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Ethnic and Racial Studies

ISSN: 0141-9870 (Print) 1466-4356 (Online) Journal homepage: https://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rers20

Deportation, racism and multi-status Britain: immigration control and the production of race in the present

Luke de Noronha

To cite this article: Luke de Noronha (2019) Deportation, racism and multi-status Britain: immigration control and the production of race in the present, Ethnic and Racial Studies, 42:14, 2413-2430, DOI: 10.1080/01419870.2019.1585559

To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/01419870.2019.1585559

Published online: 20 Mar 2019.

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Deportation, racism and multi-status Britain: immigration control and the production of race in the present Luke de Noronhaa,b

aDepartment of Psychosocial Studies, Birkbeck College, University of London, London, UK; bSchool of Social Science and Public Policy, Keele University, Keele, UK

ABSTRACT In this paper, I examine the experiences of Jason and Ricardo, two men who were deported to Jamaica from the UK following criminal conviction. This ethnographic inquiry into deportation provides a rich and complex account of race-making at different scales. Theorizing the connections between racialization and illegalization offers a productive framework for the study of racism in multi-status Britain. The paper argues that the border is central to race’s contemporary mobilization, not only in the lives of individuals like Jason and Ricardo but also for those interpellated as “natives”.

ARTICLE HISTORY Received 12 July 2018; Accepted 13 February 2019

KEYWORDS Deportation; multi-status Britain; illegalization; racism; borders; citizenship

Introduction

In the spring of 2018 the so-called “Windrush scandal” erupted in the UK. It was discovered that people who had moved from the Caribbean before 1973 – “Commonwealth subjects” who should have had indefinite leave to remain – were being caught up in the UK’s “hostile environment” immigration policy.1 Amelia Gentleman at the Guardian, along with a few others, began to collect stories of people who had lost their jobs, houses, and access to health- care because they had been illegalized. The story picked up steam, leading to the resignation of Home Secretary Amber Rudd (Gentleman 2018). Quite quickly, a broad consensus emerged: the “Windrush generation” were citizens, members of the national “we”, and as such their treatment had been unaccep- table and cruel. Crucially, the “Windrush generation” were not “illegal immi- grants”, a group that both main political parties continued to characterize as undesirable and unwanted.

© 2019 Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group

CONTACT Luke de Noronha [email protected] Department of Psychosocial Studies, Birk- beck College, University of London, 30 Russell Square, London WC1B 5DT, UK; School of Social Science and Public Policy, Keele University, Chancellors Building, Keele University Staffordshire, ST5 5BG, Keele, UK @LukeEdeNoronha

ETHNIC AND RACIAL STUDIES 2019, VOL. 42, NO. 14, 2413–2430 https://doi.org/10.1080/01419870.2019.1585559

Importantly, the “Windrush scandal” allowed politicians and tabloid jour- nalists to demonstrate that controls on immigration were not about race. By expressing sympathy with black “Windrush migrants”, who belonged, and by contrasting them with “illegal immigrants”, who did not, it was poss- ible for commentators to claim that immigrants are judged on their “inte- gration” and their conduct, and not on their race. As Bridget Anderson put it somewhat earlier:

The prevailing contemporary logic seems to be that ‘we’ still do not like ‘migrants’, that migrants are now often white since they come from Europe and that ‘we’ includes Black people; therefore, it is not racist to say that we do not like migrants (Anderson 2015, 2).

The claim that the exclusion of immigrants has nothing to do with race is central to the justification for bordering in contemporary Britain. In this politi- cal context, it is important to re-theorize the connection between migration and race (Erel, Murji, and Nahaboo 2016). In this paper, I dispute the claim that the UK’s immigration regime is somehow non-racist, by demonstrating the centrality of immigration controls to the production and mobilization of racial meanings in the present. In so doing, a sharper appreciation of the con- nections between race, nation and the border emerges. In particular, I develop these arguments through an ethnographic engagement with the lives of two men, Jason and Ricardo, both of who moved to the UK as children and spent half their lives in Britain, before being deported to Jamaica following criminal conviction (indeed, they were on the same deportation charter flight in November 2014).

This paper begins with a set of arguments about academic approaches to the study of migration and race. I argue that developing an account of illega- lization is necessary to reach a historically specific account of contemporary British racisms (De Genova 2002). I then put these arguments to work by describing Jason and Ricardo’s experiences. Jason lived in the UK for over fifteen years with “no recourse to public funds”, and his illegality trapped him in destitution. For Jason, race, class and status were lived through one another, and theorizing these interconnections is crucial if we want to better understand multi-status Britain. Like Jason, Ricardo was deported fol- lowing many years of police surveillance and harassment, and I argue that racism within the criminal justice system increasingly has deportation conse- quences. However, beyond suggesting that deportation is enforced dispro- portionately, the broader argument is that the immigration regime shapes and produces racial meanings and racist practices in the present. In other words, deportation not only reflects British racisms but produces and mobilizes them (Knowles 2010; Fox, Moroşanu, and Szilassy 2012). I elaborate these arguments through a close engagement with Jason and Ricardo’s experiences and interpretations.

