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There are many well-tuned arguments both for and against the liberalisation of the UK’s strict euthanasia laws, some more helpful than others. This piece is not concerned with weighing up the policy arguments for or against such a move, nor does it consider which “side” of the argument is ultimately more convincing. Indeed, the authors do not necessarily agree with one another on the discrete question of whether Kim Leadbeater MP’s Bill should be supported.
But one curious argument has recently emerged which is of serious concern to both authors: the argument that liberalising euthanasia laws, in line with the proposed changes in Leadbeater’s Bill, should be resisted, as doing so would be to contravene the rights under the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR). In this post, we seek to debunk this argument.
There are, we think, two main variants of ECHR-based arguments to this effect: one invoking Article 14 (freedom from discrimination) and the second relying on Article 2 (right to life). Neither is convincing.
The road to hell, so the saying goes, is paved with good intentions. While not quite as dire, well-intentioned laws can nevertheless sometimes have severe consequences. In Re Mediahuis and others’ applications for judicial review [2024] NIKB 45, the Northern Ireland High Court declared 5 sections of one such well-intentioned law, the Justice (Sexual Offences and Trafficking Victims) Act (Northern Ireland) 2022 (the 2022 Act), invalid. This is the first invalidation of devolved Northern Ireland statutory provisions since the present devolution settlement (the Northern Ireland Act 1998) was enacted 26 years ago. On one level, the judgment is fairly unremarkable – courts are empowered to declare invalid any devolved statute (or statutory provision) which is found to be outwith devolved legislative competence (in this case because of incompatibility with Article 10 of the ECHR) and have done so without raising eyebrows since the advent of devolution in the UK. On a deeper level, however, the judgment and the justification for the relevant provisions of the 2022 Act show the limits of formal equality in addressing substantive injustice.
The judgment
The 2022 Act was a partial response to a wide-ranging review into the legal and policy measures around serious sexual offences in Northern Ireland. This review, carried out by retired Court of Appeal judge Sir John Gillen (the Gillen Review) made several recommendations. Among these, the relevant recommendations for this case were (1) an extension of anonymity for complainants of sexual offences beyond their lifetimes, (2) pre-charge anonymity for suspects of sexual offences and (3) a statutory prohibition on the publication of suspects’ identities pre-charge. The 2022 Act implements (1) (by extending complainant anonymity to 25 years after the complainant dies) but goes much further in implementing (2) and (3) than recommended in the Gillen Report. In respect of (2), the 2022 Act allows suspects to remain anonymous pre-charge on almost the same terms as complainants (during their lifetimes and up to 25 years after death), meaning that if a suspect is never charged, no identifying details may be published until after 25 years following their death. The reporting restriction can be lifted by a court on the application of the police, the suspect or (if the suspect has died) the suspect’s close family, personal representative or anyone interested in reporting any prohibited matters relating to the suspect. Importantly, the press may not apply to lift the reporting restriction during the suspect’s lifetime. On (3), the 2022 Act criminalises the unauthorised publication of suspect details and prescribes a custodial sentence or a fine (or both) for the offence.
Plainly, the 2022 Act represents a significant hurdle to public interest reporting. The pre-charge anonymity is just as extensive as complainant anonymity, and may only be lifted on the application of an extremely limited cohort of people. The justification offered by the Northern Ireland Department of Justice (DoJ), to put the matter mildly, lacked much (if any) persuasiveness. The DoJ pointed to the deleterious impact of publishing or reporting on a sexual offence suspect’s details before charge, with consequences ranging from reputational damage to a threat to life (Mediahuis, para 58). But the Act does not provide a general public interest defence to the offence of unauthorised publication. Such a defence would allow a court to carefully scrutinise two competing issues – any public interest in publishing a suspect’s details pre-charge and that suspect’s rights under the ECHR – and balance them. And nor does the process to lift reporting restrictions include the press as applicants. The rationale for this was virtually non-existent, with the DoJ simply saying:
“It was considered necessary to draw a distinction between who can apply before the death of the suspect and who can apply thereafter to reflect the very different circumstances that apply in those varying circumstances.“
But the Court was not provided with the reasons why this distinction was “considered necessary”. The DoJ further claimed that broadening the cohort of people who could apply to lift the reporting restriction (journalists, for example) during a suspect’s lifetime would “run contrary to the aims of key recommendation 10 [of the Gillen Report].” The relevant recommendation (in full) is:
“There should be no change in the current law concerning publication of the identity of the accused post charge. The identity of the accused should be anonymised pre-charge and the accused should have the right to apply for a judge-alone trial in the rare circumstances where the judge considers it to be in the interests of justice.“
Plainly, the DoJ’s claim about the recommendation was unsustainable.
