Ilustración del siglo XVI de los cuatro humores: Flegmat (flema), Sanguin (sangre), Coleric (bilis amarilla) y Melanc (bilis negra).Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn.Monumento a Huarte de San Juan en Pamplona (Navarra). Wikimedia Commons, CC BY
El 23 de febrero de 1575, la ciudad de Baeza (Jaén) fue testigo de la publicación de un libro destinado a revolucionar el pensamiento renacentista: Examen de ingenios para las ciencias. Su autor, Juan Huarte de San Juan, planteó una tesis audaz para su época: las personas poseen habilidades naturales distintas y, por tanto, deben ser orientadas hacia los estudios o profesiones que mejor se adapten a su ingenio particular.
Nacido en 1529 en San Juan del Pie del Puerto (Navarra), Huarte es considerado andaluz de adopción. Su familia, de origen judío converso, se vio empujada por los constantes conflictos fronterizos entre España y Francia a trasladarse a Andalucía. Tras estudiar medicina en la Universidad Complutense de Alcalá de Henares, regresó al sur para ejercer en Linares y Baeza.
El Examen de ingenios no solo influyó en la ciencia, sino también en las letras. Se cree que Miguel de Cervantes modeló la psicología de Don Quijote basándose en las teorías de Huarte sobre el temperamento colérico y la “sequedad” del cerebro. No obstante, su enfoque racionalista le trajo problemas.
Al defender que el funcionamiento del alma depende de factores materiales y biológicos, Huarte desafió los dogmas de la Inquisición. Su obra fue incluida en el Índice de Libros Prohibidos, pues el Santo Oficio veía con sospecha la idea de que las diferencias humanas no se debieran a la voluntad divina, sino a la naturaleza física.
Huarte afirmaba:
“Dios crea todas las almas iguales; por lo tanto, las diferencias deben buscarse en la naturaleza y temperamento del cuerpo donde está el alma”.
Teoría de la inteligencia y neurociencia primitiva
Huarte propuso una clasificación de las ciencias basada en tres potencias del alma: memoria, entendimiento e imaginativa. Lo innovador fue su intento de localizar estas funciones en los ventrículos cerebrales, lo que le otorga el título de precursor de la frenología (teoría que más tarde desarrollaría Franz Joseph Gall, quien citó a Huarte expresamente).
“Allá dentro del celebro… hay tres pequeños senos o ventrículos los cuales bien mirados, todos tienen una misma composición y figura y los hizo naturaleza para ser órgano e instrumento cada uno de ellos para las tres potencias del alma racional”.
Examen de ingenios, Juan Huarte de San Juan.
La teoría de los humores
Para explicar estas potencias, recurrió a la teoría de los humores de Hipócrates y Galeno, vinculando las capacidades mentales con tres cualidades físicas: la memoria requiere un ambiente húmedo, el entendimiento prospera en la sequedad y la imaginación se nutre del calor.
Bajo esta lógica, Huarte explicaba que un exceso de lectura y falta de sueño “resecaban el cerebro”, tal como le ocurrió al hidalgo de La Mancha, inclinándolo hacia una imaginación desbordada y delirante.
Proemio del Examen de ingenios, donde el autor Juan Huarte propone una ley para decidir los oficios en función de las capacidades. Biblioteca Nacional de España, CC BY
Un legado de modernidad
El pensamiento de Huarte de San Juan destaca por tres pilares de modernidad:
Uso del castellano: rompió con el latín para divulgar el conocimiento entre la burguesía emergente.
Método empírico: antepuso la observación y la experiencia al argumento de autoridad escolástico. Fue de los primeros en usar el término “ensayo” con un matiz cercano al experimento moderno.
Orientación profesional: en su proemio dedicado a Felipe II, sugirió la creación de leyes para que cada ciudadano ejercitara solo aquel arte para el cual tuviera talento natural, sentando las bases de la selección de personal.
Distintas profesiones apropiadas para las personas según la predisposición de su alma. Elaboración propia a partir del ‘Examen de ingenios’ de Juan Huarte de San Juan.
Patrón de la psicología española
La figura de Huarte de San Juan es central para la identidad de la psicología en España. Su elección como patrón no fue fruto del azar ni de la tradición religiosa. En diciembre de 1983, durante la primera reunión de decanos de facultades de Psicología –a iniciativa de la doctora Rocío Fernández Ballesteros, entonces decana en la Universidad Autónoma de Madrid–, se decidió romper con la costumbre de elegir a un santo.
En su lugar, se designó a este médico filósofo que, cuatro siglos atrás, ya buscaba una base científica para las diferencias individuales. Por este motivo, el 23 de febrero, fecha de la publicación de su obra, se celebra la fiesta patronal de los psicólogos.
La naturaleza diversa de la mente humana
Aunque muchas de sus explicaciones fisiológicas han sido superadas, Huarte de San Juan sigue siendo un pionero. Es considerado el padre de la psicología diferencial, de la orientación profesional y un precursor de la eugenesia y la neuroquímica.
Roberto Álvarez Gómez no recibe salario, ni ejerce labores de consultoría, ni posee acciones, ni recibe financiación de ninguna compañía u organización que pueda obtener beneficio de este artículo, y ha declarado carecer de vínculos relevantes más allá del cargo académico citado.
Ante el imparable avance del desarrollo tecnológico y la digitalización, tanto las entidades públicas como las privadas se enfrentan al reto de conseguir que sus plantillas se impliquen y adapten para poder aprovechar sus beneficios.
Un modelo dinámico: digitalización y recursos humanos
La inteligencia artificial se integra en la gestión de recursos humanos mediante la aplicación de prácticas de gestión tanto duras (relativas a la tecnología) como blandas (relacionadas con el impulso de la participación y la confianza en los equipos de trabajo).
La automatización de procesos y la toma de decisiones basadas en datos entran dentro de las prácticas de gestión duras. Su aplicación permite optimizar funciones de la gestión de recursos humanos como la contratación, la formación, la evaluación del desempeño y la compensación por el trabajo.
Esto posibilita que el departamento pueda dedicar menos tiempo a las funciones administrativas y orientar su trabajo hacia la planificación estratégica. Al mismo tiempo, ayuda a que la toma de decisiones se haga de forma más precisa y oportuna.
Por su parte, la dimensión blanda busca apoyar a las personas en el proceso de adaptación a la transformación digital. Para ello, se utilizan estrategias participativas y basadas en la confianza. Entre otras, la formación en habilidades digitales, la comunicación transparente y el diseño de mecanismos de retroalimentación entre las personas empleadas y las que se encargan de la gestión de los recursos humanos.
La actualización continua del conocimiento sobre las tendencias tecnológicas en las distintas áreas (formación, reclutamiento, retribuciones, gestión de talento).
La redefinición del liderazgo para incorporar las habilidades que permitan integrar la IA de forma fluida en la toma de decisiones y la gestión de la plantilla.
Este modelo (integración de la IA + desarrollo de las personas) impulsa el proceso de transformación (bucle de transformación 1): los beneficios derivados de las transiciones digitales impulsan la adopción de procesos innovadores y sincronizados con los avances tecnológicos. Llegados a este punto, el proceso se reinicia en una etapa más avanzada (bucle de transformación 2), y así sucesivamente.
