Following a shocking rise in violence in London in which four of his constituents died, the Tottenham MP is calling for politicians to admit the ‘war on drugs’ has failed – and that black lives matter

David Lammy is one of those politicians whose public profile has never correlated with his position in his party, or converted into frontbench power, and this sort of maverick celebrity operator tends to attract suspicion. Elected to represent Tottenham 18 years ago, the 46-year-old has at various key moments – the Grenfell fire, the London riots – distinguished himself in the public’s affection by seizing individual ownership of the agenda. To some, particularly in Westminster, this highly personalised brand of political identity is opportunistic self-promotion, artfully disguised as heroism.

To me, his politics look sincere and principled, I’ve just never been entirely sure what they are. He used to joke: “I’m not Blair, I’m not Brown, I’m just black.” And he has successfully eluded all association with any ideological faction with such dexterity that he can sometimes look a bit slippery, as if his public persona is contingent on whatever strategy he has devised to please his audience.

We meet in the Bernie Grant Arts Centre in Tottenham on Thursday, to discuss the violent crime surge that has cost 51 lives in London this year. More than half of the victims have been young – in their 20s and younger – and poor. I am not expecting much more than for Lammy to offer carefully calibrated, bland reassurances. It takes less than five minutes to see how wrong I am.

Lammy woke up on Tuesday to a text informing him that Tanesha Melbourne-Blake, a 17-year-old girl, had been gunned down in a drive-by shooting in his constituency. This time, he decided, he would not let the murder go unnoticed.

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“To be honest,” he says, “I was shocked that four weeks ago, when a moped and pillion passenger gunned down a young man standing outside the cinema in Wood Green, that there was not more national attention on that shooting.” How does he explain the apparent indifference? “Because he was black.” He delivers this with such force, his words ring out across the cafe. “Because he was black,” he repeats. “And I think we’ve got to ask ourselves, do black lives matter?”

For the next hour, Lammy barely draws breath. Only twice does he pause to consider the impact of what he is about to say. Even in private, I have never heard a politician hold forth with such utter disregard for his or her audience.

The first thing Lammy wants us to understand is the blameless ease with which a child who goes home to an empty council estate flat because his mum can’t afford childcare while she’s at work, can become a gang member. All it takes is a gift of new trainers, he says, for which in return the child is soon asked to carry a little package round the corner, and before long, the 12-year-old is earning more in one week than his parents make in a year. The white middle-class market for cocaine is booming, Lammy says, citing reports by Interpol and Europol, and he has seen for himself how easy it is to service because dealers in Tottenham have shown him. “People are ordering drugs on WhatsApp, Snapchat. It’s easy.” One young constituent was caught selling cocaine in Aberdeen: dealers in London now operate what are known as “county lines”, supplying cocaine to every region of the country. Do middle-class customers safe in neighbourhoods far away from Tottenham’s turf wars have blood on their hands? For a moment he pauses.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Tributes left for 17-year-old Tanesha Melbourne-Blake, who was killed in a drive-by shooting in Tottenham, London. Photograph: Dan Kitwood/Getty Images

“I think they have got to make the connection between their drug use and what is happening with that drug. But actually,” he goes on impatiently, “there are much bigger questions. It’s bigger than just making people feel guilty. There are big public policy questions about what to do about this, but there is no major public discourse about what we’re going to do. Most people think the war on drugs has not worked – but nothing has replaced it. There is some debate about decriminalisation, particularly of marijuana, and it is happening in some parts of the world, but it’s not reached our shores yet. This is not currently being discussed in the mainstream.”

Surely, then, I say, this is the time for the political courage to stand up and admit the “war on drugs” has failed? Far from protecting us, our drug laws have delivered an £11bn cocaine industry into the hands of teenagers, putting all of us in danger. “Yes,” he agrees. “Yes. I think it is.” The heavy flatness of his tone suggests he finds no pleasure in concluding that prohibition has been a terrible mistake. Does culpability therefore rest, ultimately, with the legislators responsible for passing and perpetuating those laws? “Yes. That’s right. I think that is basically right.” Looking suddenly anxious, he adds: “Look, all I’m saying is that there is no debate at all going on in this country about it.”

He could start one himself, I suggest. A Christian ex-barrister, born to inner-city, working-class Guyanese immigrants, his credibility confers an authority that spans council estates and the Commons, and makes him an ideal candidate to introduce a radical rethink. I’m not expecting the suggestion to fly him into a rage, so am a bit taken aback when his arms begin to swoop like an angry swan and his voice rises to a shout.

“Look, why have I got to start everything? No, I mean it. Why have I got to fucking start everything?” He is furious. “You know, I’m here in this constituency, it’s bloody tough. Why is there a political vacuum? Where is the prime minister? Where is the home secretary? Where is Sadiq Khan? There’s a riot, everyone’s on holiday? David? Kids get killed? David?

“So I have to start every debate. I have to be in every discussion. It’s very frustrating. I want other people to step up to leadership. I can’t do this all on my own. Quite rightly, folk on the street are pretty pissed off, they’re really frustrated with politicians, they want action. I hear: ‘David, can you do this? ‘David, can you do that?’ I’m trying, but I can’t.” He sighs. “I find it slightly odd that I am asked to be the urban guru. I haven’t got a budget. I’m a legislator, but it’s hard to legislate when my party’s out of power. I can convene and knock heads together, I have some influence and can speak to the media. So I’m doing what I can do. But I have no pocket of cash.”

