Sally Bercow aptly demonstrates that media laws are designed for a different century

"Don't break this law which we can't tell you."

So Sally Bercow appears to have quit the Twitters for good. She already was on thin ice following the legal threats from Lord McAlpine, who was understandably miffed that she named him on Twitter during speculation following a Newsnight report; but she plummeted straight through it when she was accused of breaching a section 39 order, under the Children and Young Persons Act 1933, for naming a schoolgirl who allegedly ran away with her teacher.

A parenthetical, here: a lot of people, on Twitter and elsewhere, are angry that Bercow is in trouble for this, because they rightly point out that the girl had previously been named.

Section 39 orders are used to protect the identity of children who appear, or are likely to appear, in court as witnesses, victims or suspects. They are discretionary, and so can be placed by the courts when they think appropriate. Typically, this is as soon as a court case looks on the cards, which is why the vast majority of children involved in such cases are never named. Occasionally, however, it is in the child's interest to allow their name to be publicised; maybe to encourage witnesses to come forward, to appeal to the public for help, or to track down a missing person. When that need has passed, the section 39 order can be placed as normal.

But what is important is that this is done in the child's interest. Being a witness, victim, or suspect as a young person can be traumatising, and the system is set up to allow those people to not have their name forever linked with a bad period in their early lives. Yes, it is hard to make the internet forget anything, and the Streisand effect is probably, unfortunately, going to be invoked by people. But this isn't the state crushing free speech to protect the interests of the rich and powerful; it is the state attempting to protect a vulnerable child. So please, don't start spreading that child's identity around as a knee-jerk response to Bercow's troubles.

Parenthetical over. The problem raised by Bercow's reported breaching of the order is that, as mentioned, section 39 orders are discretionary. While, as a lay person with a good knowledge of media law, it's possible to guess that whether such an order has been placed by looking at whether a child's name suddenly disappears from the press, the only way to know for sure is to be a journalist at a newspaper which gets sent the orders.

This is, frankly, a system which isn't fit for purpose in an age when nearly everyone in the country regularly uses tools which are capable of breaching those orders. The same is true of other media blackouts, like injunctions: the press is told of them, but they apply to the public as well. It has rightly never been a defence that one didn't know the law they were breaking – but when it isn't even possible to know the law you are breaking, you can perhaps feel slightly annoyed if you then accidentally get in trouble.

It's hard to know what would be better, of course. Publishing a list of the identities which can't be published is clearly counterproductive; yet we don't want to abandon the system altogether. It may be that the best option really is that mooted by Keir Starmer: an agreement that twitterers with few followers won't be prosecuted. That still leaves those who have ended up with thousands of followers facing the full wrath of the law – or, like Bercow, quitting until they take a course in media law – but it would at least minimise harm done to the vast majority of people using social networks.

In one final twist to the tale, just before Bercow's account was deleted, she appears to have been hacked. This tweet was posted late last night:

So it may not be the case that Bercow herself even deleted her account. We'll see.

As this piece involves multiple ongoing and potential court cases, comments are disabled.

Sally Bercow's former twitter page.

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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Why Russia holds the key to resolving the North Korea crisis

China is propping up North Korea’s economy, but it seems to get little influence in return.

For more than half a century, China has seen North Korea as a dangerous irritant as much as an asset. It might be useful for keeping the United States off guard, and regarded as an essential buffer by the military establishment, but China would happily ditch it if there were a better option.

The North Korean regime has tended to be characterised as uniquely irrational and unpredictable. From its perspective, however, its behaviour makes eminent sense: in fact, its argument for developing a nuclear capability closely echoes the rationale of the great powers. It has no declared intent to launch a first strike, but as long as others have nuclear weapons, North Korea reasons they serve a deterrent function. The regime also argues, as others have, that there are associated benefits with civil nuclear power.  

The long history of North Korea’s nuclear programme follows a recognisable path, previously trodden by Israel, India and Pakistan. It goes from the ambition, formed in the mind of North Korea’s founding dictator, Kim Il-sung, through the long years of a clandestine programme, to the gradual revelation of a reasonably mature, if relatively small, nuclear capability. Signalling is also an element in deterrence. The regime is certainly unpleasant and destabilising, but it is a mistake to imagine that there is no clear purpose and no plan.

