Intervening Globally

Legislative Frameworks

Briefly, we might identify three strands of legislation affecting hate crime: enabling legislation that, in fact, contributes to discriminatory violence; disabling legislation intended to challenge hate crime; and exclusionary legislation that differentially protects communities. With respect to the first of these, I have long argued that hate crime flourishes in an enabling environment (Perry, 2001; Poynting & Perry, 2007). In particular, I have emphasized the role that state rhetoric and policy play in reinforcing negative images and perceptions of minority groups. Sound bites, press releases, and policy statements that demonize communities or that scapegoat them support the broader xenophobic attitudes that often give rise to targeted violence. When Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper refers to “Islamicization” as the greatest threat to the nation, or when Russian President Vladimir Putin equates gays with pedophiles and says they must be “cleansed” from the nation, they are feeding into and feeding on popular stereotypes and fears.

All too often, the sentiment embedded in such examples of rhetoric is also institutionalized in law and public policy. Putin’s homophobia finds its place in Russian legislation banning “propaganda of non-traditional sexual relations.” It takes no stretch of the imagination to see the correspondence between the rhetoric and policy and widespread antigay violence in Russia. Similar trends are apparent with respect to Muslims across the West in the post-9/11 era, where they have been subject to the stigmatizing effects of state action. France has led the way in establishing institutional challenges to Muslim identity. There is a lengthy history in that nation that would restrict Muslim markers of identity. Of particular note is the barring of women and girls from wearing the hijab. One right-wing politician publicly proclaimed that wearing a headscarf constituted a “militant act which is supported by real fundamentalist propaganda” (cited in Freedman, 2006, p. 177).

In contrast, there is an array of statutes—including established international standards—intended to confront what we commonly understand as hate crime. Paramount among these is the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (CERD), Article 4 of which states that it ought to be an offense to disseminate ideas “based on racial superiority or hatred, incitement to racial discrimination, as well as all acts of violence or incitement to such acts against any race or group of persons of another colour or ethnic origin.” The European Commission on Racism and Intolerance (ECRI) has also called for criminalization of targeted violence. In 2008, the European Union Framework Decision on Racist and Xenophobic Crime sought a common definition of hate crime/xenophobic violence across the European Union (EU). At the level of international courts, the European Court of Human Rights has held that states have positive obligations under the European Convention on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms to investigate the potential for racial motivation of crimes. In the landmark decision of Nachova and Others v. Bulgaria, the court held that the state has the responsibility to explore racist motives underlying violence by state actors; Secic v. Croatia applied the same duty with respect to violence by citizens.

Such proscriptions notwithstanding, there is dramatic variation in whether and how nations recognize violence motivated by identity. Indeed, there are few nations outside the global north that even recognize hate crime in legislation—Brazil appears to be the exception. South Africa, in spite of a lengthy history of racial conflict, remains on the brink of introducing legislation. In that nation, in 2014, a Policy Framework of Combating Hate Crimes, Hate Speech and Unfair Discrimination was introduced and remains under discussion. Similarly, India has instituted provisions protecting select scheduled castes and scheduled tribes against “atrocities” including violence. There are also a handful of European nations that have minimal to no such provisions. Surprisingly, Ireland has no hate crime legislation at the time of writing. There are a number of other countries with provisions around incitement to hatred, discrimination, or violence (e.g., Tunisia, Egypt). However, these are rarely invoked, and then often against minority groups (Payot, 2014). Statutory silence on hate crime is dangerous as it sends the message that such violence is legitimate; it amounts to a denial not only of the violence itself, but of the impacts on individuals, communities, and national unity.

Where hate crime legislation exists, it takes diverse forms, covering a wide array of different offenses, protected categories, and/or sentencing responses. In the United States, for example, the first federal statute—the Hate Crime Statistics Act (HCSA)—defined hate crime as “crimes that manifest evidence of prejudice based on race, religion, sexual orientation or ethnicity.” However, there is remarkable inconsistency across states with respect to protected classes. Minnesota, for example, records hate crime motivated by the victim’s race, religion, national origin, sex, age, disability, and sexual orientation. In New Jersey, criminal violations of persons or property are designated as hate crimes where the victim’s race, color, creed, ethnicity, or religion was a motivating factor.

Looked at globally, the picture is even cloudier. Reports from Organization for Security and Cooperation Europe (OSCE) and from the EU Fundamental Rights Agency (FRA), for example, consistently describe the lack of standardization across EU states. A 2009 OSCE report on hate crime reporting includes an overview of the different protected categories among member states, including the most commonly protected classes (e.g., race), frequently protected classes (e.g., gender), and rarely protected classes (e.g., political affiliation). Similarly, states vary on the nature of the legislation, ranging from genocide, to sentencing enhancement, to hate speech provisions. The United Kingdom’s Crime and Disorder Act, for example, designates criminal acts of racially or religiously aggravated assaults, criminal damage, public order offenses, and harassment. Poland protects national, ethnic, political, religious/lack of religious identities from violence or threat, and breaches of “the personal inviolability of another individual.” It also names incitement to these acts as criminally liable. The Canadian Criminal Code recognizes as criminal offenses promotion of genocide (S.318), public incitement of hatred likely to lead to breach of the peace (S.319.1), and willful promotion of hatred (S.319.2) when directed against specified “identifiable groups.” Somewhat distinct from these provisions is S.718.2, which is a sentence enhancement statute. Looking a little further afield, Brazil’s statutory provisions focus on racism and racial injury. Interestingly, murder by death squads—known as “hideous crime”—is also recognized.

