Archive for the History Category

The canals of old Cardiff

Posted in Cardiff, History with tags , , , , on January 8, 2013 by telescoper

I came across this old map of Cardiff the other day and thought I’d post it to make up for the fact that I’ve not posted much about the local history of this fascinating city over the years.

Old_cardiff

I can’t find a date for the map, but I guess it is from the early 20th Century.

The most interesting thing about the map is the pretty extensive network of canals. The Dock Feeder Canal still runs down from the top of the map then turns East and past the North side of the Castle, and then South again towards Cardiff Bay. Some of its route is now underground, including the section that used to be Edward Terrace and Pembroke Terrace, which now form the two sides of Churchill Way  under which the canal still flows.

It’s worth mentioning in passing that most of the present Cardiff Castle is basically a late 19th Century folly, but it is the site of much older buildings, including a Norman Keep and a Roman fort. When the Romans occupied the location, the area from the Castle down to the sea was basically a swamp, flanked by the flood plain of the Taff to the West, with the salt marshes of Cardiff Bay to the South. Almost all of present-day Cardiff is reclaimed land.

The Dock Feeder Canal was constructed around 1840 in order to supply water to the Docks in Cardiff Bay so that they could be operated even when the tide was out. This gave  Cardiff one of the world’s first 24-hour docks and led to a rapid expansion of commerce and population in the city during the mid-19th Century.

Among the quite surprising facts about the City of Cardiff is its spectacular population growth. The first official census was held in 1801 and it  showed Cardiff to have a population of 1,870 – much smaller than other Welsh towns like Merthyr Tydfil (7,700) and Swansea (6,000). Every ten years another census was carried out, with the figures for Cardiff growing as follows:

1801 – 1,870
1811 – 2,457
1821 – 3,251
1831 – 6,187
1841 – 10,079
1851 – 18,351
1861 – no data
1871 – 57,363
1881 – no data
1891 – 128,915
1901 – 164,333
1911 – 182,259
1921 – 222,827
1931 – 226,937
1941 – no data
1951 – 243,632
1961 – 283,998
1971 – 293,220
1981 – 286,740
1991 – 296,900
2001 – 305,353

The expansion of the docks in Cardiff Bay, driven by the export of coal from the valleys, seems to have been the main factor in driving the population increase, and this accelerated markedly from the middle of the 19th century until the early 20th century.

Early on in the industrial revolution the South Wales valleys were primarily concerned with the production of iron. In February 1794, the 25-mile-long Glamorganshire Canal was opened between Cardiff and Merthyr Tydfil to bring iron products down to the coast and for nearly 50 years was unchallenged as the main transport link between the two towns.  It was later to become the primary route for carrying coal to the Bay. The Glamorganshire Canal can be seen on the map too, but has now virtually vanished, the route it used to follow now just being marked by new roads; for example, the route it used to take to the East of Bute Park is now covered by North Road.

Here is an old photograph of Mill Lane, now the site of a number of not-very-salubrious eating and drinking establishments. I suspect not many Cardiff residents know that less than half a century ago, these were canalside properties..

Mill_Lane

In October 1839, the Bute West Dock covering 19 acres with 9,400 feet of quays was opened, and the construction of the Dock Feeder to regulate the water supply to the dock from the River Taff was completed.  Entirely paid for by the second Marquis of Bute, this new dock set in motion Cardiff’s amazing growth to become the world’s biggest coal exporting port. The Taff Vale Railway was opened in 1841 between Cardiff and Abercynon and soon overtook the Glamorganshire Canal in economic importance. Coal shipments from Cardiff exceeded one million tons for the first time in 1851. In December 1855, the first historical trainload of Rhondda steam coal arrived at Cardiff, where the Bute East Dock was opened. By 1883 the docks handled six million tons of coal and by 1913 this figure had grown to a staggering 10.7 million tons.

Much of the labour needed to handle this volume of coal came from immigrants, including very large numbers of Irish but also lots of other people from all around the world. By 1850 there were no less than 20 foreign consulates in Cardiff and the city quickly established the cosmopolitan reputation it has kept to this day.

