By Anna Stanley, JNS
In the name of protecting the feelings of violent, dangerous inmates, including some of the most notorious terrorists in the United Kingdom, basic safety was sacrificed.
In a shocking incident at Prison Frankland in England, Hashem Abedi, the brother of Manchester Arena bomber Salman Abedi, attacked three prison officers using boiling oil and a makeshift weapon. The brutal attack on April 12 laid bare the vulnerabilities of those meant to protect the public from individuals like Abedi.
Abedi was housed in a “separation center” within the prison known colloquially as “jihadi jail.” Abedi had previously been involved in violent incidents against prison staff, which were described as “frenzied” and “animalistic.” Yet the officers weren’t wearing stab vests. Why? A prison inspection review had concluded that issuing them routinely might make staff appear “too militaristic” and could “intimidate prisoners.”
The symbolism of this decision is hard to ignore. In the name of protecting the feelings of violent, dangerous inmates, including some of the most notorious terrorists in the United Kingdom, basic safety was sacrificed. And in the case of Abedi, that misplaced concern led to a violent attack, even in one of the most secure prisons in the country. The three prison wardens suffered a mixture of life-threatening injuries, burns and stab wounds.
But this is not an isolated incident in the realm of counterterrorism; it is merely the latest manifestation of a deeper pattern of institutional failure, marked by misplaced priorities, cultural anxieties and political hesitation.
It’s impossible to reflect on Abedi’s attack without considering his brother’s actions. Salman Abedi, with his brother’s help, detonated a bomb at the Manchester Arena during an Ariana Grande concert on May 22, 2017, killing 22 people, including seven children. The tragedy wasn’t just a failure of intelligence; it was a failure of judgment, fear-driven inaction and institutional paralysis.
The most haunting revelation from the public inquiry into the attack came from security guard Kyle Lawler, who admitted to noticing Abedi, bearded, with a large rucksack, acting suspiciously in the moments before the explosion. Yet despite his suspicions, Lawler did not confront Abedi or report him. Why? He was “fearful of being branded a racist.”
In that moment, the protection of potential reputational risk was given more weight than the protection of innocent lives. This is a systemic flaw, one that has reappeared in different forms over the years.
Consider, for example, the absurdity of a counterterrorism training exercise staged by Greater Manchester Police in 2016, just a year before the arena attack. During the drill, an officer, playing the role of a terrorist detonating a bomb, shouted “Allahu Akbar” as part of the simulation. The backlash was swift and furious. Religious leaders demanded an apology, and the officer was reprimanded. The police were forced to issue a public apology. The implication is clear: even in controlled, strategic settings, the fear of offending supersedes the need for realism and operational integrity.
Another dark irony occurred in November 2019, when Usman Khan, a convicted terrorist, murdered two people at a prisoner rehabilitation event near London Bridge. Khan had been invited to the event as he was considered a poster case for the success of such initiatives. During his time in custody, Khan had completed two deradicalization programs and authorities believed he was ready for reintegration into society.
The father of one of Khan’s victims, in a tragically poetic echo of his son’s ideals and belief in prison rehabilitation, said that any anger over the murder would have made his son “livid” if it were used to “perpetuate an agenda of hate.” In dark irony, it was this very idealism that the killer had just driven a knife through.
Each of these incidents—spanning prisons, concert halls, bridges and even situational training grounds—reveals something deeply unsettling: The institutions tasked with protecting the British public are more afraid of appearing discriminatory than of confronting real danger.
These are not isolated missteps. They form a pattern—a pattern of dark ironies, in which the desire to avoid cultural offense has led directly to catastrophic oversight. Terrorists have slipped through the cracks not only because British institutions lacked vigilance but also because those institutions hesitated to act decisively, fearing how their actions might be perceived.
The prison officers stabbed and burnt by boiling oil, the children killed at a pop concert, the individuals murdered at a rehabilitation event, they are all victims not only of terrorism but of a society struggling to reconcile sensitivity with security.
At some point, the balance must be redrawn.