What stands out about most provisions is that they are very selective in identifying protected categories. I noted above that we might identify groups that are usually, frequently, and rarely recognized in statute. There is almost universal agreement that race, ethnicity, nationality, and religion ought to be protected. Canada is an interesting case, in that the sentencing provision names a fairly lengthy list of protected categories, but then concludes with reference to any other similar factor. This allows for prosecution of cases where the target is a member of a group that is recognized as historically subject to discriminatory actions, as well as “emerging” identities not otherwise named in the legislation. Gender identity and gender expression are not named in the legislation, but until we see any statutory reform in the area, the codicil could allow protection of trans men and women. In contrast, Jon Garland (2010), for example, highlighted the plight of Goths in the United Kingdom. A trial judge in the case of Sophie Lancaster and her boyfriend caught the essence of the issue, stating outright that regardless of the law, “[T]his was a hate crime against these completely harmless people targeted because their appearance was different to yours” (cited in Garland, 2010, p. 53). The difference in this case is that there was no statutory basis on which to rest a legal finding of bias motivation. This is, in fact, much more typical. Most nations enumerate a defined list of protected categories.

The decisions around which communities are to be included and which are not are often highly politicized. Consider, for example, the debate around the inclusion of sexual orientation in the American Hate Crime Statistics Act, which resulted in the following incongruent clause: “Nothing in this Act shall be construed, nor shall any funds appropriated to carry out the purpose of the Act be used, to promote or encourage homosexuality.” The message is clear. The legislation privileges heterosexual relations and a very narrow definition of family. It continues to imply that homosexuality represents an impending threat to the moral, economic, and physical well-being of the United States. And it reaffirms Helms’ position that homosexuality should not ordinarily be considered worthy of state protections against discrimination.

Hate crime statutes generally recognize particular classes of victims whose victimization is motivated by prejudice and bias. In so doing, hate crime legislation also signifies who constitutes a “legitimate” victim and who does not. The Indian legislation protecting specified castes and tribes, for example, does not protect the large and frequently targeted Muslim community there. Few provisions in any country specifically name gender identity or expression, thereby allowing the brutal violence experienced by trans men and women to go unchallenged. The failure to acknowledge the threats posed by hate crime directed toward the powerless “tells the story” whose moral is that it is acceptable to assault the unnamed victim. Consequently, the violence perpetrated against excluded groups is rendered invisible, if not normative.

Law Enforcement

Even where strong hate crime provisions exist, there is no guarantee that they will be effectively enforced. As first responders, it typically falls to the police to decide whether any particular incident warrants the label hate crime. Because hate crime data are collected in the same way as the other official police data, they are fraught with the same deficiencies. Bell (2009) identified an array of structural limitations on police recording of hate crime:

Different levels of organizational procedure exist around hate crimes. In order to be reported, hate crimes must be recognized, counted, and eventually reported. There are vast differences between police departments whether, the degree to which, and in what way officers are trained. Training specifically focused on hate crime factors often leads to increased hate crime reporting. Other institutional factors which increase hate crime reporting include the level of supervision in crime investigations and whether there is departmental policy regarding hate crime. (p. 35)

As with statutory provisions, there is wide variation among police departments in the extent to which any of above factors prevail. Even in the United States, where the legal concept of hate crime is fairly well established, it appears that few departments are effective in identifying or investigating hate motivated crime. On the contrary, very few acknowledge hate crime when it occurs. For instance, in 2012, only 13% of agencies submitted hate crime incident reports (Federal Bureau of Investigation, 2013). This is exacerbated in countries with either no legal requirement or established infrastructure to gather and report incidents of hate crime. In Europe, according to the European Union Agency for Fundamental Rights (FRA) (2012, p. 36), 13 member states operate only limited hate crime data collection strategies.