After the end of the First World War the coal trade suffered because the market was flooded with cheap German coal used for war reparations. That, and the subsequent depression, led to a decline in Cardiff as a port, although it was very busy during the Second World War. About 75 per cent of the supplies for the American forces in Europe were shipped out through Cardiff docks following the D-Day landings in June 1944.  This was a short-lived renaissance; the last ever shipment of coal left Bute Dock in 1950.

Other random but possibly interesting points about the map are:

  • The site of the modern Cardiff University School of Physics & Astronomy is near the top right of the map, marked “Univers. Coll.”
  • Taff Vale Railway Station is now named Queen Street Station, and Great Western Station is now Cardiff Central.
  • Note that Cardiff Arms Park was actually surrounded by parkland when this map was drawn, but now the area around is built up (and of course the Millennium Stadium is now there too).
  • Much of central Cardiff has been replaced by modern malls and the like, but the Central Market is still there.

After the Storm…

Posted in Biographical, History with tags , , , on October 16, 2012 by telescoper

Twenty-five years ago I was living in Brighton as a graduate student at the University of Sussex. On October 16th 1987 (a Friday) I woke up to find the electricity had been cut off. Without breakfast I struggled out to find the street lined with fallen trees, smashed cars and houses with broken windows. This was the Great Storm of 1987 which, according to weather forecaster Michael Fish, was “not a hurricane” and I had slept through the whole thing…

Here’s the infamous weather forecast broadcast on the Thursday evening

and here is the BBC News from the following day:

I’m sure my readers (Sid and Doris Bonkers) will be anxious to share their recollections of that wild and windy night through the comments box!

Origins of the Expanding Universe Conference – My Contribution

Posted in History, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , , , on September 19, 2012 by telescoper

For those of you interested in such things, here are the slides I used in my talk at the Origins of the Expanding Universe conference. I spoke about the events on and after 29th May 1919, when measurements were made during a total eclipse of the Sun that have gone down in history as vindicating Einstein’s (then) new general theory of relativity. I’ve written quite a lot about this in past years, including a little book and a slightly more technical paper. This was a relevant topic for the conference because it wasn’t until general theory of relativity was established as a viable theory of gravity that an explanation could be developed of Slipher’s measurements of galaxy redshifts in terms of an expanding Universe.

The Lowell Observatory

Posted in History, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , , on September 17, 2012 by telescoper

Well, here I am back in Blighty after the  conference celebrating  Vesto M. Slipher. The return trip went remarkably smoothly – no hassles at the airport at either end, and all pretty well on time. When I arrived in Flagstaff last Thursday evening I missed the reception that took place in the Lowell Observatory, but fortunately had time on Sunday morning to have a look around the site, on “Mars Hill”, and take a few pictures.

First and foremost with regard to the topic of the conference, here is  a picture of the actual spectrograph used by Vesto Slipher to measure the radial velocity of the Andromeda Nebula (M31), which he actually did 100 years ago today, on 17th September 1912. I had a bit of a struggle with the reflection on the case, but you can see  it’s a beautiful piece of kit:

Here’s one of me standing outside the dome that houses the 24″ Clark Refractor that Slipher used for his spectrographic studies:

And just to remind you that the site isn’t famous only for Slipher’s work, here is the dome housing the 13″ astrographic telescope that was used in 1930 by Clyde Tombaugh to discover Pluto.

Here’s my chauffeur for the day, Prof. Peacock, with the rusting remains of a 42″ telescope:

Of course the Lowell Observatory is named after Percival Lowell (known to his friends as “Percy”) a flamboyant character who founded it in 1894. Lowell did many great things for astronomy, but unfortunately he is mostly remembered these days for his erroneous observations of “canals” on Mars.

Hubble versus Slipher

Posted in History, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , , , on September 15, 2012 by telescoper

Since I’m here at a conference celebrating the scientific achievements of Vesto M. Slipher, I thought I’d take the opportunity to make a few remarks about Slipher’s work and legacy.

I often use this picture in popular talks to illustrate the correlation between distance (x-axis) and apparent recession velocity (y-axis) that has become universally known as Hubble’s Law. This is an early version of such a plot published by Edwin Hubble in 1929.

