Fear of crime is a useful political tool, even if the data don’t back it up

“We’re actually facing, in many parts of our country, nothing short of societal collapse.” This was the dire warning from Reform UK leader Nigel Farage, in setting out his party’s goal of halving crime.

In an op-ed in the Daily Mail and a press conference, Farage framed Britain as a nation in crisis from rising crime and lawlessness. But, he said, Reform had the solution: mass deportation of foreign offenders, the construction of prefabricated “Nightingale” prisons, and a wholesale crackdown on offending.

He insisted that British streets were out of control (although recent rises in crime come mainly from online fraud and shoplifting, according to the latest data), pledged to simultaneously increase prison sentences and reduce overcrowding, and vowed to restore order with a “higher and physically tougher standard of police officer.”

Speaking after a weekend of violent anti-immigration protests in Epping, Farage also tied Britain’s supposed lawlessness to migration: “Many break the law just by entering the UK, then commit further crimes once here—disrespecting our laws, culture and civility. The only acceptable response is deportation.”

Invoking crime as a threat, and the politician as its solution, is a tried-and-tested political maneuver. We’ve seen it deployed from both left and right, in many parts of the world, for decades. Stuart Hall and colleagues famously examined this phenomenon in the 1970s in their seminal book Policing the Crisis.

Our own analysis suggests that the accuracy of crime statistics often matters less than how politicians frame public anxieties—through media, public rhetoric and policy initiatives. In short: the public often responds to emotion as much as evidence.

One tension in England and Wales is that there are two major sources of crime data. The first—on which Farage leans heavily—is police-recorded crime. But, as is widely understood, that data provides only a partial picture of the true extent of crime. Many people, especially those from marginalized or vulnerable groups, choose not to report their experiences of crime.

Moreover, the consistency and accuracy with which police forces record these offenses has been questioned over time. Indeed, police-recorded crime statistics are not designated as official national statistics.

The other (and more robust) source is the Crime Survey for England and Wales (CSEW), which asks a representative sample of the public about their experiences of crime over the past 12 months. Notably, it includes those incidents that were not reported to the police.

Running since the early 1980s, the CSEW has demonstrated long-term declines in incidents of theft, criminal damage and violence (with or without injury) since the mid-to-late 1990s. Curiously, Farage told reporters that the CSEW was “based on completely false data,” without providing any evidence.

The Office for National Statistics (ONS), and most criminologists, regard the CSEW as the more accurate metric of long-term crime trends. (The Conversation asked the CSEW to comment but hadn’t received a response when this article was published.)

The political weight of crime

Crime has electoral value. It allows parties and political campaigners to project strength, decisiveness and control. Farage’s rhetoric is designed to provoke urgency and anxiety. It’s a well-worn script. Margaret Thatcher’s government leveraged fears of law and order. New Labor made “anti-social behavior” a central point of focus at a time when crime was, in fact, falling.

In research conducted with colleagues, we examined how people’s fears about specific crimes are shaped not just by actual crime rates, or by the person’s age, gender or ethnicity, but also by the political context in which they grew up.

Using data from the CSEW and a method called age-period-cohort analysis, we explored how different “political generations” developed and retained distinct concerns about crime.

We found clear patterns. Those who grew up during the James Callaghan era in the mid-to-late 1970s—when politicians repeatedly warned of “muggings”—were more likely to report anxieties about street robbery over time.

Thatcher’s generation, who came of age during a sharp rise in property crime, were more likely than other groups to express long-term fears about burglary. And those who grew up under New Labor—during the height of the “anti-social behavior” agenda—reported persistent concerns about neighborhood disorder, even as recorded incidents declined.

In other words, the political rhetoric people are exposed to during their formative years leaves a lasting impression on their relationship to crime. Debates about crime become embedded in personal and generational memory.

Crime is real and victims suffer. But distorting its nature and prevalence can erode public trust in the institutions tasked with protecting us. It can foster punitive and ineffective policy responses. And it can leave whole communities feeling targeted, criminalized or unsafe, based on selective and often sensational narratives.

We absolutely need to talk about crime. But we also need to talk about how we talk about crime. Who frames the debate, which statistics are used, who and how many are left out of the official records, whose fears are being amplified, and who is looking to exploit crime?

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.