In addition to the limitations imposed by law enforcement agencies are those presented by trends in public underreporting. In fact, some argue that hate crimes are even more dramatically underreported than other offenses (Christmann & Wong, 2010). Typically, only between 15% and 20% of such victimizations are ever reported to police (Wolff & Cokely, 2007), largely because the victims anticipate either lack of concern or some form of secondary victimization. Given the historical and contemporary patterns of discrimination and violence by state authorities directed toward minority communities, it is not surprising that victims of ethnoviolence are skeptical about the willingness of police officers to respond to their victimization. Someone from Brazil, where police are thought to account for as much as 20% of all homicides, is unlikely to welcome any interaction with police either at home or in other countries (Imbusch, Misse, & Carrión, 2011, p. 116). An FRA (2012) survey highlights the implications of minority groups’ perceptions of police for reporting practices, observing that

significant numbers of Roma and Turkish victims of assault or threat gave their ‘negative attitude towards the police’ as a reason for non-reporting: 33 % and 24 %, respectively. Of those who did report assault or threat to the police, 54 % of Roma said they were ‘dissatisfied’ with how the police dealt with the matter. (p. 14)

There are, however, signs of progressive law enforcement in the context of hate crime. Specifically, there have been notable strides in more representative hiring, in training, and in the development of dedicated bias crime units. One corrective approach developed to counter the prejudices embedded in the culture of policing has been to shift hiring practices to be more representative of the communities police serve. The rationale is that Black, or South Asian, or gay officers, for example, will be more empathetic and sympathetic toward targeted communities, thereby reducing the likelihood of under- and overpolicing. It was believed by many that this would bridge the divide between officers and the communities they served, and that officers’ knowledge of “their” communities would enhance their effectiveness. Sadly, this has not generally been borne out by experience. Rather, minority officers are often plagued by “double marginality,” whereby they are not deemed fully a part of either their racialized community or the world of policing (Bolton, 2003; Bolton & Feagin, 2005). The difficulty, then, is that the existing culture of racism, homophobia, and sexism that permeates many police organizations must be whittled down. Effective hiring of majority and minority officers with a keen grasp of progressive social dynamics will, in the long term, go a long way toward this.

So too can hiring appropriately educated officers help to counter the exclusionary ethos. Increasingly across the West, the practice if not the policy is to recruits with postsecondary education, particularly those with liberal arts and social science degrees. Ironically, traditional criminal justice or justice administration students are not necessarily the best choice in this context. The mainstream and often conservative education they receive typically reinforces the problematic us versus them mentality that marginalizes and stigmatizes the other. Recent surveys of criminal justice students, for example, have found them to be more homophobic and racist than peers from other programs (Cannon, 2005; Olivero & Murataya, 2001). One team of researchers has found that criminal justice majors tend to be both more punitive and less empathetic than their peers in other majors (Courtright, Mackey, & Packard, 2005; Mackey & Courtright, 1998).

In contrast, more broadly defined programs grounded in the liberal arts and/or social sciences tend to graduate students who have had more sympathetic exposure to themes of diversity and multiculturalism, as well as the crucial skills of critical thinking, and interpersonal and intercultural communication. This tends to better prepare them for subsequent interactions with diverse communities. As an example, consider my own faculty, which offers a very comprehensive interdisciplinary and justice major. In addition to standard theory, methods, and criminal justice courses, the program requires that students take an array of classes that highlight cultural difference: issues in diversity, social justice and conflict, violence against women, and even hate crime. A substantial proportion of our students do in fact aspire to law enforcement. Yet by the time they have left our classrooms, they are well attuned to the values of tolerance, respect, and equity.

Once hired, officers also need to be immersed in the values that mitigate against apathy or outright hostility toward difference. We have largely failed in this area as well. In Canada and the United States, new recruits receive from 12 weeks up to 6 months of formal training prior to going into the field. Yet they typically receive less than 20 hr of diversity training, with little to none of this time devoted to hate crime per se. Similarly, in-service training in issues related to intolerance and hate crime is sporadic at best. There are some opportunities for law enforcement to take up training modules in person or online, such as those offered by OSCE, the Anti-Defamation League (ADL), Ontario Police College, and Stop Hate UK, among others. The FRA’s Fundamental Rights Based Police Training: A Manual for Police-trainers, for instance, offers a comprehensive training approach to policing that seeks to

assist police academies in integrating human rights into police training, rather than relegating such training to an optional add-on. It focuses in particular on those rights that help engender trust in the police working in diverse societies: non-discrimination, dignity and life (p. 10).

One of the most promising developments in recent years is the emergence of dedicated hate crime units within police services in some countries. Boston, Massachusetts, was the first American police department to introduce such a body in 1978 (Community Disorders Unit). Most major North American cities now feature dedicated units and/or specially trained officers charged with investigating hate crime. In Canada, there are also some provincial teams, drawn from multiple police services, that target hate crime and extremism (e.g., Ontario, British Columbia). In 2014, Oslo was successful in establishing a hate crime unit (European Commission Against Racism and Intolerance, 2015). Berlin has trained officers designated as contact people for “same-sex modes of life” and relevant forms of hate crime. In 2012, Greece moved to create such a unit to respond to the frenzy of xenophobic violence there; it is not clear whether the unit came to fruition. Moreover, few other nations have followed suit. In some nations, responsibility for responding to hate crime is embedded in other units. The Metropolitan Police in London, for example, devolve hate crimes to the Community Safety Units. Elsewhere in the country, hate crime lies within diversity divisions.

