Centre for Internet and Society

Free Speech and Civil Defamation

gautam — 2014-07-08T08:31:18Z

Does defamation become a tool in powerful hands to suppress criticism? Gautam Bhatia examines the strict and unrealistic demands of defamation law, and concludes that defamation suits are a weapon to silence dissent and bad press.

Previously on this blog, we have discussed one of the under-analysed aspects of Article 19(2) – contempt of court. In the last post, we discussed the checking – or “watchdog” – function of the press. There is yet another under-analysed part of 19(2) that we now turn to – one which directly implicates the press, in its role as public watchdog. This is the issue of defamation.

Unlike contempt of court – which was a last-minute insertion by Ambedkar, before the second reading of the draft Constitution in the Assembly – defamation was present in the restrictions clause since the Fundamental Rights Sub-Committee’s first draft, in 1947. Originally, it accompanied libel and slander, before the other two were dropped for the simpler “reasonable restrictions… in the interests of… defamation.” Unlike the other restrictions, which provoked substantial controversy, defamation did not provoke extended scrutiny by the Constituent Assembly.

In hindsight, that was a lapse. In recent years, defamation lawsuits have emerged as a powerful weapon against the press, used primarily by individuals and corporations in positions of power and authority, and invariably as a means of silencing criticism. For example, Hamish MacDonald’s The Polyester Prince, a book about the Ambanis, was unavailable in Indian bookshops, because of threats of defamation lawsuits. In January, Bloomsbury withdrew The Descent of Air India, which was highly critical of ex-Aviation Minister Praful Patel, after the latter filed a defamation lawsuit. Around the same time, Sahara initiated a 200 crore lawsuit against Tamal Bandyopadhayay, a journalist with The Mint, for his forthcoming book, Sahara: The Untold Story. Sahara even managed to get a stay order from a Calcutta High Court judge, who cited one paragraph from the book, and ruled that “Prima facie, the materials do seem to show the plaintiffs in poor light.” The issue has since been settled out of Court. Yet there is no guarantee that Bandyopadhyay would have won on merits, even with the absurd amount claimed as damages, given that a Pune Court awarded damages of Rs. 100 crores to former Justice P.B. Sawant against the Times Group, for a fifteen-second clip by a TV channel that accidentally showed his photograph next to the name of a judge who was an accused in a scam. What utterly takes the cake, though, is Infosys serving legal notices to three journalistic outlets recently, asking for damages worth Rs. 200 crore for “loss of reputation and goodwill due to circulation of defamatory articles.”

Something is very wrong here. The plaintiffs are invariably politicians or massive corporate houses, and the defendants are invariably journalists or newspapers. The subject is always critical reporting. The damages claimed (and occasionally, awarded) are astronomical – enough to cripple or destroy any business – and the actual harm is speculative. A combination of these factors, combined with a broken judicial system in which trials take an eternity to progress, leading to the prospect of a lawsuit hanging perpetually over one’s head, and financial ruin just around the corner, clearly has the potential to create a highly effective chilling effect upon newspapers, when it come to critical speech on matters of public interest.

One of the reasons that this happens, of course, is that extant defamation law allows it to happen. Under defamation law, as long as a statement is published, is defamatory (that is, tending to lower the reputation of the plaintiff in the minds of reasonable people) and refers to the plaintiff, a prima facie case of defamation is made out. The burden then shifts to the defendant to argue a justification, such as truth, or fair comment, or privileged communication. Notice that defamation, in this form, is a strict liability offence: that is, the publisher cannot save himself even if he has taken due care in researching and writing his story. Even an inadvertent factual error can result in liability. Furthermore, there are many things that straddle a very uncomfortable barrier between “fact” and “opinion” (“opinions” are generally not punishable for defamation): for example, if I call you “corrupt”, have I made a statement of fact, or one of opinion? Much of reporting – especially political reporting – falls within this slipstream.

The legal standard of defamation, therefore, puts almost all the burden upon the publisher, a burden that will often be impossible to discharge – as well as potentially penalising the smallest error. Given the difficulty in fact-checking just about everything, as well as the time pressures under which journalists operate, this is an unrealistic standard. What makes things even worse, however, is that there is no cap on damages, and that the plaintiff need not even demonstrate actual harm in making his claims. Judges have the discretion to award punitive damages, which are meant to serve both as an example and as a deterrent. When Infosys claims 2000 crores, therefore, it need not show that there has been a tangible drop in its sales, or that it has lost an important and lucrative contract – let alone showing that the loss was caused by the defamatory statement. All it needs to do is make abstract claims about loss of goodwill and reputation, which are inherently difficult to verify either way, and it stands a fair chance of winning.

A combination of onerous legal standards and crippling amounts in damages makes the defamation regime a very difficult one for journalists to operate freely in. We have discussed before the crucial role that journalists play in a system of free speech whose underlying foundation is the maintenance of democracy: a free press is essential to maintaining a check upon the actions of government and other powerful players, by subjecting them to scrutiny and critique, and ensuring that the public is aware of important facts that government might be keen to conceal. In chilling journalistic speech, therefore, defamation laws strike at the heart of Article 19(1)(a). When considering what the appropriate standards ought to be, a Court therefore must consider the simple fact that if defamation – as it stands today – is compromising the core of 19(1)(a) itself, then it is certainly not a “reasonable restriction” under 19(2) (some degree of proportionality is an important requirement for 19(2) reasonableness, as the Court has held many times).

