By Mahliqa Ali
Illustrated by Sylvain Chan
LSE is often praised for its diversity. When LSE was ranked first in The Times University guide earlier this year, Larry Kramer attributed this to our global community of students and faculty. With a student population that is 70% international, the range of countries and experiences that students bring to LSE undeniably makes our campus an enriching cultural melting pot.
Yet, diversity has become a buzzword, so reminding ourselves why it matters highlights the need to prioritise it beyond just nationality and culture.
Diversity is important because every single person in the world has a different experience, heavily influenced by factors including race, religion, class, gender, sexuality, neurodivergence and disability. Diverse spaces featuring representation from across the whole spectrum of these characteristics enable us to develop empathy for all and learn from those who have had experiences unlike our own. There is not one ideal way to live; there are a multitude of values, priorities and ways of being we can be exposed to when we seriously and genuinely engage with those who are different to ourselves.
There is a significant lack of class diversity at LSE, which inhibits our ability to engage with the diversity of experience that makes LSE such a special place.
Zoë is LSESU’s Class Liberation Officer, representing students from working-class, state-school, or care-experienced backgrounds and those who have experienced homelessness. She comes from Darlington, a small town in the North East, attended a state-school, and grew up on free school meals while living in a single-parent household.
“There isn’t enough class diversity,” Zoë explains, attributing it partly to LSE’s demographics. “There’s a large majority of international students, and to be able to sustain their studies, they have to prove that they have a certain amount of wealth to be here.”
She also highlights the dominance of privately educated home students. “Even among state school students, some attended good quality grammar schools. Whereas I went to the worst school in my town, and already the North East is one of the worst places to be educated in the UK, so my standard of state school is different to others.”
This year, Zoë has set up the ‘Working Class Collective’, a social space for working class students, worked with the SU to launch the Kickstart social mobility scheme, and tripled the hardship fund which helps students facing financial difficulty.
Gracie, a third-year Geography student, offers perspective on the value of the schemes LSE offers for working-class students. Gracie is from Colchester, Essex, which she notes is “generally an area of really low academic progression.” She grew up in a single-parent household and is the first in her family to attend university. Throughout her degree, she has worked as a Widening Participation Student Ambassador and office assistant in LSE recruitment.
“There are some fantastic recruitment programmes that are working. LSE Springboard, LSE Thrive, Pathways to Banking & Finance, Pathways to Law are targeted towards schools or individuals underrepresented in higher education and LSE,” comments Gracie.
“It’s so lovely seeing students grow to become more confident in knowing that higher education or LSE is for them. Of course, some students come onto those programmes and decide actually the subject is not for them, and that’s totally okay. It’s giving them that first exposure to decide which is helpful,” she adds.
Gracie personally benefitted from the Kickstart scheme, which enables students to access societies. She had never had a sports membership before due to the high cost. Through Kickstart, Gracie was able to access five societies, one of which was women’s football, where she is now an active member. “It’s so nice to have the SU acknowledge that certain demographics might not have access. Things like this make it a little bit more equal,” she reflects.
Beyond society participation, how does the working class experience differ from wealthier peers? Gracie highlights the challenges of having to work to cover the rising cost of living. “The LSE policy is that you can only work 20 hours a week. I’ve gone beyond that on multiple occasions and it’s due to necessity. I’ve always had a full maintenance loan, the LSE bursary, and sometimes it feels like even those aren’t quite enough.”
“That funding sustains me, it covers rent, groceries, TFL. But sometimes I’ll do extra work shifts to enjoy the stuff others enjoy. If I want an iced matcha latte, I have to work for that. I’m not gonna deprive myself of that because I deserve to have the same kind of fun. It’s so trivial but these things affect your whole university experience,” she adds.
While class is primarily defined by financial capital, working-class students not only have less monetary resources, but also lack the luxury of time.
Zoë explains, “I hate coming back after breaks. I love that you went on holiday, but please don’t ask me where I went because I was working. Sure, ask if I’ve had a nice reading week, but why assume I’ve gone somewhere?”
