LaPSe of Reason

Blogging from the School of Law, Politics and Sociology at the University of Sussex

Tackling sexual harassment and violence in universities: seven lessons from the UK

[This post is by Alison Phipps (Professor of Gender Studies in the Department of Sociology at Sussex), and refects on fifteen years of work on sexual harassment and sexual violence in UK universities in order to distil seven lessons for scholars, activists and organisers. Originally published at Genders, Bodies, Politics. Edited/updated and republished with permission.]

This is the text of an online keynote I gave, hosted by the Universidad Autónoma de Baja California and the Freie Universität Berlin, on February 5th 2021. It was the last in a series of sessions on sexual harassment and violence in universities; when I was invited to speak, I was honoured but also concerned about what I could offer as a UK-based academic whose work on sexual violence has been focused on universities in my home country. My work started in 2006 with a pilot study at my own institution, and since then I have been involved in a number of research and intervention projects, collectives and campaigns. I thought it would be useful if I tried to distil what I have learned over the past fifteen years for fellow scholars, activists and organisers in other contexts and countries. So here are seven lessons from the UK: I hope some of them will resonate and perhaps help others avoid the mistakes I have made. In fifteen years my work has been characterised more by failure than success: but along the way I have at least learned to fail better.

My first lesson is: name the problem.

Sara Ahmed has written: ‘When we put a name to a problem, we are doing something.’ This doing, in her words, is ‘gathering up what otherwise remain scattered experiences into a tangible thing.’ This gathering up, this making tangible, can allow the thing to be addressed. As James Baldwin famously said: ‘Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.’ It was the UK student movement that made us face the issue of sexual harassment and violence in our universities: in the early 2010s, some amazing young feminists persistently named and worked to address it. I want to acknowledge, amongst others, Kelley Temple, Susuana Amoah and Hareem Ghani, who were all Women’s Officers of the National Union of Students (NUS).

The first national study of sexual harassment and violence against students was published by NUS in 2010. Called Hidden Marks, this was a survey of over two thousand self-identified women students across all four UK nations. One in seven had experienced a serious physical or sexual assault; 68 per cent had been sexually harassed. I worked with NUS on the research, and shortly after the report’s release they commissioned me, with Isabel Young, to research ‘lad culture’ in universities and how that framed sexual harassment and violence.

Isabel and I recruited forty women studying in England and Scotland, for focus groups and interviews. Our participants were very clear on what ‘lad culture’ was: a group dynamic enacted by young men in team sports and on the social scene, characterised by misogynist and homophobic ‘banter’. This ‘banter’ often involved rape jokes and sexual harassment and had the potential to escalate into more extreme forms of sexual violence. Our report, entitled That’s What She Said, theorised ‘lad culture’ as a conducive context for sexual violence. It was launched on International Women’s Day 2013.

That’s What She Said entered a climate in which women were ready to snap. For Ahmed, ‘feminist snap’ occurs when our experiences of negotiating worlds that demean and exclude us become overwhelming. The report prompted an outpouring – in feminist groups, students’ unions, classrooms, faculty offices and on social media – from women who had had enough. And as Ahmed says, moments of ‘snap’ can be catalysts for change. In the movement that emerged around ‘lad culture’ we raised awareness, created training, and developed partnerships with local support services. We used the media to ‘name and shame’ perpetrators and the institutions that enabled them. We lobbied university leaders for a better response. By 2015, this had prompted the formation of a task force by Universities UK (the body that represents UK university leaders) on violence against women, harassment and hate crime.

The taskforce report, released a year later, recommended that all institutions adopt centralised reporting procedures, develop effective disclosure responses, and run training programmes. Afterwards, the Higher Education Funding Council for England made £4.7 million pounds available for projects addressing sexual harassment and hate crime on campus, which supported institutional initiatives across the country. There was also further data-gathering: in 2018, NUS and the 1752 group (the UK’s first lobby group on staff-student sexual misconduct) conducted a study with almost two thousand current and former students, and found that 40 per cent had experienced at least one instance of sexualised behaviour from university staff.

In 2019, three years after the taskforce report, Universities UK circulated the results of a progress review of 95 institutions across all four UK nations. It found that 87 per cent had a working group on sexual harassment, violence and/or hate crime and 76 per cent had secured senior leadership buy-in. 81 per cent had delivered training, and 78 per cent had developed or improved reporting mechanisms. Crucially, it found there had been an increase in reported incidents and ‘a profound change in the initiatives and ideas that are now available for sharing across the sector’. It concluded that ‘over time, this will help facilitate cultural change at both institutional and sector level’.

The activist movement against ‘lad culture’ and sexual violence in UK universities had succeeded in naming the problem and getting institutions to face it. Yet despite this huge achievement, I was circumspect. Institutional actions had mainly consisted of policy compliance and getting rid of ‘bad apples’ using disciplinary procedures. The movement, despite the input of a number of women of colour, was dominated by fellow white women who seemed happy to accept or even encourage this approach. But sexual harassment and violence are not a disease infecting particular ‘bad apples’ – they sit deep within the tangle of roots that nourishes the whole rotten tree.

This leads me to my second lesson: don’t individualise the issue.

Sexual violence is about systems. To understand it we have to think big: I theorise it as a pivot for heteropatriarchy, racial capitalism and its colonial extensions. It works at the level of the nation, the state, the community and the household; it allows for the extraction of socially reproductive and hyper-exploited productive labour; it facilitates the expropriation of land and resources. It enters the world via four vectors – threats, acts, allegations, and punishment – and these must be considered together if we are to understand why sexual violence occurs and how to stop it.

Acts and threats of sexual violence impose bourgeois binary gender and facilitate the free and low-cost social reproduction capitalism depends on. They keep women in our place and enable men’s domestic power over us. They punish people who do not conform to dominant gender and sexual norms. They support historical and ongoing colonial systems in which economic and caring labour is extracted from Black and other racialised communities for little or no reward. Rape has been used to terrorise and subjugate colonised, displaced and dispossessed populations in war, occupation, settlement, enslavement and theft (including their neo-colonial forms).

Allegations and punishment of sexual violence have achieved the same ends. Black and other racialised and colonised men have been brutalised and killed following accusations made by white women. Sexual violence is used as a political device to construct populations, cultures and nations as dangerous, to justify border regimes and military-industrial projects. The spectre of sexual danger can be deployed to demonise and deport migrants, and to funnel racialised and classed populations into the criminal punishment system. It can also be brandished to construct queer and trans people as a threat.

Sexual violence in the university performs all these functions, at a smaller scale. Sexual harassment and assault are used to demean and dominate, to make students and staff (usually women) unwelcome, to keep us under control, and to express and maintain supremacy. In UK student communities, there is evidence that ‘lad culture’ and its attendant sexual violence is the preserve of middle- and upper-class white men who see successful young women as a threat. Sexual harassment of students by staff usually involves senior male academics (the majority of whom are white) expressing their entitlement and abusing their power. As well as women, gender-nonconforming students are at high risk of violence, and being marginalised by race, class and/or disability creates additional vulnerabilities.

Acts and threats of sexual violence reserve and shape the space of the university for privileged white men (and some white women, too). They articulate and preserve the power relations of the institution and the wider world. And in universities, as in the wider world, certain groups are constructed as more sexually violent than others. There is anecdotal evidence that queer academics, especially those who are also Black, are more likely to be accused of sexual misconduct. A recent report described how anti-radicalisation agendas in UK higher education construct Muslim men as particularly misogynistic. The institution is not neutral when it comes to addressing sexual violence.

My third lesson is: know the institution.

As with sexual violence, when considering the institution, it is necessary to think big. I draw on abolitionist university studies, which understands education as key to the capitalist, colonial, modern world-making project. Eli Meyerhoff theorises education as a mode of primitive accumulation, which creates the preconditions for racial capitalism through hoarding the means of study and using them to credentialise us for stratified economic roles. It inculcates us into ways of knowing and learning that reflect capitalist norms and practices: separate public and private spheres, the rational and consuming individual, and colonial dichotomies between culture and nature, modernity and tradition, value and waste. We become ‘competent’ in the knowledges of the state and status quo, and other forms of world-making are cast as deprived and less evolved.

Higher education has shaped nationalism, patriotism, citizenship, democracy and ‘civilisation’. Anthropology, economics, demography, sociology, psychology and criminology have rationalised exclusion and exploitation. UK universities are deeply embedded in state capitalist violence, including post-9/11 counter-terrorism regimes through which academics become border guards. They are also places where student protest is violently repressed. As economic actors themselves, universities are central to flows of dispossession and accumulation. They have been built upon indigenous and/or enclosed common lands and enriched by transatlantic slavery. They are now entrenched in the neoliberal rationalities and practices of privatisation, outsourcing, downsizing and precarity, and are subject to, and have, complex financial interests (including in the military-industrial complex).

During COVID-19 in England, the moral bankruptcy of our higher education system was starkly exposed. Our increasingly privatised universities lured students to campuses with promises of ‘Covid-safe’ teaching, to collect fees and rents. Students were blamed and punished as the virus inevitably spread, then told they could not return home and trapped in infection hotspots by fences and cops. There was horror and condemnation of university leaders as this situation progressed. People who perhaps did not know before, realised exactly what the institution is. But this institution is what white feminists have looked to, to protect us from sexual violence. How can the institution protect us from violence, when the institution is violence? The university cannot not save us – it is what Audre Lorde would call the master’s house.

So, my fourth lesson is: put down the master’s tools.