This is not, however, a situation unique to India. In Singapore, for instance, “[political] leaders have won hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages in defamation cases against critics and foreign publications, which they have said are necessary to protect their reputations from unfounded attacks” – the defamation lawsuit, indeed, was reportedly a legal strategy used by Lee Kuan Yew against political opponents.

Particularly in the United States, the European Union and South Africa, however, this problem has been recognised, and acted upon. In the next post, we shall examine some of the legal techniques used in those jurisdictions, to counter the chilling effect that strict defamation laws can have on the press.

We discussed the use of civil defamation laws as weapons to stifle a free and critical press. One of the most notorious of such instances also birthed one of the most famous free speech cases in history: New York Times v. Sullivan. This was at the peak of the civil rights movement in the American South, which was accompanied by widespread violence and repression of protesters and civil rights activists. A full-page advertisement was taken out in the New York Times, titled Heed Their Rising Voices, which detailed some particularly reprehensible acts by the police in Montgomery, Alabama. It also contained some factual errors. For example, the advertisement mentioned that Martin Luther King Jr. had been arrested seven times, whereas he had only been arrested four times. It also stated that the Montgomery police had padlocked students into the university dining hall, in order to starve them into submission. That had not actually happened. On this basis, Sullivan, the Montgomery police commissioner, sued for libel. The Alabama courts awarded 500,000 dollars in damages. Because five other people in a situation similar to Sullivan were also suing, the total amount at stake was three million dollars – enough to potentially boycott the New York Times, and certainly enough to stop it from publishing about the civil rights movement.

In his book about the Sullivan case, Make No Law, Anthony Lewis notes that the stakes in the case were frighteningly high. The civil rights movement depended, for its success, upon stirring public opinion in the North. The press was just the vehicle to do it, reporting as it did on excessive police brutality against students and peaceful protesters, practices of racism and apartheid, and so on. Sullivan was a legal strategy to silence the press, and its weapon of choice was defamation law.

In a 9 – 0 decision, the Supreme Court found for the New York Times, and changed the face of free speech law (and, according to Lewis, saved the civil rights movement). Writing for the majority, Justice Brennan made the crucial point that in order to survive, free speech needed “breathing space” – that is, the space to make errors. Under defamation law, as it stood, “the pall of fear and timidity imposed upon those who would give voice to public criticism [is] an atmosphere in which the First Amendment freedoms cannot survive.” And under the burden of proving truth, “would-be critics of official conduct may be deterred from voicing their criticism, even though it is believed to be true and even though it is, in fact, true, because of doubt whether it can be proved in court or fear of the expense of having to do so. They tend to make only statements which "steer far wider of the unlawful zone." For these reasons, Justice Brennan laid down an “actual malice” test for defamation – that is, insofar as the statement in question concerned the conduct of a public official, it was actionable for defamation only if the publisher either knew it was false, or published it with “reckless disregard” for its veracity. After New York Times, this standard has expanded, and the press has never lost a defamation case.

There are some who argue that in its zeal to protect the press against defamation lawsuits by the powerful, the Sullivan court swung the opposite way. In granting the press a near-unqualified immunity to say whatever it wanted, it subordinated the legitimate interests of people to their reputation and their dignity to an intolerable degree, and ushered in a regime of media unaccountability. This is evidently what the South African courts felt. In Khulamo v. Holomisa, Justice O’Regan accepted that the common law of defamation would have to be altered so as to reflect the new South African Constitution’s guarantees of the freedom of speech. Much like Justice Brennan, she noted that “the media are important agents in ensuring that government is open, responsive and accountable to the people as the founding values of our Constitution require”, as well as the chilling effect in requiring journalists to prove the truth of everything they said. Nonetheless, she was not willing to go as far as the American Supreme Court did. Instead, she cited a previous decision by the Supreme Court of Appeals, and incorporated a “resonableness standard” into defamation law. That is, “if a publisher cannot establish the truth, or finds it disproportionately expensive or difficult to do so, the publisher may show that in all the circumstances the publication was reasonable. In determining whether publication was reasonable, a court will have regard to the individual’s interest in protecting his or her reputation in the context of the constitutional commitment to human dignity. It will also have regard to the individual’s interest in privacy. In that regard, there can be no doubt that persons in public office have a diminished right to privacy, though of course their right to dignity persists. It will also have regard to the crucial role played by the press in fostering a transparent and open democracy. The defence of reasonable publication avoids therefore a winner-takes-all result and establishes a proper balance between freedom of expression and the value of human dignity. Moreover, the defence of reasonable publication will encourage editors and journalists to act with due care and respect for the individual interest in human dignity prior to publishing defamatory material, without precluding them from publishing such material when it is reasonable to do so.”

The South African Constitutional Court thus adopts a middle path between the two opposite zero-sum games that are traditional defamation law, and American first amendment law. A similar effort was made in the United Kingdom – the birthplace of the common law of defamation – with the passage of the 2013 Defamation Act. Under English law, the plaintiff must now show that there is likely to be “serious harm” to his reputation, and there is also public interest exception.

While South Africa and the UK try to tackle the problem at the level of standards for defamation, the ECHR has taken another, equally interesting tack: by limiting the quantum of damages. In Tolstoy Milolasky v. United Kingdom, it found a 1.5 million pound damage award “disproportionately large”, and held that there was a violation of the ECHR’s free speech guarantee that could not be justified as necessary in a democratic society.

Thus, constitutional courts the world over have noticed the adverse impact traditional defamation law has on free speech and a free press. They have devised a multiplicity of ways to deal with this, some more speech-protective than others: from America’s absolutist standards, to South Africa’s “reasonableness” and the UK’s “public interest” exceptions, to the ECHR’s limitation of damages. It is about time that the Indian Courts took this issue seriously: there is no dearth of international guidance.

Gautam Bhatia — @gautambhatia88 on Twitter — is a graduate of the National Law School of India University (2011), and has just received an LLM from the Yale Law School. He blogs about the Indian Constitution at http://indconlawphil.wordpress.com. Here at CIS, he blogs on issues of online freedom of speech and expression.

For more details visit http://editors.cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/free-speech-and-civil-defamation

Free Speech and Contempt of Courts – II: Article 19(1)(a) and Indian Law

gautam — 2014-06-16T05:48:55Z

Gautam Bhatia continues his examination of free speech implications of the law of contempt: the power that equips courts to "protect the dignity of the Bench".

Towards the end of the last post, we saw how the Law Commission traced the genealogy of the “scandalising the Court” offence, inasmuch as it sought to protect the “standing of the judiciary”, to that of seditious libel. The basic idea is the same: if people are allowed to criticise state institutions in derogatory terms, then they can influence their fellow-citizens who, in turn, will lose respect for those institutions. Consequently, the authority of those institutions will be diminished, and they will be unable to effectively perform their functions. Hence, we prevent that eventuality by prohibiting certain forms of speech when it concerns the functioning of the government (seditious libel) or the Courts (scandalising the Court). This, of course, often ties the judges into knots, in determining the exact boundary between strident – but legitimate – criticism, and sedition/scandalising the Court.

Seditious libel, of course, went out in the United States with the repeal of the Sedition Act in 1800, and was abolished in the England in 2009. Notoriously, it still remains on the statute books in India, in the form of S. 124A of the Indian Penal Code. An examination of the Supreme Court’s sedition jurisprudence would, therefore, be apposite. Section 124A makes it an offence to bring or attempt to bring into hatred or contempt, or excite or attempt to excite, disaffection, towards the government. The locus classicus is Kedar Nath Singh v. Union of India. I have analysed the case in detail elsewhere, but briefly, Kedar Nath Singh limited the scope of 124A to incitement to violence, or fostering public disorder, within the clear terms of Article 19(2). In other words, prosecution for sedition, if it was to succeed, would have to satisfy the Court’s public order jurisprudence under Article 19(2). The public order test itself – as we discussed previously on this blog, in a post about Section 66A – was set out in highly circumscribed terms in Ram Manohar Lohia’s Case, which essentially required a direct and imminent degree of proximity between the speech or expression, and the breach of public order (in that case, the Court refused to sustain the conviction of a speaker who expressly encouraged an audience to break the law). Subsequently, in S. Rangarajan v. P. Jagjivan Ram, the Court noted that the relation ought to be like that of a “spark in a powder keg” – something akin to inciting an enraged mob to immediate violence. Something that the Court has clearly rejected is the argument that it is permissible to criminalise speech and expression simply because its content might lower the authority of the government in the eyes of the public, which, in turn, could foster a disrespect for law and the State, and lead to breaches of public order.

Unfortunately, however, when it comes to contempt and scandalising, the Court has adopted exactly the chain of reasoning that it has rejected in the public order cases. As early as 1953, in Aswini Kumar Ghose v. Arabinda Bose, the Court observed that “it is obvious that if an impression is created in the minds of the public that the Judges in the highest Court in the land act on extraneous considerations in deciding cases, the confidence of the whole community in the administration of justice is bound to be undermined and no greater mischief than that can possibly be imagined.”

Subsequently, in D.C. Saxena v. CJI, the Court held that “Any criticism about judicial system or the judges which hampers the administration of justice or which erodes the faith in the objective approach of the judges and brings administration of justice to ridicule must be prevented. The contempt of court proceedings arise out of that attempt. Judgments can be criticised. Motives to the judges need not be attributed. It brings the administration of justice into disrepute. Faith in the administration of justice is one of the pillars on which democratic institution functions and sustains.” Notice the chain of causation the Court is working with here: it holds faith in the administration of justice as a necessary pre-requisite to the administration of justice, and prohibits criticism that would cause other people to lose their faith in the judiciary. This is exactly akin to a situation in which I make an argument advocating Marxist theory, and I am punished because some people, on reading my article, might start to hold the government in contempt, and attempt to overthrow it by violent means. Not only is it absurd, it is also entirely disrespectful of individual autonomy: it is based on the assumption that the person legally and morally responsibly for a criminal act is not the actor, but the person who convinced the actor through words and arguments, to break the law – as though individuals are incapable of weighing up competing arguments and coming to decisions of their own accord. Later on, in the same case, the Court holds that scandalising includes “all acts which bring the court into disrepute or disrespect or which offend its dignity or its majesty or challenge its authority.” As we have seen before, however, disrepute or disrespect of an institution cannot in itself be a ground for punishment, unless there is something more. That something more is actual disruption of justice, which is presumably caused by people who have lost their confidence in the judiciary, but in eliding disrepute/disrespect with obstruction of justice, the Court entirely fails to consider the individual agency involved in crossing that bridge, the agency that is not that of the original speaker. This is why, again, in its sedition cases, the Court has gone out of its way to actually require a proximate relation between “disaffection” and public order breaches, in order to save the section from unconstitutionality. Its contempt jurisprudence, on the other hand, shows no such regard. It is perhaps telling that the Court, one paragraph on, adopts the “blaze of glory” formulation that was used in an 18^th century, pre-democratic English case.

