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A public good is characterized by the fact that no one can be excluded from consuming it, and that consumption by one person does not diminish the possibilities of others to consume it. Knowledge is a public good, no one can be excluded from it. Yet when this knowledge takes the form of publications, exclusion becomes very much possible. It is obvious that the availability of print works is limited. If a book is in the possession of one person, access to that book is closed to others. If the book is owned by someone, they can permanently exclude others from accessing it.

The internet and digitization promised nothing less than to make published knowledge a public good as well. Once a work is digital and available online, anyone with an internet connection can access it, simultaneously and without restricting its usability for others. This factual opening, however, remains only a possibility, one that scholars must actively employ when disseminating their work. And so, more than twenty years after the Budapest Open Access Initiative Declaration (BOAI), reality looks quite different from what was then envisioned: barriers to access remain, and the costs of accessing publications continue to drain university library budgets. The “Open Access Revolution” (Suber 2012, p. 1) was supposed to make scholarly knowledge a public good through “free and unrestricted online availability”, but it seems that today little more has remained beyond a business model for private, international publishing companies.

Academic self-organization

The scholarly publishing system is expensive and generates dizzying profits for a few companies, while outsourcing a considerable share of the work to academia itself. Yet the structures appear more entrenched than ever. For many, it may even seem unimaginable that things could work differently than through commercial publishers – enterprises no longer truly anchored in science, surveilling researchers through data tracking, and positioning themselves as data brokers. We do not really know any other structure of academic publishing butmeasured against the nearly 400-year history of scholarly publishing, they are quite new, having emerged only after the Second World War.

In 1665, the first issue of the Journal des Sçavans was published in Paris to report on “ce qui se passe de nouveau dans la Republique des lettres”. It is considered the first precursor of the modern scholarly journal. Just two months later, the first issue of the Philosophical Transactions appeared in London, followed by the Giornale de Utterati di Roma in Italy in 1668 and the Miscellanea Curiosa in Schweinfurt in 1670 (Ornstein 1928, p. 202).

All of these journals were launched outside universities, which were institutionally sluggish and conservative in both scientific methods and content (Ornstein 1928, pp. 257 ff.). Rather, the first scholarly journals emerged from the efforts of private scholars or individuals associated with them, frequently within the sphere of scientific societies. These societies emerged in the 17th century as networks of private scholars and professors, as “unions of amateurs”, and played a decisive role in shaping – if not outright founding – modern science (Ornstein 1928, p. 68). Their members created forums where they pursued experimental science and exchanged ideas (Ornstein 1928, p. 177). A form of institutionalization was often conferred upon them through royal or imperial recognition and patronage (Ornstein 1928, pp. 169 ff.).

The first journals usually contained publications from various disciplines, but in the 19th century a process of specialization unfolded within academia, reflected in the founding of new societies and journals. Scholarly publishing remained largely the domain of scientific societies, though production and distribution were increasingly carried out by commercial or university presses. During this period, private publishers entered scholarly publishing more frequently, though the academic business remained scarcely profitable well into the 20th century (see Brock/Meadows 2010, pp. 101 ff.; cf. also Fyfe et al. 2022). This changed in the second half of the 20th century, spurred by the geopolitical competition of the postwar era.

From rocket science to price explosion

On October 4, 1957, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik 1, the first satellite. Since the systemic rivalry between capitalism and communism was most visibly fought in the realm of space exploration, this event sent shockwaves: Sputnik 1 publicly called into question US technological superiority (see McDougall 1985, pp. 141 ff.). This defeat prompted massive US investments in science and education. The educational expansion of the 1960s and 1970s in the U.S. and Europe was thus, among other things, a consequence of a systemic struggle also fought through universities and their libraries. For technological development, knowledge is indispensable, and that knowledge is found above all in scholarly publications.

In Federal Republic of Germany, between 1962 and 1984, the number of university libraries nearly doubled, the number of current journals tripled, and the total holdings in volumes more than quadrupled (Dugall 1994, p. 340). The number of researchers also grew, and with it the number of publications.