It is therefore unsurprising that the High Court (Mr Justice Humphreys) should have found the relevant provisions to be a disproportionate interference with Article 10 of the ECHR (the freedom of speech and expression), creating a ‘chilling effect’ on public interest journalism (Mediahuis, para 102).
To be clear, laws with categorical exclusions like the 2022 Act are not, by their categorical exclusions alone, inconsistent with the ECHR. Another devolved Northern Ireland statute – the Abortion Services (Safe Access Zones) Act (Northern Ireland) 2023 (which creates areas around abortion services providers for the safety of their users and staff by fining certain conduct within these areas) emerged from the Supreme Court entirely unscathed, despite containing clear categorical exclusions of certain behaviours (in the form of a strict liability offence in respect of those behaviours). But there are important differences between the 2022 Act and the Abortion Services Act. Chief among these is that fact that the former proscribes unauthorised publication with a custodial sentence, whereas the Abortion Services Act provided for a fine. Moreover, the banned behaviours in the Abortion Services Act are spatially limited to the defined safe access zones around abortion services providers; people are free to oppose such services elsewhere, so the limitations on Article 10 rights are themselves limited. By contrast, the pre-charge publication bar in the 2022 Act applies without distinction as to geography or other factor, and continues for a quarter of a century after a suspect’s death if the suspect is not charged. The limitation on Article 10 rights is thus extreme, and could only be justified (if at all) with the clearest and most compelling reasons. In this, the DoJ ultimately failed.
The erroneous focus on formal equality
The largely unsurprising ECHR assessment of the 2022 Act by the High Court aside, it is curious that pre-charge suspect anonymity and complainant anonymity should have been placed on the same formally equal plane. This is especially the case given that formal equality between complainant anonymity and (general) suspect anonymity was categorically rejected as ‘flawed’ by Sir John Gillen (Gillen Report, para 12.90). Sir John identified a number of reasons why complainants are entitled to greater anonymity – not least to encourage their participation in the criminal justice process. In the same vein, publishing or otherwise disclosing the identity of suspects of sexual offences encourages other potential complainants to come forward in a society where the conviction rate for such offences remains, in the words of Sir John ‘troublingly’, low (by the time Sir John had published his findings, the conviction rate for sexual offences in Northern Ireland had also been falling, see Gillen Report pg. 10).
Moreover, the social stigma associated with being a survivor of sexual violence or abuse acts as a further barrier. Within his Report, Sir John recognises the myriad ways in which different groups of survivors – women of colour (para 13.76), people with disabilities (e.g. paras 13.46 and 13.55) and men (para 13.148) – experience stigma.
All of these factors combine to highlight one of the main themes underlying the Gillen Report and the implementation of its recommendations by the DoJ over the years since the Report’s publication: the need to ensure that ‘one of the worst violations of human dignity’ – sexual crime – is not compounded by the very system designed to hold its perpetrators to account. This is not to discount the experiences of those whose details are published despite not being charged, and the indignities they suffer as a result. But fundamental to this complex and highly sensitive area is the recognition that different people experience different indignities. The formal equality which characterised the invalidated provisions of the 2022 Act, however, completely failed to recognise this reality. Instead, it effectively flattened the many accounts of survivors and suspects found in the 700-odd pages of the Gillen Report into a highly simplistic equation: whatever anonymity was conferred on complainants must also (mostly) be conferred on suspects while they remain uncharged.
This flat plane of formal equality ultimately imperilled the very provisions which were intended to protect the dignity of those people who, whether voluntarily or otherwise, come into contact with the criminal justice system for sexual offences. In the aftermath of the High Court’s judgment, the Northern Ireland Minister of Justice initially indicated that she was considering an appeal, before confirming that no appeal would be pursued. The resultant situation is that the relevant provisions of the 2022 Act – sections 12-16 – are invalid, so there is no bespoke statutory pathway to ensure suspect anonymity at the pre-charge stage (the UK Supreme Court judgment in Bloomberg LP v ZXC [2022] UKSC 5 recognises an ECHR-derived reasonable expectation of privacy at the pre-charge stage).
Without impugning the good intentions of the DoJ, the Assembly and the Northern Ireland Executive, Mediahuisand others should give Ministers and Departments pause for thought. Addressing the substantive (and sometimes life-altering) injustices which are experienced as a result of or in relation to sexual crime requires much greater sensitivity than a simple formal equality.
Anurag Deb is a PhD candidate at Queen’s University Belfast and a paralegal at KRW LAW LLP.
Let us turn to NIHRC and JR295’s applications for judicial review [2024] NIKB 35, in which the High Court disapplied sections of the Illegal Migration Act 2023 (IMA) – the Government’s flagship statute to tackle illegal migration – in Northern Ireland. It is important to understand why, despite some alarming reactions to the judgment, it was both foreseen and avoidable – and why the alarm should be sounded in the Houses of Parliament instead.
In Dillon [2024] NIKB 11, the controversial Northern Ireland Troubles (Legacy and Reconciliation) Act 2023 (Legacy Act) was challenged head on. The Court disapplied a number of provisions of the Act as being in breach of relevant aspects of EU law which continue to apply to Northern Ireland via the Windsor Framework. We have covered the precise EU law aspects of Dillonelsewhere and will only cover the ECHR elements of the judgment in this post. As will become clear, however, there is a critical link between these two main aspects of the judgment.
The disapplication of any part of an Act of the UK Parliament is infrequent enough to be notable. Given that Dillon marks not only some of the most extensive disapplication in history but also is the first such event after Brexit, the decision is significant. But, as we will demonstrate, the decision is not radical. Far from it, much of Mr Justice Colton’s 738-paragraph judgment is an orthodox application of the relevant law.
In Lord Tennyson’s Arthurian ballad ‘The Lady of Shalott’, the eponymous heroine is stranded in her island castle. Continually weaving a web in her loom of the reflections of the outside world she sees in her mirror, she knows she will be cursed if she stops and looks out to nearby Camelot. But one day, Sir Lancelot rides by her castle and she abandons her loom and looks outside. Her mirror cracks “from side to side” and she is cursed. She leaves her castle and floats down to Camelot in a boat, dying before she reaches it.
Victorian poetry scholar Erik Gray analyses the Lady of Shalott as Tennyson’s exploration of the role of an artist: knowing what is better (staying inside and looking at reflections of the real world) and choosing to do what is worse (going outside into the real world). Just as the Lady of Shalott’s mirror cracked, the Supreme Court in Dalton’s application for judicial review marked possibly one of the largest cracks yet in the mirror principle: that the rights provided under the Human Rights Act 1998 (HRA) should mirror those under the ECHR. But this analogy with the Lady of Shalott raises two important questions: was the jurisprudence flowing from the mirror principle better and is the turn away from it worse?
At the outset, I acknowledge my involvement in the Dalton litigation. This post is not an exploration of that litigation. Instead, I look at the possible impact of the Supreme Court’s judgment on the mirror principle and what it may tell us more broadly about the HRA.
On 11 August, a piece from Professor Richard Ekins KC (Hon) set out a case for the UK denouncing the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR) and leaving the treaty system altogether. One of the main arguments in favour of this is that it would ‘restore Parliament’s freedom, on behalf of the British people, to decide what our laws should be’. This marks one of the more recent such calls, amid a growing chorus of Ministers in the UK Government and Conservative Party MPs to leave the ECHR. Also, it should be noted that we have been here before. The constitutional aspects of such a move aside, there are particular reasons why it would impact Northern Ireland. While Northern Ireland does not feature in Professor Ekins’ 11 August piece, he has previously written about the interaction between the ECHR and the Good Friday Agreement 1998 (GFA), which underpins the modern devolution settlement in Northern Ireland and which brought an end to a brutal and deadly conflict. This interaction is the subject of this post.
In the early hours of 24 March 1922, a group of men, of whom most were in police uniform, broke into the North Belfast home of prominent Catholic businessman Owen McMahon and shot him dead, along with four of his sons and a male employee. Between 1920 and 1922, hundreds of people were killed, and thousands forced out of their homes, particularly in Belfast and the surrounding townlands. These grizzly events marked the birth of Northern Ireland.
This is not a post about the conflict between the provisions of the Illegal Migration Bill and the European Convention on Human Rights (an issue which has already attracted a considerable amount of critical academic commentary – see here and here). Instead, it is a post about the Bill’s potential conflict with the EU Charter of Fundamental Rights (‘CFR’) and the UK’s commitments under the EU-UK Withdrawal Agreement, whether (and why) such a conflict matters in domestic law and how (if at all) that conflict could be resolved.
This might appear to be a quixotic line of discussion. We have been told, after all, that Brexit is done and that the CFR has been excised from the UK’s domestic legal systems (section 5(4) of the European Union (Withdrawal) Act 2018) and that other aspects of EU rights and equality law can be overwritten at will by Westminster. But, as we explore, this is not necessarily the case. Article 2 of the Northern Ireland Protocol (or Windsor Framework under the recent rebrand), the measure’s rights and equality provision, moreover, has important implications for legislative developments that the UK is seeking to pursue on a UK-wide basis.
