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Volume 59, Issue 1

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The Persistence of Colonial Laws: Why Rwanda is Ready to Remove Outdated Legal Barriers to Health, Human Rights, and Development

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By Agnes Binagwaho, Richard Freeman, and Gabriela Sarriera*

I. Introduction

Rwanda has earned a reputation as a trailblazer among developing nations.  Especially in the health sector, it is often the early-adopter of international recommendations and new technologies.  Yet at times, Rwanda’s momentum is impeded when it must grapple with a challenge that post-colonial societies commonly face: the persistence of colonial laws.  When left in force, these legal vestiges, once designed to oppress and subordinate, can rear their head at unexpected moments, causing delays in policy implementation, uncertainty, or unjust outcomes.  In public health, the delayed implementation of better health policies can mean the difference between life and death.  In such circumstances, these obscure legal impediments warrant serious consideration.  Following Rwanda’s independence, the country suffered through a civil war and a genocide against the Tutsi, a minority ethnic group.  Since then, however, Rwanda’s institutions have evolved to a point that, in the authors’ view, they are now well-equipped to finally cure the legal code of its latent colonial pathologies, clearing the way for greater progress ahead.

II. How a Colonial-Era Law Interfered with Treatment of Vitamin and Mineral Deficiencies in Rwanda

Among the public health challenges that Rwanda has had to confront are micronutrient deficiencies, which present a serious detriment to global health.  They are a significant contributing factor to malnutrition[1] and contribute to the spread of infectious disease.[2] Supporting micronutrient fortification of staple foods is among the steps a government can take to reduce malnutrition and improve health-related outcomes in the population.[3]  For these reasons, in 2010 the Rwandan Ministry of Health developed plans to promote micronutrients.

That year, the Permanent Secretary presented on behalf of the Minister of Health a draft order, Minister of Health Instruction on Micronutrients, at one meeting of the Inter-Ministerial Committee, chaired by the Right Honorable Prime Minister.  To the Permanent Secretary’s surprise, during the course of the meeting it was discovered that the Minister was not lawfully permitted to sign the instructions. Rather, the Head of State was the only person in Rwanda vested with the legal authority to sign and approve instructions on micronutrients.  This legal arrangement, still in force until 2012, was created by a colonial precedent: prior legal instructions regarding micronutrients had been signed by the Governor of Congo-Rwanda-Burundi in 1940.[4] Because those earlier instructions had issued from the highest executive authority, in today’s executive branch, only the Head of State has the power to abrogate or amend them.  In other words, an outdated law designed to empower Rwanda’s colonial oppressor with control over crucial domestic commercial activities–in this case, food production–was still legally binding on Rwanda’s modern democratic processes.  It delayed a public agency’s ability to efficiently pass modern regulations in the best interest of Rwandans’ health.

This was a shocking revelation for three reasons. First, it was alarming that more than five decades after independence, colonial rules that are hardly known remained in place and were still enforced.  Second, the insufficient revisions made after independence to outdated, pre-independence laws related to health, provided a possible explanation for some difficulties faced by the health sector, which had been making unprecedented progress in virtually all areas but not in combatting malnutrition. Lastly, it was disconcerting that the Head of State, who is engaged in pressing issues and high-level decisions across all domains of the government should be diverted from those priorities in order to focus on miniscule, fine-detailed health-related decisions, such as the level of Vitamin A in food.

Armed with these facts, we explored further to unearth other colonial laws and to address the latent problems they present.  But first, a brief summary of Rwanda’s historical and developmental background is necessary to contextualize these events.

III. Rwanda’s Historical and Developmental Context

Rwanda’s recent history has required Rwandans to reinvent their country according to their own design.  Following independence in 1962, Rwanda–then still a client state of European powers–suffered through decades of violence and civil war, culminating in the atrocities of 1994 when the former extremist regime prosecuted a genocide against the Tutsi, a minority group, in the span of just 100 days. Twenty-three years later, Rwanda is still mending some of the damage that resulted from its colonization and that was compounded up to 1994.

Rwandan society, abandoned by the international community at that tragic hour,[5] subsequently took it upon itself to rebuild a nation reflecting its own vision and values.  And Rwanda’s narrative has changed: today, the country is focused on priorities that include human development, equity, reconciliation, accountability, and universal health care.[6]  The path to progress did not come serendipitously; it required arduous efforts. In this context, Rwanda has prided itself as an early-adopter of bold public health initiatives, achieving ambitious targets.  For example, its ability to move swiftly has put Rwanda on the forefront of universal access to healthcare in Africa; has permitted the development of a health extension worker program that serves as a model for other countries; and has enabled the early adoption of recommendations for improved HIV treatment, as new guidelines become available.

Nevertheless, some aspects of the legal system in Rwanda still date back to colonization.  Rwanda was initially colonized by Germany from 1894 until 1918, as part of German East Africa. Following Germany’s defeat in World War I, Rwanda was made a Belgian protectorate under the League of Nations, as part of the “Territory of Ruanda-Urundi.” Between 1919 and 1962, the central legislation governing Rwanda was established by Belgian authorities, who had replaced many traditional laws. Ignoring the unique characteristics of Rwandan and Burundian society, Belgium imported the civil and criminal codes of the then Belgian Congo to Rwanda and Burundi.[7]

The 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi has its roots in colonial institutions: colonial authorities and complicit national leaders and intellectuals imposed social and legal frameworks to transform the traditional clan stratification of pre-colonial society, replacing it with artificially constructed ethnic divisions designed to dominate and oppress contemporary society.  Those structural injustices were carried forward by the former, post-independence regime to perpetuate a similar system of domination, but now with Rwandans in power.[8]  To cite one prominent example, the Belgian authorities instituted an identity card system in 1933-1934, imposing an ethnic label (ubwoko) on all Rwandans, which continued after independence and was used by the genocidal regime to further entrench a race-based system of suppression and promote violent objectives.[9]

While the most prominent discriminatory laws have since been abolished, some lesser known laws or subtle remnants were never repealed.  Those colonial laws remain presumptively valid until they are either repealed or otherwise revoked, or until the judiciary strikes them down. For this reason, some of the laws are likely to still have some power over Rwandan citizens today.  If brought to the attention of a court, or if identified by a government official, such laws could be enforced or litigated.

Yet, the published text of many of these laws is nowhere to be found in Rwanda.[10]  Law libraries are missing volumes, as a result of the war or because portions of collections were taken from the country and sold overseas.[11]  This makes it challenging to predict when and how such problematic vestiges of the past might resurface to interfere with the rule of law, social justice, and development today.

IV. An Attempt to Prevent Future Legal Barriers to Health:
A Worldwide Investigation into the Persistence of Rwanda’s Colonial Health Laws

As we reviewed colonial-era laws governing public health, we encountered references to older laws that had been repealed.[12]  We searched for the repealed laws to understand what had been modified, and more importantly, to identify whether other laws may be referenced in those which were repealed, but which may themselves not have been repealed.  Such laws could still impact the health sector.

The health laws that the colonial authorities imposed on Rwanda commonly discriminated between the rights or liberty interests of “les indigènes” or “les noirs” and all others.  For example, the 1954 regulations concerning outbreaks expressly mandated that indigenous Rwandans infected with tuberculosis had to be hospitalized, even while the same law provided that other patients could be treated without being detained.[13]  Meanwhile, in the event of an outbreak of plague, the houses of infected patients were to be “carefully disinfected and rid of insects,” but should cases be found among indigenous patients in the villages, then their homes – as well as the directly neighboring homes of other “indigenes” – were to be completely “destroy[ed] by fire.”[14]  This was all the more egregious in the context of a colonial society that not only imposed harsher (and more punitive) preventive measures on the local population, but also systematically provided better treatment services for the colonists.

Other colonial laws may seem less discriminatory on their face, but would undoubtedly have discriminatory effects on the poor if enforced.  For example, a 1959 law prohibited maintaining living conditions that would be favorable for the breeding of flies and mosquitos, punishable by up to two months imprisonment.[15]  A 1940 law required “les indigènes” to maintain the interior of their homes in “a perfect state of cleanliness,” punishable by up to seven days imprisonment.[16]

Many laws and regulations pertaining to infectious disease can be traced back to a precursor law that was central to Belgium’s original public health framework in Ruanda-Urundi: Ordonnance du 22 aout 1888, relating to infectious and epizoonotic diseases (the “1888 Ordonnance”).  Although the 1888 Ordonnance was ultimately replaced by other laws,[17] we sought to understand the regime it established and the framework of which it was part, what other health laws may have been promulgated or codified with it, and what other laws the 1888 Ordonnance may have referenced. We also sought to identify such laws because some of them might never have been repealed, unlike the 1888 Ordonnance itself.

Our search for the 1888 Ordonnance started in Rwanda, in the archives of the Ministry of Justice and the Ministry of Health.  Failing to locate a copy of the 1888 Ordonnance within the country, we followed up with phone calls to the Rwandan Embassies in the capitals of the former colonial states – Germany and Belgium. Those embassies were not able to locate a copy of the law either.[18]  We continued by searching even farther afield, soliciting assistance from a reference librarian at Stanford University’s law library.[19] It was this step, on the other side of the world, that finally produced results. At an off-site depository of Stanford University’s library system – essentially, a storage facility – we located a treatise of Belgian Congolese law which contained the 1888 Ordonnance: Octave Louwers’ 1905 publication, Lois en vigueur dans l’État indépendant du Congo: Textes annotés d’après les instructions officielles et la Jurisprudence des Tribunaux.

We determined that it would be worthwhile to investigate even further and understand how the only accessible record of a Rwandan law – one which was rumored to exist in the country with sufficient credibility to raise questions within the country’s Ministry of Health – had ended up so far from Rwanda.  Our questions went beyond mere curiosity; understanding the means by which laws were dispersed and scattered might allow us to identify whether other problematic laws may be lurking out of sight, threatening to resurface at another inopportune moment.  We pursued the trail.

Stanford’s reference librarian learned that Stanford had acquired the treatise from the University of California, Berkley.  We followed this information to Berkeley’s law school but, it turned out, the librarian who had been responsible for procuring African law books, Tom Reynolds, was now retired. However, we contacted Reynolds for more information.[20] Through him, we learned the story of the book’s arrival at Berkeley. Reynolds had been responsible for personally traveling to Europe in search of rare African law books for the library’s collection.  Based on information Reynolds provided, we identified the possible booksellers in Europe that were in business during the late 1950s and early 1960s, and from whom the treatise may have been purchased.  In particular, Reynolds recalled that one of the rare book dealers, and a likely source of the procurement, was Martinus Nijhoff Publishers.  Martinus Nijhoff was originally based in The Hague and had since been acquired by other publishing houses, most recently by Brill Publishers. In a three-part series of articles that narrates the history of Martinus Nijhoff and American Research Libraries, Hendrick Edelman wrote: “Martinus Nijhoff, publisher and bookseller of The Hague . . . had by far the longest successful tenure in supplying American libraries with European books and periodicals.”[21]

Our efforts to reach a Senior Acquisitions Officer at Brill remained unanswered, by phone and by e-mail. An expedition to Brill’s office in the Netherlands did not yield results neither. We suspected that if Martinus Nijhoff was indeed the bookseller, the book may be recorded in one of its catalogs.  Every time we inquired with rare book publishers and distributors, we received the same response: there was no paperwork or information on how such a treatise may have been procured for their inventory.

Here the trail grew cold. Our quest to trace the procurement of Louwers’ treatise back to its source – and to the potential discovery of other similar compilations of colonial Rwandan laws that may have traveled through the same distribution stream – proved to be unsuccessful.  Nor would we know the integrity of the chain of custody through which such representations of Rwandan law had passed.  The National Archives, located in Amsterdam, and the municipal Haags Gemeentearchief archives, located in The Hague, had no record of the treatise.  Libraries that had the treatise in their collections were unable to provide us with traceable information about its acquisition; our telephone calls to libraries in Belgium led to another dead-end.[22] In fact, the acquisition of Louwers’ treatise throughout an array of international collections[23] remains a mystery.  However, during this search, librarians across the world anecdotally shared with us a common suspicion: that, in general, the supply chains for rare African legal texts are poorly documented because much of their materials were improperly appropriated from African countries, republished and subsequently sold internationally (though none disclosed sources to substantiate that theory).

This dead-end, however, offers important conclusions.  So long as the colonial era laws continue to be recognized as possibly valid and enforceable, we cannot rule out the possibility that other problematic health laws will emerge at an inopportune moment.  Nor can we pronounce with certainty what the body of positive law is that governs health in Rwanda.  Additionally, in the absence of a gazette publication of such law, our reliance on Louwers’ representation, for example, of the content of the law – and confidence about the accuracy of what precisely had been repealed by Ordonnance nº 74/Hyg. du 10 octobre 1931 and about what actual provisions may otherwise still resurface another day – will necessarily retain a degree of uncertainty.

The challenges associated with tracking down the country’s laws also carry normative implications.  When the country achieved its independence, an incomplete portion of its culture and history had been retained, due to the stripping of its traditional laws and the imposition of foreign laws. By missing an important part of its history – in particular, that where the roots of public health disparities, development obstacles, and even the artificially constructed ethnic divisions leading to the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, could be identified[24] – Rwanda was deprived of one of its tools for effectively eliminating those divisions.

Colonial mismanagement, the selling of public goods without recording what was sold by whom and to whom, and ethical lapses of colonial academia, are among the factors that conspired to hinder the development of an autonomous legal system.  How is a country expected to evolve and move from its past colonization when it lacks necessary materials and information to do so? The availability of information and administrative memory are essential for the country to comprehensively move forward.[25]

V. Legal Implications of the Colonial Legacy

Legal theory offers some pragmatic suggestions for how agencies charged with executing the laws and the courts may accommodate these vestigial pathologies in the code.  For example, a “dynamic” theory of interpretation calls for statutes to be “interpreted ‘dynamically,’ that is, in light of their present societal, political, and legal context.”[26]  An “institutional” theory of interpretation would justify broad ministerial discretion to interpret problematic colonial statutes, emphasizing the role of governmental institutions to promote certain “substantive principles” when they execute the laws.[27]  Such substantive principles would include, inter alia: (i) a principle of interpreting statutes so as to promote constitutional norms and to avoid constitutional invalidity;[28] (ii) a principle of avoiding irrationality and injustice;[29] (iii) a principle of protecting disadvantaged groups;[30] (iv) a principle of administrative discretion;[31] (v) and a principle of interpreting statutes so as to avoid regulatory failures.[32]  Such approaches to statutory interpretation may offer justifications for a ministry of health to take proactive measures by interpreting older statutes aggressively and to fill in gaps.  Such theories might even justify the selective refusal to enforce discriminatory provisions, curtailing certain “rights” as they may appear in the plain language of the statute (e.g., refusing differential treatment based on race, ethnicity, or nationality during a public health emergency).

To some extent, the justification for relying on these flexible interpretive solutions is heightened in the unique context of a developing country, where there are particular pragmatic considerations.  For one, the capacity of courts and the legislature cannot realistically handle all necessary corrections in a timely manner; executive agencies are forced to make choices.  Second, in a rapidly developing society, statutes become outdated faster.  Institutions are young and evolving.  Even legislative procedures are evolving.  This, too, may require more agency and judicial discretion in interpreting statutes.  Third, in a developing country such as Rwanda, there is less litigation of public law.  Administrative choices tend to be challenged less frequently in court than they are in western developed jurisdictions.[33]  Courts may not necessarily be called upon to interpret a problematic colonial law or its application.  In any event, when courts do intervene, judicial rulings have less precedential value in Rwanda’s system than in a typical common law system.[34]

However, in the face of a system-wide statutory infirmity, such as the perseverance of colonial statutes, theories of flexible interpretation offer ad hoc band-aids, and not an adequate long-term solution.  Furthermore, encouraging such flexible interpretation for a variety of laws en masse runs into other serious, theoretical concerns.  To name one, separation of powers doctrine counsels against relinquishing so much of the legislative clean-up to the executive agencies alone.[35]  Far from a theoretical concern, the Rwandan constitution commands as much, creating three “separate” and “independent” branches of government (Article 61), in which the “Legislative power is vested in a Parliament” (Article 64).[36]  For these reasons, a more comprehensive solution is warranted.

The legal uncertainties that emerged in the health sector have broader implications for the country’s development.  As the micronutrient program illustrates, hidden colonial laws can suddenly re-appear if someone produces them, obstructing the development of positive policies for the population, disrupting settled expectations, and undermining the rule of law. As our team’s hunt for colonial statutes demonstrates, only those who have significant resources can dig up antiquated laws, which are hard to find. A government minister or a Stanford lawyer can deploy the resources to search the world and find one, but that access is not possible for most ordinary citizens.  Yet an ordinary citizen could find herself defending against one such law in a court of law, where ignorance of the law is no defense.[37]  The effect is discriminatory, as it privileges some people who can cite laws that others cannot access.

There are also strong normative and ethical implications. The persistence of discriminatory laws imposed by colonial sovereigns degrades the dignity of Rwandan law. And it certainly offends the dignity of Rwandan citizens.  Some colonial laws are not obviously discriminatory on their face, but they preserve latent vestiges of a colonial scheme.  This can perpetuate structural injustices.

As a matter of social justice, human rights, and due process, no Rwandan should ever be subjected to a decree of a colonial governor or even wonder if she might be.  Even if a court correctly refuses to enforce a colonial law, the damage is already done: no citizen (or even government officer, for that matter) should be subjected to the indignity of standing before a judge to defend herself against a colonizer’s decree, brought into the court by a creative opponent.

The persistence of colonial statutes can have certain effects that erode good governance, which also justifies taking action to definitively remove such statutes and minimize those effects. Whether they are ultimately enforced or not, laws influence behavior. From the administrative standpoint, a well-intentioned government official who is uncertain of the extent or validity of certain colonial laws may be deterred from taking well-justified risks or may curtail important reforms in order to steer clear of potential violations of a law which may only be rumored to exist or which may not even hold up in court if it were formally challenged.  Finally, the persistence of such statutes weakens the rule of law, inviting authorities to pick and choose which laws to implement, and ultimately allowing them to determine when to substitute their own rules in place of rules they consider outdated.

Across the board, every colonial law, no matter the content, is in conflict with certain provisions of Rwanda’s Constitution, just by virtue of its ignoble provenance.   First, laws imposed by foreign sovereigns, which were designed to promote oppressive policy objectives, and which are not the product of the Rwandan democratic process, reflect an unconstitutional infringement on the Republic’s sovereignty by a past colonial power.[38]  Second, even if a law is not unconstitutional on its face, because it was designed to advance a discriminatory colonial scheme, its underlying public policy is tainted by an unconstitutional objective.[39]  Third, the effect of maintaining such laws is discriminatory and unjust: it grants legal privileges to those who have more resources, because they can access hard-to-find laws that others cannot access.  Fourth, for the reasons described supra, the perseverance of colonial laws undermines essential, formal principles of the rule of law.[40]  In addition to rule of law concerns elaborated above, laws must be enforced uniformly, not selectively.  Finally, there may be a colorable question whether hard-to-find colonial laws may be procedurally defective under the present Constitution, which states, “Laws and orders cannot enter into force without their prior publication in accordance with procedures determined by law.”[41]

In addition to the cross-cutting constitutional violations that are common to all pre-independence laws, as a body of law such statutes are replete with individual policies that are discriminatory on their face and patently unconstitutional: many are in violation of the fundamental principles of Article 10 of the Constitution and the constitutional protections against unequal treatment and discrimination.

These concerns are enough to warrant a sincere debate as to whether colonial statutes should be retained.

VI. Options for Rwanda

If Rwanda chose to eliminate its statutory colonial baggage, there are a number of reasonable options.  Fortunately, a strong Law Reform Commission is already established, and a law revision project is expected to eventually produce a revised code of Rwandan law.[42]  The long-term mechanism for fundamental reforms and their subsequent maintenance is therefore in place.  That effort must be supported.

In the meantime, other options may be used to clear the problematic statutes from the books.  For example, a “task force” might review obsolete health laws, in order to clean up an area of law that is particularly critical to the population.  However, task forces can introduce costs and bureaucratic delays.  Ultimately, the task force would also encounter costly scavenger hunts and even some dead ends, as illustrated by our own experiences described above.  Furthermore, because the problem is not limited to health, colonial laws would persist in other areas.

The most ambitious measure during this interim period, until a more fulsome and comprehensive revised code is available, would be to invalidate all colonial laws.  One wholesale repeal of all pre-independence statutes would be efficient and definitive.

The choice is not unprecedented.  The former American colonies continued using British statutes for a period of time after independence, while developing a legal tradition of their own.[43]  In time, however, states responded to the growing need for certainty about the body of valid positive law in their jurisdictions.[44]  That need led to the repeal of all British statutes that had not been affirmatively re-enacted after independence: in 1788, for example, just 12 years after declaring independence from England, the New York legislature repealed all British statutes.[45]  Virginia did the same in 1792.[46]   As did New Jersey in 1799.[47]   And more followed.[48]

More recently, Singapore made the same bold choice.  In 1993, just 25 years after its independence, Singapore passed the Application of English Laws Act.  The reform preserved some elements of British common law, but it repealed all British statutes at once, except for just a few that were expressly singled out for preservation.[49]  In a speech to the New York Bar Association, Singapore’s Chief Justice, Chan Sek Keong, explained the country’s decision:

English law and English legal institutions are fine for England but not necessarily for Singapore because the political, social and cultural conditions are not the same … The legal framework imposed by the British continued, even after independence in 1965, as the need for change did not appear to be necessary. By the late 1980s, the need for change became apparent, and in 1993, Parliament enacted the Application of English Law Act to ‘retire’ the Charter and the 1878 law.  That, together with the abolishment of appeals to the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council in 1994 gave Singapore complete control of its own laws.[50]

Like New York and other U.S. states, Singapore’s approach stripped the colonizer’s statutes out of the code with one wholesale repeal.

Another option might come through the judiciary, rather than a parliamentary repeal.  Under Article 96 of the Constitution, the Rwandan judiciary has jurisdiction over the “[a]uthentic interpretation of laws.”[51]  A request for such an interpretation may be made through the Bar Association by “[a]ny interested person.”[52]  If an interested person sought an advisory opinion or brought a challenge against colonial laws, the judiciary may find grounds for invalidating all colonial laws due to the cross-cutting constitutional concerns described above, which are common to all colonial laws.[53]

Some may hesitate before making such a bold move.  Skeptics are likely to raise a counterargument that a wholesale repeal or invalidation of all colonial laws might leave “gaps” in the code if it is not known exactly what laws are being repealed.  However, the actual effects of such “gaps” would be far less than it may seem: those “gaps” would necessarily implicate laws that are largely unknown and generally unused.  The potential risks resulting from such “gaps” need not outweigh the potential benefits to the rule of law, to improved governance, and to Rwandans’ human rights.

First, as the examples from the Ministry of Health illustrate, it is already the case that people do not know what pre-independence health laws are even there in the first place.[54]  One either does not know exactly what is being preserved or one does not know exactly what is being repealed.  Invalidating all pre-independence laws would therefore bring greater clarity about what law is in force, which is the more important alternative between the two.

Second, some may question how to deal with a potential “gap.”  However, filling that void with laws of a colonizer is no better than a gap.  A superior solution is already provided for in Rwandan law, where Article 6 of the Civil Procedure Law allows a judge to consider contemporary (rather than colonial) policies for addressing an issue not contemplated by statutory law:

Judges shall decide cases by basing their decisions on the relevant law or, in the absence of such a law, on the rule they would have enacted, had they to do so, guided by judicial precedents, customs and usages, general principles of law and written legal opinions.[55]

Importantly, the invalidation of colonial laws would not only expose “gaps” but it would also excise the malignant vestiges of a once pathological code.

Fortunately for Rwanda, the country has successfully managed ambitious reforms that disrupt old models many times before.  To deliver better social services, Rwanda has managed bold choices to expand universal health care[56] and to establish English as the language of primary education,[57] to name just a few.  Among its ambitious legal reforms, Rwanda introduced binding judicial precedent to the Supreme Court,[58] aligned laws with the East African Community, and promulgated a revised constitution all in recent years.  Rwandan society is experienced at capitalizing swiftly on disruptive reforms that shake off old systems in favor of better ones; that experience positions it well to finally cast off the legal remnants of its colonial past.  The next time science identifies new best practices to address public health needs, colonial baggage need not slow Rwanda down from blazing the trail right alongside other early adopters.

VII. Conclusion

A post-colonial nation can only restore its full sovereignty once it frees its legal system from undemocratic colonial remnants, now outdated, that hinder progress. Rwanda is certainly not the only country to face this post-colonial hurdle. But Rwanda is a trailblazer.  By taking action on the colonial legal barriers to health, human rights and development, Rwanda also has an opportunity to inspire other formerly colonized countries to dig deep into their legal traditions and consider doing the same.

Ultimately, whether the moment comes after a lengthy review process or with an ambitious stroke, Rwanda will need to take a leap of faith and cast aside colonial laws.  The country has never been more ready.

* Agnes Binagwaho, M.D., M(Ped), Ph.D. is a pediatrician, a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Global Health and Social Medicine at Harvard Medical School, Vice Chancellor of the University of Global Health Equity in Rwanda, and an Adjunct Clinical Professor of Pediatrics at Dartmouth College’s Geisel School of Medicine.  She served for 14 years in senior government positions in Rwanda’s health sector, and served as Rwanda’s Minister of Health from 2011 to 2016. Richard Freeman, J.D., M.P.P. works in Rwanda as an Advisor of the Rule of Law Program at Stanford Law School and is a practicing attorney in New York. Gabriela Sarriera B.S. is a research assistant in the Department of Global Health and Social Medicine at Harvard Medical School and served as a research assistant to Dr. Binagwaho in 2016.

[1] See World Health Organization, World Health Report 2000 at 57 (“[malnutrition] is often a combination of micronutrient deficiency and absolute shortage of calories”), http://www.who.int/whr/2000/en/whr00_en.pdf?ua=1.

[2] See, e.g., Alice M. Tang, Ellen Smit & Richard D. Semba, Nutrition and Infection, in Infectious Disease Epidemiology: Theory and Practice at 305-27 (Kenrad E. Nelson & Carolyn Masters Williams eds.) (3d ed. 2014) (“It has been established that adequate nutritional status is necessary for the normal functioning of various components of the immune system.  Malnutrition may affect the course of infectious disease through a variety of mechanisms, including compromising host immune function, diminishing response to therapies, and promoting comorbidities.”); Joint statement by the World Health Organization, the World Food Programme and the United Nations Children’s Fund, Preventing and Controlling Micronutrient Deficiencies in Populations Affected by Emergency (2007) (“Micronutrient deficiencies increase the general risk of infectious illness and of dying from diarrhoea, measles, malaria and pneumonia. These conditions are among the 10 leading causes of disease in the world [in 2007]”), http://www.who.int/nutrition/publications/micronutrients/WHO_WFP_UNICEFstatement.pdf?ua=1.

[3] See World Health Organization and Food and Agricultural Organization of the United Nations, WHO/FAO Guidelines on Food Fortification with Micronutrients (2006); World Health Organization, WHO Guideline: Fortification of Maize Flour and Corn Meal with Vitamins and Minerals (2016), http://apps.who.int/iris/bitstream/10665/251902/1/9789241549936-eng.pdf?ua=1.

[4] See Legislative Order no. 57/A.E. of 10/05/1940 Establishing regulation of commerce, detention and consumption of food stuffs.

[5] See, e.g., Rep. of the Independent Inquiry into the Actions of the United Nations During the 1994 Genocide in Rwanda, transmitted by Letter Dated 15 December 1999 from the Secretary-General to the President of the Security Council, at 30, U.N. Doc. S/1999/1257 (Dec. 15, 1999) (describing “the failings of the United Nations to prevent and stop the genocide in Rwanda,” including “a lack of will to take on the commitment which would have been necessary to prevent or to stop the genocide.”).  See also Samantha Power, Bystanders to Genocide, The Atlantic, Sept. 2001, at 18-21, 30 (describing countries’ prioritization of their national interests and evacuation of national staff rather than assisting the victims, the international community’s failure to respond to the genocide, and “Belgian requests for a full UN exit”); id. (quoting the head of the UN Assistance Mission in Rwanda, Romeo Daillaire: “Mass slaughter was happening, and suddenly there in Kigali we had the forces we needed to contain it, and maybe even stop it . . . [y]et they picked up their people and turned and walked away.”).

[6] See, e.g., Republic of Rwanda, Rwanda Vision 2020.

[7] The Rwandan civil law system was based on Belgian and German legal systems as well as customary law, which it largely imported from the Belgian Congo, subject to the discretion of the vice governor general of Ruanda-Urundi.  La loi du 21 août 1925 sur le Gouvernement du Ruanda-Urundi, article 3 (“Les décrets et les ordonnances législatives du gouverneur général, dont les dispositions ne sont pas spéciales au Ruanda-Urundi, ne s’appliquent à ce territoire qu’après y avoir été rendus exécutoires par une ordonnance du vice-gouverneur général qui l’administre”); id. article 5 (“Les droits reconnus aux Congolais par les lois du Congo Belge appartiennent, suivant les distinctions qu’elles établissent, aux ressortissants du Ruanda-Urundi.”). See also Sam Rugege, “Judicial Independence in Rwanda,” (Oct. 28, 2005), http://www.mcgeorge.edu/Documents/Conferences/JUDIND_RUGEGE_MASTER.pdf (describing some of Rwanda’s “very old” laws, “some dating back to nineteenth century Belgian laws or King’s decrees, which must be replaced”).

[8] See, e.g., Paul Rutayisire & Charles Kabwete Mulinda, The Role of History and Political Studies in Post-Genocide Reconstruction and Development, 2 J. of Afr. Conflicts and Peace Stud. 1, 4 (Sept. 2013) (describing the promotion of “a historiography that would divide the Hutu and the Tutsi of Rwanda given their interaction for centuries.  ‘The story of the Hutu and the Tutsi is always recounted as if the two groups were divided by an impregnable Chinese wall. Centuries of interaction between the two groups had not only produced a common language and similar cultural institutions and symbols but also a cultural and political space which made it possible for them to coexist peacefully.’”) (citing Arnold Temu, Not Telling: African History at the End of the Millenium, S. Afr. Hist. J. 42, 4 (2000)).

[9] For example, this colonial vestige was specifically cited by the genocidal regime’s infamous and much reviled “Bahutu Manifesto,” as a tactic for oppression. (“Aussi, pour mieux surveiller ce monopole de race, nous nous opposons énergiquement . . . à la suppression dans les pièces d’identité officielles ou privées des mentions ‘muhutu,’ ‘mututsi,’ ‘mutwa’”).

[10] See, e.g., Brian D. Anderson, A Survey of Law Libraries in Rwanda, 107 L. Libr. J. 225, 235 (2015) (documenting some limitations in law libraries and noting a law library worker’s concern that “in Rwanda there is ‘a need for the rule of law and a need for access to laws, and many do not know where to find it.’”).

[11] Based on authors’ discussions with librarians in Rwanda and rare book collectors in the United States during 2014-2016.

[12] See, e.g., Décret du 19 juillet 1926, “Hygiène et salubrité publiques” § 18 (citing, inter alia, l’Ordonnance du 22 août 1888; Décret du 20 octobre 1888 sur les maladies contagieuses; Décret du 22 février 1895 sur la vaccination, Décret du 20 janvier 1921 sur la tuberculose, Décret du 12 avril 1923 sur les maladies vénériennes).

[13] Mesures à prendre en application de l’ordonnance du 22 juin 1954 N°74/213, relative a la lutte contre les maladies quarantenaires, épidémiques, endemiques et autres affections transmissible [Measures to take in application of the ordinance of 22 June 1954 N°74/213, regarding the fight against quarantined illnesses, epidemics, endemics, and other transmissible diseases], Codes et Lois du Rwanda [Codes and Laws of Rwanda], Dec. 31, 1994, at 1712, Ch. XXIX Art. 3-4 (“Toute personne […] trouvée atteinte de tuberculose ouverte ou évolutive . . . sera . . . soumise au traitement ou hospitalisée…”; but mandating: “Tout indigène atteint de tuberculose ouverte ou évolutive . . . doit être hospitalisé.”) (emphasis added).

[14] Id. at Ch. III Arts. 7-8 (“La maison du malade sera soigneusement désinfectée et désinsectisée.”; but also mandating: “Dans les villages [indigènes], en cas d’épidémie, la destruction par le feu de toutes les cases occupies par les pestiferés et les cases contiguës sera ordonée par l’autorité locale, suivant avis de l’autorité locale, suivant avis de l’autorité sanitaire.”).

[15] L’ordonnance du 28 juin 1959 N°74/345: Hygiène publique dans les agglomérations Arts. 1, 10 (“Dans les villes, les circonscriptions urbaines, les centres résidentiels … il est interdit de maintenir des conditions favorables a l’éclosion ou à la multiplication des mouches ou des moustiques …. Les contraventions à la présente ordonnance seront punies d’une peine de servitude pénale de deux mois au maximum et d’une amende que ne dépassera pas 2.000 francs ou d’une de ces peines seulement.”).

[16] L’ordonnance du 10 octobre 1940 N°375/Hyg.: Hygiène dans les circonscriptions indigenes et les groupements traditionnels non organizes, Arts. 1, 6 (“Dans les circonscriptions indigènes et les groupements traditionnels non encore organizes, les indigenes sont tenus de maintenir en parfait état de propreté l’intérieur de leur habitations …. Les infractions à la présente ordonnance seront punies d’une peine de servitude pénale de sept jours au maximum et d’une amende qui ne dépassera pas 50 francs ou d’une de ces peines seulement.”).

[17] The Decret du 19 juillet 1926: Hygiene et salubrité publiques, which was brought into force in Ruanda-Urundi by O.R.U. nº 38 du 19 octobre 1926, provided for the abrogation of the Ordonnance du 22 août at a date to be determined by the governor general.  That abrogation was later effectuated by Ordonnance nº 74/Hyg. du 10 octobre 1931.  See Codes et Lois du Rwanda.  Édités par Filip Rentjens et Jan Gorus.  Volume III.  Mis à jour au 31 décembre 1994, 2ème edition 1995It is notable that even the veracity of such older treatises themselves is questionable, as they were edited by European collaborators of the genocidal regime.  This is yet another reason why the continued enforcement of colonial laws is problematic – oftentimes, one is left to rely not on an original publication of the law itself, but rather on a secondary source of problematic provenance.

 

[18] At the time of this research, the Royal Museum for Central Africa in Tervuren, Belgium, was closed for renovations.  The closure may have prevented the Rwandan embassy in Belgium from locating materials it may otherwise have had access to at other times.

[19] Conversations and email correspondence with Sergio Stone, Foreign, Comparative, and International Law (FCIL) Librarian, Stanford Law School (May-June 2014).

[20] Example: Telephone interview with Tom Reynolds, former librarian, Berkeley University (Oct. 3, 2015); Email correspondence (Jun. 5-18, 2016).

[21] Hendrik Edelman, Nijhoff in America Booksellers from the Netherlands and the Development of American Research Libraries, 42 Quaerendo 46, 46 (2012) (available at http://booksandjournals.brillonline.com/content/journals/10.1163/157006912×640801?crawler=true&mimetype=application/pdf).

[22] The authors sought this information by contacting the Royal Dutch Library, the Peace Palace Library, the the Belgium Royal Library, the Library of Congress, the University of Pennsylvania’s library, and Cornell University’s library.

[23] Libraries and collections including, but not limited to: The Royal Dutch Library, The Library of Congress, Belgium Royal Library, The Peace Palace Library, Stanford University, Harvard University, University of Pennsylvania, and Cornell University.

[24] See supra note 8.

[25] Further information on the importance of archives and their societal roles can be found at the following website (http://www.clir.org/pubs/reports/pub89/role.html). The Council on Library and Information Resources offers an overview of the impact that libraries and archives have on societies.

[26] William N. Eskridge, Jr., Dynamic Statutory Interpretation, 135 U. Pa. L. Rev. 1479, 1479 (1987).

[27] See Cass R. Sunstein, Interpreting Statutes in the Regulatory State, 103 Harv. L. Rev. 405 (1989).

[28] Id. at 468–69.

[29] Id. at 482 (“In such circumstances, what might appear to be aggressive construction is entirely legitimate – at least if the injustice or irrationality is palpable and there is no affirmative evidence that the legislature intended the result”).

[30] Id. at 483 (When there is ambiguity, “resolve interpretive doubts in favor of disadvantaged groups”).

[31] Id. at 474-75 (among “interpretive principles [that] respond directly to institutional concerns and are designed to improve the performance of governmental entities” is a principle of “administrative discretion,” whereby “[c]ourts defer to agency understandings of policy and fact in cases in which discretion has lawfully been conferred.  This idea is based on a recognition of the superior democratic accountability and fact-finding capacity of the agency.”); see also id. at 465 (discussing the U.S. Supreme Court’s application of “the principle of deference to agency interpretations of law,” described as a “contestable institutional norm,” in its decision to uphold the U.S. Food and Drug Administration’s view that the agency could refrain from promulgating certain regulations under a statute seeking to limit unsafe substances in the food supply) (citing Young v. Community Nutrition Institute, 476 U.S. 974 (1986)).

[32] Id. at 476 (Interpretations should “avoid characteristic failures in regulation – caused, for example, by [the Legislature’s] failure to understand the systemic effects of regulation or to coordinate statutes regulating the same area.”  The system should “permit de minimis exceptions [created by agencies], assume proportionality in regulation, and generously construe statutes designed to protect disadvantaged groups and nonmarket values”).

[33] For example, resources may be more limited for public interest institutions or NGOs to bring challenges through impact litigation, doctrines of standing may take time to fully develop, and a culture of litigating such issues may take time to emerge.  See, e.g., Ana Paula de Barcellos, Sanitation Rights, Public Law Litigation, and Inequality: A Case Study from Brazil, 16 Health & Hum. Rts. J. 34, 41–42 (Dec. 2014) (empirical data from Brazil suggesting that although some individuals who have resources may successfully litigate their own rights to certain health services, communities with more limited resources benefit from less public law litigation related to health); Serges Djoyou Kamga, An Assessment of the Possibilities for Impact Litigation in Francophone African Countries, 14 Afr. Hum. Rts. L. J. 449, 454, 465, 467–68 (2014) (discussing the above factors as among those that may explain why certain types of impact litigation have been slow to develop in Francophone African countries, particularly where the inherited legal systems were based on the French model).

[34] See Organic Law N° 03/2012/OL of 13/06/2012 determining the organization, functioning, and jurisdiction of the Supreme Court (Official Gazette of Rwanda, July 9 2012). The law gives the Supreme Court the power to bind the lower courts with its rulings, but this transition away from civil law traditions has not yet been implemented in lower levels of the judicial system

[35] See, e.g., Montesquieu, De L’Esprit des Lois, Book XI, Part VI (separation of powers is necessary between the legislative, executive, and judicial powers: “Tout serait perdu, si le même homme, ou le même corps des principaux, ou des nobles, ou du peuple, exerçaient ces trois pouvoirs: celui de faire des lois, celui d’exécuter les résolutions publiques, et celui de juger les crimes ou les différends des particuliers.”).

[36] 2003 Const. 61, 64 (Rwanda) (revised 2015).

[37] See Constitution of the Republic of Rwanda of 2003 Revised in 2015, Art. 176 (“Ignorance of a duly published law is not an excuse”).  But see also discussion infra (discussing constitutionally suspect enforceability of colonial laws pursuant to Article 176).

[38] See id. Art. 1 (“National sovereignty belongs to Rwandans who exercise it directly by means of referendum, elections, or through their representatives”); id. Art. 4 (“The Rwandan State is an independent, sovereign, democratic, social and secular Republic.  The founding principle of the Republic is: ‘Government of Rwandans, by Rwandans and for Rwandans.’”); id. Art. 10(4º) (“The State of Rwanda commits itself to … building a State governed by the rule of law, [and] a pluralistic democratic government…”).

[39] See, e.g., id. Art. 10(2º) (“The State of Rwanda commits itself to … [the] eradication of discrimination”).

[40] See id. Art. 10(4º).  In its most basic form, the Rule of Law is commonly described as encompassing at least certain minimum, formalistic requirements.  “A legal system exemplifies the Rule of Law to the extent (it is a matter of degree in respect of each item of the list) that (i) its rules are prospective, not retroactive, and (ii) are not in any other way impossible to comply with, that (iii) its rules are promulgated, (iv) clear, and (v) coherent one with another; that (vi) its rules are sufficiently stable to allow people to be guided by their knowledge of the coherent rules, that (vii) the making of decrees and orders applicable to relatively limited situations is guided by rules that are promulgated, clear, stable, and relatively general; and that  (viii) those people who have authority to make, administer, and apply the rules in an official capacity (a) are accountable for their compliance with rules applicable to their performance and (b) do actually administer the law consistently and in accordance with its tenor.”  John Finnis, Natural Law and Natural Rights 270 (1980).  See also Lon Fuller, The Morality of Law 46 (1964) (describing the formalistic requirements of the rule of law).

[41] Constitution of the Republic of Rwanda of 2003 Revised in 2015, Art. 176.

[42] In a recent interview, the former Chairman of Rwanda’s Law Reform Commission was quoted as explaining, “[c]urrently, the country is in a peculiar position because we have laws from colonial times that are still applicable, yet virtually nobody knows them. These laws are scattered because we don’t have a consolidated and update compendium of Rwandan laws.”  Rwanda Law Reform Commission to produce a fully revised edition of legislation within 5 years, Hope Magazine (July 20, 2017), http://www.hope-mag.com/index.php?com=news&option=read&ca=6&a=3166 (documenting interview with John Gara, former Chairman of Rwanda Law Reform Commission).  Notably, in recent years, Parliament and the institutions of Rwanda’s legal sector have worked to revise fundamental portions of the code, including, inter alia, their work on a revised Penal Code, see, e.g., Vote on new Penal Code kicks off tomorrow, The New Times (Dec. 27, 2017) http://www.newtimes.co.rw/section/read/226429, and the recently passed Law N° 27/2017 of 31/05/2017 Governing Companies, updating core commercial laws.

[43] See Elizabeth Gasper Brown, British Statutes in American Law, 1776-1836,  at 23-31 (1964) (describing the continuity of certain colonial and British laws for a period of time after American independence).

