Centre for Internet and Society

Criminal Defamation and the Supreme Court’s Loss of Reputation

bhairav — 2016-06-03T03:05:14Z

The Supreme Court’s refusal, in Subramanian Swamy v. Union of India, to strike down the anachronistic colonial offence of criminal defamation is wrong. Criminalising defamation serves no legitimate public purpose; the vehicle of criminalisation – sections 499 and 500 of the Indian Penal Code, 1860 (IPC) – is unconstitutional; and the court’s reasoning is woolly at best.

The article was published in the Wire on May 14, 2016.

Politics and censorship

Two kinds of defamation actions have emerged to capture popular attention. First, political interests have adopted defamation law to settle scores and engage in performative posturing for their constituents. And, second, powerful entities such as large corporations have exploited weaknesses in defamation law to threaten, harass, and intimidate journalists and critics.

The former phenomenon is not new. Colonial India saw an explosion of litigation as traditional legal structures were swept away and native disputes successfully migrated to the colonial courts. These included politically-motivated defamation actions that had little to do with protecting reputations. In fact, defamation litigation has long become an extension of politics, in many cases a new front for political manoeuvring.

The latter type of defamation action is far more sinister. Powerful elites, both individuals and corporations, have cynically misused the law of defamation to silence criticism and chill the free press. By filing excessive and often unfounded complaints that are dispersed across the country, which threaten journalists with imprisonment, powerful elites frighten journalists into submission and vindictively hound those who refuse to back down. Such actions are called Strategic Lawsuits against Public Participation (SLAPPs) which Rajeev Dhavan warns have created a new system of censorship.

Petitions and politicians

Defamation originates from the concept of scandalum magnatum – the slander of great men – which protected the reputations of aristocrats. The crime was linked to sedition, so insulting a lord was akin to treason. In today’s neo-feudal India, political leaders are contemporary aristocrats. Investigating them can invite devastating consequences, even death. Most of the time, they retaliate through defamation law. Since the criminal justice system is most compromised at its base, where the police and magistrates directly interact with people, the misuse of criminal defamation law hurts ordinary citizens.

This is different from politicians prosecuting each other since they rarely, if ever, suffer punishment. Of all the petitions before the Supreme Court concerning the decriminalisation of defamation, the three that received the most news coverage were those of Subramanian Swamy, Rahul Gandhi, and Arvind Kejriwal. They are all politicians, their petitions were made in response to defamation complaints filed by rival politicians. On the other hand, there are numerous cases which politicians have filed against private members of civil society to silence them. When presented with these concerns, the Supreme Court simply failed to seriously engage with them.

The architecture of defamation

Defamation has many species, a convoluted history, and complex defences. Defamation can be committed by the spoken word, which is slander, or the written word, which is libel. The historical distinction between these two modes of defamation is based on the permanence of written words. Before the invention of the printing press, the law was chiefly concerned with slander. But as written ideas proliferated through mass publication technologies, libel came to be viewed as more malevolent and the law visited serious punishments on writers and publishers.

Such a distinction presumes a literate readership. In largely illiterate societies, the spoken word was more potent. This is why films and radio have long attracted censorship and state control in India. Before mass publishing forked defamation into libel and slander, there existed only the historical crime of libel. Historical libel had four species: seditious libel, blasphemous libel, obscene libel, and defamatory libel.

Seditious libel, which has been repealed in Britain, prospers in India as the offence of sedition which is criminalised by section 124A of the IPC. Blasphemous libel, repealed in Britain, fares well in India as the offence of blasphemy under section 295A of the IPC. Obscene libel, as the offence of obscenity, is criminalised by section 294 of the IPC. And defamatory libel, repealed in Britain, which is the offence of criminal defamation that the Subramanian Swamy case upheld, continues to exist under section 499 of the IPC.

Confusing harms

Of the many errors that litter the Supreme Court’s May 13, 2016 judgment in the Subramanian Swamy case, perhaps the most egregious is the failure to recognise the harm that criminal defamation poses to a healthy civil society in a free democracy. At the crux of this mistake is the Supreme Court’s failure to distinguish between private injury and social harm. Two people may, in their private capacities, litigate a civil suit to recover damages if one feels the other has injured her reputation. This private action of defamation was not in issue before the court.

On the other hand, by criminalising defamation, why should the state protect the reputations of individuals while expending public resources to do so? This goes to the concept of crime. When an action is serious enough to harm society it is criminalised. Rape strikes at the root of public safety, human dignity, equality, and peace, so it is a crime. A breach of contract only injures the party who was expecting the performance of contractual duties; it does not harm society, so it is not a crime. Similarly, a loss of reputation, which is by itself difficult to quantify, does no harm to society and so it should not be a crime.

Truth and the public good

It may be argued, and the Supreme Court hints, that at its fundament, society is premised on the need for truth; so lies should be penalised. This is where defamation law wanders into moral policing. In Indian and European philosophies, truth is consecrated as a moral good. The Supreme Court quotes from the Bhagavad Gita on the virtue of truth. But while quotes like these are undoubtedly meaningful, they have no utility in a constitutional challenge. In reality, society is composed of truth, lies, untruths, half-truths, rumour, satire, and a lot more. In fact, the more shades of opinion there are, the livelier that society is. So lies should not invite criminal liability.

If we concede the moral debate and arrive at a consensus that the law must privilege truth over lies, then truth alone should be a complete defence to defamation. If the law criminalises untruth, then it must sanctify truth. That means when tried for the crime of defamation, a journalist must be acquitted if her writing is true. But the law and the Supreme Court require more. In addition to proving the truth, the journalist must prove that her writing serves the public good. So speaking truth is illegal if it does not serve the public good.

In fact, truth has only recently been recognised as a defence to defamation, albeit not a complete defence. This belies the social foundations of criminal defamation law. The purpose of the offence is not to uphold truth, it is to protect the reputations of the powerful. But what is reputation? The Supreme Court spends 25 pages trying to answer this question with no success. Instead, the court declares that reputation is protected by the right to life guaranteed by Article 21 of the Indian Constitution but it offers no sound reasoning to support this claim. The court also fails to explain why the private civil action of defamation is insufficient to protect reputation.

The constitution and constitutionalism

There are two core constitutional questions posed by the Subramanian Swamy case. They are:

Does the crime of defamation fall within one of the nine grounds listed in Article 19(2) of the constitution; and
Are sections 499 and 500 of the IPC which criminalise and punish defamation reasonable restrictions on the right to free speech?

Article 19(2) contains nine grounds in the interests of which a law may reasonably restrict the right to free speech. Defamation is one of the nine grounds, but the provision is silent as to which type of defamation, civil or criminal, it considers. However, B.R. Ambedkar’s comments in the Constituent Assembly arguably indicate that criminal defamation was intended to be a ground to restrict free speech.

The answer to the second question lies in measuring the reasonableness of the restriction criminal defamation places on free speech. If the restriction is proportionate to the social harm caused by defamation, then it is reasonable. However, restating an earlier point, criminalising defamation serves no legitimate public purpose because society is unconcerned with the reputations of a few individuals. Even if society is concerned with private reputations, the private civil action of defamation is more than sufficient to protect private interests. Further, the danger that current criminal defamation law poses to India’s free speech environment is considerable. Dhavan says: “Defamation cases [are] a weapon by which the rich and powerful silence their critics and censor a democracy.”

The Subramanian Swamy case highlights several worrying trends in India’s constitutional jurisprudence. The judgment is delivered by one judge speaking for a bench of two. Such critically significant constitutional challenges cannot be left to the whims of two unelected and unaccountable men. Moreover, from its position as the guarantor of individual freedoms, the Supreme Court appears to be in retreat. This will have far-reaching and negative consequences for India’s citizenry. If the court fails to enhance individual freedoms, what is its constitutional role? The judiciary would do well to stay away from policy mundanities and focus on promoting India’s democratic project, lest it injure its own reputation.

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/criminal-defamation-and-the-supreme-court2019s-loss-of-reputation

The Humpty-Dumpty Censorship of Television in India

bhairav — 2015-11-29T08:37:53Z

The Modi government’s attack on Sathiyam TV is another manifestation of the Indian state’s paranoia of the medium of film and television, and consequently, the irrational controlling impulse of the law.

The article originally published in the Wire on September 8, 2015 was also mirrored on the website Free Speech/Privacy/Technology.

It is tempting to think of the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting’s (MIB) attack on Sathiyam TV solely as another authoritarian exhibition of Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s government’s intolerance of criticism and dissent. It certainly is. But it is also another manifestation of the Indian state’s paranoia of the medium of film and television, and consequently, the irrational controlling impulse of the law.

Sathiyam TV’s transgressions

Sathiyam’s transgressions began more than a year ago, on May 9, 2014, when it broadcast a preacher saying of an unnamed person: “Oh Lord! Remove this satanic person from the world!” The preacher also allegedly claimed this “dreadful person” was threatening Christianity. This, the MIB reticently claims, “appeared to be targeting a political leader”, referring presumably to Prime Minister Modi, to “potentially give rise to a communally sensitive situation and incite the public to violent tendencies.”

The MIB was also offended by a “senior journalist” who, on the same day, participated in a non-religious news discussion to allegedly claim Modi “engineered crowds at his rallies” and used “his oratorical skills to make people believe his false statements”. According to the MIB, this was defamatory and “appeared to malign and slander the Prime Minister which was repugnant to (his) esteemed office”.

For these two incidents, Sathiyam was served a show-cause notice on 16 December 2014 which it responded to the next day, denying the MIB’s claims. Sathiyam was heard in-person by a committee of bureaucrats on 6 February 2015. On 12 May 2015, the MIB handed Sathiyam an official an official “Warning” which appears to be unsupported by law. Sathiyam moved the Delhi High Court to challenge this.

As Sathiyam sought judicial protection, the MIB issued the channel a second warning August 26, 2016 citing three more objectionable news broadcasts of: a child being subjected to cruelty by a traditional healer in Assam; a gun murder inside a government hospital in Madhya Pradesh; and, a self-immolating man rushing the dais at a BJP rally in Telangana. All three news items were carried by other news channels and websites.

Governing communications

Most news providers use multiple media to transmit their content and suffer from complex and confusing regulation. Cable television is one such medium, so is the Internet; both media swiftly evolve to follow technological change. As the law struggles to keep up, governmental anxiety at the inability to perfectly control this vast field of speech and expression frequently expresses itself through acts of overreach and censorship.

In the newly-liberalised media landscape of the early 1990s, cable television sprang up in a legal vacuum. Doordarshan, the sole broadcaster, flourished in the Centre’s constitutionally-sanctioned monopoly of broadcasting which was only broken by the Supreme Court in 1995. The same year, Parliament enacted the Cable Television Networks (Regulation) Act, 1995 (“Cable TV Act”) to create a licence regime to control cable television channels. The Cable TV Act is supplemented by the Cable Television Network Rules, 1994 (“Cable Rules”).

The state’s disquiet with communications technology is a recurring motif in modern Indian history. When the first telegraph line was laid in India, the colonial state was quick to recognize its potential for transmitting subversive speech and responded with strict controls. The fourth iteration of the telegraph law represents the colonial government’s perfection of the architecture of control. This law is the Indian Telegraph Act, 1885, which continues to dominate communications governance in India today including, following a directive in 2004, broadcasting.

Vague and arbitrary law

The Cable TV Act requires cable news channels such as Sathiyam to obey a list of restrictions on content that is contained in the Cable Rules (“Programme Code“). Failure to conform to the Programme Code can result in seizure of equipment and imprisonment; but, more importantly, creates the momentum necessary to invoke the broad powers of censorship to ban a programme, channel, or even the cable operator. But the Programme Code is littered with vague phrases and undefined terms that can mean anything the government wants them to mean.

By its first warning of May 12, 2015, the MIB claimed Sathiyam violated four rules in the Programme Code. These include rule 6(1)(c) which bans visuals or words “which promote communal attitudes”; rule 6(1)(d) which bans “deliberate, false and suggestive innuendos and half-truths”; rule 6(1)(e) which bans anything “which promotes anti-national attitudes”; and, rule 6(1)(i) which bans anything that “criticises, maligns or slanders any…person or…groups, segments of social, public and moral life of the country” (sic).

