The Court of Appeal has upheld the sentence handed down to Stephen Yaxley Lennon, better known as Tommy Robinson. In a courtroom far removed from the social media echo chambers where Robinson built his brand, his legal counsel made an impassioned plea: that he had experienced an “evident decline in his mental health,” that he suffers from ADHD and PTSD, and that he struggles to “regulate his emotions.”
Without wishing to be unkind, these are precisely the arguments that figures on the far right routinely ridicule as “woke” when applied to others, particularly asylum seekers, refugees, and other minority groups. When an unaccompanied child from a conflict zone is found to be traumatised, when an LGBTQ+ prisoner is found to be experiencing poor mental health, or when a protestor cites neurodivergence in their defence, the right-wing commentariat dismisses these claims with derision. “Excuses,” they cry. “Snowflake culture.” “Wokeness gone mad.”
Suella Braverman described the UK’s asylum system as broken because it is too soft, even calling the arrival of asylum seekers fleeing war and persecution an “invasion,” completely disregarding their mental health trauma. Or take the 2024 summer riots. A recent report found that asylum seekers were so terrified they didn’t dare leave their homes. Yet instead of concern for their welfare, far-right influencers and even mainstream figures like Matthew Goodwin complained that calling such groups “far-right” was an elite attempt to silence ordinary people.
Indeed, on his own X account, Yaxley-Lennon frequently derides leftism, feminism and Islam, as ‘mental health issues’.
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Yet when it is one of their own in the dock, the language changes. Suddenly trauma matters. Suddenly ADHD is real and relevant. Suddenly empathy is not just acceptable but necessary.
So, do they not see the irony? Or do they not care?
The answer, in many cases, is both. Some genuinely fail to connect the dots. But many do see the hypocrisy and press on regardless, because the point was never principle, it was power. These arguments are not wielded to protect the vulnerable, but to preserve a hierarchy: who deserves compassion and who does not; who is seen as a human being and who is seen as a threat.
This is the real danger of selective empathy. It turns human rights into conditional privileges. It turns vulnerability into a partisan talking point. And it corrodes the public’s understanding of justice, encouraging the idea that mental health or trauma are only real when experienced by the politically palatable.
Let me be clear: Yaxley-Lennon should absolutely be afforded his legal rights. He should have access to mental health care, and the justice system should recognise his neurodivergence as a factor. But that must be true not just for him, but for everyone, especially those who are never given a platform, never given the benefit of the doubt, and never make the headlines.
Because if we only believe in trauma when it suits our politics, then we don’t really believe in it at all.
The challenge for us all is to keep making the case for universal dignity. That means defending rights even for those we disagree with. But it also means holding a mirror up to those who only discover their compassion when the defendant wears the right flag or shares the right Facebook post.
Human rights are not a weakness. They’re a strength. And they’re meaningless if not for everyone.
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