Gawker's gutter journalism - and worries about freedom of speech

(This article was originally published on The Conversation on 17 July 2015. I am republishing it because of subsequent - including very recent - issues surrounding Gawker and its interpretation of free speech. Read the original article.)

Over the past 24 hours, Gawker, the controversial gossip blog owned by Gawker Media, has earned some extraordinary and entirely justified opprobrium. It brought this on itself by posting a prurient and cruel story about the alleged sexual conduct of a finance executive employed by rival media company Condé Nast.

The link I’ve provided above is not to Gawker’s site, but to an archived copy of the particular post. Given the way this news story has gone viral, I cannot protect the name of the individual accused of hiring a gay prostitute, but I can at least do something to minimise adding clicks on Gawker’s site. Though it will have little effect, I likewise won’t name the smeared person. That will mean one less direct link between his name and Gawker’s allegations. Still, the damage has been done: there is little we can do ameliorate it, since the post has already been seen by a vast online audience.

Gawker’s prurient post

As Yezmin Villarreal accurately describes the Gawker post (writing at Advocate.com), it alleges that a named finance executive “tried to hire a gay porn star for sex at a cost of $2,500.” Villareal adds, again accurately, “The [Gawker] story contains screenshots of text messages and photos that allegedly identify the man, who is married to a woman and has children.”

The man concerned is a senior executive in a large company, but he is not a politician or in any other sense a public figure. He is not a morals campaigner, or an anti-gay campaigner, or a person who could justly be accused of public hypocrisy if the allegations turned out to be true. Even if there could be some circumstances in which such a post might be justified - which I doubt - this is remote from them. The post appears to be pure clickbait, displaying a callous, if not outright malicious, attitude to an individual and his family.

Worries about freedom of speech

I am a free speech advocate, a somewhat prominent one. I’m very suspicious of government censorship, and I strongly support the rights of artists, intellectuals, and ordinary people to express themselves frankly and fearlessly.

Even where government censorship is not involved, I worry when I see ideas, opinions, and cultural productions (such as literary and artistic works) interpreted unfairly or censoriously. In many cases, I’ll defend individual speakers and artistic creators, and their books and movies, and the full range of cultural productions that can have meanings and influence our thoughts. In those many cases, I ask for a degree of charity, sensitivity, and complexity of interpretation sufficient to give writers, speakers, artists - and ordinary people - their due.

I can’t, however, say much in defence of Gawker, particularly when it is Gawker and its author that have used a very large public platform to single out and smear a specific private individual. To me, it’s gratifying that so many voices are being raised in that person’s defence and against Gawker’s actions.

Still, these sorts of situations can test our understanding of freedom of speech, and perhaps also challenge our commitment to it. We might wonder what redress someone should have when treated in this way. Perhaps he will be able to sue for defamation, but this is difficult in the US, and I expect it will be impossible if the allegations are, indeed, true. Should he be able to obtain redress in the courts? Mightn’t freedom of speech argue against that?

My view is that in an extreme case such as this, where there has been such a deliberate and potentially devastating intrusion on an identifiable individual’s privacy - and from an author with such a large platform - some legal redress should be available. Indeed, it should be available whether the allegations are true or not.

That view may surprise some people who know me as a free speech advocate, but allow me to explain.

Free speech - what’s it all about?

Reflection on such cases can sharpen our conceptions of what free speech is about: of what it is actually for. Speaking for myself, and not for other free speech advocates, I defend a conception rather different from those I often see from political libertarians. I am less fixated on the power of governments; I am less absolutist in opposing restrictions; but at the same time, I worry about a wider range of threats. I worry not only about state power but also threats from private power and popular opinion. Above all, I am concerned to protect the free exchange of opinions and ideas, whether the free exchange is impeded by state power or by power of other kinds.

This can lead to a more subtle and difficult analysis than the simple attitude of: “Government censorship bad; everything else okay.”

Governments can, of course, restrict the exchange of opinions and ideas, and they frequently strive to do so. They wield frightening powers, including the power to imprison and sometimes even the power to kill, and this should make us especially vigilant about their actions. Liberal-minded people - people thinking and working within the great traditions of liberal political theory - will thus be concerned about government censorship of opinions, and more generally about the use of government power to stifle discussion and debate (somewhat related to this, we are also concerned about government attempts to control literature and the arts).

With all that duly acknowledged, much speech contains little in the way of opinions or ideas (and displays little artistic merit of any kind). Even in those cases, I lean strongly against government interference. General considerations relating to individual liberty remain important, especially considerations relating to the value of expressing our thoughts and personalities without fear. Thus, I defend a broad scope for freedom of speech, even of speech that possesses little discernible value except to someone who is letting off emotional steam.