In public talks I rarely have time to go into the details of this, but it is worth saying that only the results on the x-axis were Hubble’s own measurements. Hubble only contributed half of the above plot, i.e. the distance measurements, and these turned out to be wrong by a factor of about 10 owing to an incorrect identification of the stars used as standard candles. All the recession velocities on the y-axis – obtained by looking at the displacement of lines in the target galaxy’s spectrum – were in fact obtained by Vesto Slipher at the Lowell Observatory here in Flagstaff, Arizona. Hubble used these data from Slipher with permission, but gave no credit to Slipher in the references to his 1929 work. A later, and more convincing, version of this plot published in 1931 by Hubble and Humason, was accompanied by a generous acknowledgement to Slipher’s contribution. However, by then, Hubble’s name was firmly associated with the plot and Slipher’s contribution was largely forgotten for many years subsequently.

This episode isn’t at all atypical of Hubble’s behaviour. He was an extremely ambitious man who was an expert in the art of promoting himself and the Mount Wilson Observatory where he worked. Slipher was a very different type of man: quiet, self-effacing, and very much a team player, dedicated to scientific accuracy rather than his own reputation.

It’s worth saying further that the key observation that led to the understanding that the Universe is expanding is the fact that most of the spectra obtained by Slipher, over the years subsequent to his first measurement of the spectrum of the Andromeda Nebula (M31) celebrated by this conference, showed a redshift indicating velocity away from the observer. Even without distance measurements this leads directly an interpretation in terms of cosmic expansion. Ironically, the first spectrum he obtained, M31 shows a blue shift, as do a few others plotted with negative velocities in the above diagram, but the more distant sources exclusively show a redshift.

As a scientist should be, Slipher was very careful about the interpretation of this result. The more distant objects are fainter and thus more difficult to observe. Could it arise from some systematic artifact? Or could there be an unknown physical effect that produces a redshift dependent on the size of the source? These questions could only be answered when accurate distances to the nebulae were established, so Hubble’s contribution was by no means negligible. It’s completely untrue, however, to say that Hubble discovered the expansion of the Universe, so there’s yet another example of Stigler’s Law of Eponymy whenever anyone talks about the Hubble expansion.

One of the great things about coming to this meeting was the chance to meet Alan Slipher, grandson of Vesto Slipher. He and other members of his family refer to Vesto as “VM”, by the way, which I hadn’t realised before. VM lived a long life, dying in 1969 just short of his 94th birthday, so Alan knew him well until age 17 or so. He spoke most warmly and movingly after yesterday’s conference dinner about his memories of his grandfather, who he clearly looked up to. His words confirmed the impression I’d already formed, that Slipher was an extremely cautious and serious scientist as well as a kindly and humble man.

The contrasting personalities of Slipher and Hubble are further illustrated by correspondence between the two that is archived at the Lowell Observatory. Slipher comes across as kindly and cooperative, Hubble as pompous and self-regarding. I know which of the two I admire the best, both and scientist and human being.

Grave Thoughts

Posted in Biographical, History, Jazz, Literature with tags , , , , , on August 12, 2012 by telescoper

It being a lovely day in Copenhagen yesterday I decided to go for a long walk. My destination was the famous Assistens Kirkegård which is in the Nørrebro district of the city. You might think that was a rather morbid choice of place to go for a stroll in the sunshine, but actually it’s not that way at all. It’s actually a rather beautiful place, a very large green space criss-crossed by tree-lined paths. We British have a much more reserved attitude to cemeteries than the Danes seem to have, at least judging by yesterday; joggers and cyclists pass through Assistens Cemetery at regular intervals, and many people were having picnics or just sunbathing between the gravestones.  And of course there were many tourists wandering around, myself included. I found this matter-of-fact attitude to the dead rather refreshing, actually.

Incidentally, I was also surprised to see a number of Jewish burials among the Christian ones. I don’t know if this happens in British graveyards.

Part of the attraction of Assistens Kirkegård – the name derives from the fact that it was originally an auxiliary burial place, outside the main city, designed to take some of the pressure off the smaller cemeteries in the inner areas – is the large number of famous people buried there.  The cemetery is extremely large (about 25 hectares), and the maps don’t show the locations of all the famous people laid to rest there, but I did find quite a few.