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Race in migration studies

Migration studies and ethnic and racial studies are now largely distinct disci- plines within the British academy, but this has not always been so (Schuster 2010). In fact, it had previously been assumed that studies of race were, by default, studies of migration and migrants (Knowles 2010, 37; Erel, Murji, and Nahaboo 2016, 1339). In the 60s, 70s and 80s, Britain’s “ethnic minorities” were mostly postwar migrants and their descendants, and so studies of race and ethnicity implied immigration. Moreover, the politics of immigration and the politics of race were thoroughly imbricated in public debates – in that “immigration” meant “coloured immigration” and black and brown Britons were, and are, defined as second and third generation migrants (Gilroy 1987). When returning to earlier work on race and racism, it is worth bearing this in mind:

‘This is not a crisis of race. But race punctuates and periodizes the crisis. Race is the lens through which people come to perceive that a crisis is developing. It is the framework though which the crisis is experienced. It is the means by which the crisis is to be resolved – ‘send it away’ (Hall 1978, 31–32).

Stuart Hall’s analysis of race here implies immigration. I would even suggest that the word “race” could be replaced with the word “immigration” in the quote above, and it would still retain much of its original meaning. “Send it away” might imply incarceration (i.e. law and order), but it might also suggest repatriation, which has been one central rallying call of British racist expression throughout the postwar years (indeed, the pervasiveness of that familiar racist refrain, “go back to your country”, is one of the key reasons that deportation offers such a critical lens onto British racism).

This is not a call to romanticize the ethnic and racial studies of yesteryear – immigration and race were conceived of very differently by scholars working with different approaches – and this remains the case. Erel, Murji, and Nahaboo (2016, 1339) provide a helpful “framework for understanding how race is conceptualized (or ignored) in contemporary scholarship on migration”, noting the diverse ways in which scholars working in different tra- ditions theorize the race-migration nexus. In their conclusion, they argue that approaches to the study of migration which eschew race and racialization analytically, while presenting racism as somehow external to European iden- tity, work to deny the necessity of anti-racist approaches to migration, approaches which are especially urgent in the context of Europe’s border crisis and broad political shifts to the (far) right.

For Lentin (2014), mainstream European migration studies is “epistemically racist” and thus complicit with the postracial deflections, denials and dismis- sals which obscure Europe’s colonial histories and the ongoing vitality of racist culture. Liberal migration studies is often preoccupied with “integration”

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– operationalized in terms of migrants and minorities identifying with the “host country”, speaking the language, and displaying “interethnic social con- tacts” (see e.g. Ersanilli & Koopmans 2010). Colonial histories and global dis- parities fade from view, and questions about racism are recast in terms of “hostility towards out-groups” and “ethnic segregationism”, which of course work both ways (Koopmans 2010, 2015). These approaches to migration pro- blematize “migrants and minorities” rather than borders, and their propo- nents are some of the most prominent and well-funded migration researchers in Europe. The landscape in the British academy does differ signifi- cantly from countries like the Netherlands, France or Germany (Schuster 2010), but “raceless” and policy-friendly approaches to studying “migrants and minorities” have become popular (Alexander 2018). Superdiversity rep- resents one such analytic.

‘Diversity in Britain is not what it used to be’, Steven Vertovec (2007) argues in the first line of his widely cited superdiversity article (indeed, the most widely read article in this journal). Vertovec might be right to identify new kinds of complexity and difference, but his framing remains wholly descrip- tive, his conception of diversity arithmetic, and his ignorance of ‘close to 30 years of scholarship on the relationship between racism and urban multicul- ture’ palpable (Back and Sinha 2016, 520). These critiques have been well made elsewhere (Claire Alexander refers to the ‘empty empiricisms of super- diversity’, for example (2018, 1044)).

That said, Vertovec does point to the importance of different immigration statuses that carry “quite specific and legally enforceable entitlements, con- trols, conditions and limitations” (2007, 1036), and this insight is important. Vertovec lists several different migration statuses (e.g. workers, students, spouses, asylum seekers, irregular migrants), and then suggests that immigra- tion status fractures ethnicity, and has consequences for, amongst other things, how people relate to labour markets. While this is helpful, it remains conceptually flat, failing to work theoretically and politically beyond this fairly dry, even if kaleidoscopic, empirical observation (see Kofman (2002) and Morris (2003) for earlier accounts which provide more productive accounts of legal status).