Indeed, the Court draws an express analogy with sedition, holding that “malicious or slanderous publication inculcates in the mind of the people a general disaffection and dissatisfaction on the judicial determination and indisposes in their mind to obey them.” Even worse, it then takes away even the basic protection of mens rea, holding that all that matters is the effect of the impugned words, regardless of the intention/recklessness with which they were uttered. The absence of mens rea, along with the absence of any meaningful proximity requirement, makes for a very dangerous cocktail – an offence that can cover virtually any activity that the Court believes has a “tendency” to certain outcomes: “Therefore, a tendency to scandalise the court or tendency to lower the authority of the court or tendency to interfere with or tendency to obstruct the administration of justice in any manner or tendency to challenge the authority or majesty of justice, would be a criminal contempt. The offending act apart, any tendency if it may lead to or tends to lower the authority of the court is a criminal contempt. Any conduct of the contemnor which has the tendency or produces a tendency to bring the judge or court into contempt or tends to lower the authority of the court would also be contempt of the court.”

The assumption implicit in these judgments – that the people need to be protected from certain forms of speech, because they are incompetent at making up their own minds, in a reasonable manner, about it – was made express in Arundhati Roy’s Case, in 2002. After making observations about how confidence in the Courts could not be allowed to be “tarnished” at any cost, the Court noted that “the respondent has tried to cast an injury to the public by creating an impression in the mind of the people of this backward country regarding the integrity, ability and fairness of the institution of judiciary”, observed that the purpose of the offence was to protect the (presumably backward) public by maintaining its confidence in the judiciary, which had been enacted keeping in mind “the ground realities and prevalent socio-economic system in India, the vast majority of whose people are poor, ignorant, uneducated, easily liable to be misled. But who acknowledly (sic) have the tremendous faith in the dispensers of Justice.” So easy, indeed, to mislead, that there was no need for any evidence to demonstrate it: “the well-known proposition of law is that it punishes the archer as soon as the arrow is shot no matter if it misses to hit the target. The respondent is proved to have shot the arrow, intended to damage the institution of the judiciary and thereby weaken the faith of the public in general and if such an attempt is not prevented, disastrous consequences are likely to follow resulting in the destruction of rule of law, the expected norm of any civilised society.”

The American legal scholar, Vince Blasi, has outlined a “pathological perspective” of free speech. According to him, heightened protection of speech – even to the extent of protecting worthless speech – is important, because when the government passes laws to regulate speech that is hostile towards it, it will, in all likelihood, over-regulate purely out of self-interest, sometimes even unconsciously so. This is why, if the Courts err, they ought to err on the side of speech-protection, because it is quite likely that the government has over-estimated public order and other threats that stem out of hostile speech towards government itself. The pathological perspective is equally – if not more – applicable in the realm of contempt of Court, because here the Court is given charge of regulating speech hostile towards itself. Keenly aware of the perils of speech suppression that lie in such situations, we have seen that the United States and England have abolished the offence, and the Privy Council has interpreted it extremely narrowly.

The Indian Supreme Court, however, has gone in precisely the opposite direction. It has used the Contempt of Court statute to create a strict-liability criminal offence, with boundlessly manipulable categories, which is both overbroad and vague, entirely inconsistent with the Court’s own free speech jurisprudence, and at odds with free speech in a liberal democracy.

Gautam Bhatia — @gautambhatia88 on Twitter — is a graduate of the National Law School of India University (2011), and presently an LLM student at the Yale Law School. He blogs about the Indian Constitution at http://indconlawphil.wordpress.com. Here at CIS, he blogs on issues of online freedom of speech and expression.

For more details visit http://editors.cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/free-speech-and-contempt-of-courts-2013-ii-article-19-1-a-and-indian-law

Net Neutrality, Free Speech and the Indian Constitution – III: Conceptions of Free Speech and Democracy

gautam — 2014-05-27T10:21:24Z

In this 3 part series, Gautam Bhatia explores the concept of net neutrality in the context of Indian law and the Indian Constitution.

In the modern State, effective exercise of free speech rights is increasingly dependent upon an infrastructure that includes newspapers, television and the internet. Access to a significant part of this infrastructure is determined by money. Consequently, if what we value about free speech is the ability to communicate one’s message to a non-trivial audience, financial resources influence both who can speak and, consequently, what is spoken. The nature of the public discourse – what information and what ideas circulate in the public sphere – is contingent upon a distribution of resources that is arguably unjust and certainly unequal.

