Last Wednesday the Supreme Court gave judgment in this case in which Yunus Rahmatullah, who’s being held by American forces in Afghanistan, applied for habeas corpus against the British government. Rosalind English wrote a helpful summary of the judgment at the UK Human Rights Blog.

Mr. Rahmatullah is believed by the Americans to be a member of a group linked to Al Qaeda, and to have travelled from his home in Pakistan to fight against western forces in Iraq. But even assuming that’s right, it’s difficult not to have some sympathy with his current plight. He was captured and detained by British forces in Iraq in 2004. He was quickly handed over to the Americans, who transferred him out of Iraq to Afghanistan about a month later, without telling the British. There he remains, in American custody, even though a US military review has decided his detention is no longer necessary, and that he’s not an “enduring security threat”. According to the US, it’s in discussions with Pakistan about letting him go there.

As far as the UK was concerned, Rahmatullah was a “protected person” under article 4 of the fourth Geneva Convention, on the protection of civilians in time of war:

Persons protected by the Convention are those who, at a given moment and in any manner whatsoever, find themselves, in case of a conflict or occupation, in the hands of a Party to the conflict or Occupying Power of which they are not nationals.

That being so, he was protected (from the British point of view) by article 45 of the Convention, which says

Protected persons may be transferred by the Detaining Power only to a Power which is a party to the present Convention and after the Detaining Power has satisfied itself of the willingness and ability of such transferee Power to apply the present Convention.

In principle, this permits the transfer of Mr. Rahmatullah to the Americans: the US is party to the fourth Geneva Convention, and there’s no reason for the UK to think it’s unwilling to apply it.

There is a wrinkle, though: the Americans don’t see Rahmatullah as a protected person – I think on the basis of an argument that he did not simply “find himself” in British hands. That American argument may not work (Lord Kerr seemed to think not – see para. 34), but that’s not really the point. The point is that the UK did see him as a protected person. The British view didn’t determine the legal question for the Americans, or (in my view at least) require the Americans to apply the Convention to Rahmatullah if they were correct that it did not; but it did follow that the UK itself had continuing obligations following the transfer.

Article 45 goes on:

If protected persons are transferred under such circumstances, responsibility for the application of the present Convention rests on the Power accepting them, while they are in its custody. Nevertheless, if that Power fails to carry out the provisions of the present Convention in any important respect, the Power by which the protected persons were transferred shall, upon being so notified by the Protecting Power, take effective measures to correct the situation or shall request the return of the protected persons. Such request must be complied with.

Rahmatullah was also (at least from the British point of view) protected by article 49 of the Convention, which says

Individual or mass forcible transfers, as well as deportations of protected persons from occupied territory to the territory of the Occupying Power or to that of any other country, occupied or not, are prohibited, regardless of their motive.

So when the Americans flew him out of Iraq to Afghanistan, from the British point of view at least it seems article 49 had been breached. The US had failed to carry out the provisions of the Convention in an important respect, and so the British had under article 45 to

take effective measures to correct the situation

or

request the return

of Mr Rahmatullah. It failed to do either once it was aware of what the Americans had done, even though there was a Memorandum of Understanding between the two countries saying that

Any prisoners of war, civilian internees, and civilian detainees transferred by a Detaining Power [the UK] will be returned by the Accepting Power [the US] to the Detaining Power without delay upon request by the Detaining Power.

Mr. Rahmatullah’s habeas corpus application was obviously an attempt to force the British to do what they could to enforce their rights and to secure his return under the MoU.

It succeeded up to a point. The government argued that it had no control over him, so no writ of habeas corpus could be issued against it. But the Supreme Court has ruled that it was right for the courts below to issue the writ. In effect this forced the government to ask the Americans for Mr Rahmatullah’s return, so as to establish to the courts’ satisfaction its control, or lack of it, over Mr. Rahmatullah. It did then ask; but the Americans did not, in their reply, agree to return him.

The clear majority of the Supreme Court ruled that this was the end of the case. It was clear from the American response that the UK does not have control of Mr Rahmatullah and cannot enforce the Memorandum of Understanding against the US. The government could not therefore in habeas corpus proceedings be required to justify his detention or to release him. Having now made the unsuccessful request for his handover, they’d made a sufficient return to the habeas corpus writ – and that’s that.

Before moving on it’s worth mentioning the significant division in the court between the majority of five who saw the exchange of letters between the UK and US authorities as satisfactorily clearing up the question of control, and the minority – Lady Hale and Lord Carnwath – who did not.