Activists against sexual violence in UK universities have mostly made gains in policy. In response to our lobbying, institutions have made written commitments, amended discipline processes, revised reporting procedures and commissioned training. We have worked hard for these successes and have done well to achieve them. But policy machinery constructs the institution as benign and able to be worked on, concealing the violence built into its very existence. Contemporary UK policy work also tends to be undertaken within neoliberal systems of measurement, monitoring and audit that generate surplus value for the university. This creates an emphasis on maintaining the appearance of a functional institution, not worrying about the reality.

This is what Ahmed terms ‘institutional polishing’ – initiatives ostensibly about equality, that are actually about little more than generating a marketable image. These initiatives are what she calls ‘non-performative’ – they do not produce the effects they name but substitute for them instead. A non-performative is seen as doing something, when in fact it allows institutions not to do anything else. A report produced in response to an issue, which is then used to declare that the issue has been addressed. A policy which is created and publicised, but ultimately not followed because just having the policy is what counts. In the UK, it has become important for institutions to look like they are doing something about sexual harassment and violence. But looking like and doing are not necessarily the same thing – in fact, sometimes the first allows us to escape the second. Policy is very often one of the master’s tools.

Institutional polishing can also turn into institutional airbrushing when problems emerge. ‘Naming and shaming’ perpetrators has been another key strategy of the mainstream movement against sexual violence, and it is powerful because it threatens to mar the institution’s polished image. But the key word here is ‘image’ – the impact of the disclosure on the surplus value of the institution is more troubling than the disclosure itself. Communities often close ranks around sexual violence perpetrators. But in universities (which present themselves as communities but are actually corporations), the financial impact of disclosure must also be projected and totted up. For something to be marketable it must be unblemished, so the problem is airbrushed out.

What I call institutional airbrushing takes two main forms: concealment and erasure. Either issues are minimised, denied or hidden and survivors encouraged to settle matters quietly, or when this is not possible, the perpetrator is ‘airbrushed’ from the institution and it is made to appear as if they were never there. Confidentiality or non-disclosure agreements are often used, or financial settlements given to perpetrators to convince them to resign. Institutional airbrushing stabilises the system; it communicates and embeds the idea that all the institution needs to do is to remove the ‘bad’ individual. After the blemish is airbrushed out, the malaise that produced it remains. And after the blemish is airbrushed out, it has a tendency to reappear elsewhere. ‘Bad apples’ can always re-attach themselves to a different rotten tree. This is called ‘pass the harasser’ and it is a significant problem in UK higher education.

I am not saying that people who perpetrate sexual violence have a right to keep their jobs. I also know that not excluding a perpetrator from an institution can be a de facto exclusion of survivors. But I am concerned that, like capitalism itself, institutional airbrushing moves problems around rather than addressing them. I am also concerned that ultimately, we may outsource our perpetrators to women in lower-status, lower-paid economic sectors. Although ‘naming and shaming’ can be a form of direct action when other avenues are closed, it more often triggers institutional airbrushing than genuine institutional change. Institutional airbrushing is one of the master’s tools: it does not prioritise the personal interests of survivors but the financial interests of the institution. And when done in the corporate media, ‘naming and shaming’ can also be co-opted in the service of the bottom line.

This brings me to my fifth lesson: don’t mistake outrage for justice.

In the corporate media, trauma is big business. The phrases ‘disaster porn’ and ‘tragedy porn’ have been coined to describe our fascination with the troubles of others, which creates a market for the consumption of pain: photographs of drowned migrants on European beaches, stories of sexual assault in Hollywood, and videos of Black people being brutalised and killed by police. This material, usually fed to us online via ‘clickbait’, gives a quick fix of sympathy and outrage but does not often lead to systemic analysis or radical political action. Instead, it objectifies its subjects to make media outlets money. In the corporate media, holding governments, institutions and individuals to account comes a poor second behind manipulating outrage to generate revenue. This is what I call the ‘outrage economy’ of the contemporary Western media.

Sexual violence stories are capital in this economy, exemplified by the viral iteration of #MeToo. Although it was started by Black feminist Tarana Burke as a survivor-led movement of mutual support, #MeToo went viral following a tweet by white actor Alyssa Milano, as a moment of mass media disclosure. It was described as a ‘flood’ of stories of sexual assault by CNN, CBS and CBC, and a ‘tsunami’ on CNBC, in the Times of India, the New York Times and the US National Post.

A key limitation of this mainstream iteration of #MeToo is that media markets, like all markets, are profoundly nihilistic. Clicks, likes and shares are a multi-denominational currency. As long as they accumulate, as long as media companies can make advertising revenue and harvest our data, it does not matter why. In other words, the media using sexual violence as clickbait does not imply support for feminist goals. The media using sexual violence as clickbait does not mean survivors will not themselves be vilified if this happens to be the juicer story.

In my fifteen years in the field, I have become deeply uncomfortable with the key strategies of mainstream sexual violence activism. When institutions let us down, we often ‘invest’ our trauma in networked media markets, to generate outrage and the visibility we need to further our cause. But cynical media corporations exploit this outrage, building visibility for their brands by encouraging audiences to consume our pain. Meanwhile the threat of damage to the brands of exposed institutions and organisations leads to an airbrushing of ‘bad men’ from high-profile sectors. These individuals usually move on to start all over again, while oppressive systems are left intact.

When individual men are ‘named and shamed’ in the media, when institutional policies and initiatives focus on punishing or excluding these ‘bad apples’, there is almost no effect on the whole rotten tree. Indeed, we often end up nourishing its roots – when mainstream feminist activism relies on the patriarchal, racist, capitalist institution for punishment, we use the master’s tools to try to dismantle the master’s house. Like the carceral feminism that calls on the punitive state to put perpetrators away, activism against sexual violence in universities fails to dismantle the intersecting systems that produce sexual violence and strengthens them instead.

Because of this, my sixth lesson is: stop calling the manager.

The punitive tendencies of the mainstream movement against sexual violence are a key part of what I call its political whiteness. Political whiteness involves, among other things, a clear conceptual distinction between victims and perpetrators, an understanding of the state as benign, and a belief that punishment works. White and middle-class feminists have called for more police, more convictions and longer sentences – and when something goes wrong in our workplaces, we ask the manager to sort it out. And when we turn to authority, we legitimate and bolster that authority. In our efforts to address personal abuses of power, we turn to the institutional power that facilitates them. In thinking we can be safe in our institutions by punishing the ‘bad’ men, we conceal the fact that the institution itself is unsafe.

Our demands for discipline can also increase the institution’s power and ability to perpetrate violence. Policies that make it easier to dismiss harassers might chip away at everyone’s employment rights, especially in a post-pandemic context where universities are looking to make substantial cuts. Technologies such as codes of conduct or ‘morality clauses’ in employment contracts, or a ‘sex offenders’ register’ for higher education (which has been suggested by some activists), could be misused to target groups seen as ‘deviant’ or a sexual threat. Such forms of institutional governance are also ultimately designed to protect the university from liability, not to protect us. Law firm Pinsent Masons, which represents UK university administrations as they defend themselves against discrimination claims and has given them advice on breaking strikes, has written the guidance for universities on how to handle alleged claims of sexual misconduct.

There is also a difference between punishment and accountability. Punishment is a passive and impersonal process – the person who has been harmed hands over their power and is kept in the dark (although nevertheless it requires a huge amount of courage and work). Accountability, in contrast, is both personal and active. For Mia Mingus, accountability requires four steps from someone who has caused harm: self-reflection, apology, repair, and changed behaviour. It centres the person who has been harmed, their understanding of why the behaviour was harmful and their definition of what constitutes repair. It makes space for that repair, acknowledging that none of us is above causing harm and we may all need that space someday. It is the job of the perpetrator and not the survivor, and requires significant community input and support.

Accountability, as described by Mingus, would be difficult to achieve in higher education institutions which are corporations rather than communities, in which we are hierarchically organised, individualised, distrustful and overworked. None of this is conducive to honest communication and collective action. True accountability would require a collectivist, not a capitalist, institution – and this is probably an oxymoron. That does not mean, though, that while supporting survivors as best we can within the options currently available, we cannot also try to move in a better direction. In the longer term, we cannot keep calling the manager and relying on the system to do the work of accountability for us, when it is what needs to be dismantled.

This sets up my seventh and final lesson: be in it for the long haul. 

After fifteen years in the field, I heed Lorde’s advice that refusing to use the master’s tools may only be difficult for those who ‘still define the master’s house as their only source of support’. This is an invitation to stop relying on the master to deal with our collective problems, and to join the work of building a different house. A house where we tackle things together means a house founded on care – not the privatised care of the market and heteronormative family, not the bare minimum provided by the institution and state, but more capacious and collective ways of surviving and thriving. Instead of strengthening the status quo, mainstream feminist organising against sexual violence needs to become part of the broader project of making anew. We must think big and act small. What world do we ultimately want to live in? What are some baby steps towards it that we could realistically take?

I am referring here to the abolitionist distinction between reformist and non-reformist reforms. Non-reformist reforms move us towards the world we want, not further away. They shrink, rather than grow, the state and institution’s capacity for violence. To start with, in universities, this could mean creating small, self-organised groups of staff and students who imagine new ways of relating and solving problems together. It could mean using these prototypes to develop policy suggestions and initiatives which create structures of accountability rather than shoring up the institution’s power. It would mean making demands for institutional resources: money most importantly, and the time and space to do this important work. This would be a radical challenge to the current model of the university and to current mainstream feminist activism.