But I have never been an absolutist about repealing all laws restricting, for example, defamation, hate speech, and commercial pornography. In all these cases, I am willing to look at proposals on their merits, though I generally want less - rather than more - government restriction. I don’t rule out all possible restrictions: there can be categories of speech that are patently harmful and vanishingly unlikely to have countervailing value of some kind.

John Stuart Mill and On Liberty

In the case of speech that defames individuals, I support tight limits on what sorts of speech can justify damages awards from the courts. There is no contradiction in adding that there is actually an arguable case for defamation law to be more accessible in the narrow range of cases where it should apply.

When we’re dealing with such issues, it can be helpful to wonder what John Stuart Mill, author of On Liberty (1859), might have thought. On Liberty is not an infallible holy text, or anything at all analogous, but Mill pondered such issues deeply, and his body of work contains much wisdom that remains useful.

Mill was concerned with what he called a “liberty of thought and discussion” about topics of general interest. He supported a strong freedom to hold and share opinions on those topics, without suppression by the government or the less formal tyranny of popular opinion and feeling. He did not require that the participants in social discussion maintain an unnatural standard of politeness and detachment, but nor did he support the publication of damaging lies about other individuals, or even of damaging truths about them that invaded their privacy. The Millian argument for freedom of speech does not go so far - though, in another dimension, it goes further than a concern with state censorship.

Accordingly, Mill would have opposed censorship of ideas by the government; importantly, he would also have opposed social actions, such as organised boycotts, of people merely for their opinions on general topics. He would not, however, have required that we put up with all attacks on individual citizens' reputations and private lives. For example, Mill’s name cannot be invoked to oppose a law against “revenge porn”.

Revenge porn has nothing to do with opinions on topics of general interest, but everything to do with maliciously attempting to harm a disliked individual. I doubt strongly that Mill would oppose laws against it if he were alive today. Revenge porn is not part of liberty of thought and discussion.

How to think about gutter journalism

In the case of gutter journalism, such as Gawker’s post on the unfortunate Condé Nast executive, I see nothing in Mill’s conception of liberty of thought and discussion that could be used in its defence. Nor does gutter journalism of this kind merit defence for any artistic or literary merit, for any complexity that is worth prizing, or for any other serious kind of value that it might be imagined to have.

The harm that can be caused by such writing is not remote, indirect, or speculative. This is exactly the sort of publication that can obviously ruin an identifiable person’s life (and the lives of family and loved ones). Free speech advocates need not, and should not, defend gutter journalism.

It may be difficult to frame appropriate laws. In principle, however, even free speech advocates can support narrow laws to protect individuals from the worst attacks (they can do so even while working to reduce unwarranted kinds of censorship).

Though this is not a case of revenge porn, my free speech advocacy does not prevent me from - for example - supporting narrowly and clearly drafted revenge porn laws. Nor should it prevent me from supporting laws against other extreme kinds of personal smearing or violation of individual privacy.

Conclusion

Beyond legal solutions, with their undoubted problems of interpretation, accessibility, and enforcement, and their frequent unforeseen consequences, we can do more. In particular, we can work to marginalise individuals and organisations that engage in the most serious kinds of defamation, public shaming of individuals, and invasion of people’s private lives.

Even if there’s seldom legal redress against Gawker and others of a similar ilk, we can agree to regard them, and to speak of them freely, as the callous and anti-social institutions that they are.


Edit (18 July 2015): An outcry - of which this post was a small, and surely insignificant, part - has led Gawker to remove the offending post from its site. That’s a welcome acknowledgment of acting badly. However, it’s too late to help the individual concerned. Further, the problem extends well beyond one post and well beyond Gawker. Further edit (29 May 2016): In republishing this, I am removing the (now dead) link to Gawker's original article.

The Shame of Public Shaming

by
Russell Blackford, University of Newcastle, NSW

[Originally published on The Conversation.]

Public shaming is not new. It’s been used as a punishment in all societies – often embraced by the formal law and always available for day-to-day policing of moral norms. However, over the past couple of centuries, Western countries have moved away from more formal kinds of shaming, partly in recognition of its cruelty.

Even in less formal settings, shaming individuals in front of their peers is now widely regarded as unacceptable behaviour. This signifies an improvement in the moral milieu, but its effect is being offset by the rise of social media and, with it, new kinds of shaming.

Indeed, as Welsh journalist and documentary maker Jon Ronson portrays vividly in his latest book, social media shaming has become a social menace. Ronson’s So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed (Picador, 2015) is a timely contribution to the public understanding of an emotionally charged topic.