Two men are in a relationship and want to have a child. They approach a female friend who is happy to be their surrogate. She has previously had a voluntary sterilisation procedure, so she would need in-vitro fertilisation (IVF) using a donor egg (a procedure known as gestational surrogacy), to help her friends realise their wishes. This is where they all encounter a problem: voluntary sterilisation makes the woman ineligible for publicly funded IVF.
In JR176(2)’s application for judicial review [2022] NIKB 21, the two men challenged the eligibility criteria for publicly funded IVF on a number of grounds, among which this post will focus on two: a breach of the right to private and family life under Article 8 ECHR and Article 8 taken with the right not to be discriminated against contrary to Article 14 ECHR.
Abortion in Northern Ireland has had a fraught and frequently distressing history. Until 2019 when the UK Parliament reformed the law, the jurisdiction had the most restrictive approach to abortion in the UK. But even this reform has not reformed the reality, either for those seeking abortion services or information and counselling on such services or for those who work at providers of such services lawfully. I have previously written about the situation as it stood in March 2021, and the reality has changed little since then, with two notable exceptions. In March 2022, the Northern Ireland Assembly passed the Abortion Services (Safe Access Zones) Bill (Northern Ireland) (‘SAZ Bill’) to create buffer zones around lawful abortion providers, in an attempt to criminalise the harassment and intimidation of people who seek or work in such places. On 2 December 2022, tired of the glacial pace and political controversy in commissioning abortion services, the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland moved to commission such services himself. In the interim, the Attorney General for Northern Ireland (‘AGNI’) referred the SAZ Bill to the UK Supreme Court to determine whether it was lawful.
But the SAZ Reference also drew another ECHR issue to the Court’s attention: the assessment of proportionality and reasonable excuse defences in criminal trials involving protests. The main points here were the consideration of the Court’s previous judgment in Ziegler and the judgment of the Divisional Court (England and Wales) in Cuciurean. Unusually for a devolution reference, therefore, the Supreme Court sat as a panel of seven Justices. The SAZ Reference judgment was unanimous and authored by Lord Reed.
In 1998, people across the island of Ireland overwhelmingly endorsed the Good Friday Agreement, in a historic decision which signalled hope for a post-sectarian, post-conflict future. The UK Parliament responded to this popular mandate by returning devolution to Northern Ireland. On 24 May 2022, the reverse happened: in the face of vehement opposition from Northern Ireland, the UK Parliament voted to clear the second stage of a Bill that would drastically impact efforts to deal with the Northern Ireland conflict.
The Bill: an overview
There are 4 main parts to the Northern Ireland Troubles (Legacy and Reconciliation) Bill. Part 1 defines ‘the Troubles’, traditionally a phrase used to euphemistically describe the violent political and sectarian conflict which lasted for a little over 3 decades in Northern Ireland. Part 2 establishes a new body, the Independent Commission for Reconciliation and Information Recovery (ICRIR), charged with (among other things) reviewing deaths and certain other ‘harmful conduct’ and granting immunity from prosecution to individuals in exchange for information about those individuals’ potentially criminal conduct during the Northern Ireland conflict. Part 3 largely ends criminal investigations, prosecutions, civil actions, inquests and inquiries (except in specific circumstances). Part 4 provides for the compilation of histories of the Northern Ireland conflict.
Though the Bill’s provisions are complex, this post is not concerned primarily with those provisions. Instead, in addition to the Secretary of State’s statement (under section 19(1)(a) of the Human Rights Act 1998) of compliance with Convention rights, the Bill is accompanied by (somewhat unusually) a 36-page ‘European Convention on Human Rights Memorandum‘, written by the Northern Ireland Office. This Memorandum provides the views of the UK Government on why the Bill is Convention-compliant and this is what will be explored here.
Is anonymity incompatible with the public interest?
In the politically-charged and at times feverish aftermath of the Brexit referendum, Gina Miller became a “magnet for hatred” for exercising her right of access to courts and winning two landmark public law cases against the UK Government. The magnitude and ferocity of abuse directed at Gina Miller made those who followed in her footsteps wary enough to seek anonymity. In Yalland and others v Brexit Secretary, 4 claimants were granted anonymity in relation to a judicial review claim concerning UK participation in the European Economic Area Agreement.
Anonymity in Northern Ireland is not uncommon where some part of a claimant’s deeply personal life or history play a role in the determination of their claim. JR80 for example involved a claimant who had suffered egregious institutional abuse as a child, while JR123 involved a claimant with ancient convictions which disproportionately impacted his life.
In JR181(3)’s application for judicial review, however, anonymity was ordered to continue in the face of a politically-charged atmosphere reminiscent of the worst of the Brexit era.
Nine of the Hooded Men. Photo by Cyril Byrne/The Irish Times
In one of its final decisions of 2021, McQuillan, McGuigan and McKenna, the UK Supreme Court addressed challenges to the effectiveness of police investigations into events which took place during the Northern Ireland conflict. The European Court has long maintained that the right to life (Article 2 ECHR) and the prohibition upon torture and inhuman and degrading treatment (Article 3 ECHR) carry with them positive obligations on the state to conduct effective investigations. These “legacy” cases not only draw the Courts into debates over some of the most contentious aspects of the Northern Ireland conflict, in particular the involvement of state agents in killings and the infliction of serious harms upon individuals, but they also pose questions about how human rights law applied in the context of Northern Ireland as a jurisdiction before the enactment of the Human Rights Act 1998.
The decisions
For reasons of economy, this post will focus on the facts of the McGuigan and McKenna elements of this litigation, which concerned the ill-treatment of detainees who had been interned in the 1970s (while also exploring broader questions which concerned all elements in the litigation). The scope of this ill-treatment, involving the subjection of internees to the infamous “five techniques” (including hooding of detainees to disorient) as part of interrogations, has long been known. Indeed, the resultant case of Ireland v United Kingdom remains a key turning point in the development of the European Convention on Human Rights, demonstrating that the Strasbourg Court would be willing to uphold human rights claims against an important member state even as it sought to tackle political violence. In that decision, although the Court found that the five techniques breached Article 3 ECHR, it discussed them in terms of inhuman and degrading treatment and not torture. Releases of documents by the National Archives (highlighted in a 2014 RTÉ documentary), however, showed UK Cabinet Ministers discussing the extent of the interrogation practices when they were taking place, and led to calls for fresh police investigations into whether there has been a coverup.
What happens when someone is convicted of a criminal offence and is given a custodial sentence? Sometimes, the individual will serve at least part of their sentence in prison and the remainder on licence. But, what happens after they’ve served the totality of their sentence?
Some convictions can, after a certain period of time, become “spent”. This means that anyone convicted of such offences is treated as never having been convicted of such offences. The Rehabilitation of Offenders (Northern Ireland) Order 1978 calls these people “rehabilitated persons”. However, the 1978 Order contains a large number of exceptions, so that some convictions can never become spent. JR123’s application for judicial review in the Northern Ireland High Court concerned one of these exceptions: sentences longer than 30 months.
Readers of this blog may be familiar with the changes in disclosure duties for criminal convictions which came about as a result of the cases of Gallagher, P, G & W v Home Secretary [2019] UKSC 3 (see Samuel March’s post on this topic). JR123 looks at another aspect of the framework of rehabilitation: the ability to be rehabilitated in law at all.
The facts
JR123 had been convicted of possession of a petrol bomb, arson, burglary and theft in 1980. Having been given multiple custodial sentences, he had been released from custody in 1982 and had served the remainder of his sentences on license. In the years which followed, JR123 had no further involvement with the criminal justice system. However, given the exceptions in the 1978 Order, his convictions could never be spent and thus he could never be rehabilitated. This was problematic on multiple fronts, particularly his employment prospects and personal life. Many things which we take for granted, for example applying for insurance, obtaining a mortgage, renting properties, and so on, become considerably difficult when having to disclose convictions which are almost 40 years old ([14]).
Mr Justice Colton observed of JR123: “He finds the process of repeatedly having to disclose the convictions to be oppressive and shaming” ([6]).
One of the most keenly-awaited judgments from the Northern Ireland High Court, Gallagher’s application [2021] NIQB 85 is a roughly-300-paragraph deep-dive into some of the abiding legal controversies surrounding the Omagh bombing of 15 August 1998. The bombing, for which the Real Irish Republican Army (RIRA) later claimed responsibility, killed 29 men, women and children and 2 unborn children and injured many others. It continues to reverberate down the years as the deadliest single incident in the history of the Troubles in Northern Ireland.
Gallagher is a paradigm example of Convention rights at play. As such, it provides food for thought when considered against the scrutiny of both the Human Rights Act 1998 and Legacy litigation. This post sets out some of the main facts before analysing the main Convention-related arguments and the Court’s treatment of them.
The aftermath of the Omagh bombing. Copyright AP/Paul McErlane 1998
The facts
First, this case did not determine who was to blame for the bombing. The issue was a challenge to a 2013 decision, by then Northern Ireland Secretary, Theresa Villiers MP, not to order an inquiry into the Omagh bombing. This was important was because of the series of investigations that had preceded the 2013 decision – and failed to answer lingering questions.
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