Here for example is the memorial to one of the most famous Danes of all, Hans Christian Andersen

Going by the number of signposts pointing to it, this must be one of the most popular sites for visitors to the cemetery, along with the grave of the philosopher Søren Kierkegaard. One can also quite easily locate the memorial which marks the last resting place of Niels Bohr and various other members of his family:

But it’s not only Danes that are buried here. There’s a corner of one plot occupied by a number of famous American Jazz musicians, including pianist Kenny Drew and, most famously of all, tenor saxophonist Ben Webster whose gravestone is rather small, but clearly very well tended, no doubt by a Danish jazz lover:

Unfortunately, I was unable to locate one of the graves I wanted to find, that of the great Heldentenor Lauritz Melchior. I was surprised to find his name was absent from the main index. I know he was cremated and his ashes buried there, and I even found a picture of his memorial on the net, but the cemetery is so large that without further clues I couldn’t find it. I’ll have to go back on a subsequent visit after doing a bit more research.

It’s very interesting that some of the smaller graves are extremely well-tended whereas many of the more opulent memorials are in a state of disrepair. My ambition is to be forgotten as quickly as possible after my death so the idea of anyone erecting some grandiose marble monument on my behalf fills me with horror, but I have to say I do find graveyards are strangely comforting places. Rich and poor, clever and stupid, ugly and beautiful; death comes to us all in the end. At least it’s very democratic.

And after about three hours strolling around in the cool shade of the trees in Assistens Kirkegård the thought did cross my mind there still seems to be plenty of room…

The Shell House Raid

Posted in Biographical, History with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 10, 2012 by telescoper

An early morning walk around Copenhagen this morning reminded me of a longer visit I made here about 25 years ago, during which I rented a room in a nice large apartment on Frederiksberg Allé, which is in a rather posh part of the city called Frederiskberg. The landlord, who also lived on the premises, was a Mr Vagn Jul Pedersen, a nice old man who had lived in that part of the city all his life. One evening we sat talking over a beer or two and he told me of a terrible thing that he had seen during the latter stages of the Second World War when he was a young man, and I thought some of you might be interested to learn about it.

In March 1945, the British decided to carry out a low-level bombing attack on a target in Copenhagen, which was under German occupation at the time. The mission was given the codename Operation Carthage and its primary objective was the Shellhus (“Shell House”) originally owned by the oil company, but commandeered by the Nazis for wartime use as the Gestapo headquarters. The request to bomb the Shellhus came from the Danish Resistance, despite the fact that it was known that the top floor of the building was being used to house Danish prisoners as a kind of human shield.

I have based the following on a post I found elsewhere on the net. You can also read the official RAF account here.

By the end of 1944 the Danish resistance movement in Copenhagen was in danger of being wiped out by the Geheime Staatspolizei (Gestapo). Many of their leaders were arrested and a lot of material was filed in the Gestapo archives in the Shell house. Leading members of the resistance-movement requested an attack by air on the Shell House via the Special Operations Executive (SOE) in London.

Eventually on 21 March 1945, 20 de Havilland Mosquito fighter-bombers from 2nd TAF escorted by 28 Mustang Mk. III fighters from 11 Group took off from RAF Fersfield in Norfolk, England. 18 of the Mosquito bombers were F.B. Mk. VIs and 2 were Mosquito B. Mk. IVs from the Photographic Reconnaissance Unit (PRU). The Mosquito force attacked in 3 waves: 1st wave with 7 Mosquitoes (one PRU); the 2nd wave with 6 Mosquitoes; and finally the 3rd wave with 7 Mosquitoes (one PRU). The primary objective for the Mustangs was to engage, distract, suppress and, if possible, destroy anti-aircraft “Flak” batteries concentrated in central Copenhagen.

