No practical reason for censorship

In justifying a ban on the manifesto of the alleged killer in the Christchurch mosque attacks, chief censor David Shanks claims the gunman’s declarations are objectionable because they outline other sites to be attacked in New Zealand and contain ‘‘justifications for acts of tremendous cruelty, such as the deliberate killing of children’’.

It’s likely, however, that along with countless numbers of curious online browsers, the killer’s intended audience – including those who empathise with his rationale for committing this heinous crime – are likely to have already read the entire 74 pages long before the official ban was implemented. So, is outlawing the manifesto of any practical use?

New Zealand governments have a history of censoring information they deem objectionable, particularly during times of moral crisis. Safe sex advocate Ettie Rout’s work during World War I was censured, despite saving thousands of New Zealand soldiers’ lives.

During the 1951 waterfront strike, it became a criminal offence to possess what the government viewed as discriminatory anti-government literature. In both cases, information was propagated by more surreptitious channels. This underscores the reality that, despite government efforts to censor information, it will always be accessible by alternative means, similar to forwarding of the manifesto online.

Although these examples of historical censorship are certainly not on a par with a manifesto inciting further violence, the point is to highlight an underlying preference by New Zealand governments to control information they deem immoral or politically risky. In doing so it calls into question the efficacy of censorship when it simply pushes offending material and public debate underground.

Ideology and racism have already been shown to incite ignorant and disaffected individuals to violence in many parts of the world, which may reflect the lack of appetite by New Zealand governments to allow public access to information it deems objectionable.

But how valid is the notion that banning this manifesto will prevent further acts of violence or terrorism by those more susceptible to racist leanings and violence? And should this be outweighed by a greater need for society as a whole to confront and unravel – and then to be able to counter robustly – ideas as inhumane and vile as those in the manifesto?

To date, 41 magazines published by Islamic terror organisations Islamic State and al-qaeda have already been censored by New Zealand. The Christchurch gunman’s manifesto is the 42nd. But the fact all 42 publications are almost certainly still available – and that police and academics can request a copy for further analysis – begs the question of who or what the Government is trying to protect, prevent or gain by banning it.

Is it possible for select groups to draw impartial, apolitical conclusions, given the breadth and depth of public sentiment? Or is it more likely that, in the long term, releasing the manifesto will generate greater understanding of the inherent depravity of white supremacy and thus ensure we are better equipped to challenge it?

Perhaps banning the manifesto is merely a gesture to a majority of conservative voters that terrorism of this type is not a part of New Zealand’s social and cultural tapestry. It is not in the Government’s interest, economically, politically or otherwise, to limit freedom of information to its Kiwi citizens, particularly in today’s era of ubiquitous digital communications.

I would suggest, therefore, that banning this manifesto is simultaneously an act of tokenism and a measured response by the Government to appease an appalled nation that something tangible is being done.