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What’s new about WikiLeaks?

We shouldn’t be surprised by the war on WikiLeaks. The elite have always loathed the radical press,

Once, at the time of a major popular upheaval, elites on different sides of the political divide feared the general population more than each other. The rising merchant classes may have opposed the more traditional, aristocratic nobility, but both sides feared the radical publishers who were stirring up the people past a point of no return. As one writer put it:

They have cast all the Mysteries and secrets of Government, both by Kings and Parliaments, before the vulgar (like Pearl before Swine), and have taught both the Souldiery and People to look so far into them as to ravel back all Governments, to the first principles of nature. They have made the People thereby so curious and so arrogant that they will never find humility enough to submit to a civil rule.

Although these words could easily describe the situation today in Tunisia, Egypt and elsewhere in the Middle East, they were in fact written in 1661, by a man called Clement Walker, about popular radicalism at the time of the English civil war in the 1640s.

This was a crucial time in the history of publishing - and the history of governments' attempts to control what the people could read. Printing presses, invented two centuries earlier, were becoming more accessible, and the first newspapers were appearing throughout western Europe as a result of the creation of a postal system. Today's maxim, "technology drives dis­tribution", has long antecedents.

During the civil war, the established printers and booksellers were not the only ones who published newspapers: craftsmen from less exalted trades published their own. For four years in the 1640s, a tailor named John Dillingham published the Moderate Intelligencer, reporting on developments in the civil war. (His attempt to report soberly on the conflict soon brought him into conflict with Gilbert Mabbot, official licenser of the press, who tried to replace the Intelligencer with something more overtly supportive of Oliver Cromwell.)

Pamphlets, manuscripts and other smaller newsletters also appeared regularly, all reflecting the concerns of their authors. Little wonder that there was such concern among the elite that the people were becoming, as Walker put it, "so curious and so arrogant that they will never find humility enough to submit".

Today, as a small organisation, WikiLeaks is firmly in the tradition of those radical publishers who tried to lay "all the Mysteries and secrets of Government" before the public. For reasons of realpolitik, we have worked with some of the largest media groups, but we have also broadened our base to more than 50 regional publishers, activist groups and charities, giving them early access to hundreds - or, in some cases, thousands - of documents relevant to their countries or causes.

WikiLeaks also remains true to the ideals of the popular newspapers that flourished in the US at the beginning of the 20th century.In Ruthless Criticism, a well-regarded dissection of the US fourth estate, the historian Jon Bekken finds that there were once "hundreds of newspapers in dozens of languages, ranging from local and regional dailies issued by working-class political organisations and mutual aid societies to national union weeklies and monthlies".

These newspapers not only reported the news but also offered, as Bekken puts it, "a venue where readers could debate political, economic and cultural issues. Readers could follow the activities of working-class institutions in every field and could be mobilised to support efforts to transform economic and political conditions."

While the blogosphere is now rightly seen as reflecting the diversity of popular concerns, the idea of a truly representative media goes back to these labour traditions. For example, in 1920, a number of editors in the United States established the Federated Press, a co-operative news-gathering service that sought to counter the biases of the mainstream press. The service ran until the 1940s, supplying roughly 150 publications.
The labour movement's own press was, in its time, extremely popular; even before the First World War, its newspapers enjoyed a circulation of more than two million copies in the US. The Appeal to Reason, the largest left-wing journal, enjoyed a weekly circulation of three-quarters of a million.

But as conflict in Europe grew closer, there were co-ordinated attempts by the establishment to bring these publications to heel; in the US, the Espionage Act of 1917 made it an offence to argue peacefully against the war effort. One early victim was Eugene Debs, the American Socialist Party and labour leader, who was convicted in 1918 of making a pacifist speech and sentenced to ten years in prison.

The New York Times, true to form, had been calling for his imprisonment for more than two decades, saying in an editorial of 9 July 1894 that Debs was "a lawbreaker at large, an enemy of the human race. There has been quite enough talk about warrants against him and about arresting him".
The paper added: "It is time to cease mouthings and begin. Debs should be jailed, if there are jails in his neighborhood, and the disorder his bad teaching has engendered must be squelched . . . it is well to remember that no friends of the Government of the United States are ever killed by its soldiers - only its enemies."

Seen within this historical perspective, the New York Times's performance in the run-up to the US-led invasion of Iraq, and its hostile attitude to WikiLeaks today, are not surprising.As well as the hostility of governments, popular grass-roots publishers have had to face the realities of advertising as a source of revenue. According to the analyst James Curran, the Daily Herald, a British newspaper of the early 20th century, had nearly twice the readership of the Times, the Financial Times and the Guardian combined. It was forced to close in 1964, however, despite being among the 20 largest-circulation dailies in the world, because its largely working-class readers did not constitute a lucrative advertising market.
The liberal News Chronicle was another casualty of advertising shortfalls, closing in 1960 - when it was absorbed into the right-wing Daily Mail - despite having a circulation more than six times larger than the Guardian's.

Of course, WikiLeaks does not have this reliance on advertisers. Rather, we face a dif­ferent financial problem as a publication: how do we deal with an extrajudicial financial blockade by Bank of America, Visa (including Visa Europe, registered in London), MasterCard, PayPal, Western Union, the Swiss PostFinance, Moneybookers and other finance companies, all keen to curry favour with Washington?

In the long view of history, WikiLeaks is part of an honourable tradition that expands the scope of freedom by trying to lay "all the mysteries and secrets of government" before the public. We are, in a sense, a pure expres-sion of what the media should be: an intelligence agency of the people, casting pearls before swine.

Julian Assange is editor-in-chief of WikiLeaks

This article first appeared in the 11 April 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Jemima Khan guest edit

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State