In this phase, disciplines specialized further, increasing demand for corresponding publications. Publishers created these offerings, especially by founding new journals, thereby filling existing gaps. Although scholars viewed commercial publishers with skepticism, they nevertheless made use of their offerings, contributing to their success (Brock/Meadows 2010, p. 193). With educational expansion as a political desideratum, sufficient public funds were available to finance the growth of education and publishing (cf. Rau 2004, p. 17). Publishers adapted their strategies to these new conditions and soon realized they could charge universities and their libraries higher prices for individual titles than they could charge individuals. The orientation toward an international market in an increasingly internationalized science, as well as the systematic acquisition of publications and presses by certain companies, further fueled the growth of commercial scholarly publishing (see Brock/Meadows 2010, p. 219; Fyfe et al. 2017, p. 9). With Open Access, publishers then established a business model in which they receive money for each individual publication in the form of Article Processing Charges (see Pampel 2021, p. 8). In this way, politics, science, and libraries created and nourished for decades a monster they now seem unable to rid themselves of.

Some consider the “Open Access Revolution” to have failed. Many revolutions are followed by a phase of restoration, and the “Open Access Revolution” seems to fall into this pattern. But perhaps it is just that, a phase, after allOpen Access has fundamentally called the existing system into question. The new keyword is Diamond Open Access. At minimum, this means fee-free Open Access, but it tends toward non-commercial publishing as well. The Open Access community is currently wrestling with its definition, determined not to fall into the same trap again by ceding interpretive authority to publishers. Alongside the oligopolistic structures of scholarly publishing, there also exist science-led, non-commercial initiatives: independent journals, presses, and platforms, often sustained by committed scholars. Their financing is precarious, their structures often deliberately informal. Fee-based publishing is sometimes a necessity for such initiatives, not to generate profit but to cover costs. Diamond Open Access is thus meant to deliver what Open Access promised twenty years ago: free, unrestricted online access to scientific knowledge, independent of profit-oriented publishing enterprises.

Who owns science?

For the past twenty years, academia has not succeeded on a large scale in reclaiming what it creates, despite the efforts of academic libraries. But one may ask whether universities are truly actors of disruption, and whether they even could be. They serve science, which within the existing framework is hardly compatible with breaking with the system. Medieval universities surely looked very different from today’s, but they, too, could not free themselves from their dogmas. The revolution took place outside university walls, and perhaps this is what must happen again today. Emerging from science, of course, perhaps with the dedication of individuals who may not be scholars but who are committed to scientific ideals, and free from the path dependencies and constraints that inherently bind institutions, especially public institutions.

Science extends to its institutions, particularly universities and their libraries. These institutions provide the fundamental structures necessary to “make free scholarly activity possible in the first place” (cf. only German Federal Consitutional Court, – 1 BvR 424/71 and 325/72 –, para. 134). They act within a given framework, but they also find room to manoeuvre within it, which affords them and researchers certain freedoms and creative powers.

Open Access has always revolved around the question of how science can reclaim what it creates. Researchers and their institutions primarily direct this question at themselves. We posed it to them, and you can read their answers in the blog symposium we are launching with this text. The symposium is part of our project “Acquisition Logic as a Diamond Open Access Obstacle” (ELADOAH), funded by the Federal Ministry of Research, Technology, and Space. For the past two years, we have been working on it jointly with the Humboldt Institute for Internet and Society, and as this year comes to an end, so does the project. At its close, the authors of this blog symposium paint a multifaceted picture, exploring freedoms and limits, untapped potentials and systemic constraints.

The question of who owns science is far from settled, and perhaps it is not possible or necessary to answer it definitively. However, just as science can only ever approximate truth, so do we, with this blog symposium, seek to approximate an answer to that question.

The post The Revolution Will Not Be Institutionalized appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Ein öffentliches Gut kennzeichnet, dass niemand sinnvoll davon ausgeschlossen werden kann, und der Konsum durch eine Person nicht die Möglichkeiten anderer mindert, dieses Gut ebenfalls zu konsumieren. Wissen ist ein öffentliches Gut, niemand kann davon ausgeschlossen werden. Nimmt dieses Wissen die Form von Publikationen an, so ist der Ausschluss allerdings sehr wohl möglich. Es ist offensichtlich, dass die Verfügbarkeit von Print-Werken begrenzt ist. Ist ein Buch im Besitz einer Person, so ist anderen Personen der Zugang zu diesem Buch erst einmal verschlossen. Steht dieses Buch im Eigentum einer Person, kann sie anderen den Zugang dazu dauerhaft verwehren.

Das Internet und die Digitalisierung versprachen nicht weniger, als auch das publizierte Wissen zum öffentlichen Gut zu machen. Denn ist ein Werk digital und im Internet verfügbar, kann jede*r mit einer Internetverbindung darauf zugreifen, gleichzeitig und ohne dass es die Nutzbarkeit durch andere einschränken würde. Diese faktische Öffnung bleibt aber erst einmal eine Möglichkeit. von der Wissenschaftler*innen bei der Verbreitung ihrer Werke Gebrauch machen müssen. Und so sieht die Realität über 20 Jahre nach der Erklärung Budapest Open Access Initiative (BOAI) anders aus als erhofft: Zugangshürden zu wissenschaftlichen Erkenntnissen bestehen nach wie vor und die Kosten für den Zugang zu den Publikationen saugen nach wie vor die universitären Literaturbudgets leer. Von der „Open-Access-Revolution“ (Suber 2012, S. 1), die durch „freie, uneingeschränkte Online-Verfügbarkeit“ wissenschaftliche Erkenntnisse zu einem öffentlichen Gut macht, scheint heute kaum mehr geblieben zu sein als ein Geschäftsmodell privatwirtschaftlicher, international agierender Verlagsunternehmen.

Wissenschaftliche Selbstorganisation

Das wissenschaftliche Publikationssystem ist teuer und beschert einigen Unternehmen schwindelerregende Profite, während sie einen beträchtlichen Teil der Arbeit an die Wissenschaft auslagern. Dennoch sieht es so aus, als seien die Strukturen gefestigter denn je. Für viele mag es sogar unvorstellbar sein, dass es auch anders geht als mit kommerziellen Verlagen, die in der Wissenschaft eigentlich schon gar nicht mehr verankert sind, Forschende durch Datentracking überwachen und sich selbst als Datenbroker verstehen. Wir kennen kaum andere als die profitgetriebenen Strukturen, aber gemessen an der fast 400-jährigen Geschichte des wissenschaftlichen Publizierens sind sie recht neu und haben sich erst nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg herausgebildet.

1665 wurde in Paris die erste Ausgabe des Journal des Sçavans veröffentlicht, um zu berichten, „ce qui se passe de nouveau dans la Republique des lettres“. Es gilt als ältester Vorläufer der modernen wissenschaftlichen Zeitschrift. Nur zwei Monate später erschien in London die erste Ausgabe der Philosophical Transactions, 1668 folgte das Giornale de Utterati di Roma in Italien und 1670 die Miscellanea Curiosa in Schweinfurt (Ornstein 1928, S. 202).

Ins Leben gerufen wurden alle diese Zeitschriften außerhalb von Universitäten, die institutionell schwerfällig und in wissenschaftlichen Methoden wie Inhalten konservativ und altmodisch agierten (Ornstein 1928, S. 257 ff.). Vielmehr gehen die ersten wissenschaftlichen Zeitschriften auf die Initiativen von Privatgelehrten oder mit ihnen verbundene Personen zurück und entstanden zumindest im Umfeld von wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaften. Diese Gesellschaften als unions of amateurs bildeten sich im 17. Jahrhundert als Netzwerke von Privatgelehrten und Professoren heraus und haben die moderne Wissenschaft maßgeblich geprägt, wenn nicht gar begründet (Ornstein 1928, S. 68). Ihre Mitglieder schufen mit ihnen Foren, in denen sie experimentelle Wissenschaft betrieben und sich austauschten (Ornstein 1928, S. 177). Eine Art der Institutionalisierung wurde ihnen häufig durch königliche oder kaiserliche Anerkennung und Schirmherrschaft zuteil (Ornstein 1928, S. 169 ff.) .

Die ersten Zeitschriften beinhalteten meist Veröffentlichungen aus unterschiedlichen wissenschaftlichen Disziplinen, doch im 19. Jahrhundert vollzog sich eine Profilbildung innerhalb der Wissenschaft, die sich auch in Neugründungen wissenschaftlicher Gesellschaften und Zeitschriften niederschlug. Wissenschaftliches Publizieren war weiterhin vor allem Teil der Tätigkeiten wissenschaftlicher Gesellschaften, Herstellung und Vertrieb übernahmen aber zunehmend kommerzielle oder Universitätsverlage. In dieser Zeit traten vermehrt privatwirtschaftliche Verlage in das wissenschaftliche Publizieren ein, allerdings war das akademische Geschäft bis ins 20. Jahrhundert hinein meist kaum profitabel (dazu Brock/Meadows 2010, S. 101 ff.; s. auch Fyfe et al. 2022). Das änderte sich in der zweiten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts, maßgeblich angetrieben vom geopolitischen Wettbewerb der Nachkriegszeit.