They saw the British request as not sufficiently forcefully making the point that the Americans had made a commitment to return Mr Rahmatullah, albeit a non-binding one, and were breaching that commitment; and they saw the American reply as evading that point entirely. They wanted the matter pressed in blunter correspondence until the Americans either agreed to return him or refused to do so. They have a point, certainly. Whether the law really requires the government in a case like this to go through a further, in practical terms pointless round of letter-writing is open to doubt. But governments may need to get used to the British courts becoming less willing to infer facts from the softnesses of diplomatic speak, and more likely to insist on clear documentary evidence in blunt language to support, for instance, any claim that a foreign government refuses to do something.

The story is somewhat depressing, and not just from the applicant’s point of view. It suggests little respect from the Americans for their commitments, even though not formally binding ones, to the British; and arguably little concern for the domestic legal position in which they’d left their allies. It also suggests that the British government accepts American wishes without any discussion, regardless of its own legal obligations and American commitments to the UK.

None of that, though, means it’s right to give an exaggerated or misleading impression of what the Supreme Court said. The charity Reprieve managed however to do just that in its press release about the case last week.

The press release is headed

Supreme Court: UK unlawful rendition may have been war crime

but the Supreme Court did not say the UK was involved in Mr. Rahmatullah’s rendition – indeed the judgment makes clear the British didn’t know about it at the time* – or that the UK may have committed any “war crime” – a phrase not used in the judgment. [*Update: I’ve now crossed some words out in this paragraph for the reasons I explain here —Carl]

The first paragraph of the press release reads:

The rendition of a Pakistani man by UK and US forces to Afghanistan, and his subsequent detention, has been described as “unlawful” and a possible war crime by Britain’s highest court.

The Supreme Court, though, did not suggest he was taken to Afghanistan “by UK and US forces”. Nor, as I’ve said, did it describe his rendition or detention as “a possible war crime”.

According to Reprieve,

The court criticised the UK government for failing, on no less than three occasions, to request Mr Rahmatullah’s return. It has suggested that these failings may amount to a war crime, stating:

“The, presumably forcible, transfer of Mr Rahmatullah from Iraq to Afghanistan is, at least prima facie, a breach of article 49 [of the fourth Geneva Convention].  On that account alone, his continued detention post-transfer is unlawful.”

The first sentence of this is true: the Supreme Court did indeed criticise the government for failing to ask for Mr. Rahmatullah’s return, and it suggested a number of occasions on which it could and should have done so (para. 39). What it did not do, though, is suggest that this failure may amount to a war crime. The words quoted by Reprieve are from paragraph 36 of the judgment, and plainly refer to the conduct of the US in taking Rahmatullah to Afghanistan – not Britain’s in failing, once they realised that had happened, to ask for his return.

Reprieve says

The Court identified this as the first time in 150 years when the US (“a mature democracy”) has “dishonoured” an extradition agreement. (para. 14)

but this case did not involve an extradition agreement at all, and the Court did not “identify” this case as the first breach of one. What it did, at paragraph 14, was discuss a 2007 case in which a court stated that the US had not breached its extradition agreements with the UK for 150 years.

The Reprieve press release continues:

Reprieve’s Legal Director Kat Craig said: “The UK government has nowhere left to turn. The highest court in the country has expressed serious concerns that grave war crimes may have been committed as a result of which a police investigation must be initiated without delay.  The Court has also found that Yunus Rahmatullah’s detention is unlawful.

But the Supreme Court did not suggest at any point that there needed to be any police investigation. That’s Kat Craig’s view, legitimately held (presumably she thinks UK forces aided or abetted unlawful rendition contrary to section 1 of the Geneva Conventions Act 1957), but it’s not one the Supreme Court expressed, although you might easily think from this press release, that it did. As I’ve already said, the Court did not use the phrase “war crime” or “grave war crime”.

There’s even doubt about whether the Court “found unlawful” Mr. Rahmatullah’s detention by the US in Afghanistan. It’s quite true that the majority agreed with Lord Kerr who (para. 25) “addressed the issue”, saying (para. 36)

The, presumably forcible, transfer of Mr Rahmatullah from Iraq to Afghanistan is, at least prima facie, a breach of article 49. On that account alone, his continued detention post-transfer is unlawful

and (para. 39)

there is clear prima facie evidence that Mr Rahmatullah is unlawfully detained

and (para. 53)

there is clear prima facie evidence in the present case that Mr Rahmatullah is unlawfully detained

It’s also true that the minority spoke (para. 127) of

the illegality of the detention

But saying there’s prima facie evidence of something isn’t quite the same as finding it to be the case – and I’m not sure there really was, quite, a finding that the detention was unlawful. It’s important to remember that no party to the case tried to persuade the Court that the detention was lawful (the British government having focused on the point that it had no control and therefore could not answer for Mr. Rahmatullah’s detention); the point was not fully argued. And at paragraph 70 Lord Kerr makes clear that

For the reasons that I have given at paras 38-40 and 53, the legality of the US’s detention of Mr Rahmatullah is not under scrutiny here. It is the lawfulness of the UK’s inaction in seeking his return that is in issue.

And the dissenting minority at para. 117 avoid making any ruling on the legality of the detention:

We agree in particular that the crucial issue is that of control in the context of the law of habeas corpus, rather than legality as such. Legality is not an issue to be considered in the abstract. It arises as between the applicant and the respondent, and then only if the respondent has “control”. We do not need therefore to consider whether the detention is legal in any broader sense, in particular whether it is lawful from the perspective of the United States government.

This is the most pedantic of my points: it’s pretty clear the justices thought the detention of Mr. Rahmatullah by the US is probably unlawful – and they may be right to think so. Nonetheless, where the justices themselves both in the majority and the minority have made clear that the lawfulness of the detention was not the legal point at issue, and where the point was not argued, it seems a step too far to claim confidently that the Court made a finding on it. The Court itself in its press summary explained its reasoning on this point in the following way –

Although the legality of Mr Rahmatullah’s detention did not need to be determined for the purposes of this appeal, there was clear prima facie evidence that he is detained unlawfully under the G[eneva] C[onvention]

which seems more consistent with my reading of the case than with Reprieve’s claim that the Court made a finding that detention is unlawful.

This was an important case. It’s good that the conduct of the British authorities has been scrutinised, and appropriate criticisms made. It looks as though the government breached its obligations under the fourth Geneva Convention by not asking earlier for the Americans to return Mr. Rahmatullah.

But the Supreme Court did not find that the UK took part in unlawful rendition in this case, or describe anything the UK did as a possible war crime. It helps no one for Reprieve to spin the judgment as though it did.

It’s well known that the government faces a problem when it comes to prisoners’ votes.

On the one hand, the European Court of Human Rights ruled in the Hirst case in 2005 that the UK’s general disenfranchisement of all serving prisoners was in breach of the European Convention on Human Rights – specifically article 3 of Protocol 1 to the Convention. Since then, the Court has confirmed that ruling in subsequent judgments, notably Greens & MT v UK and Scoppola v Italy (No. 3). The result is that the UK has until 23 November to take some sort of action towards give at least some prisoners the vote. That six month deadline was initially laid down in Greens v MT (which is the key case now dealing with exactly what the UK must do); it was then put back by the Court until six months after the Scoppola judgment, which was given in May this year. So as the Attorney General Dominic Grieve rightly said to the justice select committee last week, the UK is legally obliged to do something to comply, now.

On the other hand, as Grieve also told the committee, no one can impose a solution on Parliament, and it seems unlikely that the government could get any legislative change through the House of Commons. Indeed the political pressure on it has led the Prime Minister to say prisoners will not get the vote as long as he’s in office. So what does the government have to do? What can it do?

As I’ve said, Grieve is right both to say that the UK must do something; and that Parliament can refuse to if it wants. The apparent contradiction is because the two statements refer to the position in two different legal systems: in international law, the UK must do something; in our own domestic law, Parliament has the last word.

The argument within government at the moment must centre on how far the government itself – rather than Parliament – wishes to be seen as trying to comply with Strasbourg’s rulings. While Parliament’s probably refusal to act gives the UK no defence in international law, it’s the government which is primarily responsible for compliance, and which must answer for the UK internationally. It matters diplomatically and to some extent legally whether the government simply refuses to do anything – or whether it is seen trying and failing to get change through Parliament. It’s worth noting what the judgment in Greens & MT v UK, which spells out the UK’s legal obligations, actually says, at operative paragraph 6 (towards the very end of the judgment):

the respondent State must:

(a) bring forward, within six months of the date upon which the present judgment becomes final, legislative proposals intended to amend the 1983 Act and, if appropriate, the 2002 Act in a manner which is Convention-compliant; and

(b) enact the required legislation within any such period as may be determined by the Committee of Ministers

Dominic Grieve has presumably advised that the obligation in paragraph 6(a) can be complied with simply by introducing a bill into Parliament. If the government merely does that, arguably the six-month timetable is met, and the government will be back into the diplomatic game of spinning out the longer timetable allowed by paragraph 6(b) in discussions with its counterparts in the Council of Ministers. Crucially, this approach gives the UK a reasonable argument against the reopening of the large number of cases brought by prisoners which the European Court put on hold in Greens & MT, on condition that the government meet its compliance timetable.

