Notes on Freedom

Month: June, 2015

June 20, 2015

Twitter storms: the terroristic destruction of the individual

The twitter storm is driven by a similar spirit to Isis’ destruction of ancient monuments. Both pretend to have a principled motivation, but this is just a guise: the actual content is only the drive to destroy, to bring something hallowed low.

The life of an individual such as Nobel laureate Tim Hunt took time and work to build, with an accretion over the years of discoveries, achievements, reputation. A person’s life is just as much a work as an ancient monument. A twitter storm or scandal drives towards the destruction a person, for them to be  – in Hunt’s words – ‘finished’, ‘toxic’. To lose their jobs, their honours, ideally their family and friends.

This has an element of sport, and is often discussed as such. Tim Hunt’s casting out from University College London was heralded as a ‘moment to saviour’. A previous storm targeting PR executive Justine Sacco was described as the best moment of 2013: people stayed up to see the conclusion, they skipped parties and dates. ‘I was piling on for sport’, said one of Slate’s writers, reflecting on his reasons for joining another ‘outrage-fueled pig pile’. This is the human drama of a person being ruined.

What is striking is that the person is not generally being ruined for what they believed, or for a deliberate action, but for a joke, aside or an innuendo: it is the informal moment that is the focus for the storm. It is notable that ‘racist’ or ‘sexist’ twitter storms tend to target individuals who are not actually racist or sexist.

There would be no sport in targeting the actual racists or the actual outcasts. Part of the frisson is the fact that this person is unsuspecting: that their life is turned upside down suddenly, without warning, and they do not really know why. There is sporting tension in the dissonance between how they might see themselves, and how they are now being seen by others. Hence the hashtag #hasjustinelandedyet, which trended across the world after Sacco made a joke about AIDS then boarded a 13-hour flight to South Africa. The crowd had this insight over her, that she was ruined and did not yet know it, and the moment of her realisation was savoured as a climax, a clash of drums.

The victim of such events cannot sit back like a ruined hero at the end of a Greek tragedy and say ‘the fault was mine’. This person is not bearing the consequences of their beliefs, standing and falling on ideas that are actually in conflict with society as a whole.

The individual targeted in a twitter storm was condemned not by their actions, but by the image of themselves that had been created in the storm. Their actual life, their actual opinions or beliefs are of no interest or consequence. The storm can turn black into white and white into black, and indeed this is part of the power at play.

There was a case of a woman complaining about bongos who was the subject of tweets accusing her of being a white yuppie moaning about black people. She said that she was black and the bongo player was white. The response was  ‘I don’t know whether you are white or not’;‘forever publicly shamed on Twitter LOL … #whitetears.’ For the purposes of twitter she had been made white, because that is what she needed to be.

Individuals here are only a vehicle for the negative mobilisation. They are human material against which others are defining themselves: it is not about them, but about the needs and perspective of the storm. This is why any attempt at self-justification will make matters worse. ‘Just don’t engage’, one former victim of a storm advised another: be ‘an inert bundle of molecules’. Anything you say will be a sign of life, and therefore an incitement: you aren’t dead yet?

The subject matter of a twitter storm doesn’t make sense before the storm has begun, when there is puzzlement, or after, when there is regret. There is a regular cycle of stages. It is only in the moment of somebody being destroyed that the matter takes on its particular frame. Before and after, a lame joke is just a lame joke. Only in the eye of the storm does it take on this question of grand principle and provide the focus for such unleashing of negative energies.

The dynamic of the storm is a moment of collective mobilisation, an expression of collective subjectivity, at a time when more grounded forms of political mobilisation have gone. The collective cannot any longer be constituted positively, substantively, towards any particular positive end. Instead, it is constituted only at the point of the annihilation of an individual. This is how people stake a point of principle and are part of making something happen.

The collective exists only in the moment when a person is being ruined, just as the terrorists’ Islamic principle exists only at the moment when the columns are crashing down.

University College London’s behaviour in the Tim Hunt scandal was indicative: the university cut him loose with a decisive swipe. He was toxic and the institution didn’t hesitate to remove itself from any implication or contamination. Strikingly, when Sacco’s media company sacked her, the company nonetheless said something in her defence: ‘We hope, however, that time and action, and the forgiving human spirit, will not result in the wholesale condemnation of an individual who we have otherwise known to be a decent person at core.’ The company made the distinction between the person they knew, and the person created as the projection of public outrage. What institutions universities have become, what hollow machines, to show less solidarity towards their Nobel laureate than a media company does towards one of its own.

The same patterns have long been seen in newspaper scandals, where it is also the case that the further the fall, the better the sport. Hence the delight at government ministers brought down for misdemeanors such as speeding points and rows with police officers. ‘The man who fell to earth’, read the headlines after cabinet minister Chris Huhne was convicted of passing on speeding points to his wife. The drive of a scandal is to bring the mighty low, the mask crashing to the floor.

When acts of destruction provide the confirmation of the self and collective, this leads to a new barbarism. It was this barbarian-narcissist culture that, watching a man landing a probe on a comet, focused on the fact that he had scantily dressed women on his shirt. The scientist was humbled by the reaction, reduced to tears. A man is landing a probe on a comet and he is made to cry because of the shirt he is wearing.

When the individual is reduced to human material for others, things of substantial and lasting value are cast away as if they were nothing. Immunology is sacrificed on a joke, meteorology on a shirt. We may look on with horror at Isis’ exploding columns, but really this isn’t a world away.

June 15, 2015

Why Magna Carta should still be our constitution

The distinctive thing about Magna Carta is that it is a constitution owned by society rather than the state.

