by Tom Sinclair, Editor

YESTERDAY afternoon (Feb 5), something happened at Milford Haven School that many parents here never expected to see in their lifetime — let alone as the second item on the BBC News at Ten.

Police cars.
Dog units.
Armed officers at the scene.
Not in London. Not in Cardiff. In Milford.

At the end of the school day, phones lit up with messages. Rumours raced around social media faster than facts. For a few uneasy hours, our quiet Pembrokeshire town felt like somewhere else entirely.

And this morning, the aftermath was just as telling.

With the school closed, there were no children walking up the hill, no parents idling at the gates, no buses pulling in. Milford Haven felt unnaturally quiet — less like a weekday and more like a Sunday, or one of those strange mornings during lockdown when the town seemed to hold its breath.

For a place built around its schools and families, that silence said more than any headline.

It is now the second serious school incident in west Wales in recent years, following the stabbing at Ysgol Dyffryn Aman in Ammanford.

That alone should make us pause. Because this cannot become normal.

But here is the uncomfortable truth: what happened yesterday afternoon did not start at 3:20pm.
It didn’t start with one pupil.
And it didn’t start with the police.
It started years ago.

When Estyn inspected the school in November 2025, it placed it in special measures — the formal category reserved for providers facing serious, systemic weaknesses.

Inspectors identified important shortcomings in a significant minority of lessons. Pupils were not making enough progress. Literacy and numeracy were not embedded strongly enough across subjects. Attendance was well below that of similar schools, and persistent absence too high. Leadership was not evaluating performance sharply enough. There was also a growing budget deficit.

None of those issues is headline-grabbing on its own. But taken together, they tell a story — not of one bad day, but of slow, cumulative erosion.

Several factors have likely contributed to that decline. Changes in leadership over time, the long shadow of the pandemic, and the reality of serving a community with higher-than-average deprivation have all piled pressure on staff and pupils alike.

When improvements aren’t embedded, small problems grow. Attendance slips. Teaching becomes inconsistent. Staff burn out. Pupils fall behind.

None of this suggests crisis or safeguarding failures — but it does help explain how steady erosion can eventually lead to special measures.

To be fair, inspectors also recognised real strengths: a caring and inclusive community, a broad curriculum, positive behaviour in many areas, and pupils who generally say they feel safe, with bullying dealt with when it is reported.

None of this means inspectors were wrong.

But it does mean that short inspection visits can miss what families and staff live with every single day.

Over the past weeks, the Herald has received hundreds of messages and comments from parents describing a very different picture: persistent low-level disruption in corridors and classrooms, intimidation that leaves children anxious, behaviour issues that quietly wear teachers and pupils down day after day. These are not dramatic incidents that make the news — but they are the background hum that makes school feel less safe, less settled, less fair.

There are wider pressures too.

The county’s specialist pupil referral provision in Neyland — designed to support children who struggle in mainstream settings: is itself under strain. When alternative provision is stretched thin, mainstream schools inevitably absorb more complexity. Teachers are expected to be educators, counsellors, mediators and sometimes de facto security all at once.

That is not sustainable — and it isn’t fair on staff, pupils or families.

None of this is about blaming children. Or teachers. Or one headteacher. It is about systems.

Because when teaching becomes inconsistent, attendance slips, support services are overstretched and families feel unheard, problems do not disappear. They accumulate. Until one day the blue lights are outside the gates.

Milford Haven is not a city. It is a small town where everyone knows everyone. Parents should not feel anxious dropping their children off at school. Teachers should not feel they are firefighting every lesson. Pupils should not feel that disruption or intimidation is simply something you have to put up with.

School leaders and Pembrokeshire County Council have accepted the inspection findings and promised rapid improvements. That commitment matters. But delivery matters more.

Special measures should be a wake-up call, not a stigma. The question now isn’t “who is to blame?” It is much simpler, and much harder:

Where has it gone wrong, and what are we, together, going to do about it? Because armed police at a Pembrokeshire school must never feel routine.

Not here. Not ever.

Opinion piece by Herald editor Tom Sinclair

TODAY is Holocaust Memorial Day, January 27, 2026. Across Wales we remember the six million Jews murdered by the Nazis, and the Roma, disabled people, gay men and women, political opponents, and many others the regime labelled undesirable. We light candles, say “never again”, and tell ourselves that kind of evil is locked in the past.

But if remembrance ends at the gates of Auschwitz, we miss the real lesson.

The Holocaust did not begin with gas chambers or cattle trucks. It began in ordinary places, shops, streets, pubs, council chambers, with words that stripped people of their humanity, laws that pushed them to the margins, and propaganda that turned neighbour against neighbour. It began when ordinary people started seeing others as problems, as threats, as not really belonging.

It began with politicians pointing fingers at who to blame.

With newspapers branded enemies of the people.

With courts and rules quietly bent.

With minorities held responsible for hard times.

With cruelty sold as common sense.

And above all, it began with silence.

Last week in Milford Haven, I saw that silence in action.

A shopkeeper, someone who came here from another country, set up a business, pays his way and serves the town, was racially abused inside his own shop. He tried to stop a man walking out with unpaid beer. For doing his job, he was told to “go back home”, told he was not welcome. The thief responded by sweeping stock off the shelves and smashing it onto the floor.

I asked why he did not ring the police. His answer came straight away. “What’s the point? They won’t do anything. It’ll just happen again tomorrow.”

That exchange stuck with me. Not because it was uniquely shocking, but because it felt horribly familiar. No new laws. No uniforms. No symbols. Just raw contempt, casual racism, and the shared understanding that nothing would come of it. A man contributing to the community was made to feel like an outsider in his own workplace, and he had already lost faith that anyone would step in to protect him.

This is how it starts. Abuse becomes normal. Victims stop reporting because experience has taught them the system will not respond. Prejudice is dismissed as “just words” or “banter”. Indifference takes hold.

We are often told not to make comparisons, not to be alarmist, not to link today with that past. Fair enough. History does not repeat itself in neat patterns. But it does move in stages, and the most dangerous stage is the one people fail to notice. The slow normalisation of division, cruelty and disregard.

In towns like Milford Haven, Haverfordwest and Pembroke Dock, places built on hard work and looking out for one another, we know what community means. We have weathered closures, recessions and hardship together. We do not turn away when one of our own is targeted.

Yet when a shopkeeper loses faith that the police or the public will stand with him, something vital erodes. When hate goes unchecked, the ground is quietly prepared for worse.

Holocaust Memorial Day is not about guilt. It is about vigilance. It asks the hardest question of all. Not what monsters once did, but what ordinary people allowed by doing nothing.

The worst crimes in history were not announced in advance. They were built quietly, policy by policy, lie by lie, while too many looked the other way.

That is why we still remember today. And why, in our Welsh towns, remembering must mean refusing silence.

If you see it, say something. If you hear it, challenge it. If someone is targeted, stand with them. Because “never again” only holds if we make it hold, here and now, in the places we live.

OPINION: BY PAUL DOWSON

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE is no longer a future technology. It is not waiting for legislation, ethical consensus, or public debate. It is already here, embedded in systems that exercise immense power.

AI is in our warplane cockpits.

That single fact should change the entire conversation. This is not about chatbots or convenience. It is about authority: who holds it, who hides behind it, and who is left accountable when things go wrong.

In modern military aircraft, AI systems assist with navigation, threat detection, targeting support, and reaction timing. They operate at speeds no human can match. The case for their use is compelling. Machines do not panic, tire, or hesitate. In combat environments, hesitation costs lives.

So why should we be concerned?

Because the real risk of AI is not that it will suddenly develop malicious intent. That idea belongs to science fiction and distracts us from a far more ordinary, and far more dangerous, reality. AI is increasingly treated as neutral.

Neutral systems are trusted. Trusted systems stop being questioned. And what is no longer questioned quietly becomes authority.

We already live under layers of process. Decisions are routinely explained away with phrases like “policy”, “procedure”, or “the system”. AI is the most powerful extension of this trend yet. It produces outcomes while making it harder to say who actually decided.

In civilian life, this is already happening in areas such as welfare and public services. Eligibility decisions are increasingly shaped by automated scoring systems. Someone can be denied support, flagged for investigation, or pushed down a queue not because a person made a judgment, but because “the system says” they do not qualify. The outcome feels final, yet the assumptions embedded in the model are rarely visible, and almost never open to meaningful challenge.

When responsibility is pushed into a system, accountability evaporates. No one “decided”. The model ran. The process was followed.

I have seen first-hand how “objective” systems can be steered toward particular outcomes without anything that looks like corruption. It does not require conspiracies or secret meetings. It happens through design: what data is used, what is left out, how success is defined, how risk is weighted.

To the public, the result looks inevitable.

To those who understand the system, it is engineered.

AI magnifies this effect dramatically. Once systems become complex enough, very few people can meaningfully challenge them. “The model says” becomes the end of the conversation. Questioning outcomes starts to sound like ignorance rather than scrutiny.

Supporters of AI are right: automation has already saved lives. Aircraft are safer today precisely because computers assist, and sometimes override, human pilots. In dangerous environments, AI can see more, calculate faster, and respond sooner than any person ever could.

Refusing to use such tools would be irresponsible.

That argument deserves to be taken seriously. But it still misses the deeper issue.

What starts as assistance becomes reliance.

Reliance becomes deference.

And deference becomes authority.

Over time, humans stop deciding and start supervising. The human becomes the back-up. Judgment becomes confirmation. The key question quietly shifts from “Is this the right decision?” to “Is there any reason to override the system?”

That shift matters. Because once humans are no longer the primary decision-makers, responsibility becomes a formality rather than a reality.

We are told AI can be audited. In theory, yes. In practice, real scrutiny requires expertise, access, and the power to challenge outcomes. Most people, including many decision-makers, do not have these. For them, the system’s output is effectively unquestionable.

And systems are never neutral. They reflect priorities: military objectives, political pressures, funding decisions, strategic advantage. AI does not remove human values from decisions. It buries them beneath complexity.

What is happening in military aviation will not remain confined there. The same logic is already spreading into finance, policing, welfare systems, hiring decisions, and border control. Everywhere AI is positioned as an objective arbiter, responsibility becomes harder to locate and harder to contest.

The greatest danger is not that machines will decide badly. It is that humans will lose the habit, and the authority, of deciding at all.

I support AI. Its potential is extraordinary. Used properly, it can enhance human judgment, reduce error, and save lives. But if we fail to shape how it is deployed, we risk building systems that do not supplement us, but quietly replace us.

AI does not need consciousness to reshape power.

It only needs our trust.

And trust, once handed over, is rarely reclaimed.

Author bio

Paul Dowson is a former independent county councillor in Pembrokeshire (2017–2022) and has spent his career in business management and communications. He supports the adoption of artificial intelligence where it strengthens human decision-making, but argues it must never become a substitute for accountability or judgment.