On the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, an attack was carried out in Manchester. Waves of grief have turned into fury over the shocking terror attack. Immediately, politicians moved to react in a myriad of ways. As always is the case, questions were raised over the motives and background of the perpetrator. In the face of the increasing salience of immigration, typified by the rise of Reform UK, I think it’s important to ask the question: should suspects be named before trial? Should their ethnicity be reported?
Instinctually, one might say yes. Starmer’s government even advised police to release the ethnic and national backgrounds of suspects for “greater transparency”. And does the public not have a right to know? Are facts not facts when it comes to justice, regardless of potential sensitives? We saw after the 2024 Southport attack that an informational vacuum can fuel speculation and misinformation. Silence from the state can feel both like incompetence and (especially in attacks targeting specific groups) politically-motivated obfuscation.
However, I’d argue there is a key principle being undermined here: the presumption of innocence (PoI). This principle runs not just through every stage of the justice system, but also outside of it. Anthony Duff argues that the presumption of innocence is not just a rule regarding proof, but “reflects the civic trust that we owe our fellow citizens”.
It is in regards to this “Civic PoI” (that which permeates all of society), that naming becomes problematic. To name someone as a suspect is to brand them, in the eyes of all who formerly and now know them, as already guilty. A stigma of suspicion now runs through their life. Even if the suspect is then acquitted, this mark does not fully wash away. One must only look at the case of Christopher Jeffries to see this dynamic. When named in the media, the public presumption often flips: one is presumed guilty until (and even after) being proven otherwise.
And one must acknowledge that this burden does not always fall evenly. If a suspect is from a minority background, there is often the risk that an entire community is painted with the same brush. After the 2024 Southport stabbings, “protests” erupted outside a local mosque where stones and bricks were thrown, fuelled by online misinformation. The many are oft made to stand for the crime of one. By contrast, when white Britons commit atrocities, their guilt is treated as an abnormality, a shocking exception. Such an asymmetry reveals how suspicion and citizenship themselves are often racialised.
This stigma is not abstract. In terrorism investigations specifically, entire communities have faced societal pressure and abuse. To report the ethnicity of suspects in these moments presents the unique risk of collective punishment for individual guilt. Yet, this remains a difficult call. As mentioned before, the social media age has meant that withholding names can be even more damaging. Half-truths and conspiracies can spread within hours.
There is no perfect option. Authorities can name, and risk unjust stigmatisation. Or they can withhold, and risk potentially more damaging suspicion (towards both certain groups and the state).
Duff establishes distinctions between the different contexts in which PoI operates: within the trial itself (burdens of proof), pre-trial (whether individuals ought to be treated as defendants at all), and in civic life (how we as citizens regard each other). Public naming of suspects collapses these protections. In the court of public opinion, it turns a person from “suspect” to “defendant” (and for some “already guilty”), regardless of whether these people are ever convicted by the state.
Now, in the case of the Manchester attacks, evidence seems overwhelming. But, as of the 3rd October, there is still investigation into potential individuals who may also have been involved. And it is perhaps when public outrage and grief is at its most ardent that our principles are most tested. The presumption of innocence is not only for shielding the innocent. It is to protect everyone from being treated as guilty without due process. This includes those whose guilt will, in the end, be proven.
Exceptions do exist. For example, if a suspect remains at large and poses a threat, or if their identification might bring new evidence to light. But such cases require clear justification. Naming ought to be the exception, not the default.
There is a great temptation, particularly in the wake of such atrocities, to reach for a conclusion. Names, faces, clear motives – someone or something to blame and seek retribution against in order to assuage the pain. But naming does not always close wounds, often it can also open them: fuelling hatred and suspicion.
This tension refuses to resolve neatly. The presumption of innocence is a principle that goes against instinct and sentiment. It asks people to hesitate when our emotions compel us to act. It insists on restraint precisely when restraint feels wrong, if not impossible. But, arguably, that is when it matters most.
The more pertinent question is not whether the public has a right to know the names, nationalities or ethnicities of suspects. The question is whether what citizens are told actually constitutes greater knowledge, or whether it instead narrows vision into suspicion. The issue is perhaps not in providing information, but how people use it to bolster certain narratives which justify actions behind their cause. In Manchester, as with every high-profile case, the stakes reach beyond the accused. These consequences are too about how Brits treat each other, and how seriously we can take a justice that is slow and restrained in an age of speed and emotionality.
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