She also reflects on how this lack of time is exacerbated by other factors. “I’m neurodivergent, so I have a brain that needs more time to process, for essays and reading. I already have an academic disadvantage with a learning disability, and then I have to work, so it gives me even less time even though I need more.”
Additionally, many working-class students have to dedicate effort towards familiarising themselves with the educational and career navigation skills that more privileged students may have learned about from their families or schools.
Gracie explains, “If you have no prior knowledge, it’s a testing game. Perhaps my CV even looks a bit messy because I’ve done a consulting insight programme, then I’ve done a banking workshop. Of course everyone is going to spend time figuring out their path, but especially if you’re someone who has no clue because your parents don’t work in these careers, and you didn’t go to a private school where you were told about these things, it takes a lot of time to figure out what you like.”
Wajiha, LSESU’s Education Officer, who comes from a “low socioeconomic background,” also notes the lack of confidence she had coming to university. “I’m the first in my family to attend university, so I’ve not had anyone to ask about it growing up. It was a new experience for me and everyone in my family. The systemic aspects are sometimes unbearable. Like when you’re writing an essay or struggling to do referencing. Some people were taught how to do that at school. Am I stupid because I don’t know how to do something, or is this actually a manifestation of inequality?”
In contrast, Joe, an undergraduate History and Politics student, attended a private school in Nottingham and received ample support. “My parents are both doctors, so we were always very comfortable when I was growing up, but it was important to my parents that I understood that was not the norm.”
“My school gave me endless, unlimited support. Three different teachers looked through my personal statement and helped me improve it before it got sent off. Our deputy head of sixth form had been an Oxford admissions tutor. My friends applying to medicine had a huge amount of time with teachers, receiving training for months leading up to interviews. The school had real expertise about how to help us get into university.”
Wajiha identifies the role of luck as significant in getting her into LSE. “I was part of a small group in my year that was encouraged to aim for the top 10 universities. My head of sixth form helped me, and I wouldn’t have made it here if it wasn’t for him. And that’s pure luck. From my background there were a lot of people not going into higher education.”
Once students get to LSE, how is their experience studying here?
Zoë reflected on the ‘imposter syndrome’ that she felt in classes. “I didn’t speak my entire first year because I felt so deeply insecure about the way I sound. I think certain people are able to articulate themselves because they’ve been taught how. I was never taught how to make a convincing argument.”
The term ‘imposter syndrome’ originates from psychologists, describing the doubt people feel about deserving their success in high-achieving environments. Is this an accurate description of people’s experiences? The word ‘syndrome’ implies that the issue lies within the individual’s self-doubt. However, these interviews demonstrate that many of the conditions that facilitate high achievement actually are exclusive to those from privileged backgrounds: there are certain social norms, networks, and opportunities that have not traditionally been accessible for the working class.
Interestingly, the psychologists who coined the term initially labelled it as a phenomenon; this seems more apt for the systemic problem of educational and wealth inequality. Gracie agrees, saying: “Calling it imposter syndrome doesn’t acknowledge the reality of why you feel that way. Rather than saying I’m in a hard class, all my peers are comfortable here, I must be the imposter, I would prefer to say they’ve had certain systemic advantages over me, and I’m working hard to overcome that.”
Joe observed similar patterns in seminars. “In History and Politics, my classes are based on small group discussions then feeding back to the whole class. I notice the same people speak every time. Some people want to talk, some prefer not to, and that’s fine. What’s less acceptable is the way class interacts with that. In school, I had small class sizes, and debate was a huge thing, so this is a style of teaching I’m very used to. Obviously I don’t know the exact reasons why people might not feel comfortable to share in front of the class, but I have noticed the people who do are people like me with a more privileged background.”
This issue is particularly pertinent within a social science university where class is often talked about as a sociological category of analysis. “It’s a regular frustration going to class and poverty is seen as an abstract thing, an academic concept. I do politics, and we talk about policies to reduce inequality. You can say you disagree with a policy when you’re sitting in class, but for me, if that policy was implemented, that would massively impact my life and the way I’ve grown up, but that wouldn’t mean anything to you. I think we should stop talking about poor people as if they don’t actually exist. And if you don’t have experience with something in a seminar, what’s the need to speak on it?” questions Zoë.