There are two opposing theories about how we should understand the right to free speech in this context. Call the first one of these the libertarian conception of free speech. The libertarian conception takes as given the existing distribution of income and resources, and consequently, the unequal speaking power that that engenders. It prohibits any intervention designed to remedy the situation. The most famous summary of this vision was provided by the American Supreme Court, when it first struck down campaign finance regulations, in Buckley v. Valeo: “the concept that government may restrict the speech of some [in] order to enhance the relative voice of others is wholly foreign to the First Amendment.” This theory is part of the broader libertarian worldview, which would restrict government’s role in a polity to enforcing property and criminal law, and views any government-imposed restriction on what people can do within the existing structure of these laws as presumptively wrong.

We can tentatively label the second theory as the social-democratic theory of free speech. This theory focuses not so much on the individual speaker’s right not to be restricted in using their resources to speak as much as they want, but upon the collective interest in maintaining a public discourse that is open, inclusive and home to a multiplicity of diverse and antagonistic ideas and viewpoints. Often, in order to achieve this goal, governments regulate access to the infrastructure of speech so as to ensure that participation is not entirely skewed by inequality in resources. When this is done, it is often justified in the name of democracy: a functioning democracy, it is argued, requires a thriving public sphere that is not closed off to some or most persons.

Surprisingly, one of the most powerful judicial statements for this vision also comes from the United States. In Red Lion v. FCC, while upholding the “fairness doctrine”, which required broadcasting stations to cover “both sides” of a political issue, and provide a right of reply in case of personal attacks, the Supreme Court noted:

“[Free speech requires] preserv[ing] an uninhibited marketplace of ideas in which truth will ultimately prevail, rather than to countenance monopolization of that market, whether it be by the Government itself or a private licensee… it is the right of the public to receive suitable access to social, political, esthetic, moral, and other ideas and experiences which is crucial here.”

What of India? In the early days of the Supreme Court, it adopted something akin to the libertarian theory of free speech. In Sakal Papers v. Union of India, for example, it struck down certain newspaper regulations that the government was defending on grounds of opening up the market and allowing smaller players to compete, holding that Article 19(1)(a) – in language similar to what Buckley v. Valeo would hold, more than fifteen years later – did not permit the government to infringe the free speech rights of some in order to allow others to speak. The Court continued with this approach in its next major newspaper regulation case, Bennett Coleman v. Union of India, but this time, it had to contend with a strong dissent from Justice Mathew. After noting that “it is no use having a right to express your idea, unless you have got a medium for expressing it”, Justice Mathew went on to hold:

“What is, therefore, required is an interpretation of Article 19(1)(a) which focuses on the idea that restraining the hand of the government is quite useless in assuring free speech, if a restraint on access is effectively secured by private groups. A Constitutional prohibition against governmental restriction on the expression is effective only if the Constitution ensures an adequate opportunity for discussion… Any scheme of distribution of newsprint which would make the freedom of speech a reality by making it possible the dissemination of ideas as news with as many different facets and colours as possible would not violate the fundamental right of the freedom of speech of the petitioners. In other words, a scheme for distribution of a commodity like newsprint which will subserve the purpose of free flow of ideas to the market from as many different sources as possible would be a step to advance and enrich that freedom. If the scheme of distribution is calculated to prevent even an oligopoly ruling the market and thus check the tendency to monopoly in the market, that will not be open to any objection on the ground that the scheme involves a regulation of the press which would amount to an abridgment of the freedom of speech.”

In Justice Mathew’s view, therefore, freedom of speech is not only the speaker’s right (the libertarian view), but a complex balancing act between the listeners’ right to be exposed to a wide range of material, as well as the collective, societal right to have an open and inclusive public discourse, which can only be achieved by preventing the monopolization of the instruments, infrastructure and access-points of speech.

Over the years, the Court has moved away from the majority opinions in Sakal Papers and Bennett Coleman, and steadily come around to Justice Mathew’s view. This is particularly evident from two cases in the 1990s: in Union of India v. The Motion Picture Association, the Court upheld various provisions of the Cinematograph Act that imposed certain forms of compelled speech on moviemakers while exhibiting their movies, on the ground that “to earmark a small portion of time of this entertainment medium for the purpose of showing scientific, educational or documentary films, or for showing news films has to be looked at in this context of promoting dissemination of ideas, information and knowledge to the masses so that there may be an informed debate and decision making on public issues. Clearly, the impugned provisions are designed to further free speech and expression and not to curtail it.”

LIC v. Manubhai D. Shah is even more on point. In that case, the Court upheld a right of reply in an in-house magazine, “because fairness demanded that both view points were placed before the readers, however limited be their number, to enable them to draw their own conclusions and unreasonable because there was no logic or proper justification for refusing publication… the respondent’s fundamental right of speech and expression clearly entitled him to insist that his views on the subject should reach those who read the magazine so that they have a complete picture before them and not a one sided or distorted one…” This goes even further than Justice Mathew’s dissent in Bennett Coleman, and the opinion of the Court in Motion Picture Association, in holding that not merely is it permitted to structure the public sphere in an equal and inclusive manner, but that it is a requirement of Article 19(1)(a).

