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focused on cultural differences rather than on sites of mutual solidarity.¹² This has commonly been attributed to the state’s embrace of a policy of multiculturalism in the early 1980s, in particular its monetary arm, which increasingly allocated funds to minority groups on the basis of ethnicity.¹³ Following the recommendations of the Scarman report on the 1981 Brixton riots and the lead of Ken Livingstone’s Greater London Council (GLC), local authorities in Birmingham and across the country began to roll out comprehensive multicultural programs that made funds available on the basis of increasingly narrow definitions of ethnicity. The result, it has been claimed, was the breaking down of black as a political color. The cohesion that had previously characterized black politics was eroded as the state began to absorb a generation of ethnically distinct, self-professed “community leaders” into its machinery. Black politics had been taken off the streets and into the council chamber, where, divided and then subdivided along ethnic lines, it became a scramble for state resources to fund what was now understood to be primarily a salaried exercise.¹⁴

      This chapter offers an alternative story. While the specter of public funding has been presented as a marker signaling a shift from one form of politics to another, the relationship between a group’s decision to accept state monies and its political ideology was in practice complex. In the first instance, as the opening section of the chapter demonstrates, the state had already begun to develop a pluralist conception of multiculture in the context of mid-century anxieties about decolonization and the viability of the Commonwealth, which coincided with moves to direct funds toward inner-city areas with large black and Asian populations. By the high point of multiculturalism of the 1980s, moreover, groups such as the IWA emphasized the importance of a unified definition of black and ongoing connections to global anticolonial struggles, yet simultaneously accepted state funds. The ACSHO argued vociferously against the practice of political organizations accepting state monies but subscribed to a version of Black Power as a global, yet explicitly narrow, African Caribbean identity. As shown here, the funding system undoubtedly favored those predominantly white, antiracist organizations born out of the New Left, which were often better placed to speak the state’s language of multiculturalism. But there was no straightforward relationship between the proximity of a group to the state and its political agenda. Much more relevant was the expanded role local organizations increasingly sought to play. In the context of demographic shifts that saw the majority of the population of areas such as Handsworth become either immigrants or the descendants of immigrants, by the long 1980s the inadequacies of the state in addressing the issues faced by these communities had become apparent. The dedication of local organizations was such that many increasingly sought to simultaneously perform the roles of social agencies and campaigners, in an attempt to develop practical solutions to the inequalities that were experienced by their constituents. The problem for those subscribers to black as a political color, however, was that at the local level these issues were often manifested in ethnically specific ways.

      For example, the IWA and the Asian Youth Movement (AYM), another group made up of South Asian activists, increasingly found that their time was spent attempting to help Handsworth residents deal with the threat of deportation—something that, following changes to the law in the 1980s, particularly affected South Asian communities. The ACSHO, in contrast, focused on the provision of alternative education for African Caribbean youth in the context of a growing awareness of the acute disadvantages this section of the community experienced in mainstream schooling. This was undoubtedly part of a wider story of the fragmentation of political identities in Britain. In Handsworth, women activists were also positing their own demands for a modification of black politics that would recognize—in opposition to what could often be the masculine organizational structures of many groups—the critical importance of issues such as domestic violence and the gendered, as well as raced, inequalities that black and Asian women faced. For all groups, it was the practical experience of black Handsworth—conflict with the police, racism in schools, a lack of suitable housing, the threat of deportation—that rendered the black globality both intelligible and, in the eyes of many, a political necessity. In Handsworth, the local facilitated the global. But it was also at the level of the local that ideas about an encompassing black political color weakened, particularly as the provision of ethnically tailored services increasingly took center stage. The issue was not so much the rise of the community leader, but rather the extent to which by the long 1980s the political activist was in many ways also compelled to perform the role of the dedicated social worker. Whether groups accepted state funding or not, in the context of the long 1980s a unified notion of blackness was becoming difficult to maintain.

      STATE INTERVENTION

      Both local and national governments had played a limited role in black and Asian community relations prior to the turning point of the 1981 urban unrest. In Birmingham the local authorities took the lead. In 1950, for example, Birmingham City Council established the Co-ordinating Committee for Coloured People, which consisted of representatives from local religious and voluntary organizations, and four years later it was the first authority to create the post of liaison officer for colored people, with the aim of acting as a bridge between the council and black community representatives.¹⁵ Such initiatives were undoubtedly modest, and they also demonstrate the extent to which this fledgling approach to race relations was shaped by the legacies of empire; there were no black representatives on the Co-ordinating Committee, for example, and the post of liaison officer was initially held by a white former colonial officer who had served in Africa.¹⁶ Nationally, the gathering pace of decolonization saw community relations manifested in other ways. In the early 1960s, influenced by the ongoing shock caused by the Suez Canal crisis as well as concerns about the viability of the Commonwealth in light of racial atrocities in South Africa, the British government agreed to sponsor an arts festival as a means of articulating a renewed vision for the Commonwealth. The festival took place in 1965. The aim, as Radhika Natarajan has shown, was to curate it in pluralist terms, as a means of generating cross-Commonwealth respect for diversity and difference. Planners often presented a nostalgic representation of Britain’s imperial past, however, and virtually ignored the by now substantial Commonwealth populations actually residing in Britain. Moreover, the contrast between the festival’s emphasis on equality and the government’s concurrent, discriminatory attempts to restrict immigration was widely noted.¹⁷ It was indicative of the then Labour government’s ambivalence on the issue of race that the festival also coincided with what might be seen as the genesis of the multicultural policies that would be adopted on a much larger scale in later decades.

      Nationally, the key marker was the 1965 Race Relations Act, which although limited in practice nevertheless for the first time formally outlawed racial discrimination in public places.¹⁸ The Local Government Act of the following year also represented the moment the state began to play a significant monetary role in intercommunity relations. The act included a funding package for local authorities with large numbers of immigrants, which was primarily used to employ teachers with the relevant skills to teach English to Asian pupils in schools.¹⁹ By 1969 the central government was contributing £15 million under the terms of the act, and there was a more general recognition among policy makers that inner cities—with their vastly disproportionate levels of unemployment, poverty, and immigration—were in a state of acute crisis.²⁰ Initially, wider policy responses were ostensibly concerned with structural issues such as unemployment and housing, though local authorities in particular often used these issues as a de facto way of dealing with race. The Urban Programme, influenced by Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society programs in the United States and introduced in October 1968, signaled a more explicit focus, with the channeling of resources to areas where more than 6 percent of the school population was pupils from immigrant backgrounds. By the mid-1970s and the passing of the 1976 Race Relations Act, which made it a statutory duty for local authorities to legislate to end racial disadvantage and encourage equality of opportunity, the program was explicitly being aimed at ethnic minority organizations.²¹ However problematically and incoherently, then, the vision of pluralism and equality ostensibly articulated at the 1965 Commonwealth Arts Festival had also begun to inform both local and national government in the shaping of a domestic multiculturalist agenda—increasingly in monetary terms.

      Because of a lack of clear direction from the central government, the period following the passage of the 1976 act was

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