Kieran, a Politics and IR graduate, shares this frustration. He explains, “A lot of middle-class people at LSE will spend time in seminars trying to understand the behaviours of working class people as a social scientific subject. To some extent I’m guilty of this myself as a Political Science student, but my analysis comes from growing up with these communities. Those students will try to explain working class behaviour without knowing people who are actually working class. I think it’s only recently that people have started to consider alternative explanations for working class behaviour other than economic feeling.”
He highlights the failure to acknowledge that working class people are active political agents. “The traditional narrative of electoral politics is that deprivation is what drives people to vote, but working class people vote on the basis of lots of different factors.”
This tendency to analyse the working class as an abstract concept in essays often translates into students not engaging with the real lived experiences of the working class people around them. Many interviewees noticed the sheer lack of awareness some students had of other people’s differing realities. The working class make up the majority of society, but at LSE, they are a minority. LSE is not a microcosm of society, rather it reflects its most elite sections. This makes class disparities even more visible and jarring for students from less privileged backgrounds.
Zoë remarks that at LSE, she feels like an anomaly: “It feels like there’s a microscope on my background because it’s so different to the majority of people here. Children shouldn’t have to live in poverty of course, and that shouldn’t be normalised, but it’s a regular thing many people relate to where I grew up.”
Similarly, Gracie shares: “If I went to pretty much most other UK universities, I could probably find a good percentage of people like me. I wouldn’t feel so alienated. Most people where I’m from live in single-parent households, are on benefits, and live on council estates. It’s quite a happy place despite what media will tell you. We’re fine, we’re fine being poor.”
Many working class students have encountered a severe lack of understanding of class. Beyond any overt, maliciously-intentioned remarks, the lack of engagement with a diverse range of backgrounds manifests as ignorance and an inability to recognise privilege.
Wajiha recalls a conversation with a flatmate about how much they received via student finance loans. “Once she said to me, ‘you’re so lucky you get so much student finance, you never have to worry about money.’ There’s a reason for that. I could’ve said to her you’re so lucky you were born into a background where your parents can afford to pay your rent and send you hundreds each month. Lucky? I wish my luck had gone the other way. Where I didn’t have to work 20 hour shifts each weekend to afford to live.”
Once students overcome the systemic barriers to enter a high-achieving university, does an LSE degree confer a certain level of social mobility on those who have them? Narratives around meritocracy argue that if people work hard, get a good education, and put in effort to secure a lucrative job, they can ‘work their way out’ of their class situation. How realistic is this narrative for LSE students and graduates?
Arif is an LSE History graduate who lives in Tower Hamlets – one of the most deprived areas in London. He is a second-generation Bangladeshi immigrant, and comes from a working-class family. Post-graduation, Arif now works at a top financial firm in the city.
Many would see Arif as proof that meritocracy works. But what does he put his success down to?
Arif spoke to The Beaver as he walked 15 minutes from his corporate office in Canary Wharf to his home in East London. “The reality of living in this area is literally being stood amongst council estates, against the backdrop of high-rise buildings from the city, where billions are coming in and out every day.”
“My ability to succeed was actually due to a lot of DEI programmes. I got to where I am because I was on scholarships, got mentoring from industry leaders, and got lucky with applications. I don’t think meritocracy and social mobility exist. Sure, you can technically work to make your immediate material conditions better, but in terms of building generational wealth, these are more exceptions than the rule,” explains Arif.
“Have I achieved social mobility? I will say I’m earning significantly more than the average UK graduate salary, and the average salary in my area. Tower Hamlets has a very high benefit recipients rate, lots of unemployment, gig work, and multigenerational households with an elderly population,” he explains.
