Is the cry for civility in politics an attempt to soothe a polarised nation or to shield the powerful from scrutiny? We still do not know who threw orange confetti at George Osborne and his wife, Thea Rogers, on their wedding day. While former home secretary Priti Patel was among those quick to denounce Just Stop Oil – as “shameful, attention seeking, disrespectful low life” – the climate activists clarified that they weren’t responsible, despite applauding the apparent stunt.
When I was asked about this incident on television by wedding guest Ed Balls - Labour’s former shadow chancellor, who is to co-host a podcast with Osborne – reprimanded me for failing to appreciate that “it’s possible, Owen, to be civil to people and disagree with them”. Elsewhere, a former aide to Margaret Thatcher decried “the hate-filled left”, while Labour’s Rachel Reeves denounced the stunt as “counterproductive and rude”.
The action didn’t physically harm anyone and was apparently meant to draw attention to the legacy of Osborne’s time in office. The former chancellor has, after all, never been held to account for his record on the climate. He slashed financial support for energy efficiency for struggling households, which increased fuel bills for poor people as well as undermining climate goals; and he opposed Britain becoming a world leader in fighting the climate emergency. Equally, he has never faced financial or social consequences for the brutal austerity that caused deaths, ruined lives and left the country hollowed out by privatisation.
Yet there is outrage that Osborne’s special day was disrupted – and there are demands for more “civility” in the way we conduct our political discourse. An obvious point is that a disrupted wedding is by no means as devastating as the impact of Osborne-ism. A more thoughtful case is that our political and media system fails to hold the powerful to account for their lasting impact on our society. That means we do not learn any lessons, allowing evils to repeat themselves. This failure leaves a vacuum, which is readily filled by activists who will seek any tactic that is peaceful but attention-grabbing to create the sort of accountability that is lacking in our system. After all, Osborne has been allowed to reinvent himself as a respectable and sage political pundit, whose wedding is attended by Labour opponents and prominent journalists, and whose record receives little meaningful scrutiny.
In a healthier democracy, we would take seriously an academic study which suggested that more than 330,000 excess deaths in Britain were linked to austerity. We would have properly debated evidence that Osborne’s imposition of a two-child benefit limit did nothing to force parents to find work, but left hundreds of thousands of families in poverty. There would have been accountability over how a bereaved parent whose beloved child died, meaning they had a “spare bedroom”, was compelled to pay Osborne’s bedroom tax. None of this happened, and so our politicians know they can impose further suffering on poor people for political gain with no meaningful consequences.
Civility politics inevitably reflects who has power and who does not. Osborne’s onslaught on the welfare state was accompanied by rhetoric deliberately stigmatising benefit claimants. Charities claimed there was a surge in abuse directed at disabled people. This abuse has been largely missing from discussions about civility in politics, because those responsible are powerful and those on the receiving end tend to be voiceless. We have seen the same phenomenon with migrants, refugees, Muslims and trans people. The powerful can position themselves as victims of the passions of the mob, while using their platforms to victimise vulnerable minorities with no repercussions.
It’s entirely understandable to desire a political conversation free of needlessly inflammatory rhetoric and disruptive protest, but a political system that is unable to hold the powerful to account will inevitably breed a desire to seek justice in imaginative ways. It shouldn’t take orange confetti to draw attention to the brutal consequences of an all too recent past.
Owen Jones is a Guardian columnist
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