Von der Raketenwissenschaft zur Preisexplosion

Am 4. Oktober 1957 startete die Sowjetunion mit Sputnik 1 den ersten Satelliten. Da die Systemkonkurrenz zwischen Kapitalismus und Kommunismus am Sichtbarsten im Bereich der Raumfahrt ausgetragen wurde, löste dieses Ereignis regelrechte Schockwellen aus: Sputnik 1 stellte vor den Augen der Welt die technologische Überlegenheit der USA infrage (dazu McDougall 1985, S. 141 ff.). Diese Niederlage veranlasste die USA zu massiven Investitionen in Wissenschaft und Bildung. Die Bildungsexpansion der 1960er und 1970er Jahre in den USA und Europa war so unter anderem Folge eines Systemkampfs, der auch über Hochschulen und ihre Bibliotheken ausgetragen wurde. Denn um Technologien weiterzuentwickeln, ist Wissen unabdingbar und dieses Wissen findet sich vor allem wissenschaftlichen Publikationen. So hat sich in der BRD zwischen 1962 und 1984 die Zahl der Universitätsbibliotheken beinahe verdoppelt, die Zahl der laufenden Zeitschriften verdreifacht und der Gesamtliteraturbestand in Bänden mehr als vervierfacht (Dugall 1994, S. 340). Die Zahl der Wissenschaftler*innen wuchs ebenfalls und damit auch die Zahl der Publikationen.

In dieser Phase spezialisierten sich die wissenschaftlichen Disziplinen weiter, womit wiederum der Bedarf an entsprechenden Publikationen stieg. Wissenschaftsverlage schufen diese Publikationsangebote, vor allem durch die Gründung neuer Zeitschriften, und füllten damit existierende Lücken. Obwohl Wissenschaftler*innen kommerziellen Verlagen eher skeptisch gegenüberstanden, machten sie von deren Angeboten Gebrauch und trugen so zu ihrem Erfolg bei (Brock/Meadows 2010, S. 193). Mit der Bildungsexpansion als politischem Desiderat standen in dieser Phase auch ausreichend öffentliche Mittel zur Verfügung, um den Aus- und Aufbau im Bildungs- und Publikationswesen zu finanzieren (vgl. Rau 2004, S. 17). Wissenschaftsverlage passten ihre Geschäftsstrategien an diese neuen Gegebenheiten an und stellten bald fest, dass sie beim Verkauf ihrer Produkte an Universitäten und deren Bibliotheken höhere Preise für einzelne Titel veranschlagen konnten als beim Verkauf an einzelne Personen. Die Ausrichtung auf einen internationalen Markt einer sich internationalisierenden Wissenschaft sowie die planmäßige Übernahme von Publikationen und Verlagen durch einige Unternehmen trugen ihrerseits zum Wachstum kommerzieller Wissenschaftsverlage bei (dazu Brock/Meadows 2010, S. 219 und Fyfe et al. 2017, S. 9). Mit Open Access haben Verlagsunternehmen dann ein Geschäftsmodell etabliert, bei dem sie in Form von Article Processing Charges Geld für die einzelne Publikation erhalten (dazu nur Pampel 2021, S. 8). Politik, Wissenschaft und Bibliotheken haben auf diese Weise ein Monster erst erschaffen und über Jahrzehnte genährt, das sie nun nicht mehr loszuwerden scheinen.

Die „Open-Access-Revolution“ gilt manchen als gescheitert. Nicht wenigen Revolutionen folgte eine Phase der Restauration und die „Open-Access-Revolution“ scheint sich hier einzureihen. Aber vielleicht ist es eben nur eine Phase, denn Open Access hat das bestehende System grundlegend infrage gestellt. Das neue Schlagwort lautet Diamond Open Access. Dabei handelt es sich mindestens um gebührenfreies Open Access, tendenziell aber auch um nicht-kommerzielles Publizieren. Die Open-Access-Community ringt derzeit um die Definition, denn man möchte nicht wieder in die gleiche Falle tappen, indem man Verlagsunternehmen die Deutungshoheit überlässt. Parallel zu den oligopolistischen Strukturen wissenschaftlichen Publizierens bestehen auch wissenschaftsgeleitete, nicht-kommerzielle Initiativen: unabhängige Zeitschriften, Verlage und Publikationsplattformen, oft getragen von engagierten Wissenschaftler*innen. Ihre Finanzierung ist prekär, ihre Strukturen teilweise bewusst informell. Gebührenfinanziertes Publizieren ist für solche Initiativen manchmal eine Notwendigkeit, aber nicht um Gewinne zu erzielen, sondern um die Kosten zu decken. Diamond Open Access soll also nun einlösen, was Open Access vor 20 Jahren versprach: den freien, uneingeschränkten Online-Zugang zu wissenschaftlichen Erkenntnissen, unabhängig von profitorientierten Verlagsunternehmen.