It would also be hard work, and might be bound to fail given what the university is. But all we need to do is move in the right direction. I take hope from recent mass strikes in UK higher education, which showed that neoliberalism has not stolen all our solidarity and community away. I also take hope from the many forms of grassroots care that have proliferated during the Covid-19 pandemic. I believe that we will not know what we can create until we free ourselves from how the institution stifles our imaginations and start doing what Tina Campt calls ‘living the future now’. People marginalised by race, class and disability, queer and trans people, have long been supporting survivors and working towards transformative justice outside the institution and outside the state. There are many amazing examples to emulate. This is work that will not be completed in any of our lifetimes, and it is not always easy to know whether we are dismantling power or helping to preserve it. This means we must be in it for the very long haul.


I hope at least some of these lessons are helpful – if so, I have created an infographic that you might want to download as a reminder (it can be used as a wallpaper or screensaver, or printed out if you prefer – click the image below to open full size, in order to save).

I wish I knew how

This post is by Neemah Ahamed (Doctoral Researcher at Sussex Law School). Following on from her previous post ‘What do they call me?’, here the meaning of justice for women of colour who’ve experienced gendered violence is explored in conversation with analysis of Nina Simone’s performances of two songs.

Nina Simone in 1964 (Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

Nina Simone’s rendition of the song, ‘Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood’, is a yearning for justice and respect against deliberate misunderstanding, including of herself. It is a haunting melody and its lyrics, which invoke a sense of vulnerability resonate because they speak to that part of us which wants to be understood. It may remind some of us dealing with the shadows of trauma of gendered abuse that more than anything else we want justice and what it means in the context of our lived experiences to be heard. For women of colour who’ve experienced gendered violence, they are often afraid of speaking out about what justice means to them. Cultural and family values may influence them into believing that they may be partially to blame for acts of abuse committed against them. Religious leaders sometimes prevent women from speaking out by coercing them into believing that it is morally wrong to do so based on scriptures and religious teachings. In this way women are imprisoned in a ‘cage of male domination’. The lyrics remind us to acknowledge their experiences and remember, they are ‘human’, and it is important to ask what justice means to them.  

The problem with the meaning of justice is that it has been defined on behalf of, not by, the individuals that seek it. Only a few studies have been carried out about what justice means to victim-survivors of colour. According to McGlynn and Westmarland, women want acknowledgement that they have been harmed and victimised. McGlynn and Westmarland propose a multifaceted way of thinking of justice, that is, through a kaleidoscope. This is because it is enables justice to be seen as a ‘continually shifting pattern, constantly refracted through new circumstances and understandings’. They argue justice is pluralistic, a lived, on-going, evolving process rather than an end result. Through this lens, justice can be seen as consequences, recognition, dignity, prevention and connectiveness. It embodies Simone’s lyrics of being respected as a ‘human’ and to be understood for who you are and what you have lived through. Gangoli et al is the first study that focuses specifically on women of colour’s notion of justice and, for them, there are three types of justice. Firstly, justice can be obtained through the legal system through which perpetrators must suffer meaningful consequences for their actions. Aside from the fact that this includes punishment and imprisonment, there is little evidence of what more victim-survivors conceptualise should be done. Secondly, victim-survivors see justice as something that takes place when their communities recognise their suffering by acknowledging the harm inflicted by their perpetrators. They feel isolated because they are ashamed to share their experiences with their family and unable to express what justice means to them. They want empathy; they want their truth to be heard. They want their communities and families to play a role in reforming gender roles and inequalities because, to them, these contribute to gender based violence. Thirdly, justice is conceptualised in terms of human rights and freedoms.

Simone’s powerful melancholic rendition of ‘I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free’ speaks to identity and individualism and the yearning to ‘break’ free from ‘chains’ that hold us. Listened to in this context, it has resonances of the longing for personal freedom for victim-survivors who have been subjected to coercive control by their families. In Joel Gold’s film Nina, Simone attempts to answer a question posed by an interviewer about what freedom means to her. Part of her response was ‘no fear’. Aside from language barriers and insecure immigration status, Gangoli et al further argue victim-survivors are unable to access justice or explain what justice means to them because they are threatened with domestic abuse and violence. Fear holds them back. In the words of Audre Lorde, we must recognise that ‘where the words of women are crying to be heard, we must each of us recognise our responsibility to seek those words out, to read them and examine them in their pertinence to our lives.’

Your Teachers are Researchers: Changing Research Culture

This post reflects upon the event ‘Your Teachers are Researchers’, held as part of Sussex Law School’s Research Seminar Series on 26 November 2020.  It is written by Verona Ní Drisceoil (co-organiser and chair) and Bal Sokhi-Bulley (co-organiser and panellist) with input from the panel of staff (Neemah Ahamed, Matt Evans, Sabrina Gilani and Lucy Welsh) and from the student voices (Henry Bonsor, Jasmine Bundhoo, Ayo Idowu-Bello and Tyrone Logue) who participated in and facilitated the event.

Introduction

There was bhangra and then there was jazz. There were staff and there were students. And then there was a space of collaboration and ‘collaborators’. On 26 November in an otherwise usual Week 9 of term, students and faculty of Sussex Law School (SLS) came together in a shared, non-hierarchical space to reflect, relate and disrupt. The result was a powerful, moving and liberatory one. In that shared space, collectively, and in friendship, we had succeeded in doing research relationally – building relationships with, rather than just being in the same room as, our students. We created a ‘liberatory space’ (Jivraj, 2020) wherein we were able to be otherwise.

‘Your Teachers are Researchers’ grew out of a desire for connectedness in these times of pandemic; to breach the staff/student binary and grow a research culture that shared a space with the students with whom we do ‘research-led teaching’. In this respect, the event drew inspiration from Fung’s vision of a ‘connected curriculum’ (Fung 2017), from Freire on dialogue (1970) and bell hooks (1994) calling for the teaching and learning experience to be different; one that can be shared and transgressed, together. This vision strongly echoes Jivraj’s (2020) call to engage in ‘self-liberatory’ processes, that can only be achieved through a focus on relationality – between staff and their students – allowing us all to ‘belong’ to, and in, the academy.

A False Binary

In that space, we discovered that the staff/student binary is a false one; we had instead become ‘collaborators’. The event was deliberately organised to remove the normative hierarchy of faculty/student. Students, as opposed to their teachers, led and facilitated the session. Faculty were decentred. Final year students Henry and Jasmine began with powerful reflections on what research-led teaching means to them. Eloquently, they shared how the Law and Critique module convened by Bal and Sabrina had offered a space to be ‘intellectually creative and sensitive’ (Jasmine) and distilled our shared roles as activists, writers and thinkers, as, ultimately, to ‘make the word a better place’ (Henry). They spoke too of how the module had helped them to grow in confidence – to find voice and expression – and equipped them with the ‘tools’ to go out and ‘flourish’.  Ayo and Tyrone (Year 1) followed by introducing the panel of faculty speakers: Bal, Sabrina, Neemah, Matt and Lucy. Their introductions were thoughtful and generous; their questions, powerful and insightful. They set the bar high!

Faculty then spoke to their experience of teaching their research and to something they were currently or had recently been working on. Over the course of the evening, we were able to share that doing research is slow, requires resilience and is personal to us. Bal spoke to how she felt compelled to write about the intersections between pandemic, race and class over the summer when the Leicester Lockdown happened. Her reference to the labelling of BAME communities as ‘dirt’ was picked up by Sabrina, who questioned what it means to be ‘human’ in the context of criminal law and punishment, focusing on how we express and recognise humanity through material engagement. We then heard about the intersectional experience of women of colour from Neemah, who played us Nina Simone’s ‘Four Women’. We were reminded of the wider, problematic space that we inhabit as individuals within higher education by Matt, who interrogated the space of the neoliberal university. And we heard about what it means, in the context of a wider neoliberal Britain, to make claims to access justice from Lucy, and how as staff and students of law we can and ought to question exactly what ‘justice’ means.

The presentations were punctuated with a flurry of questions – ranging from Alex (LLM Human Rights) asking Bal about whether Trump should do ‘friendship’ with China to remedy the blame culture he began; to Ayo asking Neemah about colourism and the different experience of lighter and darker skinned black women; to Tyrone asking Lucy about the nexus between the economy and access to justice. There were also questions about the potential impact our research has. For instance, Vanessa (LLM) asked Lucy about the process, as an academic and researcher, of impacting change in the criminal justice system.

Reflecting on the event immediately afterwards brought up feelings of pride, warmth and a sense of freedom (from the usual hierarchies and the ‘right way’ to treat our students). Verona commented on how the event made her heart feel full – in that space, she said, ‘something special happened’. Bal said she was ‘blown away by the student participation. Henry, Jasmine, Ayo and Tyrone were exceptional – eloquent, engaged and I felt both proud of them and reaffirmed in our roles as educators/researchers’. ‘It was fantastic to take part in such a well-attended event and to have the chance to actually have a conversation with students, guided by them, about research, teaching, learning, their overlaps and the environments in which they take place,’ said Matt. Lucy expressed that, ‘it was invigorating/uplifting to create a place for discussion together and see how superficially disparate interests can be brought together in a shared space of friendship and creativity’. 

Building on the theme of friendship and connectedness, Henry commented,

for me, the most meaningful aspect of the event was created by the relationality between both teachers and students. Previously, I felt like research was something that teachers performed in their own time and only shared with their peers. 

Similarly, Ayo spoke of how this event was so much more than an event about researchers talking about their research. She said that

this event gave me a sense of community and togetherness which is something that I had not felt since moving to Sussex due to the exceptional circumstances of a pandemic… This event created a space where there was no hierarchy, there were no tutors and students because for those few hours, we were all students who were there to listen, learn and critique one another.

For Tyrone, ‘the event made space for direct engagement with tutors’ allowing, he said, ‘for a valuable discourse which is often all too elusive in the conventional classroom’. Finally, Jo Bridgeman, Law, Politics and Sociology ‘research guru’, tweeted ‘this was fabulous… the staff and student contributions were outstanding.’