[44] Id. at 31 (“pressure for greater certainty [about which laws were valid and in force] developed”).

[45] Act of Feb. 27, 1788, ch. 46, 1788-1792 vol. 2 N.Y. Laws 116 (“from and after the first day of May next, none of the Statutes of England, or Great-Britain, shall operate or be considered as Laws of this State.”).

[46] Act of Dec. 27, 1792, ch. 79, 1792-1806 vol. 1 Va. Acts 200  (“And whereas the good people of this commonwealth may be ensnared by an ignorance of acts of parliament, which have never been published in any collection of the laws … [b]e it therefore enacted by the General Assembly, That so much of the above recited ordinance as relates to any statute or act of parliament, shall be, and is hereby repealed; and that no such statute or act of parliament shall have any force or authority within this commonwealth.”).

[47] Act of June 13, 1799 § 4; Act of May 25, 1820, ch. 126, 1820 N.J. Laws 726.

[48] See, e.g., Act of Jan 2, 1806, 1806 Ohio Laws 38 (repealing all British statutes in Ohio); Act of Feb. 10, 1807, ch. 5, 1807 Miss. Laws 23 (repealing all British statutes in Mississippi); Act of Sept. 16, 1810, 1810 Mich. Pub. Acts 563 (repealing all British statutes in Michigan); Act of Jan. 23, 1837, ch. 26, 1836-1837 N.C. Sess. Laws 143 (repealing all British statutes in North Carolina); Act of Oct. 14, 1857, ch. 1, 1858 Tenn. Pub. Acts 1 (ceding to the US exclusive jurisdiction over Tennessee lands); Ch. 146, 1873 S.C. Acts 778 (repealing the colonial statute in South Carolina).

[49] Application of English Laws, Act § 5.1 (1993) (Sing.) (“Except as provided in this Act, no English enactment shall be part of the law of Singapore”).

[50] Chan Sek Keong, Chief Justice of Sing., Speech to the N.Y. State Bar Assoc. (Oct. 27, 2009).

[51] Additional bases for jurisdiction are also likely.  For example, Article 43 gives the judiciary jurisdiction over certain matters as “the guardian of human rights and freedoms.” Constitution, art. 43 (2003) (Rwanda).

[52] Constitution, art. 96 (2003) (Rwanda).

[53] Supra Section IV.

[54] See, e.g., Part II supra (describing Ministry of Health’s experience with instruction on micronutrients); footnote 42 supra (Hope Magazine interview with Rwanda Law Reform Commission).

[55] Law N° 21/2012 of 14/06/2012 Relating to the Civil, Commercial, Labour and Administrative Procedure, Art. 6.

[56] See, e.g., An African Trailblazer: How a Poor Country Brought Health Insurance to 91% of the Population, The Economist (Sept. 15, 2016) https://www.economist.com/news/middle-east-and-africa/21707226-how-poor-country-brought-health-insurance-91-population-african (describing how “government engagement” enabled Rwanda to achieve health insurance coverage that is “by far the highest in Africa”).

[57] See, e.g., Speak English? Invest here. French need not apply, The Economist (Oct. 15, 2012) https://www.economist.com/blogs/johnson/2012/10/language-rwanda (“It isn’t strange that a country seeking more foreign investment is turning to English. What’s notable about Rwanda’s policy shift from French to English is its speed.”).

[58] Nº 03/2012/OL of 13/06/2012 Organic Law determining the organization, functioning and jurisdiction of the Supreme Court, art. 47 Rwanda Gazette No. 28.

Discussion: Do Colonists Owe Their Former Colonies Reparations?

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This 2018 Online Discussion asks whether colonists owe their former colonies reparations. Larissa van den Herik, Kenneth McCallion, Robert Murtfeld, Shashi Tharoor and Jo-Anne Wemmers provide responses while engaging with questions and debates of international law on topics of colonial legacy, reparations, and justice.

Responses

Volume 59, Issue 2

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Issue 59(1) Masthead

Issue 59(2) Masthead

Common Law Right to Defense and Disclosure in India

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[PDF]

By Mishika Bajpai*

Can a fair trial proceed without disclosure of material to a party against whom it is used? Can justice be found in secrecy? The Article initiates a discussion on the common law right to defend oneself against the case put against him and right to a fair trial in civil litigation. The Article proceeds to identify the loopholes in the procedural system in India when exceptions for the public interest are used against a person’s right to full disclosure. Since the right to full disclosure of evidence flows from the common law right to defend and the principles of natural justice, it cannot be derogated from easily without laying down any alternatives. The Article then addresses the same principle in the United Kingdom and how this derogation is negated by provisions introduced as alternatives confronting the compromise between public interest and the opportunity to defend. The Article concludes by outlining lessons and proposals for adopting in India a similar model to the United Kingdom with regard to disclosure of evidence in civil disputes concerning materials of national interest.

Introduction

Natural justice requires that a party whose interests are likely to be prejudiced by a decision-making authority receive a fair hearing, an opportunity to rebut the material furnished against him, and an opportunity to produce all the material in support of his case.[1] Two of the chief facets of the maxim audi alteram partem are: (a) notice of the case to be met; and (b) opportunity to explain.[2] This universally accepted rule casts a duty to afford a fair hearing upon every individual who exercises adjudicative power.[3] Each party is also entitled to defend against the material supplied by the other party.[4] The concept of fairness requires notice to satisfy the “adjudicating authority that those very documents upon which reliance has been placed do not make out even a prima facie case requiring any further inquiry.”[5] Thus, a fair hearing is one which not only focuses on the claim or prosecution but also gives the defendant an equal right to present his case and defend himself effectively.[6] This right to a fair hearing is a guaranteed right in India, and every person has a right to know the reasoning for a case’s outcome.[7]

In India, any procedure which prevents a party from receiving a fair trial would violate Article 14 and Article 21 of the Constitution of India.[8] The rationale behind this idea is to strike a balance between both parties in an adversarial litigation system and to empower the court to adjudge the issue effectively and give a reasoned decision. The absence of either party or their defense renders the judicial system meaningless.

If the right to be heard is to be a real right which is worth anything, it must carry with it a right in the accused man to know the case which is made against him. He must know what evidence has been given and what statements have been made affecting him: and then he must be given a fair opportunity to correct or contradict them.[9]

It is equally settled that there are certain exceptions to the principle of fair trial, such as overriding considerations of national security.[10] In a situation of national security a party cannot insist for strict observance of the principles of natural justice, and in such cases it is the duty of the court to provide for statutory exclusion, if not expressly provided in the rules governing the field.[11]Audi alteram partem rule may be disregarded in an emergent situation where immediate action brooks no delay to prevent some imminent danger or injury or hazard to paramount public interests.”[12] Certain exceptions are made to the general rule of evidential disclosure when the disclosure might inflict serious harm on the persons directly concerned, or where it would result in a breach of confidence, might be injurious to the public interest, reveal official secrets, or inhibit frankness of comment or result in detection of crime.[13] Despite the exceptional circumstances, the court must make every effort to salvage this cardinal rule to the maximum extent possible, and when necessary with situational modifications.[14] Where disclosure is not possible, the affected party must be allowed to review the relevant material, inspect it, and take notes if possible.[15] Full disclosure of any material held by the prosecution which weakens its case or strengthens that of the defendants must also always be disclosed to the defendants. Furthermore, “the principles of natural justice must be read into unoccupied interstices of the statute unless there is a clear mandate to the contrary.”[16] Therefore, unless the statute expressly rules out natural justice, any exercise of power which results in civil consequences to citizens must abide by the principles of natural justice.

Rulings Witnessing the Indian Judiciary Balance Disclosure
and Non-Disclosure of Documents

  1. Tribhuvandas Bhimji Zaveri v. CCE: Where the decision-making authority expressed inability to disclose the materials found against the accused and yet issued a show cause notice to it requiring an answer, the court found fault in the very issuance of the show cause notice. It held that the document which set the law into motion against the accused ought to be made available to it so as to require a proper explanation. The failure to supply important piece of information to the affected party had prejudiced its case and the principles of natural justice stood violated.[17]
  2. Swadeshi Cotton Mills v. Union of India: Where the government was satisfied, by the documents and other evidences in its possession, that an industrial undertaking was being managed in a manner detrimental to the industry and public interest, it ordered a take-over of the undertaking under the relevant statute. The Supreme Court adjudicating upon the decision of the government, observed that the company could have been given an opportunity to explain the evidence against it, as also an opportunity to be informed of the proposed action of take-over and to represent why it should not have been taken.[18]
  3. Global Vectra Helicorp vs. Directorate General of Civil Aviation: Even in quasi-judicial proceedings, there is a duty cast on the adjudicating authority to disclose and supply copies of all the documents that may be available with it, enabling a noticee to effectively defend and rebut allegations contained in a show-cause notice.[19] It is an established position of law that even if the details of the case against the noticee are not spelt out in the show cause notice, the noticee is entitled to be made aware of the material on the basis of which the proposed action is to be taken or is taken.[20] The Government may or may not be required to give detailed information. In such a case, the Government is obliged to at least communicate the broad reasons on the basis of which the action is proposed or action in fact is taken.[21]
  4. Union of India v. Ranu Bhandari: Where certain vital documents having direct bearing on a detention order against the detenu were withheld, preventing him from defending himself effectively, the court placed importance on the significance of effective representation.[22] It held that irrespective of whether the detenu had knowledge of the documents and their contents or not, the documents must have to be supplied in compliance with Article 22(5) of the Constitution in order to effectuate proper representation.[23]

Moreover, the courts have also observed that even when time is of essence, the cardinal principle of hearing cannot be martyred for administrative immediacy.[24] Even when a decision has to be reached expeditiously, there ought to be a balance between the need for expedition and the need to give full opportunity to the defendant to see the material against him.

I. Piercing the Public Interest Immunity and
National Security Argument in India: Identifying the Gray Areas

One of the exceptions to the general rule of disclosure is Public Interest Immunity (“PII”), a mechanism for handling disclosure of sensitive information[25] raised by the government to resist the production of or access to information that may produce harm to the national interest. A typical PII process entails applications departing from traditional notions of procedural fairness and open justice[26] because the party seeking the information is prevented from seeing and testing the evidence in support of the PII claim. The judge views secret evidence to assess whether the public interest in disclosure outweighs the public interest in maintaining secrecy.[27] Based on this decision, the proceedings continue with or without the documents in question. The Indian Evidence Act of 1872, for example, gives the government a right, grounded in the public interest, to claim privilege or immunity from disclosing documents.[28] A valid claim for privilege made under this provision proceeds on the basis of the theory that the production of the document in question would cause injury to public interest, and that, where a conflict arises between public interest and private interest, the latter must yield to the former.[29] This statutory exclusion provides a blanket disallowance against the principles of natural justice to the extent that, once the State takes the stand that the issue involves national security, the court shall not disclose the reasons to the affected party.[30] Therefore, if an affidavit claiming PII is found to be valid, then the party whose interests would be prejudiced by a subsequent judgment would be in no position to question the evidence.

If the court finds the affidavit in support of the claim preventing disclosure unsatisfactory, then “further opportunity may be given to file additional affidavit or [the Minister] may be summoned for cross-examination”[31] The courts have interpreted this provision as an immunity granted in order to protect public interest and not a privilege which can be waived by the state. It has been held by the court that it is duty-bound not only to the extent of determining on the basis of the affidavit, but even if an affidavit filed by the state is not satisfactory, the court cannot “abdicate its duty” of deciding whether the document warrants protection or disclosure depending on the effect on public interest[32]: “That is why in England this immunity is no longer described as ‘Crown Privilege’ but is called “public interest immunity.”[33] The reason for weighing public interest against administration of justice is that “there is the public interest that harm shall not be done to the nation or the public service by disclosure of certain documents, and there is the public interest that the administration of justice shall not be frustrated by the withholding of documents; which must be produced if justice is to be done.”[34] Therefore, the real question before every court of law is to determine whether the public interest outweighs an ordinary citizen’s right to question the evidence in a proceeding against them.

However, the power to enquire into the ramifications of disclosure and its outcome on public interest is only available with the state. Where the High Court conducted an enquiry into the consequences of disclosure, the Supreme Court held that such an action was erroneous in the light of the narrow limits prescribed by the second clause of Section 162 of the Indian Evidence Act of 1872 (which confers power on courts to determine the validity of the objection raised under Section 123) under which such an enquiry is conducted.[35] The Supreme Court proceeded to make the following observations[36]:

  1. “Reading Sections 123 and 162 together the court cannot hold an enquiry into the possible injury to public interest which may result from the disclosure of the document in question; that is a matter for the authority concerned to decide;”
  2. “The court is competent, and indeed is bound, to hold a preliminary enquiry into the question as to whether the evidence relates to an affair of State under Section 123 or not.”
  3. “In this enquiry the court has to determine the character or class of the document. If it comes to the conclusion that the document does not relate to affairs of State then it should reject the claim for privilege and direct its production. If it comes to the conclusion that the document relates to the affairs of State it should leave it to the head of the department to decide whether he should permit its production or not.”

The courts have observed that, if they took upon themselves the task of deciding the nature of the document, then “the discretion to ban its production by the head of the department must necessarily become illusory.”[37] While the power to hold a preliminary enquiry was given to the courts, the ultimate discretion lay in the hands of the head of the department(s).

But if dealing with the question of privilege under Section 123 is taken away from the court’s jurisdiction, and is only made available with the ministry, then does it not fall foul of the principle nemo judex in causa sua, that is, no one should be a judge in his own cause? The court, while interpreting the Indian statute in accordance with English law, has stated: “The court has not the power to override ministerial certificate against production.”[38] Thus, the aforenoted approach not only thwarts the power of inquiry commanded by the judiciary, but also undermines equal justice.

Another noticeable issue is highlighted by the absence of a definition of “national security” in the Indian context. While the courts have tried to encompass “socio-political stability, territorial integrity, economic solidarity and strength, ecological balance, cultural cohesiveness, external peace, etc.,” within its characterization, it has been emphasized that what is in the interest of national security is “not a question of law,” but instead “a matter of policy.”[39] The judiciary has maintained its stand that “it is not for the court to decide whether something is in the interest of State or not.”[40]

Naturally, the affected party would not be in a position to determine the level of secrecy that each document possesses; however, an alternative provision of explanation or cross-examination on the basis of such a document is evidently absent from the legislation governing disclosure. Would it enhance the representation of an excluded party if his advocate is able to access the material on his behalf—without disclosing confidential contents, but only to the extent it strengthened his case?