Shaming is on the rise. We’ve shifted – much of the time – to a mode of scrutinising each other for purity. Very often, we punish decent people for small transgressions or for no real transgressions at all. Online shaming, conducted via the blogosphere and our burgeoning array of social networking services, creates an environment of surveillance, fear and conformity.

The making of a call-out culture

I noticed the trend – and began to talk about it – around five years ago. I’d become increasingly aware of cases where people with access to large social media platforms used them to “call out” and publicly vilify individuals who’d done little or nothing wrong. Few onlookers were prepared to support the victims. Instead, many piled on with glee (perhaps to signal their own moral purity; perhaps, in part, for the sheer thrill of the hunt).

Since then, the trend to an online call-out culture has continued and even intensified, but something changed during 2015. Mainstream journalists and public intellectuals finally began to express their unease.

There’s no sign that the new call-out culture is fading away, but it’s become a recognised phenomenon. It is now being discussed more openly, and it’s increasingly questioned. That’s partly because even its participants – people who assumed it would never happen to them – sometimes find themselves “called out” for revealing some impurity of thought. It’s become clear that no moral or political affiliation holds patents on the weaponry of shaming, and no one is immune to its effects.

As Ronson acknowledges, he has, himself, taken part in public shamings, though the most dramatic episode was a desperate act of self-defence when a small group of edgy academics hijacked his Twitter identity to make some theoretical point. Shame on them! I don’t know what else he could have done to make them back down.

That, however, was an extreme and peculiar case. It involved ongoing abuse of one individual by others who refused to “get” what they were doing to distress him, even when asked to stop. Fascinating though the example is, it is hardly a precedent for handling more common situations.
At one time, if we go along with Ronson, it felt liberating to speak back in solidarity against the voices of politicians, corporate moguls, religious leaders, radio shock jocks, newspaper columnists and others with real power or social influence.

But there can be a slippery slope… from talking back in legitimate ways against, say, a powerful journalist (criticising her views and arguments, and any abusive conduct), to pushing back in less legitimate ways (such as attempting to silence her viewpoint by trying to get her fired), to destroying relatively powerless individuals who have done nothing seriously wrong.

Slippery slope arguments have a deservedly bad reputation. But some slopes really are slippery, and some slippery slope arguments really are cogent. With public online shaming, we’ve found ourselves, lately, on an especially slippery slope. In more ways than one, we need to get a grip.

Shaming the shamers

Ronson joined in a campaign of social media shaming in October 2009: one that led to some major advertisers distancing themselves from the Daily Mail in the UK. This case illustrates some problems when we discuss social media shaming, so I’ll give it more analysis than Ronson does.

One problem is that, as frequently happens, it was a case of “shame the shamer”. The recipient of the shaming was especially unsympathetic because she was herself a public shamer of others.

The drama followed a distasteful – to say the least – column by Jan Moir, a British journalist with a deplorable modus operandi. Moir’s topic was the death of Stephen Gately, one of the singers from the popular Irish band Boyzone. Gately had been found dead while on holiday in Mallorca with his civil partner, Andrew Cowles. Although the coroner attributed the death to natural causes, Moir wrote that it was “not, by any yardstick, a natural one” and that “it strikes another blow to the happy-ever-after myth of civil partnerships.”

Ronson does not make the point explicit in So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, but what immediately strikes me is that Moir was engaging in some (not-so-)good old-fashioned mainstream media shaming. She used her large public platform to hold up identified individuals to be shamed over very private behaviour. Gately could not, of course, feel any shame from beyond the grave, but Moir’s column was grossly tasteless since he had not even been buried when it first appeared.

Moir stated, self-righteously: “It is important that the truth comes out about the exact circumstances of [Gately’s] strange and lonely death.” But why was it so important that the public be told such particulars as whether or not Cowles (at least) hooked up that tragic evening for sex with a student whom Moir names, and whether or not some, or all, of the three young men involved used cannabis or other recreational drugs that night?

To confirm Moir’s propensities as a public shamer, no one need go further than the same column. She follows her small-minded paragraphs about Gately with a few others that shame “socialite” Tara Palmer-Tomkinson for no worse sin than wearing a revealing outfit to a high-society party.

You get the picture, I trust. I’m not asking that Moir, or anyone else, walk on eggshells lest her language accidentally offend somebody, or prove open to unexpectedly uncharitable interpretations. Quite the opposite: we should all be able to speak with some spontaneity, without constantly censoring how we formulate our thoughts. I’ll gladly extend that freedom to Moir.