Escenarios posibles
En este modelo de interacción cíclica entre la integración de la IA y el desarrollo centrado en las personas, se contemplan cuatro escenarios posibles:
La organización opta por evitar los cambios tecnológicos. Entonces se corre el riesgo de perder competitividad mientras los competidores avanzan. En este escenario, la organización se puede enfrentar a desafíos de supervivencia a largo plazo (fracaso).
Las personas trabajadoras ven la incorporación de la IA de forma positiva. En este caso, es más probable que mejoren sus habilidades digitales y exploren nuevas oportunidades laborales para aprovechar estos avances. Sin embargo, este entusiasmo podría provocar una pérdida de talento, reduciendo la competitividad y la viabilidad a largo plazo de la empresa (fuga de talento).
Se hace la implementación tecnológica sin contar con una estrategia de recursos humanos. Será más probable encontrar resistencia en las personas empleadas y no se aprovecharán todos los beneficios potenciales. Esto genera pérdida de autonomía, mayor desconfianza, mayor carga de trabajo y estrés técnico, reduciendo la satisfacción, motivación y rendimiento de las personas trabajadoras (ganancia media).
Se sincroniza la implementación de IA con una estrategia sólida de recursos humanos. Así se garantiza que las personas trabajadoras aprovechen al máximo los beneficios tecnológicos. Para ello es preciso diseñar y desarrollar funciones y tareas que mejoren la satisfacción y el rendimiento laboral, para la consecución del éxito (sostenibilidad).
Visión estratégica de los recursos humanos
La fórmula “integración de la IA en la empresa + desarrollo del capital humano” es la manera óptima de que las empresas potencien el proceso de transformación digital. Y solo es posible reforzando el papel estratégico de los recursos humanos dentro de las organizaciones y reconociendo a las personas trabajadoras como activos estratégicos.
Con la integración de la IA en los procesos de toma de decisiones de recursos humanos, las organizaciones pueden mejorar la precisión de la evaluación del desempeño, reducir posibles sesgos y fomentar una mayor eficiencia. Estas ventajas posicionan a los departamentos de RR. HH. de las empresas como un factor facilitador estratégico de la transformación impulsada por IA.
Alberto Vaquero García no recibe salario, ni ejerce labores de consultoría, ni posee acciones, ni recibe financiación de ninguna compañía u organización que pueda obtener beneficio de este artículo, y ha declarado carecer de vínculos relevantes más allá del cargo académico citado.
Hay algo profundamente errado en la manera en que contamos la historia. No porque falten datos, archivos o interpretaciones, sino porque hemos aceptado sin demasiadas preguntas una premisa tan antigua como cómoda: que la violencia es el principio organizador del pasado humano. Las guerras, los imperios y las conquistas ocupan el centro del relato; la paz aparece, cuando aparece, como un vacío entre catástrofes o como una aspiración moral sin densidad histórica.
Este hábito intelectual no es inocente. Al convertir la violencia en norma y la paz en excepción, la historiografía ha contribuido a naturalizar el mundo tal como es: armado, jerárquico y profundamente desigual. Hemos aprendido a pensar que la historia avanza a golpe de cañón y que todo lo demás -la convivencia, la negociación, la resistencia civil, la noviolencia- pertenece al reino de lo secundario, lo ingenuo o lo utópico. El resultado es una narrativa tan poderosa como empobrecedora.
Paz en positivo
¿Y si el problema no fuera que la paz ha sido rara, sino que no hemos sabido verla?
La paz no es la ausencia de guerra. Esa definición negativa ha sido uno de los mayores fracasos conceptuales de las ciencias sociales. La paz es una realidad histórica positiva: se construye, se disputa, se impone y se defiende. Tiene actores, prácticas, conflictos internos y costes materiales. Ha sido, de hecho, una de las tareas más complejas y persistentes de las sociedades humanas. Pero como no produce desfiles militares ni monumentos ecuestres, rara vez se la considera digna de ser narrada.
La historia tradicional se ha contado desde el punto de vista de quienes tenían ejércitos, Estados y archivos. No es extraño, entonces, que la guerra domine el relato. La violencia deja huellas visibles, documentos oficiales, fechas memorables. La paz social, en cambio, suele dejar rastros dispersos: acuerdos informales, normas compartidas, resistencias silenciosas, prácticas de cuidado, conflictos contenidos. Para verlos, hay que cambiar de lente. Y ese cambio implica una decisión epistemológica.
Conflicto sin exterminio
Pensar la historia desde la paz significa, ante todo, abandonar la idea de que el conflicto solo es inteligible cuando se convierte en violencia. Las sociedades han vivido siempre atravesadas por antagonismos -de clase, de género, de raza, de religión-, pero no siempre los han resuelto mediante la destrucción. La paz histórica no es consenso ni armonía: es conflicto gestionado sin exterminio. Es tensión sostenida sin colapso. Es lucha sin aniquilación del otro.
Aquí entra en juego un concepto sistemáticamente despreciado por la historiografía dominante: la noviolencia o la paz por medios pacíficos. No como moralina, no como gesto piadoso, sino como práctica histórica concreta. La noviolencia ha sido una herramienta recurrente de los débiles frente a los fuertes, de los subalternos frente a los poderosos (y sus imperios), de quienes no podían permitirse el lujo de una guerra total. Ha sido una tecnología social del conflicto, a menudo más eficaz que la violencia armada, precisamente porque desestabiliza sus lógicas.
Sin embargo, la noviolencia ha sido tratada como anomalía o excepción, cuando en realidad forma parte estructural de la historia social. Desde las resistencias campesinas hasta los movimientos obreros, desde las luchas anticoloniales hasta los derechos civiles, desde el feminismo hasta las movilizaciones contemporáneas contra el autoritarismo, la noviolencia ha permitido ampliar derechos, transformar Estados y erosionar sistemas de dominación. Que no siempre haya triunfado no la hace menos histórica. La guerra tampoco triunfa siempre y nadie la expulsa del canon.
Una historia social de la paz obliga también a replantear quiénes son los sujetos históricos relevantes. No son, principalmente, los Estados ni las élites militares. Son las comunidades, los movimientos sociales, las redes transnacionales, los sindicatos, las iglesias disidentes, los estudiantes, las mujeres, los pueblos neocolonizados. Son actores que rara vez aparecen en los manuales como productores de orden, pero que han sido fundamentales para sostener formas de convivencia en contextos de violencia estructural.
Muchas paces
Además, no existe una sola paz. La historia muestra una pluralidad incómoda. Hay paces idealizadas, que funcionan como horizonte crítico frente a la barbarie. Hay paces institucionales, encarnadas en Estados, leyes y acuerdos internacionales, en muchas ocasiones, orquestadas por los “poderosos” o los “señores de la guerra”. Y hay paces precarias, ambiguas, sostenidas por equilibrios de fuerza y amenazas latentes. Estas formas no se suceden limpiamente ni se excluyen entre sí: coexisten, se superponen y se contradicen. Reducir la paz a una sola definición es una forma de negarla.
