Mourners carry the body of a father killed by a drone strike in Gaza. Photograph: Getty Images
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Drone attacks go against every human rights principle in the book

There is a sense that international law has failed.

It has for centuries been lawful to kill enemy commanders, on the principle that “a man who is dead renews no war”, a thought that comforted Cromwell as he viewed the body of Charles I. The outcry in the 1970s over comical CIA plots to murder Fidel Castro by sending him exploding cigars and poison pens led Congress to ban political assassinations under Executive Order 12333: “No person employed by or acting on behalf of the United States government shall engage in, or conspire to engage in, assassination.” This comports with the Fifth Amendment to the US constitution, which protects “any person” (not just US citizens) from being “deprived of life . . . without due process of law”.

Until 9/11, the legal position was clear: in war, active combatants could kill and be killed, subject to rules governing surrender, use of banned weapons, etc. But “war law” applied only to conflicts between armed forces of opposing states, invoking the right of self-defence. Confrontations with insurgents, rioters and terrorists were governed by human rights law, which requires state use of force against serious criminals to be reasonable in the circumstances. This is more restrictive – after three IRA bombers were shot dead on Gibraltar in 1988, the European Court held that the UK had denied them the right to life because MI5 had jumped to mistaken conclusions. In the case of known members of terrorist organisations, the “reasonable force” requirement exercises a necessary and humane restraint over the trigger-happiness of “special forces” and drone targeters. This is why the US, Russia and Israel pretend they are bound only by the law of war, which allows suspects to be killed without much compunction.

The states that deploy drones argue that they are operating under war law, where human rights are less relevant. As Harold Koh, legal adviser to the US state department, puts it: “The US is in an armed conflict with al-Qaeda . . . and may use force consistent with its inherent right to self-defence . . . including by targeting persons such as high-level al-Qaeda leaders who are planning to attack us.” This bald statement prompts many questions. How can you have “an armed conflict” without an enemy state? What criteria are used for putting names on the secret death list: is it enough to be sympathetic to terrorism, married to a terrorist, or anti-American? To provide shelter or give funds to terrorist groups? What is the required degree of proof? There are no accountability mechanisms – no inquests, sometimes not even a casualty list (although the US usually announces and celebrates when it hits a “high-value target”).

In drone warfare, there is no fairness or due process to enable the potential victim, his relatives or any outside body to challenge the accuracy of the information on which the targeting decision has been made. The Senate foreign relations committee reported in 2009 that the Pentagon’s approved list of “prioritised targets” contained 367 names and had been expanded to include 50 Afghan drug lords suspected of donating money to the Taliban. Suppose the suspicion was unreasonable, or the donation had been at gunpoint, or of a negligible amount? What the Pentagon is doing is secretly sentencing people to death for an unproven crime.

The Israeli Supreme Court is the only tribunal to have confronted the legality of targeted kill­ing, at a time (2008) when 234 victims had been members of Hamas and a further 153 had been civilians who got in the way. The court contented itself with comments about limiting the targets to dangerous terrorists and issued Polonius-like precautionary precepts: “well-based information is needed”; “innocent civilians are not to be harmed”; “careful verification is needed before an attack is made”. In reality, innocent civilians very often are killed, and “verification” always seems careful to the minds of the targeters.

Israeli officials seem morally content to risk civilian lives: after a one-tonne bomb was dropped on Gaza City in 2002, killing many civilians in order to assassinate the Hamas military leader Salah Shehadeh, an inquiry merely noted “shortcomings” in evaluation of information. This was a case of manslaughter by gross negligence. The CIA’s anxiety to kill the al-Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri led to a drone attack in 2006 on a village in Pakistan where he was mistakenly thought to be hiding, and 18 civ­ilians were killed. There was no explanation, no accountability and no compensation for what the CIA calls a “decapitation strike”.

Koh says that drone strikes are an exercise in self-defence under Article 51 of the UN Charter. But Article 51 applies only to attacks (or imminent attacks) by other states, not by terrorist groups. Nobody has yet noticed the irony of squeezing terrorism into this war-law paradigm. Because the Geneva Conventions and customary rights must apply to terrorist and law enfor­cer alike, if it is lawful to kill Osama Bin Laden, al-Zawahiri and Hamas commanders, then it must be lawful for them to kill their opposite numbers – Barack Obama and Binyamin Netan­yahu, generals, allies. (Even the Queen, as head of a co-belligerent state, may qualify.) Those who take the lives of innocent civilians in order to spread terror deserve to be treated like dangerous criminals and shot down when necessity requires, not dignified in law as if they were warriors matched in combat with great states.
What is the position under human rights law? It would obviously be a breach of the right to life if terrorist sympathisers were targeted to deter others, or killed in circumstances where it was possible to arrest them. It would be reasonable to kill terrorists on missions to blow up civilians, or engaged in conspiracies to kill them. But the record of drone attacks demonstrates that often individuals are targeted when they constitute no clear or present danger.

