“Island of strangers”.
It’s a phrase open to interpretation. Keir Starmer might have chosen it more carefully when he reached for it this week, inadvertently echoing Enoch Powell.
I’ll level with you. I didn’t catch the reference. My hinterland doesn’t quite encompass the full back catalogue of mid-century demagogues.
What did catch my ear was a single word: “stranger”. It points to a different kind of crisis, less to do with borders than social bonds: our growing estrangement from each other.
Starmer singled out immigrants in his speech. But why stop there? Frankly, the rest of us aren’t speaking to each other either. Whether young or old, rich or poor, Brits are increasingly lonely – and it’s a bit of a sore spot, if you don’t mind.
This is an ill with many diagnoses, of which immigration is far from top of the list. Other factors – automation, the pandemic, social inequality – sit closer to home. So too does the quiet erosion of everyday connection: community groups, so-called ‘third spaces’, even the humble supermarket check-out. They’re all on the way out.
The internet, once billed as the great unifier, has turned out to be a poor substitute for these physical spaces, this public realm. Anyone who survived the pandemic office Zoom quiz will shudder at the memory of that particular dark night of the soul.
While purporting to bring us together, digital spaces just as often deepen divides. This should matter, if you are Keir Starmer, because where we gather, and with whom, has real-world impacts on our politics.
Deep down, polling suggests that many of us are dissatisfied with this state of affairs. For example, a recent Opinium survey revealed that one in ten UK adults have no close friends. We yearn to come together, not just for a common activity but in common purpose. It’s why some join campaigning organisations, or churches, or – God forbid – political parties.
Sensing opportunity, Reform and other populist parties of the right have leant into our divisions. Centrists are chasing after them. Ergo, there is a vacancy for a party that will choose differently: a ‘unity party’ (bear with me, folks). Three things stand in the way.
Firstly, division is en vogue in this country. Big tent politics is not. Holyrood is a prime example of this, with carping and sniping more common than consensus.
Secondly, because unity is the kind of thing that politicians, inherently tribal, struggle to implement in practice. John Swinney fell into this rhetorical trap recently,convening his summit of civic organisations while excluding Reform. In trying to unite, he arguably drew a new dividing line.
Thirdly, because unity and distinctiveness are hard to square. Parties need platforms, and not everyone can fit on them.
The answer isn’t bland centrism. Voters want ideals, and they want connection in their daily lives. There’s a constituency for a party that can offer both. That needn’t necessarily be a new party, to be clear, but one that can eschew divisions of the past in favour of voters’ interests.
It should also add to its positioning and its priority list ways to bring people together: public spaces, community groups, local authority funding. Not the stuff of high rhetoric, granted, but it matters.
Of course, economic realities often get in the way, but every party makes trade-offs when it draws up its prospectus. Where it chooses to invest - such as expensive immigration crackdowns - speaks to its priorities.
Investing in connection instead might also help to reset our polarised politics. This is certainly in the interests of the establishment parties, forced to the fringes by swells of public sentiment.
Holyrood 2026 is on the horizon. To avoid being marooned, the parties competing for our votes should rethink their strategy. Meeting voters’ need for belonging may provide an answer, and help us chart our course back together.