Therefore, this time immemorial common law right to disclosure faces derogation due to not only an absence of a proper definition, but also an alternative procedure that ought to follow fair hearing in cases of public interest and national security. These issues propel more questions towards the evidentiary value of the judgments rendered therein.

A. The Judge’s Quandary

It would be incongruous, to forego the fact that the very integrity of the judiciary depends on true and full disclosure of all facts within the framework of the rules of evidence, which in turn inspires public confidence. The assumption is that a judgment issued by a judge who has reviewed all the material disclosed is bound to be fair. However, the necessary corollary to the audi alteram partem rule is qui aliquid statuerit, parte inaudita altera aequum licet dixerit, hand aequum fecerit—that is, “he who shall decide anything without the other side having been heard, although he may have said what is right, will not have done what is right.”[41] Thus, it matters not how astutely or assiduously a judgment is delivered, if the proposed procedure hands over to one party considerable control over the production of relevant material and the manner in which it is to be presented. It would be rather implausible that a judge delivering upon the civil claim be kept in the dark regarding the defense and rebuttal of one party. No matter how judiciously or diligently a judgment is delivered, natural justice hinges upon the necessity of the right to reason and to defend. A complete travesty of principles of natural justice might take place if the court is not made aware of defense of both sides to the litigation.[42]

The judge is therefore not in a position to compensate for the lack of informed scrutiny, challenge and counterevidence that a person familiar with the case could bring. Such scrutiny is the whole point of the principle that a person whose liberty is in jeopardy must know the case to meet…. How can one meet a case one does not know?[43]

B. Rulings by the Indian Judiciary Favoring Public Interest
Against the Fair-Trial Principle

For a long time, the Indian judiciary has supplemented the procedure of evidential disclosure, having barely managed to grapple with the fair trial principle in its true sense. However, the convoluted issue of disclosure subsequent to a denial by the State on the ground of public interest has seemingly not been addressed. It is noteworthy that such an invidious approach by the judiciary rarely mitigates the harm it causes to the principle of fair hearing. Thus, when there is exclusion of an affected party to the extent that it is sent away with no redress at all, it in effect results in an outlawing.

The following cases instantiate the issues that arise in the absence of a definitive legislative model of disclosure against the argument of national security and/or public interest:

  1. Tribhuvandas Bhimji Zaveri v. CCE: In a case where the denial of security clearance for ground handling service at different airports on the ground of national interest was challenged, the court accepted that the argument entailing “national interest” fell within the exceptions to the principles of natural justice. It was held that a party could not insist on the strict observance of the principles of natural justice. The court also assumed the power to call for the files and determine whether the invocation of national security was justified. The court laid that once the state took the stand that the issues involved national security concerns, it would not disclose the reasons to the affected party.[44]
  2. SCOD 18 Networking Pvt. Ltd. v. Ministry of Information & Broadcasting: In another case an affected Multi Service Operator (“MSO”), which ran a cable television service, sought the production of relevant files pertaining to the withdrawal of its security clearance by the Ministry of Home Affairs and Ministry of Information and Broadcasting. Though the thrust of the MSO’s case was disclosure, it subsequently consented to the court’s exclusive perusal of the files. The Court, however, maintained that in the event “there [was] any material produced before the Court, then, without disclosing its source,” the Court might still direct the government to comply with the “contours” of a reasonable hearing opportunity. The High Court, after perusing the files, observed that there was definite material that would enable the Government to conclude that the Home Ministry had withdrawn the security clearance. An opportunity, as observed by the Court, would not enable the affected MSO to probe the “confidential or secret” information that “cannot not be disclosed at any cost.”[45] It was emphasized that if it is the Ministry’s “primary job” to preserve security interests, then its observations and remarks could not be “allowed to be probed in the manner sought by [the affected MSO].”[46] If the parties were to seek the above details, then it would “expose” all those concerned, which would not be in the interests of justice either.[47] Thus, relying on the material which was found to be germane to the security interests of the nation, the court held that “no useful purpose” would be served by directing a hearing.[48]
  3. Satish Nambiar v. Union of India, through Ministry of Home Affairs, through its Secretary, Foreigners Division: Where a security agency of the Central Government had submitted an adverse report necessitating the cancellation of an Overseas Citizenship of India registration granted to the Petitioner, the challenge against the legality of the order was on the ground that a hearing ought to have been granted before passing such a prejudicial order. The court after examining the documents produced before it in a sealed cover came to the conclusion that when the Government had acted on the opinion of the security agency that it was likely to affect the security of the country and relationship with foreign countries, there would hardly be a requirement to grant a pre-decisional hearing.[49] Evidently, the court did not deal with the question of a post-decisional hearing and in fact concluded that the Petitioner had hardly suffered any prejudice.
  4. Bycell Telecommunications India Pvt. Ltd. v. Union of India: In yet another decision wherein the intelligence and security agencies had reached a subjective conclusion regarding a company’s financial investments and after due consideration withdrew the company’s security clearance, the affected company argued the recovation without a disclosure of the underlying grounds was a violation of natural justice. The approval was chiefly rejected on the ground that the investment was being routed through countries of concern/unfriendly countries. It was urged by the Petitioner that if the information only pertained to funds being tainted then it should be provided to enable a response to this The plea was negatived by the court, which observed that the disclosure of information was likely to jeopardize and expose the sources of information. Lastly, a further request on the ground that the conclusions remained inconclusive was also declined by the Court.[50]

II. Public Interest and the Shadow of Immunity

While there are many grey areas owing to the absence of a proper procedure guiding fair trial due to limited disclosure by the Indian judicial system, there is nothing that offends fair trial more than the shadow of public interest immunity. Absence of a proper legislative model provides weak and fragile support to courts already burdened courts with hard choices, which after satisfying themselves regarding the adverse material, unreservedly sanction non-disclosure on grounds of public interest even if it means depriving the fair trial of a claim or defense. Even the smallest probability of injury to the public interest outweighs the right of disclosure. Naturally, the state needs to balance the preservation of national secrets and the right to a fair trial, keeping in mind the overall public interest. It also cannot lose sight of twin imperatives—justice and security. But such exceptions and limitations to the general rule make it nearly impossible for an affected party to demand the right to disclosure.

The two competing interests which need to be fortified against each other by the State and the Judiciary are–

  1. The interest of a litigant in a fair system and other essential principles of natural justice; and
  2. The interest of the state in maintaining and preserving national security social peace and political stability, preventing witness intimidation, and prevention and detection of crime or misconduct.

A. If National Interest is of Paramount Importance,
Should Natural Justice Always Give Way?

What ensues if the Court cannot reconcile the right, on the one hand to disclosure of evidence, and, on the other, the state’s interests in security, inclining the entire proceeding towards the national interest? Do we have alternatives to deal with a breakdown of the fundamental principle of human rights and principles of natural justice which ought to be followed in every proceeding? While it is true that the presumption of observance of principles of natural justice in favor of the private interest of an excluded party will weaken against the public interest, is the public interest argument so forceful that no alternative could reconcile the divide between the two? The Author envisages a workable alternative in order to harmonize the delicate principle of fair hearing after a valid claim for withholding evidence is made by the state. Therefore, the question that emerges from the compelling discussion is when the state denies adverse material to the affected party, does it necessarily have to result in a complete derogation of fair representation and the right to cross examine, which would in turn imply no trial at all. Indubitably, an alternative, without compromising the source and secrecy behind the adverse material, would salvage the fair hearing principle from being rendered otiose. Such a system would enable representation and rebuttal of secret evidence even in the absence of the excluded party.

III. Current Position in the United Kingdom: “Closed Proceeding”

In order to overcome the above-stated anomaly, it is proposed that India study the model of “closed proceeding” in the United Kingdom and adopt it in the Indian system. This section outlines the mechanism adopted by the United Kingdom in managing its civil disputes concerning materials of national interest, the common law principle of the public interest immunity, the evolving concept of a “special advocate” appointment, and the Justice and Security Act of 2013.

The development of PII, a construct of common law, began due to rising conflicts between public interest and established rules of defense and disclosure. Under the Civil Procedural Rules of the UK, public authorities were precluded from disclosing materials which could be proved to be of national importance.[51] It is pertinent to note the legislature has not passed a counterweight to these procedural rules or otherwise assisted litigants in proceedings so affected. The Justice Security Bill introduced by the UK Parliament sought to legalize the closed procedures with the use of special advocates so “that secret evidence could be used in a civil proceeding where the parties and their lawyers are absent from the trial . . . .”[52]

Before discussing the Justice and Security Act of 2013, which was enacted in the wake of the UK Supreme Court’s 2011 ruling in Al Rawi v. Security Service,[53] it is crucial to understand that the United Kingdom itself did not have a particular provision dealing with civil litigation that gave rise to questions of national interest.[54] The UK Supreme Court cases that contextualize the establishment of the Justice and Security Act are the following:

1.     Duncan v. Cammell Laird[55]

A submarine, HMS Thetis, while engaged on a trial drive, sank and killed ninety-nine servicemen on board. The kin of the deceased later sued the manufacturers for negligence. The suit, though between two private parties, had the state intervening in order to prevent the production of documents in possession of one of the parties.[56] The state claimed Crown Privilege in response to a request for documents on the ground that it would be injurious to public interest. The documents sought to be produced included the contract for the hull and machinery of the Thetis, letters written before the disaster relating to the vessel’s trim, and reports as to the condition of the Thetis.

The question to be determined was as to the circumstances in which privilege could have been claimed validly on behalf of the Crown in a civil action and the proper procedure to be followed if this claim is to be made good. The court observed that the question whether the production of a document is or is not detrimental to the public service depends on the various viewpoints of informed officials of respective departments. The Court being unaware of the exigencies of the public service ought not to grant inspection.[57] The court, however, concluded that it is the judge who is in control of the trial ruling over the production, not the executive.[58]

With respect to the validity of a claim, the court indicated that claims invoked on the grounds of public criticism and parliamentary discussion ought to not to be entertained as against serious exceptions such as national defense, diplomatic relations, and proper functioning of the public service.[59]

Lord Simon, dismissing the appeal, concluded:

After all, the public interest is also the interest of every subject of the realm, and while, in these exceptional cases, the private citizen may seem to be denied what is to his immediate advantage, he, like the rest of us, would suffer if the needs of protecting the interests of the country as a whole were not ranked as a prior obligation.[60]

2.     Conway v. Rimmer[61]

This private dispute was between a probationary police officer (Conway) and his superintendent who was sued in an action for malicious prosecution by Conway. The documents included four reports made by the superintendent about Conway during his period of probation, and a report by him to the chief constable for transmission to the Director of Public Prosecutions in connection with the prosecution of Conway on a criminal charge, on which Conway was acquitted. The objections to disclosure were made by the Secretary of State of Home Affairs on the grounds that the production of the documents would be injurious to the public interest.

The questions framed by the court were whether the court had any right to question the finality of a Minister’s certificate and, in the presence of the same, how and in what circumstances was it to be exercised and made effective.[62]

The argument favoring disclosure was made in the light of the fact that there was no trace of confidentiality in an administrative and disciplinary matter such like the present one, as against any other matter disclosing the activities of criminals or the names of informers or the methods of the police. Opposing disclosure, the Ministry argued that the probation reports should be privileged because of the hardship caused on the man reporting and also to ensure full and frank reports.

Lord Reid, without expressing any doubt over the decision of Duncan v. Cammell, emphasized that the strong impression of disclosure which fell from Lord Simon in that case was because Lord Simon had primarily in mind cases where disclosure would involve a danger of real prejudice to the national interest. Lord Reid found it difficult to apply the same principle in the present case, which entailed the discovery of routine reports on a probationer constable.[63]

In Lord Pearce’s view, it was “essential to leave the vague generalities of wide classes and get down to realities in weighing the respective injuries to the public of a denial of justice on the one side and, on the other, a revelation of governmental documents which were never intended to be made public and which might be inhibited by an unlikely possibility of disclosure.”[64] The court, allowing the appeal, ordered production for inspection of the document in question.

3.     Al Rawi v. Security Service[65]

The issue before the UK Supreme Court was whether the court had an inherent power to order a “closed material procedure” instead of determining the issue through a conventional PII procedure in respect of documents which were the subject of the government’s PII claim. The civil claim arose from the detention of the claimants by various foreign authorities including the Security Service at Guantanamo Bay whereunder the claimants had pleaded causes of action including false imprisonment, ill treatment, conspiracy to injure and torture, and breach of the Human Rights Act of 1998.

The preliminary issue was in these terms:

“Could it be lawful and proper for a court to order that a ‘closed material procedure’ (as defined below) be adopted in a civil claim for damages?

Definition of ‘closed material procedure’

A “closed material procedure” means a procedure in which

  • a party is permitted to
    • comply with his obligations for disclosure of documents, and
    • rely on pleadings and/or written evidence and/or oral evidence

without disclosing such material to other parties if and to the extent that disclosure to them would be contrary to the public interest (such withheld material being known as “closed material”), and

  • disclosure of such closed material is made to special advocates and, where appropriate, the court; and
  • the court must ensure that such closed material is not disclosed to any other parties or to any other person, save where it is satisfied that such disclosure would not be contrary to the public interest.

For the purposes of this definition, disclosure is contrary to the public interest if it is made contrary to the interests of national security, the international relations of the United Kingdom, the detection and prevention of crime, or in any other circumstances where disclosure is likely to harm the public interest.”

The government, while admitting that the claimants had been transferred and detained, denied the liability for the alleged mistreatment. The course contended by the government required closed proceedings and special advocates who would represent the interest of the claimants in the closed hearings. Via this procedure, the government sought to rely on the material as evidence against the plaintiffs’ claim while preventing the plaintiffs from seeing material. Unexpectedly, the claimants opted for the conventional PII exercise to be conducted ex parte by a judge in relation to the closed material.

