reflect a broader shift in how immigration is discussed: less overtly in racial terms and more through the language of fairness, order and control. Yet this reframing does not escape the UK’s longer history of racialised immigration policy. Instead, ethnic minority politicians increasingly play a visible legitimising role within it.
The prominence of politicians of colour at the forefront of the UK’s immigration crackdown is therefore not a paradox. It is a window into how representation is operationalised in practice. When Sajid Javid says his parents would not be admitted today, he is not disavowing his background but signalling his political credibility. The deeper question is what happens when such credibility is no longer enough to contain the moral and social consequences of a system built on exclusion. Race, borders and political legitimacy, and enduring questions about belonging and citizenship, remain tightly bound together in contemporary British politics.
