In the initial two days following the introduction of Scotland’s new hate crime laws last Monday, a tidal wave of grievances were reported at an impressive frequency of one every 90 seconds. This forced a dilemma. Either Scotland’s sociopolitical climate had dramatically deteriorated into an unprecedented level of hostility, or the law had swiftly become a pawn in ongoing cultural disputes. All this played out fittingly on April the first.
The quandary was soon resolved. JK Rowling and Scotland’s First Minister, Humza Yousaf, were the top contenders for the title of the “most complained about individual”. Yousaf attracted a series of complaints owing to earlier remarks he made about race. Concerning Rowling, her transgressions were tied to a series of tweets she’d posted, wherein she featured images of various transgender women – some convicted sex offenders, others activists and public figures – and misgendered them. Rowling remarked defiantly on the possibility of arrest, a consequence that never materialised for either her or Yousaf, thus affirming the legislature’s belief in the high threshold set for prosecution. Simply being mean does not qualify as a crime.
There are two requisites for an offence to be considered a crime. The action should be viewed as threatening or offensive by a reasonable individual and must be intended to incite hatred against a person belonging to a protected demographic. The law does allow for shocking or offensive behaviour, and intentionally misgendering someone does not qualify as a crime – a fact clarified by Rowling herself.
For a law that has been under review for what seems an eternity, a surprising volume of issues appears to have been set aside for later consideration. The most glaring oversight, from critics perspective, is that biological sex is absent from the list of protected categories – prompting some to argue that, by contrast, transgender women are being granted protections not enjoyed by the general female population. Assurances that this would be rectified in a separate law addressing misogyny have done little to placate critics.
Questions have been voiced regarding implementation and the capability of police officers to determine circumstances worthy of prosecution. One absurd scenario, initially suggested in all honesty by advocates of the law and later picked up by detractors, presents the fear that straight males in drag at a performance of the Rocky Horror Show may be eligible for hate crime victim status.
The perception of police and political figures creating policies on the fly was amplified by the deployment of 500 so-called “hate crime champions” and the establishment of 400 independent hate crime reporting centres. The sites accepting anonymous reports range from mosques and student unions to a salmon and trout farm in Berwickshire and a Glasgow-based adult store.
An eccentric Scottish police ad campaign, featuring a rustic chap known as the “hate monster,” hardly raised public confidence either. “The hate monster coerces you into proving your superiority. Before you realise, you’re guilty of a hate crime,” roars the advert. The necessity for intention, however, makes the concept of unsuspectingly committing a hate crime implausible.
In Ireland’s perspective, the lessons drawn from Scotland’s trial provide a valuable template on how not to approach the matter.
Despite vows from Simon Harris to advance with it, the fate of the hate offences bill is still unclear. A diverse group of opponents, including Michael McDowell, Charlie Flanagan, Elon Musk and their recent unlikely allies, Sinn Féin, may validly refer to Scotland’s experience as an indicator of the possible repercussions when important terms such as “hate” and “gender” remain ambiguous.
The government might find it tempting to quietly dismiss this proposed law. However, the 29% surge in reported hate crimes in 2022 and an 11% rise in arson incidents in 2023, suspected to be related to attacks on accommodation for asylum seekers, provide convincing arguments for its continued progress.
The LGBTQ+ community has expressed heightened apprehension about their safety in public spaces, consequent to a spike in episodes of harassment and violence. Similarly, not excluded from this worrying trend are female journalists and politicians who are frequently subjected to virtual abuse; with a number of male politicians attributing the hostile tone of public interaction as the reason for their retirement.
On that account, we see a small number of prospect politicians making commonplace discourse and strategies that, not too long ago, would have been deemed extraordinarily offensive. Gavin Pepper, a hopeful in the impending local elections, spotlighted himself in the last 24 hours when he shared on his X platform, videos of himself verbally accosting Hazel Chu in the street. A further video, mounted at a campsite on Mount Street bore the caption, “Where are the missing children?”
Given the nature of such incidents, would they qualify as hate speech? Not necessarily, given that freedom of speech is justifiably defended in this region as well. In spite of the semi-panic invoking portrayal of the legislation in specific portions of the UK media, if passed, it would still be nearly unfeasible to inadvertently provoke hatred. J.K. Rowling’s experience stands testament to the fact that even with the determination to intentionally test the limits, it is challenging.
Contrary to popular thought, hate-speech legislation does not throttle freedom of speech. Nor does it address the emerging issue of meanness infiltrating public life; it won’t stop targeted attacks on vulnerable groups, or alleviate the fear an immigrant or a member of the LGBTQ+ community may feel simply being true to themselves in public spaces. Nonetheless, it does signify that, within the framework of a civilised democracy, there exists a boundary that must remain inviolable.