Todo esto tiene consecuencias políticas. Escribir la historia desde la paz implica cuestionar el imperialismo, el militarismo y el capitalismo autoritario como estructuras históricas productoras de violencia. La guerra no es un accidente del sistema, no es natural: es uno de sus mecanismos de funcionamiento de un sistema. Por eso, las luchas por la paz han estado casi siempre ligadas a luchas contra la explotación, el colonialismo y la desigualdad. Separar la paz de estas dimensiones es vaciarla de contenido.
No es casual que las prácticas de paz hayan sido invisibilizadas. Reconocerlas supone admitir que la violencia no es inevitable, que no siempre ha sido necesaria, que no es el único camino posible. Supone, en definitiva, desmontar el fatalismo histórico que nos dice que “el mundo siempre ha sido así” y que, por tanto, no puede ser de otro modo. Ese fatalismo ha sido uno de los mayores aliados del poder.
Escribir la historia desde la paz no significa negar la violencia ni idealizar el pasado. Significa ampliar el campo de lo pensable. Significa aceptar que la humanidad no solo ha sabido organizar la destrucción, sino también -y con enorme esfuerzo- limitarla, contenerla y, a veces, superarla. Recuperar esa historia no garantiza un futuro distinto. Pero sin ella, el futuro queda condenado a repetir, una y otra vez, la misma vieja narrativa de guerra.
Mario López Martínez no recibe salario, ni ejerce labores de consultoría, ni posee acciones, ni recibe financiación de ninguna compañía u organización que pueda obtener beneficio de este artículo, y ha declarado carecer de vínculos relevantes más allá del cargo académico citado.
Riego de invierno para recargar los acuíferos en una chopera de la Vega de Granada.Sergio Martos, CC BY-SA
Tras cada periodo de sequía, suelen llegar años con lluvias por encima de la media. En cuestión de semanas pasamos de ver embalses secos, con suelos agrietados y restos de pueblos emergiendo, a observar espectaculares chorros de agua a presión liberados por los aliviaderos de las presas. Esta alternancia tan extrema demuestra que los embalses, aunque importantes y esenciales para frenar las avenidas, no bastan por sí solos para afrontar ni las sequías ni los periodos de lluvias intensas.
Almacenes subterráneos de agua
España es uno de los países con mayor número de grandes presas por habitante. Muchas están muy bien construidas y en los lugares adecuados, pero una parte considerable ha superado ya su vida útil o ha perdido capacidad de almacenamiento debido a la colmatación por los sedimentos que van arrastrando los ríos. Por ello es necesario plantear soluciones complementarias que permitan gestionar mejor tanto los episodios de exceso como los de escasez de agua.
Estos acuíferos son los que nos han permitido superar las sequías que se han producido en España desde la década de los ochenta del siglo anterior. Lo saben bien los agricultores, que han salvado sus cosechas regando con aguas de pozo. Y muchos municipios recurren a los llamados “pozos de emergencia” cuando el abastecimiento con agua superficial falla.
Sin embargo, tras cada sequía, los acuíferos quedan más deteriorados, porque extraemos más agua de la que se recarga de forma natural, porque no los protegemos lo suficiente frente a la contaminación y porque su gran capacidad de almacenamiento no se considera en la planificación hidrológica.
En algunos lugares del mundo ya se está actuando para revertir esta tendencia. En California y Nevada, en Estados Unidos, desde hace unos veinte años hacen recarga gestionada de acuíferos con técnicas agrícolas. Se establecieron acuerdos con agricultores para inundar de forma controlada campos en barbecho o cultivos tolerantes –como almendros, viñedos, pastos o arrozales – durante los años húmedos o cuando hay exceso de agua en invierno.
Estas inundaciones controladas se realizan sobre acuíferos, lo que permite que el agua se infiltre en el medio subterráneo mientras se reducen los riesgos de inundación en superficie. El éxito de estas prácticas ha sido posible gracias a la colaboración entre centros de investigación públicos y privados, universidades punteras, como Davis o Stanford, las autoridades del agua, del medio ambiente y la agricultura y los usuarios.
Lo interesante es que, mirándolo con perspectiva histórica, prácticas similares se realizan en España desde hace siglos. Proyectos como WaSHa, del Instituto Geológico y Minero, han documentado cómo nuestros antepasados ya gestionaban los excedentes hídricos mediante acequias de infiltración en zonas de montaña –como Sierra Nevada, Gredos y Guadarrama– y acequias sin revestir en las vegas agrícolas, como las de la Valduerna (León) y Granada.
El agua infiltrada se almacena en los acuíferos y más tarde se extrae mediante pozos o galerías durante los meses secos. Es una forma ingeniosa de equilibrar los ciclos de lluvia y sequía. Es una forma de sembrar y cosechar el agua.
Siembra y cosecha de agua en España. Instituto Geológico y Minero de España (IGME)
Una estrategia para gestionar mejor el agua
Recuperar esta lógica sería clave hoy: aprovechar los años de exceso de agua para recargar los acuíferos, utilizando los campos de cultivo y las infraestructuras agrarias que ya existen. Esto permitiría restaurar parte del agua subterránea que se extrae de más en los años secos.
Para hacerlo realidad se necesitan investigación, planificación y una gestión del agua que combine infraestructura gris –presas, canales, tuberías– con infraestructura verde, basada en procesos naturales que favorecen la infiltración y la recarga.
Integrar ambos enfoques permitiría almacenar parte del agua que ahora se descarga rápidamente desde los embalses. Y decimos solo una parte, porque los ríos, los deltas y los estuarios también necesitan de estas crecidas para mantener sus ecosistemas. Pero aprovechar parte de esos excedentes para “sembrar agua en los acuíferos” sería un paso decisivo hacia una gestión más resiliente del agua en nuestro país.
Ojalá estemos preparados en el próximo año húmedo. En este, el agua liberada ya no podremos sembrarla. Pero sí podemos cambiar la forma de gestionar nuestros ciclos hídricos para que, la próxima vez, no se nos escape otra oportunidad.
Las personas firmantes no son asalariadas, ni consultoras, ni poseen acciones, ni reciben financiación de ninguna compañía u organización que pueda obtener beneficio de este artículo, y han declarado carecer de vínculos relevantes más allá del cargo académico citado anteriormente.
The place of Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor, former prince and brother of the king, in the line of succession to the British throne appears to be under threat in the United Kingdom.
Currently, Mountbatten-Windsor is eighth in line (after the families of princes William and Harry) to the Crowns of the United Kingdom and Australia. This makes it extremely unlikely he would ever become monarch, but his removal is more a symbolic act of repudiation.
Is it possible to remove him? The short answer is yes – but it would most likely be a time-consuming process involving many parliaments passing legislation.
Does the same line of succession apply to the British and Australian Crowns?
At the time of Australia’s federation in 1901, the British Crown was described as “one and indivisible”. Queen Victoria exercised constitutional powers over all her colonies, acting on the advice of British ministers.
That changed after the first world war, due to a series of Imperial Conferences, with the self-governing “dominions” (Australia, Canada, New Zealand, South Africa, the Irish Free State and Newfoundland) having separate Crowns by 1930. This meant the Australian prime minister could advise the monarch about the appointment of the governor-general of Australia and other federal (but not state) Australian matters.