It is preferable, therefore, to examine processes of illegalization. Rather than reifying immigration status, it is the state’s power to actively illegalize non-citi- zens through legal categorization and coercive power that should be the central object of scrutiny (De Genova 2002). In this light, immigration status is not simply another social variable which crosscuts or intersects others, but the product of state processes which classify, exclude and separate. It is these processes of exclusion and illegalization, as they interact with experi- ences of racism and multiculture, that should the focus of our critical inquiries (see Back and Sinha 2018). Indeed, exploring these processes of illegalization is especially important in contemporary Britain, because “everyday/

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everywhere borders” have become increasingly central to public and political life (Yuval-Davis, Wemyss, and Cassidy 2017).

Between 1993 and 2015, the number of non-citizens living in the UK increased from around two million to over five million (Rienzo and Vargas- Silva 2017).2 In recent years, the UK has allocated more resources to immigra- tion enforcement – particularly targeting “illegal immigrants” within the “hostile environment” – and these policies have rendered non-EU citizens increasingly temporary and deportable. Whether because of immigration raids on homes and places of work, or because of the routine immigration checks now outsourced to landlords, teachers, and doctors, many non-citizens are increasingly hemmed in by the borders designed to identify and exclude them(Yuval-Davis, Wemyss, and Cassidy 2017). It becomes important, there- fore, to pay attention to how these myriad bordering practices in what I call multi-status Britain generate complementary shifts in meanings and experi- ences that are specifically racialised in form. Following De Genova, I am con- cerned here with the relationship between racialization and illegalization in multi-status Britain (De Genova 2005).

Arguably, however, multi-status is simply a synonym for superdiverse. That may be so, but my intention in describing Britain as multi-status is to draw attention to the law, enforcement and exclusion – always in relation to race, racism and racialization – in a way which offers a more productive analytic than “diversity”. It is not simply, as Vertovec puts it, that being a “student”, “spouse”, “worker”, “asylum seeker” or “undocumented migrant” produces new configurations of “diversity”, but much more importantly that these juridical categories produce multifaceted exclusions (De Genova 2002). By defining Britain as multi-status, I am centring the border. Borders “have been transported to the middle of political space”, and are “implosive, infinitely elastic, and, in effect, truly everywhere within the space of the nation-state” (Balibar 2004: 104); borders produce “tensions between access and denial, mobility and immobilization, discipline and pun- ishment, freedom and control” (Casas-Cortes et al. 2015, 57). On this account, bordering practices produce a range of legal statuses and social positionings which fundamentally concern questions of power, inequality and state vio- lence. It is this kind of critical perspective which is lacking where diversity provides the optic.

By theorizing Britain as multi-status, then, I am arguing that immigration control should be central to any account of social inequality in contemporary Britain, and to theorisations of race and racism in particular. Indeed, the prefix “multi” has been used in several debates about race in Britain – the UK has variously been described as multi-ethnic, multi-cultural, multi-racial, multi- racist, and characterized by emergent forms of multiculture – and defining the UK as multi-status is intended to centre immigration control within broader conversations about race, nationalism and culture.

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The border in ethnic and racial studies

The critique of migration studies so far has been necessarily broad-brush, and it should not be read as an outright dismissal of some coherent body of work we might call “migration studies” (see Erel, Murji, and Nahaboo 2016). In fact, my intention in this piece is also to identify the paucity of theorisations of the border within ethnic and racial studies. Put simply, the problem is equally that many scholars of race and racism have failed to think substantively about legal status, bordering and citizenship/alienage. Returning to prominent theorisations of race, nation and multiculture in Britain – particularly the work of Paul Gilroy (1987, 2004) – immigration is often defined as the central public issue and theme that organizes defensive conceptions of the racial nation. However, among scholars who work with these insights, such claims are not always actively connected to the actual material and legal differences in status that shape the experiences of young “black Britons”.

With the intensification of internal borders and the deepening exclusions facing non-citizens, many multi-ethnic groups of young people today are divided by immigration and citizenship status, whether they talk about it or not. I am therefore suggesting that studies of racism and multiculture in urban Britain should be examining questions of belonging in legal as much as cultural terms, examining the weight of legal categorisations in the for- mation of identities. Immigration controls create “new hierarchies of belong- ing” (Back and Sinha 2018), and Britain’s multi-status character complicates how we think about and study race and racism, particularly when discussing issues of citizenship, belonging and identity.

If the critique of mainstream migration studies is that there has been a limited account of race, racism and state power, then the critique of ethnic and racial studies is that as border regimes have become more complex, inter- nalized and heavily enforced, there has been a lack of scholarly attention to their specific operation and consequences. This is arguably reflective of the wider absence of theorisations of the state following the cultural turn in ethnic and racial studies (Goldberg 2002), and my argument is that focusing on immigration control provides an important means of theorizing historically specific racisms in ways which centre the state (Hall 1980). Crucially, this is not a call to marginalize analyses of discourse and culture. It is rather a claim to recover a more appropriate balance, one which provides attentiveness to the state, the law, and to the material conditions and consequences of every- day/everywhere bordering.

One productive line of inquiry, in this regard, is to theorize the ways in which immigration controls actively produce race at different scales (Knowles 2010). Rather than uncovering racially discriminatory immigration enforcement practices, or reasserting the metonymic connection between immigration and race, both of which remain worthwhile, I am suggesting

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that immigration controls and citizenship restrictions themselves are pro- ductive of racial meanings and inequalities in the present. Racial distinctions are “the contingent outcome of immigration policy, practices, and processes”, rather than existing a priori (Fox, Moroşanu, and Szilassy 2012, 692). While racist expressions do not emerge anew each day, racism is always historically specific (Hall 1980), and border regimes are central to the production, or reconfiguration, of race as a social relation and system of difference.

In sum, critical accounts of race and nation in Britain need to attend to bor- dering practices. In what follows, I will operationalize and ground these argu- ments ethnographically, particularly through analysing the experiences of two men, Jason and Ricardo, who arrived to the UK as children, and were deported to Jamaica, half their lives later, following interaction with the criminal justice system. I will analyse the connections between processes of racialization, crim- inalization and illegalization, as they played out in these men’s lives, and will restate in more detail how such a framework is generative for broader studies of race and migration. Before introducing Jason and Ricardo however, I provide a brief account of my methodology.

Methodology

The study is based on ethnographic methods – prolonged contact, “deep hanging out”, and participant observation – as well as life-story interview methods. The fieldwork for this ethnographic project was conducted over two years, from 2015–2017, including three trips to Jamaica totalling around seven months. I met and interviewed over fifty deported people, but came to know around ten deported people especially well. I conducted several life story interviews with each of my key interlocutors over the course of the fieldwork period, and spent many hours “hanging out” and having informal conversations. Between fieldwork trips in Jamaica, I was in the UK conducting research with friends and family members of the deported people I met in Jamaica.

The men in this ethnographic study were all defined as “foreign criminals” in British law. Since the “foreign prisoner crisis” of 2006 – a media-produced scandal concerning the release of “foreign offenders”, following which the Home Office was declared “not fit for purpose” – non-citizens with criminal records have been prioritized in Home Office deportation drives (Kaufman 2015). Several changes to law, policy and practice have expedited their removal. The overall effect of these multiple, interacting legal changes has been to lower the threshold for “criminality”, to restrict the weight accorded to family ties and years spent in the UK, and to deny “foreign offenders” access to appeal rights. This expendability renders the study of “foreign criminals” particularly productive when examining the normative content of contempor- ary citizenship.

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In this paper, I include accounts from two men from the larger study, Jason and Ricardo, both men who I have known for around three years and who I remain in regular contact with. While this is only a short paper and not a monograph, I want something of Jason and Ricardo’s character to come through. I try to provide more than just “a bunch of disembodied thoughts that come out of subject’s mouths” (Duneier and Back 2006, 554), and use descriptions and long quotes to this effect. My own view is that men like Jason and Ricardo have much to teach us about racism in contemporary Britain, and my theorisations on race and immigration control emerge out of sustained engagement, close listening and ongoing conversation with deported people like Jason and Ricardo.

Jason: race, class and status as mutually constitutive

I met Jason in 2015, on only my second day in Jamaica. I was spending the day down at the Salvation Army in Kingston, where the city’s homeless come for food each day, when Jason bounded in at quite some pace, frenetic and loud. He spoke with a distinctly East London accent, and when I introduced myself my own accent clearly took him by surprise. “I’m from Manchester, yes”, I explained. He was slightly manic, and told me about a young woman from Manchester that he had dated when he was in England. He brandished his Sondico trainers, a budget sports brand in the UK, and said “You know about Sondico, innit?!”. He was full of life, charming and intense. We sat down for a while, and Jason explained that he was homeless, living in a shelter in East Kingston. He also spoke about his years in London, and how difficult it had been because he had “no ID”. This was the first of many after- noons I spent with Jason, and as we got to know one another he spoke more about his years living homeless on the streets of London.

Jason left Jamaica when he was fifteen years old, to join his mother who had been living in London for twelve years. He found it difficult to get along with her and his step-father, and before long he had been “kicked out” of the house and was living on the streets. I asked Jason, “Did you not want to come back to Jamaica when you found England difficult?” “Of course I did”, he replied, “but when I told my mum that I wanted to go back before the six-month visa expired, she said, ‘are you mad?’ And took my passport away from me”. Jason’s mum took his passport and “dashed it in the bin”, and so his exclusion from family was knotted up with state controls on movement – the passport, the visa, the border. Jason was not allowed to move back to Jamaica, but neither would he be allowed to remain in Britain legally. When Jason was homeless, unable to claim benefits or work, his immediate family members – his mother, aunties and his cousins – were all on a path to British citizenship. Jason’s exclusion from family, then, was always about his exclusion from British citizenship.

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Jason spent many years homeless, often sleeping on buses or walking around the West End at night, trying to avoid the bitter cold of London’s winters:

Jason: Yeah. I literally slept in the cold on the streets one time, in ice. In ice my friend, you know. I padded up in somebody’s doorway, at the back of their house in erm, Barking, near the bus station, yeah. Barking Bus station, and I padded up behind there and just had a sleep you know.

Jason learnt to survive without any state support, and in this context he had repeated run-ins with the police. As Jason explains, “The problem with my life was I’ve been in and out of police stations”; “my life was morely like being in handcuffs”. Jason was mostly arrested for minor infractions, especially drunk and disorderly or not paying travel fares, but he also spent some time in prison, on remand, for several offences, including common assault, theft, damage to property and skipping bail. Importantly, Jason’s experiences of criminalization can only be understood in direct relation to his destitution.

When Jason was homeless, he developed friendships with other homeless people, many of whom were British citizens. These homeless British citizens, at least nominally, had access to housing and welfare benefits. Clearly, however, British citizens fall into homelessness too, and increasingly so (Cooper and Whyte 2017). For poor and disadvantaged British citizens, the state is hollow- ing out their access to social rights, protections and welfare, while intensifying forms of punishment, criminalization and surveillance – both of which are driven by a kind of moral authoritarianism designed, in many instances, to dis- cipline the poor into underpaid and insecure wage labour. This mode of gov- ernment, this punishment of the poor, is what Wacquant describes as “neoliberal statecraft” (Wacquant 2009, 287–314). However, while rights to housing, education, and benefits are being eroded for all British citizens, ille- galized migrants like Jason are excluded totally (they have “no recourse to public funds”). Further, while homeless British citizens are increasingly crimi- nalized and incarcerated (Cooper and Whyte 2017), non-citizens experience the added threat of coercion through detention and deportation. What is true for homeless British citizens – that the state is simultaneously abandon- ing and punitive – is compounded for non-citizens who are also subject to immigration control. Deportability itself is the condition of experiencing the state in this way (see De Genova 2002). Carter refers to deportability as “the revocability of the promise of a future” (1997, 196), and Jason articulated this in terms of being unable to progress in life because he had “no ID”:

Luke: Did you worry about getting sent back though? When all this was hap- pening with the police, did you think about the prospect of being back in Jamaica?

Jason: Every day, every day. Every day because it was something where I was thinking to myself, I don’t have no stamp out here official in England,

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for me to try and move somewhere. I don’t have nowhere where I can say, yeah, this is my home. Yeah? I don’t have nowhere where I can say to a girl, hey, let me take you out for a drink.

Luke: But specifically, I mean, deportation. Did you think about Jamaica? Jason: Yeah, I knew this was going to happen. Luke: Did you? Jason: Yeah, from very young, I knew from sixteen this was going to happen

to me, no matter what I tried, I knew it was going to happen because that is the system. I looked at the system way ago, and remember, where I lived, I lived in Essex, so you have posh cunts who have a BMW X6 or an R8. And they’re not driving slow, they’re pressing gas. And you know, I knew, I can’t compete against them. I don’t have a chance. How can I have a chance? They’re always going to beat me.

In this conversation, Jason responds to a question about his deportability by describing the “posh cunts” in Essex who were always going to “beat him”, and he complains about being unable to “say to a girl, hey, let me take you out for a drink”. Clearly, Jason’s illegality was experienced in relation to class, gender and racial identity. Jason could not disentangle race from class and immigration status; they were lived through one another, and these connections demonstrate the need to incorporate immigration control into a wider analysis of social inequality in contemporary Britain.