That is, the meaning of Magna Carta is not stamped in official parchment and interpreted by the courts, who then say, you have this right or you don’t. Rather, since the seventeenth century Magna Carta has been something for people to pick up and wield to their own purposes, against state authority. In the Civil War a person being arrested by the king’s agents would carry or read aloud from the charter, as if the document in itself had the power to ward off illegitimate authority. Magna Carta provided a point of authority outside the state from which to appeal.

Magna Carta became a modern constitution when the feudal rights and duties described in the text had long since dissolved: when there was no longer scutage, castle guard, reliefs upon the knighting of your eldest son or inheriting an estate. In the thirteenth century, Magna Carta was a precise legal document: the text stated exactly what was owed by the various categories of vassals to their lords. With the dissolving of these feudal relations, the clauses that affirmed the principle of limited power in the application of feudal law took on the broader significance of the protection of the citizen against state authority.

Now, Magna Carta played the role not so much of a legal document as an allegory. The allegory of Magna Carta is quite different to that of other constitutions and accounts of the founding of states, such as a founder-hero giving the people good laws, or a group of citizens sitting down and agreeing to form a state on certain terms. Magna Carta was a deal extracted, with the barons and knights camped as an occupying army and the king escaping every night to sleep in safety elsewhere. State authority was forced to agree terms and limit itself.

The rationality of any claim invoking Magna Carta lay not in legal reasoning, but the social legitimacy of the claim. The question was not whether the text could actually be proven to have x or y reasoning, or whether learned judges or antiquarians found this to be so. The force of a claim invoking Magna Carta lay in the individual’s certainty and assertion of their rights, and in the crowds following behind in support.

This is why Civil War rebel John Lilburne quoted Magna Carta first against the king, then later against parliament; why it could be used by both the suffragettes and colonies demanding independence. The meaning of the text was grounded in the subjectivity of civil society: it was civil society that provided the content for the legal form.

It is for this reason that Magna Carta has now vanished so completely from social and political life. While the constitutions of France or the USA continue to have a juridical-administrative life, and structure fundamental aspects of social life, Magna Carta has vanished without trace. It is no longer quoted or invoked.

Magna Carta has disappeared because civil society has ceased to defend itself against the state. There is no longer that sense of tension between state authorities and citizens; there is no longer a principled separation of domains, or the notion that the use of coercion is an incursion on a prior realm of freedom, and must be subject to very strict conditions.

Our new constitution – the Human Rights Act – has emerged as a reflection of this predicament. This is the antithesis of Magna Carta: in its origins it is not the assertion of society against the state, but the pure legalism of an act of international diplomacy.

The Human Rights Act is a statement of rights which seems to come entirely from without, from elsewhere. Nobody thinks of themselves as having a ‘right to life’ or ‘right to a family life’. The language is odd, foreign, not because it is not British but because it is abstracted from the categories and relations of social life, the points of actual tension between individuals and the state. When you read a human rights judgement it feels as if you have never experienced this thing that is being spoken about.

The fact that rights are now conceived largely in terms of this document shows that the question of the limits on state power is now decided entirely within the terms of the state. The question of the division of the domains of state and society occurs entirely within the formal-legal sphere, as with the negotiation between government departments. Those who wish to challenge a measure must do so on these terms and in this language.

Bringing a case under the Human Rights Act is rather like going to see an oracle: you are not asserting a right but going on bended knee, to ask whether you do indeed have this right. Has one of the articles been infringed? The judgement reads like an occult revelation, as something secret revealed. The QC or judge has gone off to consult the sacred texts and they have found that, yes, rights have been infringed, or no, they have not.

Whether they rule in your favour or not, the action has confirmed your subject status. The ‘rights’ being given in a Human Rights case victory are not something claimed, in one’s own voice, but rather are a revealed gift. The judge may say, yes, this police search was an infringement of your ‘right to privacy’, but this judgement is not a concrete recognition of the private domain of your home; your freedom is given back to you as something else.

With Magna Carta, a legal document became the allegory for civil society. With the Human Rights Act, civil society becomes the allegory of a legal document: society’s own autonomy, its own sphere, is sold back to it in an estranged, foreign form. The question of the legitimate domain of state power is now owned entirely by the state alone.

This is why people’s rights can be violated, without their ‘human rights’ being touched. A mother who had her child forcibly adopted is found to not have had her ‘right to a family life’ infringed; the Scottish government’s appointing of a ‘state parent’ for every child is not, apparently, an infringement of their ‘right to privacy’; buskers’ right to ‘free expression’ is not affected by the requirement that they buy a licence from the council before playing in the streets.

At the same time, human rights are commonly seen as a means to defend the undeserving and dubious: reflected in stories that a criminal claimed to have a ‘human right’ to KFC, or a prisoner to hard-core pornography.

It is notable that the invoking of ‘human rights’ tends to have the opposite effect to that of invoking Magna Carta in the past: rather than endowing the claim with authority, it seems to delegitimise it. If someone mentions human rights people tend to see it as an effete and irrelevant claim. If a person says, ‘an infringement of my human rights’, people groan; they immediately lose sympathy. Those seeking to use the Human Rights Act have to spend a lot of time defending it from negative public perceptions. It is unusual for bills of rights to have to be defended against the public.

In the period ahead, what is needed is not so much a new code, or more legal cases, but a development of the conflicts that are presenting themselves between social life and the state. Every skirmish between civil society and the state – whether it is buskers defending their right to play in public space, or skateboarders their rights to skate in a park – does something to re-establish the autonomy of the realms, and the principle of limited power. If we have a document in our hands then let it be Magna Carta.