However, the rules of succession to these separate Crowns remained the same. They are a hotch-potch of English laws, including common law rules of inheritance and statutes, such as the Bill of Rights 1689 and the Act of Settlement 1701.
These laws became part of Australian law in the 18th century, but for a long time Australian parliaments had no power to alter them. This changed in 1931 with the enactment of the Statute of Westminster. It gave the dominions power to repeal or alter British laws that applied in their country.
However, recognising this could cause havoc in relation to succession to the Crown, a clause was included in the preamble to the statute, making it a convention that “any alteration in the law touching the Succession to the Throne” shall require the assent of the parliaments of all of the dominions and the United Kingdom. Section 4 of the statute continued the power of the UK parliament to legislate for a dominion, but only if it gave its request and consent.
In 1936, when King Edward VIII abdicated, the UK parliament enacted a statute to alter the rules of succession to the throne, to exclude any children he might have. Australia assented to the British parliament extending its law so it applied to Australia too.
That option is no longer available since the enactment of section 1 of the Australia Act 1986. It says that no act of the UK parliament shall extend as part of the law of the Commonwealth, or a state or territory. Any changes made to the operation of the laws of succession to the Crown of Australia must be made in Australia.
How could Australia change the law of succession?
When the Commonwealth Constitution was enacted, the Crown was still “one and indivisible”. This meant no one inserted a section giving the Commonwealth parliament power to make laws about succession to the Crown. However, the framers of the Constitution were clever enough to insert a mechanism to deal with such unanticipated developments.
Section 51(xxxviii) of the Constitution says the Commonwealth parliament may exercise a power, at the request or with the concurrence of all the states directly concerned, which only the UK parliament could have exercised at the time of federation. This means the Commonwealth and state parliaments can cooperate to change the rules of succession to the Crown of Australia.
This issue arose in 2011, when the various realms (being countries that retained Queen Elizabeth II as head of state) agreed to change the rules of succession so that males would no longer be given preference over females, and heirs would no longer be disqualified for marrying a Catholic.
The UK parliament enacted the Succession to the Crown Act 2013 to give legal effect to this change. However, it delayed commencing the act until other realms had enacted their changes too. The British act only made the change with respect to the Crown of the United Kingdom.
Some realms accepted they needed to change the law in relation to their own Crown. Others concluded they didn’t need to act, because their Constitution makes their sovereign the same person who is king or queen of the United Kingdom. Legislation was ultimately enacted in Australia, Barbados, Canada, New Zealand, St Kitts and Nevis, and St Vincent and the Grenadines.
In Australia, each state enacted the Succession to the Crown Act 2015. The Australian process took a long time, due to different legislative priorities and sitting periods, and the intervention of state election periods.
Australia was the last to enact its law, after which the alteration in succession was brought into effect simultaneously across all the realms.
How would the process operate today?
If it were proposed to remove Mountbatten-Windsor from the line of succession today, the UK government would probably first seek the agreement of all the realms. While not legally necessary, it is important if a shared monarch is to be retained for all realms to be consulted.
The UK parliament would then prepare its own bill, providing a template for other jurisdictions. This means the changes are uniform across the realms. The bill would probably also specify whether Mountbatten-Windsor’s exclusion affects his heirs, princesses Beatrice and Eugenie, and their children. Under the old law, a person who married a Catholic was treated as “dead” for the purposes of succession, so that their exclusion from the succession did not affect the hereditary position of their heirs. The same approach might be taken in relation to the exclusion of Mountbatten-Windsor.
The same parliaments that enacted laws in relation to the last change of succession (apart from Barbados, which is now a republic), would also need to enact an equivalent law, if they wish to maintain symmetry in such rules across the realms. Putting such a bill before a parliament runs the risk that other issues will be raised, opening broader questions concerning the role of the monarchy in different realms.
Could Australia make such a change on its own?
While Australia could unilaterally enact a law to exclude Mountbatten–Windsor from succession to the Crown of Australia, it is unlikely it would do so. There are two reasons for this.
First, it involves a lot of legislative hassle, getting seven parliaments to enact a law that will probably have no substantive effect, given how far Mountbatten-Windsor is down the line of succession.
Second, covering clause 2 of the Commonwealth Constitution says that references to “the Queen” in the Constitution shall “extend to Her Majesty’s heirs and successors in the sovereignty of the United Kingdom”.
There is considerable disagreement about whether this is just an interpretative provision about updating references, or whether it has a substantive effect.
Keeping Australia’s rules of succession in sync with those of the United Kingdom avoids opening that potential Pandora’s box.
Anne Twomey has received funding from the Australian Research Council and sometimes does consultancy work for governments and inter-governmental bodies. She also has a YouTube channel – The Constitutional Clarion.
The Great Omari Mosque in Gaza City after it was damaged by an Israeli strike.Ali Jadallah/Anadolu/Getty Images
Since October 2023, Israel’s war in Gaza has caused mass human suffering. But it has also brought devastation to the cultural heritage of the Palestinian people.
In our recent article in the International Journal of Heritage Studies, we documented the extent of heritage destruction in Gaza and analysed the strikingly limited response by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO).
We argue that UNESCO’s failures have consequences beyond Gaza, as they weaken deterrence of attacks on heritage sites globally and risk normalising impunity for these types of crimes in conflict.
Heritage destruction in Gaza
Gaza has a rich and layered heritage, with archaeological traces dating to at least 1300 BCE. It has long sat at the crossroads of many cultures, and has been controlled by the ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans.
Gaza is also home to historical sites important to the three main faiths of the region – Judaism, Christianity and Islam.
Much of this cultural heritage now lies in ruin. UNESCO’s Gaza damage assessment list includes 150 sites that have been damaged or destroyed since the war began.
Some of these are globally significant sites. Two are on UNESCO’s World Heritage Tentative List:
the Anthedon Harbor, Gaza’s oldest known seaport, inhabited between 800 BCE and 1100 CE.
Other damaged or destroyed sites include:
the Greek Orthodox Saint Porphyrios Church, which dates to 425 CE and is sometimes referred to as the third-oldest church in the world
the seventh-century Great Omari Mosque, thought to be the first mosque in Gaza, along with its 13th-century library containing rare Islamic manuscripts
the Qasr al-Basha, a fortress also known as Pasha Palace, which was built in the mid-13th century by the Mamluk sultanate and had been turned into an archaeological museum
Apart from creating this list, UNESCO has been relatively muted in its response, compared with the role the agency has played in other conflicts.
This doesn’t mean it’s been completely silent. It has issued several statements condemning the destruction in Gaza and calling on “all involved parties to strictly adhere to international law”.
It has also elevated one heritage site to its List of World Heritage in Danger – the Saint Hilarion Monastery. Taking this step strengthens the protections around the site, with potential penalties for intentional damage.
Yet, despite these efforts, we question whether UNESCO has truly met the moment. Our analysis identifies a pattern of omission and understatement that is difficult to reconcile with UNESCO’s own mandate and the legal architecture that exists to protect cultural property in armed conflict.
For example, UNESCO has failed to publicly invoke the 1954 Hague Convention in relation to Gaza, which aims to protect cultural sites during conflict. The agency has cited it in virtually every major conflict since its ratification.
