Google's threats are too little, too late

Action over China is long overdue

There are roughly 1.3 billion people living in China, not one of whom is likely to be able to read this blog. That's got less to do with whether Google opts to pull out of China, and more to do with the "Great Firewall of China" in particular, as well as the Chinese regime's lack of respect for freedom of speech in general.

Nevertheless, it must be getting ever more difficult for Google to defend its decision to operate in China, and in so doing comply with Beijing's insistence that the search-engine giant, too, censor the search results that the people of China are able to see.

Indeed, Google's decision to open an office in China made it a mere pawn in Beijing's attempts to repress free speech. No surprise that the move to operate in China was widely criticised when first announced. One must wonder whether, if the company had been around during South Africa's apartheid years -- in which successive Pretoria governments censored books, magazines and other literature they deemed destabilising -- Google would have gone into business there, even if this had involved helping to enforce such restrictions, thereby assisting suppression of freedom of speech and the anti-apartheid movement.

So, that Google is threatening to pull out of China -- only now, and only after heavy cyberattacks on Google and 30 other Silicon Valley firms -- will do little to reassure civil liberties campaigners. They justifiably argue that the company, in its dealings with China so far, has done little more than put profits above all else.

Google's involvement in China began not when it opened operations there in 2006, but when it bought a 2.6 per cent stake in China's leading search engine, Baidu, back in 2004. At the time, it looked as though Google's plan was to buy the Chinese company outright in advance of its public flotation. Eric Schmidt, Google's CEO, met with Li Yanhong, Baidu's chairman, in July 2005. Some believe he was keen to acquire Baidu rather than produce a Chinese-language version of the Google search engine, which it didn't have at that time.

But, for whatever reason, Google decided to go it alone in China, and in June 2006 it offloaded its stake in Baidu (making about a $50m profit) as it ramped up its own activities there. That meant, of course, agreeing to co-operate with the government's censorship mandate, the "Great Firewall of China".

Google has not been the only offender. In June 2006 the NGO Reporters Without Borders carried out tests of what was being filtered not just by Google, but also by Baidu, Yahoo.cn and Microsoft's MSN. It found Yahoo.cn to be censoring results as stringently as the local Baidu, and also contradicted Microsoft's claims that it was not applying any special filters to MSN searches in China.

Unease

To be fair, Google did not have an easy decision to make when considering its attitude to the Chinese search market. Baidu, Microsoft, Yahoo and others were all actively going after it, and with China home to the largest internet market by users, at more than 350 million, it is one with enormous potential. The search-engine market in China was estimated to be worth in the region of $300m in the third quarter of 2009, up almost 40 per cent year-on-year.

It's clear that Google agonised over its decision, too. Back in 2006, the Associated Press reported Sergey Brin, the Google co-founder, as having "acknowledged . . . the dominant internet company has compromised its principles by accommodating Chinese censorship demands. He said Google is wrestling to make the deal work before deciding whether to reverse course."

But neither the fact that it has not been the only firm playing ball with Chinese censorship demands, nor whether it agonised internally over the decision, should have made it acceptable for a company to put its own profits ahead of the freedoms of more than a billion people.

At the very least, Google could have come out in support of the California First Amendment Coalition (CFAC), which pushed the US administration to launch a trade dispute with China over its internet censorship. It gained only limited support from the search-engine industry.

A Google spokesman said his company "supported the idea that censorship should be seen as a trade barrier and should be included in negotiations, but added that it did not have an official position on the CFAC petition", according to the Financial Times.

So while news that Google is now going to take action to ensure that its content is not censored in China -- a move that will almost certainly lead to its withdrawal from the Chinese market -- is welcome, it shouldn't have got itself into this mess in the first place. Perhaps it's time for Google, Yahoo, Microsoft and the other search-engine players to make a united stand against Chinese censorship.

It may not be a battle they can win today. But, for the rights of those 1.3 billion citizens who won't be able to read this blog, it's one battle from which they must not walk away.

Jason Stamper is the New Statesman technology correspondent and editor of Computer Business Review

 

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Jason Stamper is editor of Computer Business Review

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad