Rewriting history will not atone for the mistreatment of Alan Turing

If we pardon Turing, there are thousands more due the same. Never returning to those times should be

In LGBT History month, denying a persecuted homosexual a pardon seems particularly insensitive. But in the case of Alan Turing, the so-called Father of Computing and Bletchley Park code-breaker, and the subject of a campaign to absolve him posthumously of a "gross indecency" conviction, Lord Justice McNally has made the right decision.

Charged with the offence in 1952, Turing was offered a choice of sentence -- prison or chemical castration. He opted for the second, but was so distressed by the treatment that he committed suicide two years later. In 2009, a petition demanding that Turing be apologised to in light of his contribution to national life, ratcheted up 30,000 signatures on the No 10 website. Gordon Brown made a national apology for Turing's treatment but no pardon was granted. Meanwhile, the current e-petition, started by William Jones and carried forward by Lib Dem MP John Leech -- who tabled an early day motion to secure Turing's pardon -- is backed by the Guardian and has been so far signed by more than 28,000 people.

The motivation for pardoning Turing comes with the best of intentions. But the pardon itself would achieve what, exactly? Help construct the acceptable face of establishment homosexuality in a patriotic form? Assure the LGBTQI community that the government's commitment to equal rights really does have nothing to do with vote-swinging? Make us feel better about a law that we cannot -- and must not -- forget existed in the first place?

Instead, pardoning Turing would actually create a problem -- it would establish a precedent for the "deserving" homosexual. John Graham-Cummingham, the computer scientist who created the first petition said: "You don't have to be gay to think that prosecuting a man for a private consensual sex act who just seven years before had been hailed as a hero of the Second World War was simply wrong." Fair enough. But the implication of pardoning Turing now would be that he is worthy of his pardon only because he was a national hero; a some gays are more equal than others kind of approach. If we pardon Turing, there are thousands more due the same -- every lesbian, bisexual, gay, intersex and trans man and woman persecuted or harassed throughout the nation's history, from Oscar Wilde to Radclyffe Hall, to the everyday citizens whose secret lives were made the stuff of public shame and state prosecution.

While we're at it, if we're cleaning up historical inequalities, why stop there? What of those convicted under or controlled by other laws we now regard as inhumane -- women burned for witchcraft, for example, or the 18th century designation of black slaves as commodities under the Trade and Navigation Act? What's more, if as an act of contrition we are to overturn past criminal convictions, it would surely only be just to issue posthumous prosecutions for those who committed what we now consider to be crimes. But just what exactly would an anachronistic sentencing and pardoning policy achieve for these victims of our history? Defending the decision not to pardon Turing, Lord MacNally stated:

Long-standing policy has been to accept that such convictions took place ... Rather than trying to alter the historical context and to put right what cannot be put right, [we should] ensure instead that we never again return to those times.

Never returning to those times; that should be our aim.

If we are to use e-petitions for social good, how about we use them to challenge the government on practices causing harm to the LGBTQI community right now; the Commonwealth's failure to condemn Jamaica's stringent sodomy laws, for example, particularly considering the fact that the prohibition of homosexuality was a colonial import in the first place. Or the revised laws on giving blood which previously banned gay men from donating because of the HIV risk, and now merely allow those who have been celibate for a decade to donate. This is both unjust and irrational when heterosexual transmissions account for the greater number of overall UK infections, and when all donors are not routinely asked how much unprotected sex they have had. There are two petitions for you; there are hundreds more.

Turing's story is sickening; but rewriting history will not help atone for his treatment. Instead, in his centenary year, let's celebrate his life's work and achievements and ensure he takes the place in British history he so deserves. After all, his sexuality has nothing to do with that.

Nichi Hodgson is a 28-year-old freelance journalist specialising in sexual politics, law and culture.

This article was updated at 9.45am on 10 February 2012.

 

Nichi Hodgson is a writer and broadcaster specialising in sexual politics, censorship, and  human rights. Her first book, Bound To You, published by Hodder & Stoughton, is out now. She tweets @NichiHodgson.

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The decline of the north's sporting powerhouse

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Now, things are different.

On a drive between Sheffield and Barnsley, I spotted a striking painting of the Kes poster. Billy Casper’s two-fingered salute covered the wall of a once-popular pub that is now boarded up.

It is almost 50 years since the late Barry Hines wrote A Kestrel for a Knave, the novel that inspired Ken Loach’s 1969 film, and it seems that the defiant, us-against-the-world, stick-it-to-the-man Yorkshireness he commemorated still resonates here. Almost two-thirds of the people of south Yorkshire voted to leave the EU, flicking two fingers up at what they saw as a London-based establishment, detached from life beyond the capital.

But whatever happened to Billy the unlikely lad, and the myriad other northern characters who were once the stars of stage and screen? Like the pitheads that dominated Casper’s tightly knit neighbourhood, they have disappeared from the landscape. The rot set in during the 1980s, when industries were destroyed and communities collapsed, a point eloquently made in Melvyn Bragg’s excellent radio series The Matter of the North.

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Yet today, we rarely get to hear the voices of Barnsley, Sheffield, Doncaster and Rotherham. And the Yorkshire sporting powerhouse is no more – at least, not as we once knew it.

This should be a matter of national concern. The White Rose county is, after all, the home of the world’s oldest registered football club – Sheffield FC, formed in 1857 – and the first English team to win three successive League titles, Huddersfield Town, in the mid-1920s. Hull City are now Yorkshire’s lone representative in the Premier League.

Howard Wilkinson, the manager of Leeds United when they were crowned champions in 1992, the season before the Premier League was founded, lamented the passing of a less money-obsessed era. “My dad worked at Orgreave,” he said, “the scene of Mrs Thatcher’s greatest hour, bless her. You paid for putting an axe through what is a very strong culture of community and joint responsibility.”

The best-known scene in Loach’s film shows a football match in which Mr Sugden, the PE teacher, played by Brian Glover, comically assumes the role of Bobby Charlton. It was played out on the muddy school fields of Barnsley’s run-down Athersley estate. On a visit to his alma mater a few years ago, David Bradley, who played the scrawny 15-year-old Billy, showed me the goalposts that he had swung from as a reluctant goalkeeper. “You can still see the dint in the crossbar,” he said. When I spoke to him recently, Bradley enthused about his lifelong support for Barnsley FC. “But I’ve not been to the ground over the last season and a half,” he said. “I can’t afford it.”

Bradley is not alone. Many long-standing fans have been priced out. Barnsley is only a Championship side, but for their home encounter with Newcastle last October, their fans had to pay £30 for a ticket.

The English game is rooted in the northern, working-class communities that have borne the brunt of austerity over the past six years. The top leagues – like the EU – are perceived to be out of touch and skewed in favour of the moneyed elites.

Bradley, an ardent Remainer, despaired after the Brexit vote. “They did not know what they were doing. But I can understand why. There’s still a lot of neglect, a lot of deprivation in parts of Barnsley. They feel left behind because they have been left behind.”

It is true that there has been a feel-good factor in Yorkshire following the Rio Olympics; if the county were a country, it would have finished 17th in the international medals table. Yet while millions have been invested in “podium-level athletes”, in the team games that are most relevant to the lives of most Yorkshire folk – football, cricket and rugby league – there is a clear division between sport’s elites and its grass roots. While lucrative TV deals have enriched ruling bodies and top clubs, there has been a large decrease in the number of adults playing any sport in the four years since London staged the Games.

According to figures from Sport England, there are now 67,000 fewer people in Yorkshire involved in sport than there were in 2012. In Doncaster, to take a typical post-industrial White Rose town, there has been a 13 per cent drop in participation – compared with a 0.4 per cent decline nationally.

Attendances at rugby league, the region’s “national sport”, are falling. But cricket, in theory, is thriving, with Yorkshire winning the County Championship in 2014 and 2015. Yet Joe Root, the batsman and poster boy for this renaissance, plays far more games for his country than for his county and was rested from Yorkshire’s 2016 title decider against Middlesex.

“Root’s almost not a Yorkshire player nowadays,” said Stuart Rayner, whose book The War of the White Roses chronicles the club’s fortunes between 1968 and 1986. As a fan back then, I frequently watched Geoffrey Boycott and other local stars at Headingley. My favourite was the England bowler Chris Old, a gritty, defiant, unsung anti-hero in the Billy Casper mould.

When Old made his debut, 13 of the 17-strong Yorkshire squad were registered as working-class professionals. Half a century later, three of the five Yorkshiremen selec­ted for the last Ashes series – Root, Jonny Bairstow and Gary Ballance – were privately educated. “The game of cricket now is played in public schools,” Old told me. “Top players are getting huge amounts of money, but the grass-roots game doesn’t seem to have benefited in any way.”

“In ten years’ time you won’t get a Joe Root,” Rayner said. “If you haven’t seen these top Yorkshire cricketers playing in your backyard and you haven’t got Sky, it will be difficult to get the whole cricket bug. So where is the next generation of Roots going to come from?” Or the next generation of Jessica Ennis-Hills? Three years ago, the Sheffield stadium where she trained and first discovered athletics was closed after cuts to local services.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era