In Russia, investigative journalists are killed when they
find out too much. The internet is now severely
restricted. Members of the punk band Pussy Riot languish
in penal colonies for protesting in church.
But dangers also lurk in so-called democracies. In
Greece, a magazine editor yesterday went on trial for
having the temerity to publish details of the tax
avoidance schemes of the super-rich, as ordinary people
suffer greatly from austerity. If normal ethical standards
were applied, Costas Vaxevanis would have been celebrated
for his intrepid reporting. But shooting the messenger has
become the norm for politicians and business leaders, as a
means of diverting attention from their crimes and
misdemeanours – and frightening whistleblowers and
journalists. In France, presidents and ministers have for
years hidden behind privacy clauses to keep their dodgy
financial affairs secret. Hungary’s recent press law,
requiring media outlets to be licensed, has led to a spate
of overly critical editors being sacked and radio stations
taken off air.
What is so dispiriting is that we in Britain appear now
to be leaning in this direction. We increasingly regard
free speech as a danger.
There are a number of reasons: some of it is the result
of bad law; some of it is economic. Politicians, lawyers
and the public are struggling to come to terms with rapid
technological changes. The internet was supposed to be the
vehicle that broke down old rules and hierarchies. We
suddenly acquired a voice through emails, blogs and social
networking. We could bear witness to events through sound
recording and cameras on our mobile phones.
The power relationship shifted. Gone were the days when a
mere citizen would have to send a letter to their MP, who
would occasionally deign to reply. Mostly they didn’t,
seeing engagement or accountability as an intrusion on
their valuable time.
That has changed, thank goodness, and cannot be reversed.
The moment George Osborne’s assistant queried, possibly
innocently, his standard-class train ticket, that episode
was in the public domain.
Yet at the same time we struggle with Twitter and
Facebook and the freedoms they afford. Online, the
extremely poor joke and the offensive remark have now
become matters not for peer groups to sort out, but for
the authorities. So the hapless young man who tweets in
frustration about blowing up an airport is arrested; a
stupid boy who insults the Olympic diver Tom Daley is
visited by the police; and the equally pathetic young man
who makes an ill-judged “joke” about the disappeared Welsh
schoolgirl April Jones is taken in, too.
I am as angered by these remarks as anyone, but is it the
state’s job to arbitrate matters of taste and decency?
When Nick Griffin, the BNP leader, was invited on to the
BBC’s Question Time a couple of years ago, to howls of
outrage, I saw it as important to defend his right to
appear – and to make a fool of himself, which he duly did.
To misquote Voltaire, the only free speech worth defending
is that of the person whose views you find most obnoxious.
Everywhere around the world, it seems, the right to take
offence has been elevated into a human right. Usually, but
not always, this “right” is exercised through religious
belief. Most cases are seen through the prism of “insults”
to Islam. But this “right” now seems to be exercised by
whoever wants it.
What does all this have to do with our press? The best
word I can find is “raucous”. A raucous, argumentative
society is a healthy society. Of course we need laws to
protect people – from child pornography to incitement to
violence. We need state secrets. But the Official Secrets
Act has often been used for the wrongful purpose of
protecting the reputations of ministers and officials. We
need anti-terrorism measures, but not the outrageous
Communications Data Bill currently being discussed in
Parliament, that would give not just the security services
but dozens of lesser public bodies the right to demand
emails and social media traffic from any citizen in the
land. These plans are dangerous; they are also manna from
heaven for the Russians and Chinese, who love to point to
the West’s double standards when their records are held up
to scrutiny.
We need libel laws, but not those that for years have
indulged sheikhs, oligarchs and other super-rich figures,
preventing anyone from writing about them. These laws are
being changed, but I fear the end result will fall far
short of the improvements the libel reform campaign I
helped to lead has sought.
Throw in the economics: many newspapers have closed or
been pared to the bone, particularly in the regions. Whose
interests are served when local councils know that
planning decisions and other dodgy dealings will go
unreported? The same goes on a national scale, not just
about politicians, but sports stars and their agents and
businesses on the take. Investigative journalism takes
time, requires patience and indulgence from editors, and
costs money. That is the area that is being cut back most
of all – to everyone’s detriment.
So how come a general view has been allowed to take hold
that our press is out of control? The terrible acts of a
few, hacking the phones of the vulnerable with no possible
public interest, have handed the moral ground and
political power to those who want journalists to be more
“respectful”.
I have attended a number of press conferences over the
years involving prime ministers and US presidents. When
the two leaders marched into the room, the Americans would
stand to attention; the Brits would sit sullenly. I know
which I prefer.
Nobody sensible will defend the old-style boys’-club
regulation of newspapers. Of course, something more
vigorous must emerge from the Leveson Inquiry. But I have
worked in many countries – not just under authoritarian
regimes – where journalists are seduced by the offer of a
seat at the top table, or are persuaded not to ask that
extra question. “Go easy, we don’t want trouble” could all
too easily become the mantra here. Would, I ask myself,
this newspaper have had the courage to break the story
about MPs’ expenses in the post-Leveson world? I would
like to think so, but I’m not sure.
We all want to strike the right balance. But perfection
is elusive. Forced to choose, I would rather have a public
space that goes too far than one that – like so many
countries around the world – is pliant in the face of
power.
John Kampfner is a former editor of 'The New
Statesman’ and former chief executive of Index on
Censorship
