Trump’s takeover of Venezuela and the long-standing hypocrisy of international law

Andrea Maria Pelliconi, 5 February 2026    7 mins read

The past months have brought back with startling clarity a pattern many international lawyers know all too well. Under the second presidency of Donald Trump, the United States (US) has returned to overt coercion to impose their interests upon the rest of the world. Realist pragmatism has always been present in international relations, but states used to couple their acts “with at least a resemblance of legal justification”. This time, however, practice is matched by words: Trump has completely dispensed with the liberal varnish that usually accompanies US extraterritorial mischiefs and openly admits that his actions and are guided only by his own morality. The attack on Venezuela and the kidnap of NicolĂĄs Maduro and his wife have been followed by repeated threats to annex Greenland by purchase or use of force, alongside renewed intimidation directed at other states such as Panama, Mexico, Colombia, and Cuba. We’re witnessing an accelerated deepening of the global crisis of multilateralism and international law and a return to Great Powers’ “spheres of influence”.

Everyone knows in legal scholarship that the unilateral kidnap of a sitting head of state is unequivocally unlawful under international law, whatever one may think about the Maduro regime and its gross and widespread human rights abuses. The prohibition of the use of force, the principles of sovereignty and non-intervention, and the personal immunity of heads of state vis-Ă -vis other domestic jurisdictions leave no room for ambiguity. And yet, the responses of some western states and the European Union (EU) have not been so unequivocal. Instead, they have been divided and ambivalent, cloaked in watered-down words of “concern” or “monitoring” or strategic silences. German Chancellor Merz has stated that the legal assessment of the US operation is “complex”. French President Macron has emphasised the need for a transition which is “peaceful, democratic, and respectful of the will of the Venezuelan people”. Italian Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni suggested that while the use of force is generally wrong, the US were acting in self-defence against so-called “hybrid security attacks”, referring to Maduro’s supposed weaponisation of drug-trafficking against the US. Reactions were far more decisive when it came to Trump’s threats against Greenland, where the territorial integrity and interests of an EU and NATO state were at stake. European leaders suddenly rediscovered the language of international law and the inviolability of sovereignty and territorial integrity with admirable clarity.

This should not come as a surprise. Over the past years, manifestations of double standards and selectivity have grown exponentially, with the most discussed example being the reactions to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and Israel’s “plausible” genocide in Gaza, both framed as defensive responses to security threats and terrorism. While one may well argue that Israel’s self-defence claim was more well-founded than Russia’s, it soon became clear that the 7 October 2023 attack was being used as a mere pretext to unleash uncontrolled violence on Palestinians, while preparing the ground for territorial expansion in both Gaza and the West Bank. This expansionist plan continues to develop even now, after the supposed “ceasefire” and the UN Resolution on Gaza, and nothing concrete is being done to bring it to an end. The same double standard surfaced in reactions to the International Criminal Court’s (ICC) arrest warrants against Vladimir Putin and Benjamin Netanyahu for international crimes. The same European states that rushed to praise the ICC for its investigation of the Russian leader, later declared that Netanyahu enjoys immunity from ICC prosecution.

And yet, once again, this selectivity is not new at all. It follows decades of US (and broader Western) unlawful attacks and interventions in Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran – to the extent that exceptionalism is not exceptional anymore. Each time, international law norms were stretched, re-interpreted, or reinvented through securitisation doctrines such as preventive self-defence and the “unable or unwilling” test, or hidden behind ostensible “benevolent motives” such as humanitarian intervention, regime change, and the “exportation of democracy”. In fact, the US has even committed the exact same type of head-of-state kidnapping before in the region, most notably with the capture of Manuel Noriega from Panama. This is the so called “rules-based international order”, meaning the rules that the US and its allies imposed upon the rest of the world (“the West and the rest”), as opposed to what international law actually required. Every time, other western states have been weak in condemning the illegality of these actions, and even weaker in doing anything concrete to prevent, stop, or redress them.

Now, at what feels like the climax of the collapse of the international legal order and multilateralism, everyone has awakened, shouting that this is not a drill. UN experts warn that such actions normalise lawlessness in international relations, and commentators caution that Venezuela sets a dangerous precedent: if powerful states may unilaterally decide when international law applies and when it does not, the legal order collapses into selective enforcement and strategic convenience. Even leading US academics now talk about the catastrophic collapse of jus ad bellum norms and the dangers we all face when “might unmakes right”. They highlight the risk that the Venezuela incident “opens the door to other similar actions by powerful nations in the future”. This fails to appreciate that the door has long been wide open.

A prevalent position now is to acknowledge the flaws of international law but vehemently opposing the abandoning of its normative constraints because they’re the only thing that will save us from debacle. International law can still be mobilised to place constraints on power and if it’s consistently disregarded it’s because of contingent political factors militating against full compliance. A recurring metaphor that I’ve heard a few times lately, including among critical thinkers, is the Sisyphus’ myth: the futility of the task should not deter the discipline. But this, at least in part, obscures how this system was intentionally built to shield the actions of the West and has laid the foundations for the situation we now find ourselves in. International law and the indeterminacy of its content provide a “professional vocabulary” to build plausible arguments. For decades, mainstream scholars were complicit in the legal legitimisation of these actions, coming up with doctrines that served the interests of the moment under a façade of international legal jargon.

The inherent defect of the international legal infrastructure has simply become more visible now. As Rajagopal has put it, â€œThe revival of overt colonial and imperial designs under the Trump regime in Washington is notable not because it has invented new forms of domination, but because it has dispensed with the traditional liberal rhetoric that once accompanied them.” From its colonial origins to its modern doctrines of sovereignty, intervention, and trade, international law has consistently operated in the interests of dominant states and classes, while insulating them from the equal application of its norms. What we are witnessing today are colonial revivals as the logical outcome of a system that never truly decolonised. It seems scarier to European eyes now because it has eventually turned against them.

Of course, legal scholarship is not monolithic. Critical voices, including TWAIL scholars, have raised these concerns all along. Yet they have been unable to bring material change, partly because of the structural hierarchies of international law, and partly because of fragmentation of their own views. Some tried to change the system from within; others were content to critique from the margins; others advocated radical transformation or the complete dismantling of the legal order, often without a clear project – and always with different opinion – for what should come after.

Now, as we stand on the verge of a concrete dismantling of the system, with Trump’s plan to replace the United Nations with his own personal “Board of Peace” and international relations reaching the peak of personalisation and corporatisation, everyone – even critics – seem unsure what to do. If there is a moment to seize, it is now. But seizing it requires more than lamenting Trump’s excesses or the fragility of the system: it demands an honest reckoning with the errors of the past, Western exceptionalism, legal complicity, resource-hungry capitalism, and a system ostensibly built on sovereign equality but consistently seized by vetoes and unilateral reprisals. What is needed are visionary ideas for radical change and possible futures – and I am not sure we – myself in primis – are up for the task.

The Sense and Nonsense of AI Ethics: a Whistle Stop Tour

Kieron O’Hara, 29 January 2026 – 8 mins read

Emeritus fellow, University of Southampton, kmoh@soton.ac.uk

AI research has been energised since the unveiling of AlphaGo in 2016 and ChatGPT in 2022, demonstrating capabilities well beyond public and even expert expectations. It also has acquired a chaperone, a growing cottage industry of AI ethics to describe, diagnose, and ultimately remedy its perceived potential harms.

The Silicon Valley credo ‘move fast and break things’ is obviously ethically flawed (especially when the ‘things’ are people), but potential problems don’t usually spawn sub-disciplines; there are no ethics of differential equations, printing or hammers. There is no legal demand to be ethical, and no-one can force you to be ethical, so there is a limit to the number of harms it can prevent. That is not to say that AI development has no ethical dimension; of course it does, and I shall sketch it at the end of this blog.