The rest of the Programme Code is no less imprecise. It proscribes content that “offends against good taste” and “reflects a slandering, ironical and snobbish attitude” against communities. On the face of it, several provisions of the Programme Code travel beyond the permissible restrictions on free speech listed in Article 19(2) of the Constitution to question their validity. The fiasco of implementing the vague provisions of the erstwhile section 66A of the Information Technology Act, 2000 is a recent reminder of the dangers presented by poorly-drafted censorship law – which is why it was struck down by the Supreme Court for infringing the right to free speech. The Programme Code is an older creation, it has simply evaded scrutiny for two decades.

The arbitrariness of the Programme Code is amplified manifold by the authorities responsible for interpreting and implementing it. An Inter-Ministerial Committee (IMC) of bureaucrats, supposedly a recommendatory body, interprets the Programme Code before the MIB takes action against channels. This is an executive power of censorship that must survive legal and constitutional scrutiny, but has never been subjected to it. Curiously, the courts have shied away from a proper analysis of the Programme Code and the IMC.

Judicial challenges

In 2011, a single judge of the Delhi High Court in the Star India case (2011) was asked to examine the legitimacy of the IMC as well as four separate clauses of the Programme Code including rule 6(1)(i), which has been invoked against Sathiyam. But the judge neatly sidestepped the issues. This feat of judicial adroitness was made possible by the crass indecency of the content in question, which could be reasonably restricted. Since the show clearly attracted at least one ground of legitimate censorship, the judge saw no cause to examine the other provisions of the Programme Code or even the composition of the IMC.

This judicial restraint has proved detrimental. In May 2013, another single judge of the Delhi High Court, who was asked by Comedy Central to adjudge the validity of the IMC’s decision-making process, relied on Star India (2011) to uphold the MIB’s action against the channel. The channel’s appeal to the Supreme Court is currently pending. If the Supreme Court decides to examine the validity of the IMC, the Delhi High Court may put aside Sathiyam’s petition to wait for legal clarity.

As it happens, in the Shreya Singhal case (2015) that struck down section 66A of the IT Act, the Supreme Court has an excellent precedent to follow to demand clarity and precision from the Programme Code, perhaps even strike it down, as well as due process from the MIB. On the accusation of defaming the Prime Minister, probably the only clearly stated objection by the MIB, the Supreme Court’s past law is clear: public servants cannot, for non-personal acts, claim defamation.

Censorship by blunt force

Beyond the IMC’s advisories and warnings, the Cable TV Act contains two broad powers of censorship. The first empowerment in section 19 enables a government official to ban any programme or channel if it fails to comply with the Programme Code or, “if it is likely to promote, on grounds of religion, race, language, caste or community or any other ground whatsoever, disharmony or feelings of enmity, hatred or ill-will between different religious, racial, linguistic or regional groups or castes or communities or which is likely to disturb the public tranquility.”

The second empowerment is much wider. Section 20 of the Cable TV Act permits the Central Government to ban an entire cable television operator, as opposed to a single channel or programmes within channels, if it “thinks it necessary or expedient so to do in public interest”. No reasons need be given and no grounds need be considered. Such a blunt use of force creates an overwhelming power of censorship. It is not a coincidence that section 20 resembles some provisions of nineteenth-century telegraph laws, which were designed to enable the colonial state to control the flow of information to its native subjects.

A manual for television bans

Film and television have always attracted political attention and state censorship. In 1970, Justice Hidayatullah of the Supreme Court explained why: “It has been almost universally recognised that the treatment of motion pictures must be different from that of other forms of art and expression. This arises from the instant appeal of the motion picture… The motion picture is able to stir up emotions more deeply than any other product of art.”

Within this historical narrative of censorship, television regulation is relatively new. Past governments have also been quick to threaten censorship for attacking an incumbent Prime Minister. There seems to be a pan-governmental consensus that senior political leaders ought to be beyond reproach, irrespective of their words and deeds.

But on what grounds could the state justify these bans? Lord Atkins’ celebrated war-time dissent in Liversidge (1941) offers an unlikely answer:

“When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, ‘it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.’”

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/the-wire-bhairav-acharya-humpty-dumpty-censorship-of-tv-in-india

The Short-lived Adventure of India’s Encryption Policy

bhairav — 2015-11-29T09:03:42Z

Written for the Berkeley Information Privacy Law Association (BIPLA).

During his recent visit to Silicon Valley, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi said his government was “giving the highest importance to data privacy and security, intellectual property rights and cyber security”. But a proposed national encryption policy circulated in September 2015 would have achieved the opposite effect.

The policy was comically short-lived. After its poorly-drafted provisions invited ridicule, it was swiftly withdrawn. But the government has promised to return with a fresh attempt to regulate encryption soon. The incident highlights the worrying assault on communications privacy and free speech in India, a concern compounded by the enormous scale of the telecommunications and Internet market.

Even with only around 26 percent of its population online, India is already the world’s second-largest Internet user, recently overtaking the United States. The number of Internet users in India is set to grow exponentially, spurred by ambitious governmental schemes to build a ‘Digital India’ and a country-wide fiber-optic backbone. There will be a corresponding increase in the use of the Internet for communicating and conducting commerce.

Encryption on the Internet

Encryption protects the security of Internet users from invasions of privacy, theft of data, and other attacks. By applying an algorithmic cipher (key), ordinary data (plaintext) is encoded into an unintelligible form (ciphertext), which is decrypted using the key. The ciphertext can be intercepted but will remain unintelligible without the key. The key is secret.

There are several methods of encryption. SSL/TLS, a family of encryption protocols, is commonly used by major websites. But while some companies encrypt sensitive data, such as passwords and financial information, during its transit through the Internet, most data at rest on servers is largely unencrypted. For instance, email providers regularly store plaintext messages on their servers. As a result, governments simply demand and receive backdoor access to information directly from the companies that provide these services. However, governments have long insisted on blanket backdoor access to all communications data, both encrypted and unencrypted, and whether at rest or in transit.

On the other hand, proper end-to-end encryption – full encryption from the sender to recipient, where the service provider simply passes on the ciphertext without storing it, and deletes the metadata – will defeat backdoors and protect privacy, but may not be profitable. End-to-end encryption alarms the surveillance establishment, which is why British Prime Minister David Cameron wants to ban it, and many in the US government want Silicon Valley companies to stop using it.

Communications privacy

Instead of relying on a company to secure communications, the surest way to achieve end-to-end encryption is for the sender to encrypt the message before it leaves her computer. Since only the sender and intended recipient have the key, even if the data is intercepted in transit or obtained through a backdoor, only the ciphertext will be visible.

For almost all of human history, encryption relied on a single shared key; that is, both the sender and recipient used a pre-determined key. But, like all secrets, the more who know it, the less secure the key becomes. From the 1970s onwards, revolutionary advances in cryptography enabled the generation of a pair of dissimilar keys, one public and one private, which are uniquely and mathematically linked. This is asymmetric or public key cryptography, where the private key remains an exclusive secret. It offers the strongest protection for communications privacy because it returns autonomy to the individual and is immune to backdoors.

For those using public key encryption, Edward Snowden’s revelation that the NSA had cracked several encryption protocols including SSL/TLS was worrying. Brute-force decryption (the use of supercomputers to mathematically attack keys) questions the integrity of public key encryption. But, since the difficulty of code-breaking is directly proportional to key size, notionally, generating longer keys will thwart the NSA, for now.

The crypto-wars in India

Where does India’s withdrawn encryption policy lie in this landscape of encryption and surveillance? It is difficult to say. Because it was so badly drafted, understanding the policy was a challenge. It could have been a ham-handed response to commercial end-to-end encryption, which many major providers such as Apple and WhatsApp are adopting following consumer demand. But curiously, this did not appear to be the case, because the government later exempted WhatsApp and other “mass use encryption products”.

The Indian establishment has a history of battling commercial encryption. From 2008, it fought Blackberry for backdoor access to its encrypted communications, coming close to banning the service, which dissipated only once the company lost its market share. There have been similar attempts to force Voice over Internet Protocol providers to fall in line, including Skype and Google. And there is a new thrust underway to regulate over-the-top content providers, including US companies.

The policy could represent a new phase in India’s crypto-wars. The government, emboldened by the sheer scale of the country’s market, might press an unyielding demand for communications backdoors. The policy made no bones of this desire: it sought to bind communications companies by mandatory contracts, regulate key-size and algorithms, compel surrender of encryption products including “working copies” of software (the key generation mechanism), and more.

The motives of regulation

The policy’s deeply intrusive provisions manifest a long-standing effort of the Indian state to dominate communications technology unimpeded by privacy concerns. From wiretaps to Internet metadata, intrusive surveillance is not judicially warranted, does not require the demonstration of probable cause, suffers no external oversight, and is secret. These shortcomings are enabling the creation of a sophisticated surveillance state that sits ill with India’s constitutional values.

Those values are being steadily besieged. India’s Supreme Court is entertaining a surge of clamorous litigation to check an increasingly intrusive state. Only a few months ago, the Attorney-General – the government’s foremost lawyer – argued in court that Indians did not have a right to privacy, relying on 1950s case law which permitted invasive surveillance. Encryption which can inexpensively lock the state out of private communications alarms the Indian government, which is why it has skirmished with commercially-available encryption in the past.

On the other hand, the conflict over encryption is fueled by irregular laws. Telecoms licensing regulations restrict Internet Service Providers to 40-bit symmetric keys, a primitively low standard; higher encryption requires permission and presumably surrender of the shared key to the government. Securities trading on the Internet requires 128-bit SSL/TLS encryption while the country’s central bank is pushing for end-to-end encryption for mobile banking. Seen in this light, the policy could simply be an attempt to rationalize an uneven field.

Encryption and freedom

Perhaps the government was trying to restrict the use of public key encryption and Internet anonymization services, such as Tor or I2P, by individuals. India’s telecoms minister stated: “The purport of this encryption policy relates only to those who encrypt.” This was not particularly illuminating. If the government wants to pre-empt terrorism – a legitimate duty, this approach is flawed since regardless of the law’s command arguably no terrorist will disclose her key to the government. Besides, since there are very few Internet anonymizers in India who are anyway targeted for special monitoring, it would be more productive for the surveillance establishment to maintain the status quo.

This leaves harmless encrypters – businesses, journalists, whistle blowers, and innocent privacy enthusiasts. For this group, impediments to encryption interferes with their ability to freely communicate. There is a proportionate link between encryption and the freedom of speech and expression, a fact acknowledged by Special Rapporteur David Kaye of the UN Human Rights Council, where India is a participating member. Kaye notes: “Encryption and anonymity are especially useful for the development and sharing of opinions, which often occur through online correspondence such as e-mail, text messaging, and other online interactions.”

This is because encryption affords privacy which promotes free speech, a relationship reiterated by the previous UN Special Rapporteur, Frank La Rue. On the other hand, surveillance has a “chilling effect” on speech. In 1962, Justice Subba Rao’s famous dissent in the Indian Supreme Court presciently connected privacy and free speech:

The act of surveillance is certainly a restriction on the [freedom of speech]. It cannot be suggested that the said freedom…will sustain only the mechanics of speech and expression. An illustration will make our point clear. A visitor, whether a wife, son or friend, is allowed to be received by a prisoner in the presence of a guard. The prisoner can speak with the visitor; but, can it be suggested that he is fully enjoying the said freedom? It is impossible for him to express his real and intimate thoughts to the visitor as fully as he would like. To extend the analogy to the present case is to treat the man under surveillance as a prisoner within the confines of our country and the authorities enforcing surveillance as guards. So understood, it must be held that the petitioner’s freedom under [the right to free speech under the Indian] Constitution is also infringed.

Kharak Singh v. State of Uttar Pradesh (1964) 1 SCR 332, pr. 30.

Perhaps the policy expressed the government’s discomfort at individual encrypters escaping surveillance, like free agents evading the state’s control. How should the law respond to this problem? Daniel Solove says the security of the state need not compromise individual privacy. On the other hand, as Ronald Dworkin influentially maintained, the freedoms of the individual precede the interests of the state.

