The Leveson inquiry was convened to ‘examine the culture, practices and ethics of the media’. Most of the inquiry’s time has been devoted to newspapers, particularly tabloid newspapers. To date, no publishers have been called to give evidence, although they may yet be. I very much hope that they are, because a new book published by Faber, Aftermath by Rachel Cusk, raises questions about publishers’ ethics and privacy law.
Aftermath is Cusk’s account of the end of her 10-year marriage. It is extremely frank, sparing little of her erstwhile husband’s privacy or that of her children, over whom the warring parents have been fighting. Extracts from the book have been run in the Guardian and the Telegraph, and numerous online commenters were furious that the newspapers had allowed Cusk to air her personal grievances at the expense of her children’s privacy. ‘Euonymous’ wrote below the piece in the Guardian:
‘Children can read.
Children grow into adults that can read.
Children are not possessions.
Children have a right to relationships with all their family members.
Ideally, these relationships should be allowed to flourish untainted by the bitter self absorption [sic] of other family members.
I’m disappointed that The Guardian has chosen to give this word [sic] space.’
These issues also apply to the book’s publishers. The story recalls the Julie Myerson affair, for which Myerson was publicly excoriated. Cusk has already defended herself in a Guardian piece published yesterday. Asked if she’d invaded her children’s privacy, she replied:
‘Children have to share their parents’ destiny to some extent, like it or not. I happen to be a writer; they are the children of a writer. But I also strive to be quite impersonal in the way I write about figures in my life. “My mother” or “my children” are intended to be every reader’s mother, every reader’s children or concept of children. And in fact very often I’ve been criticised for not providing enough identifiable detail about these “actual” characters, for not naming them or physically describing them. That criticism, I’ve always sensed, has come from the very people who might at the same time accuse me of “using” or invading the privacy of those close to me. So I’m a little suspicious of it, while at the same time recognising an obligation to be clear with my daughters about what it is that I do.’
How does one square Cusk’s professed attempt at being ‘impersonal’ with her acknowledgement that these people are ‘actual’? Do children really ‘share their parents’ destiny’? When does the right to privacy start? Should a child’s privacy be protected by the law independent of its parents?
These are deep and dark waters, made more difficult by the vagueness of the right to privacy. Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights guarantees ‘right to respect for private and family life’ subject to exceptions, one of which is ‘the protection of rights and freedoms of others’. That might encompass, it could be argued, a writer’s right to free expression.
Human rights lawyers say that this is complicated ground, and that more definition is required. The Leveson inquiry is the perfect setting for further debate, particularly as the rights of voiceless children are at least equal to the concerns of Hugh Grant and Steve Coogan.
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