Prosecution

Like law enforcement, prosecutors have a significant amount of discretion when it comes to proceeding with a given case. Consequently, “Hate crime policy illustrates the discrepancies and tensions between law-on-the-books and the enforcement of the law-on-the-ground” (McPhail & Jenness, 2005/2006, p. 113). In the U.S. literature on the prosecution of hate crime, features of the law, legal institutions, and the legal process—as well as such factors as political self-interest, efficiency concerns, and/or justice considerations—have all been cited as helping to frame prosecutorial discretion (Byers, Warren-Gordon, & Jones, 2012).

There is a dearth of research into the factors that shape decisions to move a hate crime case forward for prosecution. In one of the few extant studies of hate crime prosecution, McPhail and Jenness (2005/2006) asked American prosecutors in one state, “how they think about hate crimes and which factors do and do not influence their decision-making processes when deciding whether to charge a hate crime” (p. 90). They were able to identify 12 discernible “influential factors,” reflecting two key issues: narrowly defined scope of potential cases and the pursuit of strategic advantage. In the first case, prosecutors tended to operationalize hate crime according to very limited criteria, including the seriousness of the offense and the “typicality” of the offense. These were compounded by the tendency to apply a cost and benefit analysis to the pursuit of hate crime charges, relative to other less ambiguous charges.

Prosecutors are generally hesitant to pursue hate crime cases due to the heavier evidentiary burden. It is difficult, then, to draw many conclusions about trends in prosecution. At the federal level in the United States, for example, Jenness suggests that the average number of hate crime prosecutions per year is about 28.5. At its peak in 2007, the Department of Justice (DOJ) convicted 189 individuals with civil rights violation, not all of which were necessarily hate crimes. State-level prosecutions are much more elusive to measure, although Jenness highlights California’s consistently strong effort to at least document the trail of hate crimes. In 2006, for example, the Attorney General’s office received 1,306 hate crime reports, 363 of which were subsequently prosecuted—Half of these (140) resulted in hate crime convictions.

In Canada, the number of successful prosecutions under the “hate crime” provisions of the Criminal Code is surprisingly low. Between 1994 and 2004, there were 12 prosecutions and 6 convictions under S.318 (advocating genocide); there were 93 prosecutions and 32 convictions under S.319 (incitement to hatred). No convictions for S.430.4.1 (mischief) were recorded during this time and at least 23 cases between 1996 and 2006 applied hate as an aggravating factor in sentencing. Interestingly, in 2011/2012 there were 12 cases completed in adult criminal courts that involved a charge of willful promotion and public incitement of hatred; none resulted in the accused person being found guilty. In contrast, the United Kingdom looks decidedly aggressive in its pursuit of hate crime convictions. By 2010/2011, the proportion of charges that are ultimately dropped from prosecution stood at only 16.8%. Well more than 80% of these resulted in convictions. The Crown Prosecution Service (CPS; 2012) attributes this to the creation of Hate Crime Scrutiny Panels and wider community engagement.

To overcome the reticence or lack of capacity among prosecutors, OSCE has launched a training package intended to enhance prosecutorial awareness and capacity around hate crime cases. According to the (Office for Democratic Institutions and Human Rights (ODIHR), n.d.), the aim of the program is to “help prosecutors understand what hate crimes are, why they deserve special attention and how to prosecute them most effectively” (p. 6). The core curriculum was developed with flexibility in mind, so that it could be customized to the needs and contexts of specific nations.

Victims

The limitations inherent in hate crime legislation and its enforcement highlight the need to shift away from hate crime responses embedded solely within the criminal justice system. Rather, there is value in pursuing victim-focused responses, reflecting individual and community needs and experiences. This resonates with arguments I have made about the necessity for victim-centered approaches (Perry, 2014).

The requirement to recognize the needs of victims is laid out, inter alia, in the Victims’ Directive (2012/29/EU) of the European Parliament and obliges EU Member States to see to it that “victims, in accordance with their needs, have access to confidential victim support services, free of charge, acting in the interests of the victims before, during and for an appropriate time after criminal proceedings.” A 2014 FRA report suggests that paramount among the services that should be provided to victims, generally, are access to legal aid, involvement in decisions whether to prosecute, rights at trial, provision of information, and referral to relevant support services. The same report notes that most EU states provide some level of support to select victims of crime—women who are victims of domestic violence, or trafficked children, for example.

In the context of hate crime specifically, few nations are as fully developed as in other areas, such as violence against women, or child trafficking, for example. Nonetheless, a number of civil society organizations have emerged locally and globally, intended to address the needs of affected communities. Their foci are diverse, ranging from acting as a voice for victims of hate crimes, especially by serving as intermediaries with the authorities, to providing practical assistance to victims of hate crimes, such as legal advice, counseling, and other services. In Germany, for instance, an initiative called Maneo “supports gay and bisexual youth and men who have been affected by homophobic violence and discrimination, regardless of whether they have been the victim, witnesses or are life partners of the persons concerned.” It does so by providing

. . . counseling regarding options for filing a police report, the penal process and helps to consider potential alternatives. MANEO provides contact to experienced lawyers, doctors and other helpful resources. MANEO accompanies persons who are involved, for example, when going to the police and going through legal proceedings, which often take place as long as six or even twelve months after the crime. (www.maneo.de/en.html)

Victim Support (https://www.victimsupport.org.uk/about-us) is a U.K. charity serving diverse victims of crime in the United Kingdom. The agency has a specialized hate crime bureau, which provides “a wide range of practical and emotional support,” as well as broader community awareness of the dynamics and impacts of hate crime. Most police services across the West also provide victim support and referrals, although the extent to which they are trained to work with hate crime victims specifically varies widely.

Offenders

There are surprisingly few initiatives explicitly focusing on hate crime offenders. A study by Iganski and Smith (2011) sought to identify rehabilitative programming directed toward youthful hate offenders—the majority of perpetrators. Surprisingly, they were not able to identify any such programs in Australia, New Zealand, or Canada. Even in the United States, where the hate crime framework is well established, what few programs were identified were no longer active at the time of the study, typically because their short-term funding had run out and not been renewed. The project did identify a handful of active initiatives in Europe, specifically in Germany, Sweden, and the United Kingdom. Interesting differences emerged there, in that the German (Abschied von Hass und Gewalt) and Swedish (EXIT Sweden) programs specifically targeted those radicalized by right-wing extremism. The EXIT programs have since spread to other European countries, as well as to North America, and are in fact joined by an array of other deradicalization initiatives (see below). In the United Kingdom, the bulk of the programming was aimed at youth engaged in racist hate crimes, irrespective of their connection with organized hate groups (e.g., The Challenge Hate Crime Project; Race Equality in Our Communities).

In light of the dramatic spread of right-wing extremism in Europe, an array of counter-extremism initiatives have been developed (Institute for Strategic Dialogue, 2012a, 2012b). In brief, these programs attempt to challenge the belief structure and behavioral aspects of an individual, and offer them a route out of extremist groups. According to Ramalingham (2014), these strategies target three processes: group dissolution, disengagement, and deradicalization. Indeed, an entire industry has grown up around deradicalization. The EXIT programs are illustrative. The first of these, EXIT-Deutschland (http://www.exit-deutschland.de), was founded in 2000. The program engaged with right-wing activists, helping them to remove themselves from the organizations, and to “develop new perspectives outside the right-wing environment.” It also offers ongoing guidance and advice around safety, and social reintegration. Similarly, the Against Violent Extremism (AVE) network is a global organization that counters extremist narratives and prevents the recruitment of “at-risk” youth. Made up of former violent extremists and survivors of violent extremism, AVE utilizes the lessons, experiences, and networks of those who have experienced extremism firsthand. In Canada, AVE developed the “Communitas Project” with the goal of strengthening individuals and communities through social interdependence, active citizenship, dialogue, and youth leadership.

Focusing on perpetrators and victims—as well as their communities—recent work by Mark Walters (2014; Walters & Hoyle, 2012) has demonstrated the potential of restorative justice approaches to hate crime. In particular, their observations of a victim–offender mediation program suggests that these can have some benefits, including reducing the negative emotional impacts of hate crime, and stalling the recurrence and/or escalation of violence. However, such programs remain relatively rare. The most celebrated example is the Southwark Mediation Centre, which houses the Hate Crimes Project (http://www.southwarkmediation.co.uk/projects/hate-crimes-project/). Initiated in 2000 as a short-term project, the initiative has proven successful enough to continue its operation. It offers mediated resolutions to conflicts grounded in prejudice and shaped by the immediate community context.

Strengthening Individual Knowledge and Skills

It is often forgotten that empowerment of targets and potential targets can be an effective barrier to future victimization. Consequently, it is important to consider programs and practices that are directed toward specific individuals and groups who are at risk, providing skills and knowledge that can help insulate them from harm. Often such initiatives can be offered in the context of the victim service programs noted above. So, too, do those schemes that are oriented toward strengthening individuals’ and communities’ capacity to counter the effects if not the incidence of hate crime fall into this class.

One such initiative—Gender Journeys—provides support for trans individuals negotiating their transitions. Developed in 2005 at the Sherbourne Health Centre in Toronto, Canada, the program has expanded to several other communities across the nation. It is widely recognized as a powerful support to those exploring their gender identity and/or expression. It was

designed so that people in the early stages of transition could discuss changes in relationships with loved ones, grapple with discrimination, share tips about dressing to pass, discover new community resources, and use the process of dialogue and reflection to become more secure and resilient in their new identities. (Russell & Doctor, 2008, p. 5)

It also offers a safe environment where trans people can

stand together in solidarity against that too-often hostile world, can protest the injustice that still permits trans people to lose jobs or housing because they dare to be themselves, to share complex and varied strategies of survival, and to expand and strengthen demands for basic human rights. (Russell & Doctor, 2008, p. 9)

Clearly, a key area of emphasis is on empowerment and on strengthening individuals’ capacities to make sense of and confront hostility directed their way.