Security and trade interests

However, even when assessed from the perspective of India’s security imperatives, the policy would have had harmful consequences. It required users of encryption, including businesses and consumers, to store plaintext versions of their communications for ninety days to surrender to the government upon demand. This outrageously ill-conceived provision would have created real ‘honeypots’ (originally, honeypots are decoy servers to lure hackers) of unencrypted data, ripe for theft. Note that India does not have a data breach law.

The policy’s demand for encryption companies to register their products and give working copies of their software and encryption mechanisms to the Indian government would have flown in the face of trade secrecy and intellectual property protection. The policy’s hurried withdrawal was a public relations exercise on the eve of Prime Minister Modi’s visit to Silicon Valley. It was successful. Modi encountered no criticism of his government’s visceral opposition to privacy, even though the policy would have severely disrupted the business practices of US communications providers operating in India.

Encryption invites a convergence of state interests between India and US as well: both countries want to control it. Last month’s joint statement from the US-India Strategic and Commercial Dialogue pledges “further cooperation on internet and cyber issues”. This innocuous statement masks a robust information-gathering and -sharing regime. There is no guarantee against the sharing of any encryption mechanisms or intercepted communications by India.

The government has promised to return with a reworked proposal. It would be in India’s interest for this to be preceded by a broad-based national discussion on encryption and its links to free speech, privacy, security, and commerce.

Click to read the post published on Free Speech / Privacy / Technology website.

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/the-short-lived-adventure-of-india2019s-encryption-policy

The Four Parts of Privacy in India

bhairav — 2015-08-23T13:02:28Z

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/four-parts-of-privacy.pdf

Privacy, Autonomy, and Sexual Choice: The Common Law Recognition of Homosexuality

bhairav — 2015-08-23T11:56:53Z

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/privacy-autonomy-sexual-choice-common-law-recognition-of-homosexuality.pdf

Net Neutrality and the Law of Common Carriage

bhairav — 2015-08-23T11:06:26Z

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/net-neutrality-law-of-common-carriage.pdf

Free Speech Policy in India: Community, Custom, Censorship, and the Future of Internet Regulation

bhairav — 2015-08-23T10:09:06Z

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/free-speech-policy-in-india.pdf

A Public Discussion on Criminal Defamation in India

bhairav — 2015-07-27T14:44:15Z

The Centre for Internet and Society (CIS); the Network of Women in Media, India; and Media Watch, Bengaluru, are hosting a public discussion on criminal defamation in India. The discussion will start at 5.30 pm on Wednesday, 29 July 2015, at the CIS office in Domlur, Bengaluru.


Pictured above: A poster of the event.

Decriminalising Defamation in India: A Brief Statement of Issues

Subramanian Swamy’s petition to decriminalise defamation has been joined in the Supreme Court by concurring petitions from Rahul Gandhi and Arvind Kejriwal. Defamation is criminalised by sections 499 and 500 of the Indian Penal Code, 1860 (IPC). Swamy and his unlikely cohorts want the Supreme Court to declare that these criminal defamation provisions interfere with the right to free speech and strike them down.

Although news coverage of the case has focused on the motivations and arguments of the three politicians, defamation should not be the sole province of celebrities and the powerful. Unfortunately, criminal defamation has emerged as a new system of censorship to silence journalists, writers, and activists. SLAPP suits (Strategic Lawsuits against Public Participation) are being increasingly used by large corporations to frighten and overwhelm critics and opponents. SLAPP suits are not designed to succeed – although they often do, they are intended to intimidate, harass, and outspend journalists and activists into submission.

The law of defamation rests on uncertain foundations. In medieval Europe defamation was dually prosecuted by the Church as a sin equal to sexual immorality, and by secular courts for the threat of violence that accompanied defamatory speech. These distinct concerns yielded a peculiar defence which fused two elements: truth, which shielded the speaker from the sin of lying; and, the public good, which protected the speaker from the charge of disrupting the public peace. This dual formulation – truth and the public good – remains the primary defence to defamation today.

India does not have a strong ‘fair comment’ defence to protect speech that is neither true nor intrinsically socially useful. This bolsters the law’s reflexive censorship of speech that falls outside the bounds of social utility and morality such as parody, caricature, outrageous opinion, sensationalism, and rumour. This failure affects cartoonists and tabloid sensationalism alike.

Defamation law is also open to procedural misuse to maximise its harrassive effect. Since speech that is published on the Internet or mass-printed and distributed can be read almost anywhere, the venue of criminal defamation proceedings can be chosen to inconvenience and exhaust a speaker into surrender. This motivation explains the peculiarly remote location of several defamation proceedings in India against journalists and magazine editors.

The offence of defamation commoditises reputation. While defamation remains a crime, the state must prosecute it as it does other crimes such as murder and rape. This merits the question: should the state expend public resources to defend the individual reputations of its citizens? Such a system notionally guarantees parity because if the state were to retreat from this role leaving private persons to fight for their own reputations, the market would favour the reputations of the rich and powerful at the expense of others.

These and other issues demand an informed and rigorous public discussion about the continued criminalisation of defamation in India.

Download the concept note prepared by Bhairav Acharya

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/events/a-public-discussion-on-criminal-defamation-in-india

Privacy, Autonomy, and Sexual Choice: The Common Law Recognition of Homosexuality

bhairav — 2015-08-23T12:20:52Z

In the last few decades, all major common law jurisdictions have decriminalised non-procreative sex – oral and anal sex (sodomy) – to allow private, consensual, and non-commercial homosexual intercourse.

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Anti-sodomy statutes across the world, often drafted in the same anachronistic vein as section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, 1860 (“IPC”), have either been repealed or struck down on the grounds that they invade individual privacy and are detrimentally discriminative against homosexual people.

This is not an examination of India’s laws against homosexuality, it does not review the Supreme Court of India’s judgment in Suresh Koushal v. Naz Foundation (2014) 1 SCC 1 nor the Delhi High Court’s judgment in Naz Foundation v. Government of NCT Delhi 2009 (160) DLT 277, which the former overturned – in my view, wrongly. This note simply provides a legal history of the decriminalisation of non-procreative sexual activity in the United Kingdom and the United States. Same-sex marriage is also not examined.

In the United Kingdom

The Wolfenden Report

In England, following a campaign of arrests of non-heterosexual persons and subsequent protests in the 1950s, the government responded to public dissatisfaction by appointing the Departmental Committee on Homosexual Offences and Prostitution chaired by John Frederick Wolfenden. The report of this committee (“Wolfenden Report”) was published in 1957 and recommended that:

“…homosexual behaviour between consenting adults in private should no longer be a criminal offence.”

The Report further observed that it was not the function of a State to punitively scrutinise the private lives of its citizens:

“(T)he law’s function is to preserve public order and decency, to protect the citizen from what is offensive or injurious, and to provide sufficient safeguards against exploitation and corruption of others… It is not, in our view, the function of the law to intervene in the private life of citizens, or to seek to enforce any particular pattern of behaviour.”

The Sexual Offences Act, 1967

The Wolfenden Report was accepted and, in its pursuance, the Sexual Offences Act, 1967 was enacted to, for the first time in common law jurisdictions, partially decriminalise homosexual activity – described in English law as ‘buggery’ or anal sex between males.
Section 1(1) of the original Sexual Offences Act, as notified on 27 July 1967 stated –
"Notwithstanding any statutory or common law provision, but subject to the provisions of the next following section, a homosexual act in private shall not be an offence provided that the parties consent thereto and have attained the age of twenty one years."
A ‘homosexual act’ was defined in section 1(7) as –
“For the purposes of this section a man shall be treated as doing a homosexual act if, and only if, he commits buggery with another man or commits an act of gross indecency with another man or is a party to the commission by a man of such an act.”
The meaning of ‘private’ was also set forth rather strictly in section 1(2) –
“An act which would otherwise be treated for the purposes of this Act as being done in private shall not be so treated if done –
(a) when more than two persons take part or are present; or
(b) in a lavatory to which the public have or are permitted to have access, whether on
payment or otherwise.”
Hence, by 1967, English law permitted:

as between two men,
both twenty-one years or older,
anal sex (buggery),
and other sexual activity (“gross indecency”)
if, and only if, a strict prescription of privacy was maintained,
that excluded even a non-participating third party from being present,
and restricted the traditional conception of public space to exclude even lavatories.

However, the benefit of Section 1 of the Sexual Offences Act, 1967 did not extend beyond England and Wales; to mentally unsound persons; members of the armed forces; merchant ships; and, members of merchant ships whether on land or otherwise.

Developments in Scotland and Northern Ireland

Over the years, the restrictions in the original Sexual Offences Act, 1967 were lifted. In 1980, the Criminal Justice (Scotland) Act, 1980 partially decriminalised homosexual activity in Scotland on the same lines that the Act of 1967 did for England and Wales. One year later, in 1981, an Irishman Jeffrey Dudgeon successfully challenged the continued criminalisation of homosexuality in Northern Ireland before the European Court of Human Rights (“ECHR”) in the case of Dudgeon v. United Kingdom (1981) 4 EHRR 149. Interestingly, Dudgeon was not decided on the basis of detrimental discrimination or inequality, but on the ground that the continued illegality of homosexuality violated the petitioner’s right to privacy guaranteed by Article 8 of the 1950 European Convention on Human Rights (“European Convention”). In a 15-4 majority judgement, the ECHR found that “…moral attitudes towards male homosexuality…cannot…warrant interfering with the applicant’s private life…” Following Dudgeon, the Homosexual Offences (Northern Ireland) Order, 1982 came into effect; and with it, brought some semblance of uniformity in the sodomy laws of the United Kingdom.

Equalising the age of consent

However, protests continued against the unequal age of consent required for consensual homosexual sex (21 years) as opposed to that for heterosexual sex (16 years). In 1979, a government policy advisory recommended that the age of consent for homosexual sex be reduced to 18 years – two years older than that for heterosexual sex, but was never acted upon. In 1994, an attempt to statutorily equalise the age of consent at 16 years was defeated in the largely conservative House of Commons although a separate legislative proposal to reduce it to 18 years was carried and enacted under the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, 1994. Following this, the unequal ages of consent forced a challenge against UK law in the ECHR in 1994; four years later, in Sutherland v. United Kingdom [1998] EHRLR 117, the ECHR found that the unequal age of consent violated Articles 8 and 14 of the European Convention – relating to privacy and discrimination. Sutherland was significant in two ways – it forced the British government to once again introduce legislation to equalise the ages of consent; and, significantly, it affirmed a homosexual human right on the ground of anti-discrimination (as opposed to privacy).

To meet its European Convention commitments, the House of Commons passed, in June 1998, a bill for an equal age of sexual consent but it was rejected by the more conservative House of Lords. In December 1998, the government reintroduced the equal age of consent legislation which again passed the House of Commons and was defeated in the House of Lords. Finally, in 1999, the government invoked the statutory superiority of the House of Commons, reintroduced for the third time the legislation, passed it unilaterally to result in the enactment of the Sexual Offences (Amendment) Act, 2000 that equalised the age of sexual consent for both heterosexuals and homosexuals at 16 years of age.

Uniformity of equality

However, by this time, different UK jurisdictions observed separate legislations regarding homosexual activity. The privacy conditions stipulated in the original Sexual Offences Act, 1967 remained, although they had been subject to varied interpretation by English courts. To resolve this, the UK Parliament enacted the Sexual Offences Act, 2003 which repealed all earlier conflicting legislation, removed the strict privacy conditions attached to homosexual activity and re-drafted sexual offences in a gender neutral manner. A year later, the Civil Partnership Act, 2004 gave same-sex couples the same rights and responsibilities as a civil marriage. And, in 2007, the Equality Act (Sexual Orientation) Regulations came into force to prohibit general discrimination against homosexual persons in the same manner as such prohibition exists in respect of grounds of race, religion, disability, sex and so on.

In the United States

Diversity of state laws

Sodomy laws in the United States of America have followed a different trajectory. A different political and legal system leaves individual US States with wide powers to draft and follow their own constitutions and laws. Accordingly, by 1961 all US States had their own individual anti-sodomy laws, with different definitions of sodomy and homosexuality. In 1962, Illinois became the first US State to repeal its anti-sodomy law. Many States followed suit over the next decades including Connecticut (1971); Colorado and Oregon (1972); Delaware, Hawaii and North Dakota (1973); Ohio (1974); New Hampshire and New Mexico (1975); California, Maine, Washington and West Virginia (1976); Indiana, South Dakota, Wyoming and Vermont (1977); Iowa and Nebraska (1978); New Jersey (1979); Alaska (1980); and, Wisconsin (1983).

Bowers v. Hardwick

However, not all States repealed their anti-sodomy laws. Georgia was one such State that retained a statutory bar to any oral or anal sex between any persons of any sex contained in Georgia Code Annotated §16-6-2 (1984) (“Georgia statute”) which provided, in pertinent part, as follows:

“(a) A person commits the offense of sodomy when he performs or submits to any sexual act involving the sex organs of one person and the mouth or anus of another… (b) A person convicted of the offense of sodomy shall be punished by imprisonment for not less than one nor more than 20 years”

In 1982, a police officer arrested Michael Hardwick in his bedroom for sodomy, an offence which carried a prison sentence of up to twenty years. His case went all the way up to the US Supreme Court which, in 1986, pronounced its judgement in Bowers v. Hardwick 478 US 186 (1986). Although the Georgia statute was framed broadly to include even heterosexual sodomy (anal or oral sex between a man and a woman or two women) within its ambit of prohibited activity, the Court chose to frame the issue at hand rather narrowly. Justice Byron White, speaking for the majority, observed at the outset –

“This case does not require a judgment on whether laws against sodomy between consenting adults in general, or between homosexuals in particular, are wise or
desirable. It raises no question about the right or propriety of state legislative decisions to repeal their laws that criminalize homosexual sodomy, or of state-court decisions invalidating those laws on state constitutional grounds. The issue presented is whether the Federal Constitution confers a fundamental right upon homosexuals to engage in sodomy…”

Privacy and autonomy

Interestingly, Hardwick’s case against the Georgia statute was not grounded on an equality-discrimination argument (since the Georgia statute prohibited even heterosexual sodomy but was only enforced against homosexuals) but on a privacy argument that sought to privilege and immunise private consensual non-commercial sexual conduct from intrusive State intervention. To support this privacy claim, a long line of cases was relied upon that restricted the State’s ability to intervene in, and so upheld the sanctity of, the home, marriage, procreation, contraception, child rearing and so on [See, Carey v. Population Services 431 US 678 (1977), Pierce v. Society of Sisters 268 US 510 (1925) and Meyer v. Nebraska 262 US 390 (1923) on child rearing and education; Prince v. Massachusetts 321 US 158 (1944) on family relationships; Skinner v. Oklahoma ex rel. Williamson 316 US 535 (1942) on procreation; Loving v. Virginia 388 US 1 (1967) on marriage; Griswold v. Connecticut 381 US 479 (1965) and Eisenstadt v. Baird 405 US 438 (1972) on contraception; and Roe v. Wade 410 US 113 (1973) on abortion]. Further, the Court was pressed to declare a fundamental right to consensual homosexual sodomy by reading it into the Due Process clause of the Fourteenth Amendment to the US Constitution.

The 9-judges Court split 5-4 down the middle to rule against all of Hardwick’s propositions and uphold the constitutionality of the Georgia statute. The Court’s majority agreed that cases cited by Hardwick had indeed evolved a right to privacy, but disagreed that this privacy extended to homosexual persons since “(n)o connection between family, marriage, or procreation on the one hand and homosexual activity on the other has been demonstrated…”. In essence, the Court’s majority held that homosexuality was distinct from procreative human sexual behaviour; that homosexual sex could, by virtue of this distinction, be separately categorised and discriminated against; and, hence, homosexual sex did not qualify for the benefit of intimate privacy protection that was available to heterosexuals. What reason did the Court give to support this discrimination? Justice White speaking for the majority gives us a clue: “Proscriptions against that (homosexual) conduct have ancient roots.” Justice White was joined in his majority judgement by Chief Justice Burger, Justice Powell, Justice Rehnquist and Justice O’Connor. His rationale was underscored by Chief Justice Burger who also wrote a short concurring opinion wherein he claimed:

“Decisions of individuals relating to homosexual conduct have been subject to state intervention throughout the history of Western civilization. Condemnation of those practices is firmly rooted in Judeo-Christian moral and ethical standards. Blackstone described “the infamous crime against nature” as an offense of “deeper malignity” than rape, a heinous act “the very mention of which is a disgrace to human nature,” and “a crime not fit to be named.” … To hold that the act of homosexual sodomy is somehow protected as a fundamental right would be to cast aside millennia of moral teaching.”

The majority’s “wilful blindness”: Blackmun’s dissent

The Court’s dissenting opinion was delivered by Justice Blackmun, in which Justice Brennan, Justice Marshall and Justice Stevens joined. At the outset, the Justice Blackmun disagreed with the issue that was framed by the majority led by Justice White: “This case is (not) about “a fundamental right to engage in homosexual sodomy,” as the Court purports to declare…” and further pointed out that the Georgia statute proscribed not just homosexual sodomy, but oral or anal sex committed by any two persons: “…the Court’s almost obsessive focus on homosexual activity is particularly hard to justify in light of the broad language Georgia has used.”. When considering the issue of privacy for intimate sexual conduct, Justice Blackmun criticised the findings of the majority: “Only the most wilful blindness could obscure the fact that sexual intimacy is a sensitive, key relationship of human existence, central to family life, community welfare, and the development of human personality…” And when dealing with the ‘historical morality’ argument that was advanced by Chief Justice Burger, the minority observed:

“The assertion that “traditional Judeo-Christian values proscribe” the conduct involved cannot provide an adequate justification for (§)16-6-2 (of the Georgia Statute). That certain, but by no means all, religious groups condemn the behavior at issue gives the State no license to impose their judgments on the entire citizenry. The legitimacy of secular legislation depends instead on whether the State can advance some justification for its law beyond its conformity to religious doctrine.”

The states respond, privacy is upheld

Bowers was argued and decided over five years in the 1980s. At the time, the USA was witnessing a neo-conservative wave in its society and government, which was headed by a republican conservative. The HIV/AIDS issue had achieved neither the domestic nor international proportions it now occupies and the linkages between HIV/AIDS, homosexuality and the right to health were still unclear. In the years after Bowers, several more US States repealed their sodomy laws.

In some US States, sodomy laws that were not legislatively repealed were judicially struck down. In 1998, the Georgia State Supreme Court, in Powell v. State of Georgia S98A0755, 270 Ga. 327, 510 S.E. 2d 18 (1998), heard a challenge to the same sodomy provision of the Georgia statute that was upheld in by the US Supreme Court in Bowers. In a complete departure from the US Supreme Court’s findings, the Georgia Supreme Court first considered whether the Georgia statute violated individual privacy: “It is clear from the right of privacy appellate jurisprudence…that the “right to be let alone” guaranteed by the Georgia Constitution is far more extensive that the right of privacy protected by the U.S. Constitution…”

Having established that an individual right to privacy existed to protect private consensual sodomy, the Georgia Court then considered whether there was a ‘legitimate State interest’ that justified the State’s restriction of this right. The justifications that were offered by the State included the possibility of child sexual abuse, prostitution and moral degradation of society. The Court found that there already were a number of legal provisions to deter and punish rape, child abuse, trafficking, prostitution and public indecency. Hence: “In light of the existence of these statutes, the sodomy statute’s raison d’ etre can only be to regulate the private sexual conduct of consenting adults, something which Georgians’ right of privacy puts beyond the bounds of government regulation.” By a 2-1 decision, Chief Justice Benham leading the majority, the Georgia Supreme Court struck down the Georgia statute for arbitrarily violating the privacy of individuals. Interestingly, the subjects of the dispute were not homosexual, but two heterosexual adults – a man and a woman. Similar cases where a US State’s sodomy laws were judicially struck down include:

Campbell v. Sundquist 926 S.W.2d 250 (1996) – [Tennessee – by the Tennessee Court of Appeals on privacy violation; appeal to the State Supreme Court expressly denied].
Commonwealth v. Bonadio 415 A.2d 47 (1980) – [Pennsylvania – by the Pennsylvania Supreme Court on both equality and privacy violations];
Doe v. Ventura MC 01-489, 2001 WL 543734 (2001) – [Minnesota – by the Hennepin County District Judge on privacy violation; no appellate challenge];
Gryczan v. Montana 942 P.2d 112 (1997) – [Montana – by the Montana Supreme Court on privacy violation];
Jegley v. Picado 80 S.W.3d 332 (2001) – [Arkansas – by the Arkansas Supreme Court, on privacy violation];
Kentucky v. Wasson 842 S.W.2d 487 (1992) [Kentucky – by the Kentucky Supreme Court on both equality and privacy violations];
Massachusetts v. Balthazar 366 Mass. 298, 318 NE2d 478 (1974) and GLAD v. Attorney General 436 Mass. 132, 763 NE2d 38 (2002) – [Massachusetts – by the Superior Judicial Court on privacy violation];
People v. Onofre 51 NY 2d 476 (1980) [New York – by the New York Court of Appeals on privacy violation]; and,
Williams v. Glendenning No. 98036031/CL-1059 (1999) – [Maryland – by the Baltimore City Circuit Court on both privacy and equality violations; no appellate challenge].

Lawrence v. Texas

These developments made for an uneven field in the matter of legality of homosexual sex with the sodomy laws of most States being repealed by their State legislatures or subject to State judicial invalidation, while the sodomy laws of the remaining States were retained under the shade of constitutional protection afforded by Bowers. Texas was one such State which maintained an anti-sodomy law contained in Texas Penal Code Annotated § 21.06(a) (2003) (“Texas statute”) which criminalised sexual intercourse between two people of the same sex. In 1998, the Texas statute was invoked to arrest two men engaged in private, consensual, non-commercial sodomy. They subsequently challenged the constitutionality of the Texas statute, their case reaching the US Supreme Court. In 2003, the US Supreme Court, in Lawrence v. Texas 539 US 558 (2003) pronounced on the validity of the Texas statute. Interestingly, while the issue under consideration was identical to that decided in Bowers, the Court this time around was presented with detailed arguments on the equality-discrimination aspect of same-sex sodomy laws – which the Bowers Court majority did not consider. The Court split 6-3; the majority struck down the Texas statute. Justice Kennedy, speaking for himself and 4 other judges of the majority, found instant fault with the Bowers Court for framing the issue in question before it as simply whether homosexuals had a fundamental right to engage in sodomy.

Privacy, intimacy, home

This mistake, Justice Kennedy claimed, “…discloses the Court’s own failure… To say that the issue in Bowers was simply the right to engage in certain sexual conduct demeans…the individual…just as it would demean a married couple were it to be said marriage is simply about the right to have sexual intercourse. Their penalties and purposes (of the laws involved)…have more far-reaching consequences, touching upon the most private human conduct, sexual behavior, and in the most private of places, the home.” Justice Kennedy, joined by Justice Stevens, Justice Souter, Justice Ginsburg and Justice Breyer, found that the Texas statute violated the right to privacy granted by the Due Process clause of the US Constitution:

“The petitioners are entitled to respect for their private lives. The State cannot demean their existence or control their destiny by making their private sexual conduct a crime. “It is a promise of the Constitution that there is a realm of personal liberty which the government may not enter.”” [The quote is c.f. Planned Parenthood of Southeastern Pa. v. Casey 505 US 833 (1992)]

Imposed morality is defeated

With the privacy argument established as controlling, Justice Kennedy went to some length to refute the ‘historical morality’ argument that was put forward in Bowers by then Chief Justice Burger: “At the outset it should be noted that there is no longstanding history in this country of laws directed at homosexual conduct as a distinct matter… The sweeping references by Chief Justice Burger to the history of Western civilization and to Judeo-Christian moral and ethical standards did not take account of other authorities pointing in an opposite direction.” To illustrate these other authorities, Justice Kennedy references the ECHR’s decision in Dudgeon supra which was reached five years before Bowers: “Authoritative in all countries that are members of the Council of Europe (21 nations then, 45 nations now), the decision (Dudgeon) is at odds with the premise in Bowers that the claim put forward was insubstantial in our Western civilization.”.