Building Community Through Research: Changing Culture

Pointing to the potential for collaborative opportunities, Sabrina has since found research synergies with several students in attendance (including Daniel and Amanda from Year 1) and commented on how the event is likely to shape future projects between teachers with (not just ‘and’) students. ‘Your Teachers are Researchers’ transgressed the teaching-research divide in a unique and holistic way; it created a space of shared mutual respect where everyone’s voice was heard (hence, ‘student voices’), and everyone’s presence acknowledged. Without dialogue, there is no communication, and without communication there can be no true education (Freire, 1970). In a similar vein, hooks reminds us that ‘it is not sufficient to create an exciting learning process. To generate excitement, is to ensure interest in one another and in hearing one another’s voices’ (hooks, 1994: 8).

Over the past three decades or so, forces both at a national and global level have tended to silence disparate voices and pull research and teaching apart (Barnett in Fung 2017). Siloed performance indicators such as TEF (Teaching Excellence Framework), REF (Research Excellence Framework) and KEF (Knowledge Exchange Framework) remind us that so much of our lives are about measurement and thus control; this event was freeing in allowing us to relate in a creative non-regulatory way. Against the background of measurement, Fung calls for a different approach: a truly symbiotic relationship between teaching and research. This, she suggests, begins with explicitly inviting students, at all levels, to connect with researchers and the research environment (Fung, 2017). Involving students in shared spaces of dialogue and critical engagement is an integral part of the learning journey. The benefit of this shared dialogue, of course, is not unilateral. The symbiosis provides a dual benefit in the form of opportunity for authentic co-creation. In this space, students become partners, co-researchers and co-producers as opposed to passive consumers (see further Carmichael et al, 2020). There is, perhaps then, a move towards joint ownership and joint decision-making where students inspire research.

SLS, like many law schools, is following the trend of trying to ‘decolonise’ its curriculum. We echo Jivraj in recognising that this process of decolonisation will only happen through ‘doing’ relationality together in recognition of belonging. It was not our intention to ‘decolonise’ here – but this is the point. As Adebisi (2020) reminds us, ‘[d]ecolonisation is also a reflective practice in which we as academics much constantly adapt our own pedagogies and question our own practices’. That is what we were doing – reflecting on our practices and attempting a counter-pedagogy that resists the hierarchies of knowledge transfer and we did so also through an active recognition of the need to include voices from BAME students and staff (on the problematic construction of ‘BAME’, see further Adebisi 2019). Counter-pedagogy, performed in such organic and holistic spaces, provides possibility for a true reimagining of the core purpose of universities and that is a hopeful thing.

Conclusion

The presentations began with some bhangra, which Bal described as not simply gratuitous! But, rather, a manifestation of both ‘sonic intimacy’ (James, 2020) and resistance (given the roots of UK bhangra and its growth alongside race riots). These vibes remain with us – we created an intimate space and a space that resisted the normative boundaries of the staff/student relation. We hope to continue to challenge this binary and to grow the research culture at SLS with our students as we continue to do our research, teaching and encounters with each other otherwise

References and Further Reading

Adebisi, Foluke. 2019. The only accurate part of ‘BAME’ is the ‘and’… African Skies, 8 July. https://folukeafrica.com/the-only-acceptable-part-of-bame-is-the-and/

Adebisi, Foluke. 2020. The Law Teacher Special Issue on Decolonising the Law School. African Skies, 2 December. https://folukeafrica.com/the-law-teacher-special-issue-on-decolonising-the-law-school/

Barnett, Ronald. (2017) ‘Foreword: Energising an Institution’ in Fung, Dilly. A Connected Curriculum for Higher Education. London, UCL Press.

Carmichael P, Tracy F. 2020. ‘Networks of Knowledge, Students as Producers, and Politicised Inquiry’, in Dohn, NB, Jandrić, P, Ryberg, T, de Laat, M (eds.). Mobility, Data and Learner Agency in Networked Learning. Cham, Springer.

Freire, Paolo. 2000. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New York, Continuum (revised edition).

Fung, Dilly. 2017. A Connected Curriculum for Higher Education. London, UCL Press.

hooks, bell. 1994. Teaching to Transgress: Education and the Freedom of Practice. New York, Routledge.

James, Malcolm. 2020. Sonic Intimacy. London, Bloomsbury.

Jivraj, Suhraiya. 2020. Decolonizing the Academy – Between a Rock and a Hard Place. Interventions, 22(4): 552-573. 

Staff Panel/Papers

Neemah Ahamed, ‘What Do They Call Me? On the Poetry and Lyrics of Audre Lorde and Nina Simone’ 

Matt Evans, ‘The neoliberal university and resistance in the current crisis’

Sabrina Gilani, ‘Material Rights and Embodied Cruelty: Encountering the Constitutionality of Capital Punishment’

Bal Sokhi-Bulley, ‘From Exotic to “Dirty”: How the Pandemic has Re-colonised Leicester’

Lucy Welsh, ‘Accessing justice in criminal courts. Is it all about legal aid?’

Authors

Verona Ní Drisceoil is a Senior Lecturer in Law (Education and Scholarship) at SLS. Verona is currently working on two projects. One, with Imogen Moore (Bristol), exploring ‘confidence, community and voice’ in law school transitions and another exploring inclusion, exclusion and hierarchies in law schools. This second project asks, ‘who is not in the room and why not?’.

Bal Sokhi-Bulley is a Senior Lecturer in Law and Critical Theory at SLS. She writes and teaches on critical approaches to rights, and is currently working on using the concept of ‘friendship’ to re-imagine rights in the hostile environment; this work features in her courses on Law and Critique, Human Rights: Critical Perspectives, and Migration Rights and Governance.

What Do They Call Me?

Photo of Ms Neemah Ahamed
This post critically compares Audre Lorde’s poetry to Nina Simone’s lyrics to ‘Four Women’ in order to underline the urgent need for the tales of black women to be heard and for intersectional oppression experienced in relation to race, gender, socioeconomic status and identity to be addressed. It is written by
Neemah Ahamed, a Doctoral Researcher at Sussex Law School currently investigating how the #MeToo Movement has influenced the ways in which black women who have been sexually harassed in the workplace seek access to justice in England and Wales.

 

I am not free while any woman is unfreeAudre Lorde

 

Audre Lorde, born in 1934, was a black writer, feminist and civil rights activist whose writings advocated what is now called intersectionality, a word coined by black feminist, Kimberle Crenshaw in the 1980s to recognise that social identities are multiple, and oppressions overlap. Lorde’s wordsbecause I am woman, because I am black, because I am a lesbian, because I am myself – a Black woman warrior poet…’ highlight this intersectionality and the different features that shape us as women. Lorde’s words can be contrasted with Nina Simone’s lyrics to ‘Four Women’, where the key message lies between the lines, and what remains unsaid about the women is a powerful portrayal of how much more women are, and their struggle to define themselves. Simone, just one year older than Lorde, was as a jazz singer-pianist celebrated as the ‘priestess of soul’ and famously known for ‘Ain’t Got No, I Got Life’ from the 1968 musical, Hair. She used her gospel, blues and jazz to express her views about black feminism, love, self-reflection and intersectionality. Her lyrics vocalised the mistreatment and pain of her people and this was felt through her performances. Simone demonstrated that an artist’s duty was to ‘reflect the times’, and both she and Lorde achieved this. Their words underline the urgent need for the stories of black women to be heard and for the oppression experienced in relation to race, gender, socio-economic status and identity to be addressed.

 

Simone’s song, ‘Four Women’ not only articulated the history of black women in America during the civil rights movement but was also a potent emission of pent up breath, expressing the repressed and mounting anger which is currently being unleashed in the protests taking place in the US. As Professor Akwugo Emejulu writes in The Conversation, the protests are a gathering of ‘the ghosts of our past, present and future’ and what is being witnessed is an exhalation of fire. ‘Four Women’ was a form of civil rights protest and a feminist anthem. While Lorde wrote for ‘women who do not speak, for those who do not have a voice because they were so terrified’, Simone sang for the unheard wrath of women over their economic and sexual oppression.

 

The song is divided into four verses and compresses two centuries of black history. Each verse describes a black woman archetype of her period, telling the story of the women’s suffering and by naming them, humanising them. The first, Aunt Sarah, who has ‘black’ skin and ‘woolly’ hair and is ‘strong enough to take the pain inflicted again and again’, represents the loyal and resilient servant working in a white household. The second, Saffronia, has ‘yellow skin’ and is the daughter of a ‘rich and white’ man who ‘forces (her) mother late one night’, symbolising the history of rampant rape by white men of black women. The third, Sweet Thing, has skin the colour of ‘tan’ and ‘hips that invite’, and portrays the image of a sexually arousing jezebel which can be traced to slavery in the Southern states. This exploitation was further advanced by European colonisers who saw these women ‘not only as easy sexuality but laziness, bestiality, savagery and violence. The fourth woman, Peaches, whose parents were slaves, has ‘brown skin’ and would ‘kill the first mother (she) sees. Her fearlessness and rage represent the ‘sassy black woman’ who it seems, is the most similar to Simone herself.

 

The bold lyrics highlighted the struggles faced by women who had no control over their bodies, sexuality or fate, not because they were black or women but as Crenshaw suggests, because they were ‘black women’. Simone’s song conveys how black women were defined in conflicting terms. Aunt Sarah is the robust mammy. Saffronia’s ‘long hair’ differentiates her from Aunt Sarah, and she belongs to ‘two different worlds’ because of her white father. Sweet Thing’s ‘mouth like wine’ suggests her supposed promiscuity. And Peaches shocks with her ‘unremorseful honesty’.

 

The lyrics resonated with black women at the time, reflecting what they thought about themselves and in particular, as Simone points out, ‘their complexions, their hair and what other women thought of them. For Simone the purpose of the song was to emphasise that ‘black women didn’t know what the hell they wanted, because they were defined by things they didn’t control and until they had the confidence to define themselves, they’d be a mess forever’. Her words can be compared with those of Lorde who said that she had to ‘define myself for myself’, and for this reason Simone’s lyrics reverberated through the lives of black women as an exhortation to assert their entitlement to power.

 

When the song was released in 1966, it was wrongly interpreted by some black audiences as offensive to women and radio stations banned DJs from playing it. The song exposed a truth that many people including black men weren’t ready to accept at the time. The ban caused more outrage than the song had generated, and was eventually lifted. However, the controversy around the song did not stop Simone from performing it to other audiences, following the spirit of Lorde’s words, ‘I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood’. The poetry and music of these two 20th Century artists remains as relevant today as ever and reminds us of the on-going struggles of black women as reflected in the Black Lives Matter Movement.

What do we do?

[This post is by Alison Phipps (Professor of Gender Studies at the University of Sussex) and discusses her most recent book, Me, Not You: the trouble with mainstream feminism. Republished with permission from Genders, Bodies, Politics]

‘What do we do?’ is the question I’m most frequently asked by readers of Me, Not You, and this question has become louder and more urgent in the past two weeks. Massive protests in the US and elsewhere against the police murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Tony McDade and countless others have brought the idea of abolition into the mainstream, and many white feminists are newly interested in fighting sexual violence without criminal punishment.

I am also at the beginning of a (life)long journey towards what Angela Davis calls ‘abolition feminism’, and the final chapter of my book shares what Davis and other Black feminists have taught me so far. For instance, there’s a thought experiment imagining a world without sexual violence (which would, of course, be a world without police and prisons), and some practical suggestions on how we could use that as our guide. This would be via what abolitionists call ‘non-reformist reforms’ – interventions that get us closer to, instead of further away from, our ultimate goal. I give examples of what these might look (and not look) like. The chapter also offers a ‘toolkit’ of questions white feminists can ask ourselves, to evolve our political action away from some of the problems identified in my book.

But despite this, the ‘what do we do?’ question persists – which suggests that perhaps readers are looking for more. What is this ‘more’, and why do some people want it? I’m not sure I would give it, even if I could. My book was intended to help readers understand the dynamics of mainstream feminism, not to offer a panacea (because one does not exist). It is not a set of instructions – I am not in charge of feminism, and as a middle-aged white academic I am definitely not interested in taking up that mantle. Bourgeois white women like me dominate mainstream feminism, but I am also struck by the fact that ‘what do we do?’ is most often asked by fellow privileged white feminists. I have several thoughts about why.

Whiteness and (the) social order

As I explore in my book, political whiteness both seeks authority and defers to it. The white will to power I write about can be satisfied by proxy, demanding an authoritarian response. We see this in white feminist calls for more police and longer sentences; we have also seen it during Covid-19, as while some white people have protested lockdown measures, others have informed on their neighbours for failing to observe them. Whiteness creates deep desires for both individual liberty and social control, and the impulse to call the manager or police to enforce the rules we need to feel safe sits beside our own need to be told what to do. The material and symbolic benefits we derive from the existing order also make it difficult and threatening to imagine anything different. As a result, we can get defensive: and demanding solutions are given to us can be a way of shutting down discussion of things we cannot face. It is what the CEO does when his staff bring him problems he does not want to have to fix.

The demand for pre-made panaceas also shows how neoliberal capitalist mentalities have permeated white feminist consciousness. We want instant gratification, something off the shelf. This is dangerous on many levels: grabbing at immediate answers can stop us from wrestling with important questions, and quick and easy actions are often ineffective. As I write in Me Not You, performative outrage, and calls to get rid of ‘bad apples’ from institutions or communities, are usually just forms of pressure release that enable oppressive systems and dynamics to continue. So is white self-analysis, if this is where we get stuck: Alison Whittaker and Lauren Michelle Jackson are among those who examine how white anti-racism more often constitutes navel-gazing, hand-wringing, and attempts to ‘renounce privilege’ and assuage guilt rather than work towards structural change. This is a re-centring of the self, not a genuine engagement with the Other.

As I say in my book, white feminists can – and should – take our lead from Black feminists and other marginalised people who are less attached to the way things are, whose imaginations are not so bounded and who model what Tina Campt calls ‘living the future now’. Black feminists have long tried to tell us that the view from where they are is much clearer than we can comprehend. Patricia Hill Collins famously called Black women ‘outsiders within’; bell hooks has written about her own experience of ‘looking from the outside in and the inside out’. I love Gail Lewis’ description of how, from the margins, it is possible to see across an entire field of vision – whereas from the centre one has to keep turning around and about. This is why many groups located on the margins are already working to formulate the answers white feminists want handed to us on a plate.

But we cannot expect more marginalised feminists to just hand us these solutions: political programmes have to be collective and developed through dialogue. We all need to do this work – and echoing Mariame Kaba, I think perhaps not enough of us are currently doing our small part. I join Kaba in her request that we all ‘work together to think through something different’, adding that white feminists should listen more than we talk, and acknowledging that thinking through something different is a long, hard slog. It is a lot easier to identify problems than to develop ways to tackle them (and I say this to myself as much as to anyone else). As I write in Me, Not You, ridding the world of sexual violence is not going to happen in my lifetime, or yours. But we can all do our own small part to move towards it, not further away.

Doing my small part

For the past fifteen years my main activist focus has been tackling sexual violence in universities. This work has included collaborating with Susuana Amoah and others at the National Union of Students, engaging individual institutions across Europe in research and training, and forming the Changing University Cultures (CHUCL) collective with Liz McDonnell and Jess Taylor. CHUCL aims to help universities reshape their structures and cultures so equality policies can be more meaningful, and so they can deal more effectively, and less punitively, with problems such as bullying, harassment and violence. We have not got very far yet, but we are in it for the long haul.

As we move forward with CHUCL, I am trying to keep an abolition mindset. This means refusing to become what Audre Lorde called the ‘master’s tools’ (in other words, being used to preserve oppressive systems even while we claim to dismantle them). This can happen in various ways. For instance, CHUCL research on structural and cultural problems in universities has been used as evidence they have already been solved (what Sara Ahmed terms ‘non-performativity’). Universities have reacted defensively and demanded we provide instant solutions, thereby absolving themselves of responsibility. They have defaulted to individualised forms of diversity training which are presented as ‘taking action’ but do not address, and instead conceal, the deeper issues we have pointed out. Key questions for us are: how do we help universities take responsibility for and tackle their own troubles? How do we build institutional capacity to deal with unacceptable and violent behaviour? And the big one: how do we push for real structural and cultural change?

We are taking our lead from survivor-led community accountability and transformative justice approaches that have worked in other contexts, but many institutions are a long way from having the capacity to implement these. Complete success would require a collectivist, rather than a capitalist, university. Of course, we are not going to get one soon – but we are thinking hard about ways to work towards it (and whether we even should, especially given universities’ complicity in racial capitalism, neoliberalism, colonialism and slavery and its afterlives). We have a lot of failure ahead of us before we can even imagine something that looks like success. But we are doing our small part.

We all have to do our part, if we want to change the world. So if something has struck you in my book – whether it has inspired you or made you feel uncomfortable – I am delighted, but you must consider if and how you want to act. If you do decide to act, make sure you start small. Reflect on, and work to undo, how your own actions perpetuate systems of oppression (and that includes saviour modes of ‘helping’). Use your privilege and/or your money to do one thing for the benefit of more marginalised people every day (and thanks to Mariame Kaba for this principle, which has been a touchstone in my more chaotic moments during Covid-19). When there is a crisis, step up. Through these actions, educate yourself on issues, think about the better world you want to build, and learn about – and from – those who may already be building it.

Building feminist futures

When your imagination is liberated from what is, when you are better able to visualise what could be, think backwards to something you could realistically work towards yourself sustainably and longer-term. You might be able to find a group of like-minded feminists organising towards the same thing, who you could support with your time and money. If you can’t find one, create one. Your action could be as simple as setting up a neighbourhood collection for your local food bank (it is difficult to eradicate violence while basic needs are not being met). Or you might decide to get involved in action against prison expansion or to free incarcerated survivors. You might even work towards implementing a transformative justice programme in your community, organisation or institution. As you take action, you could use my toolkit regularly to check in with yourself. And although there should not be gatekeepers, seek out visionaries to guide you.

I cite many of these visionaries in Me, Not You – you can look to Angela Davis, Audre Lorde, Mariame Kaba, Ruth Wilson Gilmore and lots of others besides. Our feminist tomorrow is also being envisioned by the young Black feminists and others currently on the streets protesting police murders and demanding abolition. It is being envisioned by the young activists and authors producing resources for the fight. For instance, Lola Olufemi’s new book Feminism, Interrupted offers a manifesto for a different, and truly radical, feminism. Beyond Survival, edited by Ejeris Dixon and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, sets out practical strategies for tackling sexual violence without criminal punishment. Molly Smith and Juno Mac’s Revolting Prostitutes is a compelling argument for decriminalising sex work, one legislative advance that would eradicate a huge amount of violence and that we could all be campaigning for. These dynamic young feminists are not going to give you instructions either, but they do provide rich food for thought – and the future of feminism lies with them.

As we move towards this feminist future, there will be no easy answers. The problems with mainstream feminism have been well and truly exposed (and by many others both now and before me), but we are still figuring out how to solve them. And although white bourgeois feminists may need to get our own houses in order first, when we are ready, we will need ongoing conversations between feminists of all positionalities: younger and older, differently classed and raced, trans and cis, differently abled, sex-working and not, lesbian, bisexual, queer, straight, and more. These discussions would be led from the margins but everyone would have a voice; there would be space to question, learn and grow; and most importantly, talk would lead to action rather than being an end in itself. I am deeply invested in doing my part to facilitate this this journey, and will probably be asking some tough questions of fellow white feminists (and myself) along the way. And I will pose one back to you now: what do you want to do?

This blog was originally posted on the Manchester University Press website – if you buy the book from MUP and enter the code OTH583 at checkout, it is currently 50% off (which is £6.50 plus P&P). 

Hating the coronavirus is pointless. But no good will come from turning anxieties and anger against Chinese people

[Republished with permission from the International Network for Hate Studies blog]

By Mark Walters, Professor of Criminal Law and Criminology, University of Sussex, and co-Director of the International Network for Hate Studies

Just over two months ago Mandy Huang was shouted at by a man who told her to “Take your f****** coronavirus back home!” Her friend who tried to intervene bore the brunt of the offender’s rage when she was punched in the head and knocked unconscious. Since then, hate incidents targeted against Asian people, and those who are perceived to be Chinese, have proliferated globally. Violent incidents have been officially recorded in mainland Europe, UK, USA, CanadaAustraliaJapan and Thailand (amongst others). Despite the current resource pressures that the pandemic has brought, incidents of this type have not escaped the attention of the UK authorities. The Crown Prosecution Service for England and Wales has already prosecuted numerous corona-related offences with one offender from Dudley receiving an additional four weeks on his initial 12 week sentence for demonstrating racial hostility that included reference to the coronavirus during the commission of his offence. Chris Long, Chief Crown Prosecutor and CPS national lead on hate crime, said that there have been cases of “hate crime directed at communities based on incorrect assumptions and conspiracy theories”. These have been in addition to the “attacks and racial abuse targeted at our emergency and essential workers who stand at the front line of this pandemic and are working hard to keep us all safe and well.” He added that “be in no doubt, we will not hesitate to prosecute those who seek to attack, abuse or defraud people.”

The incidents that have come to the attention of the CPS are likely to represent just a handful of the thousands of offences involving corona-related hate abuse that have occurred over the past few months. Social media is replete with examples of individuals being verbally and physically abused for looking Asian. In many cases the word “corona” has been turned into an expression of hate itself, with perpetrators simply shouting it at people as a form of abuse. Other individuals are being made to feel uncomfortable as people make visible efforts to physically avoid sharing space with them, making tutting sounds, and glaring or displaying disapproving looks.  Racist behaviour of this type not only affects those who are targeted but can have damaging psychological and behavioural impacts on entire communities of people who fear they too could become the targets of such hostilities.

The upsurge in anti-Chinese prejudice, while extremely troubling, is sadly unsurprising.  Billions of people are feeling highly anxious and fearful that Covid-19 will kill them or their loved ones. Frightened people are likely to act unpredictably.  Yet while many people have turned to stockpiling toilet paper, tins of tomatoes and, as personally witnessed yesterday, attaching a four-metre paddle to one’s waist to ensure social distancing, a minority of others have chosen to express their internal agitations in more violent form.  It is nothing new that in times of a perceived physical threat, increased numbers of people lash out violently towards those that they believe as being, at least symbolically, to blame. This is frequently observed in the aftermath of what criminologists refer to as “trigger events”, such as where the number of anti-Muslim hate crimes spiked directly after events such as the murder of Lee Rigby, the Manchester Arena Bombing, and most recently the Christchurch mass shooting in New Zealand. We have observed too how hate crimes increased after the EU referendum with hostilities directed towards immigrants and BAME groups surging for a more sustained period of time.

The emergence of the novel coronavirus has for many served as an almighty trigger event that has sparked hostilities towards those perceived to be responsible. Research has shown that where individuals perceive a group of people to pose a physical threat to their safety (often referred to as “realistic threats” by social psychologists) this will frequently result in biased behaviours towards members of these groups. In some cases, individuals can react violently as their internal anxieties and fears trigger an aggressive response that aims to suppress the perceived threat. There is certainly no paucity of examples of such incidents in the initial first few months of the outbreak.  The virus has been reimagined as a threat posed, not by a biological pathogen, but by specific racial groups. Like almost all targets of hate, its victims need a face.

Racial animosities have been worsened still by anti-Chinese political rhetoric. We know that when leading politicians make disparaging or biased comments against certain groups that incidents of hate increase. For instance, researchers have shown that when Donald Trump sends anti-Muslim tweets, hate incidents against Muslim people increase directly afterwards. It is likely that Trump’s theatrical press briefings where he has persistently referred to Covid-19 as the “Chinese Virus” will directly translate into anti-Chinese hate crimes. The leader of the free world has strengthened the narrative that the virus has an ethnic face.

Situational contexts are also important to understanding the surge in hate incidents connected to the pandemic. In places where there are more available victims, higher numbers of incidents will be recorded. Given the virus is more likely to spread in confined environments it is unsurprising that initially there were high levels of abuse occurring in enclosed public spaces including on public transport.  However, as the lockdown has been brought into force rail and Tube users have decreased by over 96%, and with this there will be a decrease in the number of hate incidents occurring each day.  Situational theory is important in explaining crime levels more generally. Although social situations do not necessarily explain why people commit crime, they can have a significant effect on the amount, and location of, criminal activity. For example, burglaries have significantly fallen since the lockdown. The historically low levels of burglaries are most certainly not a result of people no longer wanting or “needing” to commit theft. Rather, there are fewer opportunities to successfully commit such crimes while people are indoors. Like most crimes, however, individuals will find new avenues to act out. Consequently, while anti-Chinese abuse and other forms of hate crime may reduce in public spaces (for the time being), online incidents are likely to continue to rise. Zoom bombing, where someone hacks into another’s online meetings, has already resulted in people beaming hateful content into the homes of unsuspecting participants, including one case where a virtual Synagogue service was quickly inundated with antisemitic slurs and symbols.

Conversely, other physical hate-based crimes will flourish while we all spend more time at home. Levels of domestic violence are likely to skyrocket as the tensions of being at home all day exacerbate the underlying causes of these offences. Although people of all identities can experience domestic violence, women, disabled people and young LGBT people are disproportionately affected. Enforced confinement in private spaces where disablist, misogynistic and homophobic attitudes go unchallenged will cultivate toxic micro-environments where violence will likely proliferate.

Given the high levels of domestic abuse experienced each year this is of grave concern. Crime Survey for England and Wales statistics estimate that last year alone 1.6 million women over the age of 16 were the victims of domestic abuse. In the same year 99 female victims were killed in a domestic homicide. Since the lockdown the domestic violence charity Refuge has reported a 49% increase in calls to its helpline. The Home Secretary has responded by announcing a £2 million fund to assist charities working to support victims, and the UK House of Commons Home Affairs Committee has set out a report on steps needed to mitigate the problem.  It remains to be seen whether this will be enough to protect victims. Indeed the charity Counting Dead Women has already calculated that there were at least sixteen domestic abuse killings of women and children between 23 March and 12 April. With the lockdown continuing for the foreseeable future it is likely that many more women will die at the hands of their partners this year.

As knowledge of the virus begins to mature and more and more countries enter into national crises, the nature and dynamics of incidents of hate and hostility will likely evolve in tandem with a changing narrative that accompanies developments in the pandemic.  From the focus of the “Chinese virus” has emerged a commonly stated strapline that the disease is “indiscriminate”, affecting people of all ages and ethnicities (though UK data suggest that minority ethnic groups are being disproportionately affected by the disease, potentially as a result of structural racism). Political and media attention has also been refocused on death rates, trials for new vaccines, a lack of PPE, ramping up testing facilities, and the need to “stay at home”. This second stage of the pandemic has called for new powers and measures of social control to be enforced in order to reduce the rate at which the virus is spreading. While of crucial importance to “flattening the curve”, this has given some governments the chance to roll back human rights protection in the name of public protection of health. Sweeping new powers have been brought in by governments across the world giving them unfettered powers to surveil citizens and greater authority to police the boundaries of acceptable behaviour and identity.  Last month Viktor Orban’s government in Hungary granted the prime minister the power to rule by decree for an unlimited period of time. His new powers include suspending the enforcement of certain laws, not only those related to the crisis. One day after the new law was passed the Hungarian government submitted a bill to parliament that will make it impossible for transgender people to legally change their gender. The old adage of “never let a good crisis go to waste” is a pertinent reminder that critics and human rights observers cannot take their eye off the ball during these frenetic times.

Even seemingly benevolent measures to protect the public can have discriminatory outcomes. Take for example measures by South American countries that only allow women and men out of their homes at different times. This has resulted in some transgender people being stopped and questioned by police, such as in Panama where one trans woman was fined for leaving the house on a day designated for women only.  Other social distancing measures will undoubtedly disproportionately affect individuals from other marginalised groups, such as sex workers who won’t be furloughing anytime soon.

In the coming months of the pandemic, recriminations about the causes of the virus will no doubt be vociferously made as other issues that have captured media attention begin to wane. From the initial anxieties and fears of catching the virus will emerge feelings of anger and rage about its devastating impacts. There are likely to be two salient avenues through which hate and hostility will evolve at this stage. The first, which has already begun, is the propagation by some state representatives and religious leaders of malicious antisemitic conspiracies that Israel is responsible for developing and spreading Covid-19 virus in order to decrease the non-Jewish population and to control the world. Indeed, UN Special Rapporteur on freedom of religion or belief, Ahmed Shaheed has recently stated “I am extremely concerned to see that certain religious leaders and politicians continue to exploit the challenging times during this pandemic to spread hatred against Jews and other minorities.” No doubt these pernicious lies will continue and strengthen over time.

