All of us can shape the atmosphere around us.
Across Britain, a troubling divergence has taken hold: violent crime falls while hate crime rises, and two recent tragedies have been seized upon by far-right figures to deepen that wound rather than heal it. For visible minorities — Muslim, Black, Jewish, disabled, LGBTQ+ — the hostility is not new, but it has grown louder and more emboldened, reshaping how people move through shared space. The question Britain now faces is not merely one of law enforcement, but of moral atmosphere: who shapes the feeling of a street, a bus, a neighbourhood — and whether ordinary people will choose solidarity over silence.
- Two violent incidents — a murder in Southampton and a stabbing in Belfast — were immediately weaponised by far-right networks and politicians, triggering riots, arson, and families fleeing burning homes before the victims' own families could even ask for peace.
- Hate crimes have surged sharply even as overall violent crime declines, a pattern many minorities trace back to the rhetoric of the 2016 Brexit referendum, which normalised the framing of certain communities as problems to be solved.
- The hostility is rarely only physical — it lives in dirty looks, muttered slurs, and the quiet daily calculations of parents choosing school routes and rabbis forbidding Hebrew lettering on children's shirts, all of it compressing lives into smaller, more fearful shapes.
- Political actors exploit division deliberately, with Reform figures making dehumanising remarks about Nigerian residents and refusing to condemn them, while selectively performing solidarity with other minorities to fracture any possibility of collective response.
- Practical resistance is emerging: bystander intervention campaigns in Glasgow and London teach direct, delegate, and distract techniques, while acts of cross-community solidarity — trade unions funding Pride events, train drivers marching alongside drag queens — demonstrate that the atmosphere of a street can be actively shaped.
Britain's streets have become contested ground. The murder of Henry Nowak in Southampton and the stabbing of Stephen Ogilvie in Belfast were horrifying in themselves — but what followed compounded the harm. Far-right figures, including Elon Musk and Tommy Robinson, and Reform politicians seized on the footage to stoke division, ignoring the pleas of both victims' families not to weaponise their grief. In Belfast, masked crowds burned vehicles, homes, and shops within days; police deployed water cannons against hundreds reportedly targeting a hotel believed to house migrants.
Yet these incidents are symptoms of something longer in the making. Hate crimes have climbed steeply in recent years even as violent crime has fallen. Many in Black, Muslim, Jewish, LGBTQ+, and disabled communities trace the shift to the language of the 2016 Brexit referendum — rhetoric that filtered from Westminster into workplaces, buses, and schools, and erupted in the 2024 race riots. For visible minorities, the hostility rarely announces itself as violence alone. It lives in dirty looks, shouted slurs, strangers questioning whether someone belongs. Muslim women in hijabs bear a particular burden. Parents now map routes before letting children travel alone. A rabbi won't let her children wear shirts with Hebrew lettering. Lives are quietly compressed.
The political machinery accelerates this. When a Reform councillor suggested Nigerian residents should be "melted down" to fill potholes, the party's deputy leader refused to condemn it — then pivoted to performative support for Jewish communities. The strategy is deliberate: divide minority groups, encourage some to see themselves as victims of multiculturalism while casting others as its threat, and prevent the collective solidarity that might push back.
But practical tools exist. Glasgow's Refuweegee runs a "safe with me" campaign, training cafes, shops, and individuals to offer refuge to those being harassed, built on bystander research: directly challenge the aggressor, delegate to someone with authority, or simply distract — ask for directions, strike up conversation, make clear someone is watching. Transport for London runs similar programmes. When trade unions stepped in to replace funding Reform cut from Durham Pride, and train drivers marched alongside drag queens, something shifted. The hostility gripping Britain's streets feeds on isolation and indifference. Shaping the atmosphere around us — loudly, visibly, together — is not idealism. It is the only workable path forward.
Britain's streets have become a contested space. Two brutal incidents—the murder of Henry Nowak in Southampton and the stabbing of Stephen Ogilvie in Belfast—have been seized upon by far-right figures and politicians to stoke division and fear. The violence itself was horrifying enough. But what followed was worse: the footage weaponized, the tragedy repurposed, families' pleas for unity ignored as Elon Musk, Tommy Robinson, and Reform politicians co-opted the deaths to advance their own agendas.
When Stephen Ogilvie was stabbed on a Belfast street by Sudanese asylum seeker Hadi Alodid, the video spread instantly. By Tuesday evening, masked crowds had taken to the streets. They burned vehicles, houses, and shops. Families fled their homes. By Wednesday, police deployed water cannons against roughly 300 people who had torched a truck and were reportedly planning to target a hotel believed to house migrants. The Ogilvie family's statement—a plea not to weaponize their son's tragedy—echoed Henry Nowak's father's words months earlier. Both were ignored.
