From Advocacy to Assimilation: When Power Silences the Voices It Once Amplified

There was a time when David Lammy felt like a beacon of hope. His voice cut through the political noise, naming racial inequalities in Britain with a clarity that was both urgent and refreshing. I remember hearing him speak about the structural barriers facing Black students in higher education. For once, it seemed someone in authority was not only listening but prepared to act.

Back then, Lammy was not just a politician he was a symbol. He embodied the possibility that those who came from communities on the margins could speak truth to power without compromise. His interventions felt like lifelines for people like me, who had grown used to being silenced, overlooked, or dismissed.

But symbols have a way of fracturing. Long before his appointment as Foreign Secretary, the signs were there. Lammy’s language grew careful, his criticisms less pointed, his willingness to confront injustice seemingly tempered by the demands of political survival. And then came the image that crystallised my disappointment: Lammy, smiling broadly alongside JD Vance at Chevening House in Kent.

Vance a figure known for his harsh, sometimes racially divisive commentary in the United States looked like an unlikely companion for a man once celebrated as a fierce advocate for equality. Yet there they were: two men in power, sharing laughter. For me, the photograph told a story far louder than Lammy’s recent speeches. It was an image of assimilation, not advocacy. Lammy’s case is not unique, and perhaps that is what makes it so dispiriting. Time and again, I have seen the same pattern repeat across politics, academia, and corporate leadership.

The trajectory often begins the same way. A figure of colour rises through the ranks by being unapologetically outspoken about systemic inequality. They win trust in their communities by naming truths others refuse to confront. They become the firebrand, the disruptor, the conscience that institutions cannot easily ignore.

But once inside the corridors of power, the urgency fades. Their rhetoric softens. The same institutions they once critiqued become the ones they now defend, or at least no longer challenge. In some cases, they even form alliances with figures who stand diametrically opposed to the values they once championed.

The result is not only personal disappointment it is political and social harm. Because when those who once raised the banner of justice fall silent, the communities they represented are left exposed, and the younger generation is left asking whether advocacy was ever more than a stepping stone.

Academia’s Gatekeepers

This dynamic is painfully visible in higher education. I recall a conversation with a prestigious fellow of colour who had secured one of the most coveted positions in the academy. When I raised ongoing issues of racism on campus, their response stunned me: “Is racism really that much of a problem?”

The question carried an air of dismissal. It was not curiosity; it was distancing. Here was someone who could have been a mentor, an ally, a voice in spaces where students of colour remain underrepresented and undervalued. Instead, the message was clear: speaking openly about racism was now inconvenient. Perhaps even career-limiting.

This is how institutions reproduce themselves. Firebrands become gatekeepers, protecting the very systems they once critiqued. Equity initiatives become watered down, diversity becomes symbolic, and structural barriers remain in place while the public image suggests progress.

The corporate world offers another stage for this quiet assimilation. Executives from underrepresented backgrounds often begin as champions of inclusion, visible role models in industries still shaped by whiteness and privilege. But once they climb the ladder, many adopt the priorities and language of majority leadership.

Diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives that once defined their advocacy are pushed to the margins. Business pragmatism replaces moral clarity. Assimilation is rebranded as professionalism. And while the boardroom may look more diverse, the lived realities of those in the lower ranks change little.

The logic is always the same: survival in these spaces requires silence or compromise. Yet the cost of that compromise is borne not by those at the top but by the communities still waiting for meaningful change.

Why does this happen so often? Part of the answer lies in the seduction of proximity to power. Being invited into spaces once closed off can feel like a victory. The trappings of influence prestige, networks, security can recalibrate priorities, making once-radical positions feel expendable.

There is also the reality of risk. Speaking too loudly about inequality from the inside can carry real consequences: stalled careers, isolation, withdrawal of institutional support. Some choose self-preservation over confrontation.

But there is also something deeper at play: the way institutions absorb dissent. When voices of colour are brought into positions of power, they are often celebrated less for their principles than for their presence. Once inside, the pressure to assimilate to prove one’s belonging by adopting the language and priorities of the majority becomes overwhelming.

The result is a cycle in which advocacy is not amplified by power but neutralised by it.

The consequences of this pattern are profound. Communities learn that advocacy may be conditional, that those who once spoke boldly may falter when it matters most. Younger generations see their role models compromised, and cynicism sets in the belief that entering positions of power inevitably means abandoning one’s community.

This cynicism is not unfounded. When politicians like Lammy embrace alliances that contradict their earlier commitments, or when academics of colour dismiss the very realities, they once named, they send a signal: the fight for equality is optional. Negotiable. Convenient only when it serves personal advancement.

And yet, the responsibility does not disappear. Leadership is not simply about personal survival it carries an obligation to those who believed in your voice, those who needed your advocacy to remain steady.

The lesson, however, is not simply to place blame on individuals who change once they ascend. The deeper issue is structural. When entire systems are built to absorb, neutralise, and silence dissent, it is inevitable that some advocates will bend.

That is why communities must be cautious about investing too much in single figures, no matter how inspiring they may seem. Hope built on individuals is fragile; hope built on collective, structural change is harder to break.

Lammy’s trajectory, like that of many others, is a cautionary tale. A reminder that power can blunt principles, and that the louder someone once spoke, the sharper the disappointment when they fall silent. But it is also a call to vigilance: that we must hold our leaders accountable, and that the work of justice cannot rest on their shoulders alone.

From politics to academia, from corporate boardrooms to government offices, the message is clear: advocacy only matters if it survives the ascent to power, otherwise, it becomes a story of potential unfulfilled, a promise surrendered, and a community’s hope deferred.

David Lammy’s image with JD Vance may fade from the headlines, but the lesson should not. We cannot allow advocacy to become a personal commodity traded for access and status. We cannot afford to let symbols substitute for substance.

Real change requires persistence. It requires voices that do not falter when inconvenient. And most of all, it requires communities willing to demand that advocacy be more than a stepping stone it must be a principle that endures, even in the corridors of power.