The first wave approached their target from the South West but, as they passed Enghave Station, which is near the famous Carlsberg brewery, Mosquito SZ 977, with Pilot W/Cdr. Peter A Kleboe and Navigator F/O K Hall, struck a 30 metre lamppost or pylon; the wingtip of the Mosquito then hit the roof of No 106 Sonder Boulevard. The two 500lb bombs carried by the aircraft ripped off and exploded, killing twelve civilians. Flying at roof-top level over a densely populated area it was inevitable that there would be casualties if a plane crashed or were shot down, but the Fates that day were in an especially cruel mood and far worse was to follow.

The stricken Mosquito “T for Tommy” crashed seconds later in a garage near the Jeanne d`Arc French Catholic school on Frederiksbergs Allé. The front part with the cockpit with the two crew members landed on Dr. Priemesvej; they were badly burned and later died of their injuries. Pilot W/C Peter A. Kleboe and Navigator F/O Reginald J.W. Hall were laid to rest in Bispebjerg Cemetery on 28 March 1945.

The rest of the first wave found and bombed the Gestapo Headquarters successfully. In all six bombs exploded in the Western wing and, of the nine prisoners in this part of the building, six were killed instantly and another died when jumping from the 5th floor to the ground.

But the tragedy that had begun to unfold at Frederiksberg Allé was about to get even darker. The 2nd wave of Mosquitoes became confused by the smoke and flames from the crashed Mosquito and thought it must be their target. Two of the Mosquitoes in the 2nd wave dropped their bombs on the French school and only one proceeded to bomb the Shell House. The 3rd wave approached Copenhagen from the West, and again became confused. All but one of the Mosquitoes dropped their bombs by mistake on the French Jeanne d`Arc Catholic School killing 86 children and 16 adults out of 482 children and adults, while 67 children and 35 adults were wounded.

This is the site of the modern Shell House, the original being completely destroyed during Operation Carthage. It’s quite easy to find, on the North side of Kampmannsgade, just to the East of Sankt Jørgens Sø, between Nyropsgade and Vester Farimagsgade. It’s actually quite close to the splendid modern Tycho Brahe Planetarium.

Inside the doorway at the far right of this building as seen in the above view is the following inscription, giving the names of the Danish resistance members who died that day

You can see here below a map showing the location. Enghave Station is to the South-West, the natural direction from which the incoming planes would have come. The Mosquito “T for Tommy” must have veered North, i.e. to its left, after its collision with the pylon in order to have crashed where it did.

Reading about this terrible episode, I was at first surprised that so many pilots misidentified the target, especially since the correct one is so close to Sankt Jørgens Sø, a prominent expanse of water that makes up one of a string of shallow lakes that extend along most of the Western side of Copenhagen’s city centre, which one would have thought was easily identifiable by its absence at the French School. The pilots had, after all, been shown detailed models of the location before the raid. But then I’m sitting at a desk with a map in front of me, not screaming along at 400mph, over rooftops bristling with anti-aircraft guns, into the teeth of withering Flak fire.

I walked the distance from the Jeanne D’arc School to the Shell House and I reckon it’s not much further than 1km, perhaps less as the Mosquito flies. That’s just seconds at the speed the planes would have been flying. That, together with the general confusion of smoke, gunfire and fear, could easily account for the navigational errors.

Owing to the presence of planes from the RAF photographic unit, there is remarkable film footage shot during the actual raid, some of which can be seen in the following film. It’s interesting how little Copenhagen’s skyline has changed; much of the city is immediately recognizable. There is also some very moving eye-witness testimony.

Even to a non-expert like me this was clearly an extremely dangerous mission. Mr Pedersen told me he saw Mosquitoes flying between the houses, along some of Copenhagen’s admittedly very wide roads, below the level of the rooftops; presumably the anti-aircraft guns were unable to aim downwards. A total of 4 Mosquitoes and 2 Mustangs were lost to flak with 9 crewmen KIA and 1 POW. Incidentally, one of the two Mustangs shot down that day crashed in Fælledparken, the park just behind the Niels Bohr Institute.

Mounted on the wall of the present Shell House is a bronze cast of a propeller from one of the downed Mosquitoes. A plaque is placed below the propeller with the names of the 9 crew members who were killed in the attack.

