Kanu Patel

Can you start by talking about how you came to Nottingham University?

Kanu Patel:

I went for interviews at several universities. I didn’t like Birmingham at all. It felt apathetic. I was expected to reject two offers anyway. Initially, I had offers from Birmingham and Leeds, and then Manchester came through as well. They were quite high offers. I rejected Manchester and Birmingham, kept Leeds and Sheffield, and then finally chose Nottingham.

I started university in 1972. I think I visited Nottingham in late 1971 or early 1972, possibly after my mock exams. When I first came, it was raining heavily. My brother met me at the station wearing this big Afghan coat, those old army coats were just becoming fashionable then. He took me up to the university and showed me around the Physics department.

I remember noticing that the students seemed engaged. That mattered to me. At Birmingham, students had seemed detached. At Nottingham, people were talking, arguing, thinking. We walked around campus in the rain, visited the halls of residence, and then went to the canteen. It was English food, which I was already used to from school, and I remember thinking it was some of the best food I’d had.

The campus was beautiful. Nottingham wasn’t seen as particularly fashionable then, but I liked it. Even though it had been my fifth choice initially, it became my first choice after the visit. Leeds became second. Nottingham also had lower grade requirements, which realistically matched what I expected to get.

What happened when you first arrived as a student?

I was placed in Hugh Stewart Hall, which was one of the largest men’s halls at the time. My brother was living elsewhere, possibly in Lenton. Early in the first term, I attended the Chancellor’s annual address to the entire university.

What shocked me was that the Chancellor openly criticised Kwacha during his speech. He described it as a racist organisation. That was extraordinary. Kwacha was an organisation made up mainly of students from what were then referred to as “Third World” or “non-aligned” countries.

The principle of Kwacha was that it should be led by people from those countries, not by white students. This was often misunderstood as racism, but the intention was self-determination. It was about learning our own histories, understanding exploitation, and analysing colonialism and imperialism on our own terms.

That speech had a profound effect on me. It politicised me very quickly.

Can you describe Kwacha in more detail?

Kwacha meetings would attract thirty or forty people. We screened films — about Indigenous Americans, African liberation struggles, Vietnam, South America. We ordered film reels ourselves and projected them. After the screenings, we discussed them collectively.

People would research their own countries and present back to the group. It was political education, but not top-down. It was collective. My brother was already involved, along with people like Benny Bunsee and Hafiz Khan, who was a lecturer originally from Guyana. There wasn’t really a hierarchy. Some people were more experienced or confident, but it wasn’t a leadership structure in the traditional sense. It was about shared learning.

We also produced leaflets. These were typed and duplicated by hand. Topics included Palestine, Vietnam, African liberation struggles. We laid them out on tables at lunchtime. What always struck me was that if white left-wing groups said similar things, it was acceptable. When we said them, we were labelled extremists.

Kwacha also produced magazines, six or seven in total. Unfortunately, none of them have survived, at least not that I know of. I wish I still had copies. They were important documents.

What was the social atmosphere around all this?

In my first year, someone organised a party in my room. We pushed everything into the bathroom. About twenty people turned up, Africans, Asians, Caribbeans, men and women. It was my first exposure to Black music. The party went on until three or four in the morning. The next day, one of the white students who had been there came back to help me clean up. That small gesture meant a lot to me.

Between that, the Chancellor’s speech, the Kwacha meetings, the leafleting, the films, it all created a strong sense of solidarity. Politics wasn’t abstract. It was lived.

How did Kwacha differ from other left-wing groups?

Most socialist organisations believed that revolution had to happen first in Britain, and only then could liberation follow elsewhere. We rejected that idea. We believed people could liberate themselves.

We didn’t need white socialists to free us. We drew inspiration from liberation movements in Mozambique, Angola, South Africa, Vietnam. We supported the Vietnam Solidarity Campaign strongly.

We interacted with other groups, IMG members, Communist Party activists, but our politics were different. Kwacha was about political education, self-leadership, and internationalism. Over time, other movements adopted similar ideas. Women’s groups later insisted on their own leadership too.

What happened after you graduated?

After university, I applied for thirty or forty jobs. Most of my peers had jobs lined up before finals. I didn’t. It was straightforward racism. I kept getting rejections. Eventually, I received one offer and took it. Ironically, it turned out to be the best job I could have had. I stayed in Nottingham.

Work forced me to compartmentalise my politics. I was often the only non-white person in workplaces with no union presence. I still attended demonstrations, but I had to be careful.

How did your political work develop in the 1980s?

Through contacts, I became involved with the Asian Youth Movement. We attended demonstrations, particularly around deportation cases. We also protested against international fascist regimes, Portuguese and Greek dictatorships, for example.

Later, my focus shifted towards community work. I became involved with the Indian Community Centre on Russell Street, especially youth activities. Politics didn’t disappear. It just took a different form. We set up a cricket team for young people and entered a men’s league. The aim wasn’t winning. It was participation, confidence, visibility. It was about young people engaging beyond the community.

How did arts and culture enter your work?

Through people like Resham and Pav, cultural organising expanded. Bhangra was becoming popular. They began organising gigs, and from that came the idea of a festival.

That became the Nottingham Mela. It was ambitious, multiple stages, international artists, food stalls, fashion, classical and popular music. We worked with the council, negotiated contracts, organised infrastructure and security.

It rained heavily one night, and financially the festival made a loss initially, but culturally it was a huge success. Many volunteers went on to significant careers. It built confidence and long-term cultural infrastructure.

Eventually, Asian Arts Council absorbed much of this work. That’s how movements evolve. Nothing stays static.

How do you reflect on that period now?

What stands out is collective action. From Kwacha to youth work to the Mela, everything was done together. Racism was structural, but so was resistance.

People forget the unpaid labour, the risks, the sacrifices. Many who did the most were never recognised. But the impact is there — in institutions, in culture, and in people’s lives.