Drone killings in tribal areas of Pakistan and in Yemen have taken the lives of targets who are armed and in conspiratorial meetings, but others have merely been attending weddings or funerals or emerging from hospitals or mosques. In Pakistan, there have been cases where pro-government leaders, their families and even army soldiers have been killed by mistake in drone attacks that have severely damaged US relations with a politically tense, nuclear-armed nation that is not at war with the US.

There was little protest in the US until last year, when a drone strike in Yemen targeted a US citizen, Anwar al-Awlaki, rumoured to be al-Qaeda’s leader in that area. The rockets were fired at his pick-up truck, in which he might have been picked up rather than bombed. Obama’s lawyers said that the Fifth Amendment could not avail a US citizen who joined an enemy force. This is correct as far as it goes, but the Fifth Amendment must entitle a citizen or his family to know whether he is on a death list and to apply to have himself taken off it. When al-Awlaki’s father sought judicial review, the judge told him he did not have standing. If a father does not have standing to challenge a targeted killing, who does?

The Obama administration seems to have given the CIA carte blanche to choose targets, subject to the approval of Koh, a law professor, now an executioner. Those who press the Hellfire buttons in Nevada do not pause to consider whether their targets are engaged in combatant missions or not. But there is no point speculating about the criteria for listing or executing: these are secret CIA prerogatives, beyond the jurisdiction of the courts or the provisions of the Freedom of Information Act.

The battlefield utility of drone technology is such that it will be used widely in future conflicts, and by states much less scrupulous than the US and Israel (Syria and Iran, for example). Drones will become more compact, and more difficult to detect or shoot down – already there are plans for bird- and even insect-sized drones, capable of crawling inside homes or squatting on window ledges to listen and send “kill” messages to their bigger brethren without any “pilot” in Nevada pressing a button.

There is an urgent need for the US to make its drone operations more principled, first, by moving responsibility from the CIA to the department of defence, which is more accountable and bound by the Geneva Conventions. Second, there must be transparency in respect of both the target list and criteria for listing, and an opportunity for those listed to surrender or seek judicial review of whether the evidence against them proves they are an active combatant. Third, rules of engagement must exclude any killing if civilians are likely to be present, and finally, rules must prevent killing of a target who can be captured or arrested.

There is a sense that international law has failed: the UN Charter, the conventions and the norms of the courts have not provided satisfactory guidance for waging asymmetric warfare. Hence the silence of states and the recent earnest request, by the UN’s human rights commissioner, for urgent clarification of the law. The way forward may be to find a way back, to reasonable force and proportionality. At present, many drone killings can only be described as summary executions – the punishment of the Red Queen (“sentence first, trial later”), which denies the right to life, the presumption of innocence and the right to a fair trial.

Geoffrey Robertson QC’s full legal analysis of drone warfare is in his fourth edition of “Crimes Against Humanity” (Penguin, September 2012). Also in the New Statesman's Drones issue: Chris Woods on the legality of drones, Jemima Khan's interview with former Pakistani president Pervez Musharraf and Michael Brooks on the science that makes drones work

This article first appeared in the 18 June 2012 issue of the New Statesman, Drones: video game warfare

Grammar school in 1962. Getty
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What I learned about class after my twin brother and I were separated by the 11-plus

When my twin brother went into a secondary modern school, and I went to a grammar, something more than a private rift opened up: we were assigned to different social classes. 

The cultural schism exposed by Brexit in Britain and the election of Donald Trump in the United States has been a long time in the making. It goes deep, and for many it has been not only a bleak social ­phenomenon, but also a profound personal experience.

When my twin brother went into the C stream of a secondary modern school in the 1950s, and I passed the examination for Northampton Grammar School, something more than a private rift opened up: we were assigned to different social classes. Apprenticed to a carpenter at 15, he did national service, while I remained at school until I went up to Cambridge University. By this time, the breach had become irreparable. Our separate lives were emblematic of divisions in Britain which have only recently been officially acknowledged. My brother made a success of his life restoring historic buildings, but many others did not, consigned to failure at 11, or subsequently ejected from employment that they had imagined would last a lifetime – work scornfully dismissed now as “jobs for life”, as though heavy manual labour were an idle sinecure.

