Behind the Numbers: Is Youth Justice Reform Working for Bristol’s Young People of Colour?
By Desmond Brown
Over the past decade, politicians and senior officials have been quick to declare success in reforming youth justice. Custody numbers have halved. Services are “trauma-informed.” A new philosophy—“Child First”—puts care at the centre. But for many of Bristol’s young people and the people working alongside them, this narrative rings hollow.
“We keep hearing about progress,” says Aisha, a youth advocate based in St Paul’s. “But when I look around, I see the same young people being criminalised, excluded, and left to navigate a hostile system alone.”
The Bristol Cable spoke to youth workers, former detainees, parents, educators and activists across the city. What emerged is a troubling picture: one where policy reform has become a smokescreen for persistent inequalities, where statistics mask harm, and where community-led solutions remain sidelined.
What the Data Doesn’t Tell You
The official line is simple: youth custody is down, services are better, and more children are being “diverted” away from the courts. But the story on the ground is more complex—and more disturbing.
“Diversion sounds great,” says Malik, a mentor working with excluded teens in Easton. “But for our kids, it often means a conditional offer—behave how they want, speak how they want, or you’re out. That’s not support, it’s surveillance.”
Despite a rise in “good” inspection ratings for Youth Justice Services, Black and mixed-heritage children remain disproportionately stopped, charged and imprisoned. Many in Bristol’s communities argue that real change hasn’t reached them.
The Gateway Problem: Policing Still Biased
The numbers don’t lie: Black children are still three times more likely to be stopped and searched in England and Wales. In Bristol, that plays out in daily, personal ways.
“I got stopped five times in one month on my way to college,” says Jayden, a 17-year-old from Barton Hill. “One officer said I looked like someone they were looking for. They always say that.”
Over 75% of those stop-and-searches result in no further action. Yet the impact lingers—mistrust, fear, and the subtle message that you don’t belong. Despite “Child First” rhetoric, Black children are still too often seen as threats before they’re seen as kids.
A report by Avon and Somerset Police admitted to “racial disparity” in stop-and-search outcomes but promised reforms. Community advocates say little has changed.
“They say they’ll review the data, but nothing happens. We’ve seen this cycle before,” says Reece, a community organiser in Eastville.
Adultification: A Hidden Bias with Lasting Impact
The problem isn’t just at the point of contact with police. It’s deeper, more insidious. In schools, courtrooms, and custody units, Black children are routinely perceived as older, more threatening, and more responsible for their behaviour than their white peers—a phenomenon known as adultification bias.
“I’ve had social workers tell me a 13-year-old was ‘street smart’—as if that makes him less vulnerable,” says Tanya, a case manager in South Bristol. “We don’t give Black children space to be children.”
This bias shapes everything: who gets diverted from the justice system, who gets a caution, and who gets locked up.
Diversion for Whom?
In theory, Bristol offers a range of diversion pathways—early support programmes, youth panels, community-based interventions. But these aren’t equally accessible.
“There’s a postcode lottery,” says Mark, a secondary teacher in South Bristol. “Kids in better-off areas get more second chances. Our pupils get sent straight to court.”
A 2023 report by the Youth Justice Board found that Black children were half as likely to be given out-of-court disposals compared to white children, even when facing similar charges. In Bristol, those working in the system say the same.
“Restorative justice sounds nice,” says Jamal, a youth mentor. “But it’s only on offer if a kid fits their version of ‘remorseful’—which often just means middle class and well-spoken.”
Custody Isn’t Just About Numbers—It’s About Distance and Disconnection
Even with fewer children entering custody overall, those who do often face new challenges—being sent far from home, isolated from their families and communities.
Over 15% of youth detainees are held more than 100 miles from their homes. The impact? Fewer family visits, increased anxiety, and more difficult reintegration when they’re released.
“It’s cruel,” says Aisha. “How can a system that says it cares about rehabilitation put a child three counties away from the only people who love them?”
Bristol has no local secure unit. That means children from the city can end up in distant facilities—sometimes as far away as Wales or the Midlands.