“One of the unfortunate aspects of class in British society is that a key indicator of ‘making it’ is owning property, specifically to extract value from other working-class people. In a post-neoliberal, Thatcherite era, you have to step on people below you to get up,” adds Arif.
Wajiha agrees that meritocracy is a myth. “Reflecting on this as someone who people might consider as a ‘success story.’ I had teacher-predicted grades because of the pandemic, and I got a contextual offer. So that was a systemic thing that levelled the playing field for me to be able to get to this position.”
Notably, these students recognised that there was an element of luck and circumstance in addition to their hard work. The myth of meritocracy means that many privileged students tend to think that hard work and success have a linear correlation, failing to recognise the other factors that contributed to their success.
Arif comments on this prevalent attitude that he encountered. “Of course LSE students put in a lot of work for the exams they took to get here, but the resources they had access to came from familial wealth. I don’t think it’s entirely fair for them to be saying success comes purely from working hard when a lot of them are taking money from their families.”
Does hard work correlate with success? How do we measure success? Zoë explains, “I completely understand going to university and wanting to do better, that’s why I’m here.”
“At the same time, I refuse to equate success with the amount of money you get for your job or being in the corporate world. My mum’s a trained social worker and carer, my dad’s a healthcare assistant, they both work in failing systems, and they both work extremely hard. Working class people work the hardest,” she argues.
Wajiha adds that having an LSE degree does not automatically level the playing field. “I think LSE gives you opportunity, even just the name opens doors. But it’s not the only thing. It’s also knowing how to use your LSE education. Networking for example, takes years to figure out.”
Kieran agrees, noting that graduation is only the first step. “After graduating, there are 6 or 7 more steps I need to take before I can get a good job, and because I might lack the networking skills to use the LSE degree to my advantage, that means the 6 or 7 other steps might take me twice as long as other people.”
He also highlights the dangers of perpetuating the myth of meritocracy: “I didn’t know what an internship was before coming to LSE, or why it was important. I don’t know if I’ve even learnt much from my internships that I didn’t know before. I’ve realised it’s more about having something on your CV as verification for your skills. People who believe in meritocracy might think, ‘If I work hard, people will recognise my skills,’ but it’s not like that. It doesn’t occur to you that you also have to sell yourself.”
Furthermore, class does not exist in an isolated bubble. Other aspects of identity can confound the effects of class inequality. Wahija recalls the statistic that 50% of Muslims in the UK live under the poverty line. “A lot of these people are working really hard in care jobs – they’re nurses, careworkers, people who work at home, first-generation immigrants in this country. There’s a massive intersection of the Muslim community and class.”
Arif adds “A lot of students from affluent backgrounds don’t understand the plight of the British working class. That also feeds into ethnic inequalities where South Asians and Black people are underrepresented too.”
Arif has a long-term health condition called Multiple Sclerosis, which requires him to take immunosuppressants. Due to this, he wears a mask in the office to prevent illness. He recognises that “as someone who is a graduate, it does affect my ability to socialise and network. For the most part people are understanding, but the corporate world is a very conservative place, so some of them may have opinions on me masking.”
Kieran notes that “Being autistic, that amplifies difficulties with networking, because sometimes I don’t understand the social norms that people are behaving according to. If someone’s already got a suspicion of you not belonging in a certain room, that can single you out even further.”
Class does not only manifest in education and careers – it is also visible in daily interactions. Joe observes different reactions to running low on money: “There’s a world of difference between the people who just text their parents to send them more money, and people who will pick up extra work shifts and not go out at all the last week of the month. The attitude of ‘It doesn’t matter if I run out of money, I can just send a text and more money will appear’.”
Of course, no one chooses the family they are born into. The lottery of birth means that we have no say in the privileges we inherit, or the struggles we must navigate. What can be chosen is awareness. Awareness of the vastly different realities that exist beyond our own, and of the way class, opportunity, and circumstance shape lives in ways we may not experience firsthand. In a city where these divides are stark, where just 20 minutes from campus, wealth and struggle exist side by side, acknowledging these differences is not just about perspective. It becomes a responsibility.