The cottage industry has emerged from two sets of incentives. Ethicists like advisory committees (upon which they might expect to sit). A lovely example is Henry Kissinger, Eric Schmidt and Daniel Huttenlocher, who prescribe “the leadership of a small group of respected figures from the highest levels of government, business, and academia” to ensure the US “remains intellectually and strategically competitive in AI” and “raise awareness of the cultural implications AI produces”. I wonder who the former Secretary of State, the former CEO of Google and the MIT computer scientist have in mind? Meanwhile, tech developers relish applying Silicon Valley methods to moral philosophy, preferring doomster sci-fi to the hard yards of solving genuine problems (and if ethical codes raise compliance costs for startup competitors, what’s not to like?).

The result is a crowded field with a confusion of non-problems, non-serious problems, non-specific problems and the real deal. Apologies for my necessarily cursory treatment in this survey.

Non-problems

Some perceived AI ethics problems require little action beyond an eyeroll. One non-problem is Artificial General Intelligence, the singularity, and sentience, which together supposedly pose an existential threat. It is assumed without proof that superintelligent agents will have the power (and inclination) to pursue harmful goals autonomously. Barring thought experiments, game theory and the plot of 2001, no evidence is produced for this, although one expert declared, with spurious precision, that AI will take over in December 2027. Both Hinton and Bengio claim the risk is 20% or more. Is it really more serious than climate change, another pandemic or nuclear war?

A second type of non-problem uses critical theory to depict AI as complicit in capitalism, whiteness, racism, sexism, data colonialism, and so on. Maybe, maybe not, but it is not obvious what the conscientious AI developer is to do, other than indulge in the Foucault-worshipping armchair revolutionary groupthink that has thus far proved remarkably unsuccessful in derailing capitalism.

Non-serious problems

Some genuine problems may be poorly framed, not necessarily trivial or easily solved, but not an ethical priority either.

One such is bias. Because algorithms uncover existing patterns in data, they need either unbiased or synthetic data. If unbiased data is unavailable or insufficient, anticipate potential problems and biasing the algorithm against unwanted results. This may not be easy, but it’s a practical problem. Undesigned biases of algorithms are of less ethical import, being statistically anomalous rather than socially significant. Bias is additionally misleadingly framed by the disparate impact doctrine. This ignores that unintentionally discriminating decision procedures often discriminate for desired behaviour, such as being creditworthy or law-abiding. AI’s potential depends on positive discrimination; focusing only on negative discrimination is itself biased.

A second problem is that neural nets are black boxes; difficult if we demand that the machine explains its own output. But any AI ‘decision’ is implemented by an organisation, with responsibility to justify its actions. The required explanation is less the derivation of the output, than its congruence with the organisation’s goals, and the legitimacy of pursuing them.

Third is the persistent yet so far unproven claim that AI will replace jobs, leading to a shortage of work. This accepts the lump of labour fallacy, denies that greater productivity will raise wages and employment, and assumes an elusive business model for generative AI. And just because a job could be taken does not mean it will be; train drivers could have been eliminated 50 years ago, but they still chug along.

Fourth, privacy: but if training uses personal data without data subjects’ consent or other data protection grounds, then it is illegal. If it uses personal data legally, then its being unethical is not a strong ground upon which to act. Either way, data protection law outweighs ethical considerations.

Non-specific problems

Problems not unique to AI are not best addressed through AI regulation or governance. A recent paper listed the likely harms of AI as biodiversity loss, carbon emissions, chemical waste, exploitation of gig workers, exploitation of marginalised and indigenous groups, widening inequalities, eroding trust, and injuries to animals. All serious, but AI-specific guidelines are neither necessary nor sufficient to deal with these far wider issues.

Misinformation is also a problem, but a war against fake news will be as problematic as the war on drugs for the same reason: the issue is not supply, but rather excess demand. This is a social problem, requiring societal adaptation.

The real problems

Real problems require ethical insight, and AI developers need some control. One such is information pollution. LLMs have a tendency to ‘hallucinate’, and can be ‘trained’ to produce racist or other offensive output. This is particularly problematic because output will be used to train the next generation of bots, with the danger of a vicious circle of ‘pollucination’. Conscientious developers, under pressure to produce ever more compelling models, may be urged to put power before rigour.

Other serious issues include intellectual property, cybersecurity, defence (using autonomous learning systems), and diversity (progressive young males tend to be overrepresented in development teams). With these, the question is how to make AI safer without compromising quality, e.g. by insisting on ‘humans in the loop’.

Approaches to avoid

Simplistic views translate complex ethical positions into simple calculi. Framed like this, AI can solve the problems itself! Examples include:

  • Accelerationism: AI is superior to human thought, and development should be escalated to eliminate ‘residual anthropolitical signature’.
  • Effective altruism: a combination of the naĂŻve utilitarianism of Derek Parfit, Peter Singer, and William MacAskill, with the debatable assumption that the tech bros’ chatbots are to benefit humankind, not their bank balances.
  • Ethical AI: AI systems themselves compute the ethical consequences of proposed actions.
  • Rationalism: extreme technocratic and hyper-rational consequentialism, ignoring convention and taking ideas to their logical conclusions.

Others assume that as humanity is transformed, AI systems and cyborgs will have divergent interests from humans, and yet comparable ethical status.

  • Transhumanism: humanity should be improved by applying technology to cognition, well-being and longevity.
  • Posthumanism: humanity should be eliminated by applying technology to genetics and neural capabilities to integrate it with wider sentient networks.
  • Environmental ethics and other anti-anthropocentric views: humans should not be central to ethical inquiry.

We should reject these too: anthropocentricity is central to ethical inquiry. Even views taking technologies, other species of animal, or entire ecosystems into account do so for anthropocentric reasons.

The third class of simplistic views argues for inclusive democratic participation (often phrased in complicity with the reader, suggesting that ‘we’ should take charge). Quite how citizens’ juries and civic dialogues will avoid being dominated by the exam-passing classes, or could constrain AI development is left unsaid – and good luck if you want to try it in China or Russia.

Finally, AI is neither intrinsically good nor bad. Technology to support the development of innovative software, drugs or defences could equally produce new malware, poisons or weapons. This dilemma can’t be offset by programmes of ‘AI for good’. These, while demonstrating benefits (‘beneficial’ defined by developers), can’t eliminate harmful or criminal uses.

The literature on ensuring that the ‘values’ of AI systems align with those of wider society is similarly flawed. Autonomous AI systems operate on reinforcement functions, not values or internal motivations, which they don’t have. They may behave unpredictably, and against human interests, but that can’t be programmed out of them. Testing and modelling methods will be far more use.

Virtue and responsible AI

Where exactly should ethics feature in AI? Let us begin with an observation: if someone sincerely wants to avoid doing the wrong thing, and is thoughtful and conscientious about it, then more often than not they will succeed. The result of the inquiry is less important than its existence.

The ethical actor is not a corporation or an in-role manager (they need back-covering standardised tick-box templates), but individuals involved in the development of AI within a corporate or organisational context. What matters is their conscientiousness and sincerity – their character, their virtuousness.

Virtue ethics has the usual enforcement problem – no-one is forced to be virtuous, and sometimes virtuousness may be punished (cf. the Trump administration passim). However, it is normative for the ethically-minded, and credits the developer with trustworthiness and maturity.

There is a connection between virtue ethics and responsible AI, the movement to ensure ethical development through the life cycle of design, coding, training, and deployment. This literature, such as Vallor on virtues and Dignum on responsible AI, despite familiar Western and progressive biases, is the most valuable starting point for AI ethics.

Trump’s EU foreign policy, implicated scholarship and the ‘Brussels Effect’

Uta Kohl, 16 January 2026 —- 8 mins read

For Europe, the fierceness of the Trump administration’s hostility to the EU has come as a shock. It is unprecedented in scale and kind, and manifests itself in words (Vance’s speech in Munich attacking the EU over free speech and migration or Trump describing Europe as ‘decaying’ and its leaders as ‘weak’) and actions ( halting military aid to Ukraine, announcing 30% tariffs on the EU, or threatening to take Greenland by force). Yet, these hostilities do not come out of nowhere and build on a rise of transatlantic tensions over many US policy choices between 2000 -2024 and acceleration of those tensions over the last decade. Legal and international relations scholars have decried these developments as a breach of trust or, in some cases, a of international law. However, there appears to be little soul-searching about how we, as scholars, may be implicated in them. Whilst academia generally remains on the outskirts of day-to-day politics, we produce knowledge and narratives that create and shape discourses that have an impact on politics.