Wem gehört die Wissenschaft?

In den vergangenen 20 Jahren es der Wissenschaft nicht im großen Stil gelungen sich anzueignen, was sie erschafft, aller Bemühungen der wissenschaftlichen Bibliotheken zum Trotz. Man darf sich aber auch die Frage stellen, ob ausgerechnet Universitäten Akteure des Umsturzes sind und überhaupt sein können. Sie dienen der Wissenschaft, was im bestehenden Gefüge nur schwer vereinbar ist mit einem Bruch mit dem System. Die Universitäten des Mittelalters sahen natürlich ganz anders aus als die Universitäten heute, aber auch sie konnten sich nicht selbst von ihren Dogmen befreien. Die Revolution fand außerhalb der universitären Mauern statt und vielleicht muss sie das auch heute. Aus der Wissenschaft zwar, vielleicht auch mit dem Engagement von Personen, die keine Wissenschaftler*innen sind, sich wissenschaftlichen Idealen aber verpflichtet fühlen, jedoch frei von den Pfadabhängigkeiten und Anforderungen, denen Institutionen – und öffentliche Institutionen noch dazu – nun einmal unterworfen sind.

Zur Wissenschaft gehören auch ihre Institutionen, allen voran die Hochschulen und ihre Bibliotheken, die Strukturen bereitstellen, welche grundlegend dafür sind, die „freie wissenschaftliche Betätigung überhaupt erst [zu] ermöglichen“ (vgl. nur BVerfG, – 1 BvR 424/71 und 325/72 –, Rn. 134). Sie agieren innerhalb eines gesetzten Rahmens, in dem sie aber auch Spielräume vorfinden, die ihnen ebenso wie den Forschenden selbst gewisse Freiheiten und Gestaltungsmacht verleihen.

Open Access kreist von jeher um die Frage, wie die Wissenschaft sich wieder aneignen kann, was sie erschafft. Diese Frage richten die Forschenden und ihre Institutionen vor allem an sich selbst. Wir haben sie ihnen auch gestellt, ihre Antworten darauf können Sie in dem Blog-Symposium nachlesen, das wir mit diesem Text starten. Das Blog-Symposium ist Teil unseres vom Bundesministerium für Forschung, Technologie und Raumfahrt gefördertenVerbundprojekts „Erwerbungslogik als Diamond-Open-Access-Hindernis“ (ELADOAH). Über zwei Jahre haben wir daran zusammen mit dem Humboldt Institut für Internet und Gesellschaft gearbeitet und mit diesem Jahr geht geht auch das Projekt zu Ende. Zum Abschluss zeichnen die Autor*innen dieses Blog-Symposiums ein facettenreiches Bild, in dem sie Freiräume und Grenzen ausloten, ungenutzte Potentiale und systemische Beschränkungen darstellen.

Die Antwort auf die Frage, wem die Wissenschaft gehört, ist noch lange nicht beantwortet und vielleicht müssen und können wir sie auch gar nicht abschließend beantworten. Aber so wie sich die Wissenschaft der Wahrheit immer nur annähern kann, wollen wir uns mit diesem Blog-Symposium der Antwort auf diese Frage nähern.

The post The Revolution Will Not Be Institutionalized appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

To date, the CJEU has decided 6 cases concerning women who wanted to wear a headscarf at work for religious reasons but who were prohibited from doing so by their employer, losing their jobs as a consequence. Achbita, Bougnaoui, Wabe and Müller, LF and OP. There was no evidence that the wearing of the headscarf in any way prevented them from doing their job. Apart from OP, all other cases concerned private employers and here the freedom to conduct a business as recognised by Article 16 of the EU Charter of Fundamental Rights played an important role. The judgments in these five cases suggest that the employer’s right under Article 16 can trump the right of the employee to freedom of religion as guaranteed by Article 10 of the EU Charter. In OP, where the employer was a municipal council, the CJEU held that the principle of neutrality of the public service can do the same. Although the CJEU made some general and abstract comments about the importance of freedom of religion, it did not really address what the bans, in practice, meant for the individual women involved. Neither did the CJEU pay any attention to the possibility that these neutrality rules could constitute sex, race and/or intersectional discrimination. The CJEU thus provide little protection for the rights of headscarf wearing Muslim women.