The dynasty began life as a Soviet puppet, sandwiched between a powerful USSR and a weak China. But from the start, Kim Il-sung’s muscular nationalism and concern for regime survival suggested that he was unlikely to be a docile dependent of either. His attempt to unify the peninsula by force in 1950 led to a bloody war in which Mao Zedong was obliged to come to his rescue. In the course of that war, “fire and fury” did indeed rain down on North Korea: the US dropped as much ordnance on North Korea as it had during the whole of the Second World War Pacific theatre, including the carpet bombing of Japan. To this day, any building site in Pyongyang is likely to turn up some unexploded ordnance. North Korea was born in a rain of fire, which it has incorporated into its national story.

The regime succeeded in maintaining relations with both its patrons through the dramas and tensions of the Sino-Soviet split to the end of the Cold War. But as Kim Il-sung contemplated the future survival of his regime, he concluded that a nuclear programme was essential insurance, both against his major enemies (the US and South Korea) and any territorial ambitions or excessive demands from China or Russia.

China was and remains North Korea’s major ally, but that does not make North Korea obedient. Their bilateral history is a story of growing defiance and increasing alienation: Kim Il-sung ignored Mao Zedong’s attempt to dissuade him from naming his eldest son, Kim Jong-il, as his successor. He had visited Beijing once a year and had promised that his son would follow suit, but Kim Jong-il only visited Deng Xiaoping’s China once, in 1983. His next visit came three years after Deng’s death, a death for which Kim had offered no formal condolences, as even the most minimal protocol required. 

On that visit, Kim heard the unwelcome news that China, already closer to the United States than he would have wished, was to open relations with his bitter rival, South Korea. When the third dynastic leader, the young Kim Jong-un, took power in 2011, relations with China slid further. Tellingly, Kim Jong-un has not visited Beijing at all, nor has China’s leader, President Xi Jinping, visited Pyongyang, although he has held four summit meetings with South Korea.

Kim Jong-un has made his defiance publicly evident. Not only has he chosen to test his missiles and weapons, but he has selected such highly sensitive moments as last year’s G20 summit in Hangzhou to do so.

China is propping up North Korea’s economy, but it seems to get little influence in return, and the value of the relationship has long been openly questioned by China’s foreign policy analysts. China has had little success in encouraging the regime to loosen controls on the economy and make limited market reforms.

 In the current crisis, China has consistently urged restraint, while co-operating with the tightening of UN sanctions. Beijing’s attitude, however, remains ambivalent: it doubts that sanctions will be effective, and is highly sensitive to US suggestions that Chinese companies that breach sanctions would be subject to punitive measures.  For China, the dangers of bringing North Korea to the edge of collapse are greater than the difficulties of seeking another solution.

Today, North Korea’s relations with Russia are warmer than those with Beijing and if President Trump is serious in his search for someone to solve his North Korea problem for him, he could do worse than to call his friend Mr Putin. No doubt there would be a price, but perhaps Trump would have less difficulty in appeasing Russia than in making concessions to Kim Jong-un. 

In July this year, China and Russia put forward a proposal that both sides should make concessions. North Korea would suspend its nuclear and its missile testing in return for a suspension of South Korea’s annual military exercises with the United States. Buried in the joint statement was the assertion that third parties should not negatively affect the interests of other countries.

Both China and Russia aim to reduce US influence in Asia, an ambition greatly aided to date by Trump’s withdrawal from the Trans-Pacific Partnership trade agreement, conceived as a vehicle of US influence; his treatment of long-standing US allies; and his decision to withdraw the US from the Paris agreement on climate change.

Today the US seems poised between demanding that China solve the North Korea problem and beginning a trade war with Beijing. China’s challenge on the Korean peninsula, always difficult, has grown even greater.

Isabel Hilton is the CEO of the China Dialogue Trust

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear