THIS is a golden age of argument. Social media let anyone broadcast their opinion as soon as they formulate one. Politicians can speak directly to their constituents—and their constituents can message them straight back. This should also be a golden age of free speech. But somehow, the ubiquity of argument is convincing some people that we have too much of it—even in America, where the First Amendment, and the robust jurisprudence stemming from it, offers the world’s strongest protections for free expression.

In February 2017 the Knight Foundation released a survey of American high-school students that found just 45% believed people should be permitted to say what they want in public if it is offensive to others. Only 43% believed people should have that right on social media. University students shout down speakers they deem too offensive. Officials at the University of California, Berkeley cancelled a speech by Ann Coulter, a right-wing author, because they feared violent protests. The British National Union of Students has voted to give “no platform” to speakers with views deemed racist and fascist.

These students’ hearts are in the right place. Wanting to shield others from offence is a laudable thing. As informal norms, politeness and civility are virtuous. But when being offensive becomes illegal, officials have to police a feeling. Since offence is subjective, the power to police can quickly become vast and arbitrary. And when people in free countries argue for restrictions on speech, authoritarian regimes find it easier to impose constraints. Sometimes this too is for ostensibly laudable reasons—to restrict and punish “hate speech”, for instance, or maintain harmony in a multiconfessional country. But all too often, governments that give themselves this power use it to protect themselves. Russia sentenced a blogger to five years’ imprisonment for promoting “extremism” after he questioned its meddling in Ukraine.

The West, with its roots in the Enlightenment, remains the freest place in the world for scepticism about established dogmas and ill-founded taboos. But the impulse to tell people what they can’t say is strong too. Germany now requires websites to remove hate speech and fake news within 24 hours of being notified. Other European countries may follow suit. Sixteen countries have banned denying the Holocaust. In Britain, the Official Secrets Act opens newspapers to prosecution for publishing information that the government deems threatening to national security. After the Guardian published Edward Snowden’s pilfered secrets, employees from GCHQ, the national digital spying agency, marched into the newspaper’s offices and destroyed their hard drives.

Elsewhere, laws forbidding blasphemy help to squash free speech. Saudi Arabia publicly flogs blasphemers and those who dare denounce its austere interpretation of Sunni Islam. Indians can be jailed for three years for promoting disharmony “on the grounds of religion, race…caste…or any other ground whatsoever”. In Indonesia and Pakistan, anyone can file a claim of blasphemy against anyone else. The accused can have trouble finding lawyers to defend them: in a religious country, who would want to argue on the side of a blasphemer?

These laws often have broad support in their countries. Religion is the central organising institution for many people. An insult to the faith cuts at the very fabric of society. But laws that turn people into criminals whenever someone else takes offence can all too easily become tools of repression. Although virtually every country promises its citizens freedom of speech, none delivers it entirely. Article 35 of China’s constitution promises every citizen “freedom of speech, of the press, of assembly, of association, of procession and of demonstration”. Anyone who takes those words literally might embark on a career reporting on corruption among Communist Party officials. It would be nasty, brutish and short. Even America, which provides the world’s most robust legal speech protections allows lawsuits for libel and slander.

But libel and slander cause demonstrable harm to lives and reputations. Contemporary free-speech sceptics, by contrast, want to stop people from expressing ideas that could make others feel “unsafe”—a far more nebulous standard. There is also a difference between how governments regulate speech and how platforms such as Twitter and Facebook should. They are global information conduits, used for good and ill. How to guard against malicious falsehoods while preserving as much access as possible for as many people? That remains a vital debate. Twitter recently deactivated accounts it believed belonged to bots; some American right-wingers cried suppression. But governments have the power to jail, bankrupt and censor under threat of violence. Private companies do not, and are free to set their own standards. If people feel discriminated against because of their politics, they can go elsewhere.

The Economist, founded 175 years ago to “take part in a severe contest between intelligence, which presses forward, and an unworthy, timid ignorance obstructing our progress”, has long supported an expansive vision of free speech. In 2016 we propounded four rules. “Never try to silence views with which you disagree. Answer objectionable speech with more speech. Win the argument without resorting to force. And grow a tougher hide.” Are these simply pie-in-the-sky platitudes when confronted with armed, intolerant thugs? Might we be on the wrong side of history, too indifferent to the plight of marginalised people? Social media make it ever easier to spread falsehoods; are people simply naïve who believe that truth will inevitably win? Fittingly, we’ll explore these questions through a rigorous and open airing of views.

See more:Our debate on free speech on campus