But Moir is not merely unguarded in her language: she can be positively reckless, as with her suggestion that Palmer-Tomkinson’s wispy outfit might more appropriately be worn by “Timmy the Tranny, the hat-check personage down at the My-Oh-My supper club in Brighton.” No amount of charitable interpretation can prevent the impression that she is often deliberately, or at best uncaringly, hurtful. In those circumstances, I have no sympathy for her if she receives widespread and severe criticism for what she writes.

When it comes to something like Moir’s hatchet job on Gately and Cowles, and their relationship, I can understand the urge to retaliate – to shame and punish in return. It’s no wonder, then, that Ronson discusses the feeling of empowerment when numerous people, armed with their social media accounts, turned on badly behaved “giants” such as the Daily Mail and its contributors. As it seemed to Ronson in those days, not so long ago, “the silenced were getting a voice.”

But let’s be careful about this.

Some distinctions

A few aspects need to be teased out. Even when responding to the shamers, we ought to think about what’s appropriate.

For a start, I am – I’m well aware – being highly critical of Moir’s column and her approach to journalism. In that sense, I could be said to be “shaming” her. But we don’t have to be utterly silent when confronted by unpleasant behaviour from public figures.

My criticisms are, I submit, fair comment on material that was (deliberately and effectively) disseminated widely to the public. In writing for a large audience in the way she does – especially when she takes an aggressive and hurtful approach toward named individuals – Moir has to expect some push-back.

We can draw reasonable distinctions. I have no wish to go further than criticism of what Moir actually said and did. I don’t, for example, want to misrepresent her if I can avoid it, to make false accusations, or to punish her in any way that goes beyond criticism. I wouldn’t demand that she be no-platformed from a planned event or that advertisers withdraw their money from the Daily Mail until she is fired.

The word criticism is important. We need to think about when public criticism is fair and fitting, when it becomes disproportionate, and when it spirals down into something mean and brutal.
Furthermore, we can distinguish between 1) Moir’s behaviour toward individuals and 2) her views on issues of general importance, however wrong or ugly those views might be. In her 2009 comments on Gately’s death, the two are entangled, but it doesn’t follow that they merit just the same kind of response.

Moir’s column intrudes on individuals' privacy and holds them up for shaming, but it also expresses an opinion on legal recognition of same-sex couples in the form of civil unions. Although she is vague, Moir seems to think that individuals involved in legally recognised same-sex relationships are less likely to be monogamous (and perhaps more likely to use drugs) than people in heterosexual marriages. This means, she seems to imply, that there’s something wrong with, or inferior about, same-sex civil unions.

In fairness, Moir later issued an apology in which she explained her view: “I was suggesting that civil partnerships – the introduction of which I am on the record in supporting – have proved just to be as problematic as marriages.” This is, however, difficult to square with the words of her original column, where she appears to deny, point blank, that civil unions “are just the same as heterosexual marriages.”

Even if she is factually correct about statistical differences between heterosexual marriages and civil unions, this at least doesn’t seem to be relevant to public policy. After all, plenty of marriages between straight people are “open” (and may or may not involve the use of recreational drugs), but they are still legally valid marriages.

If someone does think certain statistical facts about civil unions are socially relevant, however, it’s always available to them to argue why. They should be allowed to do so without their speech being legally or socially suppressed. It’s likewise open to them to produce whatever reliable data might be available. Furthermore, we can’t expect critics of civil unions to present their full case on every occasion when they speak up to express a view. That would be an excessive condition for any of us to have to meet when we express ourselves on important topics.

More generally, we can criticise bad ideas and arguments – or even make fun of them if we think they’re that bad – but as a rule we shouldn’t try to stop their expression.

Perhaps some data exists to support Moir’s rather sneering claims about civil unions. But an anecdote about the private lives of a particular gay couple proves nothing one way or the other. Once again, many heterosexual marriages are not monogamous, but a sensational story involving a particular straight couple would prove nothing about how many.

In short, Moir is entitled to express her jaundiced views about civil unions or same-sex relationships more generally, and the worst she should face is strong criticism, or a degree of satire, aimed primarily at the views themselves. But shining a spotlight on Cowles and Gately was unfair, callous, nasty, gratuitous, and (to use one of her own pet words) sleazy. In addition to criticising her apparent views, we can object strongly when she publicly shames individuals.

Surfing down the slippery slope

Ronson discusses a wide range of cases, and an evident problem is that they can vary greatly, making it difficult to draw overall conclusions or to frame exact principles.