The Court then affirmed that morality could not be a compelling ground to infringe upon a fundamental right: “Our obligation is to define the liberty of all, not to mandate our own moral code”. The lone remaining judge of the majority, Justice O’Connor, based her decision not on the right to privacy but on equality-discrimination considerations. Interestingly, Justice O’Connor sat on the Bowers Court and ruled with the majority in that case. Basing her decision on equal protection grounds allowed her to concur with the majority in Lawrence but not overturn her earlier position in Bowers which had rejected a right to privacy claim. It also enabled her to strike down the Texas statute while not conceding homosexuality as a constitutionally guaranteed private liberty. There were three dissenters: The chief dissent was delivered by Justice Scalia, in which he was joined by Chief Justice Rehnquist and Justice Thomas. Bowers was not merely distinguished by the majority, it was overruled:

“Bowers was not correct when it was decided, and it is not correct today. It ought not to remain binding precedent. Bowers v. Hardwick should be and now is overruled.”

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/privacy-autonomy-sexual-choice-common-law-recognition-of-homosexuality

Net Neutrality and the Law of Common Carriage

bhairav — 2015-08-23T11:09:04Z

Net neutrality makes strange bedfellows. It links the truck operators that dominate India’s highways, such as those that carry vegetables from rural markets to cities, and Internet service providers which perform a more technologically advanced task.

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Over the last decade, the truckers have opposed the government’s attempts to impose the obligations of common carriage on them, this has resulted in strikes and temporary price rises; and, in the years ahead, there is likely to be a similar – yet, technologically very different – debate as net neutrality advocates call for an adapted version of common carriage to bind Internet services.

Net neutrality demands a rigorous examination that is not attempted by this short note which, constrained by space, will only briefly trace the law and policy of net neutrality in the US and attempt a brief comparison with the principles of common carriage in India. Net neutrality defies definition. Very simply, the principle demands that Internet users have equal access to all content and applications on the Internet. This can only be achieved if Internet service providers: (i) do not block lawful content; (ii) do not throttle – deliberately slow down or speed up access to selected content; (iii) do not prioritise certain content over others for monetary gain; and, (iv) are transparent in their management of the networks by which data flows.

Almost exactly a year ago, the District of Columbia Circuit Court of Appeals – a senior court below the US Supreme Court – struck down portions of the ‘Open Internet Order’ that was issued by the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) in 2010. Although sound in law, the Court’s verdict impeded net neutrality to raise crucial questions regarding common carriage, free speech, competition, and others. More recently, Airtel’s announcement of its decision to charge certain end-users for VoIP services – subsequently suspended pending a policy decision from the Telecom Regulatory Authority of India (TRAI) – has fuelled the net neutrality debate in India.

Because of its innovative technological history in relation to the Internet, the US has pioneered many legal attempts to regulate the Internet in respect of net neutrality. In 1980, when Internet data flowed through telephone lines, the FCC issued the ‘Computer II’ regime which distinguished basic services from enhanced services. The difference between the two turned on the nature of the transmission. Regular telephone calls involved a pure transmission of data and were hence classified as basic services. On the other hand, access to the Internet required the processing of user data through computers; these were classified as enhanced services. Importantly, because of their essential nature, the Computer II rules bound basic services providers to the obligations of common carriage whereas enhanced services providers were not.

What is common carriage? Common law countries share a unique heritage in respect of their law governing the transport of goods and people. Those that perform such transport are called carriers. The law makes a distinction between common carriers and other carriers. A carrier becomes a common carrier when it “holds itself out” to the public as willing to transport people or goods for compensation. The act of holding out is simply a public communication of an offer to transport, it may be fulfilled even by an advertisement. The four defining elements of a common carrier are (i) a holding out of a willingness (a public undertaking) (ii) to transport persons or property (iii) from place to place (iv) for compensation.

Common carriers discharge a public trust. By virtue of their unique position and essential function, they are required to serve their customers equally and without discrimination. The law of carriage of goods and people places four broad duties upon common carriers. Firstly, common carriers are bound to carry everyone’s goods or all people and cannot refuse such carriage unless certain strict conditions are met. Secondly, common carriers must perform their carriage safely without deviating from accepted routes unless in exceptional circumstances. Thirdly, common carriers must obey the timeliness of their schedules, they must be on time. And, lastly, common carriers must assume liabilities for the loss or damages of goods, or death or injuries to people, during carriage.

The Computer II regime was issued under a telecommunications law of 1934 which retained the classical markers and duties of common carriers. The law extended the principles of common carriage to telephone services providers. In 1980, when the regime was introduced, the FCC did not invest Internet services with the same degree of essence and public trust; hence, enhanced services escaped strict regulation. However, the FCC did require that basic services and enhanced services be offered through separate entities, and that basic services providers that operated the ‘last-mile’ wired transmission infrastructure to users offer these facilities to enhanced services providers on a common carrier basis.

In 1996, the new Telecommunications Act revisited US law after more than sixty years. The new dispensation maintained the broad structure of the Computer II regime: it recognised telecommunications carriers in place of basic services providers, and information-services providers in place of enhanced services. Carriers in the industry had already converged telephone and Internet communications as a single service. Hence, when a user engaged a carrier that provided telephone and broadband Internet services, the classification of the carrier would depend on the service being accessed. When a carrier provided broadband Internet access, it was an information-services provider (not a telecommunications carrier) and vice versa. Again, telecommunications carriers were subjected to stricter regulations and liability resembling common carriage.

In 1998, the provision of broadband Internet over wired telephone lines through DSL technologies was determined to be a pure transmission and hence a telecommunications service warranting common carriage regulation. However, in 2002, the FCC issued the ‘Cable Broadband Order’ that treated the provision of cable broadband through last-mile wired telephone transmission networks as a single and integrated information service. This exempted most cable broadband from the duties of common carriage. This policy was challenged in the US Supreme Court in 2005 in the Brand X case and upheld.

Significantly, the decision in the Brand X case was not made on technological merits. The case arose when a small ISP that had hitherto used regular telephone lines to transmit data wanted equal access to the coaxial cables of the broadcasting majors on the basis of common carriage. Instead of making a finding on the status of cable broadband providers based on the four elements of common carriage, the Court employed an administrative law principle of deferring to the decisions of an expert technical regulator – known as the Chevron deference principle – to rule against the small ISP. Thereafter wireless and mobile broadband were also declared to be information services and saved from the application of common carriage law.

Taking advantage of this exemption from common carriage which released broadband providers from the duty of equal access and anti-discrimination, Comcast began from 2007 to degrade P2P data flows to its users. This throttling was reported to the FCC which responded with the 2008 ‘Comcast Order’ to demand equal and transparent transmission from Comcast. Instead, Comcast took the FCC to court. In 2010, the Comcast Order was struck down by the DC Circuit Court of Appeals. And, again, the decision in the Comcast case was made on an administrative law principle, not on technological merits.

In the Comcast case, the Court said that as long as the FCC treated broadband Internet access as an information service it could not enforce an anti-discrimination order against Comcast. This is because the duty of anti-discrimination attached only to common carriers which the FCC applied to telecommunications carriers. Following the Comcast case, the FCC began to consider reclassifying broadband Internet providers as telecommunications carriers.

However, in the 2010 ‘Open Internet Order’, the FCC attempted a different regulatory approach. Instead of a classification based on common carriage, the new rules recognised two types of Internet service providers: (i) fixed providers, which transmitted to homes, and, (ii) mobile providers, which were accessed by smartphones. The rules required both types of providers to ensure transparency in network management, disallowed blocking of lawful content, and re-imposed the anti-discrimination requirement to forbid prioritised access or throttling of certain content.

Before they were even brought into effect, Verizon challenged the Open Internet Order in the same court that delivered the Comcast judgement. The decision of the Court is pending. Meanwhile, in India, Airtel’s rollback of its announcement to charge its pre-paid mobile phone users more for VoIP services raises very similar questions. Like the common law world, India already extends the principles of common carriage to telecommunications. Indian jurisprudence also sustains the distinction between common carriage and private carriage, and applies an anti-discrimination requirement to telecommunications providers through a licensing regime.

TRAI must decide if it wants to continue this distinction. No doubt, the provision of communications services through telephone and the Internet serves an eminent public good. It was on this basis that President Obama called on the FCC to reclassify broadband Internet providers as common carriers. Telecommunications carriers, such as Airtel, might argue that they have expended large sums of money on network infrastructure that is undermined by the use of high-bandwidth free VoIP applications, and that the law of common carriage must recognise this fact. And still others call for a new approach to net neutrality outside the dichotomy of common and private carriage. Whatever the solution, it must be reached by widespread engagement and participation, for Internet access – as the government’s Digital India project is aware – serves public interest.

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/net-neutrality-and-law-of-common-carriage

Free Speech Policy in India: Community, Custom, Censorship, and the Future of Internet Regulation

bhairav — 2015-08-23T10:12:16Z

This note summarises my panel contribution to the conference on Freedom of Expression in a Digital Age at New Delhi on 21 April 2015, which was organised by the Observer Research Foundation (ORF) and the Centre for Internet and Society (CIS) in collaboration with the Internet Policy Observatory of the Center for Global Communication Studies (CGCS) at the Annenberg School for Communication, University of Pennsylvania

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Preliminary

There has been legitimate happiness among many in India at the Supreme Court’s recent decision in the Shreya Singhal case to strike down section 66A of the Information Technology Act, 2000 ("IT Act") for unconstitutionally fettering the right to free speech on the Internet. The judgment is indeed welcome, and reaffirms the Supreme Court’s proud record of defending the freedom of speech, although it declined to interfere with the government’s stringent powers of website blocking. As the dust settles there are reports the government is re-grouping to introduce fresh law, allegedly stronger to secure easier convictions, to compensate the government’s defeat.

Case Law and Government Policy

India’s constitutional courts have a varied history of negotiating the freedom of speech that justifiably demands study. But, in my opinion, inadequate attention is directed to the government’s history of free speech policy. It is possible to discern from the government’s actions over the last two centuries a relatively consistent narrative of governance that seeks to bend the individual’s right to speech to its will. The defining characteristics of this narrative – the government’s free speech policy – emerge from a study of executive and legislative decisions chiefly in relation to the press, that continue to shape policy regarding the freedom of expression on the Internet.

India’s corpus of free speech case law is not uniform nor can it be since, for instance, the foundational issues that attend hate speech are quite different from those that inform contempt of court. So too, Indian free speech policy has been varied, captive to political compulsions and disparate views regarding the interests of the community, governance and nation-building. There has been consistent tension between the individual and the community, as well as the role of the government in enforcing the expectations of the community when thwarted by law.

Dichotomy between Modern and Native Law

To understand free speech policy, it is useful to go back to the early colonial period in India, when Governor-General Warren Hastings established a system of courts in Bengal’s hinterland to begin the long process of displacing traditional law to create a modern legal system. By most accounts, pre-modern Indian law was not prescriptive, Austinian, and uniform. Instead, there were several legal systems and a variety of competing and complementary legal sources that supported different interpretations of law within most legal systems. J. Duncan M. Derrett notes that the colonial expropriation of Indian law was marked by a significant tension caused by the repeatedly-stated objective of preserving some fields of native law to create a dichotomous legal structure. These efforts were assisted by orientalist jurists such as Henry Thomas Colebrook whose interpretation of the dharmasastras heralded a new stage in the evolution of Hindu law.

In this background, it is not surprising that Elijah Impey, a close associate of Hastings, simultaneously served as the first Chief Justice of the Supreme Court at Fort William while overseeing the Sadr Diwani Adalat, a civil court applying Anglo-Hindu law for Hindus, and the Sadr Faujdari Adalat, a criminal court applying Anglo-Islamic law to all natives. By the mid-nineteenth century, this dual system came under strain in the face of increasing colonial pressure to rationalise the legal system to ensure more effective governance, and native protest at the perceived insensitivity of the colonial government to local customs.