We can now bring the threads of the separate arguments in the three posts together. In the first post, we found that public law and constitutional obligations can be imposed upon private parties when they discharge public functions. In the second post, it was argued that the internet has replaced the park, the street and the public square as the quintessential forum for the circulation of speech. ISPs, in their role as gatekeepers, now play the role that government once did in controlling and keeping open these avenues of expression. Consequently, they can be subjected to public law free speech obligations. And lastly, we discussed how the constitutional conception of free speech in India, that the Court has gradually evolved over many years, is a social-democratic one, that requires the keeping open of a free and inclusive public sphere. And if there is one thing that fast-lanes over the internet threaten, it is certainly a free and inclusive (digital) public sphere. A combination of these arguments provides us with an arguable case for imposing obligations of net neutrality upon ISPs, even in the absence of a statutory or regulatory obligations, grounded within the constitutional guarantee of the freedom of speech and expression.

For the previous post, please see: http://cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/-neutrality-free-speech-and-the-indian-constitution-part-2.

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Gautam Bhatia — @gautambhatia88 on Twitter — is a graduate of the National Law School of India University (2011), and presently an LLM student at the Yale Law School. He blogs about the Indian Constitution at http://indconlawphil.wordpress.com. Here at CIS, he will be blogging on issues of online freedom of speech and expression.

For more details visit http://editors.cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/net-neutrality-free-speech-and-the-indian-constitution-2013-iii-conceptions-of-free-speech-and-democracy

Net Neutrality, Free Speech and the Indian Constitution - II

gautam — 2014-04-29T07:42:40Z

In this 3 part series, Gautam Bhatia explores the concept of net neutrality in the context of Indian law and the Indian Constitution.

To sum up the previous post: under Article 12 of the Constitution, fundamental rights can be enforced only against the State, or State-like entities that are under the functional, financial and administrative control of the State. In the context of net neutrality, it is clear that privately-owned ISPs do not meet the exacting standards of Article 12. Nonetheless, we also found that the Indian Supreme Court has held private entities, which do not fall within the contours of Article 12, to an effectively similar standard of obligations under Part III as State organizations in certain cases. Most prominent among these is the case of education: private educational institutions have been required to adhere to standards of equal treatment which are identical in content to Article 14, even though their source lies elsewhere. If, therefore, we are to impose obligations of net neutrality upon private ISPs, a similar argument must be found.

I will suggest that the best hope is by invoking the free speech guarantee of Article 19(1)(a). To understand how an obligation of free speech might operate in this case, let us turn to the case of Marsh v. Alabama, an American Supreme Court case from 1946.

Marsh v. Alabama involved a “company town”. The “town” of Chickasaw was owned by a private company, the Gulf Shipbuilding Corporation. In its structure it resembled a regular township: it had building, streets, a sewage system, and a “business block”, where stores and business places had been rented out to merchants and other service providers. The residents of the “town” used the business block as their shopping center, to get to which they used the company-owned pavement and street. Highway traffic regularly came in through the town, and its facilities were used by wayfarers. As the Court noted:

“In short the town and its shopping district are accessible to and freely used by the public in general and there is nothing to distinguish them from any other town and shopping center except the fact that the title to the property belongs to a private corporation.”

Marsh, who was a Jehovah’s Witness, arrived in Chickasaw with the intention of distributing religious literature on the streets. She was asked to leave the sidewalk, and on declining, she was arrested by the police, and charged under an anti-trespassing statute. She argued that if the statute was applied to her, it would violate her free speech and freedom of religion rights under the American First Amendment. The lower Courts rejected her argument, holding that since the street was owned by a private corporation, she had no constitutional free speech rights, and the situation was analogous to being invited into a person’s private house. The Supreme Court, however, reversed the lower Courts, and found for Marsh.

Four (connected) strands of reasoning run through the Supreme Court’s (brief) opinion. First, it found that streets, sidewalks and public places have historically been critically important sites for dissemination and reception of news, information and opinions, whether it is through distribution of literature, street-corner oratory, or whatever else. Secondly, it found that private ownership did not carry with it a right to exclusive dominion. Rather, “the owners of privately held bridges, ferries, turnpikes and railroads may not operate them as freely as a farmer does his farm. Since these facilities are built and operated primarily to benefit the public and since their operation is essentially a public function, it is subject to state regulation.” Thirdly, it noted that a large number of Americans throughout the United States lived in company towns, and acted just as other American citizens did, in their duties as residents of a community. It would therefore be perverse to deny them rights enjoyed by those who lived in State-municipality run towns. And fourthly, on balance, it held that the private rights of property-owners was subordinate to the right of the people to “enjoy freedom of press and religion.”

No one factor, then, but a combination of factors underlie the Court’s decision to impose constitutional obligations upon a private party. It mattered that, historically, there have been a number of spaces traditionally dedicated to public speech: parks, squares and streets – whose public character remained unchanged despite the nature of ownership. It mattered that individuals had no feasible exit option – that is, no other place they could go to in order to exercise their free speech rights. And it mattered that free speech occupied a significant enough place in the Constitutional scheme so as to override the exclusionary rights that normally tend to go with private property.