It also didn’t seek urgent action from the UN Security Council or the UN General Assembly to protect cultural sites. The agency did this in response to the Islamic State’s acts in Syria and Iraq (including the desecration of the World Heritage site of Palmyra). In 2017, for instance, the security council passed a resolution backed by UNESCO that laid out a number of steps to help protect cultural heritage in conflict.
Similarly, UNESCO has not worked with the International Criminal Court or the International Court of Justice to initiate proceedings against Israel or Israeli officials for the destruction of heritage in Gaza. The agency did this after conflicts in the Balkans and Mali. These trials established the intentional destruction of cultural property during conflict as a war crime.
Finally, UNESCO has not taken its usual approach of explicitly naming Israel as the perpetrator of cultural destruction in Gaza. It has taken this step in many recent conflicts. This includes Ukraine, where is has frequently named and condemned Russia as the perpetrator.
Why has UNESCO been so cautious?
One explanation offered by critics is geopolitical constraint. UNESCO has increasingly been criticised for an overdependence on voluntary state contributions. This can make the agency reluctant to confront powerful countries for fear of alienating supporters.
This dynamic is certainly evident in UNESCO’s long and strained relationship with Israel and the US. Both formally withdrew from UNESCO in 2019 because the agency had described Israel as an occupying power in Gaza and the West Bank, and condemned its destruction of Palestinian heritage.
But we argue there’s something more troubling occurring – the erosion of UNESCO’s willingness and capacity to activate the legal and normative tools it helped build.
Once a mighty advocate for the protection of culture worldwide, UNESCO has slowly withered into a largely ineffective and technocratic agency that sidesteps complex issues and is hamstrung by internal division.
UNESCO’s response
In response to the arguments raised here, UNESCO sent a detailed email explaining its actions on heritage protection in Gaza. These are some of the points raised by a UNESCO spokesperson:
On citing the 1954 Hague Convention:
Across different conflicts, UNESCO sometimes explicitly cites the 1954 Hague Convention […] and in other instances use the broader formulation “international law”.
UNESCO also communicates with the concerned Member States bilaterally […] This has been done on several occasions through correspondence addressed to the authorities of Israel, for example to remind Israel of its obligations under the 1954 Hague Convention.
On explicitly naming Israel as a perpetrator:
UNESCO is not a judiciary body, therefore its role is not to assign responsibility. In specific case of Ukraine, there are several Security Council and/or UNESCO governing bodies decisions that may explain specific statements.
On the lack of willpower to use its tools and resources on Gaza:
UNESCO activates its legal, normative and programmatic tools within the remits of its mandate and available funds. The needs are enormous, and we take this opportunity to renew UNESCO’s call in support of the people of Gaza.
Why Gaza matters
UNESCO’s limited response to the destruction in Gaza matters. Heritage protection is not only about salvaging damaged sites and trying to rebuild them. It’s also vital for defining unacceptable conduct and deterring future violations.
When the world’s foremost body on the protection of cultural heritage limits itself to cautious generalities, it fosters a permissive environment. It allows this destruction to be treated as regrettable collateral damage of war, rather than an actionable crime. This undermines UNESCO’s credibility.
It can also set a dangerous precedent. If the large-scale destruction of heritage occurs in full view of the world, with no repercussions, future belligerents may believe the costs of heritage crimes will be tolerated.
Benjamin Isakhan has received funding from the Australian Research Council, the United Kingdom Research and Innovation fund, and the Australian Department of Defence.
Eleanor Childs does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Anyone who engages in serious dialogue with a Large Language Model (LLM) may get the impression they are interacting with an intelligence. But many experts in the field argue the impression is just that. In philosopher Daniel Dennett’s words, such systems display “competence without comprehension”.
The hype about Artificial General Intelligence (AGI) from big corporations and their celebrity spokespersons has prompted a backlash, in which scepticism turns to cynicism, often tinged with paranoia about how “stochastic parrots” may start to control our lives.
“Intelligence” itself has become an overheated topic, one that calls for less assertiveness, more cool thinking, and refreshed attempts at a starting point.
Review: What is Intelligence: Lessons from AI about Evolution, Computing, and Minds – Blaise Agüera y Arcus (MIT Press)
What Is Intelligence? by Google luminary Blaise Agüera y Arcus is the first book in a new series from MIT in collaboration with Antikythera, a think tank focused on “planetary-scale computation as a philosophical, technological, and geopolitical force”. A foreword from series editor Benjamin Bratton makes the bold claim that “computation is a technology to think with” and that the building blocks of our reality are themselves computational.
Research on intelligence has a chequered history, tainted by eugenics, statistical manipulation and a banal obsession with metrics. Agüera y Arcas counters this by opening up the topic as wide as it can go. A physics graduate with a background in computational neuroscience, he is something of a polymath. He draws explanatory frameworks from microbiology, philosophy, linguistics, cybernetics, neuroscience and industrial history.
His book presents almost as a sequence of foundation lectures in these areas. Its release has been accompanied by dozens of online talks and interviews, in which Agüera y Arcas presents the case that we are up for a seismic shift in how we think about intelligence – biological and artificial.
“Few mainstream authors claim that AI is ‘real’ intelligence,” he writes. “I do.”
Could the nerds be right?
The fundamental case against the “I” in AI is that intelligence is organic, derived from sensory interaction with a physical environment. Agüera y Arcas turns the tables with the premise that computation is the substrate for intelligence in all life forms.
The claim builds on an apparently crude proposition: prediction is the fundamental principle behind intelligence and “may be the whole story”.
What he means by prediction here is something much more radical than what we see with autocorrect. He explains it in biological terms as a process of pattern development. Single cells like bacteria predict sequences of events that may influence their capacity for survival. The synaptic learning rules in single neurons give rise to local sequence prediction.
Agüera y Arcas recounts how his journey into the enigmatic terrain of AI reached a turning point with his counterintuitive recognition that “the nerds were right”: in computation, bigger really was better and might actually be the key to moving from Artificial Narrow Intelligence (ANI) – the kind that can play chess – to Artificial General Intelligence (AGI), which can participate in a philosophical discussion.
Setting aside his contempt for the apparently simplistic dedication to scaling up, Agüera y Arcas returned to the biology lab for a reassessment of what was observable in living systems. If every form of life is an aggregation of cooperative parts, he reasoned, the evolution of cells into organs and organisms may be a matter of predictive modelling.
A central tenet of What is Intelligence? is that every form of life is an aggregation of cooperative parts. Links proliferate through patterns that enable increasingly complex functions. When Agüera y Arcas says the brain is computational, it’s not a metaphor: it is not that brains are like computers, they are computers.
Correlations between biological and mechanical forms of intelligence are his deep and abiding interest. What is Intelligence? follows What is Life?, a shorter book in which Agüera y Arcas lays the groundwork for this larger, more ambitious publication.
These are the originators of modern thinking about artificial intelligence, and the quest for origins runs through all Agüera y Arcas’ lines of enquiry.
It is worth noting that Antikythera, the publishing series launched with this book, is named after an ancient device found in a shipwreck off the coast of Greece, which has been called the original analog computer.
