Four writers discuss the political and social impact they have had around the world
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Sebastian Payne, Karuna Nundy, Frederick Studemann and Tammy Lai-Ming Ho YESTERDAY
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In the wake of the UK’s Windrush scandal, which has burdened a generation of migrants from the Caribbean with having to prove their right to live in the country, a conversation about the value of identity cards has been reignited in Britain. In response, four writers talk about their advantages and pitfalls.
UK
Identity cards are back in Britain, writes Sebastian Payne. Or, possibly not. It has been 12 years since Labour introduced a system of national ID cards and eight since the coalition government scrapped them. Killing off the project made sense in 2010: the public had lost faith in the government’s ability to protect its data (after a huge breach at HM Revenue & Customs) and the post-9/11 security arguments for introducing cards had dispersed. But chatter is increasing among politicians that the idea should be revisited.
Across Europe, control of borders and immigration are serious concerns. In the UK, anxiety manifested itself with the 2016 vote to leave the EU. Voters suspected that the Home Office did not know exactly who was in the country. As a member of the bloc, Britain was subject to free movement of people across the continent. Border checks are still not comprehensive and existing forms of identification — passports, national insurance numbers, driving licences — are not linked by a single coherent system.
So, the argument goes, identity cards are a straightforward solution. Give every Brit a little piece of plastic and the authorities can find out instantly whether or not they have the right to be here. Simple. But the strongest argument against ID cards has not changed from when the nation last went through this debate: they would fundamentally reshape the relationship between citizens and the state.
Many Britons find the idea of being instructed to ‘show your papers’ at any given time appalling
Sebastian Payne
It does not take much imagination to see how even a voluntary system could become compulsory. Being required to carry ID cards at all times and show them to the authorities on demand is not a very British tradition — many find the idea of being instructed to “show your papers” at any given time appalling.
The problem could be resolved without physical cards. Technology has evolved since 2006 and the government could build a national database of citizens and residents using biometrics — facial or fingerprint recognition can be used for identification. In Estonia, the e-Estonia system is an example of how this could work. Whether the Home Office is able to build it is a valid concern; Whitehall has a dismal record of delivering big technological projects.
A new identity system should not be dismissed based on this basis alone. The Home Office is under a lot of pressure to find a way of tackling immigration without resorting to the kind of crude target-based measures that have come under increasing criticism in recent weeks.
In just under a year, the country will have left the EU. And by the end of 2020, the UK government will be fully responsible for its national borders. It will have a new immigration policy and, along with it, a new strategy for securing border controls. This cannot work without a better way of tracking individuals. The Home Office needs to look to a secure comprehensive database. No cards required.
The writer is the FT’s digital opinion editor and political leader writer
India
To vulnerable people at the fringes of society, a state ID can be life-changing, writes Karuna Nundy. In India, if you’re unable to enrol in the state’s ID programme or if your biometric authentication doesn’t work, you could starve, be denied a job or have your children thrown out of school.
Since the government launched its national unique identity scheme in 2009, it has collected the data (including fingerprints and iris) scans of over 1bn Indians, and stored these in a centralised database. The state claims this will allow it to deliver services and subsidies such as food and fuel more directly, reduce corruption by eliminating fake claims and save taxpayers’ money by reducing transaction costs.
At stake, however, is not only cheaper food rations and school places but even access to justice. For 10 years I have represented in court the survivors of the world’s worst industrial disaster: the 1984 gas leak at the Union Carbide pesticide plant in Bhopal. Of the half million people exposed to the toxic gas, or poisonous waste, those who are still alive have genetic mutations, cancer, neurotoxicity and other diseases. They were told in April of last year, that to access the paltry damages Carbide has paid out so far they must now produce the unique ID (UID).
Gaining and using a UID number can be fraught with difficulty. Some of Bhopal’s survivors are now old and their fingerprints have faded, so the ID doesn’t work. Others were too ill to go through a new bureaucratic process for an entitlement that has already been established. A small minority simply doesn’t want to hand over data because of fears the government will use it for purposes completely unrelated to the damages.
The Bhopal victims were told that to access the paltry damages that have been paid out so far they must now produce the unique ID
Karuna Nundy
They also don’t want to risk what is known as a “civil death”. The project that is meant to give people an incontrovertible proof of identity can sometimes take it away. Biometrics are easy to hack and, if fingerprints or iris scans are stolen, it is near impossible for a marginalised person to reclaim a lost identity.
To demonstrate the fragility of the system, a reporter from The Tribune newspaper recently bought the data of 1bn Indians in 10 minutes for the equivalent of less than £10. The authority responsible for UID safety filed a criminal complaint against her for this act of public service. The system is a juggernaut, it seeks cover-ups rather than remedies.
Since most people no longer live in tiny self-sufficient communities, states require some form of ID to vote, drink and cross borders. So if the state must supply proof of ID — and the onus is on governments to respect and fulfil rights — what should it look like? At this moment the Indian Supreme Court is weighing this fundamental question.
Some models allow for hope. A smart card to store personal data that the user carries might work better than a centralised database, for example. The user would have a PIN allowing government software to decrypt the data when it is needed, only keeping the data for the time needed to execute the action.
In our increasingly data-hungry economies, governments must ensure that information collected is necessary for the limited purpose it was ostensibly collected for; that it is dealt with lawfully and transparently; that mistakes are easily fixed and users can expect damages against data breaches and other government lapses. Lives and liberties depend on it.