In recognition of the multiple risks faced by young lesbians in Namibia, The Women’s Leadership Centre was created by a group of young feminist lesbians. The network exposes the extent and intensity of homophobic stigma and discrimination faced by these women on account of their gender, sexuality, age, and, often, poverty. Through booklets, workshops, public forums, and political action, the network seeks to actively enhance the resilience and resistance of young lesbians, by “educating them on their rights as women and as indigenous people, as well as strengthening their voice, visibility, creative expression and leadership” (http://allafrica.com/stories/201403032003.html). The initiative is intended to be transformative not only in terms of individual lives but also in terms of the collective well-being of lesbians in that decidedly patriarchal and homophobic nation.

There are a number of organizations that work at the international level to enhance the lives of communities at the local level. For example, the Cultural Survival network, established in 1972, continues to (http://www.culturalsurvival.org) advocate for Indigenous rights worldwide: the Amazon, Australia, Mongolia, Africa, to name but a few regions. The network also partners with those communities, supporting their pursuit of “self-determination, cultures and political resilience,” all of which provide buffers against related oppression and violence.

Promoting Community Education

On the basis of an extensive series of oral and written submissions on hate crime, the Hate Crimes Community Working Group (2006) came to the profound conclusion that

. . . hate is so commonplace and institutionalized that is it almost impossible for those outside the vulnerable communities to fully appreciate its magnitude or to recognize it as a scourge on our society as a whole . . . when the public lacks cultural awareness and understanding of difference, this contributes to exclusion, victimization, fear and tolerance of hate crime. (p. 32)

With this in mind, it is apparent that public awareness of the realities and impacts of hate crime is imperative as a preventive mechanism. As a starting point for such initiatives, a wide array of organizations engage in ongoing monitoring of hate incidents and hate groups globally, regionally, and nationally: Human Rights Watch, OSCE, Southern Poverty Law Centre, B’nai B’rith, Council on American–Islamic Relations, to name a few. The readily available reports published by these agencies provide an overview of the demographics, distribution, and, to a lesser extent, dynamics of hate crime. However, few people go in search of such information, so the key is to find ways to expand the audience by “pushing out” the information. Social media have become crucial to a much broader capacity to share information. Most antihate organizations like those noted above are very active on Twitter, YouTube, Facebook, and other interactive sites. Use of these venues will continue to be key to engaging an otherwise uninformed public.

Kyrgystan has been the site of an interesting grassroots campaign against online hate speech. In the wake of ongoing ethnic violence, and the related hate speech that flourishes on the Internet, a group of media activists have initiated a program intended to educate youth to challenge inflammatory and inaccurate reports with counter-narratives that were grounded in “fast, reliable and balanced information” (Quinn-Judge, 2014, p. 114). In addition to providing more neutral or objective messaging, the program has also seen a number of youth go on to careers in journalism.

Social media initiatives arise alongside more traditional public awareness campaigns directed toward reducing prejudices and related acts of harassment and violence. Perhaps the most widely recognized of these is the United Kingdom’s Kick Racism Out of Football (now Kick It Out) campaign (http://www.kickitout.org/). Initiated in 1993, this program challenges the racism that has long permeated football, both among players and fans. It is a true multimedia campaign, which has included at different points in its history a dedicated magazine, a series of advertisements in other publications, and posters and banners displayed in stadiums across the country. It has also over time funded plays, tournaments, and coaching sessions. A similar initiative around homophobic harassment has emerged in the wider sports world, with You Can Play (http://youcanplayproject.org/). The program’s mantra: “I’m taking a stand! Locker rooms should be safe and sports venues should be free from homophobia. Athletes should be judged on talent, heart and work ethic, not sexual orientation.” The core of the initiative involved a series of videos featuring renowned professional, college, and amateur athletes repeating the refrain that “You can play” regardless of sexual orientation.

With youth as the target audience, school-based antihate programs are especially widespread in North America and Europe. In the United Kingdom, the CPS, National Union of Teachers (NUT), and the Anthony Walker Foundation (AWF) have produced the Schools Project: Racist and Religious Hate Crime to counter hate crime and prejudice among youth. The scenarios and classroom activities are intended to initiate discussion, and to “increase pupils’ understanding of hate crime and prejudice and enable them to explore ways of challenging it” (http://www.cps.gov.uk/northwest/working_with_you/hate_crime_schools_project/schools_project___racist_and_religious_hate_crime/). An American antihate program—Stop the Hate—targets college and university campuses. Initially designed as a broad-based initiative to counter hate crime in all forms, it has recently become more focused on homo- and transphobic violence through its Campus Pride campaign (http://www.campuspride.org/stop-the-hate/about-us/). The program provides education and training, along with myriad online resources directed toward enhancing campus safety and inclusion for all students, staff, and faculty. It is a national initiative that reaches out to academic institutions through extensive use of social media contacts.