Referring to the Government’s application, which was an alternative to the public interest immunity claim, the majority found that the common law of PII could not be replaced in such a way that it extended to closed-court procedures, but rather a specific legislative amendment was required for such a fundamental departure from the common law principles of procedural justice.[66] While holding that there could be no objection to improving the position of an excluded party by the use of special advocates,[67] the court was wary of the limits of its inherent power in controlling its own procedure in the absence of a statute or statutory procedural rules.[68]

Lord Phillips raised a notable question regarding this departure from the usual practice of leading evidence from both parties for subsequent defense. He questioned “[w]hether the general principles applied by the Court of Appeal would necessarily preclude the use of a different closed material procedure, not as a substitute for the conventional PII exercise, but to mitigate the injustice that can occur when relevant evidence is excluded from disclosure because of PII, is a question that should be left open until it actually arises . . . .”[69]

The dissenting opinion, however, emphasized the flexibility of the development of common law and suggested permitting a closed-court procedure involving special advocates.[70]

While the aforenoted statement of Lord Phillips does not provide a solution to the looming derogation from the right to defend, it undeniably implants the idea of mitigating the injustice of not having a fair trial by having an approachable mechanism to start with.

B. Review of the Closed Material Procedure
Under the Justice and Security Act of 2013[71]

Any court (High Court, the Court of Appeal, the Court of Session or the Supreme Court) hearing a civil proceeding is empowered to make a declaration that a particular case is one in which a closed material application may be made in relation to certain evidentiary material.[72] The application may be made by a “party to the proceedings,” “the Secretary of State,” or by the court “of its own motion.” [73] The application may or may not be supported by some of the adverse secret material to demonstrate the sensitivity and relevance of the documents. The person making the application would need to persuade the court that if certain evidentiary material were to be disclosed it would cause damage to the national security[74] and that a closed proceeding would be in the interest of effective administration of justice. The lynchpin of the entire closed proceeding system is attached to the condition that no court will be able to declare that a case should be tried under the said system unless it considers that it is in the interests of the fair and effective administration of justice to do.

Special advocates would then be served the closed material bundles and would assist in representing the interests of the excluded party. The purpose of appointing a special advocate is to enable representation of the interests of an excluded party in closed material proceedings.[75] This advocate is security-cleared lawyer and is mostly appointed by the Attorney General.[76]

For the purposes of accountability, the Secretary of the State is obligated to annually lay a report before the Parliament to state the operation of the provisions of the closed material proceedings, the number of applications made, and whether the court granted or revoked the declarations thereunder.[77] This practice is much against the PII regime where there were no ready records or “means of understanding whether its use is routine, occasional or exceptional.”[78]

The court while determining the issue would focus on the relevance of the sensitive material to the issues in the case. Further, the judge’s power is made explicit and can be exercised at any stage to invoke, review, revoke,[79] or declare the closed material proceeding, considering the interest of a “fair and effective administration of justice.”[80] While exercising its discretion, the court must review all the documents put before it in the course of proceedings and not just the information on which its decision to grant the declaration is based. A decision ought to be a reasoned one but which may attract restrictions in relation to certain damaging particulars.[81] This way the closed material procedure is different from the conventional PII exercise whereunder if adverse material is found to be inadmissible, then “[n]o-one may rely on it, including the court.”[82]

The next stage of the process entails the court’s satisfaction and agreement on the issue of disclosure and its consequences on national security.[83] At this stage, the court might also consider if a non-damaging summary of the material should be provided or not. Regardless, the court must always act in accordance with Article 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights. It is imperative that such an application is always considered without any other party or their legal representatives being present, unless it is a person appointed as a special advocate.

IV. The Implementation of Closed Material Proceedings in India:
Lessons to be Learned

Rather than disavowing the need for a procedure that would deny a litigant of his fundamental common law rights, it is vital that a paradigm of an equitable system is explored. No doubt, the closed material procedure followed in the United Kingdom defeats the two dimensions of an open justice system, that is, the private interest of an individual’s right to proper administration of justice and the social value of media scrutiny of the adjudication.[84] The procedure also obviates the decision-making power of the court and lets the government decide what evidence should remain closed and serves only that material to the special advocate. An open justice system not only serves a wider purpose by maintaining public confidence in the justice system but also instills discipline in its administration. Public trials ensure efficiency, competence and implant integrity within the judiciary. All of these underpinned essentials are lost in closed material proceedings. In India, there is presently no procedure on having closed material proceedings, let alone special advocates designated to mitigate the defects of the same. An inspection of the UK model would reveal the strengths and likely limitations if it were to be introduced in India as a means of conducting public interest or national security litigation. A critical review of the UK model would help to identify and implement an improvised version in India.

The use of special advocates would definitely be necessary in order to enable the courts to carry out the balancing exercise. While the appointment of a special advocate goes against the right of an individual to be able to deal with the evidence personally, it certainly offers a potential solution, that is, a right to an effective remedy. However, this solution lies solely within the domain of Parliament. If the Parliament does allow this modification to the trial process, it ought not overlook the intricacies involved in the process.

If the Indian legislature has to adopt the closed material procedure, it would be only possible and appropriate if all the safeguards against the prejudice that it might create are taken. The Indian legislature would not only have to introduce a similar provision to the present laws, but it would also have to consider certain gripping aspects in the course of action, such as outlining:

  1. A definition of “public interest” or “national security” and whether an injury to either would be caused by disclosure of documents: The first and foremost proposal is to define “public interest” which would entail with it the scope and to what extent public interest shall weigh upon a fair trial procedure. This is imperative since the weight that national security upholds in public interest would make a blanket claim for obstructing fairness. Since public interest concerns itself with the safekeeping of national security, it is quintessential to define the two concepts which might include socio-political stability, territorial integrity, economic solidarity and strength, external peace, prevention of crime, its detection, and witness intimidation, etc. A proper definition of the terms “national security” and “public interest” would enable the courts to explicate the nature of the document sought to be withheld.
  2. Conceptualizing the closed material procedure in India: As has been discussed earlier, the closed material procedure shall encompass the appointment of special advocates who would test the adverse material on behalf of the affected parties, and it would enable a rebuttal against the same, all without compromising the source of the material. The difficulty really lies in distinguishing between what makes a departure from procedure a mere irregularity and what makes it an illegality. In the absence of any legislative model, the courts will not be in a position to order any denial or departure from the right to defend and disclosure to the excluded party which might coerce the procedure towards illegality. Therefore, any procedure that hampers fair hearing principles and that has a direct bearing on the interest of the affected party would be illegal without a governing rule or regulation. There is a thin line between making the procedural changes with minor repercussions on a case-by-case basis, such as allowing the excluded party to take notes rather than have the entire material, which would not affect the substance of a fair trial procedure, and broader violations of fair trial rights. However, a substantial usurpation of the right to peruse and assigning the same to a special advocate would require a legal sanction.
  3. Who can file an application for having a closed proceeding or claim the public interest defense: While there have been cases in India whereunder the affected party has, despite seeking disclosure of the adverse material, acceded to the court’s exclusive perusal of the file without disclosing it to them; either party, or the court suo moto, may move for a closed proceeding.
  4. A test to check the risk or harm that the document plays in the event of disclosure: The court shall first satisfy itself on the factum of the degree of harm that a disclosure may cause as compared to the public interest in fair and open justice system. Once the evidence has passed the threshold of being able to receive protection against disclosure, the court shall appoint special advocates in order to assist the court and the accused for the rest of the proceeding.
  5. Appointments of “special advocates” for the purpose of examining the material withheld: Special advocates must be independent and impartial with a longstanding reputation at the bar. The special advocate must not be appointed by the government, for example the Attorney General, since the Government would be an interested party.
  6. The scope of assistance that a “special advocate” might be able to give his client who would still be unaware of the contents of the documents: First, the special advocates who has been privy to the documents undisclosed shall assist the excluded party (that is, the party who has been excluded from disclosing the material) in letting them know the reasons behind the likely outcome, rather than disclosing the entire material off- This is with a view to meet the ends of justice which requires the excluded party to be aware of the case put against them, when she or he has no choice but to accede to the procedure. Second, as much information that can be provided without comprising its security should be given to the excluded party. Rules governing the communication between the special advocate and the excluded party ought to be restrictive, but not to the extent that it renders the process completely otiose.
  7. Role of the courts: First, enough discretion shall be given to the court to decide if the material ought to be relied upon or not, or if it could be made available to the court alone for arriving at a reasoned order. Therefore, it matters not if the proceeding is chosen to be a closed one, since each material or document would be open to the test of balancing against the principle of fair trial. Second, the judges delivering a judgment referring to closed materials ought to openly speak about the material relied upon, without revealing the contents of it. Third, impeccable impartiality from the judge would be expected to point out any evidence which is in favor of the excluded party and against the State. Fourth, where the court feels that the ends of justice can be met by the special advocate’s presence itself, it may order or sanction the absence of the excluded party. However, there ought to be no compromise on the right to rebut and cross examine the witnesses.
  8. Role of the State: The golden rule that full disclosure of any material which strengthens or weakens the case of the affected party shall be disclosed to the defense shall be followed throughout the proceeding. The State pleading non-disclosure shall be allowed to produce the aforenoted material at any point of the proceeding.
  9. Who would be the ultimate decision maker regarding whether public interest favors non-disclosure: Arguably, the independence of the courts can only be sustained if the courts can analyze whether the information meets public interest and national security threshold. The final decision-making authority shall reside with the Courts, upon their satisfaction by examining the material placed on record by the state. If an agency of the state decides against disclosure, then the final decision-making power cannot reside with it. This would fall foul of the principle nemo judex in causasua, that is, no one should be a judge in his own cause.

Conclusion

The court cannot, however, introduce or seek to regulate its procedure by using its inherent powers resulting in a denial of the right to participate in the proceedings in accordance with the fundamental practice of natural and open justice. Any new mechanism bringing in departure from the open justice and the natural justice principles shall have to be introduced by the Parliament alone. It is not the sole responsibility of the courts to deal with the formidable weapon of public policy; the legislature, which has a heightened responsibility, too, has to step in to take charge of the necessary law reforms. Undisclosed and unchallenged evidence can never effectively fulfill the needs of a proper justice administration system. Yet communication between an advocate and his client, without revealing the specific details about the evidence would still be better than no communication at all. This at the least improves the defendant’s chance and ability to present his case. This defense of natural justice has the power to create good while protecting our fundamental and civil rights—and cause equal harm and much mischief, if it is used potently for vested rights and to obstruct the path of justice. Even though it is impossible to lay down straightjacket rules for principles of natural justice, their scope cannot be limited to the extent of eliminating the right to fair trial. As Justice Bridge rightly put it, “My Lords, the so-called rules of natural justice are not engraved on tablets of stone.”[85] It is, thus, the need of the hour to revolutionize this principle into serving public interest, which encompasses within its realm the requirement of a fair decision-making mechanism.

* Mishika Bajpai holds a degree in Bachelor of Laws from Symbiosis International University in India. She practices in the Supreme Court of India and High Court of Delhi and represents clients in matters pertaining to constitutional law, civil dispute resolution, and arbitration.

[1] Dhakeswari Cotton Mills Ltd. v. Comm’r of Income Tax, West Bengal, AIR 1955 SC 65 (India); Boswell’s Lessee v. Otis, 50 U.S. (9 How.) 336, 350 (1850) (“No principle is more vital to the administration of justice, than that no man shall be condemned in his person or property without notice, and an opportunity to make his defence.”).

[2] Swadeshi Cotton Mills v. Union of India, (1981) 1 SCC 664, 685, 707 (India).

[3] General Medical Council v. Spackman [1943] AC 627 (HL), 638 (appeal taken from EWCA).

[4] See Fuentes v. Shevin, 407 U.S. 67, 81 (1972) (“[F]airness can rarely be obtained by secret, one-sided determination of facts decisive of rights.”); Jasper v. United Kingdom, (App no 27052/95) [2000] ECHR 27052/95, 30 EHRR 41, ¶ 51; Fitt v. United Kingdom, 2000-II Eur. Ct. H.R. 369, (2000) 30 EHRR 480, ¶ 45.

[5] Natwar Singh v. Director of Enforcement, (2010) 13 SCC 255, 270, 271 (India).

[6] State Bank of Patiala v. S.K. Sharma, (1996) 3 SCC 364, 387, 389, 390 (India) (“Justice means justice between both the parties.”); Niki Kuckes, Civil Due Process, Criminal Due Process, 25 Yale L. & Pol’y Rev. 1 (2006).

[7] Dhakeswari Cotton Mills Ltd. v. Comm’r of Income Tax, West Bengal, AIR 1955 SC 65 (India).

[8] Dwarka Prasad Agarwal v. B.D. Agarwal, (2003) 6 SCC 230, 245–46; ECIL v. B. Karunakar, (1993) 4 SCC 727, 773.

[9] Kanda v. Gov’t of Malaya [1962] AC 322 (PC), 337 (appeal taken from Malyasia).

[10] Ex-Armymen’s Protection Services (P) Ltd. v. Union of India, (2014) 5 SCC 409, 415 (India); H.W.R. William Wade & C.F. Forsyth, Administrative Law 468–70 (2009).

[11] Ex-Armymen’s Protection, (2014) 5 SCC at 415.

[12] Swadeshi Cotton Mills v. Union of India, (1981) 1 SCC 664, 685 (India).

[13] Natwar Singh v. Director of Enforcement, (2010) 13 SCC 255, 255, 269 (India).

[14] Swadeshi Cotton Mills, (1981) 1 SCC at 689, 705, 707.

[15] State Bank of Patiala v. S.K. Sharma, (1996) 3 SCC 364, 389, 391 (India).

[16] N.S Tewana v. Union of India, (1994) 29 DRJ 258, 283 (India).

[17] Tribhuvandas Bhimji Zaveri v. CCE (1997) 11 SCC 276, 283 (India).

[18] Swadeshi Cotton Mills, (1981) SCC at 689, 707–09.

[19] Tribhuvandas, (1997) 11 SCC at 283; Pepsu Road Transport Corpn. v. Lachhman Dass Gupta, (2001) 9 SCC 523, 523 (India); see Martin H. Redish & Lawrence C. Marshall, Adjudicatory Independence and the Values of Procedural Due Process, 95 Yale L.J. 455, 475 (1986).

[20] Tribhuvandas, (1997) 11 SCC at 283.