The Brussels Effect

One such popular academic narrative that has fed into the transatlantic hostilities is the ‘Brussels Effect’. The Brussels Effect was first coined by the Finnish-American scholar, Anu Bradford, in her article (2012) and book (2020) in which she purports to describe ‘how the European Union rules the world’. Her thesis is simple, namely that the EU can set – and has set – global regulatory standards by virtue of being a large and attractive market for many importers from outside the EU and, then, by setting (strict) standards for these importers who often have an incentive to adopt them as their global baseline. This de facto global harmonisation by corporate fiat is complemented by de jure global harmonisation as the home states of these corporations decide to follow the EU regulatory lead and enact like laws in their jurisdictions. Thus there is a global convergence towards EU standards without the political difficulties and cost associated with harmonisation efforts following formal processes. Effectively, the EU gets harmonisation on the cheap. European data protection law is widely seen as an example par excellence of the Brussels Effect as it has led to a widespread adoption of data protection laws around the globe.

Bradford’s Brussels Effect has been hugely successful as a seemingly objective and neutral synthesis of facts describing EU regulatory hyperactivity with extraterritorial effect. For the digital world, this seems particularly true considering the recent raft of EU legal instruments dealing with online platforms, such as Digital Services Act, the Digital Markets Act and the AI Act. There are many more (including corporate sustainability measures), and all of them have exterritorial reach as they apply to foreign providers that operate in the EU. The Brussels Effect has been referenced by thousands of scholars and taken up by EU policy makers and politicians with gusto, often as a badge of pride and honour.

And yet, there is more to the Brussels Effect than meets the eye. For a start, it is not simply a description of facts about EU regulation but a meta-narrative that puts a particular perspective or spin on facts. Meta-narratives are stories about stories, which explain, tie together, and legitimise or delegitimise smaller facts and events, and appeal as much to the emotions as they do to the intellect. Bradford’s article starts off by appealing to the sensitivities of the average American: ‘EU regulations have a tangible impact on the everyday lives of citizens around the world. Few Americans are aware that EU regulations determine the makeup they apply in the morning, the cereal they eat for breakfast, the software they use on their computer, and the privacy settings they adjust on their Facebook page. And that’s just before 8:30 AM.’(3)

The particular perspective of the Brussels Effect narrative is one of EU regulatory overreach. This charge is already implicit in the title of Bradford’s book: How the European Union Rules the World. Implicit in her argument is the question: Why should Europe rule the world? Centuries of European imperialism, including legal imperialism, are bygone and, if not, should be. Brussels should be ashamed of itself. By the same token, if the Brussels Effect narrative offers a legitimate critique of excessive EU law, then the Trump administration’s opposition to EU regulation of US platforms also strikes a legitimate chord. In that case, the large platforms may also be right in characterising the fines by the Commission under EU platforms regulations as ‘protectionist’, ‘discriminatory’ or  â€˜disguised tariffs’ or as ‘censorship’.  Yet, does the EU really rule the world? Unlikely. 

There are indeed good reasons why the Brussels Effect narrative is not plausible. Here are three. First, EU (digital) regulation seeks to regulate the European single market and must necessarily apply to foreign providers who do business in Europe. This is a standard jurisdictional approach adopted across the globe as it rightly protects local standards from being undermined by foreign providers. Second, when foreign corporations, like the US digital platforms, adopt European standards as their global baseline, this is a commercial decision driven by market forces. The EU cannot ‘choose’ this as a route to global harmonisation, but as a form of bottom-up harmonisation it can lend support and legitimacy to political harmonisation. Such market forces come and go, wholly outside the EU’s power. Third, whilst according to Bradford’s Brussels Effect the EU imposes its preference for ‘strict rules’ on ‘the rest of world’ (citing almost exclusively US examples), arguably the US and not the EU is the outlier in its preference for laissez-faire law, especially in respect of the tech platforms. Already in 2005, Frederick Schauer observed that the absolutist speech protection of the First Amendment was the odd one out internationally: ‘On a large number of other issues in which the preferences of individuals may be in tension with the needs of the collective, the United States, increasingly alone.’ Thus, it is far more plausible that EU regulations are simply more aligned with the public policies and interests of other jurisdictions than US laissez-faire law is.

The Washington Effect

If the Brussels Effect narrative paints a skewed picture of EU regulatory activism, it may be more compelling to understand EU regulations through the counter-narrative of the ‘Washington Effect’. A counter-narrative uses the same facts but tells a different story. In this case the story is that EU platform regulation is not an offensive extraterritorial strategy for Europe to attain global ‘superpower’ status, but rather a defensive territorial one that seeks to counter, in Europe, the hegemony of US platforms and US laissez-faire law. In other words, the EU is in pursuit of reclaiming digital sovereignty and perhaps even leads the global resistance to US legal imperialism.

The counter-narrative of the Washington Effect builds on the idea that deregulation is not nothing or neutral, but a form of regulation whereby existing legal standards are abandoned or watered down. It may occur within a jurisdiction through explicit deregulatory measures or across jurisdictions when the more permissive laws of one State undermine the more restrictive laws of another. Although deregulation appears to facilitate the ‘free’ market – free from state interference – even a free market is enabled by the general law of the land, such as contract and property law, corporation law, basic rules on fair competition, product liability or negligence law. Thus deregulation that meddles with these fundamental enabling market rules constitutes a significant regulatory intervention with the market, rather than a non-intervention. Such deregulatory interventions reconstitute the market and its distribution of rights, privileges, powers and authorities. In other words, deregulation also regulates.

There is plenty of evidence of the de facto or de jure imposition of US deregulation on ‘the rest of the world’. Most notably, section 230 Communications Decency Act (1996) which immunises platforms from liability (under the ordinary law of the land) for wrongful publications by third parties on their domains, is one such piece of deregulation that the US has successfully exported to more than 60 jurisdictions worldwide with an enormous effect on global networked space. Equally, a de facto Washington Effect occurred when US digital platforms – ‘socialised’ through US permissive laws, most notably US First Amendment jurisprudence – started to offer their services in Europe and elsewhere with minimal legal restraints built into their content distribution and ad revenue systems and when this starting position went unchallenged in Europe for decades. So perhaps it is the Washington Effect, not the Brussel Effect, that really shows who rules the world.

The moral of the story

Academic scholarship matters. It tells stories. The Brussels Effect is a story that has mattered. Its effects have been significant. It has lent credence to the Trump administration’s opposition to EU tech regulation. It has then put the EU on a regulatory backfoot and, at the same time, disguised quite how successfully Washington has exported its deregulatory regulation to the rest of the world. The Brussels Effect demonstrates that just because a narrative has intuitive appeal and in fact appeals to many, does not mean it’s a good story. This is a dangerous one.

For a more in-depth analysis of the topic, see Uta Kohl, ‘The Politics of the ‘Brussels Effect’ Narrative’, forthcoming in ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE: PLATFORM REGULATION IN THE UNITED STATES AND EUROPE (A. Koltay, R. Krotoszynski, B. Török, E. Laidlaw (eds), OUP, 2026)

The Pains of Imprisonment for Public Protection (IPP) for Family Members

This post provides a brief summary of emerging findings from the research project ‘‘Exploring the Secondary Pains of Indeterminate Imprisonment: The case of IPP families’ and is a shortened version of a piece for the August edition of Inside Time (https://www.insidetime.org/):

The indeterminate Imprisonment for Public Protection (IPP) sentence has rightly been described as one of the least carefully planned and implemented pieces of legislation in the history of British sentencing. Readers of Inside Time will know that there continues to be a large number of people imprisoned on IPP sentences despite its abolition in 2012, either still serving their original sentence or having been recalled to prison. There have been a number of important reports examining the problems caused by the sentence, but the experiences of families of IPP prisoners has so far not been explored.