Computation was discovered as much as it was invented, Bratton says in his foreword. This might apply to the Antikythera. If it is indeed the first computer, it was literally discovered at the bottom of an ocean.
But it corroborates Bratton’s statement in another sense. As a device for tracking astronomical phenomena, the Antikythera testifies to computation as an aspect of how the universe works.
Getting specific about origins
Agüera y Arcas wants to get more specific about origins. How does pattern emerge from randomness? How does code emerge from an unorganised soup of molecules?
In approaching these questions, he takes his cue from Turing and von Neumann, whose experiments anticipated the discovery of the molecular structure of DNA in 1953. The 1936 Turing machine established a minimalist prototype for computational function with the simple components of a coded tape and a read/write head. Von Neumann brought in a focus on embodied computation, where the components of the machine or body are part of what is written.
This is where Agüera y Arcas situates his work. His breakthrough came from adopting a programming language, devised in 1993, called “Brainfuck”. With just eight command symbols, Brainfuck set the parameters for a controlled experiment, in which Agüera y Arcas and his team used 64 byte tapes coded with “junk” drawn from a soup of code and data.
In the experiment, two tapes are selected at random, joined end to end, and run to test for interaction patterns. Then it’s rinse and repeat. The tapes are returned to the soup, and two more are run.
At first, nothing much shows up amidst the randomness. But after a million or so repeats (not massive in computing terms) the magic starts to happen. Loops appear. Patterns emerge. At around the five million mark, the non-functional code or “Turing gas” transforms itself into a “computorium” of replicating code.
In lectures, Agüera y Arcas shows a screenshot of this on his laptop: a vertical line down the centre of the field of data marks the “phase transition”. The image is reproduced on the cover of his book, as an emblem of the paradigm shift he is tracking.
If the transition to replicating code is indeed an expression of what is happening in the development of life forms, the theory of natural selection may lose its claim to primacy as the explanatory model for evolution. Richard Dawkins enthusiasts, hang on to your hats.
Agüera y Arcas does not engage in a polemical critique of Dawkins, but his book brings Margulis, an early adversary of Dawkins, into the centre of the arena. The pair faced off in a public debate in Oxford in 2009, where Dawkins’ popularised concept of the “selfish gene” came under pressure from Margulis’ theory of symbiogenesis, literally genesis through combination or fusion.
The Dawkins account is based on a Darwinian view of natural selection through competitive advantage; Margulis was drawing on research into the formation of microorganisms through combinations of mitochondria and chloroplasts, once independent life forms.
It was survival of the fittest versus a vision of biological complexity generated through endosymbiosis, a relationship in which one organism lives inside another, potentially resulting in a new life form – or, as Agüera y Arcas sees it, an impetus towards “fit” understood as pattern completion, rather than “fitness” understood as advantage.
Microbiologist Lynn Margulis was an early adversary of Richard Dawkins’ theory of the ‘selfish gene’. Wikimedia Commons, CC BY
Prediction and function
Agüera y Arcas’ central concepts are prediction and function, which work together to explain intelligence as the development of functional complexity through predictive pattern completion.
He is erasing a familiar conceptual boundary here: intelligence does not prompt function, it is function.
Intelligence, he argues, is a property of systems rather than beings, and function is its primary indicator. A rock does not function, but a kidney does. This is demonstrated simply by cutting them in half. The rock becomes two rocks, but the kidney is no longer a kidney.
So does a kidney have intelligence? Or an amoeba? Or a leaf? These questions are opened up, along with the question of whether Large Language Models have intelligence, which may a better way to frame it than asking whether they are intelligent.
Agüera y Arcas is not alone in taking an affirmative position. Influential biologist Michael Levin runs a research laboratory at Tufts University, where he and his team study the functional correlations between natural organisms and synthetic or chimeric life forms in search of “intelligence behaviour in unfamiliar guises”.
Their declared goal is to develop modes of communication with truly diverse intelligences, including cells, tissues, organs, synthetic living constructs, robots and software-based AIs.
Such an approach steers a course between the stochastic parrots view and biologist Rupert Sheldrake’s theory of “morphic resonance,” which proposes that organic form is a manifestation of memory, resonating through generations as genetic heritage. Agüera y Arcas avoids both Sheldrake’s intuitive and telepathic orientations, and the hard-headed constraints of mechanistic determinism.
The thesis presented in What is Intelligence? is unfamiliar rather than intrinsically difficult. Much of the explanation is easy enough for the general reader to follow, though Agüera y Arcas has a tendency to veer into more the technical and abstract terrain of programming, as if addressing an insider audience. The extensive glossary does not include standard programming terms, such as logic gates, gradients, weights and backpropagation.
At over 600 pages, What is Intelligence? is a marathon read and it is encumbered by tangential excursions. I’m not sure why Agüera y Arcas needs to go into the history of industrialisation, or anthropological studies of the Pirahā people of the Amazon. This is a book for dipping into rather than swallowing whole.
But its ideas are important. They may well be part of a major transformation in our thinking about where human intelligence sits in the rapidly evolving environment of AI.
Jane Goodall does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Good adaptations take advantage of the affordances the cinematic medium provides, so some changes are permissible. Fennell goes well beyond this, altering essential characters, relationships and themes to the point that the film feels like erotic fan-fiction with a Hollywood budget.
To synopsise, Brontë’s story is a tragedy of intergenerational trauma. It follows Heathcliff, an abused serial abuser, and Catherine, an intergenerational manipulator. The pair’s toxic relationship – and mutual revenge on everyone they knew (beyond the grave in Catherine’s case) – wreaks havoc.
Visually loud, emotionally mute
Given its tagline “the greatest love story ever told”, Fennell’s film was destined to make some changes.
The frame narrative of the novel is missing. The novel is told through housekeeper Nelly Dean, who is recounting it to Heathcliff’s tenant, Lockwood. The film, meanwhile, starts in Catherine’s childhood and ends at her death.
This also means Fennell stops short of the final act of the novel. In doing so, she omits an entire generation of important characters on whom the original Catherine and Heathcliff – two traumatised, irredeemable wrecking balls – foist their damage.
The interpersonal dynamics that underpin Brontë’s story are warped into a vacuous caricature, missing the point with virtuosic flair. And make no mistake: there is flair. The visual design is bombastic, pointedly anachronistic, and utterly at odds with the novel’s gloomy Gothic countenance.
The opulent, richly saturated sets veer sharply from Brontë’s bleak, wind-swept moors. Photo Courtesy Warner Bros. Pictures
Brontë’s perpetually grey and haunted moors are swapped for technicolour highlights, elaborate outfits and, at times, saturated tangerine sunsets. It watches like Sofia Coppola attempting Edgar Allan Poe – or a Charli XCX clip (guess who wrote the original soundtrack). This is an odd liberty for a film named after the story’s original setting – the stormy Wuthering Heights estate.
As pioneering Gothic theorists Sanda Gilbert and Susan Gubar write, the Heights in the novel are blanketed by “a general air of sour hatred” that manifests as “continual, aimless violence”.
In the Gothic, setting functions as a haunted presence that reflects the characters’ aberrant psychological states. The past haunts, even when there are no ghosts.