This is almost certainly the reason why David Cameron is apparently contemplating a Commons vote soon if it’s “necessary” or will “clarify the legal position”. In reality, both he and Grieve are, I suspect, intending to do enough, this autumn, to allow them to argue that the UK’s immediate obligation is complied with, and to play for yet more time.

I wonder, though, whether Cameron is missing a trick here. At the moment, everyone in politics assumes that a bill would necessarily offend Tory backbenchers, and that the government has no chance of achieving the slightest legislative change. But it’s conceivable the government could offer Parliament a way of moving one step towards something like compliance, while at the same time offering two Eurosceptic fingers back in the direction of Strasbourg – as I argued immediately after the Scoppola ruling:

the government could just conceivably get support for a solution if it at the same time it throws some red meat to its Conservative Eurosceptic backbenchers – which this judgment may give it some room to do.

We know from Greens v MT (and Scoppola confirms this) that the UK has considerable room for maneouvre in how it gives prisoners the vote. If it wanted seriously to comply, Parliament would probably need to grant the vote to most prisoners serving under two or three years. But something less than this – something fairly minimal, to move away from what the Strasbourg court has called the UK’s “blanket ban” on voting by convicted prisoners – would help a bit. It could even gain the UK enough time for the whole issue to die down until a completely new legal cycle was complete – fresh challenges Human Rights Act challenges to the new system, followed by subsequent applications to Strasbourg to test the new regime – all of which could take several years.

For example, the government could introduce a bill saying that all prisoners sentenced to two years or more, or serving a second sentence however short, and all prisoners convicted of certain offences (such as electoral fraud and perjury perhaps) would remain without the vote. But other first-time prisoners serving less than two years could apply to be allowed to vote in their last three months in prison, say, if their disciplinary record was outstanding. This could lead to very few prisoners actually voting: I don’t say it’s enough to comply with Strasbourg’s rulings. It would, though, be enough for the UK to make some kind of respectable argument that it had complied, and to spin out further time.

That’s the one step forward I mentioned earlier. So what’s the red meat that could tempt Eurosceptics?

Take a look at the Scoppola judgment. Note, first, that Italy won this case: paragraphs 103-109 make clear that the European Court sees the Italian system as permissible. Secondly, it’s worth noting the details of the Italian prison voting ban. There (see para. 36 of the judgment), prisoners who serve over three years lose the vote for five years – much longer than they lose it in Britain. And prisoners who are sentenced to five years or more lose the vote for life, subject to a right to apply to be given it back. It’s amazing that these provisions, which are clearly harsher and less proportionate than the UK’s “blanket ban”, have been given Strasbourg’s seal of approval. It shows how absurd the European Court’s approach to this question has been. But approved they have been.

So the government could introduce provisions similar to the Italian ones, alongside its “compliance” provisions – and they could considerably sweeten the nasty taste, for many MPs. Rather than taking a purely heel-digging approach, this could be a clever way to spite Strasbourg while trying to outmanoeuvre it.

Of course none of this would be possible if, as David Cameron has suggested, no prisoner is to be given the vote on his watch. But I wonder if he’s missing a trick. Might truculence serve him better than sheer stubbornness?

This afternoon I spoke to Charles Crawford, the former British ambassador to Sarajevo, Belgrade and Warsaw and now mediator and Telegraph blogger, about the international law and diplomatic ramifications of the Julian Assange stand-off. He shares his view about the British approach and the likelihood of an agreed solution.

A few thoughts, following Julian Assange’s extraordinary statement from the windows of the Ecuadorian embassy earlier today.

First, the physical arrangements. What was interesting was that he didn’t even step on to the balcony proper; he remained firmly on the threshold of the window throughout. I wish I were good enough at land law to be confident in saying whether the balcony would have been inside or outside the Ecuadorian premises – Assange, though, took no chances. Whatever the strict legal position, I doubt in any event that police officers would have wanted to attempt any sort of verbal arrest that they were unable to follow up physically, when Assange ducked back inside the building. An arrest only really makes sense when the police can actually get the hands on their man.

