On June 24th, actor David Tennant sparked widespread controversy during his acceptance speech for the Celebrity Ally award at the British LGBT Awards. Referring to the right to live authentically without harming others, he expressed disappointment that such a basic human decency still required recognition. He then remarked, “Until we wake up and Kemi Badenoch doesn’t exist anymore…”—a comment met with cheers—before clarifying, “I don’t wish harm on her, I just wish she’d shut up.”

Kemi Badenoch, a Black Conservative MP in the UK, has a long history of opposing trans rights. As former Equalities Minister, she urged the UK’s Financial Conduct Authority to roll back workplace trans inclusion policies and pledged to amend the Equality Act to allow for the exclusion of trans women from single-sex spaces if the Conservatives win the next election.

Following the viral speech, Badenoch responded on social media, stating, “I will not be silent. I will not let men silence me, especially those who prioritise applause from Stonewall over the safety of women and girls.” She described Tennant as “a wealthy, white man so blinded by his ideology that he cannot see how publicly wishing for my non-existence is an attack on the only Black woman in government.” Prime Minister Rishi Sunak supported her, reposting with the caption: “Freedom of speech is the cornerstone of our democracy. If you wish women didn’t exist and demand their silence, you are the problem.”

The situation has sparked debate: was Tennant giving voice to the marginalised, or did his statement cross a line into violence and erasure? Were Badenoch’s words a genuine defence against misogynoir, or a rhetorical shield to deflect from her discriminatory record?

Badenoch’s political history aligns with TERF (trans-exclusionary radical feminist) ideology—one that contradicts core feminist values by asserting womanhood as biologically fixed, defined by anatomy and chromosomes. This binary view upholds the very patriarchal standards feminism seeks to dismantle: rigid gender roles that harm everyone, including cisgender men and women. The patriarchal system prescribes strength, stoicism, and dominance for men; submissiveness, beauty, and docility for women—deviations are punished socially and structurally. Feminism at its core fights for all individuals to be seen as whole human beings, not as collections of physical traits or reproductive functions. Thus, reducing womanhood to biology undermines that goal.

The TERF position shares roots with “white feminism” which is a form of feminism that centres the experiences of privileged white women while ignoring the broader systems of colonialism, capitalism, and racial inequality. This version of feminism celebrates superficial empowerment: luxury, aesthetics, and personal success and is built on the exploitation of marginalised women globally.

Badenoch herself has downplayed the existence and impact of systemic racism despite using racial identity as a defence. This contradiction suggests her appeals to identity may be opportunistic rather than grounded in genuine solidarity with marginalised communities. Her case highlights how representation without systemic change can worsen inequalities by placing individuals from oppressed groups in power without addressing the structures that perpetuate harm.

Turning to David Tennant: widely beloved for his acting, wit, and charisma, he has also built a reputation as a committed ally to the LGBTQ+ community. Over the years, he has used his platform to speak out against transphobia, support queer youth, and challenge political narratives that deny LGBTQ+ people dignity and safety. His decision to accept the Celebrity Ally award was in keeping with this history of advocacy, and his comments that evening likely stemmed from genuine anguish—particularly over the erosion of trans rights and the hostile environment trans people, especially trans women, now face in the UK.

Indeed, recent years have seen a sharp rise in anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric in British politics and media. Trans individuals have been singled out as threats in debates over toilets, sports, and women’s spaces and often framed as a danger to cisgender women, despite evidence to the contrary. For those who support trans rights, watching these debates unfold can be both infuriating and disheartening, especially as they translate into real-world consequences: rising hate crimes, healthcare access barriers, and increasing social exclusion. Tennant’s frustration, then, is not hard to understand. His speech appears to have been an emotional outburst born from solidarity, even desperation.

Yet, however well-intentioned, the phrasing of his statement—“until we wake up and Kemi Badenoch doesn’t exist anymore”—is deeply problematic. Language that suggests erasure, even metaphorically, becomes particularly fraught when aimed at a Black woman in public life. Regardless of Tennant’s clarification that he simply wished she would “shut up,” the initial phrase lands heavily because of the historical weight it carries. Black women have long been rendered invisible or treated as disposable in both political discourse and broader culture. To speak of a Black woman’s nonexistence, even rhetorically, evokes a legacy of silencing, exclusion, and violence, especially when voiced by a white man with cultural capital and public affection.

This raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: does righteous anger, even when rooted in allyship, justify language that risks reinforcing the very harms it seeks to challenge? Advocating against violence and marginalisation must not replicate the tactics of erasure, domination, or symbolic silencing. To oppose harm effectively, allyship must be both principled and self-aware.

Even though Tennant followed up his comment with a disclaimer—clarifying that he didn’t wish harm upon Badenoch—words, once spoken on a public stage, have lasting reverberations. Applause and laughter from the audience may have signaled support, but they also suggest how easily collective frustration can slide into collective dehumanisation, especially when targeted at a singular figure. This dynamic becomes even more troubling when that figure occupies multiple marginalised positions, despite holding institutional power.

Because while Kemi Badenoch’s policies are undeniably harmful, reflecting a clear agenda to roll back trans rights, she is also a Black woman in a society that continues to deny Black women full personhood. Her presence in government does not shield her from racialised and gendered violence; in fact, it often exposes her to intensified scrutiny, both from those who oppose her views and those who nominally share her identity. The complexity lies in recognising that she can be both an agent of harm and a subject of structural oppression.

This does not absolve her of responsibility for her actions or shield her from political critique. But it does require that critiques avoid reproducing the very logic of exclusion they aim to dismantle. A truly intersectional approach recognises that systems of oppression are not isolated—that racism, misogyny, and transphobia often intersect in unexpected and insidious ways. In this case, Tennant’s comment, though likely driven by compassion, inadvertently touched a nerve embedded in the UK’s racial and colonial history: the ease with which Black women’s voices can be dismissed, and their existence problematised, by those who otherwise frame themselves as progressive.

The responsibility of allyship, then, is not just to speak up, but to speak carefully, recognising the full spectrum of power and vulnerability at play. Tennant’s anger may have been valid, even necessary, but its expression reminds us that even allies must continually interrogate how their words land, especially when wielded from a position of privilege. The fight for justice demands not only passion but also precision, humility, and an awareness of the histories that echo in every phrase we use.

Kemi Badenoch is deeply conservative, yet still a Black woman shaped by an oppressive system. David Tennant is well-intentioned, but still a wealthy white man with social privilege. Judging either figure in isolation obscures how power, race, gender, and history intersect.

Only by recognising the systemic nature of oppression can we move beyond surface-level debates and build a world of true equity and shared humanity.