Following the shocking conclusion of the trial that exposed the brutal torture and murder of ten-year-old Sara Sharif, the story took another grim turn inside the walls of HMP Belmarsh. Her father, Ufran Sharif, who had confessed to the killing, became the target of a violent prison assault. The incident unfolded suddenly, yet it was clear from witness accounts that it had been planned long before. Inmates who despised crimes against children decided that justice inside prison walls would take a different form.

The weapon used in the attack was both makeshift and cruel—a jagged tuna can lid, sharpened and concealed until the moment it was needed. When the assault began, chaos spread quickly through the unit. Guards rushed to intervene, but the damage had already been done. Sharif was left bleeding from deep gashes, the kind of wounds meant to send a message rather than to kill outright. In that moment, the weight of his crime came back to him in the form of cold, unforgiving steel.

Authorities confirmed that Sharif survived the attack but sustained serious injuries that required immediate hospital treatment. His wounds, though not fatal, were severe enough to demand days of medical attention. Prison medics worked swiftly before transferring him to an external facility for further care. Officials have since refused to provide full details about his condition, citing security reasons and the sensitivity of the case. Yet reports from inside the prison describe a man shaken, scarred, and permanently marked—both physically and mentally.

The assault, insiders say, was rooted in a long-standing prison code. Inmates who harm or kill children are among the most despised figures behind bars. Those convicted of such crimes are often placed under “Rule 45” protection, kept apart from the general population. But in a high-security prison like Belmarsh, isolation is rarely complete. Word travels, loyalties shift, and opportunities for retribution eventually surface. For some prisoners, avenging a child’s suffering becomes its own form of justice.

In the days that followed, officials launched an internal investigation into how the attack was able to occur under such strict supervision. The findings pointed toward careful coordination among inmates, possibly spanning multiple wings of the facility. The use of a tuna can lid—smuggled and reshaped into a blade—highlighted the desperate creativity that can emerge within prison confines. Even in one of the most secure prisons in the UK, vengeance found a way.

After the incident, security around Sharif was immediately tightened. Guards assigned to his supervision were doubled, and he was moved to a segregation unit under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Officials stated the measures were necessary due to the “exceptional public and inmate hostility” surrounding his crime. The name “Sara Sharif” had become synonymous with tragedy across the nation, and even within Belmarsh’s walls, sympathy for her was absolute.

The wider prison population reportedly showed little remorse for the assault. Among inmates, there was a sense that moral order had been restored, however brutally. Conversations in the yard turned to the subject of child victims, with many claiming that Sharif’s punishment had only just begun. For guards, though, it presented a different challenge—keeping law and order among men who believe they are delivering justice on their own terms.

Outside the prison, news of the attack reignited public discussion about the case. Many expressed outrage over the crime itself, while others debated whether prison violence could ever be justified. Families of victims saw it as grim retribution; advocates for prison reform saw it as a sign of systemic failure. In the end, it became another chapter in a story already steeped in tragedy and moral complexity.

Ufran Sharif remains under heavy protection, his future in prison uncertain despite his life sentence. His days are now defined by isolation, guarded corridors, and the lingering fear of another attack. For the inmates of Belmarsh, his punishment is far from over. And for the public, the case stands as a haunting reminder of how deeply the loss of a child can scar not just a family—but an entire nation.