Yet the real story runs deeper than these two incidents, however violent. Hate crimes have surged in recent years while overall violent crime has declined. Racially and religiously motivated offences have climbed steeply. The shift began years ago, not weeks. Many in Black, Muslim, Jewish, LGBTQ+, and disabled communities trace it to Brexit—to the language politicians and media used around the 2016 referendum, the way certain groups suddenly became discussable as problems. That rhetoric didn't stay in Westminster. It filtered into workplaces, buses, schools. It exploded in the summer 2024 race riots. Now it's on the streets of Belfast.
For visible minorities, the hostility takes many forms. Yes, there are physical assaults and attacks on places of worship. But much of it is quieter: dirty looks, muttered comments, shouted slurs, strangers loudly questioning whether someone belongs in the country or deserves a disabled parking space. Muslim women wearing hijabs report bearing the brunt. Parents now research routes before letting children travel home from school alone. One rabbi won't let her children wear shirts with Hebrew lettering. These incremental attacks reshape daily life. People avoid certain streets, certain public facilities. They plan differently. They move through the world smaller.
The political machinery accelerates this. Reform councillor Glenn Gibbins posted about "the amount of Nigerians in town," suggesting they should be "melted down" to fill potholes. When asked to condemn it, Reform deputy leader Richard Tice refused—then pivoted to his supposed support for Jewish communities as cover. This is the pattern: divide and rule. Certain minorities are told they matter. Others are treated as suspect. Some groups are encouraged to see themselves as victims of multiculturalism while others are portrayed as threats to it. The result is that minority communities fear and distrust one another, weakening the possibility of collective action.
But there are practical tools. The Glasgow-based charity Refuweegee runs a "safe with me" campaign, asking cafes, shops, and individuals to identify themselves as places where people can turn if harassed. It's based on decades of bystander intervention research—three simple actions: direct (ask the person to stop), delegate (find someone whose job it is to help), or distract (ask for directions, compliment their shoes, remind them they're being watched). Transport for London runs similar campaigns. These aren't grand gestures. They're small acts of presence. Standing alongside someone. Announcing solidarity loudly and proudly. Checking in afterward.
When trade unions replaced funding that Reform cut from Durham Pride, when train drivers marched with drag queens, something shifted. Incredible things happen when different communities work together. The hostility that now grips Britain's streets thrives on isolation, on the sense that no one is watching, that no one cares. But we can shape the atmosphere around us. All of us. That's not naive. That's the only way forward.
Citas Notables
This hostility has become increasingly normalised in mainstream discourse and we're seeing the consequences at street level.— Aamna Mohdin, community affairs correspondent
These small acts of solidarity matter, because this level of hostility really thrives when people feel isolated.— Aamna Mohdin
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does it matter that hate crimes are rising while violent crime falls? Doesn't that seem contradictory?
It's not contradictory—it's the point. Violence overall is declining, which is good. But hate crimes are accelerating, which means the violence that does happen is increasingly targeted at specific groups. It's not random. It's motivated. And it's being deliberately amplified by politicians and figures who benefit from division.
You mention that this started with Brexit. How does a referendum campaign in 2016 connect to violence on Belfast streets in 2026?
The referendum changed the language. It made it acceptable to talk about certain groups as problems, as outsiders, as threats. That language doesn't stay in politics. It moves into everyday conversation—at work, on buses, in schools. Once it's normalized there, it's easier to act on it. The riots of 2024 didn't come from nowhere. Neither did Belfast.
The piece mentions that minority communities are being divided against each other. How does that serve anyone's interests?
If you can convince one minority group that another is the real threat, they stop working together. They stop building the broad coalitions that have historically driven anti-racism movements. You weaken resistance. You make people easier to control. It's classic divide and conquer.
So what's the answer? The piece talks about bystander intervention. Does that really work against something this systemic?
It's not the whole answer. But it matters more than people think. When someone is being harassed and a stranger steps in—just stands there, just says something—it changes the dynamic. The harasser realizes they're being watched. The victim realizes they're not alone. Over time, that shifts the atmosphere. It signals that this behavior isn't acceptable here, in this space, among these people.
What would you say to someone who feels helpless watching this unfold?
You're not helpless. You can shape the atmosphere around you. You can wear a badge that says "safe with me." You can check in with someone after an incident. You can refuse to laugh at a slur. You can march with people different from you. None of it is grand, but all of it matters.