[21] Global Vectra Helicorp vs. Directorate General of Civil Aviation and Anr., 2012 SCC Online Del 3267, W.P.(C) 2775/2012 at ¶¶ 61, 69, 75 (India); see Baldwin v. Hale, 68 U.S. (I Wall.) 223, 233 (1864) (recognizing a due process right to notice and hearing prior to a court’s adjudication of property rights); Goldberg v. Kelly, 397 U.S. 254, 261 (1970) (recognizing a due process right to notice and hearing prior to an administrative agency’s termination of welfare benefits).

[22] Union of India v. Ranu Bhandari, (2008) 17 SCC 348 (India).

[23] Id. at 349; see India Const. art. 22, § 5.

[24] Swadeshi Cotton Mills v. Union of India, (1981) 1 SCC 664, 687 (India) (citing Wiseman v. Borneman [1971] AC 297 (HL)).

[25] Secretary of State for Justice, Justice and Security Green Paper, 2011, https://www.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/79293/green-paper_1.pdf.

[26] See Sahara India Real Estate Corpn. Ltd. v. SEBI, (2012) 10 SCC 603, 723 (India) (holding that open justice permits fair and accurate reports of court proceedings to be published).

[27] Kumar, Miiko A., Protecting State Secrets: Jurisdictional Differences and Current Developments, 82 Miss. L.J. 853, 878 (2013).

[28] Indian Evidence Act, No. 1 of 1872, India Code, § 123.

[29] State of Punjab v. Sodhi Sukhdev Singh, AIR 1961 SC 493 (India), ¶ 13; R.K. Jain v. Union of India, (1993) 4 SCC 119, 137 (India).

[30] Tribhuvandas Bhimji Zaveri v. CCE (1997) 11 SCC 276, 283 (India).

[31] R.K. Jain v. Union of India, (1993) 4 SCC 119, 138 (India).

[32] S.P. Gupta v. Union of India, 1981 Supp. SCC 87, 287 (India).

[33] Id. at 287.

[34] Id at 138.

[35] State of Punjab v. Sodhi Sukhdev Singh, AIR 1961 SC 493, ¶¶ 25, 26.

[36] Id.

[37] Id. ¶ 55.

[38] Id. ¶ 85.

[39] Ex-Armymen’s Protection Services (P) Ltd. v. Union of India, (2014) 5 SCC 409, 416 (India).

[40] Id.

[41] Union of India v. Tulsiram Patel, (1985) 3 SCC 398 (India) (quoting Boswell’s Case (1606) 6 Co Rep 48-b, 52-a, 77 ER 326).

[42] Union of India v. Tulsiram Patel, (1985) 3 SCC 398, 419, 470 (India).

[43] Charkaoui v. Canada (Citizenship and Immigration) [2007] 1 S.C.R. 350 (Can.) ¶ 64 (“The designated judge, who will have access to all the evidence, will then exclude any evidence that might pose a threat to national security and summarize the remaining evidence”).

[44] Tribhuvandas Bhimji Zaveri v. CCE (1997) 11 SCC 276, 416 (India).

[45] SCOD 18 Networking Pvt. Ltd. v. Ministry of Information & Broadcasting, Writ Petition No. 2459 of 2015, ¶ 51 (Oct. 30, 2015).

[46] Id.

[47] Id.

[48] Id.

[49] Satish Nambiar v. Union of India, through Ministry of Home Affairs, through its Secretary, Foreigners Division, AIR 2008 SC 158, ¶¶ 17–18 (India).

[50] Bycell Telecommunications India Pvt. Ltd. v. Union of India (2011) 185 DLT 494 (India).

[51] See Civ. Proc. R. 76.1(4) (UK) (“[D]isclosure is contrary to the public interest if it is made contrary to the interests of national security, the international relations of the United Kingdom, the detection and prevention of crime, or in any other circumstances where disclosure is likely to harm the public interest.”); Civ. Proc. R. 76.2(2) (UK) (“The court must ensure that information is not disclosed contrary to the public interest.”); Civ. Proc. R. 76.29(8) (UK) (“The court must give permission to the Secretary of State to withhold closed material where it considers that the disclosure of that material would be contrary to the public interest.”); Civ. Proc. R. 31.19(1) (UK) (“ A person may apply, without notice, for an order permitting him to withhold disclosure of a document on the ground that disclosure would damage the public interest.”).

[52] Miiko A. Kumar, Protecting State Secrets: Jurisdictional Differences and Current Developments, 82 Miss. L.J. 853, 874 (2013).

[53] [2011] UKSC 34 (appeal taken from EWCA).

[54] The UK Parliament used a similar procedure via the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2005 and the Counter-Terrorism Act in matters relating to national security interests.

[55] [1942] AC 624 (HL) (appeal taken from EWCA).

[56] Id. at 633.

[57] Id. at 640 (Lord Simon).

[58] Id. at 642.

[59] Id.

[60] Id. at 643.

[61] [1968] AC 910 (HL) 940 (appeal taken from EWCA).

[62] Id. at 1007.

[63] Id. at 938, 939 (Lord Reid).

[64] Id. at 986 (Lord Pearce).

[65] Al Rawi v. Security Service [2011] UKSC 34 (appeal taken from EWCA).

[66] Id. at [186] (Lord Dyson).

[67] Id. at [133] (Lord Clark).

[68] Id. at [21] (Lord Dyson).

[69] Id. at [196] (Lord Phillips).

[70] See id. at [159]–[164] (Lord Clarke)

[71] Justice and Security Act 2013, c. 18 (UK).

[72] Id. § 6(1).

[73] Id. § 6(2) 2013.

[74] Id. § 11(1).

[75] Id. § 9.

[76] Id.

[77] Id. § 12.

[78] Adam Tomkins, Justice and Security in the United Kingdom, 47 Isr. L. Rev. 305, 311 (2014) [hereinafter Tomkins, Justice]; see also Adam Tomkins, National Security and the Due Process of Law, 64 Current Legal Probs. 215, 252 (2011).

[79] Justice and Security Act, § 7(2).

[80] Id. § 7 2013.

[81] Id. § 11(1).

[82] Tomkins, Justice, supra note 78, at 311.

[83] Justice and Security Act, § 8.

[84] See Adrian Zuckerman, Editor’s Note, Closed Material Procedure — Denial of Natural Justice, 30 Civ. Just. Q. 345 (2011) (UK).

[85] Lloyd v. McMahon, [1987] 1 AC 625 (HL) 702, 703 (appeal taken from Eng.).

Populist Candidates and the Fitness for Public Rule: An International Human Rights Law Perspective

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By Thompson Chengeta*

The twenty-first century has seen the rise of populist leaders who do not respect human rights. The rise of such leaders has been explained in terms of current world problems like terrorism, migration, influx of refugees, economic stagnation, and cultural backlash against liberties that come with human rights, education, and other freedoms. Populists promise to rectify such problems at any cost, making it clear that nothing will stand in their way—not even fundamental human rights. They publicly support racial discrimination, torture and other violations of jus cogens norms of human rights. Despicable as they may seem, such populist demagogues often have the support of the electorate. This Article discusses whether such “anti-human rights candidates” (defined here as candidates whose record, conduct or proposed plans or policies are inconsistent with fundamental rights) are fit for public office. It further addresses the question whether a state that allows an “anti-human rights candidate” to run for public office violates its international obligations.

Introduction

Is it to be supposed that the ability to fascinate an electorate (as Hitler did) has some connection with the fitness for public office?[1]

—Roger Scruton

The office of the Head of State—indeed, any public office—plays a very important role in the protection of human rights. When assuming office, presidents often swear to defend their countries’ constitutions—constitutions which, in most cases, contain a bill of rights.[2] Across the globe, constitutions play a fundamental role in the daily realities of citizens and political governance.[3] The conduct of public officials, in particular, those in leadership positions, influences values that are respected in society.[4]

In an era of populism—where individuals who speak and act against human rights can still have a majority following—there are important questions that need to be answered: In the name of majority will, should such individuals be allowed to run for public office? Should the electorate be the sole judges of candidates’ fitness for public office? What are the international law obligations of a state when faced with a demagogue who commands a majority following yet speaks against fundamental human rights guaranteed in the state’s constitution and international human rights treaties to which it is a party? These are some of the main questions I seek to answer. This Article is premised on the idea that majoritarianism is not equivalent to democracy and that commitment to human rights norms should be one of the factors considered when determining a candidate’s fitness for public office.

Part I of this Article discusses the main factors that have contributed to populism in the twenty-first century and their impact on human rights. The section questions the primacy afforded to majority rule, in light of democratic processes producing leaders with a questionable record concerning human rights.

Part II of this Article delineates the scope of the arguments, and attempts to preempt arguments against consideration of human rights norms when determining a candidate’s fitness for public office.

Part III is a general discussion of the fitness for public office rule, based on a study of factors that are taken into consideration by states. The section addressed the lack of human rights considerations in such rules.

Part IV is a case study of the rules concerning the impeachment of a head of state. The section discusses this with examples of laws in the United Kingdom, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Philippines and the United States of America, and shows that impeachment is a political process that is largely ineffective to deal with the problem at hand. The section also addresses the question that if a president can be impeached—or can be potentially impeached—for human rights violations, can a candidate who plans to violate the same human rights be prevented from running for public office?

The above question leads to a potential conflict of interest and rights such as the right to vote, freedom of speech, and the right to participate in the political life of one’s country. This is the subject of discussion in in Part V. Further, there is also a discussion of the challenges that are posed by arguments on cultural relativism and universality of human rights when calibrating the fitness for public office rule on a human rights basis.

Part VI considers the important question of whether a state that allows an anti-human rights candidate to run for public office violates its international law obligations. This is more of a “prevention being better than cure” approach to governance.

This is followed by conclusions and recommendations in Part VII. In summary, the research finds that while human rights norms have played a fundamental role in shaping domestic, regional, and international policy, they have been given limited significance as far as the determination of who gets to govern a country. The Article argues that states’ international obligation to respect, promote, and protect human rights justifies ensuring that demagogues who attack guaranteed human rights are prevented from holding public office

I. Twenty-First Century Populism, Democracy,
Majoritarianism and Human Rights

The twenty-first century has seen the rise of populist leaders such as the U.S. President Donald Trump, the president of a French political party, Marine Le Pen, Norbert Hoffer, an Australian politician, Britain’s Nigel Farage, Geert Wilders from the Netherlands, and Julias Malema from South Africa—to mention a few. Several scholars have articulated some of the factors contributing to the twenty-first-century populism and its effects on human rights.[5]

Global problems such as terrorism, migration, and the influx of refugees are among the core factors that have led to a “dangerous rise of populism”[6] within nations and “global attacks on human rights.”[7] Today, the common mantra of demagogues is that human rights norms are essentially a stumbling block to governmental efforts to defend citizens.[8] To gain the support of the electorate, some politicians capitalise on the prejudices of the populace, encouraging a belief that economic stagnation, crime, and security threats are the effects of migration, for example.[9]

Pippa Norris and Ronald Inglehart have cited two of the major causes of populism in the twenty-first century: economic insecurity and cultural backlash.[10] The success of populist leaders is attributed to economic insecurity and social deprivation among those who feel that they have been left behind in modern political and economic developments thereby rallying behind demagogues who promise to address their issues.[11] What about cultural backlash?

The so called “left-behinds” or “less secure strata of society”—comprising mostly of the unemployed, low-wage earners, unskilled workers and generally poor and uneducated populations—have started to resent political classes and “elite politicians” whom they believe are not protecting them from immigrants who are blamed for unemployment and the shrinking of opportunities or the already scarce resources.[12] This has led to “the anti-establishment, nativist, and xenophobic scare-mongering exploited by populist movements, parties, and leaders.”[13] Essentially, politics has become the struggle of “them” versus “us.”[14]

The second factor is the “cultural backlash thesis” where it is suggested that the rise of populist leaders and demagogues is a reaction against “progressive cultural change.”[15] The suggestion is that international norms—such as human rights—have resulted in a “silent revolution” that has seen “an intergenerational shift toward post-materialist values, such as cosmopolitanism and multiculturalism.”[16] In essence, certain privileges, cultural perceptions and identities have been eroded by changes in value-systems, causing great discomfort in certain parts of populations. Those who are disgruntled are, therefore, launching a counter-revolution in the name of populism.[17]

During Trump’s presidential campaign, his mantra was “make America great again” while supporters of Brexit often chanted “we want our country back.”[18] Similar sentiments are present on the African continent, where leaders have been expressing their disapproval of foreign or western countries’ involvement on the continent—essentially arguing for “African solutions to African problems.”[19] These are voices of those who feel that certain value-systems—in particular those based on human rights—are altering their cultures or values they have considered important for a very long time. It is, therefore, a call to return to those values or salvage whatever is left of them.

Mainstream media and social mediaplayed a very significant role in the rise of populism, by giving the populists the coverage needed to disseminate their views.[20] Populists paint an apocalyptic image: they reckon that if something is not urgently done to change the political discourse—where the current leadership is painted as more interested in the rights of terrorists and immigrants than the welfare of its citizens, there will be nothing left for the natives and their children.[21]

Arch Puddington and Tyler Roylance have pointed to the common view among scholars that the form of populism discussed above threatens “the international order of the past quarter-century—rooted in the principles of democracy, human rights, and the rule of law [gives] way to a world in which individual leaders and nations pursue their own narrow interests without meaningful constraints, and without regard for the shared benefits of global peace, freedom, and prosperity.”[22] The fundamental question, from a human rights perspective, is whether these populist leaders are fit for public office.

During his campaign, President Donald Trump “stereotyped migrants, vilified refugees, attacked a judge for his Mexican ancestry, mocked a journalist with disabilities, dismissed multiple allegations of sexual assault…pledged to roll back women’s ability to control their own fertility [and] even toyed with reintroducing torture…if that’s what the American people want.”[23]

Given that the right to freedom from torture and the right to non-discrimination are part of customary international human rights law,[24] it can be argued that Trump’s stance on torture should have resulted in disqualification from standing election for a public office whose duties include protection of human rights.

Kenneth Roth has cited the negative effects of populism as the reason for Trump’s success—where the majority think that it is better to “embrace the autocrat who shows no qualms about asserting his ‘majoritarian’ vision—self-serving as it may be—and subjugating those who disagree”[25] than hold back because of some “fanciful” human rights norms.