Some individuals who’ve been publicly shamed clearly enough “started it”, but even they can suffer from a cruel and disproportionate backlash. Some have been public figures who’ve genuinely done something wrong, as with Jonah Lehrer, a journalist who fabricated quotes to make his stories appear more impressive. It’s only to be expected that Lehrer’s irresponsibility and poor ethics would damage his career. But even in his case, the shaming process was over the top. Some of it was almost sadistic.

Other victims of public shaming are more innocent than Lehrer. Prominent among them is Justine Sacco, whom Ronson views with understandable sympathy. Sacco’s career and personal life were ruined after she made an ill-advised tweet on 20 January 2013. It said: “Going to Africa. Hope I don’t get AIDS. Just kidding. I’m white!” She was then subjected to an extraordinarily viral Twitter attack that led quickly to her losing her job and becoming an international laughing stock.

It appears that her tweet went viral after a Gawker journalist retweeted it (in a hostile way) to his 15,000 followers at the time – after just one person among Sacco’s 170 followers had passed it on to him.

Ronson offers his own interpretation of the Sacco tweet:

It seemed obvious that her tweet, whilst not a great joke, wasn’t racist, but a self-reflexive comment on white privilege – on our tendency to naively imagine ourselves immune to life’s horrors. Wasn’t it?

In truth, it’s not obvious to me just how to interpret the tweet, and of course I can’t read Sacco’s mind. If it comes to that, I doubt that she pondered the wording carefully. Still, this small piece of sick humour was aimed only at her small circle of Twitter followers, and it probably did convey to them something along the lines of what Ronson suggests. In its original context, then, it did not merely ridicule the plight of black AIDS victims in Africa.

Much satire and humour is, as we know, unstable in its meaning – simultaneously saying something outrageous and testing our emotions as we find ourselves laughing at it. It can make us squirm with uncertainty. This applies (sometimes) to high literary satire, but also to much ordinary banter among friends. We laugh but we also squirm.

In any event, charitable interpretations – if not a single straightforward one – were plainly available for Sacco’s tweet. This was a markedly different situation from Jan Moir’s gossip-column attacks on hapless celebrities and socialites. And unlike Moir, Sacco lacked a large media platform, an existing public following, and an understanding employer.

Ronson also describes the case of Lindsey Stone, a young woman whose life was turned to wreckage because of a photograph taken in Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia. In the photo she is mocking a “Silence and Respect” sign by miming a shout and making an obscene gesture. The photo was uploaded on Facebook, evidently with inadequate privacy safeguards, and eventually it went viral, with Stone being attacked by a cybermob coming from a political direction opposite to the mob that went after Sacco.While the Arlington photograph might seem childish, or many other things, posing for it and posting it on Facebook hardly add up to any serious wrongdoing. It is not behaviour that merited the outcome for Lindsey Stone: destruction of her reputation, loss of her job, and a life of ongoing humiliation and fear.

Referring to such cases, Ronson says:

The people we were destroying were no longer just people like Jonah [Lehrer]: public figures who had committed actual transgressions. They were private individuals who really hadn’t done anything much wrong. Ordinary humans were being forced to learn damage control, like corporations that had committed PR disasters.

Thanks to Ronson’s intervention, Stone sought help from an agency that rehabilitates online reputations. Of Stone’s problems in particular, he observes:

The sad thing was that Lindsey had incurred the Internet’s wrath because she was impudent and playful and foolhardy and outspoken. And now here she was, working with Farukh [an operative for the rehabilitation agency] to reduce herself to safe banalities – to cats and ice cream and Top 40 chart music. We were creating a world where the smartest way to survive is to be bland.

This is not the culture we wanted

Ronson also quotes Michael Fertik, from the agency that helped Stone: “We’re creating a culture where people feel constantly surveilled, where people are afraid to be themselves.”

“We see ourselves as nonconformist,” Ronson concludes sadly, “but I think all of this is creating a more conformist, conservative age.”

This is not the culture we wanted. It’s a public culture that seems broken, but what can we do about it?

For a start, it helps to recognise the problem, but it’s difficult, evidently, for most people to accept the obvious advice: Be forthright in debating topics of general importance, but always subject to some charity and restraint in how you treat particular people. Think through – and not with excuses – what that means in new situations. Be willing to criticise people on your own side if they are being cruel or unfair.It’s not our job to punish individuals, make examples of them, or suppress their views. Usually we can support our points without any of this; we can do so in ways that are kinder, more honest, more likely to make intellectual progress. The catch is, it requires patience and courage.

Our public culture needs more of this sort of patience, more of this sort of courage. Can we – will we – rise to the challenge?