A total of 133 Danes died during and after the raid, including 86 children and 18 adults (including many nuns, and some bystanders who had tried to help) at the French School. At the Shell House, 8 Gestapo prisoners were killed and 18 managed to escape; 55 German soldiers and 47 Danish employees of the Gestapo died. In those days they hadn’t invented bland phrases like “collateral damage” to disguise the real horror of war, and it wasn’t possible to use unmanned drones as deployed by the US in their covert “war on terror”. Although Operation Carthage did achieve its objective, the loss of innocent life was so appalling it remains difficult to see it as a success.

I remember very well the tears in Mr Pedersen’s eyes when he told me about what had happened at the French School that day; it was only later that he found out what the actual objective of the raid was. At the end he said “You are lucky that you will never have to witness anything like that.” That goes for all of us who have had the good fortune to live in a time of peace. But let’s not forget the other parts of space-time where things are/were very different.

Dr Dee

Posted in History, Music, Opera, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , , , on July 10, 2012 by telescoper

Last Friday evening, after my afternoon shift at the Royal Society Summer Exhibition, I took the chance to go and see something a bit different, in the shape of English National Opera’s production of  Dr Dee at the Coliseum. I hadn’t really known what to expect of this beforehand, actually, but needed to find a bit of distraction in London and was fortunately able to persuade my lovely friends Joao and Kim to come with me to try it out.

Dr Dee is based on the life of John Dee, the famous Elizabethan mathematician, astrologer, courtier, and spymaster. Written by Mr Damon Albarn, former lead singer of the popular beat combo Blur, it’s not exactly an opera but more of a renaissance-style pageant depicting the life of this mysterious character in a series of dramatic tableaux. Not being at all naturalistic in style it would have been quite difficult to follow what was going on without the programme notes, but each episode was brilliantly realised with dramatic staging, dancing and stunning visual effects. Rufus Norris was responsible for the overall direction of the piece. Hat’s off to him. I wasn’t really expecting the music to be so interesting, either; mixing pop vocals with orchestral music from the period could have been awful, but actually I warmed to it very quickly.

An influential polymath, Dee was, for a time, a trusted confidante of Elizabeth I and he was recruited by Sir Francis Walsingham to set up a network of informants and decipher Catholic codes in the build-up to the attempted invasion of England by the Spanish Armada. Dee is also purported to be the inspiration behind Prospero in Shakespeare’s The Tempest. What’s particularly interesting about him from an historical perspective is that lies at the crossroads between magic and science. A gifted mathematician, Dee developed an obsession for the occult after meeting a very dodgy character called Edward Kelly, who persuaded Dee that he could talk to angels in their own language with the help of a crystal ball, a technique known as scrying. Dee eventually went mad and was alienated not only from Elizabethan society but also from his own family. Had he lived at a slightly different time, he could well have ended up burned as a heretic. His story reminds us that the distinction between rationality and irrationality has not always been so clear. Alchemy and the occult could co-exist in many great minds alongside mathematics and empirical study so it should not surprise us that science and pseudoscience both seem able to thrive in modern culture.

The run of Dr Dee at ENO has now ended, but I’m definitely glad I plucked up the courage to go and see it. It’s a truly imaginative work and produced a memorable theatrical experience.

Big Bang: Who’s the Daddy?

Posted in History, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , , on June 8, 2012 by telescoper

Time, I think, for a frivolous Friday poll.

I stumbled across a post on the Physics World Blog concerning a radio broadcast about Georges Lemaître.

Here’s a description of said programme:

Few theories could claim to have a more fundamental status than Big Bang Theory. This is now humanity’s best attempt at explaining how we got here: A Theory of Everything. This much is widely known and Big Bang Theory is now one of the most recognisable scientific brands in the world. What’s less well known is that the man who first proposed the theory was not only an accomplished physicist, he was also a Catholic priest. Father Georges Lemaître wore his clerical collar while teaching physics, and not at Oxford, Cambridge or MIT but at the Catholic University of Leuven in Belgium. It was this unassuming Catholic priest in an academic backwater who has changed the way we look at the origins of the universe. His story also challenges the assumption that science and religion are always in conflict. William Crawley introduces us to the “Father” of the Big Bang.

The question is whether the word “Father” in the last sentence should be taken as anything more than a play on the title he’d be given as a Catholic priest?

