After Leveson, we must ensure the voices of victims are never drowned out again

No industry should be so unaccountable that it can ride rough shod over people’s lives.

With Leveson’s report on press intrusion about to be published, it’s no surprise that those whose methods and practices were called into question during the inquiry are voicing such large opposition to it. They’ve been vehemently arguing against the possibility of statutory legislation and braying about “press freedom”, but what is really is at stake is not freedom of speech: it’s about making the press accountable for their actions. Obviously, no media barons want restrictions on the unfettered power they currently have: no wonder they’re resisting it. The next few days are going to be a highly charged time indeed.

One might imagine that most of us have been finding this media circle jerk tedious and dull: watching the press discuss its own future is not the most interesting or captivating story. But people are interested what the outcome of Leveson’s report will be: this recent YouGov poll shows that 79 per cent are in favour of an independent press regulator established by law. Why do the British public care about this? It’s because they haven’t forgotten that the victims of press intrusion are just like them: regular members of the British public.

Even if the press focuses on the more high profile members of the campaigning group Hacked Off like Hugh Grant, Steve Coogan or Charlotte Church, the majority of the people who are part of the organisation are not celebrities: they are just people who have suffered abuse by the self-regulated hand of the press, and who are now bravely putting their heads above the parapet in order to effect change in the industry.

So when certain elements of the press voice scathing contempt for these people who have suffered trauma, tragedy and loss, sneeringly calling them, like Rupert Murdoch did, “scumbags”, what is being drowned out are real voices of real victims: normal people whose lives have been permanently damaged by being unwillingly dragged into the limelight. Let us not forget that.

My own experience of press intrusion (the Independent on Sunday libelled me; the Sunday Times published an exposé “outing” me as the anonymous author of a sex memoir), doesn't compare to the more serious victims of press abuse and hacking, like the Dowler family, or Chris Jefferies, or Margaret Aspinall, the mother of a Hillsborough victim, but through Hacked Off we’ve joined together in solidarity to ensure the voices of the victims are not silenced by media bullying. We also all agree that we need independent regulation of the industry to make it more accountable and ensure that future victims do not suffer as we have.

Clearly the self-regulatory PCC – which oversaw the phone hacking cases and did nothing about them – is ineffective and needs to be ditched. The Hunt-Black plan being banded about as an “independent” choice is nothing but a smokescreen: what lies behind it is a structure, not dissimilar to the ineffective PCC, which leaves editors and proprietors answerable to no one but themselves, and is not truly independent of the industry.

The response by the newspapers to possible statutory regulation is nonsense almost to the point of hysteria – myths about the end of press freedom combined with government control, political interference, and even likening it to dictatorial regimes are being screamed from all corners. But, as the journalist David Allen Green puts it, “statutory” should not be a bogey word and should be viewed with impartiality:

“Unless the Act of Parliament formally allows for such a role for politicians or departments, a “statutory” regulator can be just as independent (if not more so) as one based on contract or consent.”

People affected by press abuses have suffered enough. Not just their own personal tragedies and traumas, and losses, but then the ordeal of being violated by the media (and relived again in court, their only form of redress – this itself is now threatened by changes to Conditional Fee Agreements, which would make access to justice available to only the very rich). So when the press make emotive pleas about “freedom of speech”, that rings hollow, because no industry should be so unaccountable that it can ride rough shod over people’s lives.

The British public overwhelmingly want a strong press watchdog, backed by law; the victims of press abuse want an independent regulator of the industry that makes the press accountable and offers future victims protection and justice. Let’s hope that the recommendations in Leveson’s report are taken seriously, but – more importantly – are also acted upon.

Jenny Hicks and Margaret Aspinall, members of the Hillsborough Family Support Group. Photograph: Getty Images

Zoe Margolis is a journalist and writer, famed for writing the Girl With A One-Track Mind blog. You can find more information about her work, including on sexual health, at her website. She's on Twitter as @girlonetrack.

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism