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speech acts
Britain’s libel laws, the harshest in the democratic world, have increasingly been deployed to suppress freedom of expression. Can a diverse new coalition of scientists and writers make the United Kingdom safe for free speech?

By SALIL TRIPATHI Published :1 November 2010

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BETTMANN / CORBIS

The halcyon days of English Judges in wigs: circa 1937.

W	ITH HIS SPIKY HAIR, round-rimmed glasses and impish grin, Simon Singh looks like an older version of Harry Potter. Like the fictional wizard, Singh is curious about phenomena that cannot be easily explained; unlike Potter, he wants to test the science and make the knowledge accessible to all.

Singh is one of Britain’s outstanding science writers. Over the past two decades, through his journalism and bestselling books, Singh has shared his enthusiasm for demystifying science with a growing number of readers. Singh’s 1997 book, Fermat’s Last Theorem, was a dramatic account of the researchers who finally proved “mathematics’ hardest problem” in the 1990s, and it became the first book on maths to top the British best-seller list in 1997. In The Code Book, two years later, Singh chronicled the mysteries of cryptography, ciphers and code breaking—and explained how science helped the allies defeat the Nazis during World War II. For his third book, Big Bang, published in 2005, he turned his attention to the origins of the universe.

Singh’s trajectory into the world of science was an unusual one. Trade and business run in his family. His parents, Mehnga Singh and Swaran Kaur, migrated to the West Country, as southwestern England is known, from Phagwara in the Punjab in 1951. His father worked at first as a door-to-door trader, and later set up a clothing shop. Singh’s parents gave their children Western names (Simon’s brothers are Tom and George, his sister Christine) because, he says, “No one out there in those days could have pronounced an Indian name.” Tom built the family brand, New Look, which opened its first store in Taunton in 1969 and has now become a major retail chain with nearly 1,000 stores worldwide. (Last year, the Queen honoured Tom with the Order of the British Empire.)

I met Singh at an alfresco café near Richmond Green, close to his home in a prosperous part of south London. He explained that while his family built the business, he had been allowed to indulge in his hobbies, which included science. “My parents did wonder if I was wasting time, but as I was the youngest, I got some leeway,” he says. Singh went on to read physics at Imperial College in London, and then got his doctorate at Cambridge. He spent two years at the European Organisation for Nuclear Research, known by its French acronym, CERN, on the Swiss-French border. This is the lab where earlier this year, the Large Hadron Collider began to smash together subatomic particles as part of an ambitious experiment to answer some of the most fundamental questions in physics. Singh became animated as he described the science behind the supercollider, using both hands—as if banging two coconuts together—to show me how tiny particles might disintegrate inside the collider. The table between us is not used to so much kinetic energy, and it wobbles when Singh reaches the climax, showing me how the atom splits. When the wide sweep of his hands stops, he spills his cappuccino.

ELDER NEVILLE / CORBIS SYGMA

The Royal Courts of Justice in Westminster where the Hamilton/Fayed ‘Cash for Questions’ case took place.

Singh has a real passion for science, but he also relishes an argument, particularly with those who make what he regards as outlandish claims on behalf of unusual cures and treatments. He has published exposés of homeopaths who claimed their pills could protect travellers in tropical countries from malaria and attacked a BBC documentary that suggested acupuncture could be used as an anesthetic during heart surgery. Millions had seen the programme—and some of them must have been surgeons or anaesthetists— but Singh spoke out because others didn’t. “If you grumble and moan, nothing happens, so I pursued it,” he says. “This was an important issue, because the images were misleading: a fraction of the two million viewers would have aches and pains and would be persuaded to rush off to a traditional Chinese healer. That is a problem: misinformation about science can affect people’s lives.”

Singh is a fervent believer in the standards of scientific evidence—in the process where one party provides the data to back up its assertion, and another party tests its validity. It is only through such dynamic friction that a theory is strengthened—or it collapses.

One precondition for Singh’s scepticism and combativeness to thrive is an environment that protects free speech. The fight between faith and reason is an old one, and where freedom of expression has been restricted, scientific progress has often suffered: recall the ordeal of Galileo Galilei, whose robust defence of the idea that the earth revolved around the sun eventually brought him into conflict with the Catholic Church and led to his conviction for heresy.

We live in a different era, of course: Britain today is an old democracy with a lively media, a powerful parliament, and a judiciary respected around the world for its independence and fairness. In such a country, you might think, even the most outspoken scientist would have little to fear when challenging dubious theories and spurious medical claims; a science writer investigating matters of public interest should feel comfortable in doing so.

Singh is an award-winning and best-selling author, and yet—as many journalists, activists, writers, editors and publishers have learned—he must watch his words, because Britain’s libel law, one of the harshest in the democratic world, allows the opponents of free expression extraordinary means to suppress criticism or exposure of their conduct.

RICHARD SMITH / CORBIS

Science writer Simon Singh in his London office.

Under English law, a litigant from any country can file suit in the English courts against writers or publications located anywhere on earth—even if neither party has a substantial presence in Britain. What’s more, the burden of proof rests with the defendant, whose guilt is presumed until he or she demonstrates the truth of the contested statements or claims. English judges have been lenient in admitting cases, and while the penalties can be large, the costs of mounting a defence are equally punishing; many defendants opt to withdraw their claims rather than fight libel writs in court.

Those stung by the sharp bite of the English libel law include an American professor who accused a wealthy Saudi businessman of funding terrorism; a British cardiologist who questioned a technical claim made by a manufacturer of a heart valve; a British journalist who exposed an Indian holy man; a Danish newspaper which said an Icelandic bank was avoiding taxes; and a small Ukrainian online magazine which took on a local oligarch.

As an increasing number of doctors, scientists, writers and researchers have felt the chill of libel threats, facing suits from companies or organisations which seek to silence their critics with libel claims, a new challenge to Britain’s libel laws has taken shape. A remarkable coalition, composed of scientists, free-speech advocates, lawyers and academics, has come together to call for radical reforms to English libel law. More than 50,000 people have added their signatures to a petition demanding libel reform, and a peer in the House of Lords has drafted a bill to alter the law. The new Conservative-Liberal Democrat coalition plans to incorporate this proposal into a comprehensive reform bill, and the opposition Labour Party has also signalled its support for the principle of libel reform. Britain’s archaic libel statutes, in full force for centuries, may be on the cusp of being transformed as a result of the unusually rapid mobilisation of public opinion in favour of reform. The unlikely hero of this movement was none other than Simon Singh—who has spent the last two years and tens of thousands of pounds, defending himself against a libel claim.

INGH'S TROUBLE WITH THE LAW began with a few sentences he wrote in the Guardian on 19 April 2008, challenging some of the more dramatic claims of Britain’s chiropractors, who were marking British Chiropractic Awareness Week. Chiropractors manipulate the spine in an attempt to provide relief from back pain and other ailments. It is the part about

the ‘other ailments’ that bothered Singh; he was exasperated by the proliferation of alternative therapists who had made unsubstantiated claims. So in an article called ‘Beware of the Spinal Trap,’ Singh wrote:

The British Chiropractic Association claims that their members can help treat children with colic, sleeping and feeding problems, frequent ear infections, asthma and prolonged crying, even though there is not a jot of evidence. This organisation is the respectable face of the chiropractic profession and yet it happily promotes bogus treatments.

Few things excite the British media as much as a health scare. Eat this and avoid cancer; don’t eat that, and you will not become obese. Many people in Britain instinctively distrust big business and big pharmaceutical companies, but they are open-minded and sympathetic toward alternative therapies. The lawyer Cherie Blair, the wife of former Prime Minister Tony Blair, had a fondness for ayurveda and aromatherapy. Other celebrities have touted mind-boggling miracle cures or weight-loss programmes. Sile Lane, a stem-cell scientist who works at Sense About Science, a charity devoted to promoting public understanding of science, suggested that the only way to rebut these claims is to enlist a roster of scientists and researchers willing to challenge them. Some people in Britain, she says, now believe that goat’s blood serum can cure multiple sclerosis; others eagerly bought into the former tennis player Annabel Croft’s claim that homeopathy cured her ovarian cysts. But many scientists, Lane said, now avoid challenging the alternative practitioners—fearing libel suits like the one that Simon Singh faced.

Alternative therapies like aromatherapy, homoeopathy, herbalism and reflexology are now a growing business: one media survey in 2000 estimated the size of the market at 1.6 billion pounds. Their biggest cheerleader is Prince Charles, who has likened traditional Western medicine to the Leaning Tower of Pisa, calling it “slightly off-balance.” The Prince’s Foundation for Integrated Health played an influential role in shaping opinion, but it was closed earlier this year after instances of financial mismanagement and fraud were reported. “Is it right for the royal family to have such influence? Charles is someone with little medical qualification or understanding, and yet he plays an important role in this area,” Singh says. “He is a problem.”

In 2008, Singh wrote a book with Edzard Ernst, a professor of complementary medicine at Exeter, called Trick or Treatment?, in which the two investigated the effectiveness of alternative medicines. (Lovingly, the authors dedicated the book to Prince Charles.) In April that year, as the chiropractors were celebrating their awareness week, Singh decided to act. Singh knew that many of the chiropractors’ claims were not backed by solid evidence; indeed, Britain’s Advertising Standards Authority had upheld a complaint made against a chiropractor who said he could treat children with colic and learning difficulties. Moreover, the General Chiropractic Council is currently investigating one in four of British chiropractors for allegedly misleading claims made in advertisements or on websites. The chiropractors, Singh says in a droll tone, were unlikely to make the public aware of the lack of evidence behind their treatments, “so I decided to spread some public awareness.”

POOL PHOTOGRAPH / CORBIS

Aromatherapy with Prince Charles.

The chiropractors were not amused by Singh’s attempt to rain on their parade. The British Chiropractic Association (BCA), which represents more than half of Britain’s chiropractors, complained and asked the Guardian to withdraw the article and Singh to apologise. The Guardian offered the BCA a right of reply in order to allow them to publish evidence contradicting Singh’s article and also offered to issue a clarification—offers the association did not take up. The newspaper removed the article from its electronic archives, but Singh stayed firm and refused to apologise. In July, the association sued Singh for libel. Singh decided to fight. “If I have said something true,” he explains, “I don’t like someone stopping me from saying the truth.”