Educating Providers

I noted above the need to better educate law enforcement with respect to identifying and responding to hate crime. But there is a broad array of service providers that play a role in challenging targeted violence, ranging from educators, to social workers, to practicing lawyers. Indeed, many of the public awareness initiatives noted above offer dedicated training for frontline workers. Over the past couple of decades, there has been a growing awareness of the need for focused pre- and in-service education for criminal justice personnel. This includes not only broad approaches to diversity generally, through what has come to be called “social context education,” but also more specialized training relevant to particular crimes (e.g., hate crime). OSCE/ODIHR, for example, offers guides/manuals on human rights and hate crime for service providers, including educators, human rights, activists, law enforcement, prosecutors, and health workers. The FRA also provides hate crime training packages for law enforcement. Fundamental Rights-Based Police Training—A Manual for Police Trainers (http://fra.europa.eu/en/publication/2013/fundamental-rights-based-police-training-manual-police-trainers) and its companion Fundamental Rights-Based Police Training—A Manual for Police Trainers—Annex 4—Compilation of Practices provide guidance for police in addressing hate crime, inter alia, through a human rights lens.

More narrowly, a Canadian training initiative around Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender and Queer (LGBTQ) issues has also been taken up by Eastern European and Caribbean nations. Report Homophobic Violence Period (RHVP) was initially developed by Toronto Police Service, in partnership with a number of community-based organizations. Egale Canada now manages the program, providing community forums along with dedicated training for police on responding to homophobic and transphobic violence.

Fostering Coalitions and Networks

Paul Iganski (2008) has drawn our attention to “multi-agency working” in the context of hate crime, observing that there is a long history in Europe and the United Kingdom specifically of recognizing the importance of cooperation among and between police, other government agencies, and nongovernmental bodies for countering hate crime. Community organizations, policy makers, businesses, health providers, and criminal justice professionals need to work together to conduct more broad-based efforts in the community. Joint planning and coordination allow for system-wide problem solving and lead to successes that an individual program cannot achieve alone. Such broadly based programs share ownership, build skills, and avoid duplication.

A promising partnership is emerging in the Canadian province of Alberta. The Alberta Hate Crime Committee (established in 2002) is representative of the demographics of the province, in that it has purposefully extended its membership to include not only law enforcement but also community leaders, equity seeking groups, and other concerned citizens. Collectively, the committee describes itself as a province wide initiative that

. . . encourages and supports a collaborative, integrative approach to preventing, enforcing, and responding to hate and bias motivated activities in Alberta. . . . The Alberta Hate Crime Committee members represent government and community sectors working to reduce the number of hate and bias crimes in Alberta.

This is a grassroots organization, with representatives from law enforcement (e.g., Royal Canadian Mounted Police), federal government (e.g., Canadian Heritage), provincial government (e.g., Alberta Justice/Attorney General), municipal governments (e.g., City of Calgary), and community agencies (e.g., Central Alberta Diversity Association). These are equal partners, who share in the labor of identifying the dynamics of hate crime, and viable responses. They also provide educational initiatives within law enforcement and other service provider contexts, as well as in the broader community. However, because of their informal status, they have little direct ability to investigate hate crime. They can only put pressure on existing law enforcement agencies to do so.

In a slightly different vein are research centers and consortiums that contribute to our knowledge of best practices as well as to our broader understanding of dynamics that underscore hate crime. Clearly, without a solid foundation in factors that give rise to targeted violence, it is difficult to intervene effectively at relevant pressure points. With this in mind, a number of “hate studies” research centers have been developed in recent years, providing the infrastructure for both individual and collaborative research. The United States, for example, is home to the Center for the Study of Hate and Extremism (San Bernardino) and the Institute for Hate Studies (Gonzaga University). In the United Kingdom, there is the newly minted Leicester Centre for Hate Studies. A broader network of scholars and practitioners has recently come together under the umbrella of the International Network for Hate Studies (http://www.internationalhatestudies.com/) featured in this volume. The hope of this group is to advance the internationalization of hate studies, as well as nurture relationships between academics and those “in the field” in the interests of enhancing policy responses.

Changing Organizational Practices

By changing its own policies and practices, an organization can affect the safety of its members and influence the community as a whole. The existence of “safe space” or inclusive policies can go a long way to protecting employees and clients, as well as toward sending symbolic messages of respect for diversity. The LGBTQ Positive Space campaign, for instance, provides resources to help organizations and workplaces to ensure that they are, in fact, positive and welcoming spaces. Among these resources are assessment strategies for identifying and reflecting on individual and structural biases. The rationale is that recognizing limitations is the first step to overcoming them.