The case of the privately-owned street in the privately-owned town presents a striking analogy when we start thinking seriously about net neutrality. First of all, in the digital age, the traditional sites of public discourse – parks, town squares, streets – have been replaced by their digital equivalents. The lonely orator standing on the soap-box in the street corner now tweets his opinions and instagrams his photographs. The street-pamphleteer of yesteryear now updates his Facebook status to reflect his political opinions. Specialty and general-interest blogs constitute a multiplicity of town-squares where a speaker makes his point, and his hearers gather in the comments section to discuss and debate the issue. While these examples may seem frivolous at first blush, the basic point is a serious one: the role of opinion formation and transmission that once served by open, publicly accessible physical infrastructure, held – in a manner of speaking – in public trust by the government, is now served in the digital world, under the control of private gatekeepers. To that extent, it is a public function, undertaken in public interest, as the Court held in Marsh v. Alabama.

The absence of an exit option is equally important. The internet has become not only a space of exchanging information, but it has become a primary – non-replaceable source – of the same. Like the citizens of Chickasaw lacked a feasible alternative space to exercise their public free speech rights (and we operate on the assumption that it would be unreasonably expensive and disruptive for them to move to a different town), there is now no feasible alternative space to the internet, as it exists today, where the main online spaces are owned by private parties, and access to those spaces is determined by gatekeepers – which are the ISPs.

The analogy is not perfect, of course, but there is a case to be made that in acting as the gatekeepers of the internet, privately-owned ISPs are in a position quite similar to the corporate owners of they public streets Company Town.

In the last post, we saw how it is possible – constitutionally – to impose public obligations upon private parties, although the Court has never made its jurisprudential foundation clear. Here, then, is a thought: public obligations ought to be imposed when the private entity is providing a public function and/or when the private entity is in effectively exclusive control of a public good. There is an argument that ISPs satisfy both conditions. Of course, we need to examine in detail how precisely the rights of free expression are implicated in the ISP context. That is the subject for the next post.

Gautam Bhatia — @gautambhatia88 on Twitter — is a graduate of the National Law School of India University (2011), and presently an LLM student at the Yale Law School. He blogs about the Indian Constitution at http://indconlawphil.wordpress.com. Here at CIS, he will be blogging on issues of online freedom of speech and expression.

For more details visit http://editors.cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/-neutrality-free-speech-and-the-indian-constitution-part-2

Net Neutrality, Free Speech and the Indian Constitution - I

gautam — 2014-04-29T08:03:57Z

In this post, I will explore net neutrality in the context of Indian law and the Indian Constitution.

Let us take, for the purposes of this post, the following definition:

“The idea that all Internet traffic should be treated equally is known as network neutrality. In other words, no matter who uploads or downloads data, or what kind of data is involved, networks should treat all of those packets in the same manner.”

In other words, put simply, net neutrality in its broadest form requires the extant gatekeepers of the internet – such as, for instance, broadband companies – to accord a form of equal and non-discriminatory treatment to all those who want to access the internet. Examples of possible discrimination – as the quote above illustrates – include, for instance, blocking content or providing differential internet speed (perhaps on the basis of a tiered system of payment for access).

Net neutrality has its proponents and opponents, and I do not have space here to address that dispute. In its broadest and absolutist form, net neutrality is highly controversial (including arguments that existing status quo is not neutral in any genuine sense). I take as given, however, that some form of net neutrality is both an important and a desirable goal. In particular, intentional manipulation of information that is available to internet users – especially for political purposes – is, I assume, an undesirable outcome, as are anti-competitive practices, as well as price-discrimination for the most basic access to the internet (this brief article in the Times of India provides a decent, basic primer on the stakes involved).

An example of net neutrality in practice is the American Federal Communications Commission’s Open Internet Order of 2010, which was the subject of litigation in the recently concluded Verizon v. FCC. The Open Internet order imposed obligations of transparency, no blocking, and no unreasonable discrimination, upon internet service providers. The second and third requirements were vacated by a United States Court of Appeals. The rationale for the Court’s decision was that ISPs could not be equated, in law, to “common carriers”. A common carrier is an entity that offers to transport persons and/or goods in exchange for a fee (for example, shipping companies, or bus companies). A common carrier is licensed to be one, and often, one of the conditions for license is an obligation not to discriminate. That is, the common carrier cannot refuse to carry an individual who is willing and able to pay the requisite fees, in the absence of a compelling reason (for example, if the individual wishes the carrier to transport contraband). Proponents of net neutrality have long called for treating ISPs as common carriers, a proposition – as observed above – was rejected by the Court.

With this background, let us turn to India. In India, internet service providers are both state-owned (BSNL and MTNL), and privately-owned (Airtel, Spectranet, Reliance, Sify etc). Unlike many other countries, however, India has no network-neutrality laws. As this informative article observes:

“The Telecom Regulatory Authority of India (TRAI), in its guidelines for issuing licences for providing Unified Access Service, promotes the principle of non-discrimination but does not enforce it… the Information Technology Act does not provide regulatory provisions relating to Internet access, and does not expressly prohibit an ISP from controlling the Internet to suit their business interests.”