The second and perhaps more mainstream narrative that is likely to form is that “China” is to blame for the devastating global social and economic ills caused by the virus. In racialising the cause of the pandemic, its saviour will likely be equally racialised, with the US and UK institutions racing to find a cure. The cultural chasm between West and East will be entrenched further as US and European governments reel from the impacts of the pandemic and as each seek to control the narrative of who is fixing it.  President Donald Trump has already suggested that China will need to pay compensation to the USA. The Chinese government will no doubt fight back by spreading misinformation about the origin of the virus and by threatening economic retaliation for those who dare to criticise the State’s own actions. A fine balancing act is required here, where recriminations about the factors that may or may not have led to the initial spread of the disease, including the use of live-animal markets, unethical treatment of animals, and secretive governments that withhold or manipulate important public information, need to be fully investigated. However tough this process might be, it must be conducted without the additional mantra of “Chinese viruses” and “Chinese people” as being to blame for the spread of the virus. The actions of governments are not the actions of people. The heroic efforts of doctors and scientists in China must be at the forefront of our learning from this pandemic. Many of them have already died trying to save others.  Each of them deserves our thanks. There will be many state actors, on the other hand, that will deserve our ire.  Governments often act badly and they rightly deserve our anger. Let us resist the temptation to tar an entire nation of people with their misdeeds.

In the aftermath of this global crisis there lies a dangerous risk that the community fissures exposed by the pandemic will leave lasting social scars. Policing of hate crimes will be crucial to combatting any upsurge in public hostility. Paul Giannasi, the hate crime advisor to the UK police said “we know that fear and hostility are never far apart. Those who stir up ideological hatred have seen it as an opportunity to peddle their existing bigotries, through misinformation and bizarre conspiracy theories. We are working closely with communities to encourage victims to come forward and bring offenders to justice.” Beyond the thin blue line, much more needs to be done to prevent hate incidents from compounding the broader socio-economic effects of the pandemic. Political leaders must now start working with social scientists and community groups to develop strategies to enhance social cohesion and to find ways to repair the social disadvantages that entire communities of people have endured for too long. Indeed, the social justice of the future is not just about creating a fairer economic system that adequately recompenses essential workers, it involves recognising and readjusting structural inequalities that expose specific groups of people to hate and hostility in the first place.

Principles into Practice: Protecting Offensive Beliefs in the Workplace – by Amir Paz-Fuchs

[Republished with permission from the UK Labour Law blog]

 

Over the past two decades, there has been a growing interest in the impact of human rights discourse on the employment relationship and employment rights. In particular, in light of the increased opportunity, or risk, of the public exposure of an individual’s life outside of work, more attention has been drawn to the implications of employees’ private life to their place of employment.

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Image by xuanklpt from Pixabay

For progressives, the interest in preserving and protecting one’s right to privacy happily overlapped, for many years, with the substantive actions that the demand for privacy protected. In other words, progressives were determined to stand by the claimants and, where relevant, criticise courts that did not do so, not only in the name of privacy, but also because we/they asserted that the claimants in question did nothing wrong to begin with. Thus, in Pay v Lancashire Probation Service, a probation officer was dismissed because of his involvement in a business venture that was connected to sado-masochistic activities. In X v Y, a gay man was cautioned and placed on the Sex Offenders Register after a policeman arrested him for engaging in sex with another man in a public toilet. In Saunders v Scottish National Camps, the employee’s homosexuality was deemed sufficient grounds for dismissal. In Crisp v Apple Retail UK Limited [2011] ET/1500258/11 an employee was dismissed after he posted a critical appraisal of the new iPhone. And in Mathewson v RB Wilson Dental Laboratory [1989] IRLR 512 EAT the employee was dismissed after being caught in possession of cannabis. In all those cases, the employers’ decisions were upheld by the courts, and these decisions were criticised for neglecting to respecting an employee’s right to privacy, which should be constructed in a way that would ‘protect individuals from employer domination’.

In all these cases, it would seem that the liberal, progressive intuition recoils not only from the conclusion that homosexuality and the private use of cannabis can be grounds for dismissal, but even that they should be the subject of severe moral condemnation.

I thought of these cases recently, following the aftermath of the football match between Manchester United and Manchester City, in which City fans were caught on camera racially abusing United players. The Football Association investigated, and a man was quickly arrested for racially aggravated public order. So far, so reasonable. But the story took a peculiar turn, at least for me, when it was reported that the individual was identified as working for a construction company – Kier Company – which was quick to suspend him, citing the company’s ‘zero-tolerance policy towards any racist and discriminatory behaviour’.

It is here where I became slightly uncomfortable. And perhaps it is worth saying that my discomfort is, in no way, meant to minimise the, quite frankly, terrible times we are currently facing in this country. I could not agree more with the charge that the way politicians, including the Prime Minister, address the issue of migration, fuels this hateful vitriol.

But, those politics notwithstanding, the pertinent question is: should such behaviour, which occurred, of course, outside the workplace, have employment ramifications? Two of the main arguments that favoured the claimants in earlier cases – privacy and freedom of speech – clearly apply here as well. If we (as progressives) are to be taken seriously about our principled claims, i.e. that human rights should apply in the workplace even when the employer does not hold the same progressive values, we should be ready to bite the bullet and apply the same principle when those acts are offensive, and are clearly such that we (as a society) wish did not exist.

This position, simple as it may sound, must confront several objections. First, it is argued that we want to allow employees who express racist views, and hate speech in general, to be dismissed because we want to eradicate those expressions in society. ‘Society’ does not tolerate those views in this day and age. However, this view falls into a couple of familiar traps. First, the historical one: LGBT employees, and those with questionable morals (like the adulterous employee who lost her job for that reason in Spiller v Wallis) suffered from their divergence from public norms at the time, in a way we (justifiably) scoff at now. Of course, we feel that racism and homophobia are different, and that they truly should be eradicated, but some humility should guide us to assess the historical analogies. Second, there is the utilitarian argument: do we really think that sanctioning, shaming and publicly ostracising such behaviour would facilitate its eradication? There is a strong argument to suggest that it would only lead individuals harbouring those inclinations to go underground, feel victimised and even, at times, start wearing their foul opinions as badges of pride. There are examples for all of the above. This, in other words, is the argument that has at its axis the free speech of employees, and finds its justifications in the rationales of free speech in general. And yet, the workplace is a unique micro-cosmos, where people are forced to interact on a daily basis, and where concepts such as (industrial) democracy and (managerial) prerogative are deployed by way of analogy to the relationship between citizens and governments. And yet, those are still analogies, and the different context should be acknowledged.

So if we are to contextualise further, we find that there is a more sophisticated counter-argument to the one just discussed. That is, instead of focusing on public morals and public norms, one can place the centre of gravity on the employer’s values, as expressed by Kier Co (‘zero tolerance policy towards any racist and discriminatory behaviour’). Surely we cannot bar an employer from advancing such a laudable policy in her own workplace? I was considering this issue when a case just published – Forstater v CGD Europe – generated plenty of heat.

In this case, a public policy researcher who had a consultancy agreement with a not-for-profit think tank claimed that the respondent refused to renew her contract because of comments she had made on Twitter, etc expressing her beliefs about trans issues. The tribunal’s decision was limited to the preliminary question of whether the claimant’s beliefs qualified for protection under the Equality Act 2010 section 10(2) as any religious or philosophical belief in accordance with the Grainger criteria (which, in turn, relied on the ECtHR case of Campbell and Cosans v UK, which concerned corporal punishment. In particular, the tribunal found that the claimant’s belief faltered on the fifth, and final, criterion, namely: a belief that ‘must be worthy of respect in a democratic society, be not incompatible with human dignity and not conflict with the fundamental rights of others’. The tribunal did not consider in this preliminary hearing any question of unfair dismissal or the application of the Human Rights Act 1998 (including the rights to privacy and freedom of expression, although the latter was mentioned in brief [74]).

Why did the tribunal find that Forstater’s views are incompatible with human dignity and the rights of others? Probably the most problematic of those beliefs, from the tribunal’s point of view, is the claimant’s (factually incorrect) assertion that there are only two sexes in nature – men and women, along with the position that, from the claimant’s point of view, a person cannot transition from one sex to another [84-85]. The tribunal emphasised, at some length, the fact that the first position is scientifically misguided, and the second is legally mistaken. While it is true that the claimant was, in fact, mistaken on both counts, it is not clear how these mistakes affect her power to hold those beliefs.

Starting with the latter – a person is perfectly entitled to dispute any position taken by the legal system at any time. In fact, many academics have made a career, and scores of activists made history, by doing so. It is true that British law recognises a person’s right to transition and gain a Gender Recognition Certificate. The claimant recognised the legal state of affairs but held that this was a ‘legal fiction’ because a man can never truly become a woman, and vice versa [84]. This, perhaps, is an immoral belief, but it is not undermined by the fact that it contests the current state of affairs. One can think, for example, of (radical, for the time) 18th century advocates for women’s rights who argued that a man’s ownership over a woman is ‘legal fiction’, whilst still acknowledging the practical consequences of that fiction.

