How Nicola Sturgeon's attacks on free speech created a lasting culture of censorship in Scotland

The audience in the hallowed halls of Glasgow University’s union, where a young Sturgeon had learned the art of debating, laughed along with her. These were her people. The handful of questions from the audience which came at the tail end of a very dull interview had been picked in advance, written on index cards, read out not by the person who had submitted them, but by Sam Baker, the interviewer.

The narrative was, as always, carefully controlled. Sitting with Johann Lamont, a former Scottish Labour leader and one of Scotland’s most successful female politicians of the last 30 years, I got the distinct feeling we would have been shouted down by Nicola’s adoring fans if we had dared to ask a question like: “Nicola, do you feel guilty about the thousands of Scots who died from drug misuse under your leadership?” So we stayed uncomfortably silent.

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Unwavering loyalty required

For much of the last decade, civic Scotland has mimicked the audience at Sturgeon’s event, becoming either over-enthusiastic fans of her style of ‘progressive’ government, or keeping quiet, fearful of the consequences of speaking out. The leader was not to be questioned, even as she ‘launched’ a ferry with painted-on windows or prevaricated over whether a double rapist was a woman or a man.

Dissenters were shunned. Their views dismissed as not valid. Sturgeon’s foot-soldiers in government, in parliament and across civil society colluded with her to keep a tight grip on the public discourse. Unwavering loyalty to the leader was all that was required to be a player in Sturgeon’s brave new world.

It wasn’t quite 1984, but Scotland, the country that once led the world in rational debate, had become a much smaller, more compliant place. One where people self-censored for fear of being singled out as bigots or anti-Scottish.

‘The reputation of the library’

Even now, two years after her sudden resignation, her legacy lingers on. Earlier this week, I found myself in the eye of a storm when it was revealed that a book I co-edited with Lucy Hunter Blackburn had been deemed too harmful for public display by the National Library of Scotland.

The Women Who Wouldn’t Wheesht, a collection of essays by a range of women, including the aforementioned Lamont, had secured more than enough public support to secure a place in the library’s centenary exhibition, but after complaints from the LGBT+ staff network that the book was akin to racism, the National Librarian, Amina Shah, with support of the library’s chairperson, Sir Drummond Bone, decided the book was too dangerous to be put on show.

In a memo, she wrote: “I recommend that we do not include this title in the public bookshelf. This is not due to the content of the book itself or the views expressed, but to the potential impact on key stakeholders and the reputation of the library. There is a risk that they will withdraw their support for the exhibition and the centenary.”

The National Library’s key stakeholders include the Scottish Government, which provides nearly 90 per cent of its funding – around £16 million a year – and the Scottish Parliament, to which it has been legally answerable since 1999. I doubt very much they would have withdrawn their support if our book had sat alongside 200 others, including Juno Dawson’s What is the T and F Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, but the fact that the National Librarian was not willing to take that risk tells us all we need to know about the state of Scotland’s culture.

‘Allowed to shock and to offend’

There are signs that the Scottish Government is emerging from the repressive Sturgeon era of no-debate. The Culture Secretary, Angus Robertson, felt compelled on Thursday to confirm that he is a “strong supporter” of freedom of speech. “… I am keen to make sure that we have an understanding about freedom of expression and the ability of people to express views that may be popular or less popular...” he said.

His commitment to intellectual and artistic freedom is welcome, as was the First Minister’s pledge only a fortnight ago that he wants Scotland to remain a “country of robust debate and inquiry”. In his speech to open the 2025 Edinburgh International Festival, John Swinney said: “I firmly believe that art and culture must be able to challenge us… it must at times be allowed to shock and to offend us. It can also heal us.”

It will take Scotland a long time to recover from Sturgeon’s chilling legacy, so deep and widespread was her influence. Her insistence on unwavering loyalty created a monoculture where courageous women like my sister columnist Jenny Lindsay lost their livelihoods for daring to speak out. And as events this week have shown, there are still pockets of resistance to the principles of rational debate essential for a vibrant, open society.

As Sturgeon packs her bags for London and her new life as a writer, or perhaps even a TV pundit, she leaves behind a country still stifled by her authoritarian tendencies. She says in her memoir she has “learned to dance in the rain”. Scotland now has to learn how to make the most of its new-found freedom.

A good start would be for the National Library to put The Women Who Wouldn’t Wheesht on public display, where it belongs.