Second, Assange hardly mentioned Sweden, and made no reference to the serious offences Swedish prosecutors want to put to him. Nor was there any indication of any terms on which he’d consider surrendering himself, although a Wikileaks spokesman appeared to say later on BBC World News that he’d go to Sweden if given an assurance that he would not be extradited to America in connection with his Wikileaks work. But I doubt whether the Swedish government could properly give such an assurance even if they wanted to. Respect for the rule of law means that, if there ever were an extradition request from the US, Sweden’s courts would need to consider it in accordance with their own law, and Sweden’s international law obligations to the US.

Finally, we’re no wiser than we were this morning about what if anything Assange plans to do next. This BBC report says

Shortly before Mr Assange delivered his speech, his legal adviser Baltasar Garzon said the Australian had told lawyers to carry out “a legal action” protecting “the rights of Wikileaks [and] Julian himself”.

Mr Garzon, a former judge, did not give specific details of the action but said it would also extend to “all those currently being investigated”.

What this legal action could be, I have no idea, nor whether it might have any substance. I know that last week Garzon was reported as saying there could be an application to the International Court of Justice – which isn’t something Assange as an individual can actually do. Ecuador could, conceivably.

I’m doubt there’s any legal step Assange himself can take in order to seize the initiative – at least not in this country. He must simply sit and wait, and decide how long he want to put off what seems the inevitable moment of his arrest.

But Assange is nothing if not full of surprises.

The latest twist in the Julian Assange case, as we await Ecuador’s decision on granting him asylum (a decision which would not, as I’ve written before, in itself allow protection from arrest if he steps outside the embassy), is that people are wondering whether the UK can simply strip the embassy of its diplomatic status, so allowing police officers to enter it.

It seems the British embassy in Quito has written to the Ecuadorian government (hat tip to @JasonLeopold) saying

You need to be aware that there is a legal base in the UK, the Diplomatic and Consular Premises Act 1987, that would allow us to take actions in order to arrest Mr Assange in the current premises of the Embassy.

We sincerely hope that we do not reach that point, but if you are not capable of resolving this matter of Mr Assange’s presence in your premises, this is an open option for us.

The 1987 Act does indeed give ministers a power to withdraw recognition from diplomatic premises. Section 1(3) says

In no case is land to be regarded as a State’s diplomatic or consular premises for the purposes of any enactment or rule of law unless it has been so accepted or the Secretary of State has given that State consent under this section in relation to it; and if—
(a) a State ceases to use land for the purposes of its mission or exclusively for the purposes of a consular post; or
(b) the Secretary of State withdraws his acceptance or consent in relation to land,
it thereupon ceases to be diplomatic or consular premises for the purposes of all enactments and rules of law.

On the face of it, then, the Secretary of State (in practice a foreign office minister) could now simply withdraw consent, and with one bound, police would be free to make an arrest.

But it’s not quite as simple as that. You’ll note that section 1(4) says

The Secretary of State shall only give or withdraw consent or withdraw acceptance if he is satisfied that to do so is permissible under international law

and that according to section 1(5), in deciding whether to withdraw consent, the minister

shall have regard to all material considerations, and in particular, but without prejudice to the generality of this subsection—
(a) to the safety of the public;
(b) to national security; and
(c) to town and country planning.

The “compliance with international law” requirement may present a problem, since article 21 of the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations requires the UK to facilitate the acquisition by Ecuador of premises necessary for its mission, or assist it in obtaining accommodation. It’s not obvious this allows the UK to just de-recognise the current premises without helping arrange something new.

Section 1(5) is interesting because, in spite of the way the drafting clearly intends to preserve ministers’ ability to take account of anything they think relevant, I’ve no doubt lawyers for Ecuador could argue that the list of three particular concerns colours the scope of ministers’ considerations, the result being that only some particular difficulty relating to safety or to the premises themselves could justify withdrawal.

More importantly, they could argue that Assange’s presence in the embassy and Ecuador’s conduct in sheltering him is not a material consideration; and that since that clearly lay behind the withdrawal, ministers would in deciding to withdraw consent, have taken into account an irrelevant factor.

In addition, there’d be a potentially strong argument to be made that ministers had exercised their power for an improper purpose not intended by Parliament when it enacted the 1987 legislation – their desire to arrest Julian Assange.