Our research ‘Exploring the Secondary Pains of Indeterminate Imprisonment: The case of IPP families’ has begun to fill this gap. We wanted to understand how families were affected by the IPP sentence; the support they may have received; and involvement in campaigns relating to the IPP sentence. In order to do this, we conducted in-depth interviews with 15 family members of IPP prisoners and received 119 responses to an online survey.

Our detailed findings will be published later in the year, but we can share some of the most important themes here. Overarching themes were injustice, uncertainty and hope. With the sentence having been abolished but no legislative action taken to address the existing IPP population, families understandably felt that this was an unjust situation. One respondent told us, “I feel bitter towards the justice system knowing worse crimes are committed with much lesser sentences”. Families also emphasised the difficulties created by the uncertainty of the open-ended sentence: this raised substantial emotional challenges, with many families feeling as if they were serving the sentence with their relative. As one family member put it, ‘The not knowing is the hardest part, we have no end date, no light at the end of the tunnel’. Unfortunately, but perhaps unsurprisingly, families reported that release brought its own difficulties. Some spoke of the constant fear of recall, of ‘living on the edge’.

The influential Farmer Review has recently made clear that the positive role to be played by families should be taken much more seriously by the criminal justice system. It is certainly the case that families can often give valuable support to an IPP prisoner’s progression. Unfortunately our research highlighted numerous practical challenges faced by families of IPP prisoners. These ranged from poor communication and inconsistencies in policies between prisons to a lack of contact due to distance. For example one respondent said that ‘The whole process of dealing with the prison service has been very inefficient and frustrating.’ Many families felt that probation should be doing a lot more to ensure progression towards release. Others spoke of long delays in the parole process, deferred hearings, and this all making a ‘really, really hard emotional journey’ even more difficult.

Many families put in a great deal of work to support their relative. While many family members are pleased that they can take action to help their relative, this does present challenges and put pressures on them. Some families told us that just having some recognition by relevant organisations (for example probation and parole) of their actions and how important they are would make a big difference to them. In addition to the work required of family members, the IPP sentence also often puts strain on family relationships. Many family members also reported serious health problems relating to the stresses and strains of the situation described above.

This research will provide further evidence to support arguments for additional legislative action to be taken in relation to IPP sentences. The majority of IPP prisoners are over tariff, and many have now served 3-4 times their tariff period. Proposals such as a ‘sunset clause’, where IPP prisoners cannot be imprisoned for longer than the maximum available sentence length for the offence committed, remain attractive. There are also steps that can, and should, be taken in relation to the licence period. Most obviously shortening its default length (from life); reducing the time from which a prisoner can apply for it to be lifted (from 10 years); and changing what happens when an IPP prisoner is recalled to prison (for example not returning them onto the original IPP sentence, or changing the release test for their subsequent parole hearing). Thankfully organisations like the Parole Board and the National Probation Service are increasingly aware of the important role played by families, and their need for advice and support. We hope that our research will help to move this agenda forwards and in particular ensure that the specific issues relating to IPP prisoners are addressed.

Dr Harry Annison, Dr Rachel Condry and Anna Leathem

Exploring the internal dynamics of the Ministry of Justice

Exploring the Ministry of Justice, Explaining Penal Policy

Dr Harry Annison

Southampton Law School

Much of my research, and my teaching, explores issues of penal policy and in particular the political and policymaking processes that are involved in criminal justice policy. Issues relating to prisons, punishment, policing and so on are often highly emotive, technically complex and subject to fierce political debate.

As part of this ongoing work, in a recent paper I considered the history of the UK Ministry of Justice and what it “is”: what are the traditions (the collections of beliefs) that underpin the ongoing activities of those within the department’s concrete obelisk home? I suggest that understanding what the department “is” in this way, is an important consideration when trying to understand particular policy developments such as those highlighted above. (Note that while the Ministry of Justice is part of the UK government, responsibility for criminal justice in Scotland is a devolved matter: the MoJ is therefore responsible for policy in England and Wales).

Drawing on ‘elite’ research interviews conducted with nearly 100 policy participants (including ministers, senior civil servants, MPs, and many more), I argued that there exist four ‘Ministries’:

  • A liberal department centred upon justice and fairness;
  • One determined to achieve the rehabilitation of offenders;
  • One obsessed with public protection;
  • One steeped in new managerialism

For some the Ministry of Justice is (or was) the ‘balancing department’, ‘the ones who did the checks and balances’ (research quotes from civil servants). For others, public protection is the dominant paradigm: avoiding high profile, serious incidents in the community, and ensuring ‘security of the [prison] estate’ (research quote from special adviser) is the overriding concern.

For others still, rehabilitation was the raison d’etre of the department (those parts tasked with prisons and probation policy, in particular). While often operating more at the level of rhetoric than reality, it was a ‘noble aim’ that sustained the department (civil servant), and indeed recurs in public debate with striking frequency.

Finally, for some managerialism had come to dominate, with aspirations for ‘an end-to-end criminal justice system’ (Lord Falconer, evidence to Constitutional Affairs Committee, 2007) flowing into benchmarking of prison services against the private sector, and talk of ‘capability gaps’, ‘business critical requirements’ and ‘doing better for less’.

These traditions – ideas about what the department is, and what it is for, collide and combine; they compete. In turn the department has been buffeted by a series of dilemmas – questions that raise profound questions about its nature and role. These include:

  • Is its political head a judicial representative (in his role as Lord Chancellor) or a government minister (as Justice Secretary)? Can he or she be both?
  • Is the Ministry of Justice a centralised department, or an assortment of largely discreet parts?
  • Are the ‘policy’ and ‘operational’ aspects (of prisons, probation, legal aid, and so on) to be fused, or kept separate?
  • Is the goal of the department patient implementation of policy, or political responsiveness to immediate events?

These concerns, and developing such ‘internal’ narratives of a government department, may seem inward-looking, self-regarding, and to pale into insignificance compared to the serious concerns identified at the beginning of this blog post.But as I have argued in a recent paper for the
British Journal of Criminology, the activity in any department is characterized by a complex interplay between perceived conditions ‘out there’ (austerity, election cycles, and so on), ‘internal’ considerations (informed by the traditions and dilemmas identified above) and work on specific policy areas.

Therefore, if one seeks to understand developments in a particular policy area – and as importantly, to consider how to achieve positive change in that field – a crucial part of this enterprise requires understanding this ‘internal’ aspect of policymakers’ concerns.

The working paper ‘Decentring the UK Ministry/s of Justice’ is available here

The finalized paper is published as a chapter entitled ‘What is Penal Policy? Traditions and practices in the UK Ministry of Justice’, in Narrative Policy Analysis: Cases in decentred policy, edited by RAW Rhodes and published by Palgrave Macmillan in May 2018.

The paper ‘The Policymakers’ Dilemma: Change, continuity and enduring rationalities of penal policy’ is published in the British Journal of Criminology and available here

A longer version of this blog post is available at the BSC (British Society of Criminology) Blog site: https://thebscblog.wordpress.com/2018/06/13/exploring-the-uk-ministry-of-justice-explaining-penal-policy/

Rape Myths and Medusa’s Gaze: a story of windows and mirrors

It is a little while now since the media storm surrounding the Ched Evans rape case died down following the footballer’s acquittal at retrial. Since that time, attention has moved on to a much larger story about alleged sexual wrongdoing in Hollywood, and the prosecution of Harvey Weinstein may well also turn on the issue of consent and the relevance or otherwise of complainants’ sexual histories. Such cases force us to confront difficult and important questions about what the interests of justice require to be made visible and must be kept hidden from view. In an article published just now in the International Journal of Law and Context (‘Ched Evans, Rape Myths and Medusa’s Gaze: a story of windows and mirrors’), I discuss some ways in which the legal debate about defendants seeking to discredit a complainant using details of the latter’s sexual life is itself part of a larger voyeuristic culture. The article considers the decisive second Evans Court of Appeal judgment, and this post offers some reflections that draw on that article.

Appeal judgments often offer up narrative details that seem irrelevant to the legal point at issue, but in fact tell of a deeper significance. Hallet LJ described two men who, on the night in question, sought to watch and film the defendant, his friend, and the complainant (‘X’) through the window of the ground floor hotel room where the incident was taking place. Their efforts were thwarted at a certain point when the curtains were closed. Does this scene not perfectly capture the essence of the case as a whole: the complainant’s identity concealed on one level by curtains as if in a private theatre, and on another by her designation in the legal judgment euphemistically by the letter ‘X’ – that signifier of censored content that simultaneously veils and draws attention? If the vignette of two men peering through a window mirrors a broader cultural voyeurism that surrounded the case, then so too did the Court’s own framing of the legal issue in terms of the justifiability of ‘indulg[ing] in a forensic examination of [X’s] sexual behaviour with others’ [para 74]. As we know, the Court did indeed decide that such ‘indulgence’ was justifiable, on the basis that the testimony of X’s purported acts of consensual drunken, rough and loud sex [paras. 12, 13, 24, 33, 35, 39, 52, 56, 58, 71] – constituted relevant and admissible evidence that a jury could well regard as corroborating Evans’s own testimony that X consented.

What the Evans judgment seems to affirm is something long argued by commentators of variously feminist positions: that there is a certain relationship between the power of visual spectacle and the imperatives of justice that, placed in the context of our existing gendered norms about ‘proper’ sexual behaviour, may disadvantage women. In this case, the evidence in question indicated that X was a violator of traditional feminine norms: that far from a sexual ‘gatekeeper’ of men’s morals X was an aggressive initiator of casual sex, and thus more masculine than feminine in terms of traditional gendered sex roles. Much was written at the time of retrial on how this fact engages the myth referred to by Hallet LJ herself, that ‘unchaste women are more likely to consent to intercourse and in any case, are less worthy of belief’ [para. 44]. Indeed, beliefs of this kind – well exploited by Evans’s defence team in soliciting the fresh evidence – are reinforced by a ‘just world’ philosophy: that ‘bad girls’ like X have no cause to complain about the consequences of their own risky and disapproved-of sexual behaviours.

If it is the case that the Court’s judgment may have reinforced such myths then this is of course a serious matter. However, the judgment is instructive furthermore about what criminal justice ‘sees’ when it turns its gaze on a case like Evans’s. It is to this issue that I want to get, which takes us some way beyond the usual debates about rape culture and what a ‘not guilty’ verdict really means. In finding its way to legitimising ‘indulgence’ in the sexual details of X’s private life, the Court reminds us of that image with which we started: of those tawdry observers peering through the hotel window, hoping to catch a glimpse of X and who understand her only in terms of an object for view. The Court, like those gawping men, thus serves as a mirror of cultural prejudices rather than a means by which to dispel them. This affords an explanation for lingering dissatisfaction (at least among ‘elite opinion’) with the retrial verdict: not on account of the factual question of whether Evans really did rape X after all, but rather the confirmation that the criminal justice gaze is ally to the voyeuristic and objectifying male gaze.

If the Evans judgment represents any sort of failure on the part of the judiciary then, it is a failure of the imagination: to imagine a view from the standpoint of the supposed ‘object’. Finding ways towards accommodating alternative perspectives is one of the key contributions of ‘law and humanities’ approaches to legal studies. What we need is criminal justice that has the imaginative capacity to countenance the object of its gaze ‘looking back’ – that is cognisant of the dangers of objectification and that makes room for something of the spirit of the mythic Medusa. In that myth, the hero Perseus knew that while he looked at Medusa only in the reflection of his polished shield, he was invulnerable to her monstrous feminine gaze. If rape myths are a kind of ‘shield’ that reinforces the male gaze, then the story of how Perseus killed Medusa seems perfectly to literalise that. The aims of feminist critiques of rape myths have tended to rehearse that struggle: to, so to speak, render Perseus’ shield transparent somehow and thereby to force dominant masculinity to reckon with another perspective on the question of what it means to do justice for both defendants and complainants.

David Gurnham, Professor of Criminal Law and Interdisciplinary Legal Studies, Southampton Law School

Data Protection and data analytics: what is Art. 29 WP really saying to businesses wanting to innovate with data?

In three-month time, the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), will become applicable to many, if not all, data processing activities to which living individuals can be associated. Businesses operating in Europe have had about two years to prepare for this change. As readers know, even if the GDPR is a lengthy piece of legislation, additional interpretative guidance is very much welcome to create and aid understanding about the ‘links’ between key concepts arising across the different pieces of the legislative ‘jigsaw’. The influential EU Article 29 Data Protection Working Party (Art. 29 WP) has therefore been working hard these past few months to give context to some of the most important GDPR requirements: e.g. by publishing guidelines on issues such as data protection impact assessment, data protection officers, the right to data portability, automated individual decision-making and profiling, personal data breach notification, consent, and transparency.

For new comers to the field, excited about working with data (including personal data) to build and develop smart algorithmic systems, getting simple answers to key questions about how to comply with the GDPR is not always easy. [The same is often probably true for avid readers of the GDPR
]

What if one had only 1000 words to explain to businesses wanting to innovate with data relating to people what the GDPR is about? What would the message be?

For the sake of this thought exercise attempted here, we should probably assume that data innovation, in the main, implies the repurposing of data. The data is first collected for a specific or specified purpose and is then processed for a different purpose, one that most likely was not anticipated at the initial stage of collection by the data controller.

One of the first questions to pose in that context is whether a new legal (‘lawful’) basis is needed to comply with EU data protection law for this change of purpose. Under GDPR Article 6, the principle of lawfulness demands that at least one legal basis (chosen from a limited list of options) be identified to justify a personal data processing activity, either: consent; performance of a contract or steps necessary to entering into a contract; protection of the vital interests of the data subject; performance of a task carried out in the public interest or in the exercise of official authority vested in the controller; or, necessary to achieve legitimate interests pursued by the data controller, or by a third party, as long as the interests are not overridden by the interests or fundamental rights and freedoms of the data subjects.

Reading both Article 6(4) GDPR and the last version of Art. 29 WP guidelines on consent (‘WP259’) in conjunction, it appears that if the initial legal basis relied upon to justify personal data processing is consent, the only way to comply with the principle of lawfulness at the second stage (the data analytics stage) is to seek consent again.

This is what Art. 29 WP writes at p. 12 of WP259: “If a controller processes data based on consent and wishes to process the data for a new purpose, the controller needs to seek a new consent from the data subject for the new processing purpose.”

Nevertheless, Art. 29 WP is mindful of the fact that the law is changing and the GDPR introduces stricter conditions for obtaining informed consent where it is being relied upon by a data controller. It therefore adds (p. 30): “If a controller finds that the consent previously obtained under the old legislation will not meet the standard of GDPR consent, then controllers must assess whether the processing may be based on a different lawful basis, taking into account the conditions set by the GDPR. However, this is a one off situation as controllers are moving from applying the Directive to applying the GDPR. Under the GDPR, it is not possible to swap between one lawful basis and another.”

GDPR Art. 6(4) and Recital 50 seem to confirm that – following the GDPR coming into force – if the initial legal basis to be relied upon to justify processing personal data is consent, the doctrine of (in)compatibility of purposes (to ensure compliance with the so-called principle of ‘purpose limitation’) is not applicable. [Note that there has not always been consensus on the exact effects of the doctrine of (in)compatibility of purposes, see my previous post here, but Recital 50 now clarifies that “[t]he processing of personal data for purposes other than those for which the personal data were initially collected should be allowed only where the processing is compatible with the purposes for which the personal data were initially collected. In such a case, no legal basis separate from that which allowed the collection of the personal data is required.”].

But then, even if one is ready to seek consent again at the data analytics stage, could data subjects really be said to be capable of providing meaningful consent to such secondary practices? Article 6(4) provides that consent can only be given in relation to specific purposes.