Criminal Law and Free Speech in the Colony

In 1837, Thomas Macaulay wrote the first draft of a new comprehensive criminal law to replace indigenous law and custom with statutory modern law. When it was enacted as the Indian Penal Code in 1860 ("IPC"), it represented the apogee of the new colonial effort to recreate the common law in India. The IPC’s enactment coincided with the growth and spread of both the press and popular protest in India. The statute contained the entire gamut of public-order and community-interest crimes to punish unlawful assembly, rioting, affray, wanton provocation, public nuisance, obscenity, defiling a place of worship, disturbing a religious assembly, wounding religious feelings, and so on. It also criminalised private offences such as causing insult, annoyance, and intimidation. These crimes continue to be invoked in India today to silence individual opinion and free speech, including on the Internet. Section 66A of the IT Act utilised a very similar vocabulary of censorship.

Interestingly, Macaulay’s IPC did not feature the common law offences of sedition and blasphemy or the peculiar Indian crime of promoting inter-community enmity; these were added later. Sedition was criminalised by section 124A at the insistence of Barnes Peacock and applied successfully against Indian nationalist leaders including Bal Gangadhar Tilak in 1897 and 1909, and Mohandas Gandhi in 1922. In 1898, the IPC was amended again to incorporate section 153A to criminalise the promotion of enmity between different communities by words or deeds. And, in 1927, a more controversial amendment inserted section 295A into the IPC to criminalise blasphemy. All three offences have been recently used in India against writers, bloggers, professors, and ordinary citizens.

Loss of the Right to Offend

The two amendments of 1898 and 1927, which together proscribed the promotion of inter-community enmity and blasphemy, represent the dismantling of the right to offend in India. But, oddly, they were defended by the colonial government in the interests of native sensibilities. The proceedings of the Imperial Legislative Council reveal several members, including Indians, were enthusiastic about the amendments. For some, the amendments were a necessary corrective action to protect community honour from subversive speech. The 1920s were a period of foment in India as the freedom movement intensified and communal tension mounted. In this environment, it was easy to fuse the colonial interest in strong administration with a nationalist narrative that demanded the retrieval of Indian custom to protect native sensibilities from being offended by individual free speech, a right derived from modern European law. No authoritative jurist could be summoned to prove or refute the claim that native custom privileged community honour.

Sadly the specific incident which galvanised the amendment of 1927, which established the crime of blasphemy in India, would not appear unfamiliar to a contemporary observer. Mahashay Rajpal, an Arya Samaj activist, published an offensive pamphlet of the Prophet Muhammad titled Rangeela Rasool, for which he was arrested and tried but acquitted in the absence of specific blasphemy provisions. With his speech being found legal, Rajpal was released and given police protection but Ilam Din, a Muslim youth, stabbed him to death. Instead of supporting its criminal law and strengthening its police forces to implement the decisions of its courts, the colonial administration surrendered to the threat of public disorder and enacted section 295A of the IPC.

Protest and Community Honour

The amendment of 1927 marks an important point of rupture in the history of Indian free speech. It demonstrated the government’s policy intention of overturning the courts to restrict the individual’s right to speech when faced with public protest. In this way, the combination of public disorder and the newly-created crimes of promoting inter-community enmity and blasphemy opened the way for the criminal justice system to be used as a tool by natives to settle their socio-cultural disputes. Both these crimes address group offence; they do not redress individual grievances. In so far as they are designed to endorse group honour, these crimes signify the community’s attempt to suborn modern law and individual rights.

Almost a century later, the Rangeela Rasool affair has become the depressing template for illegal censorship in India: fringe groups take offence at permissible speech, crowds are marshalled to articulate an imagined grievance, and the government capitulates to the threat of violence. This formula has become so entrenched that governance has grown reflexively suppressive, quick to silence speech even before the perpetrators of lumpen violence can receive affront. This is especially true of online speech, where censorship is driven by the additional anxiety brought by the difficulty of Internet regulation. In this race to be offended the government plays the parochial referee, acting to protect indigenous sensibilities from subversive but legal speech.

The Censorious Post-colony

Independence marked an opportunity to remake Indian governance in a freer image. The Constituent Assembly had resolved not to curb the freedom of speech in Article 19(1)(a) of the Constitution on account of public order. In two cases from opposite ends of the country where right-wing and left-wing speech were punished by local governments on public order grounds, the Supreme Court acted on the Constituent Assembly’s vision and struck down the laws in question. Free speech, it appeared, would survive administrative concerns, thanks to the guarantee of a new constitution and an independent judiciary. Instead Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru and his cabinet responded with the First Amendment in 1951, merely a year after the Constitution was enacted, to create three new grounds of censorship, including public order. In 1963, a year before he demitted office, the Sixteenth Amendment added an additional restriction.

Nehru did not stop at amending the Constitution, he followed shortly after with a concerted attempt to stage-manage the press by de-legitimising certain kinds of permissible speech.

Under Justice G. S. Rajadhyaksha, the government constituted the First Press Commission which attacked yellow journalism, seemingly a sincere concern, but included permissible albeit condemnable speech that was directed at communities, indecent or vulgar, and biased. Significantly, the Commission expected the press to only publish speech that conformed to the developmental and social objectives of the government. In other words, Nehru wanted the press to support his vision of India and used the imperative of nation-building to achieve this goal. So, the individual right to offend communities was taken away by law and policy, and speech that dissented from the government’s socio-economic and political agenda was discouraged by policy. Coupled with the new constitutional ground of censorship on account of public order, the career of free speech in independent India began uncertainly.

How to regulate permissible speech?

Despite the many restrictions imposed by law on free speech, Indian free speech policy has long been engaged with the question of how to regulate the permissible speech that survives constitutional scrutiny. This was significantly easier in colonial India. In 1799, Governor-General Richard Wellesley, the brother of the famous Duke of Wellington who defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, instituted a pre-censorship system to create what Rajeev Dhavan calls a “press by permission” marked by licensed publications, prior restraint, subsequent censorship, and harsh penalties. A new colonial regime for strict control over the publication of free speech was enacted in the form of the Press and Registration of Books Act, 1867, the preamble of which recognises that “the literature of a country is…an index of…the condition of [its] people”. The 1867 Act was diluted after independence but still remains alive in the form of the Registrar of Newspapers.

After surviving Indira Gandhi’s demand for a committed press and the depredations of her regime during the Emergency, India’s press underwent the examination of the Second Press Commission. This was appointed in 1978 under the chairmanship of Justice P. K. Goswami, a year after the Janata government released the famous White Paper on Misuse of Mass Media. When Gandhi returned to power, Justice Goswami resigned and the Commission was reconstituted under Justice K. K. Mathew. In 1982, the Commission’s report endorsed the earlier First Press Commission’s call for conformist speech, but went further by proposing the appointment of a press regulator invested with inspection powers; criminalising attacks on the government; re-interpreting defamation law to encompass democratic criticism of public servants; retaining stringent official secrecy law; and more. It was quickly acted upon by Rajiv Gandhi through his infamous Defamation Bill.

The contours of future Internet regulation

The juggernaut of Indian free speech policy has received temporary setbacks, mostly inflicted by the Supreme Court. Past experience shows us that governments with strong majorities – whether Jawaharlal Nehru’s following independence or Indira Gandhi’s in the 1970s – act on their administrative impulses to impede free speech by government policy. The Internet is a recent and uncontrollable medium of speech that attracts disproportionately heavy regulatory attention. Section 66A of the IT Act may be dead but several other provisions remain to harass and punish online free speech. Far from relaxing its grip on divergent opinions, the government appears poised for more incisive invasions of personal freedoms.

I do not believe the contours of future speech regulation on the Internet need to be guessed at, they can be derived from the last two centuries of India’s free speech policy. When section 66A is replaced – and it will be, whether overtly by fresh statutory provisions or stealthily by policy and non-justiciable committees and commissions – it will be through a regime that obeys the mandate of the First Press Commission to discourage dissenting and divergent speech while adopting the regulatory structures of the Second Press Commission to permit a limited inspector raj and forbid attacks on personalities. The interests of the community, howsoever improperly articulated, will seek precedence over individual freedoms and the accompanying threat of violence will give new meaning to Bhimrao Ambedkar’s warning of the “grammar of anarchy”.

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/policy-in-india-community-custom-censorship-and-future-of-internet-regulation

Mastering the Art of Keeping Indians Under Surveillance

bhairav — 2015-08-23T12:26:48Z

In its first year in office, the National Democratic Alliance government has been notably silent on the large-scale surveillance projects it has inherited. This ended last week amidst reports the government is hastening to complete the Central Monitoring System (CMS) within the year.

The article was published in the Wire on May 30, 2015.

In a statement to the Rajya Sabha in 2009, Gurudas Kamat, the erstwhile United Progressive Alliance’s junior communications minister, said the CMS was a project to enable direct state access to all communications on mobile phones, landlines, and the Internet in India. He meant the government was building ‘backdoors’, or capitalising on existing ones, to enable state authorities to intercept any communication at will, besides collecting large amounts of metadata, without having to rely on private communications carriers.

This is not new. Legally sanctioned backdoors have existed in Europe and the USA since the early 1990s to enable direct state interception of private communications. But the laws of those countries also subject state surveillance to a strong regime of state accountability, individual freedoms, and privacy. This regime may not be completely robust, as Edward Snowden’s revelations have shown, but at least it exists on paper. The CMS is not illegal by itself, but it is coloured by the compromised foundation of Indian surveillance law upon which it is built.

Surveillance and social control

The CMS is a technological project. But technology does not exist in isolation; it is contextualised by law, society, politics, and history. Surveillance and the CMS must be seen in the same contexts.

The great sociologist Max Weber claimed the modern state could not exist without monopolising violence. It seems clear the state also entertains the equal desire to monopolise communications technologies. The state has historically shaped the way in which information is transmitted, received, and intercepted. From the telegraph and radio to telephones and the Internet, the state has constantly endeavoured to control communications technologies.

Law is the vehicle of this control. When the first telegraph line was laid down in India, its implications for social control were instantly realised; so the law swiftly responded by creating a state monopoly over the telegraph. The telegraph played a significant role in thwarting the Revolt of 1857, even as Indians attempted to destroy the line; so the state consolidated its control over the technology to obviate future contests.

This controlling impulse was exercised over radio and telephones, which are also government monopolies, and is expressed through the state’s surveillance prerogative. On the other hand, because of its open and decentralised architecture, the Internet presents the single greatest threat to the state’s communications monopoly and dilutes its ability to control society.

Interception in India

The power to intercept communications arises with the regulation of telegraphy. The first two laws governing telegraphs, in 1854 and 1860, granted the government powers to take possession of telegraphs “on the occurrence of any public emergency”. In 1876, the third telegraph law expanded this threshold to include “the interest of public safety”. These are vague phrases and their interpretation was deliberately left to the government’s discretion.

This unclear formulation was replicated in the Indian Telegraph Act of 1885, the fourth law on the subject, which is currently in force today. The 1885 law included a specific power to wiretap. Incredibly, this colonial surveillance provision survived untouched for 87 years even as countries across the world balanced their surveillance powers with democratic safeguards.

The Indian Constitution requires all deprivations of free speech to conform to any of nine grounds listed in Article 19(2). Public emergencies and public safety are not listed. So Indira Gandhi amended the wiretapping provision in 1972 to insert five grounds copied from Article 19(2). However, the original unclear language on public emergencies and public safety remained.

Indira Gandhi’s amendment was ironic because one year earlier she had overseen the enactment of the Defence and Internal Security of India Act, 1971 (DISA), which gave the government fresh powers to wiretap. These powers were not subject to even the minimal protections of the Telegraph Act. When the Emergency was imposed in 1975, Gandhi’s government bypassed her earlier amendment and, through the DISA Rules, instituted the most intensive period of surveillance in Indian history.

Although DISA was repealed, the tradition of having parallel surveillance powers for fictitious emergencies continues to flourish. Wiretapping powers are also found in the Maharashtra Control of Organised Crime Act, 1999 which has been copied by Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh, Arunachal Pradesh, and Gujarat.