 

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Why do we recognise the true nature of the society we live in only when it is on the verge of dissolution? Perhaps its passing shows up its certainties for the brief, shadowy arrangements that they are. Yet while it remains, it is life itself, the only possible way for human beings to be. No society is exempt from the cycle of ascent, momentary stability and decay, and this is as true in Britain of the industrial era as it was of a declining agrarian society in the 18th century.

In An Essay on the Principle of Population (1798), Thomas Malthus, echoing the French physiocrats, declared that manufacturing would never increase the wealth of the nation because food production was its primary economic purpose. The industrial worker “will have added nothing to the gross produce of the land: he has consumed a portion of this gross product, and has left a bit of lace in return; and though he may sell this bit of lace for three times the quantity of provisions he has consumed whilst he was making it . . . he cannot be considered as having added by his labour to any essential part of the riches of the state”.

Rarely can such predictions have been so swiftly disconfirmed. Industry was already sweeping up people in its compulsions, as Oliver Goldsmith had lamented of a wasting rural life in his poem “The Deserted Village” (1770): “Far, far away, thy children leave the land.” Industry effaced the sensibility of country people and remade it in the image of the rigid discipline of manufacturing, mining and mill. A new kind of human being came into existence: the industrial worker, whose disposition, mutinous and refractory, was observed by the rich with suspicion, as they could not assess its potential for disaffection and tumult. Little was known of the “alien” mentality of the people; as little, perhaps, as that revealed to an astonished establishment by the unanticipated result of the EU referendum.

No wonder the working class became a central preoccupation of governments, reformers and politicians. There was controversy from the beginning over the “true” temper of the worker, then predominantly male, engaged in the making of things, useful and necessary to the prosperity of Britain. Did the workers want a fairer share of the wealth of the country? Did they seek to overthrow the established order? What was simmering in their mysterious, impenetrable communities of poverty?

Researchers ventured into darkest England – to places frequently likened to sites of imperial conquest – and returned with lurid tales of squalor and discontent; at the same time, trade unions and friendly and burial societies were growing, the co-operative movement evolved, and eventually a Labour party emerged which at last appeared to be a definitive expression of the psyche of the working class.

Strengthened as the 20th century dawned, but weakened by war and the Depression, Labour gained new vigour after the defeat of Nazism. With the coming of peace in 1945, both the spread of communism and the dissolution of the European empires made it timely, just and prudent for ruling elites to make concessions to the working class. Hence the marriage of unequals between capitalism and welfare, which at the time promised to be a permanent settlement.

What was regarded as the enduring sensibility of the industrial worker was doomed to follow its agricultural predecessor. It, too, became fully defined only when close to disintegration. When E P Thompson published his splendid Making of the English Working Class in 1963, signs of its decomposition were already detectable. Similarly, The Uses of Literacy, Richard Hoggart’s tender depiction of working-class culture (first published 60 years ago this year), was based on his experiences as a child in the 1920s and 1930s. The historians Eric Hobsbawm and Raymond Williams also framed what looked like a definitive version of the ­working class even as workers from the Caribbean and south Asia, recruited for a waning textile industry and transport and health systems, were transforming it.

Similarly, the consolation that the gritty north was the true source of Britain’s wealth, in contrast to a soft, self-indulgent south, left a long afterglow; it persisted long after the factories had collapsed in clouds of brick dust and splinters of glass and the south, with its financial services and advanced technologies, had become the principal generator of wealth.

 

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Social class was always inflected by individual circumstances. There were other elements involved in the separation from my twin. Our mother’s husband was diagnosed with tertiary syphilis in 1939; at the time, this was curable only by prolonged treatment with injections of arsenic and mercury. Our mother, who looked after the butcher’s shop that we lived above, realised that there would be no children in the marriage. A strong and resourceful woman, she met an engineer working on a construction site near the butcher’s shop she ran while her husband drove his lorry, carrying timber, bricks and glass all over the Midlands. He also carried more tender cargoes, with whom he spent nights in the back of the truck under a tarpaulin intended to protect merchandise from the rain. From one of these cargoes he contracted the disease, the sibilant syllables of which struck terror into those touched by it, much as HIV/Aids was to do half a century later.

Our mother became pregnant with my brother and me. Perhaps it was a fear that the two men in her life might gang up on her that impelled her to keep me and my brother apart, distributing roles that would ensure we never learned truly to know one another, even though we lived in the same house, with its frozen atmosphere, numb with secrets, for the first 18 years of our lives. My brother was practical and good-looking, docile and sweet-tempered; I was clever and fat, demanding and devious. Our schooling played a secondary role, but it did succeed in driving us further apart. Class was only one element in the hidden geometry of kinship.