The writer is a lawyer in the Supreme Court of India
Germany
In Germany an identity card is something of a rite of passage, writes Frederick Studemann. From the age of 16 people can apply for an Personalausweis — a card carrying their name, address, picture, details of height and eye colour. As well as providing proof of “grown-up” identity — along with the associated benefits of convincing doubtful merchants or bouncers that the holder is old enough to buy a beer or enter a club — the ID card is a key instrument for active citizenship.
It is also mandatory. The Law on Identity Cards and Electronic Identification states that all Germans are required to possess a form of identity. Failure to carry identification can result in a fine.
As well as carrying that piece of plastic, Germans are required to register their residence at local “citizens’ offices”. This has to be done within a set period of time when you move to a new address or another town. Similarly you are required to de-register from your old address, though in practice this is taken care of when you register your new one, except if you are moving abroad.
Taken at face value, this might all appear to be symptomatic of overly intrusive, and bureaucratic state authority — precisely the thing that opponents of ID cards in the UK warned against when they mounted their (ultimately successful) campaign to stop such a system being introduced in Britain. Yet in Germany it is largely uncontested. It is accepted as part of the “culture and custom” says Stefan Heumann of the Stiftung Neue Verantwortung, a think-tank. It is also not quite the horror vision of arbitrary demands by those in authority — “Your papers, please!” — that some might envisage. The police, for instance, must have reasonable cause to ask for identification.
In Germany it is largely uncontested. It is accepted as part of the culture and custom
The importance of registration and identification within the German system has been highlighted by the administrative challenges brought by the arrival of around 1m refugees. “Registration chaos” quickly became a popular term in media accounts of the challenges facing state authorities and agencies as they were confronted with scores of people without the paperwork — a situation the government is now slowly addressing in the form of emergency or provisional documentation.
Beyond that what concerns Germans far more, says Mr Heumann, are the issues of data protection and surveillance through closed circuit television cameras (which is relatively widespread in Britain where it is, ironically in German eyes, largely accepted). “People are more angry about the way social media companies such as Facebook use and share personal data,” says Mr Heumann. Germany has toughened up its laws about the sharing of personal data. A case brought before the constitutional court challenging the collection of personal data for a national census found that the state was allowed to collect the information, but placed limits on what it could then do with it.
This has had consequences for the development of digital identity systems. Germany is a laggard in this area, says Mr Heumann. The technology and processes required for active e-citizenship is cumbersome and difficult to master — specialist journalists have taken a delight in exposing just how fiddly it is to execute pretty basic transactions, such as de-registering a car. The grand coalition government that took office in March has pledged to develop e-government, but given the issues around data protection, decentralised federal administrative structures and public scepticism, there are doubts as to how swiftly this will progress.
The writer is the FT’s literary editor
Hong Kong
There might be resistance to ID cards in the UK, but it was the British colonial government that introduced them in Hong Kong, writes Tammy Lai-Ming Ho. Identity cards were first implemented in 1949, following an influx of refugees from post-revolutionary China and, since 1980, it has been obligatory to carry ID at all times.
This has never been a matter of resentment for Hongkongers. Whatever concerns there might be about the government having access to one’s data are vastly outweighed by the conveniences, particularly in dealings with bureaucracy, healthcare suppliers and other institutions. ID cards are part and parcel of everyday life here. It is customary for banks, telecoms operators and suppliers of electricity and other utilities to request one’s ID card when processing paperwork. Citizens are only legally obliged to provide it on request to police and government offices.
Only once in my life, when taking a Test of English as a Foreign Language exam, has the Hong Kong ID card proved insufficient for my identification purposes; that day I was forced to return home, befuddled, to retrieve my passport. It was, strangely enough, the nearest to a Kafkaesque experience I have ever had with the Hong Kong bureaucracy, precisely because the ID was not accepted.
Hongkongers’ serenity regarding ID cards hasn’t been upset since the handover of Hong Kong to China in 1997, even among those who deplore the erosion of the democratic system under pressure from Beijing.
The day my ID was not accepted was the nearest to a Kafkaesque experience I have ever had with the Hong Kong bureaucracy
Tammy Lai-Ming Ho
There have been some alarming developments across the border in China recently, such as the inauguration of a social credit system, whereby people who have been convicted of misdemeanours and other minor offences are listed on a central database and barred from travel and access to other services.
For the time being, at least, Hong Kong is sheltered from such plans. Under the “ one country, two systems ” framework, the territory continues to have a separate legal and government system to the mainland so Hongkongers still seem confident that their ID cards will not become an instrument of social repression.
The cards were digitised in the 1980s and the current microchipped smart cards, manufactured by the Dutch company Gemalto, were introduced in 2003. A new generation card that facilitates a greater integration with public services such as libraries and the health service will start to be rolled out later this year.
Unlike national identity cards within the EU, there are no particular travel benefits to the ID card, other than allowing permanent residents to travel without passports to neighbouring Macau. They do, however, allow the bearer to skip immigration queues via automated gates when returning to Hong Kong from abroad. Foreigners working on visas are also issued cards, which, like those held by native Hongkongers, have fingerprint identification.
For younger people, ID cards are a rite of passage when they receive their first, at the age of 11. Until that age, school handbooks serve as makeshift identity proof. Getting your ID cards is considered the first step on the way to being a grown-up.
The writer is assistant professor at the Department of English of Hong Kong Baptist University, and the vice-president of PEN Hong Kong
This article has been republished to clarify the law in Germany on identity documents.