Recital 33 GDPR suggests that, for scientific research purposes, the principle of purpose limitation should be relaxed. This is because, “It is often not possible to fully identify the purpose of personal data processing for scientific research purposes at the time of data collection. Therefore, data subjects should be allowed to give their consent to certain areas of scientific research when in keeping with recognised ethical standards for scientific research. Data subjects should have the opportunity to give their consent only to certain areas of research or parts of research projects to the extent allowed by the intended purpose.”

Although the GDPR seems to adopt a broad definition of scientific research, which covers “technological development and demonstration, fundamental research, applied research and privately funded research” (Recital 159), this relaxation per definition only applies to scientific research. Data analytics practices are not necessarily tantamount to scientific research activities. In fact, in most cases they do not involve researchers at all.

This explains why the GDPR uses a different term to describe data analytics: that of ‘general analysis.’ In Recital 29, one reads as follows:

“In order to create incentives to apply pseudonymisation when processing personal data, measures of pseudonymisation should, whilst allowing general analysis, be possible within the same controller when that controller has taken technical and organisational measures necessary to ensure, for the processing concerned, that this Regulation is implemented, and that additional information for attributing the personal data to a specific data subject is kept separately.”

What could Recital 29 mean?

It seems to suggests that, assuming the initial data controller also performs the secondary ‘general analysis’, the new purpose pursued at this later stage should be deemed  compatible with the initial purpose at least where a process of pseudonymisation (see Article 4(5) for the GDPR definition of ‘pseudonymisation’ matching the description in Recital 29) is applied to the personal data post-collection. Therefore, could we also surmise – logically – that, assuming consent was not the initial legal basis relied upon to justify the collection of the personal data originally, no new legal basis would be needed to justify its secondary usage?

On the other hand, by contrast, what if the secondary ‘general analysis’ of that same personal data was actually to be undertaken by a third party, which implies that the data controller would transfer the data set to a recipient [e.g. a start-up] to carry out the innovatory analytics job? Would the old and new purposes be necessarily incompatible? If the answer is yes, a new legal basis would then be needed to justify the secondary processing at the data analytics stage.

What should a start-up receiving personal data from a data provider, to develop a solution and sell it back to the data provider, really do then?

At a minimum, the start-up should probably check what the legal basis for the repurposing of the data is likely to be, BUT ALSO whether the initial legal basis relied upon by the data provider in collecting/creating the personal data was consent obtained from the data subject, or not.

Taking this analysis one step further, assuming there is an argument [which is not straightforward as explained above] that the processing of personal data for general analysis (secondary analytics) purposes was compatible with the initial purpose justifying the original collection –even if the general analysis is to be undertaken by a third party on behalf of the data controller – that third party should in principle receive the data after a pseudonymisation process has been applied to the personal data.

Start-ups should therefore specifically ask for pseudonymised data from the provider of the data they will be experimenting with, whenever possible.

This makes particular sense in the light of Article 11 GDPR, which expressly states in alluding to a state of personal data very similar to the state of personal data that has undergone the process of GDPR pseudonymisation, that if “the controller is able to demonstrate that it is not in a position to identify the data subject, the controller shall inform the data subject accordingly, if possible. In such cases, Articles 15 to 20 shall not apply except where the data subject, for the purpose of exercising his or her rights under those articles, provides additional information enabling his or her identification.”  [As a reminder, Article 15-20 GDPR refers to the data subject’s rights of: access by the data subject; to rectification; to erasure; to restriction of processing; and, to data portability].

Surprisingly the right to object is not exempted under Article 11 as it is governed by Article 21, whereas Article 12(2) expressly states: “In the cases referred to in Article 11(2), the controller shall not refuse to act on the request of the data subject for exercising his or her rights under Articles 15 to 22, unless the controller demonstrates that it is not in a position to identify the data subject.” [How do we explain this?]

But that is probably not all that we can infer from the above logic being suggested.

Under GDPR Art. 4(4) ‘profiling’ means “any form of automated processing of personal data consisting of the use of personal data to evaluate certain personal aspects relating to a natural person, in particular to analyse or predict aspects concerning that natural person’s performance at work, economic situation, health, personal preferences, interests, reliability, behaviour, location or movements.”

Whereas, reading Art. 29 WP guidelines on automated individual decision-making and profiling (‘WP251’, recently adopted in final form here), it appears clear that the Art.29 WP envisages that the secondary data analytics stage, i.e. analysis to identify correlations in personal datasets at a later time period, is covered by this GDPR definition of profiling. Specifically, it alludes to the fact that analysis to identify correlations would/should fall underwould/should fall under the GDPR definition of profiling. (p.7).

As a result, if the data shared retains individual level data points [a fact that is consistent with the process of pseudonymisation being applied to personal data precisely to minimise the risk of harm arising to data subjects consequential to later processing activities], there is an argument that the recipient responsible for the data analytics effort may yet be determined to be engaging in profiling activities whenever it looks for patterns of commonalities. [The way the ultimate purpose of the set of processing activities is described could make the difference. E.g. “I am analysing data generated by driverless cars to identify where the most accidents take place and adapt road signs”].

As profiling activities require special care under the GDPR, in particular if such activities are followed by individual decisions taken as a result of profiles created (see GDPR Art.22 and Art. 35, for example), start-ups could find it useful to check with their data providers whether a data protection impact assessment has been undertaken to make sure the future risks for the individual data subjects – those at the very centre of the data analytics ‘story’ – have been taken into account and mitigated at an early stage.

What is the moral of the story? Data providers and start-ups should probably work closely together when doing people-centric data innovation or
. 1000 words is never enough to tell a data protection story!

Sophie Stalla-Bourdillon

This article was first published on Peep Beep!, a blog dedicated to information law.

Carriage of passengers – two recent decisions

Two recent English Court of Appeal decisions consider the Athens Convention relating to the Carriage of Passengers and their Luggage by Sea 1974. Hamblen LJ in November 2017 decided the two cases Lawrence v NCL (Bahamas) Ltd (The “Norwegian Jade”) [2017] EWCA Civ 2222 and Collins v Lawrence [2017] EWCA Civ 2268. What does disembarkation mean? And what are the roles of the contractual carrier and the performing carrier under the Convention?

Collins v Lawrence

Mr Collins had been for a fishing trip. Disembarkation was by a set of semi-permanent steps down onto a shingle beach. Was Mr Collins still in the process of disembarkation, or had he completed that process when he slipped on a wooden plank at the foot of the steps? If he injured himself in the process of disembarkation, the short Athens Convention time bar applied, but if he injured himself afterwards, the general civil liability time bar, which was longer, applied and the claim would be within time.

The key provision in the Athens Convention 1974 was the following, article 1.8:

“‘Carriage’ covers the following periods:

(a) With regard to the passenger and his cabin luggage, the period during which the passenger and/or his cabin luggage are on board the ship or in the course of embarkation or disembarkation and the period during which the passenger and his cabin luggage are transported by water from land to the ship or vice versa, if the cost of such transport is included in the fare or if the vessel used for the purpose or auxiliary transport has been put at the disposal of the passenger by the carrier. However, with regard to the passenger, carriage does not include the period during which he is in a marine terminal or station or on a quay or in or on any other port installation.”

In the view of the judge, the process of disembarkation covered the whole period of moving from the vessel to a safe position on the shore while a person was still using equipment which facilitated disembarkation, such as the steps and wooden board in this case. Therefore Mr Collins was still in the process of disembarking. Disembarkation had not been completed until the claimant was ashore, which meant safely on the shingle beach. The claim was time-barred.

The Norwegian Jade

In The Norwegian Jade, the cruise passenger had made a contract through a travel agent to travel from London to Venice, join a cruise around the Mediterranean with disembarkation in Venice and then a return flight to London. At Santorini, he fell and injured himself, not on board, but on a smaller boat which was to take him from the cruise ship to the island.

The cruise ship operator first of all argued that it was not the contractual carrier, and that it was the travel agent who had contracted with the passenger as contractual carrier. This argument was unsuccessful: it was the cruise ship operator who provided booking confirmations, in copy to the travel agent and the guest. The booking conditions stated that for a booking made through a travel agent, a binding contract came into existence with the defendant when the travel agent received confirmation of the booking and a reservation number.