 

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Even in the 1950s, when the effect of ­prosperity on the working class was discussed in The Affluent Society by John Kenneth Galbraith and The Status Seekers by Vance Packard, it was difficult to sustain belief in the existence of a homogeneous class. In 1959, after three consecutive Conservative electoral victories, even the Daily Mirror doubted whether a Labour party had a future.

Writing In Pursuit of the English in 1960, Doris Lessing described her “search” for the working class as “a platonic image, a grail, a quintessence, and by definition, unattainable”. Having been assured in her native Southern Africa that black workers were “not working class in the true sense”, she came to Britain, where, after encounters with the Communist Party (“not typical”), miners and dockworkers (“very specialised” labour) and workers in a new town (“tainted by capitalism”), she was advised that the true working class could be discovered only somewhere like South Africa, where “the black masses are not yet corrupted by industrialism”.

The erosion of identity of the working class, as it existed between the mid-19th century and the end of the Second World War, went largely unrecognised by its defenders and representatives. It was certainly apparent in Blackburn in 1969, when, for my book City Close-Up, I recorded a torrent of racism and prejudice in working-class areas: this was the outrage of people who had never been consulted on the social and economic mutation of their world. Barbara Castle, the energetic and radical MP for the town, suggested I play down race, because “in a few years it will burn itself out”.

 

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Class itself was already in flux as a result of the unprecedented affluence of the time, and class consciousness was dissolving in the mild acid of consumerism. The differences between my twin and me appeared to be influenced by culture rather than class, because he was economically more successful than I was. This faltering of a sense of class was perhaps a symptom of the triumph of market-based relationships over those that are socially determined; and perceptions of the world had shifted in accordance with this reality.

 

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Distance grew between the way people actually were and an embalmed version of the working class which continued to animate the left. In 1977, I published What Went Wrong?, subtitled Working People and the Ideals of the Labour Movement. In the US the subtitle was presciently amended to Why Hasn’t Having More Made People Happier? – in that advanced country, ideals and the labour movement had become unintelligible concepts.

I interviewed hundreds of elderly Labour activists who, looking at a world changed beyond recognition, spoke of their younger selves with the sad detachment with which people usually speak of the dead; their tone bore the melancholy regret of In memoriam notices.

It was clear four decades ago that the northern industrial towns were “wanting in purpose, looking for the meaning they once derived from their role in producing goods”. In the 1970s the feeling was that immigrants from Asia had somehow usurped the people’s way of life: they lived in houses lately vacated by millworkers; they had a strong sense of family and neighbourhood, as well as powerful cultural and religious traditions – all characteristics supposed to “belong” to Lancashire.

During the economic restructuring in the 1980s, I compared (in my book Unemployment) the experience of being out of work in those days with that of the 1930s, with its poignant tales of officials from the ­Unemployment Assistance Board, sitting in the balcony at the Rialto Cinema to see who was in the stalls when they should have been pounding the pavement looking for work; or Means Test men compelling families to sell an upright piano or a wedding ring before they could receive a penny of state charity. In the 1930s, no one doubted work would return; in the 1980s, industrial work was vanishing.

It seemed the working class in Britain had attained quietus after the miners’ strike in 1984. High unemployment was said to be “frictional” as we moved between epochs, a “creative imbalance” that would one day make us all richer and happier, though not quite yet. The working class was eliminated from the very history that, in some versions of prophecy, was to have ensured its ultimate triumph. Had the working classes died and gone to a heaven shaped in the image of expropriated socialist utopias? Had they been drowned in prosperity or assimilated into an expanding middle class? Whatever their fate, they were no longer of any account in the version of society disseminated by the media. This was reinforced by the collapse of the USSR, and there ceased to be any interest in what might be happening to them. Their sometime heroic role had been unceremoniously annulled.

In the absence of the working class, the rich were transformed: employers no longer exploiters of labour, but philanthropic providers of work. Those amassing fortunes became authors of the doctrines of wealth creationism. The working class, far from the gravedigger of capitalism, was merely a transient irritant. The class reached its zenith, faltered and fell back; and the ­liberatory power once attributed to it was appropriated by the warriors of wealth, who assumed the mantle of destiny of those they had displaced.

The working class was fragmented and dispersed, like the migrants who now constituted such a significant segment of it. New generations grew, not as citizens of this or that town, with its place in a national division of labour, but as dependants of a global market. If “globalisation” is to the 21st century what industrialisation was to the 19th, its significance lies in its disarming of people, no longer able to answer basic needs in the places where they live, but compelled to buy in what they need from countries whose names are only a vague echo of forgotten geography lessons. As the market colonises society, we become subjects of a curiously dematerialising topography: Theresa May could not have expressed it better when she said that “if you believe you’re a citizen of the world, you’re a citizen of nowhere” – although this was not her ­intended meaning.