And as for the former, clearly the factual veracity of a position is not a precondition for its protection, or else no religion would overcome such an obstacle. And whilst we’re analogising ‘religion’ and ‘belief’, shouldn’t we pause to consider how the fifth criterion, on which the claimant’s belief failed (in a manner that it is controversial in itself), should have barred any of the three major, monotheist religions from protection? In other words, it would seem that as a belief (as opposed to a manifestation of a belief – more on that below) – the claimant failed in her quest for protection because she grounded her positions in her understanding of feminism and the protection of women and girls. However, if she were to ground her position in the tenets of a major religion (e.g. Christianity or Judaism) – it would have been very clear that the religion itself would be covered by the scope of the Equality Act. This distinction between political (or ideological) beliefs and religious beliefs seems, indeed, arbitrary. The question would then turn to the manifestationof the belief. This, I would argue, should have been the focal point of the tribunal’s analysis here as well. Alas, no such discussion is apparent.

Indeed, while the tribunal offers a detailed account of letters and tweets by the claimant, there is not even one occasion in which the claimant’s beliefs are asserted to have targeted a colleague in the workplace. For example, she repeated the need to be polite to others, including referring to all people using the pronouns they prefer; and argued for a ‘broader national conversation about how to reconcile the welfare of people who seek treatment for gender dysphoria and the basic human rights of women and girls’. In other words, this is an occasion where the right to privacy and the right to freedom of speech should have been front and centre to the analysis. And yet, the latter is only mentioned, and its impact is not assessed; whereas the former isn’t even mentioned. Moreover, I would argue that the right to privacy (in this sense – the separation of work from life outside of work) is the more important of the two.

Thus, I believe that the court in Smith v Trafford Housing Trust was absolutely right to conclude that the employer wrongly demoted a housing manager who posted on his Facebook wall a post in opposition to gay marriage. Crucially, Briggs J focused on the fact that the post could not be attributed to the manager’s employer, that he used moderate language and never offended any employee in their interaction with them. Pace Paul Wragg, I don’t find this analysis to be ‘intellectually unsatisfying’ in the least. Quite the contrary. It would be quite problematic for an employer to ignore, in the name of free speech, hate speech of one employee towards another. Indeed, just as acts that may be classified as hate speech can and should be addressed by the state, and prosecuted accordingly (see the very recent ECtHR case of Beizaras and Levickas v Lithuania, with thanks to Virginia Mantouvalou for the reference), it would seem implausible for an employer to ignore similar speech if it happens within the workplace, leading other employees to feel unsafe, and justifiably so. But if such speech happens outside the workplace, it is the preserve of the government to act against those individuals.

Returning to the case at hand: if an employee, such a Forstater, suffers a detriment for actions that happened outside the workplace, the only conclusion that one can reach is that she is sanctioned for her beliefs, and not for the manifestation of those beliefs. To repeat, the claimant asserted that she ‘would of course respect anyone’s self-definition of their gender identity in any social and professional context’. And no examples were given that she behaved differently.Similarly, to close circle on the case of the Manchester derby – whilst it could be that the City fan does harbour racist beliefs, his employer gave no indication that those beliefs were manifested in the work environment.

Sanctioning someone for their beliefs is a dangerous road to follow. I have consistently taught my students that there are very few absolute rights, of which the ‘right to freedom of thought’ is one (a position accepted by the Equality and Human Rights Commission). An employer has a right, indeed a duty, to protect the work environment, to enhance inclusivity and tolerance, and make sure that all are felt welcome. When realising that some workers are (surprise, surprise) impacted by the relentless torrent of hateful narratives coming from the tabloid press and the highest political echelons, but do not act on them in a way that affects others in the workplace, employers should not respond by removing such workers from employment and into victimhood. The authoritarian control of employers, which John Gardner and Hugh Collins recently alluded to, is wide enough within the workplace, and should not extend to ‘thought control’. And as Collins and Virginia Mantouvalou wrote, apropos Redfearn v UK, ‘a democracy cannot eliminate obnoxious views by permitting the imposition of economic hardship through dismissal’. Instead, employers should have the courage of their convictions, opt for opening the discussion, through training and dialogue. That is where their social responsibility lies and so, I would argue, is where the law should be.

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Amir Paz-Fuchs is Professor of Law and Social Justice at the University of Sussex, where he teaches Employment Law and is Director of Sussex Clinical Legal Education.

 

 

(Suggested citation: ‘A Paz-Fuchs, ‘Principles into Practice: Protecting Offensive Beliefs in the Workplace,’ UK Labour Law Blog, 12 February 2020, available at https://wordpress.com/view/uklabourlawblog.com).

Racist hate crimes: Why do they do it?

Mark Walters
Mark Walters

The massacre of nine African Americans in Charleston by a young man hell bent on starting a “race war” has sent shock waves across the world. Such brutal acts of violence remind us of what seems to be an ever increasingly fractured global society. Despite the wilfully blind trying to maintain the myth of a ‘post-racial society’, many others are no doubt unsurprised by the events of last week given the ongoing problem of racism in the US. However, the US is by no means alone in suffering from post-colonial racism through 21st century reassertions of white supremacy. Currently, Zack Davies, 26, from Mold, Flintshire, in Wales is being prosecuted for the attempted murder of Dr Sarandev Bhambra. Davies is said to have followed his victim into a Tesco’s supermarket where he set about hacking at him with a hammer and a machete almost severing his victm’s hand while shouting ‘white power’ and ‘this is for Lee Rigby’.

Such heinous demonstrations of racism have far-reaching effects on the cohesiveness of our multicultural communities. Unfortunately rather than being one off incidents, these acts of violence represent just the tip of the iceberg of racist hate crime in both the US and the UK. For instance, last year police services in England and Wales recorded a total of 37,484 racist hate crimes; that made up 84% of all hate rime recorded by the police. This figure represents a 5% increase in racist hate crimes recorded in the year 2012-13. Yet police recorded data shows only part of the picture. More representative data provided by the Crime Survey for England and Wales estimates that there is an average 154,000 incidents of racially motivated hate crime per year, the majority of these are personal in nature including assault, wounding and robbery.

So why is there so much racist hate crime? It is difficult to even begin to understand the nature and extent of racially motivated violence without an appreciation of the history of racism in countries such as the US and UK. Though both nation’s pasts are distinct, they are intertwined by histories influenced by the enlightenment philosophies that gave rise to practices including slavery, racial segregation, and more directly to the violent persecution of Black people throughout the US and Europe. The tumultuous history of racism on both continents has inevitably left a nasty residue. Left behind is a system of social, political and economic governance from which white privilege has continued to proliferate within and across generations. That is not to suggest that progress has not been made. The emergence of a civil rights movement in the 20th century has ensured that there are now equal rights in terms of voting, working and use of public spaces.

Nonetheless, racism remains deeply imbedded in contemporary society; in its institutions, its schools, its workplaces and most pertinently in its governments. This means that people of colour remain constantly on the back foot. Their otherness means that they often have to endure everyday forms of discrimination. Some of these become systemic leading to institutional racism as well as to direct expressions of prejudice, including the murder of black men by police officers. Other forms of prejudice are formed by subtle processes of discrimination that are not overtly detectable, such as dirty looks in public spaces, but nonetheless lead to feelings of otherness. In fact, there is some evidence to suggest that racism is getting worse. Recent data from the British Social Attitudes Survey showed that racial prejudice is on the rise again. From an all-time low of 25% in 2001, levels of racial prejudice have since risen to 30% in 2013. It is by no means coincidental that during this period of time that we have also seen the insurgence of nationalist parties such as UKIP, and to the renewed activities of right wing racist groups across Europe.

It is against this backdrop that we observe the continued proliferation of racist hate crimes across the US and UK. Within what continues to be a divided society, some, such as Roof, take it upon themselves to eradicate those deemed as racially ‘different’. American criminologists Jack Levin and Jack McDevitt refer to these perpetrators of hate as “Mission offenders”, as they make it their mission in life to eradicate certain groups of people. They ascribe to an ideology of hatred that fuels and emboldens their hate-motivated acts. While it is likely that Roof embodies such a type of hate crime offender, we do not yet know Roof’s reasons for acting as he did. I do not pretend to know his inner thoughts and what compelled him to sit in a room for almost one hour before pulling a revolver and opening fire. It is likely, though, that he felt immense fear before doing so. It is the emotion of fear that seems to tie most theories of hate crime together. The racist attacker’s fear relates to the threat that others pose to his way of existing as a social being. It is this perceived threat that impels him to act in order to protect his own way of life. Many racists fear that black people will one day take away the power that the white man has built over centuries and which is maintained via social processes and state institutions. This power relates not just to social norms, values and customs but also to economic power and capital. In responding to this threat, some racist offenders take it upon themselves to police the boundaries of acceptable community membership through acts of violence.

Similarly, many of the racist and anti-Muslim attacks that occurred directly after the murder of Lee Rigby can be understood through the lens of fear. Hate crime rates often surge during periods of time when one ethnic or religious group feels under attack from another. Spikes in racist and Islamophobic attacks occurred in the aftermath of 9/11, 7/7 and more recently in the months following the murder of Lee Rigby. These retaliatory acts of hate are sparked by the fear that Muslims are ‘taking over’, and must therefore be resisted. Some politicians and certain media outlets go on to conflate the words ‘Muslim’ with ‘extremist’ and/or ‘terrorist’ as means of social and political resistance. Government agencies go on to disproportionately enforce anti-terrorism laws while some even ban Islamic clothing in public places. For the man on the street, his resistance is often his fists, or worse a machete or worse still a hand gun.

So what is to be done? Histories of oppression and the structural forces that maintain them cannot be reversed over night. But if we are to see fewer incidents such as those in Charleston and Flintshire, change we must. As Dr Martin Luther King so poignantly put it, ‘I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality… I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.’

Dr Mark Walters is Senior Lecturer in Law at the University of Sussex and Co-Director of the International Network of Hate Studies

The post originally appeared on the INHS website on 30 June 2015, and is reprinted with permission.