In the aftermath of the violent car attack during Liverpool Football Club’s Premier League victory parade—an incident that left 109 people injured, with the youngest only nine and the oldest 78—the police made a rare move. Within hours, they named the suspect: Paul Doyle, a 53-year-old white British man from West Derby.

Among British Muslims, there was a collective sigh of relief. Because the harsh reality is this: if the attacker had been Muslim, or even just brown, the headlines would have likely been very different, and there would have been repercussions for the community.

We’ve seen it before. In August 2024, false reports claiming that the Southport stabbing suspect was a migrant or Muslim triggered riots across the UK. Muslim-owned businesses were targeted. Hotels housing migrants were attacked. And all because of misinformation that authorities failed to counter fast enough. The attacker, it turned out, was neither a migrant nor a Muslim. But the damage had been done.

The early identification, specifically including his ethnicity, was likely an attempt to stop the flood of online speculation, which can quickly spiral into dangerous misinformation. Still, the police were clear on one thing: despite eye witnesses reporting it as being deliberate, the incident was not being treated as an act of terrorism.

Doyle has since been charged with several offences, including dangerous driving and intent to cause grievous bodily harm. But not terrorism.

This is why the decision to immediately name Paul Doyle—white, British—was significant. Clearly, police forces are learning from their previous mistakes. Perhaps they're beginning to realise that the optics of silence and delay feed dangerous narratives. Still, the question remains: why is someone like Doyle, who allegedly deliberately drove into a crowd, not being treated as a terrorist?

The UK Terrorism Act 2000 outlines a clear definition. Terrorism includes the use or threat of serious violence against people, damage to property, or acts that endanger life or public safety, when done to influence the government, intimidate the public, or advance a political, religious, racial, or ideological cause.

Yet time and time again, this definition seems to be applied selectively.

We’ve had the case of Salih Khater. In August 2018, he drove a car into a group of pedestrians outside the Houses of Parliament in London’s Westminster. He was quickly arrested, detained under the Terrorism Act, and sentenced to life in prison. He had no ties to terrorist organisations. Birmingham Central Mosque confirmed he was not known to worship there and had shown no indications of radicalisation. But he was brown, an asylum seeker from Sudan who became a British citizen. That was enough.

Khater’s act mirrored Doyle’s in its violence and recklessness. But while Khater was branded a terrorist, Doyle is being treated as an individual criminal, unconnected to any ideology, pathology, or social concern.

So what gives?

Identity politics

It’s impossible to ignore how the identity of the perpetrator—his race, religion, class, and nationality—shapes not only media narratives but the very terms used to describe the crime. The White British identity offers not just a certain social and political privilege but a kind of narrative immunity. The moment those words are uttered, the media, public, and police alike seem to pivot to softer language: drug use, mental health concerns (Doyle is an ex-marine), isolated incidents.

But if 109 people are deliberately harmed, including children, isn’t that terror? Were those caught in the chaos not terrorised?

The truth is, terrorist has become a racialised term, with terrorism often described as Islamist terrorism. It sticks only when the attacker is brown, Muslim, foreign-born, or all three. Meanwhile, violent white men are rarely, if ever, described using the same term, even when their actions fit the legal definition.

This double standard doesn’t just skew our understanding of terrorism, it endangers it. By framing terrorism as something only committed by Muslim individuals, the growing threat of far-right violence is rendered invisible. 

What happens next is even more insidious. Those on the margins—the Muslims, migrants, racialised communities—become further stigmatised, forced to carry the burden of collective guilt for crimes they didn’t commit. And white perpetrators? They remain individuals, their crimes treated as personal failures, never systemic threats.

This inconsistency in language and response isn't just frustrating, it’s dangerous. It distorts public perception of what terrorism is, and more importantly, who can be a terrorist. It allows entire communities to be vilified while others remain shielded.

Language matters. The terms we use shape the justice system, influence public sentiment, and guide political policy. The repeated reluctance to call white-perpetrated mass violence terrorism sends a chilling message: only some lives are worthy of outrage. Only some acts deserve the full weight of the law.

We don’t need more people labelled terrorists. That term carries enormous consequences. But we do need consistency so the label doesn’t become a tool of oppression, weaponised only against certain groups.

If terrorism is to mean anything, it must apply to all who commit terror, not just those who look the part. Otherwise, it’s not justice we’re upholding, it’s bias and prejudice dressed in legalese.

So, let’s ask ourselves: is terrorism about what you do, or who you are?

Until we answer that honestly, the justice system will remain as dangerous as it is biased.