Life Inside: Racism Doesn’t Stop at the Gates
Youth custody might look modern, but racism remains embedded. Black children report higher levels of strip-searching, disciplinary sanctions, and perceived unfairness. Complaints often go nowhere.
“I felt like they were watching me more than anyone else,” says Nathan, who was detained in a youth facility after being remanded for a robbery charge. “Every move I made, I got pulled up. Other kids did worse and got warnings. I got isolation.”
Despite efforts to promote a rehabilitative ethos, many young detainees say they feel punished, not supported. Inspection reports rarely capture these experiences.
“There’s a lot they won’t write down,” says a former staff member at a secure unit. “If you’re not in the room with those kids, you won’t know.”
Grassroots Solutions, Starved of Funding
In the face of systemic failings, community groups in Bristol are building their own safety nets. Initiatives like ACE (Aspiration Creation Elevation), Project Zazi, and Off the Record offer culturally responsive, trauma-informed support to young people. But their existence is often precarious.
“These projects work because we build trust,” says Reece. “But we’re running on fumes. One wrong funding decision and the whole thing collapses.”
Many projects rely on short-term pilot grants with no guarantee of renewal. Meanwhile, millions are spent on police tech and bureaucracy.
What Bristol Needs Now
Community voices across Bristol are clear: reform must be real, not rhetorical. That means:
- Independent oversight of justice decisions, especially around remand and sentencing.
- Transparent data, broken down by ethnicity and geography, published regularly.
- Long-term, secure funding for grassroots interventions.
- Regional secure facilities, so no child is held hundreds of miles from home.
- Genuine co-production—not just consultation—with community groups.
Final Word: No Justice Without Equity
“Until the system trusts our communities, listens to our solutions, and stops criminalising our kids, we can’t call this progress,” says Aisha.
Youth justice may be changing—but without confronting racism, adultification and poverty, it risks becoming little more than rebranding.
As Jayden, the 17-year-old from Barton Hill, put it: “They say we’re the future. But if that’s true, why do they keep treating us like a problem?”
Adultification, Institutional Racism, and a Culture of Deflection: What Child Q Should Have Taught Us
The recent decision that the Metropolitan Police officers involved in the Child Q case were guilty only of gross misconduct—and not racist behaviour—should disturb us all.
A 15-year-old Black girl was strip-searched at school without an appropriate adult present. She was menstruating. The search was unlawful. It was traumatic. It was dehumanising. And yet, the conclusion from official investigations remains consistent: safeguarding failures, yes—but no finding of racism, no recognition of adultification bias, and no institutional accountability for the racialised lens through which she was seen and treated.
Here in Bristol, we’ve seen our own share of this harmful dynamic. Whether it’s youth justice decisions, exclusion practices in schools, or frontline policing, adultification bias continues to shape how Black children are perceived: seen not as vulnerable, not as children, but as threats. Criminalised and overpoliced, denied care and protection.
Yet, when we challenge these realities, what we encounter is a familiar pattern: institutions bucking, reeling, and wriggling away from responsibility. Even when there’s evidence of inappropriate or disproportionate action, investigations reduce these to “poor judgement” or “procedural failures”—carefully avoiding any acknowledgment of the role racism or adultification plays. It’s a strategic form of denial dressed up as professional impartiality.
And so I have to ask: who is reviewing these cases? What is the racial literacy or cultural competence of those leading these investigations? What qualifies them to detect adultification, if they have never named it, studied it, or lived through it?
Failing to recognise racism is not proof that it doesn’t exist—it is often just proof of institutional illiteracy when it comes to understanding the lived realities of racialised communities. This is not neutrality. It is negligence.
It’s time we stopped calling these patterns “oversights” and began naming them for what they are: embedded systemic failures. If safeguarding frameworks are not capable of identifying racial harm, then they are not safeguarding all children—certainly not Black children.
We need independent scrutiny, led by people with the lived experience and expertise to see what so many official bodies still refuse to. Until then, justice will remain partial—and painfully out of reach.
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