As the (welfare) state shrank, the market dilated, invasive and predatory. Our lives are so penetrated by its “values” that these now appear in our most intimate relationships – we speak of emotional investment and interrogate our deepest attachments, asking what returns we will get; should we cut our losses; what are our best assets; are we in the market for a new relationship; shall we take a gamble; what is to be gained out of profitless attachments; will it pay dividends; what will it yield? Just as “human nature” serves as a cover for the nature of capitalism, so society provides an alibi for market-induced disorders – obesity and pathologies around eating, unquiet addictions to alcohol, drugs, gambling, celebrity, sex, food; all facilitated by what money, in its own right the most addictive substance known to humanity, can buy.

No wonder this age is characterised by nostalgia for coherence and purpose. It focuses on the recent manufacturing era, even if this was shadowed by grim institutions of factory, chapel, pub, workhouse, cinema and cemetery and the oppression of women and children – just as the Industrial Age directed its yearnings towards a past of sunlit field and flower-filled hedgerow, despite the omnipresence then of overseer, magistrate, bailiff and parish pay-table.

 

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Despite a sense of continuous change, the wounds of social class continued to influence even those to whom it no longer appeared as a force in their lives. My twin brother paid for his early membership of the working class with his death 12 years ago from mesothelioma: his early construction work had exposed him to the baleful effects of asbestos.

 

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The disorientation is profound: demolition of the old workplaces also suppressed the way of life and sensibility that accompanied them. Progressives, no less alarmed by these developments than the reactionaries, applauded them, turning to the growing diversity and pluralism of the labour force. They welcomed the shifting composition of the working population, in which women, ethnic minorities and LGBT people were moulded into a fragile coalition for social progress. That such an alliance contained factions and some incompatible objectives (say, respect for same-sex relationships, at odds with many Muslims and evangelical black churches) was not its greatest failing. This lay in the elevation of social equalities over economic equality, which continued to get worse, even for most of those in the groups favoured by progressives. Moreover, “mobility” was interpreted as a one-way street; few considered the downwardly mobile, many of whom proudly acknowledged their working-class roots. Poverty, too, was redefined: no longer concerned with unanswered need, it was now measured against unattainable wealth.

 

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Personal relationships – which for most people are now more powerful than any sense of social influence – also help to conceal patterns of class and what in 1993 Richard Sennett called its “hidden injuries”. Our mother revealed to my brother and me the secret of our paternity only when both men were dead. This also exposed unsuspected inherited features: my brother had acquired from our biological father his love of restoring buildings, while I had the questionable gift of his radicalism. He had been a member of the Communist Party in the 1930s.

 

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The fluid nature of class complicates the re-emergence of a working class in its new, emancipatory alliance with the super-wealthy – Trump and the funders of Brexit. Its sudden resurrection is attended not by the solidarities of belonging, but by those of a graveyard ideology of hatreds thought to have been conquered. This is a gift to demagogues and “strongmen”, as it enables them to perceive once more the “true” nature of a class whose heart still beats to rhythms of imperial nostalgia and aggressive nationalism.

Perhaps, following the precedents of agrarian and industrial cultures, the cult of the market is finally being acknowledged, just as it, too, is on the point of eclipse. Beneath the chaos of a culture where even truth has become a kind of consumer choice, new patterns of resistance are forming: commitment to a more just distribution of the goods of the Earth and respect for a planet ransacked by an omnivorous market; a rejection of robotics displacing humanity; a rediscovery of our capacity to do and make things freely for ourselves and each other.

But the savage regressions of our time may be not just a momentary disturbance, any more than agrarian and industrial society were. The cycle may have to play itself out, in who knows what ugly and distressing scenes, before the time for remorse comes round once more; then, appalled by our destructiveness, we shall repeat the constantly broken resolution: Never Again.

The great Spanish humanist Juan Luis Vives, whose influence helped shape the Elizabethan poor law, wrote, in On Assistance to the Poor (1526): “. . . the poor are cast out of the churches and wander over the land; they do not receive the sacraments and they hear no sermons. We do not know by what law they live, nor what [are] their practices and beliefs.” After five centuries of upheaval and driven change, and in a radically altered context, his words still have a haunting, prophetic relevance.

Jeremy Seabrook’s most recent book is “The Song of the Shirt”, published in India by Navayana and in the UK by Hurst

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Spring Double Issue

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