Direct and indirect religion or belief discrimination

The CJEU examined the six cases under the provisions against discrimination in Directive 2000/78/EC, which prohibits both direct and indirect discrimination (Article 2(2)(a) and (b)). Direct discrimination involves less favourable treatment because of, in this case, religion or belief; while indirect discrimination occurs where an apparently neutral provision or rule would put people having a particular religion or belief at a disadvantage, unless this is objectively justified by a legitimate aim and the means of achieving that aim are appropriate and necessary. In contrast to this, direct discrimination can only be justified under very limited circumstances clearly laid down in the Directive.

The headscarf judgments

Although the CJEU stressed that this was for the national court to decide, it held that general neutrality rules were most likely indirect discrimination if they applied to all employees equally and covered all beliefs without distinction. The CJEU was criticised for not considering that there might be direct discrimination in these cases (e.g. here and here). The CJEU held that the workplace neutrality rules were justified: for private employers, Article 16 of the EU Charter provided the legitimate aim for indirect discrimination. In addition, the bans were appropriate and necessary as long as: these bans covered all visible signs; they were genuinely pursued in a consistent and systematic manner and, thus, applied equally to all employees and did not make a distinction between different religions or beliefs; and, the ban was limited to custom facing employees. In OP (32-33), the CJEU held that the aim of putting into effect the principle of neutrality of the public service was a legitimate aim. That was meant to guarantee, for service users and staff, an administrative environment devoid of visible manifestations of beliefs (40). For public authorities, including infra-state authorities, the CJEU dropped the requirement that bans should be limited to customer-facing employees.

Freedom of religion in the headscarf cases

The CJEU held that “religion” in Directive2000/78/EC must be interpreted broadly to include both the forum internum – the fact of having a belief – and the forum externum – the manifestation of religious faith in public. Wearing a headscarf for religious reasons was such a manifestation (e.g. Achbita (27-28) and Bougnaoui (29-30)). In Wabe and Müller (48), the CJEU stressed, referring to the case law of the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) (Dahlab v Switzerland), the importance of the right to freedom of religion for society, as it represents one of the foundations of a democratic society and contributes to the pluralism indissociable from such a society; and, for the individual, as it is one of the most vital elements that go to make up the identity of believers and their conception of life (repeated in LF (35)). The CJEU also pointed out (84) its established case law that, when several fundamental rights and principles enshrined in the Treaties are at issue, the proportionality assessment must be carried out in accordance with the need to reconcile the requirements of the protection of those various rights and principles at issue, striking a fair balance between them.

The CJEU added to the requirements for justification of indirect discrimination that the employer had to prove that there is a genuine need for their neutrality policy and that they would suffer adverse consequences without such a policy (Wabe and Müller, 64, 67). The employer also had to take account of the effect of such a policy on the right to freedom of religion of their employees who want, and often feel mandated by their religion, to manifest their religion through the wearing of religious symbols (69). However, the CJEU gave no indication of the weight to be given to the latter, it only stated that, in establishing whether there is a genuine need, the rights and legitimate wishes of customers or users may be taken into account (65).

Article 10 v Article 16

In none of the six headscarf cases did the CJEU engage with the practical effects of the neutrality rules on the individual women. Namely, on their employment – they all lost their job – and employment opportunities, but also on their wider inclusion in society, even though it stressed the importance of freedom of religion for the individual believer’s identity and their concept of life. Should this important fundamental liberty right not play a more important role when balanced against the economic fundamental right to conduct a business? In Achbita (39), the CJEU referred to the judgment of the ECtHR in Eweida (94) – where a British Airways employee was prohibited from wearing a small cross with her uniform – to support its argument that corporate image can be a legitimate aim. However, the CJEU reference to Eweida (94) ignored the rest of that paragraph, where the ECtHR pointed out the importance of the freedom of religion because a healthy democratic society needs to tolerate and sustain pluralism and diversity. And also because of the value to an individual, who has made religion a central tenet of their life, to be able to communicate that belief to others. The ECtHR concluded that the national courts had not struck a fair balance between the legitimate aim and the restriction on the applicant’s freedom of religion and thus stated that the uniform rule was not proportionate. The CJEU should have followed the ECtHR in requiring a strict balancing test.