The world of sports has long been recognized for its tendency toward misogyny, homophobia, and racism. Perhaps most infamous are the racist chants and practices that often occur in European football, where Black players may be subject to “monkey screeches” or bananas tossed on the field. It is these sorts of behaviors that the program noted above—Kick Racism Out of Football—was intended to confront. South American football leagues have also begun to take seriously the racism that is so prevalent among fans in that region. Brazil, Peru, and Paraguay, for example, have all instituted punitive measures that can result in suspension of play and team fines where the fans persist in harassing Black players (Cicioni & Torres, 2014).

Some initiatives occur at the local level, as was recently the case in Bangladesh. The Dalit community there has traditionally been known as “untouchable,” and as a result, it is subject to extensive marginalization and violence. A human rights activist noted that some school names singled out Dalit schools, calling them Methorpotti, or “sweepers’ colony.” This left students coming from those schools vulnerable to discrimination. As a result of his challenge, the names were changed, thereby eliminating automatic stigmatization (Saccardi, 2014). This corresponds to current challenges across North American, whereby sports teams’ names and mascots deemed offensive—especially by Indigenous communities–are being questioned. Names like “Redskins” or “Savages” have come under increasing fire, forcing colleges and high schools to rebrand their school teams. Sadly, virtually no change has occurred in the far more visible world of professional sports, where the Atlanta Braves, with their inane image, remain.

Influencing Policy and Legislation

In light of earlier observations on the “enabling” effects of discriminatory legislation, or absences in hate crime legislation, it should be readily apparent that law reform is a key area of intervention. A useful starting point would be the elimination of the types of exclusionary legislation noted above. For example, as long as the sexuality of gay men and women continues to be criminalized, they will be beyond the protection of the criminal justice system. Thus, the primary mechanism for eliminating legal and, indirectly, illegal victimization of gay people will be to decriminalize sodomy, same-sex solicitation, and same-sex sexual activities. This is urgently needed in countries like Jamaica, and African nations such as Malawi, Uganda, and Sierra Leone, where repressive antigay legislation corresponds to heightened risks of antigay violence. In Uganda, for example, domestic human rights organizations have been joined by international groups in their challenges to homophobic legislation there. The infamous “Kill the Gays” bill—formally called the Uganda Anti-Homosexuality Act, 2014—was resisted from within and without. Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, even the United Nations pressured the Ugandan government to halt the bill. States across the Western world threatened to withhold aid. Although the bill that passed eliminated the death penalty for homosexual behavior, it retained a provision for life sentences. In response, other nations cumulatively stopped more than US$50 million in aid to Uganda.

Legal challenges around other classes of exclusionary laws are evident. In the United States, the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), ADL, and other similar rights-based organizations have made some in-roads against anti-immigrant legislation that would otherwise constrain immigrants’ access to housing, employment, health care, and social services. LGBTQ rights organizations in nations such as Canada, Spain, Argentina, and New Zealand have led the way in gaining formal recognition of same-sex marriage in nearly 20 countries. These successes help in reducing the marginality and stigmatization that often render communities vulnerable to violent victimization.

Coincident with the elimination of discriminatory legislation is the need for inclusive legislation addressing hate crime specifically. There is clearly some symbolic value in opting for legislation as a means of responding to hate crime. Just as hate crime is an expressive act, so too is hate crime legislation an expressive statute. It sends a message to its intended audience(s) about what is to be tolerated. There is also material advantage to be gained from enforceable legislation. It enables the protection of targeted communities. As noted above, most Western nations currently have some form of hate crime legislation. A notable exception is Ireland, where “a vicious cycle maintains a veil of silence around the issue of hate crime; the absence of hate crime legislation discourages victims from reporting and constrains police reporting” (Schweppe, Haynes, & Carr, n.d.). There is currently a strong movement supporting the implementation of hate crime in that country, led by researchers at the University of Limerick’s Hate and Hostility Research Group, and the Irish Council of Civil Liberties. These collective voices have caught the ear of government, and every hope is that the research and policy recommendations they have developed will invoke formal hate crime provisions in the very near future.

Similar pressures for hate crime law reform are emerging outside of the West. A Hate Crime Working Group is lobbying for the introduction of hate crime provisions in South Africa. The Group’s efforts are grounded in the recognition that the absence of protective statutes contributes to “a culture of impunity for hate crime offenders and a general perception that prejudice-based crimes are not taken seriously” (Nel, van Wyk, & Mbatha, 2013, p. 4). The efforts of this multisector group and others like it have been able to shift the discourse around hate crime in South Africa, such that in 2012, the Department of Justice and Constitutional Development, with the support of the Foundation for Human Rights, released a policy framework document on hate crime. It seems highly likely that related legislation will be introduced no later than 2015.