How Do Individual Crimes Become Fuel for Hatred?

It was hardly surprising—though certainly deplorable—that riots and violence erupted in Belfast, Northern Ireland, the evening before last amid an atmosphere of incitement that followed a crime committed by a refugee who had been granted residency rights.

Britain has for some time been experiencing heightened tensions surrounding immigration, a subject that has increasingly become a focal point of political controversy and exploitation by certain political actors.

The incident that triggered the unrest involved a man in his thirties, reported to be a Sudanese national named Al-Hadi Al-Obeid. He allegedly attacked a forty-year-old man, Stephen O’Gleave, in the street and attempted to kill him with a knife. Had passersby not intervened, the attack could have ended in tragedy.

Under different circumstances, the case would have been treated like any other serious criminal offense: investigated by the authorities, referred to the courts, and adjudicated according to the law if guilt were proven.

But the Belfast crime did not unfold in such a straightforward manner.

Several factors contributed to its politicization, foremost among them the already charged atmosphere surrounding immigration. Immigration has become a highly contentious issue in British politics, particularly with the rise of far-right voices seeking to exploit public anxieties and, at times, actively cultivate fear and hostility.

For those seeking to inflame the debate, the case seemed tailor-made. The suspect was a refugee who arrived in Britain in February 2023 and was granted a five-year residency permit. The crime therefore became an opportunity to pour fuel onto the already raging debate over immigration, portraying migrants as a threat to British society by highlighting the actions of a small minority who commit crimes or fail to respect the law. Others point to individuals dependent on social welfare, suggesting that migrants constitute a burden on the state.

There is a reason why some politicians repeatedly return to immigration whenever public anxiety rises. Few issues generate emotions as intense or provide as many opportunities for political grandstanding as immigration does.

Viewed through this lens, one can better understand comments made by British politician Robert Jenrick, who argued that his party, Reform UK, would seek to impose a ban on visas for all Sudanese nationals.

At the core of his argument lies a simple proposition: because certain Sudanese individuals have committed crimes in Britain, Britain should stop issuing visas to Sudanese citizens altogether.

This is how individual crimes are transformed into sweeping generalizations used to stigmatize an entire people and justify measures that amount to collective punishment.

There is a profound moral and legal flaw in such reasoning.

In systems governed by the rule of law, individuals are held accountable for their own actions. Punishment does not extend to others merely because they share the same nationality. By the same logic, one could demand the imprisonment of criminals’ relatives or the punishment of entire communities because of the wrongdoing of a single individual.

What fault lies with a Sudanese doctor seeking to work in Britain’s healthcare sector? Or a student wishing to attend a British university? Or a person hoping to visit family members in the United Kingdom?

Should all of these individuals be treated as potential threats because of crimes committed by people they do not know, have never met, and over whom they exercise no influence or control?

Most Britons reject such logic because it is fundamentally unjust. It amounts to collective punishment for individual wrongdoing.

Even for those who remain unconvinced, the issue becomes clearer when the scenario is reversed. Suppose someone argued that because certain British citizens commit crimes abroad—or because some English football supporters have acquired an international reputation for hooliganism and violence—all British visitors should be barred from entering foreign countries.

The reasoning would remain flawed regardless of which nationality was being targeted.

There is a crucial distinction between targeting criminals and targeting nationalities.

This distinction is often blurred by populist politics and the rhetoric of far-right movements. The formula is familiar: take a shocking crime, emphasize the offender’s nationality, and use it to imply that an entire ethnic, religious, or national group represents a threat that warrants broad restrictions or collective penalties.

It is a strategy designed to exploit fear, prejudice, and insecurity for political gain.

The danger lies in encouraging people to judge millions of individuals based on the actions of a tiny minority. The result is greater social division, weakened community cohesion, and the spread of hatred and incitement.

Britain has every right to control its borders. It has every right to expect those who enter the country to respect its laws.

But it should remain, as it has long aspired to be, a society that judges individuals by their actions rather than through the lens of collective stereotypes and generalized suspicion.

When a politician—or a political party—advocates banning every student, nurse, academic, businessperson, or refugee from an entire country because of the crime of one individual or a handful of individuals, that is neither justice nor sound public policy.

It is simply the criminalization and collective punishment of an entire population under the guise of immigration policy.

And history provides more than enough examples of where that kind of thinking can lead.