The freedom to conduct a business includes, according to the CJEU, the introduction of a neutrality policy for the workplace. But why would an employer, especially a private employer, introduce such a rule which seems to target especially Muslim women wearing headscarves? This appears to be because the employer wants to present a neutral image to their customers, which is, most likely, based on the wishes or anticipated wishes of these customers who do not want to be served by someone in a headscarf (here). But customers’ wishes could very well be based on prejudice and “neutrality can be an easy cover-up for prejudice”. Pandering to prejudice should not be part of the freedom to conduct a business as this right does not include the right to conduct that business in a discriminatory way. Even a public employer, like the municipal council in OP, must show that there is a genuine need for the neutrality policy. The CJEU should have given more guidance to the national courts regarding the burden of proving this and the weight to be given to the freedom of religion of an individual employee.

The CJEU could also have mentioned that Article 31 of the EU Charter, which contains the right of every worker to working conditions which respect their dignity, should be weighed in the balance. Prohibiting the manifestation of religious beliefs in the workplace, which are a central part of a person’s identity, clearly affects their dignity. Doing so would have been more in line with Article 22 of the EU Charter, which states that the Union shall respect cultural, religious and linguistic diversity.

Article 21 of the EU Charter and sex and race discrimination

Article 21 of the EU Charter prohibits discrimination on a large number of grounds, including sex, race and ethnic origin and religion or belief. In the headscarf cases, the CJEU never addressed the possibility that the neutrality rules could amount to sex and/or race discrimination, although this was raised in some of the preliminary references. This is important because the protection against discrimination on the basis of sex and racial or ethnic origin is stronger than the protection given to religion or belief discrimination in the headscarf cases. In Wabe and Müller (59), the CJEU found indirect religious discrimination because the neutrality rule concerned “statistically, almost exclusively female workers who wear a headscarf because of their Muslim faith”. This would also suggest indirect sex discrimination, as a statistical difference between men and women is a classic example of prima facie evidence of such discrimination (Seymour-Smith and Perez (60). The CJEU did not find it necessary to examine possible indirect sex discrimination because this ground does not fall within the scope of Directive 2000/78/EC (Wabe and Müller, 58), and it never mentioned possible race discrimination. It could and should have done so, as it is settled case law that the Court may provide guidance on the interpretation of EU law, whether or not the referring court raises these issues in its questions (Achbita (33)).

Intersectional discrimination

The CJEU also did not address the possibility of discrimination on the intersecting grounds of religion or belief, sex and/or racial or ethnic origin, although these bans are often seen as prime examples of such intersectional discrimination. That is because they mainly affect Muslim women who are often from a migrant or ethnic minority background (e.g. here (21), here (21-37) and here). The CJEU might have felt that it could not address intersectional discrimination because of what it had held in Parris (80), where a claim combining age and sexual orientation discrimination was rejected on the basis that such a claim could not succeed if discrimination on each of the separate grounds did not exist. However, there are a number of reasons why Parris should be revisited as developments in the law and case law and opinions within the EU have moved on. First, intersectional discrimination is now explicitly defined as a form of discrimination in the recent EU Pay Transparency directive (Article 3(2) (e) of Directive 2023/970/EC). Second, although the CJEU has not used the term “intersectional discrimination” in its case law, it has shown an awareness that intersecting grounds can lead to discrimination. In E.B. (60), the CJEU took into account that the law of the time treated male and female homosexual acts differently, showing awareness of the intersection of sex and sexual orientation. Moreover, in Bedi (75) the CJEU recognised the intersection between age and disability. Third, the EU Council (Article 2(2)(a) and (b)), the EU Commission (4.4) and the EU Parliament have all recognised intersectional discrimination. The CJEU should follow suit and accept that intersectional discrimination is prohibited by EU anti-discrimination law and that workplace neutrality rules could well amount to intersectional discrimination against Muslim women.

Conclusion

In the headscarf cases the CJEU put too much emphasis on the right of the employers to conduct a business and on the neutrality of the public service, and not enough on the freedom of religion and the right not to be discriminated against of the employees, thus getting the balance between Articles 10, 21 and 16 of the EU Charter wrong.

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