Secondly, the cruise ship operator argued that article 1.8 of the Athens Convention did not apply when Mr Lawrence left the ship only for a day trip. ‘Embarkation’ and ‘disembarkation,’ the cruise ship operator argued, meant the passenger and their luggage being moved simultaneously at the beginning and end of the cruise. This argument too was unsuccessful. It appear to be the first time it has been considered by a court.

Thirdly, the judge held that the operator of the smaller boat at Santorini, which was acting as ‘performing carriers,’ was at fault or in neglect in that they should have placed an additional sign at eye level warning passengers of the potentially hazardous step that caused Mr Lawrence to trip and fall. Since the performing carrier was at fault or in neglect, so was the contractual carrier, namely the cruise ship operator, either because it had taken no action itself or because it was answerable for the fault or neglect of the performing carrier.

Comment

Personal injuries and small passenger claims are most frequently brought in the county courts. Such decisions are often not reported, meaning that it is difficult to find decisions on how the Athens Convention is applied in practice. These decisions should help achieve some uniformity in passenger carriage claims.

Dr Johanna Hjalmarsson
Southampton Law School
The full article was published in Lloyd’s Shipping & Trade Law on 9 February and is available on www.i-law.com and on www.shippingandtradelaw.com

What is the UK limit of liability for wreck?

Surprisingly, a shipowner’s rights to limit liability in respect of claims against a wreck are not clear under UK law. Although the ambiguities in question were pointed out at an early stage, the position remains unresolved. This article considers the applicable treaties, legislation and views of eminent authors to demonstrate that the position is unresolved.

The treaties

The position is ultimately defined by the treaties to which the UK is a party, namely the conventions on shipowners’ limitation of liability generally and the wreck convention.

The UK is currently a party to the 1996 Protocol to the International Convention on Limitation of Liability for Maritime Claims 1976. In becoming a party, the UK denounced the 1976 Convention to which it had previously been a party since 1 December 1986. The 1996 Protocol entered into force in the UK on 13 May 2004.

In connection with the ratification of both the 1976 Convention and the 1996 Protocol, the UK notified the depositary, the International Maritime Organization, that it reserved its right not to apply rights to limit liability to claims falling under article 2(1)(d) of the Convention. There has been no withdrawal of that notification. Article 2 is in identical form in both Conventions, and reads, with emphasis added:

“Claims subject to limitation

1. Subject to Articles 3 and 4 the following claims, whatever the basis of liability may be, shall be subject to limitation of liability:

[(a) – (c)] 


(d) claims in respect of the raising, removal, destruction or the rendering harmless of a ship which is sunk, wrecked, stranded or abandoned, including anything that is or has been on board such ship;

(e) claims in respect of the removal, destruction or the rendering harmless of the cargo of the ship 
”

Reservations are permitted against the Convention. Article 18 reads:

“Article 18. Reservations

1. Any State may, at the time of signature, ratification, acceptance, approval or accession, reserve the right to exclude the application of Article 2, paragraph 1(d) and (e). 
”

The amending Protocol also permits this same reservation. The UK has availed itself of this option. As a result of this reservation, it is not bound by international law to ensure by domestic legislation that claims such as under article 2(1)(d) are subject to limitation. The reservation was made both under the original Convention and when ratifying the Protocol.

As for the Nairobi International Convention on the Removal of Wrecks 2007, it entered into force in the UK on 14 April 2015. This Convention does not contain any provisions on limitation of liability, except to recognise that states may wish to apply other Conventions on limitation of liability to claims in respect of wreck:

“Article 10. Liability of the owner

1. Subject to Article 11, the registered owner shall be liable for the costs of locating, marking and removing the wreck under Articles 7, 8 and 9, respectively, unless the registered owner proves that the maritime casualty that caused the wreck:

(a) resulted from an act of war, hostilities, civil war, insurrection, or a natural phenomenon of an exceptional, inevitable and irresistible character;

(b) was wholly caused by an act or omission done with intent to cause damage by a third party; or

(c) was wholly caused by the negligence or other wrongful act of any Government or other authority responsible for the maintenance of lights or other navigational aids in the exercise of that function.

2. Nothing in this Convention shall affect the right of the registered owner to limit liability under any applicable national or international regime , such as the Convention on Limitation of Liability for Maritime Claims, 1976, as amended.” [Emphasis added.]

The right to limit liability for claims against wreck under UK law therefore depends on whether the enabling legislation giving force to the 1996 Protocol has given effect to the reservation against article 2(1)(d).

The legislation

The relevant provisions are contained in the Merchant Shipping Act 1995. Section 185(1) of that Act provides:

“The provisions of the Convention on Limitation of Liability for Maritime Claims 1976 as set out in Part I of Schedule 7 (in this section and Part II of that Schedule referred to as ‘the Convention’) shall have the force of law in the United Kingdom.”

Part I contains the text of the 1996 text of the Convention in full, without omission of article 2(1)(d). In principle, the full Convention therefore has the force of law. However, section 185(2) of the Merchant Shipping Act states that Part I of the Schedule is subject to Part II.

Part II, para 3, headed “Claims subject to limitation” reads as follows:

“(1) Paragraph 1(d) of article 2 shall not apply unless provision has been made by an order of the Secretary of State for the setting up and management of a fund to be used for the making to harbour or conservancy authorities of payments needed to compensate them for the reduction, in consequence of the said paragraph 1(d), of amounts recoverable by them in claims of the kind there mentioned, and to be maintained by contributions from such authorities raised and collected by them in respect of vessels in like manner as other sums so raised by them.

(2) Any order under sub-paragraph (1) above may contain such incidental and supplemental provisions as appear to the Secretary of State to be necessary or expedient.” [Emphasis added.]

There appears to be no such order at present. The conclusion must therefore be that the provision does not apply, and that wreck claims are not currently subject to limitation in the UK. This contradicts the Explanatory notes to the Wreck Removal Convention Bill as introduced in the House of Commons on 30 June 2010 [Bill 18], where para 24 reads:

“The right to limit liability under section 185 (limitation of liability for marine claims), which gives effect to the Convention on Liability for Marine Claims, is preserved.”

To confuse matters, the header “Claims subject to limitation” in Part II of Schedule 7 is followed by another header, “Claims excluded from limitation” above para 4, which deals with claims for damages related to the International Convention on Liability and Compensation for Damage in Connection with the Carriage of Hazardous and Noxious Substances by Sea 1996 (the HNS Convention). Considering the combination of headers (“Claims subject to limitation” and “Claims excluded from limitation”), it appears clear that the intention of the legislator was that HNS claims should be excluded from, but wreck claims should be subject to limitation.

Other sources: comments on the provisions

These observations are not new: the discrepancy has been pointed out by others. A letter from the British Maritime Law Association dated 24 July 2008 and signed by the association’s then Secretary/Treasurer Andrew Taylor is available online. 1 In the letter, it is noted a propos para 3(1) of part II of Schedule 7 to the Merchant Shipping Act 1995:

“The effect of this provision is that the owner of a ship is not in English Law entitled to limit its liability under the Merchant Shipping Act for the cost of wreck removal.”

The BMLA letter goes on to offer a solution:

“However it is, in the view of the BMLA working group, arguable that the provisions relating to compulsory insurance and direct action for the recovery of such costs are equivalent to the setting up of a fund envisaged by the above paragraph.”

If additional support were needed, other authors have noted the same discrepancy. Aengus Fogarty, the author of Merchant Shipping Legislation, 3rd Edition, 2017, Informa Law, makes a similar observation at para 15.171:

“Article 2(1)(d) of the Convention is not yet applicable as no fund has yet been established under paragraph 3 of Part II of Schedule 7. Accordingly, statutory claims by harbour and conservancy authorities for wreck removal expenses are not yet subject to limitation of liability. It is arguable that non-statutory claims for wreck removal expenses in circumstances similar to those in The Putbus, 2 supra, and The Arabet, 3 supra, are excluded from limitation by virtue of this paragraph: see Limitation of Liability for Maritime Claims 
” (Footnotes with references added.)