Ecuador could judicially review any proposed withdrawal: I think the effect on Assange means this is the type of case in which, as Lord Sumption explained in a recent speech, the courts would consider intervening in a foreign policy decision. Perhaps Assange could obtain an injunction on judicial review, preventing any arrest pending the outcome of proceedings. Of course, if the government successfully fought off that judicial review, the arrest could go ahead. But I don’t think a defence would be easy, and at the very least, a judicial review would create further delay – which probably suits Assange fairly well. I’m not sure giving him a hook to hang one on would be the best tactical move for the government.

The Quito letter from the UK to Ecuador went on apparently to say

We need to reiterate that we consider the continued use of the diplomatic premises in this way incompatible with the Vienna Convention and unsustainable and we have made clear the serious implications that this has for our diplomatic relations.

If I were advising the government, I think I’d say that, if ministers are determined to allow the arrest of Assange, it might be better simply to cut off diplomatic relations with Ecuador, send the ambassador home, close the embassy and arrest Assange after that. Ending diplomatic relations is the major sort of foreign affairs decision I doubt the courts would interfere with. But that’d be a major diplomatic call.

An important trial’s going on at the moment in Moscow – one that may be important for the future of political opposition to Vladimir Putin, and that potentially tells us a lot about what’s going on in Russia. You can witness the crime itself in the video above.

Pussy Riot is an anonymous punk feminist collective. We’re told at freepussyriot.org that

Through a series of peaceful performances in highly visible places, the group has given voice to basic rights under threat in Russia today, while expressing the values and principles of gender equality, democracy and freedom of expression contained in the Russian constitution and other international instruments, including the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the CEDAW Convention.

They’re funny and cool, as you can see from this interview some of them gave to Carole Cadwalladr of the Observer – and they’re certainly opponents of President Putin. In February, they took over part of a Russian Orthodox cathedral in Moscow and performed the anti-Putin song and dance routine you can see on the video – the music owing a clear debt to Rachmaninov’s Bogoroditse Dyevo. As I understand it, Pussy Riot were symbolically praying for the Virgin Mary to rid Russia of Putin.

Since March, three members of Pussy Riot have been remanded in custody awaiting trial on the charge of hooliganism, which under section 213(2) of the Russian Criminal Code (a less user-friendly but more up-to-date version can be found here) can be punished by up to seven years’ imprisonment. The women have been refused bail since March in spite of the fact that what they did was obviously not dangerous, and that two of them have children.

It’s easy to criticise foreign legal systems without knowing much about them; but this clearly disproportionate refusal of bail, for an offence that hardly merits a risk of imprisonment, clearly shows that what’s happening is unfair. Lawyers for the defence say their clients have been mistreated during the trial itself.

Based on what we see in the video it’s hard to imagine how they can be convicted at all of an offence which is defined as

a gross violation of the public order which expresses patent contempt for society, attended by violence against private persons or by the threat of its use, and likewise by the destruction or damage of other people’s property

or

a gross violation of the public order manifested in patent contempt of society and attended by the use of weapons or articles used as weapon

which are the two English-language versions of the offence set out in the translations of the Criminal Code I linked to earlier.

You have to be a particularly sensitive member of the Russian Orthodox Church (witnesses have been complaining of the deep spiritual pain caused them by Pussy Riot, and they’ve been accused of praying to the devil and of pointing their bottoms towards god) or faint-hearted supporter of Mr. Putin to think this a gross breach of public order. But the deputy editor of Moscow News doubts that the court will determine the case purely on its legal and factual merits. The Russian justice system is on trial, more than the women in the dock.

Here’s an editorial about the case from the FT, and a Time piece about the trial. And here’s what appears to be a reasonably fair account of the trial on Russia Today. RAPSI has live updates of the trial, and the campaign in support of Pussy Riot is at freepussyriot.org.

Incidentally, I recorded a discussion on free speech and social media for Voice of Russia UK this afternoon, with Mark Pack, Vanessa Barnett and Professor Ian Cram. In the half hour discussion we referred to a variety of cases – the Twitter joke trial and the case of Guy Adams for instance – and when we discussed anonymity on the web briefly, I mentioned how important anonymity is to protest groups like Pussy Riot. I made no comment on the trial, and no criticism of the court or the Russian government. But when the programme was aired at 3.30 today, I noticed my reference to Pussy Riot had been edited out.

Free Pussy Riot!