Lemaître’s work was highly original and it undoubtedly played an important role in the development of the Big Bang theory, especially in Western Europe and in the United States. However, a far stronger claim to the title of progenitor of this theory belongs to Alexander Alexandrovich Friedman, who obtained the cosmological solutions of Einstein’s general theory of relativity, on which the Big Bang model is based, independently of and shortly before Lemaître did. Unfortunately the Russian Friedman died in 1925 and it was many years before his work became widely known in the West. At least in my book, he’s the real “father” of the Big Bang, but I’m well aware that this is the source of a great deal of argument at cosmology conferences, which makes it an apt topic for a quick poll:

P.S. I prefer to spell Friedman with one “n” rather than two. His name in his own language is Алекса́ндр Алекса́ндрович Фри́дман and the spelling “Friedmann” only arose because of later translations into German.

Why not pardon Turing?

Posted in History, Politics with tags , , , , on February 9, 2012 by telescoper

I couldn’t resist a quick comment or two on the government’s decision not to issue a posthumous pardon to Alan Turing, in the matter of his his criminal conviction for homosexuality, recently announced by Lord McNally. This is Lord McNally’s reply to a question asked by Lord Sharkey:

The question of granting a posthumous pardon to Mr Turing was considered by the previous Government in 2009.

As a result of the previous campaign, the then Prime Minister Gordon Brown issued an unequivocal posthumous apology to Mr Turing on behalf of the Government, describing his treatment as “horrifying” and “utterly unfair”. Mr Brown said the country owed him a huge debt. This apology was also shown at the end of the Channel 4 documentary celebrating Mr Turing’s life and achievements which was broadcast on 21 November 2011.

A posthumous pardon was not considered appropriate as Alan Turing was properly convicted of what at the time was a criminal offence. He would have known that his offence was against the law and that he would be prosecuted. It is tragic that Alan Turing was convicted of an offence which now seems both cruel and absurd-particularly poignant given his outstanding contribution to the war effort. However, the law at the time required a prosecution and, as such, long-standing policy has been to accept that such convictions took place and, rather than trying to alter the historical context and to put right what cannot be put right, ensure instead that we never again return to those times.

In other words he is using the argument that Turing was properly convicted of behaviour that was considered an offence at the time so that conviction should not be negated.

This argument is entirely specious. A pardon is an act of clemency or forgiveness, exercised under the royal prerogative whenever advised by the government. It is not the mechanism for overturning wrongful convictions, so the observation that this conviction was lawful at the time is a red herring. Moreover, in what I consider to be an entirely analogous situation, all soldiers convicted and executed for cowardice in World War I actually received pardons in 2006. Their actions were also considered punishable at the time. This sets a clear precedent. Why is the Turing case logically different?

The answer to that is that if Turing were to receive a pardon, why should all the other gay people convicted of the criminal offence of being homosexual not also receive pardons? Why does it matter logically in this case that Turing was a brilliant mathematician who made immense contributions to the Allied effort during World War II? What about those gay men who were prevented from joining the services because of their sexuality? Why should one’s brilliance or eminence in a given field lead one to be treated differently under the law? Wouldn’t that just be saying “yes, he was gay, which is a problem, but we’ll forgive him because he made up for it in other ways”?

I think the government’s primary motivation for denying a pardon in this case is in fact the argument I just gave: that they should then have to pardon everyone convicted of homosexuality…

Of course you might ask in that case why it is that people are campaigning for a pardon for Turing in particular? Why not campaign for a universal pardon? I admit that it’s slightly illogical to do so, but it’s a question of pragmatism. Arguing the case for Turing in particular provides a focus which hopefully will lead to a wider resolution of the issue.

Asking for a posthumous pardon isn’t asking for very much, but I suspect the government is more worried about those people still alive who were convicted of homosexuality before 1967, which is when such acts were decriminalized. The case for denying pardons in this situation, when pardons were granted in the case of the executed WWI troops, therefore rests entirely on the possibility that there may be some pesky people who were convicted of homosexuality in the past but who unfortunately, unlike Turing, are not yet dead.

That’s the message this decision sends from the government to gay people.