Fennell’s version retains the melodrama, but not the foreboding, hate and malice. And despite the explicit sexuality (none of which appears in the novel beyond euphemism), her take on the story feels oddly toothless. Neutered, even. It trades Gothic for vaudeville.
The erasure of Hindley and Heathcliff
To say the film lacks the novel’s social commentary is an understatement.
From the opening scene, the changes to the source material are clear. We see a young Catherine witnessing a hanged man with an erection – and this tone remains for the entire runtime.
Hindley – Catherine’s brother who forces Heathcliff into servitude, and is arguably the lynchpin of Heathcliff’s revenge – is also entirely absent from the film.
Literary critic Terry Eagleton notes how it is Hindley’s inherited status that enables his abuse of Heathcliff. It is Heathcliff’s lack of wealth, status and property that sees Catherine wed the wealthy Edgar Linton; and, as theorist Arnold Kettle argues, it is Heathcliff’s weaponisation of wealth and inheritance that finally serves as his vehicle for revenge.
To remove these factors is to remove the novel’s entire moral framework.
In the film, Heathcliff’s grievances shrink to Catherine choosing to marry Edgar Linton. This is as close as the film comes to the novel’s treatment of classism, racism and intergenerational trauma.
Likewise, ending on Catherine’s death erases the consequences of the deuteragonists’ manipulations – namely the suffering of their respective children and servants.
The casting of Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff has its own controversy. In the novel, Heathcliff’s ambiguous racial identity, within the context of Georgian England, shapes almost every interaction he has.
Even though it’s not clear what his racial identity is (some scholars point to hints that suggest he may have escaped from slavery), his character is defined by “othering”. This is something Elordi’s Heathcliff is at no risk of believably experiencing.
The film flattens the novel’s broader account of how trauma replicates across generations, and how systemic marginalisation can both attract and beget abuse.
Jacob Elordi’s casting sidesteps the racialised marginalisation central to Heathcliff’s character. Photo Courtesy Warner Bros. Pictures
On abuse – perhaps Fennell’s strangest departure from the source material is reframing Heathcliff’s treatment of Isabella (Edgar Linton’s sister and later Heathcliff’s wife) as a consensual BDSM dynamic.
Brontë’s Heathcliff terrorises Isabella physically and emotionally, and implicitly sexually, until she flees with their son.
The switch from repressed, complex desire in the novel to explicit sex scenes (absent from the book), and the rewriting of abuse as kink, seems to cater to audiences raised on post-50 Shades Of Grey erotica rather than Victorian Gothic.
Literary classics for a Tiktok generation
Like 2020’s colourful Austen adaptation, Emma (well received as a film, but criticised as an adaptation), Fennell’s Wuthering Heights signals a trend towards the “tiktokification” of literary adaptations.
Hollywood has long taken liberties with books, but this recent wave feels engineered for clips, reels and virality, rather than the necessary sacrifices of adaptation.
We know it’s possible to have adaptations with both flair and substance. Consider Baz Luhrmann. The Oscar-nominated Romeo + Juliet (1996) is just as visually bombastic, yet the extent of verbatim Shakespeare retains a dedication to the source that Fennell’s film lacks.
So what does it have to offer? Virality. Even this article contributes to the internet firestorm that will ensure Wuthering Heights’ commercial success. It will ragebait critics far longer than such a limp effort deserves – and we are all its victims.
Benjamin D. Muir does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
US President Donald Trump has announced the United States will increase baseline tariffs on imports from all countries to 15%, as the fallout continues from a seismic Supreme Court ruling on Friday.
Trump had imposed sweeping “reciprocal tariffs” last year under an emergency powers act, but the court ruled this law did not authorise him to do so.
Speaking in the wake of the ruling on Friday, Trump admonished the justices of the Supreme Court. He called the Democratic justices who ruled against the tariffs a “disgrace to the nation”.
He also said he felt “ashamed” of members of the court he considered conservative who had voted against his use of emergency powers.
Trump’s statement was riddled with insults and inaccuracies. However, he admitted he had tried to “make things simple” by using the emergency powers act. He went on to say he does have other options, but those options would take more time. This was one part of his speech that was indeed accurate.
With the clock already ticking on his landmark trade agenda, and the multi-billion dollar question of refunds looming, what might Trump do next? Here’s what could now be in store for both Australia and the world.
This part of the law has never been used. However, it appears to clearly allow the president to impose tariffs of up to 15%, and for a period of no more than 150 days.
This section does allow the president to impose tariffs in response to foreign countries who violate US rights under international trade agreements, or that burden or restrict US commerce in “unjustifiable”, “unreasonable” or “discriminatory” ways. However, it requires some steps to be followed.
The process for using this law is detailed and cannot be subverted. It would likely take either years or vast amounts of resources to introduce tariffs that were anywhere near the “Liberation Day” tariffs.
If nothing else, it requires consultations with the countries upon whose goods those tariffs will be imposed.
Section 301 has previously been used to impose tariffs on China, following an investigation by the United States Trade Representative in 2018.
Another option
Another avenue for the president to bypass Congress is a specific section of a different law, Section 232 of the Trade Expansion Act of 1962, that applies to a particular sector of the economy.
However, it can’t be used to recreate sweeping tariffs on all foreign imports. This provision is generally product-specific and requires an investigation into the national security threat.
Its use to impose steel and aluminium tariffs has been challenged by multiple trading partners at the World Trade Organization. A panel of experts ruled the US had used a special national security exception erroneously.
If all collected duties are refunded, it’s estimated the total repayment could reach approximately US$175 billion (A$247 billion).
Much to the president’s frustration, there was no clarity within the Supreme Court’s ruling on the process for refunds of illegally collected tariffs.
That silence, which prompted Trump to refer to the decision as “terrible” and “defective”, was likely because this would be handled by other courts.
Back in December, the US Court of International Trade stated it would have the authority to order reliquidation and refunds of the sweeping tariffs if the Supreme Court ultimately ruled them unlawful.
Many large companies had already anticipated this ruling, and acted to get on the front foot. For example, in late November, large retailer Costco sued the Trump administration to secure a full refund of tariffs in the event the Supreme Court deemed them unlawful.
In late December, faced with an avalanche of similar cases, the Court of International Trade temporarily halted all cases where companies were claiming relief from IEEPA tariffs ahead of the Supreme Court’s ruling.
Refunds may not be straightforward
Some importers have argued that because the tariff payments were itemised, receiving refunds should not be messy.
But the process for refunds may not be as straightforward as it should be. Trump suggested they could be “in court for the next five years”.
What does this all mean for Australia?
Australia’s previous 10% rate was much lower than many other nations, but now at 15% the playing field has been levelled – at least for the next 150 days.
Australian exporters don’t pay these tariffs directly themselves, but may be pressured to absorb some of the cost, and it makes their imports less competitive in the US market.
However, not all Australian exporters are in the same position. The proclamation issued by the White House listed some exceptions, including beef, critical minerals, energy products and pharmaceuticals.
At Friday’s press conference, Trump said “great certainty” had been brought back to the United States and the world. In truth, the uncertainty is far from over.
Felicity Deane does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
A controversial policy of destroying recordings of trials after seven years is to be abandoned, the Ministry of Justice (MoJ) has disclosed.