Singh expected that the BCA would provide evidence for its claims in court and challenge him to refute them; instead, the association’s complaint alleged that Singh had accused the chiropractors of dishonesty—that they were knowingly promoting treatments they knew to be useless. Singh nevertheless believed he was on firm ground, and few thought the case against him would succeed. But a year later, in May 2009, Britain’s then senior libel judge, Mr Justice Eady, ruled that Singh indeed had a case to answer, because he had implied that the association was deliberately misleading the public. Justice Eady argued that Singh’s use of the word “bogus” implied “deliberate dishonesty” on the part of the chiropractors.

Singh was stunned. He later wrote on a blog: “By forcing an accusation of dishonesty onto my article, Justice Eady was asking me to prove something that I had never intended to write. His ruling almost caused me to buckle, abandon my defence, and question my sanity.” Later, Singh told me: “When the judgment came out, I was flat out on the floor. It looked like it was all over. People thought I couldn’t win. The chance of a successful appeal was small, because the judge had ruled on the meaning of the word, which was subjective. I was at my lowest ebb.”

BRIAN DAVID STEVENS / CORBIS

Gesticulating at Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park.

The chiropractors’ association sensed victory. In a statement, the association said: “Since his day in Court when the decision went against him, we now see Dr Singh arguing for what he wished he had said, rather than what he did say. As a diversion and to detract attention from the nub of this case, which relates to his defamatory comments against the BCA, he mounts a spurious case for free speech and reform the libel laws of England.”

But Singh was not alone: he quickly attracted the support of a nascent movement of scientists, science writers and enthusiasts, sceptics and other committed rationalists, many of them bloggers, who had also sensed the danger to free expression represented by Justice Eady’s judgment. David Allen Green, a media lawyer whose lucid blog about law and liberties has been shortlisted for the George Orwell Prize, jumped into the fray. He sent word through social media like Twitter and Facebook, inviting Singh’s supporters to rally. They were to meet at Penderel’s Oak, a pub near Holborn in central London, within days of the judgment, and Singh would speak there.

I went there that evening, along with some 200 people in the basement of the pub. The mood was sombre. The author Nick Cohen described those who came as “men and women who with straight faces introduced themselves by the titles of their blogs.”

Cohen saw Ben Goldacre, a doctor who writes the ‘Bad Science’ column in the Guardian and describes himself as one “who specialises in unpicking dodgy scientific claims made by scaremongering journalists, dodgy government reports, evil pharmaceutical corporations, PR companies, and quacks.” Cohen told him: “The nerds are on the march. I wouldn’t like to be the one standing in their way.”

Goldacre called upon his “brothers and sisters in nerdiness” to fight, because ideas and practices are proved only when they are challenged. Everyone in the room knew that fighting a libel case was not easy. First, there is the money: an effective defence can cost as much as a quarter million pounds. Then, time: the process can take at least a year; with appeals that can go all the way to the European Court of Human Rights, it can extend to several years. Singh could go to trial, settle, or appeal Justice Eady’s judgment. He told the audience honestly: “My instinct is to appeal, but I cannot say more than that.” If he were to fight, it would take at least a year off his life, distracting him from other projects. But if he accepted and rolled over, others would feel emboldened to sue writers who challenged their claims.

HULTON-DEUTSCH COLLECTION / CORBIS

Dr Charles Snow and Pamela Hansford Johnson in 1950, after their marriage in the Chapel of Christ’s College, Cambridge, where Dr Snow was a Fellow.

For scientists, the libel challenge was new—they were used to facing critical comments in peer reviews, not legal threats from disgruntled companies or organisations. Scientists don’t get the kind of training British reporters do, who are trained in reporting allegations to reduce the likelihood of being sued. Scientists don’t have such training. At most British newspapers, lawyers read the copy of sensitive topics, helping craft precise language that makes it harder for the subjects of articles to file successful suits. Caution reigns. Some publishers have agreed to pulp books after they’ve received threatening letters from litigants. Book distributors don’t import certain titles in the UK. These two worlds—the one of reporters, academics, social scientists and authors, and that of scientists—had a similar concern: the protection of free speech. But they operated in separate silos. Could this cause unite them?

On 7 May 1959, at the Senate House in Cambridge, the British scientist and novelist CP Snow gave the Rede Lecture, in which he noted the breakdown in communication between the “two cultures” of society—science and humanities. That, he said, was a major hindrance in ending the world’s problems. Snow would have been pleased by what he saw emerge from that meeting in Holborn—the confluence of scientists and science writers, with Sense About Science leading the science wing, and free speech champions, authors, poets, and lawyers on the other, led by the English chapter of PEN and the magazine Index on Censorship. Together, the coalition would draw the support of over 50,000 people across Britain, and force all the major political parties to accept that the country’s libel laws needed to be changed.

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