Rethinking the bystander effect through the murder of George Floyd: What if everything we thought we knew about bystander behavior was wrong?

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For decades, the "bystander effect" has painted a chilling picture: when emergencies unfold, the presence of others correlates with inaction. Psychologists have taught this principle in classrooms, cited it in publications, and invoked it in public discourse. But a new study analyzing the murder of George Floyd dismantles that narrative in the most painful, visible way.

In their new paper, Levine, Walton, Philpot, and Keil (2025) present a frame-by-frame breakdown of the events that took place on May 25, 2020, in Minneapolis. Their findings challenge long-standing assumptions about group inaction and reframes the role of bystanders in the face of police violence. The findings are clear: bystanders did not fail to act. The authorities refused to respond.

As a psychologist specializing in trauma, I believe this study marks a turning point. It shows that during some of the most urgent moments, it's not apathy that kills. It's power.

The findings are clear: bystanders did not fail to act. The authorities refused to respond.

Using 12 synced video sources (bodycams, smartphones, CCTV), the researchers created a microbehavioral transcript of the interactions between bystanders and police during Floyd's final 11 minutes. This triangulated dataset included 205 direct verbal interventions and several forms of nonverbal protest. These interventions were not random. They were strategic, evolving attempts to disrupt the escalating violence.

The bystanders used five primary forms of verbal intervention:

  1. Assessments (e.g., "He's not responsive")
  2. Interrogatives ("Does he have a pulse?")
  3. Imperatives ("Get off him!")
  4. Declaratives ("He is human")
  5. Insults ("You're a bum")

Most interventions were directed at officers, with assessments (number one on the list above) leading the way. Bystanders were far from passive observers; they attempted to assert epistemic authority by presenting what they observed to challenge what was happening.

What this research reveals is far more tragic and infuriating: bystanders can scream, plead, reason, and demand, and still be rendered invisible by the power structure imposed upon them.

The "bystander effect," as popularized by Latané and Darley (1970), suggests that individuals are less likely to help when others are present. But newer research has begun to challenge this in contexts involving violence. Philpot et al. (2020) found that intervention is actually the norm in public conflict. This paper adds another layer: even in the presence of an armed and authoritative figure, bystanders do try.

Why does this matter? Because the traditional framing of bystander inaction blames the public. It assumes cowardice and confusion. But what this research reveals is far more tragic and infuriating: bystanders can scream, plead, reason, and demand, and still be rendered invisible by the power structure imposed upon them.

In George Floyd's case, the power differential was undeniably evidenced by a man in uniform, sanctioned by the state, with a knee on another man's neck. And behind him were other officers who either enabled or ignored the escalating harm.

As mental health professionals, we must recognize that powerlessness in the face of moral clarity can be psychologically wounding.

The study identifies that the most frequent verbal strategies were assessments, or statements that made visible the distress and deterioration of Floyd's condition. These assessments served as entry points for further action: interrogatives and imperatives followed, building urgency. But here is where the trauma response collides with social power: the officers did not reciprocate the dialog.

Officer Lane showed five moments of alignment with the crowd's concerns. He echoed bystander observations, suggesting movement or checking a pulse. Yet none of these suggestions were taken up by the other officers. In trauma terms, we see a system where the activation of concern is consistently met with denial.

This creates a specific kind of collective trauma. Witnesses are left not only with the horror of what they saw, but the futility of their resistance. As mental health professionals, we must recognize that powerlessness in the face of moral clarity can be psychologically wounding.

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Photo by Priscilla Gyamfi on Unsplash

It’s tempting to believe that bystanders don't act because they lack empathy. But the transcript reveals that the crowd cared persistently. They repeated their assessments as Floyd's condition worsened. They tried multiple strategies, escalating only after being ignored. They coordinated movements through shared attention and emotion. This kind of collective caring disrupts the assumption that all people freeze.

Implications for bystander intervention training

We often train people with models like the "4Ds": Direct, Distract, Delegate, Delay. But these tools falter when the person causing harm is the one wearing the badge.

This study forces us to rethink the following:

We need bystander training programs that incorporate power-sensitive strategies, informed by real-world cases like this. And we need trauma-informed frameworks for supporting those who witness state violence.

What clinicians must understand

From a clinical perspective, this study has urgent implications. Many clients, particularly in marginalized communities, carry the weight of both direct and vicarious trauma. When someone watches another die and believes they could have or should have done more, the emotional aftermath is heavy. This paper offers a reframe: They did act. And they were ignored.

This article exposes a fault line in our understanding of intervention, authority, and moral action. It shows that the bystander effect, as traditionally conceived, is inadequate for describing what happens when ordinary people face institutional violence. In the murder of George Floyd, silence wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the crowd knew - and the officers didn’t care. That realization should haunt us. And more importantly, it should change how we teach, train, and talk about responsibility in the face of harm.