In the absence of either legislation or regulation, there are two options. One, of course, is to invoke the rule of common carriers as a common law rule in court, should an ISP violate the principles of net neutrality. In this post (and the next), however, I would like to analyze net neutrality within a constitutional framework – in particular, within the framework of the constitutional guarantee of freedom of speech and expression.

In order to do so, two questions become important, and I shall address them in turn. First, given that most of the ISPs are privately owned, how does the Constitution even come into the picture? Our fundamental rights are enforceable vertically, that is, between individuals and the State, and not horizontally – that is, between two individuals, or two private parties. Where the Constitution intends to depart from this principle (for instance, Article 15(2)), it specifically and expressly states so. As far as Article 19 and the fundamental freedoms are concerned, however, it is clear that they do not admit of horizontal application.

Yet what, precisely, are we to understand by the term “State”? Consider Article 12:

“In this part, unless the context otherwise requires, the State includes the Government and Parliament of India and the Government and the Legislature of each of the States and all local or other authorities within the territory of India or under the control of the Government of India.”

The key question is what, precisely, falls within the meaning of “other authorities”. The paradigmatic example – and this is something Ambedkar had in mind, as is evidenced by the Constituent Assembly Debates – is the statutory corporation – i.e., a company established under a statute. There are, however, more difficult cases, for instance, public-private partnerships of varying types. For the last fifty years, the Supreme Court has struggled with the issue of defining “other authorities” for the purposes of Part III of the Constitution, with the pendulum swinging wildly at times. In the case of Pradeep Kumar Biswas v. Indian Institute of Chemical Biology, a 2002 judgment by a Constitution bench, the Court settled upon the following definition:

“The question in each case would be whether in the light of the cumulative facts as established, the body is financially, functionally and administratively dominated by or under the control of the Government. Such control must be particular to the body in question and must be pervasive. If this is found then the body is a State within Article 12. On the other hand, when the control is merely regulatory whether under statute or otherwise, it would not serve to make the body a State.”

Very obviously, this dooms the ISP argument. There is no way to argue that ISPs are under the pervasive financial, functional and administrative domination or control of the State. If we step back for a moment, though, the Pradeep Kumar Biswas test seems to be radically under-inclusive. Consider the following hypothetical: tomorrow, the government decides to privatize the nation’s water supply to private company X. Company X is the sole distributor of water in the country. On gaining control, it decides to cut off the water supply to all households populated by members of a certain religion. There seems something deeply wrong in the argument that there is no remedy under discrimination law against the conduct of the company.

The argument could take two forms. One could argue that there is a certain minimum baseline of State functions (ensuring reasonable access to public utilities, overall maintenance of communications, defence and so on). The baseline may vary depending on your personal political philosophy (education? Health? Infrastructure?), but within the baseline, as established, if a private entity performs a State function, it is assimilated to the State. One could also argue, however, that even if Part III isn’t directly applicable, certain functions are of a public nature, and attract public law obligations that are identical in content to fundamental rights obligations under Part III, although their source is not Part III.

To unpack this idea, consider Justice Mohan’s concurring opinion in Unnikrishnan v. State of Andhra Pradesh, a case that involved the constitutionality of high capitation fees charged by private educational institutions. One of the arguments raised against the educational institutions turned upon the applicability of Article 14’s guarantee of equality. The bench avoided the issue of whether Article 14 directly applied to private educational institutions by framing the issue as a question of the constitutionality of the legislation that regulated capitation fees. Justice Mohan, however, observed:

“What is the nature of functions discharged by these institutions? They discharge a public duty. If a student desires to acquire a degree, for example, in medicine, he will have to route through a medical college. These medical colleges are the instruments to attain the qualification. If, therefore, what is discharged by the educational institution, is a public duty that requires… [it to] act fairly. In such a case, it will be subject to Article 14.”

In light of Pradeep Kumar Biswas, it is obviously difficult to hold the direct application of the Constitution to private entities. We can take Justice Mohan, however, to be making a slightly different point: performing what are quintessentially public duties attract certain obligations that circumscribe the otherwise free action of private entities. The nature of the obligation itself depends upon the nature of the public act. Education, it would seem, is an activity that is characterized by open and non-discriminatory access. Consequently, even private educational institutions are required to abide by the norms of fairness articulated by Article 14, even though they may not, as a matter of constitutional law, be held in violation of the Article 14 that is found in the constitutional text. Again, the content of the obligation is the same, but its source (the constitutional text, as opposed to norms of public law) is different.

We have therefore established that in certain cases, it is possible to subject private entities performing public functions to constitutional norms without bringing them under Article 12’s definition of the State, and without the need for an enacted statute, or a set of regulations. In the next post, we shall explore in greater detail what this means, and how it might be relevant to ISPs and net neutrality.

Gautam Bhatia — @gautambhatia88 on Twitter — is a graduate of the National Law School of India University (2011), and presently an LLM student at the Yale Law School. He blogs about the Indian Constitution at http://indconlawphil.wordpress.com. Here at CIS, he will be blogging on issues of online freedom of speech and expression.

For more details visit http://editors.cis-india.org/internet-governance/blog/net-neutrality-free-speech-and-the-indian-constitution-part-1