Decriminalising Weed for the Wrong Reasons

A law isn’t unjust simply because it affects groups differently

Should racial disparities alone dictate changes to criminal policy? Increasingly, the answer seems to be yes. We’re now in an era where laws are reconsidered and even scrapped based on whether their outcomes appear disproportionately to affect certain ethnic groups.

Take London Mayor Sadiq Khan’s recent endorsement of cannabis decriminalisation. One of the reasons is that current enforcement disproportionately impacts young black men. It is true that black Londoners are stopped, searched, and prosecuted for cannabis offences at higher rates. And for many, including Khan, this disparity is taken as self-evident proof of institutional racism.

But is unequal outcome alone sufficient grounds to dismantle a law?

Statistics, while factual, are only as useful as the questions we ask of them. And increasingly, the only question permitted is: “How is this racist?” The narrative is shaped to preclude other explanations. We’re not supposed to ask whether factors like patterns of offending, repeat offences, or the geographic realities of policing might also play a role. Don’t even dare consider whether differences in behaviour during police encounters could influence outcomes.

A law isn’t unjust simply because it affects groups differently. Most laws do, in different ways. Justice shouldn’t be about whether all groups end up with identical statistics.

As always, when it comes to negative outcomes among ethnic minorities, particularly black individuals, the problem is framed as entirely external. It’s never about individual choices or behaviour; it’s always society, the police, the courts, the system, history. The implication is that responsibility lies everywhere except with the person or group involved.

And if the root of the problem is always external, then naturally, the solution must be as well. The focus is never to encourage better outcomes through personal responsibility and individual decision-making but to change the rules altogether. This approach is patronising, infantilising and counterproductive, and it contributes to a culture of excuses.

This logic underpins the findings of the London Drugs Commission—a body Khan conveniently created, and which has unsurprisingly delivered the policy conclusions he wanted. Chief among them: remove cannabis from the Misuse of Drugs Act and treat possession under the far weaker Psychoactive Substances Act. Why? Because, we’re told, the current legal framework is both racially unjust and damaging to police-community relations.

It’s a dangerously slippery slope. If laws are to be repealed simply because they produce racially uneven outcomes, then where does it end? Should we start issuing shorter sentences for knife crime to black offenders on the grounds that they’re overrepresented in the statistics?

Some argue that cannabis isn’t dangerous, or at least not as dangerous as legal substances like alcohol or tobacco. Perhaps. But that doesn’t make it harmless. The evidence linking regular cannabis use to mental illness, educational disengagement and antisocial behaviour is well-established. And ironically, the communities most affected by these harms are often the least likely to seek help, particularly when it comes to mental health support. Again, not because of some all-powerful “racist system,” but due to cultural taboos, stigma, and misconceptions around seeking psychological care.

And when it comes to police-community relations, we have to be more honest that this isn’t a one-way issue. The conversation should also address the cultural narratives that shape public attitudes toward policing, often reinforced by messages embedded in popular culture. For example, if every other rap or drill lyric didn’t portray the police as the enemy, glorifying resistance, violence, and anti-authority bravado, then perhaps it would be fair to place the blame solely on the police. But that’s not the reality. Relationship-building takes effort from both sides.

And enough with the excuse that these songs are just “lived experience” or “art imitating life.” Sometimes, people hold on to these attitudes not because they’re forced to, or because of their circumstances, but because it suits them. Dropping the hostility would mean letting go of the identity of the eternally victimised, and in today’s cultural climate, that identity is simply too valuable for some to give up.

This is not to say there isn’t a case for decriminalising the possession and use of cannabis, regardless of personal opinions or preferences. There also can and should be a serious, open discussion about whether cannabis possession ought to carry a prison sentence. It’s entirely reasonable to question why cannabis remains criminalised while alcohol and tobacco, both harmful substances, are legally sold and widely consumed. These are conversations worth having in a mature, evidence-based society.

But what sets a dangerous precedent is the growing idea that a law should be dismantled because there is also a racial disparity in how it plays out, especially when those disparities often remain in place no matter how much the system bends to try and eliminate them. Because the uncomfortable truth is that not all inequality can be legislated away. Sometimes disparities persist despite repeated attempts to fix them through policy and reform. That’s because some of the driving forces, attitudes toward authority, patterns of behaviour, peer culture and family structure aren’t things the law can easily reach.

If we continue down the path where any disparity is taken as proof of injustice, and every law must produce equal outcomes across every group, we won’t be left with a fair society. We’ll be left with a dangerous, lawless one that constantly rewrites its rules to avoid offending anyone’s sense of grievance.

---

Ada is the Head of Content at The Equiano Project. To support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.