References

Levine, M., Walton, C., Philpot, R., & Keil, T. (2025). Bystanders and the murder of George Floyd: Analyzing bystander intervention in the course of a police killing. American Psychologist. Advance online publication. https://doi.org/10.1037/amp0001531

Latané, B., & Darley, J. M. (1970). The unresponsive bystander: Why doesn’t he help? Prentice-Hall.

Philpot, R., Liebst, L. S., Levine, M., Bernasco, W., & Lindegaard, M. R. (2020). Would I be helped? Cross-national CCTV footage shows that intervention is the norm in public conflicts. American Psychologist, 75(1), 66–75. https://doi.org/10.1037/amp0000469

We need to address colorism in the therapy room if we hope to start healing as a nation

When I was in second grade, a classmate approached my desk.

“You’re brown,” he declared, his face contorted with repugnance. I turned and we locked eyes. He was brown like me, maybe a shade lighter. I was shocked. In cursing my brown skin, he was proclaiming his hatred of his own, the complete opposite of the pride I was raised to feel in my heritage.

This entire exchange lasted only three seconds, yet it held the expansive weight of generations of American colorism, a form of discrimination based on the darkness of one’s skin tone. It’s related to racism but also distinct: while all Black people experience discrimination due to the racial category in which they fall, for example, the magnitude, prevalence, and end result of that discrimination will differ greatly by skin tone. The ubiquity of colorism impacts all people of color, cutting across groups of racial and ethnic minorities in America.

This entire exchange lasted only three seconds, yet it held the expansive weight of generations of American colorism, a form of discrimination based on the darkness of one’s skin tone.

That childhood moment followed me into my adult career as a clinical psychologist specializing in trauma, where colorism comes up regularly with my BIPOC clients, but not with my white ones. And after a traumatic year for everyone that disproportionately caused suffering in minority communities, from police violence to COVID deaths to anti-Asian hate crimes, conversations about colorism must be part of the healing process, even -- especially -- in majority-white spaces.

We cannot be anti-racist without being anti-colorist, and we cannot grapple with colorism as a society unless white people -- who make up the majority of mental health professionals here -- join the conversation.

Colorism research has consistently demonstrated that lighter-skinned people of color are privileged in areas of income, education, and housing, even when controlling for other variables. For example, lighter skinned people of color earn more money, complete more years of schooling, and live in wealthier neighborhoods compared to darker skinned people of the same ethnicity. In America, people will opt to hire a lighter skinned person before a darker skinned person of the same race (Hunter, 2007). Most people are not even conscious of this preference for lighter skin; it is deeply ingrained in the systematically racist foundation of American culture.

We cannot be anti-racist without being anti-colorist, and we cannot grapple with colorism as a society unless white people -- who make up the majority of mental health professionals here -- join the conversation.

I’ve found that my work with BIPOC clients deepens when colorism emerges in the psychotherapy process. It’s an experience of mutual understanding about the social/interpersonal/economic consequences of colorism. We talk about how colorism has impacted their life, their relationships, their view of self and others. We talk about the similarities and differences of our appearances and how that impacts the relational dynamics in the therapy process. This is undergirded by a shared knowing around the peril that comes along with existing in non-white skin in America.

With white clients, the dialog of colorism seldom emerges. What surfaces more frequently is a mixture of them sharing their anti-racist activism and expressed white guilt around race.

Psychology as a discipline is attempting to reckon with a past whose theoretical foundations were built by white, Western European men...

But whether or not white clients speak openly about colorism, it’s present in the room, and it’s an ethical responsibility for therapists to acknowledge how psychological theory, research and clinical practice has been impacted. Psychology as a discipline is attempting to reckon with a past whose theoretical foundations were built by white, Western European men, the majority of the burden has been shouldered by BIPOC clinicians. Just last year, a group called Disrupt the Silence, including BIPOC and white clinicians, formed to speak out and change the status quo. But it’s still a reckoning that primarily exists in therapeutic relationships that include BIPOC therapists and clients.

I imagine that it’s easy for white therapists to avoid talking with their white patients about being white, but they need to start doing it. In her 2019 paper, “Whiteness on the Couch,” clinical psychologist Natasha Stovall writes, “The couch in my therapy office is occupied mostly by white people. We talk about everything. Except being white.” She asserts that the field of psychology essentially reflects “the psychology of whiteness.”

Creating space for these conversations in therapy feels like a duty, as if not doing so would represent a form of collusion with racist power structures.

But the current political climate and barrage of news stories spotlighting racist behavior, narratives and hate-crimes puts issues of race and colorism front and center for all of us. Creating space for these conversations in therapy feels like a duty, as if not doing so would represent a form of collusion with racist power structures.

We’ll never create a more just society unless everyone addresses their complicity in upholding its current structure. That includes therapists.

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