These connections between race, class and status were particularly audible when Jason described his experiences of racism in the UK. He often spoke about harassment and abuse from the police, and he described many accounts of racist street violence. He spoke about being called a “black cunt” on public transport, about people hurling racist abuse at him from pub gardens, and about groups of white men attacking him in Essex, London and Wales. Jason explained these incidents of racist violence in terms of him being black, but also in terms of his poverty, or the fact that he looked poor:

Jason: You know, it was like, oh, this guy looks a bit dodgy. I’m not dodgy, and I wouldn’t come across to a person dodgy, you know what I mean? I’m straight up and forward. But then when you have that look, you have a chipped tooth, you have a little cut on your face, people straight away, “oh you’re a thug”.

From Jason’s descriptions of racist events, and his feelings about how he was perceived, it is clear that race and class were mutually constitutive. It was having a chipped tooth that made Jason look like “a thug”, just as it was looking like he lived on the street that led to him being arrested. Notably, Jason said that the police were racist, always watching and harassing him, but he always related this to his destitution and hypervisibilty:

Jason: I had a lot of run ins with the police, you know, and every time I was trying to avoid the attention, you know, they knew I was on the street, and you know, it was really hard. It was really hard because all you’re trying to not get in trouble,

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once you’re on the street you’re going to get in trouble. Understand, it’s not somebody driving by and saying, oh, he’s going about his business. It’s the police, who is that? I see him last week, I see him again this week. Yes. And that’s what was happening.

While racist discrimination from the police and racist violence from white men on the streets were profoundly distressing for Jason, they were experienced in relation to his material vulnerabilities as street homeless. For Jason, his illeg- ality and homelessness were paramount because while he could navigate racist violence, he was trapped in destitution. Jason’s destitution (his class location) was produced by immigration control. In fact, Jason makes this con- nection himself when he moves, in his own rather fluid way, from discussing racist violence to bemoaning his lack of immigration status:

Jason: Some of the areas that I went to in Romford like Collier Row, and erm, Howard Hill, is very racial. So for you to go down there as a black person, you’re not accepted, and it was really worrying in a state that you’re living in the year 2000 and there’s people out there still like that, that wouldn’t mind head-butting others in the head, or burning down somebody’s fuckin’ house because there’s Chinese living in there, or Nigerians living in there you nar mean, so, all round I, I faced a lot of difficulties pursuing that effect. But in terms of effect where I wanted to do me, that was much harder. Because I didn’t have no right abode, address, yeah, I didn’t have no ID, specialising me to move about somewhere, you know and, it was harder for me to get things, like job centre, post office ID, you know? So I’ve said to myself, erm, let me try and do something, but I was on the street.

When Jason connects acts of racist violence in a “very racial area” to his own experiences of illegality, he reveals the connections he makes between differ- ent modes of exclusion. Following Jason’s own meandering narrative, his main issue was not having ID, and the rightlessness and abjection which flowed from that, which rendered him more vulnerable to various kinds of racist harassment and violence. Jason’s experiences and his own reflections allow for a sharper acknowledgement of how race, class and legal status are mutually constitutive, and inextricably so. This is true at different scales: within Jason’s own biography, in immigration regimes more broadly, and in a racialised world of unequal and bordered nation-states. This argument con- nects local acts of street and state racism – which might otherwise be defined only in terms of discrimination, prejudice and “hate crime” – to the legal borders of citizenship. Ricardo’s story allows me to pursue this argument from another direction.

Ricardo: race-making at the border

I met Ricardo in Montego Bay, Jamaica’s second city, around a year after he had been returned. He was struggling to adjust to life in Jamaica, and felt unsafe in an unfamiliar city, particularly because his older brother, who had

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also been deported from the UK, was murdered in Montego Bay two years earlier. Ricardo moved to the UK when he was ten-years-old and went to school in the West Midlands. I asked him about growing up in the UK and he described his interactions with the police, explaining that he had been arrested over one-hundred times, and always released without charge. His experiences with the police were so extreme, and so important to the ques- tions that had led me to Jamaica, that I kept returning to them. I encouraged Ricardo to transport me back to his life as a sixteen-year-old, when clad in all “black garms” he had to work out how to see his friends without getting arrested and spending hours in a police cell.

Ricardo explained that between the ages of fifteen and eighteen he was “just always getting arrested for robberies”. He began to feel that he could not leave his house without being harassed and arrested by the police. To be clear, Ricardo said that he had never committed a robbery, and yet was repeatedly arrested, interrogated and then released without charge. Often the police would show him some CCTV footage, claiming that the person on screen was wearing his clothes, trainers, or displayed his body comport- ment. Ricardo said that many of these accusations were laughable, when the person on camera looked nothing like him and was committing an offence somewhere he had never been.

When Ricardo was sixteen and seventeen, he started staying at home to avoid the police. Because he was “known to the police for robberies”, despite never having been charged with an offence, he was assigned a per- sonal officer, PC Marsden, a name neither he nor his friends had forgotten. PC Marsden would come and check on Ricardo, daily, to record whether he was in and what he was wearing: “Most of the time I’d just go down in my boxers and my socks, because they just write down what you’re wearing, because of the matching description bit”. When Ricardo left his house he would often see PC Marsden, waiting for him and his friends: “He’s always on the bike, bicycle, he would just ride around and wait for us to come out, and follow us and just say ‘where you guys going, you going to rob someone today?’”

The police also set up a camera directly outside Ricardo’s house, which faced their front door, apparently to combat “anti-social behaviour”. Ricardo and his friends told me that the police used to “kick the front door in” when looking for his brother, and “the door was always broken”, the lock unable to catch. Ricardo was harassed almost whenever he left the house, arrested countless times and taken to the police station; he was denied access to public space, to freedom of association, and to the presumption of innocence.

Importantly, Ricardo’s experiences are not atypical. Most deportees I met in Jamaica described racist policing practices. This does not mean they were not engaged in criminal acts, only that they were more likely to be caught,

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arrested, charged and convicted (see Lammy 2017). Of course, these kinds of heavy and disproportionate policing practices have consequences for which non-citizens are vulnerable to deportation power. Experiences of racism, par- ticularly at the hands of the police, mean that citizenship’s internal exclusions are mapped onto the border. Put differently, the nation is policed in ways which are not directly about controlling immigration – i.e. street and police racism – and yet which inevitably have consequences for who is most vulner- able to illegalization and deportation. For example, Australian overstayers working in bars simply do not experience the institutions of policing and immigration enforcement in the same way as racialised non-citizens like Ricardo and Jason, even as, in law, the Australian overstayer is an “illegal immi- grant” too. In a context in which there are more “illegal immigrants” than can be deported – what Matthew Gibney (2008) refers to as “the deportation gap” – racial discrimination within state institutions has consequences for which non-citizens are likely to have their status as non-members realized.

My argument, however, is not restricted to the claim that racist discrimi- nation determines who is most likely to be deported. I am also concerned with mapping the processes through which race is made, and immigration controls not only reflect ideas about “racialised outsiders” but also reconfigure them (Virdee 2014). The fact that borders produce racial meanings became especially clear when I met Ricardo’s best friend, Melissa, and she shared one particular anecdote with me.

Melissa: Yeah it was exactly like that, everywhere you walked, you’d get stopped, and it’s like why you stopping us for? I remember one time, I got a mate who’s Albanian, police man come over and was like, “you think you’re black don’t you mate”. And then we’re like “what”? And he’s like, “remember you ain’t even got a visa”. This is what he’s saying to the boy, and I’m just like hold your tongue, he wants you to say something to him. Don’t say nothing, just walk off and stuff. Like, that’s how police was round there.

In Melissa’s account, immigration control is invoked directly by a police officer, “remember you ain’t even got a visa”, which demonstrates that immigration control produces new narratives on and targets for popular and police racism. Discourses on immigration at the national level permeate society, and get mobilized in local interactions, like in the instance Melissa related. This is also manifest in relation to emergent forms of racist violence targeting Eastern Europeans (Fox, Moroşanu, and Szilassy 2012), and “asylum seekers” and “refugees” (Schuster 2010). The targets of Home Office policy and street racism are invariably in dialogue; “racialised outsiders” take form at the border.

Clearly, immigration controls shape how racism gets expressed and articu- lated. This is apparent when a police officer invokes the lack of a visa, or when “asylum seekers” are attacked qua “asylum seekers”. As important, however, are the more local encounters with immigration control which shape how people living in Britain understand race and (non)belonging. Let us consider

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the police officers who surveilled and harassed Ricardo throughout his teenage years. They are likely to be aware that he was deported post-sen- tence. Ricardo described familiar police officers attending his criminal trial and waving mockingly when he was convicted, and there was clearly a level of intimacy to their repeated encounters over the years. Those police officers denied Ricardo the right to space, mobility and the presumption of innocence – fundamental rights of citizenship – however, by virtue of his status, he was in fact not entitled to those rights of citizenship. Arguably, these police officers were vindicated by Ricardo’s deportation, and their dis- criminatory policing practices were sanctioned by the exclusionary and expul- sive logic of immigration control. Home Office policy and policing practices, then, are also inevitably in dialogue, and this is reinforced by specific insti- tutional arrangements which marry policing work with bordering functions (see Parmar 2018).

Under a policy called “Operation Nexus”, police officers in the UK now work with immigration officials to develop cases against non-citizens (Griffiths 2017). In particular, non-citizens who have not been convicted in criminal courts can still be deported based on “non-convictions” and police intelli- gence. In these cases, the police regularly provide witness statements and live evidence to the immigration tribunal, often alleging “gang involvement” (which is especially likely to affect Jamaican nationals). Thus, the police are actively involved in deportation processes, and the policing of “gangs” is now connected to and integrated within the deportation regime. This is par- ticularly striking in a context in which the vast majority of those defined as “gang members” are young black men, despite young white men committing the vast majority of serious youth violence (see Williams and Clarke 2016 for stark statistics on this point). This co-construction of illegality and criminality through emergent institutional relationships between the police and immi- gration authorities has consequences for how racist criminal justice is to be understood in multi-status Britain.

Crucially, these kinds of practices point to something more than “dispro- portionality”. Deportation not only reflects racist discrimination at an earlier stage but actively shifts how racism gets articulated thereafter. Put another way, it is not that Ricardo was racialised as black, criminalized as a result, and then subsequently illegalized, but rather that each set of processes feeds into the other. Ricardo’s racialization as black is not fixed or static, redu- cible to skin colour, but works through his criminalization and illegalization. Further, localized racist encounters can only be understood in relation to the nativist anti-immigrant politics which is negotiated at the border. Race does not precede immigration control; race is always in formation (Knowles 2010), and illegality, criminality and blackness all confirm one another for people like Ricardo. This way of theorizing race better connects local acts of racist violence to the borders of citizenship.

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Similarly, when Jason was called a “black cunt” and chased by a group of white men, we might conceive of this as a form of bordering. As Anoop Nayak argues: “the micro-politics of race hate that occurs in everyday encoun- ters at a local scale can perform as a means of purging the nation and exerting white territoriality” (2017, 290). For my purposes, the “micro-politics of race hate” are intimately connected to exclusive citizenship regimes and the legal borders of the nation. Racist street violence and immigration controls are both forms of bordering which feed off one another. Again, this is about interpreting local manifestations of racism in relation to the broader demarcation of the national community through bordering. The challenge, however, is in refining our ability to move between scales and develop a coherent argument about the connections between localized racist encoun- ters, national immigration policies, and global citizenship regimes.

In this paper, I have tried to connect localized instances of racist violence to the structuring force of citizenship and immigration law. This helps analyse processes of race-making in multi-status Britain, connecting the intimate and everyday to the structural, legal and institutional. Jason and Ricardo’s experiences demonstrate that immigration controls structure various forms of racist expression and exclusion, providing both meaning and license to acts of nativist exclusion. Ultimately, I hope to have demonstrated that it is through close attention to the biographies of people like Jason and Ricardo that racism in multi-status Britain can best be theorized.

Conclusion

The politics of immigration is central to the mobilization of race in contempor- ary Britain. This is certainly true at the discursive level – the figure of the immi- grant is part of the very intellectual mechanism that keeps us hostage (Gilroy 2004, 165) – but it is also true in relation to the law and its productive power in institutional and everyday life. In this article, I have tried to demonstrate how an ethnographic inquiry into specific immigration controls can provide a rich and complex account of race-making at different scales. Theorizing the con- nections between racialization and illegalization offers a generative frame- work for the study of race and racism in multi-status Britain.

Central to my argument is the claim that bordering practices and immigra- tion regimes actively produce race. For Jason, race, class and status were lived through one another, and this demands that we trace processes of illegaliza- tion in relation to other social dynamics and inequalities. When discussing Ricardo’s experiences, I argued that not only does racist policing have dispro- portionate deportation consequences, but that immigration controls them- selves shape and reconfigure how discriminatory policing practices take form thereafter. Crucially, immigration controls make race meaningful, and this is true for young people growing up without status – and their friends

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and families – but also for British citizens who are interpellated as “natives”. For police officers and street racists, it is in relation to the immigration regime that “racialised outsiders” often take form. Race is negotiated at the border.

Most importantly, it is through this kind of long term ethnographic engage- ment that it becomes possible to “bear witness” to the violence of immigra- tion control, as lived by people like Jason and Ricardo. They both faced some of the most extreme manifestations of British state racism, and they are now struggling to rebuild their lives in Jamaica, far from home, their patois unconvincing and their “Britishness” hypervisible. By reflecting on their stories, we can develop new replies to those facile claims that controls on immigration have nothing to do with racism, ultimately so that we might develop a vital and astute anti-racism fit for these anti-immigrant times.

Notes

1. The current prime minister, Theresa May, introduced a range of policies when she was Home Secretary designed to create, and I quote, “a really hostile environment for illegal immigrants” (Travis 2013)

2. Importantly, nearly three million of these five million non-citizens are EU citizens, and their fate is unclear in light of the UK’s impending exit from the European Union.

Disclosure Statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

Funding

This work was supported by Economic and Social Research Council.

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