The policy, affecting courts in England and Wales, had been heavily criticised by lawyers and miscarriage of justice campaigners, who said the destruction of court records makes challenging a conviction almost impossible.
They point to cases like Omar Benguit – now the subject of a BBC Panorama investigation – where vital court records were erased.
As a journalism lecturer carrying out research into court reporting, as well as miscarriages of justice, I was keen to investigate, and requested more information from the MoJ through Freedom of Information requests.
In its responses to me, the MoJ publicly disclosed for the first time that trial records will now be kept for at least as long as the prison sentence – and possibly indefinitely.
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An MoJ spokesperson said: “This updated policy safeguards continued access to court records for the purpose of appeals, reviews or any other legal proceedings that may arise during the entire period of the sentence.
“Retaining records for the full length of the sentence preserves judicial integrity, and protects the rights of all parties concerned.”
Campaigners who fought for years to halt the policy of destroying court records have welcomed the announcement. Jon Robins, a lecturer at Brighton University and co-organiser of the Open Justice Charter, told me:
This is a sensible result – and a surprising and belated victory for our campaign. We pointed out more than a decade ago that there was no possible justification for such a draconian destruction policy, ever since our courts were dragged into the digital era and began recording proceedings – other than closing off the prospect of challenges from those claiming to be wrongly convicted.
The unnecessary loss of court documents – especially, court transcripts and the audio recordings of court proceedings – has often proved an insurmountable barrier in the investigation of miscarriage of justice cases.
The official guidance for how long records should be retained is set out in the crown court’s Record Retention and Disposition Schedule (RRDS). This currently states that the recordings of crown court trials should be “kept for seven years and then destroyed”.
The MoJ confirmed to me that this policy has now been scrapped. It stated that “effective from October 9 2023 onwards”, staff had been instructed to apply the following retention periods for crown court audio recordings:
One year for not-guilty verdicts;
Seven years for non-custodial sentences;
At least seven years or the sentence length for custodial sentences (whichever is longer);
And 99 years for life imprisonment.
The MoJ said it will officially publish this updated guidance in the new RRDS later this year.
End of a ‘reckless’ policy
For many years, the policy of destroying recordings of trials attracted a great deal of public criticism.
In January 2016, a letter was sent to the then secretary of state for justice, Michael Gove, urging him to change the policy. The letter – signed by 35 lawyers, academics and campaigners – said: “In this digital age, it is both reckless and irresponsible to systematically destroy the record of court proceedings.”
In October 2016, Jerry Buting, the American attorney whose defence of Steven Avery featured in the Netflix docuseries Making A Murderer, told The Justice Gap that destroying recordings of court proceedings was “absolutely ludicrous”, adding: “Digital recordings take virtually no space. There is no excuse for the courts to not store forever – at least as long as the defendant is alive.”
A later campaign called Open Justice Charter (OJC) also highlighted the destruction of court records as a key failing in the justice system, stating: “No recordings of criminal court proceedings should be destroyed until at least seven years after the end of the prison term and any post-release licence period imposed.”
What was heard by the jury?
The key concern for those criticising the policy was what they saw as the deleterious affect it was having on those trying to challenge a conviction.
The way the appeal system works is that if a prisoner wants to challenge their conviction, they need to apply to the Criminal Cases Review Commission (CCRC) in order to be allowed to take their case to the Court of Appeal.
The CCRC will not refer the case unless there is “fresh evidence” – something new which the original jury did not hear. And so, for someone who believes they have been wrongly convicted, their starting point will be to identify exactly what was heard by the jury.
For the prisoner and their legal team, this means getting access to the transcriptions of the trial. Without these, they risk submitting an application based on evidence that is not considered new, or omitting evidence that could be highly significant.
Some applications to the CCRC may come many years – even decades – after trials have happened, meaning that not even the prisoner will be able to fully remember what happened in court. For example, one miscarriage of justice victim, Peter Sullivan, was freed 38 years after a jury wrongly convicted him.
Leading legal figures such as Michael Mansfield KC, who acted for the Hillsborough families, has argued that the destruction of records hugely disadvantages those seeking justice. He told The Guardian: “Equally important is access to the record of proceedings and case documentation, without which injustice can be washed away.”
Emily Bolton, who founded Appeal, the charity and law practice dedicated to challenging wrongful convictions, also described the destruction of court records as “a complete roadblock to investigating miscarriages of justice”. She added: “What is the British system afraid of? It’s a public trial, and there should be an accessible record of it.”
More groundbreaking than it first appears
Despite all of this, the MoJ took years to revise the policy. In response to my FoI requests, it explained the decision had nothing to do with the criticism it had received:
The change from ‘seven years to seven years or the life of the sentence’ was driven by new legislation (at the time) called The Parole Board Rules 2019. Those revisions were of particular importance so as to ensure that audio records remain accessible for the entire duration of a custodial sentence, particularly when the sentence exceeds seven years.
But a close analysis of the MoJ’s responses to the FoI requests reveals something intriguing – that the change may be far more groundbreaking than it first appears.
While the MoJ may be reluctant to spell it out explicitly, it appears that the official policy has quietly moved from a position of court records being routinely destroyed, to one where they will now be retained indefinitely. And the reason for this is not legal or political – but purely down to technology.
The destruction of court records was really a legacy of the analogue age; a time when stenographers quietly tapped away in court and any recordings were kept on physical tapes.
In 2012, all of that was swept away when proceedings in crown courts began to be recorded by the Digital Audio Recording Transcription and Storage (Darts) system, meaning there was no longer any need to physically store recordings on tape, and therefore no logistical reason to destroy them.
So, while the new policy dictates that records will be retained for at least as long as the prison sentence, the new technology has essentially removed the need or justification for ever deleting any more court records. The MoJ came very close to admitting this to me when it said: “Crown court audio recordings are retained within HMCTS Digital Audio Recording Transcription and Storage system. To date, none of these court audio recordings have been deleted.”
If the Darts system had been storing recordings since 2012, and the MoJ policy was to destroy recordings after seven years, then they should have started erasing cases since 2019.
Significant costs
While the change is very significant and should dramatically improve access to court records, one critical barrier remains.
While the audio recording of the trial may now exist, it is not possible – except in very limited circumstances – to listen to it, so it must be professionally transcribed. And this can prove to be very – even prohibitively – expensive.
Many victims, particularly those who suffered sexual violence, are now calling for transcriptions of trials to be made free. This new campaign echoes an argument that miscarriage of justice campaigners like Bolton were making a decade ago. She said in 2016:
In this country, the system was privatised, and now profit-driven transcription firms hold justice to ransom, demanding thousands of pounds to provide sections of transcript of a trial. Neither the Legal Aid system nor individual prisoners or their families can afford this, and so the recordings languish unreviewed, and the system goes unaudited.
Robins told me: “The next step for accountability in our courts is to make the audio recordings or transcripts of proceedings available at an accessible price. In an era when there are free AI transcription services, these costs make no sense.”
The decision by the MoJ to stop destroying recordings of trials means that court records will now be available – as long as someone can afford them. It brings to mind the quip by 19th-century judge James Mathew, who said that “in England, justice is open to all – like the Ritz Hotel”.
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Brian Thornton does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
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