Earlier that morning, Lammy, had broadcast his bewilderment on Radio 4’s Today programme that neither the home secretary nor the mayor had taken the trouble to phone him, when four of his constituents had been murdered. Unsurprisingly, both offices get in touch before the end of the day, but why it took them so long perplexes Lammy. “Sadiq and I have a good relationship,” he says, but the only reason he can think of to explain why Khan didn’t call is also his greatest fear: “I think it’s that we’ve come to normalise it. We think of gun and knife crime among teenagers as normal. And it is not.”

To Lammy, the rise in London murders feels ominously different to previous surges of violence. “I am more worried about this spike because the profile of the people getting caught up in it is younger. The callousness of shooting into a crowd outside a cinema, shooting at young women, the normalisation – never mind the ramping up by social media – all of that makes me alarmed and worried. I am pretty confident that we’re not going to get over this problem unless there is a proper political consensus. This is not going to self-correct.”

What does Lammy say to people who hold inadequate or dysfunctional parents entirely to blame? His face screws up in disgust.

“If any of my children picked up a knife or a gun, I would be horrified. I would feel I had failed. But you know, I’ve got resources and means to pay for stuff when my wife and I are at work, and to keep my kids busy. The middle classes use boarding schools and all sorts of clubs, and can bus their kids from X to Y. They have got cars. Their children aren’t having to navigate spaces on their own. So I’m just saying, of course it comes back to parents and moral choices. Of course it takes Mum and Dad, but it also takes a village. And it has to take you paying your taxes to – ”. He falters, on the verge of breaking down. “I’m getting emotional because I am tired,” he says, but looks wholly unembarrassed. “It has to take you paying your taxes to pay for youth services, to pay for support for the more vulnerable in society. There is no way you can expect that single mother to do it all on her own.”

If he had to identify the single biggest cause of the violence, would it be austerity? Six seconds of silence fall, before he replies unhappily: “I don’t want to be the cliched Labour politician who says that it is all down to cuts. I really don’t want to be that. But I think we have to be clear: neighbourhood policing has vanished. It’s gone. Then if you also take out 40% from the local authority and you cut youth services, you do effectively leave communities to their own devices.” Does he agree with Met police commissioner Cressida Dick that social media also plays a major part? “I think it’s a big influence,” he nods. “Some of this comes back to pride, ego, respect. I see the way in which slights turn into: ‘I’m going to go and kill you.’ But the truth is,” he adds, that “we are living in a world in which presidents of countries are living in this way. Why do we think that’s not going to affect young people, who are vulnerable and suggestible, to take that to a different conclusion? That’s what’s going on, yes.”

I’m puzzled by Lammy’s failure, under four successive Labour leaders, to secure his position on the frontbenches, so ask if he can explain it. With a pointed stare, “No,” he says flatly. “Go and ask the white men who run my party. That’s all I’m going to say.” I say that sounds like an eloquent answer. “Go and ask them. Go and ask them,” he says testily. “Don’t come to me and ask me why I haven’t been chosen. Ask them about who they’ve chosen.”

Lammy nominated Jeremy Corbyn in the leadership election, so I ask if this was because he wanted Corbyn to become leader. “No. I nominated him because I’m his friend.” Why he isn’t a key player in Corbyn’s inner circle seems confusing, but when I say this, he looks cross. “You know what? You know what? I’m so bored of tribal politics. That’s part of the problem.” His voice rising, he repeats: “I’m so bored of it. I’m not a tribalist. That’s not what turns me on. So if I don’t present sufficiently as part of the clique, then so be it. I am very happy influencing change in the way I’m influencing change. I have long given up crawling up political backsides in order to float to the top.”

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We’re winding up, about to say goodbye, when I remember one last question. Lammy tweeted a eulogy of unequivocal praise for Winnie Mandela, after her death this week, and I wondered – in view of the violence in Tottenham – if he was at all worried that it might be read as a tacit message that violence is a forgivable, perhaps even legitimate, response to racial oppression. He stares at me in silence for around eight seconds, and his eyes begin to redden and well.

“I tweeted about Winnie Mandela,” he begins, his voice cracking, “because I remember being 13 or 14, growing up in this constituency” – the voice falters again – “with Margaret Thatcher doing deals with Botha, and not pursuing sanctions. Riots, Nelson Mandela in prison.” Tears begin streaming down his cheeks. “And she was our hero.” He pauses to steady his voice. “No one is perfect, and I have not had to put up with the humiliations, the tortures, the nightmare of your husband being in prison for 27 years. She has died, and I know enough South Africans to know that for them, Winnie Mandela is a hero. And I stand with them.

“I’m not going to be cowed by the rampant racism, the organised racism, that comes from parts of the alt-right.” His voice rises as his anger swells. “That seeks to put down every single tweet I make. I’m standing with Winnie. And I don’t give a damn. It’s as simple as that. I’m not running in the opposite direction. That’s why I tweeted. This is where I’m from.” He bangs the table. “I grew up just a few roads away. This is where I’m from. I speak for the people I represent. And we are proud of Winnie Mandela – faults and all. We look around at our national politicians, we do not see national politicians who are without fault. And, actually, we see quite a lot who get very far – let’s take Boris Johnson – with,” and through his tears he spits out the words: “Considerable. White. Privilege. Failure after failure after failure rewarded. So don’t preach to me about Winnie Mandela.”

• This article was amended on 6 April. An earlier version said incorrectly that David Lammy was privately educated.