There is nothing cruel about deporting criminals

IT IS four years since, in an extraordinary event, the deportation of a convicted rapist was prevented by the protests of fellow passengers on his flight.

The man, who cannot be named for legal reasons, was guilty of an offence universally regarded as one of the worst crimes there is. He served four years of a nine-year sentence and could normally have been expected to have been returned to his country of origin.

But, in dramatic and telling events, his deportation was prevented when passengers aboard his flight – who knew nothing of his past – intervened to take his side against officials who were engaged in his removal.

Now we learn that repeated attempts to deport him since have been frustrated by a series of appeals. He is still here. His traumatised victim still cannot be sure that she will not meet him again.

And the enormous bill for his many appeals, which runs into hundreds of thousands of pounds, has been met by British taxpayers.

There are several lessons from these events. One is that those members of the public who view deportations as automatically unfair (as did those who came to this man’s rescue) need to understand that this is simply not so. If they had known the full details of the case, instead of jumping to conclusions, how many would have come to the aid of a convicted rapist? Another is that our legal system, largely thanks to human-rights laws, is hopelessly skewed.

Of course, anyone facing forcible removal from the country must have the right to a fair hearing. But they cannot endlessly exploit the rules, incessantly raising new objections. The Government has many times promised to reform these laws. This one case, by itself, justifies change and makes it urgent.

There is nothing cruel, callous or illiberal in such measures, and the sooner they are enacted, the better.