Procedural weaknesses

Meanwhile, the Telegraph Act with its 1972 amendment continued to weather criticism through the 1980s. The wiretapping power was largely exercised free of procedural safeguards such as the requirements to exhaust other less intrusive means of investigation, minimise information collection, limit the sharing of information, ensure accountability, and others.

This changed in 1996 when the Supreme Court, on a challenge brought by PUCL, ordered the government to create a minimally fair procedure. The government fell in line in 1999, and a new rule, 419A, was put into the Indian Telegraph Rules, 1951.

Unlike the United States, where a wiretap can only be ordered by a judge when she decides the state has legally made its case for the requested interception, an Indian wiretap is sanctioned by a bureaucrat or police officer. Unlike the United Kingdom, which also grants wiretapping powers to bureaucrats but subjects them to two additional safeguards including an independent auditor and a judicial tribunal, an Indian wiretap is only reviewed by a committee of the original bureaucrat’s colleagues. Unlike most of the world which restricts this power to grave crime or serious security needs, an Indian wiretap can even be obtained by the income tax department.

Rule 419A certainly creates procedure, but it lacks crucial safeguards that impugn its credibility. Worse, the contours of rule 419A were copied in 2009 to create flawed procedures to intercept the content of Internet communications and collect metadata. Unlike rule 419A, these new rules issued under sections 69(2) and 69B(3) of the Information Technology Act 2000 have not been constitutionally scrutinised.

Three steps to tap

Despite its monopoly, the state does not own the infrastructure of telephones. It is dependent on telecommunications carriers to physically perform the wiretap. Indian wiretaps take place in three steps: a bureaucrat authorises the wiretap; a law enforcement officer serves the authorisation on a carrier; and, the carrier performs the tap and returns the information to the law enforcement officer.

There are many moving parts in this process, and so there are leaks. Some leaks are cynically motivated such as Amar Singh’s lewd conversations in 2011. But others serve a public purpose: Niira Radia’s conversations were allegedly leaked by a whistleblower to reveal serious governmental culpability. Ironically, leaks have created accountability where the law has failed.

The CMS will prevent leaks by installing servers on the transmission infrastructure of carriers to divert communications to regional monitoring centres. Regional centres, in turn, will relay communications to a centralised monitoring centre where they will be analysed, mined, and stored. Carriers will no longer perform wiretaps; and, since this obviates their costs of compliance, they are willing participants.

In its annual report of 2012, the Centre for the Development of Telematics (C-DOT), a state-owned R&D centre tasked with designing and creating the CMS, claimed the system would intercept 3G video, ILD, SMS, and ISDN PRI communications made through landlines or mobile phones – both GSM and CDMA.

There are unclear reports of an expansion to intercept Internet data, such as emails and browsing details, as well as instant messaging services; but these remain unconfirmed. There is also a potential overlap with another secretive Internet surveillance programme being developed by the Defence R&D Organisation called NETRA, no details of which are public.

Culmination of surveillance

In its present state, Indian surveillance law is unable to bear the weight of the CMS project, and must be vastly strengthened to protect privacy and accountability before the state is given direct access to communications.

But there is a larger way to understand the CMS in the context of Indian surveillance. Christopher Bayly, the noted colonial historian, writes that when the British set about establishing a surveillance apparatus in colonised India, they came up against an established system of indigenous intelligence gathering. Colonial rule was at its most vulnerable at this point of intersection between foreign surveillance and indigenous knowledge, and the meeting of the two was riven by suspicion. So the colonial state simply co-opted the interface by creating institutions to acquire local knowledge.

The CMS is also an attempt to co-opt the interface between government and the purveyors of communications; because if the state cannot control communications, it cannot control society. Seen in this light, the CMS represents the natural culmination of the progression of Indian surveillance. No challenge against it that does not question the construction of the modern Indian state will be successful.

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/the-wire-may-30-2015-bhairav-acharya-mastering-the-art-of-keeping-indians-under-surveillance

The Four Parts of Privacy in India

bhairav — 2015-08-23T13:04:50Z

Privacy enjoys an abundance of meanings. It is claimed in diverse situations every day by everyone against other people, society and the state.

Traditionally traced to classical liberalism’s public/private divide, there are now several theoretical conceptions of privacy that collaborate and sometimes contend. Indian privacy law is evolving in response to four types of privacy claims: against the press, against state surveillance, for decisional autonomy, and in relation to personal information. The Indian Supreme Court has selectively borrowed competing foreign privacy norms, primarily American, to create an unconvincing pastiche of privacy law in India. These developments are undermined by a lack of theoretical clarity and the continuing tension between individual freedoms and communitarian values.

This was published in Economic & Political Weekly, 50(22), 30 May 2015. Download the full article here.

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/economic-and-political-weekly-bhairav-acharya-may-30-2015-four-parts-of-privacy-in-india

Anvar v. Basheer and the New (Old) Law of Electronic Evidence

bhairav — 2014-12-04T15:53:01Z

The Supreme Court of India revised the law on electronic evidence. The judgment will have an impact on the manner in which wiretap tapes are brought before a court.

Read the original published by Law and Policy in India on September 25, 2014.

The case

On 18 September 2014, the Supreme Court of India delivered its judgment in the case of Anvar v. P. K. Basheer (Civil Appeal 4226 of 2012) to declare new law in respect of the evidentiary admissibility of the contents of electronic records. In doing so, Justice Kurian Joseph, speaking for a bench that included Chief Justice Rajendra M. Lodha and Justice Rohinton F. Nariman, overruled an earlier Supreme Court judgment in the 1995 case of State (NCT of Delhi) v. Navjot Sandhu alias Afsan Guru(2005) 11 SCC 600, popularly known as the Parliament Attacks case, and re-interpreted the application of sections 63, 65, and 65B of the Indian Evidence Act, 1872 (“Evidence Act”). To appreciate the implications of this judgment, a little background may be required.

The hearsay rule

The Evidence Act was drafted to codify principles of evidence in the common law. Traditionally, a fundamental rule of evidence is that oral evidence may be adduced to prove all facts, except documents, provided always that the oral evidence is direct. Oral evidence that is not direct is challenged by the hearsay rule and, unless it is saved by one of the exceptions to the hearsay rule, is inadmissible. In India, this principle is stated in sections 59 and 60 of the Evidence Act.

The hearsay rule is both fundamental and complex; a proper examination would require a lengthy excursus, but a simple explanation should suffice. In the landmark House of Lords decision in R v. Sharp [1988] 1 All ER 65, Lord Havers – the controversial prosecutor who went on to become the Lord Chancellor – described hearsay as “Any assertion other than one made by a person while giving oral evidence in the proceedings is inadmissible as evidence of any fact or opinion asserted.” This definition was applied by courts across the common law world. Section 114 of the United Kingdom’s (UK) Criminal Justice Act, 2003, which modernised British criminal procedure, uses simpler language: “a statement not made in oral evidence in the proceedings.”

Hearsay evidence is anything said outside a court by a person absent from a trial, but which is offered by a third person during the trial as evidence. The law excludes hearsay evidence because it is difficult or impossible to determine its truth and accuracy, which is usually achieved through cross examination. Since the person who made the statement and the person to whom it was said cannot be cross examined, a third person’s account of it is excluded. There are a few exceptions to this rule which need no explanation here; they may be left to another post.

Hearsay in documents

The hearsay rule is straightforward in relation to oral evidence but a little less so in relation to documents. As mentioned earlier, oral evidence cannot prove the contents of documents. This is because it would disturb the hearsay rule (since the document is absent, the truth or accuracy of the oral evidence cannot be compared to the document). In order to prove the contents of a document, either primary or secondary evidence must be offered.

Primary evidence of the contents of a document is the document itself [section 62 of the Evidence Act]. The process of compelling the production of a document in court is called ‘discovery’. Upon discovery, a document speaks for itself. Secondary evidence of the contents of a document is, amongst other things, certified copies of that document, copies made by mechanical processes that insure accuracy, and oral accounts of the contents by someone who has seen that document. Section 63 of the Evidence Act lists the secondary evidence that may prove the contents of a document.

Secondary evidence of documentary content is an attempt at reconciling the hearsay rule with the difficulties of securing the discovery of documents. There are many situations where the original document simply cannot be produced for a variety of reasons. Section 65 of the Evidence Act lists the situations in which the original document need not be produced; instead, the secondary evidence listed in section 63 can be used to prove its content. These situations arise when the original document (i) is in hostile possession; (ii) has been stipulated to by the prejudiced party; (iii) is lost or destroyed; (iv) cannot be easily moved, i.e. physically brought to the court; (v) is a public document of the state; (vi) can be proved by certified copies when the law narrowly permits; and (vii) is a collection of several documents.

Electronic documents

As documents came to be digitised, the hearsay rule faced several new challenges. While the law had mostly anticipated primary evidence (i.e. the original document itself) and had created special conditions for secondary evidence, increasing digitisation meant that more and more documents were electronically stored. As a result, the adduction of secondary evidence of documents increased. In the Anvar case, the Supreme Court noted that “there is a revolution in the way that evidence is produced before the court”.

In India before 2000, electronically stored information was treated as a document and secondary evidence of these electronic ‘documents’ was adduced through printed reproductions or transcripts, the authenticity of which was certified by a competent signatory. The signatory would identify her signature in court and be open to cross examination. This simple procedure met the conditions of both sections 63 and 65 of the Evidence Act. In this manner, Indian courts simply adapted a law drafted over one century earlier in Victorian England. However, as the pace and proliferation of technology expanded, and as the creation and storage of electronic information grew more complex, the law had to change more substantially.

New provisions for electronic records

To bridge the widening gap between law and technology, Parliament enacted the Information Technology Act, 2000 (“IT Act”) [official pdf here] that, amongst other things, created new definitions of “data”, “electronic record”, and “computer”. According to section 2(1)(t) of the IT Act, an electronic record is “data, record or data generated, image or sound stored, received or sent in an electronic form or micro film or computer generated micro fiche” (sic).

The IT Act amended section 59 of the Evidence Act to exclude electronic records from the probative force of oral evidence in the same manner as it excluded documents. This is the re-application of the documentary hearsay rule to electronic records. But, instead of submitting electronic records to the test of secondary evidence – which, for documents, is contained in sections 63 and 65, it inserted two new evidentiary rules for electronic records in the Evidence Act: section 65A and section 65B.

Section 65A of the Evidence Act creates special law for electronic evidence:

65A. Special provisions as to evidence relating to electronic record. – The contents of electronic records may be proved in accordance with the provisions of section 65B.

Section 65A of the Evidence Act performs the same function for electronic records that section 61 does for documentary evidence: it creates a separate procedure, distinct from the simple procedure for oral evidence, to ensure that the adduction of electronic records obeys the hearsay rule. It also secures other interests, such as the authenticity of the technology and the sanctity of the information retrieval procedure. But section 65A is further distinguished because it is a special law that stands apart from the documentary evidence procedure in sections 63 and 65.

Section 65B of the Evidence Act details this special procedure for adducing electronic records in evidence. Sub-section (2) lists the technological conditions upon which a duplicate copy (including a print-out) of an original electronic record may be used: (i) at the time of the creation of the electronic record, the computer that produced it must have been in regular use; (ii) the kind of information contained in the electronic record must have been regularly and ordinarily fed in to the computer; (iii) the computer was operating properly; and, (iv) the duplicate copy must be a reproduction of the original electronic record.

Sub-section (4) of section 65B of the Evidence Act lists additional non-technical qualifying conditions to establish the authenticity of electronic evidence. This provision requires the production of a certificate by a senior person who was responsible for the computer on which the electronic record was created, or is stored. The certificate must uniquely identify the original electronic record, describe the manner of its creation, describe the device that created it, and certify compliance with the technological conditions of sub-section (2) of section 65B.

Non-use of the special provisions

However, the special law and procedure created by sections 65A and 65B of the Evidence Act for electronic evidence were not used. Disappointingly, the cause of this non-use does not involve the law at all. India’s lower judiciary – the third tier of courts, where trials are undertaken – is vastly inept and technologically unsound. With exceptions, trial judges simply do not know the technology the IT Act comprehends. It is easier to carry on treating electronically stored information as documentary evidence. The reasons for this are systemic in India and, I suspect, endemic to poor developing countries. India’s justice system is decrepit and poorly funded. As long as the judicial system is not modernised, India’s trial judges will remain clueless about electronic evidence and the means of ensuring its authenticity.

By bypassing the special law on electronic records, Indian courts have continued to apply the provisions of sections 63 and 65 of the Evidence Act, which pertain to documents, to electronically stored information. Simply put, the courts have basically ignored sections 65A and 65B of the Evidence Act. Curiously, this state of affairs was blessed by the Supreme Court in Navjot Sandhu (the Parliament Attacks case), which was a particularly high-profile appeal from an emotive terrorism trial. On the question of the defence’s challenge to the authenticity and accuracy of certain call data records (CDRs) that the prosecution relied on, which were purported to be reproductions of the original electronically stored records, a Division Bench of Justice P. Venkatarama Reddi and Justice P. P. Naolekar held:

According to Section 63, secondary evidence means and includes, among other things, “copies made from the original by mechanical processes which in themselves ensure the accuracy of the copy, and copies compared with such copies”. Section 65 enables secondary evidence of the contents of a document to be adduced if the original is of such a nature as not to be easily movable. It is not in dispute that the information contained in the call records is stored in huge servers which cannot be easily moved and produced in the court. That is what the High Court has also observed at para 276. Hence, printouts taken from the computers/servers by mechanical process and certified by a responsible official of the service-providing company can be led into evidence through a witness who can identify the signatures of the certifying officer or otherwise speak to the facts based on his personal knowledge.

Flawed justice and political expediency in wiretap cases

The Supreme Court’s finding in Navjot Sandhu (quoted above) raised uncomfortable questions about the integrity of prosecution evidence, especially in trials related to national security or in high-profile cases of political importance. The state’s investigation of the Parliament Attacks was shoddy with respect to the interception of telephone calls. The Supreme Court’s judgment notes in prs. 148, 153, and 154 that the law and procedure of wiretaps was violated in several ways.

The Evidence Act mandates a special procedure for electronic records precisely because printed copies of such information are vulnerable to manipulation and abuse. This is what the veteran defence counsel, Mr. Shanti Bhushan, pointed out in Navjot Sandhu [see pr. 148] where there were discrepancies in the CDRs led in evidence by the prosecution. Despite these infirmities, which should have disqualified the evidence until the state demonstrated the absence of mala fide conduct, the Supreme Court stepped in to certify the secondary evidence itself, even though it is not competent to do so. The court did not compare the printed CDRs to the original electronic record. Essentially, the court allowed hearsay evidence. This is exactly the sort of situation that section 65B of the Evidence Act intended to avoid by requiring an impartial certificate under sub-section (4) that also speaks to compliance with the technical requirements of sub-section (2).

When the lack of a proper certificate regarding the authenticity and integrity of the evidence was pointed out, this is what the Supreme Court said in pr. 150:

Irrespective of the compliance of the requirements of Section 65B, which is a provision dealing with admissibility of electronic records, there is no bar to adducing secondary evidence under the other provisions of the Evidence Act, namely, Sections 63 and 65. It may be that the certificate containing the details in sub-section (4) of Section 65B is not filed in the instant case, but that does not mean that secondary evidence cannot be given even if the law permits such evidence to be given in the circumstances mentioned in the relevant provisions, namely, Sections 63 and 65.

In the years that followed, printed versions of CDRs were admitted in evidence if they were certified by an officer of the telephone company under sections 63 and 65 of the Evidence Act. The special procedure of section 65B was ignored. This has led to confusion and counter-claims. For instance, the 2011 case of Amar Singh v. Union of India (2011) 7 SCC 69 saw all the parties, including the state and the telephone company, dispute the authenticity of the printed transcripts of the CDRs, as well as the authorisation itself. Currently, in the case of Ratan Tata v. Union of India Writ Petition (Civil) 398 of 2010, a compact disc (CD) containing intercepted telephone calls was introduced in the Supreme Court without following any of the procedure contained in the Evidence Act.

Returning sanity to electronic record evidence, but at a price

In 2007, the United States District Court for Maryland handed down a landmark decision in Lorraine v. Markel American Insurance Company241 FRD 534 (D. Md. 2007) that clarified the rules regarding the discovery of electronically stored information. In American federal courts, the law of evidence is set out in the Federal Rules of Evidence. Lorraine held when electronically stored information is offered as evidence, the following tests need to be affirmed for it to be admissible: (i) is the information relevant; (ii) is it authentic; (iii) is it hearsay; (iv) is it original or, if it is a duplicate, is there admissible secondary evidence to support it; and (v) does its probative value survive the test of unfair prejudice?

In a small way, Anvar does for India what Lorraine did for US federal courts. In Anvar, the Supreme Court unequivocally returned Indian electronic evidence law to the special procedure created under section 65B of the Evidence Act. It did this by applying the maxim generalia specialibus non derogant (“the general does not detract from the specific”), which is a restatement of the principle lex specialis derogat legi generali (“special law repeals general law”). The Supreme Court held that the provisions of sections 65A and 65B of the Evidence Act created special law that overrides the general law of documentary evidence [see pr. 19]:

Proof of electronic record is a special provision introduced by the IT Act amending various provisions under the Evidence Act. The very caption of Section 65Aof the Evidence Act, read with Sections 59 and 65B is sufficient to hold that the special provisions on evidence relating to electronic record shall be governed by the procedure prescribed under Section 65B ofthe Evidence Act. That is a complete code in itself. Being a special law, the general law under Sections 63 and 65 has to yield.

By doing so, it disqualified oral evidence offered to attest secondary documentary evidence [see pr. 17]:

The Evidence Act does not contemplate or permit the proof of an electronic record by oral evidence if requirements under Section 65B of the Evidence Act are not complied with, as the law now stands in India.

The scope for oral evidence is offered later. Once electronic evidence is properly adduced according to section 65B of the Evidence Act, along with the certificate of sub-section (4), the other party may challenge the genuineness of the original electronic record. If the original electronic record is challenged, section 22A of the Evidence Act permits oral evidence as to its genuineness only. Note that section 22A disqualifies oral evidence as to the contents of the electronic record, only the genuineness of the record may be discussed. In this regard, relevant oral evidence as to the genuineness of the record can be offered by the Examiner of Electronic Evidence, an expert witness under section 45A of the Evidence Act who is appointed under section 79A of the IT Act.

While Anvar is welcome for straightening out the messy evidentiary practice regarding electronically stored information that Navjot Sandhuhad endorsed, it will extract a price from transparency and open government. The portion of Navjot Sandhu that was overruled dealt with wiretaps. In India, the wiretap empowerment is contained in section 5(2)of the Indian Telegraph Act, 1885 (“Telegraph Act”). The Telegraph Act is an inherited colonial law. Section 5(2) of the Telegraph Act was almost exactly duplicated thirteen years later by section 26 of the Indian Post Office Act, 1898. When the latter was referred to a Select Committee, P. Ananda Charlu – a prominent lawyer, Indian nationalist leader, and one of the original founders of the Indian National Congress in 1885 – criticised its lack of transparency, saying: “a strong and just government must not shrink from daylight”.

Wiretap leaks have become an important means of discovering governmental abuse of power, corruption, and illegality. For instance, the massive fraud enacted by under-selling 2G spectrum by A. Raja, the former telecom minister, supposedly India’s most expensive corruption scandal, caught the public’s imagination only after taped wiretapped conversations were leaked. Some of these conversations were recorded on to a CD and brought to the Supreme Court’s attention. There is no way that a whistle blower, or a person in possession of electronic evidence, can obtain the certification required by section 65B(4) of the Evidence Act without the state coming to know about it and, presumably, attempting to stop its publication.

Anvar neatly ties up electronic evidence, but it will probably discourage public interest disclosure of inquity.

Video

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/anvar-v-basheer-new-old-law-of-electronic-evidence

Roundtable on Indian Privacy Law and Policy

bhairav — 2014-12-27T14:18:16Z

This event was hosted by the Centre for Law and Development of the National University of Advanced Legal Studies (NUALS) in Kochi. It was attended by members of the faculty of NUALS, some students from the 2nd year, 3rd year, 4th year, and 5th year.

The meeting began with a talk by Bhairav Acharya on the origin of privacy law, its jurisprudential evolution, and the current context in which privacy is being debated in India and around the world.

Bhairav began by talking about the nature of privacy law around the world. Privacy has, until recently, never been a right in English common law. Indeed, the tort of invasion of privacy is also relatively incomplete. Privacy is protected through other torts, including the torts of nuisance, trespass, and others. European treaty requirements have foisted a right to privacy upon the British legal system; the contours of this right remain unclear.

American courts, on the other hand, have been more receptive to claims of the right to privacy. There is much in the American political and legal tradition that has contributed to the easy acceptability of privacy claims. Not least among these are the strong emphasis on the individual as the fundamental unit of governance and sovereignty, and the American libertarian tradition of autonomy.

Bhairav then spoke of the right to privacy in India. Early cases in the Supreme Court of India see privacy as a negotiation between the liberties of citizens and the power of the state. In a legal tradition deeply influenced by colonialism, Indian courts readily accepted claims against physical police surveillance and other related rights in the criminal justice process – public rights against the state that were once denied to Indian subjects of colonial rule, but held short of viewing privacy as a necessary individual protection against society. This has resulted in dichotomous privacy jurisprudence.

Bhairav then talked about the contexts in which privacy claims arise in India today. Specifically, he spoke about increasingly sophisticated surveillance techniques and large-scale personal data collection and processing. There are many complexities in both these fields and a lot of time and questions were spent going over them. Surveillance is older than the nation-state; privacy law does not seek the end of surveillance, but only its optimal use. There are many kinds of surveillance, the contemporary debate deals solely with wiretapping and electronic surveillance. Privacy law cannot be blind to the many other kinds of surveillance, including old-fashioned physical surveillance on the road.

Data collection, too, cannot be ended, nor should it for it forms the basis of modern commerce and is tied to India’s economic growth. There were questions and discussion on ‘big data’, data mining, analytics, business models, and other related areas. In India, however, in the absence of an innovative IT industry, the dominant business model is of receiving foreign personal data, usually of Europeans and Americans, to provide cheap processing services. This model depends entirely on comparatively lower Indian wages. Hence, it is not surprising that the first personal data protection rules issued by the Indian government in 2011 applied solely to foreign data that was outsourced to India.

Bhairav then introduced the 2011 draft Right to Privacy Bill that was proposed by the Department of Personnel and Training of the Indian government, as well as the Personal Data Protection Rules issued under the Information Technology Act, 2000. These measures were studied clause-by-clause.

Similarly, Indian law in respect of communications surveillance was analysed in detail. The Indian Telegraph Act 1885, the Indian Telegraph Rules 1951 (including the amendments of 1961, 1999, 2007, and 2014) were looked at in detail. These laws were compared to the Indian Post Office Act 1898 and the Information Technology Act 2000. The 1968 report of the Law Commission of India that examined the wiretapping power and suggested possible overreach was also examined.

Bhairav reviewed Indian law in respect of wiretapping. All Supreme Court case law, especially the cases of Hukum Chand and Peoples Union for Civil Liberties, were analysed. Finally, the group looked at how the legal principles applicable to wiretapping have been extended to electronic and Internet surveillance. Over here, the group studied the two sets of 2011 Rules under the IT Act that enable Internet and email surveillance of both content and metadata.

After a lunch break, the group spoke about possible models for privacy regulation and protection in India. In respect of surveillance, a lot of time was spent discussing the merits and demerits of judicial warranting of surveillance, as opposed to executive authorisations. The consensus of the group, with a few exceptions, was that judicial warranting would not be a suitable model for Indian surveillance, due to several systemic weaknesses. The group also rejected several of the principles proposed by Justice A. P. Shah in the 2012 Report that was commissioned by the Planning Commission.

After a discussion on legislative models, the group discussed, clause-by-clause, the CIS proposal on privacy that was read through by Bhairav. This discussion lasted several hours, and covered many areas.

For more details visit https://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/roundtable-on-indian-privacy-law-and-policy