KEY POINTS:
It is easy to see the surface allure of anti-social behaviour orders, and why the British Government introduced them with such alacrity in 1998. They were, said Prime Minister Tony Blair, the weapon to tackle yobs, vandals and neighbours from hell. Now, Police Minister Annette King is thinking of introducing them in New Zealand. Community leaders thwarted by the Bill of Rights Act while trying to ban the likes of gang patches in public places and to bar repeat offenders from city centres will doubtless lead the cheer squad. But Britain's experience suggests that any enthusiasm should be strictly tempered.
There, a civil order, instigated by police and local authorities, can be made by a magistrate prohibiting anyone aged 10 or older from entering defined locations or continuing anti-social behaviour. Such behaviour is "conduct which caused or was likely to cause alarm, harassment or distress to one or more persons". Complaints do not have to be proven beyond reasonable doubt, but are judged on the balance of probability. Hearsay evidence and anonymous testimony are admissible. This low level of proof is deemed a reasonable trade-off for the speed with which the public can be protected from persistent but relatively low-level disorder, such as graffiti, abusive and intimidating language, excessive noise and drunken behaviour.
The process, however, has run into problems, some involving human rights, some practical application. So vague is the definition of anti-social behaviour that orders have, in some areas, become a virtually arbitrary catch-all, capturing acts that bear little or no relation to criminal activity. Disrepute becomes inevitable when a bird-lover is ordered to stop feeding pigeons in his backyard, and a football-mad teenager is told to stop kicking a ball in the street. Or when a creeping jurisdiction extends to the seizure of cars involved in minor traffic offences.
The reservations deepen when it is considered that, while an order does not involve a criminal penalty, it takes on that character if it is breached, as happens often. In that instance, a person who committed no crime can be imprisoned for five years. Such consequences are clearly disproportionate to the behaviour.
More practically, the imposition of orders has been plagued by delays and excessive costs. This has caused the police and local authorities in some parts of Britain to lose faith. All up, the number of orders has not matched expectations. Other areas have deliberately steered clear of them, saying, quite reasonably, that they offer only short-term peace of mind. The root cause of the behaviour remains untreated. Glasgow, a city with a tough reputation, which might be expected to be an inveterate user, did not obtain a single order between April 2003 and March last year. Instead, it backed early interventions and support for families as a more successful way of tackling anti-social behaviour.
That and any approach which tries to provide youngsters with a sense of ownership and participation in their communities are laudable. But it is hard to totally rule out a place for behaviour orders. They must, however, not be imposed in haste, and should be limited to appropriate, serious and persistent cases of unruly behaviour, where no other approach might work. Only then is it possible to protect basic rights in the process of ensuring a recourse for communities which are having their quality of life seriously damaged.
Britain's experience has shown that anti-social behaviour orders are not a miracle cure. If they have a place, it is as a rarely-used implement of last resort at the bottom of the community tool-box.