The work referenced at the end of the quote is Griggs et al, Limitation of Liability for Maritime Claims, 4th Edition, 2005, Informa Law. This work, best known as Griggs, contains a commentary to the Limitation Convention. The Commentary to article 2(1)(d) of the Convention posits – undoubtedly correctly – that the government’s policy behind the reservation to the Convention was that harbours and other facilities should not shoulder the costs for wreck removal. That concern pertains particularly to wreck removal undertaken pursuant to statutory powers. The authors of Griggs go on to say:

“it appears that as a result of the wording in the introductory paragraph to Article 2, to the effect that the listed claims are to be the subject of limitation ‘whatever the basis of liability’, the reservation exercised by the United Kingdom may have inadvertently taken out of limitation in the United Kingdom any claims (whether statutory or otherwise) relating to wreck removal, including claims for recourse, provided that the liability does not relate to remuneration under a contract with the person liable).” 4

The apparent effect that claims for wreck removal expenses against other parties are not subject to limitation as a result of the legislation is confirmed by these eminent authors, and described as “inadvertent”.

Comment

The effects for insurers are important: they are said in the Wreck Removal Convention Act 2011, section 255P, sub-section (5) to have the same rights to limit liability as their insured:

“The insurer may limit liability in respect of claims made under this section to the same extent as the registered owner may limit liability by virtue of section 185 (or would be able to limit liability by virtue of that section if it were not for paragraph 3 of Part 2 of Schedule 7).” (Emphasis added.)

But what does “to the same extent” mean? The position appears to be a door to litigation, waiting to be knocked down.

Dr Johanna Hjalmarsson

Informa Associate Professor in Maritime and Commercial Law

This article was first published in Shipping & Trade Law 2017 (17) 10 pp 3-5 and is reproduced here by kind permission of the publisher.

Available at: https://www.shippingandtradelaw.com/shipping/liability/what-is-the-uk-limit-of-liability-for-wreck-127949.htm (registration required) and https://www.i-law.com/ilaw/doc/view.htm?id=385574 (paywall)

Footnotes

1 The letter is available at www.bmla.org.uk/documents/2011/ltr_DfT_re_Nairobi_Convention_Wreck_Removal.doc (accessed on 20 December 2017).

2 [1969] 1 Lloyd’s Rep 253.
3 [1963] P 102.
4 Griggs, chapter 3, commentary to article 2(1)(d).

Brands and ecommerce platforms: a tainted relationship?

What has happened to online ecommerce platforms? Over the past few months news reports have multiplied – or, perhaps, their underlying issues have acquired greater visibility – that brand owners have been increasingly voicing criticisms against, sued, or discontinued sales on ecommerce sites. In particular, after the criticisms made against Alibaba, it seems that Amazon is now making the headlines.

Let’s have a quick look at what has happened over the past few months.

Court actions

First, there have been legal proceedings being brought by trade mark owners, claiming a direct responsibility of Amazon in the sale of counterfeits or invoking a right to prevent sales on such platform.

An example of the former is the lawsuit filed by Daimler against Amazon in late 2017 in the US District Court for the Western District of Washington at Seattle. The well-known German car manufacturer argues that Amazon is directly responsible for the “offer for sale, sale and distribution of wheels which blatantly copy issued design patents in various distinctive and artistic wheel designs owned by Daimler” under the Lanham Act (§ 1051 ff), the US Patent Act (§ 1 ff), and Washington State statutory and common law.

As explained on Forbes here, this is not the first time that a trade mark owner is seeking to have the direct liability of Amazon established. However, back in 2015 a 9-member jury in the same court that has now been asked to rule on the lawsuit filed by Daimler held that Amazon was not liable for the sale of counterfeit Milo & Gabby (now JoliMoli) animal-shaped pillows.

If the case brought by Daimler ended with a finding of liability for Amazon, that would likely have a significant impact on the liability of platforms allowing third-party listings, and set a different approach to platform liability in the US.

As readers knows, the particular issues surrounding platform liability have been at the centre of attention also in Europe.

Reference in the online trade mark realm goes instinctively to the landmark decision of the Court of Justice of the European Union (CJEU) in eBay, C-324/09, in which the highest EU court clarified that the safe harbour for hosting providers within Article 14 of the E-Commerce Directive does not apply to “an information society service [which is] aware of facts or circumstances on the basis of which a diligent economic operator should have identified the illegality in question and acted in accordance with Article 14(1)(b) of Directive 2000/31.” [para 120]

More recently, the CJEU appears to have pushed the liability of platforms even further than the realm of safe harbours (hence, scenarios of secondary liability) by holding that a platform may be even directly (primarily) liable for third-party infringements. It has done so in the copyright context, especially in the recent Filmspeler decision [here] and – even more clearly – in the Ziggo ruling [here].

If we remain in the EU context, the issue of platform liability is not the only aspect that has been touched upon in relation to ecommerce platforms. Readers will in fact remember the recent judgment in Coty Prestige, C-230/16 [here], in which the CJEU tackled the compatibility with EU competition rules of selective distribution agreements for luxury brands, including clauses that would prevent resellers from distributing branded products via Amazon. The CJEU provided an interpretation of relevant EU provisions that allows – at certain conditions – trade mark holders from preventing distribution of their goods via platforms of this kind.

Discontinued sales

In parallel with court actions, other brands have recently announced their intention to discontinue sales on Amazon, over issues of counterfeiting and allegedly excessive discounts.

In a timeframe of just a few weeks, this has been for instance the case of Birkenstock and Italian publisher E/O, respectively.

Shoe producer Birkenstock announced that as of 1 January 2018 it would terminate its business relations with Amazon, on grounds that

“there have been a series of violations of the law on the Marketplace platform operated by Amazon which the platform operator has failed to prevent of its own accord. On a number of occasions, BIRKENSTOCK lodged a complaint that counterfeit products of poor quality which infringed BIRKENSTOCK’s trademark rights and misled the consumers regarding the origins of goods were being made available on the platform.

Putting the issue of legal obligations aside, BIRKENSTOCK is of the opinion that an integral part of a trusting business relationship is that, upon being first notified as the operator of the Marketplace platform of such a breach of the law, Amazon would, of its own accord, do everything within its power to prevent this type of and similar infringements. To this day, no binding statement has been made to the effect that no more counterfeit BIRKENSTOCK products would be offered for sale through the platform.”

A couple of weeks ago also E/O [the Italian publisher of Elena Ferrante’s books, amongst others] announced that it would no longer sell on Amazon, on consideration that the discounts requested by the ecommerce provider would be excessive. It is not the first time that a complaint of this kind is made by the publishing industry.

What’s next?

In all this, what does the future hold?

On the one hand, it appears that brand owners’ complaints may result in the adoption of new approaches towards responsibilization and liability of online platforms.

This could occur not just at the court level, but also by means of initiatives of policy- and law-makers. In Europe, for instance, the issue of platform liability, notice-and-stay down obligations (including filtering), as well improved enforcement tools are currently central items to the agenda of the EU Commission and legislature. In the first half of 2018 it is expected that the Commission will unveil further legislative proposals in this area, under the umbrella of its Digital Single Market Strategy.

On the other hand, platforms like Amazon may not rely just on partnerships with brand owners or the making available third-party offerings but, rather, increasingly invest on the making available of their own offerings. In this sense, the trend in fashion seems to be already reality. As noted by The Fashion Law, Amazon has in fact been working on and launched a number of in-house collections that have been already finding success among consumers, “particularly in light of the current retail environment, when brand loyalty is low, consumers are overly price/value conscious, and branding is simply not as significant a player as it used to be.”

In this sense, the general trend seems to be towards a configuration of platforms’ activity as no longer – or just – passive hosts of third-party offerings but, rather, active providers of own offerings. What should the legal treatment of this evolving and evolved scenario be? While the functioning of the internet must be safeguarded [as was also recently stressed by the German Federal Court of Justice, here and here] the questions that lie ahead and require a response are whether new rules are needed, existing rules should be applied differently … or what else?

[This post was originally published on The IPKat on 4 January 2018]