The fact that Donald Trump was elected and remains the U.S. president paints a picture that human rights norms are of no essence when determining an individual’s fitness for public office. Before his election, those who wanted Donald Trump’s disqualification from U.S. presidency did so because of potential conflicts of interest between his duties as president and his maintaining his position in some of his businesses.[26] There was no formal attempt to disqualify Donald Trump based on his attitude towards human rights or his plans which apparently are inconsistent with customary international human rights norms.

In general, Devona Walker has noted that in the United States there is “a huge swath of politicians [who] have been linked to white supremacist groups or made outright racist statements.”[27] Yet, such politicians remain in power and can stand for elections. For example, during the 2010 South Carolina Republican primary, Jim Knotts, in reference to President Barack Obama, had this to say about his political rivalry: “[w]e’ve already got a raghead in the White House; we don’t need another raghead in the governor’s mansion.”[28] Knotts was not disqualified although he did lose the election in the end.

In 2004, Senator John McCain used a derogatory term against Asians, saying: “I hated the gooks. I will hate them as long as I live.”[29] Notwithstanding this, McCain was allowed to contest George Bush in the Republican presidential nomination in 2000.[30] In the same year, James Hart won the Republican primary in Tennessee even after he unequivocally vowed that if “elected he would work toward keeping ‘less favored races’ from reproducing or immigrating to the United States” and accused black people of having “‘poverty genes’ that threaten to turn the United States into one ‘big Detroit.’”[31]

Likewise, State Representatives Tommy Woods, Charles Sharpe, John Moore, Congressman Bob Barr, Governor Haley Barbour, and Senator Trent Lott are known supporters or members of the white supremacist group known as the Council of Conservative Citizens, yet they were not excluded from being part of the US government.[32] Lester Maddox, a former governor of Georgia, believed that black people are intellectually inferior to white people and supported segregation to the extent that he “kicked a black man out of his establishment after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed.”[33]

Politicians who make distasteful racial slurs or speak and act against customary human rights norms are not only found in the United States but across the globe.[34] The rise of populism in America and Europe—with a consequence of wanton disregard of human rights norms—has encouraged some of the worst leaders in other parts of the world to continue with their attacks on human rights.[35] For example, President Vladimir Putin of Russia and President Xi Jiping of China now deflect criticism by pointing to similar, if not worse, circumstances in Europe and America.[36]

In South Africa, a number of public officials who have uttered racial slurs and whose human rights records are questionable remain in public office.[37] For example, the South African Economic Freedom Fighters’ (“EFF”) president, Julius Malema, has said a number of racial slurs, among them calling a white journalist a “thing.”[38] Although he was charged and convicted of hate speech for singing of the song “dubhula ibhun”’—which means shoot the boer (white person)—Malema is part of the South African Parliament.[39] No matter what the cause of frustration is, racism and racial slurs can never be justifiable. The EFF and Malema may be frustrated by the racial discrimination that black people continue to suffer in South Africa but responses that are equally racist or promote use of violence cannot be justified—especially from individuals occupying public office.

Former Zimbabwean president Robert Mugabe is also notorious for racial slurs against white people. In 2015, on his official visit to South Africa, he was approached by journalists—among them, a white man—and openly stated “I don’t want to see a white man.”[40] During a UN General Assembly meeting in New York, he referred to white people as “pink noses.”[41] Within Zimbabwe, Mugabe unconstitutionally seized land from white farmers, perpetrating racial discrimination in the name of the majority black Zimbabweans. Many people supported his land reform program out of the genuine need of land, despite the fact that the program was tainted with racial discrimination and gross violations of property rights. Like the Americans who supported Trump’s bigotry, supporters of Mugabe’s racial slurs against white Zimbabwean farmers forget that dictators “who sacrifice the rights of others in our name today” do not hesitate “to jettison our rights tomorrow when their real priority—retaining power—is in jeopardy.”[42]

In October 2016, President Muhammadu Buhari of Nigeria said, “my wife belongs to my kitchen and my living room and the other room.”[43] This was his response after his wife commented on his failing political leadership.[44] The irony of the situation is that Buhari said this on his official visit to Germany while standing right next to German Chancellor Angela Merkel, one of the most powerful women in the world.[45] Despite his discriminatory stance towards women in Nigeria, Buhari continues to occupy public office.

These incidents raise questions about whether respect for human rights have any place in assessing a candidate’s fitness for public office, and if it does, what weight is given to it. There are stricter rules in sports—for example, referees can disqualify players from tournaments for uttering racial slurs or engaging in conduct that amounts to racial discrimination.[46] Yet in politics and governance—fields that are more critical to human rights—we have politicians who churn out racial slurs and engage in human rights violations but remain in power and can run for public office. If ours is an age of human rights,[47] why are our standards so low?

Questionable Appointments at Regional and International Organizations

In governance, one can say that “the fish starts to rot from the head.”[48] In other words, if there are problems right from the top, one cannot expect better at the bottom. International organizations such as the United Nations must take lead as far as respect of human rights norms is concerned.

Yet, States whose human rights records should disqualify them from taking leadership roles in human rights intergovernmental organizations have been elected as leaders. For example, in late 2016 Saudi Arabia—a country considered to have “the world’s worst record on women’s rights”[49]—was elected by the United Nations General Assembly to be part of the fourteen Member States which serve three-year terms on the UN Human Rights Council.[50] Electing states with poor human rights records to leadership roles in United Nations human rights initiatives can put pressure on such states to reform. However, it undermines institutional integrity to the extent that the perceived potential advantage is overshadowed or not worthwhile.

In view of Saudi Arabia’s poor human rights record, Human Rights Watch has strongly criticized the election of Saudi Arabia to the Human Rights Council.[51] There are already claims that Saudi Arabia is using its position in the Human Rights Council to cover up its human rights abuses.[52] It is for some of these reasons that Amnesty International has called for the removal or suspension of Saudi Arabia from the Human Rights Council.[53]

How is it possible for the Human Rights Council—an intergovernmental body “responsible for the promotion and protection of all human rights around the globe”[54] —to have a country whose human rights records is among the worst in its leadership? Is Saudi Arabia fit for that role? The Human Rights Council should have mechanisms that guard against this if it is to be an intergovernmental body that is serious about the protection of human rights, lest it will fail like its predecessor, the UN Commission on Human Rights.[55]

Likewise, at the regional level and in full view of Mugabe’s atrocities and human rights abuses, members of the African Union elected him as the chairperson of the African Union.[56] Under Article 4(h) of the African Union’s Constitutive Act, one of the functions of the African Union is “to promote and protect human and peoples’ rights in accordance with the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights and other relevant human rights instruments.”[57] The African Union’s seriousness with human rights is seriously undermined when its members choose to elect a man who stands accused of gross violation of human rights as its chairperson.

Considering that individuals with terrible human rights records or attitudes, like Trump of the United States and Mugabe of Zimbabwe, and states with well documented human rights violations, like Saudi Arabia, continue to be given leadership roles in institutions or offices that are meant to protect human rights, it is not surprising that Kenneth Roth considers human rights values to be under global attack.[58]

Having discussed some of the factors that have contributed to the rise of populist leaders whose ideas and plans are inconsistent with international human rights norms and how some of such leaders have been voted into power, below are research questions that will be discussed in this Article:

  1. What is the role—if any—of international human rights norms in determining a candidate’s fitness for public office?
  2. What are the challenges that are posed by arguments on the universality or relativity of human rights norms and conflict of interests when determining an individual’s fitness for public office?
  3. What are the international law obligations of a state when faced with a demagogue who enjoys the support of the electorate yet speaks or acts against fundamental human rights guaranteed in the state’s constitution, international human rights treaties, or customary international law?

II. Limitations and Scope of Research

Human rights norms have played a fundamental role in influencing the policies that govern humanity. Louis Henkin observed that “ours is the age of human rights” and that “human rights is the idea of our time, the only political-moral idea that has received universal acceptance.”[59] This has been supported by scholars like Philip Alston who contemplated that human rights are “above the rank and file of competing societal goals” because of their “aura of timelessness, absoluteness and universal validity.”[60]

Yet some scholars have asked whether the age of human rights is over because of the prevalence of wars, violence, human rights violations, heinous crimes, and a culture of impunity which has not only seen individual perpetrators going unpunished but powerful states like the United States seemingly ignoring human rights norms in its global war on terror.[61] In late 2016, Kenneth Roth, the Executive Director of Human Rights Watch, observed that there are “global attacks on human rights values” owing to “the dangerous rise of populism” and election to public office of demagogues who have no respect for human rights.[62] If “ours is the age of human rights” as contemplated by Louis Henkin, why are individuals who speak and act against human rights earning the popular vote in countries that are supposed to be leading on human rights protection? It is along these lines that Makau Mutua has argued that the “human rights project” has lost “its power to mobilise outrage and action.”[63]

Notwithstanding these developments, human rights are neither an “era” nor a “project.” As rightfully observed by Philip Alston, human rights are timeless. Human rights are inherent in human beings, and they are human entitlements today and forever.[64] Just as the prevalence of crime does not invalidate criminal laws, the fact that human rights are violated does not mean they cease to exist. Instead, what is needed is for the international community to reaffirm the importance of human rights and demand their respect.[65]

Nevertheless, one has to realise that while citizens should demand respect for human rights for those who seek public office, it is easier in the context of civil and political rights than it is with socio-economic rights. In the civil and political rights domain, it is easy for the electorate, for example, to identify a right that was violated, the violator, and demand a remedy.[66] Consequently, it is easy for the electorate to determine whether an individual seeking to occupy public office has participated in the violation of a right. The case is not the same with socio-economic rights.[67] At the state level, socio-economic rights are subject to progressive realization and states are entitled to a margin of appreciation as far as distribution of resources is concerned.[68]

Furthermore, in human rights advocacy and the society at large, it is easier to mobilize outrage and action against violations of civil and political rights than it is for socio-economic rights. It is for the same reason that when the Author discussed examples of bad politicians above, it is examples of politicians who have acted against civil and political rights. It is unfortunate that we live in a society where economic dictators are acceptable while political dictators are despicable, and it appears the international community is more outraged by political tyranny than economic tyranny.[69] It is in this regard that Makau Mutua has observed that “the bias toward civil and political rights favours vested, narrow class interests and kleptocracies which are entrenched in the bureaucratic, political, and business sectors of society and represent interests that are not inclined to challenge the economic powerlessness” of the citizens.[70]

Therefore, while it may be easy to argue on principle for the exclusion of a candidate from public office based on his or her support for torture, it is less convincing to argue for the exclusion of a capitalist politician whose policies and economic monopoly substantially contributes to the suffering of the poor. Thus, even though socio-economic rights are not irrelevant in the inquiry of an individual’s fitness for public office, this memorandum will largely focus on civil and political rights and their impact on the fitness for office rule.

Many socio-economic human rights are entitlements of citizens that are claimable against the state.[71] Therefore it is difficult to ascertain a candidate’s human rights record, in his or her personal capacity, when they have not previously served in a public office. However, scholars have begun to accept that non-state actors can incur responsibility for human rights violations.[72]

More importantly, when shaping policy at domestic and international level there have been strong suggestions for a multi-disciplinary approach—giving due consideration to values and principles from different fields. Makau Mutua has already criticized an approach that takes human rights as the only discipline that can solve the problems of humanity.[73] This is particularly relevant in a discussion of a candidate’s fitness for public office, which has implications on democracy, state sovereignty, self-determination, the rights of citizens to decide who governs them and the rights of the minority to be protected from the whims of the majority. Makau has noted as follows:

The human rights movement is presented by its scholars and advocates as above politics…movement scholars and activists paint it as a universal creed driven by nobility and higher human intelligence. The idiom of human rights is tinged with metaphors and language that suggest eternity or a final resting point in human history. The basic human rights documents are not presented as either instrumentalist, utilitarian, experimental or convenient. Rather, the authors speak as though such documents are the final truth. This elusive, yet lofty, idealism is almost biblical in its forbidding language. It implies that questioning its doctrine is perverse and unwelcome.[74]

Further, human rights activists have already been warned from adopting approaches that makes them dictators or appear to be usurping democratic processes in the name of advancing a human rights agenda.[75] Though I note from the onset that human rights is not a panacea, one cannot deny the significance of taking human rights seriously when considering whether or not an individual is fit for public office. Thus, while I will argue and emphasize the importance of human rights considerations as far as determining who should be allowed to stand election for public office, I am alive to other disciplines and interests. After all, human rights norms are there to “address mundane human problems” and may as well be part of politics.[76] What is paramount is striking a balance where there are competing interests.

III. Fitness for Public Office Rule

The question whether a candidate’s “ability to fascinate an electorate”[77] is reflective of their fitness for public office is critical in an era where certain demagogues whose speech and actions are against peremptory human rights norms are being elected into office. Normatively and from a human rights perspective, “popular elections do not override the constitutional requirements for probity, integrity and adherence to national values and principles.”[78] Thus, the fact that a candidate is able to command a majority following does not mean that they are fit for public office. For that reason, the electorate cannot be the sole judge of a candidate’s fitness for public office.

In answering the question on the issue of mere majoritarianism and fitness for public office, Roger Scruton has noted that there is a remarkable quality of those who occupy public office because of their inviolable “social and political dignity” as opposed to political firebrands who come to power by appealing to misguided populism and bigotries.[79]

The fitness for public office rule entails the examination of the private and public life of an individual who seeks to occupy public office whether through election or appointment, to determine their fitness to serve.[80] A comprehensive consideration of various jurisdictions across the globe on the fitness for public office rule shows that “it is the law everywhere that when a person becomes a candidate for a public office, his qualifications and fitness for that office may be freely and fully discussed.”[81] There is, of course, a compelling rationale for this. As rightfully pointed out by Kgafela, because “leadership decides the destiny of societies” and “without leadership, all the other rights enshrined in a national constitution remain paper rights that cannot be enjoyed,” “there must be provision for minimum standards of honor coupled with scientific evaluation of fitness for public office.”[82]

It is critical to note factors that are considered when determining a candidate’s fitness for office. While across jurisdictions the common factors that are considered when questioning a candidate’s fitness for public office are past criminal convictions,[83] lack of integrity,[84] financial delinquency,[85] conflict of interest,[86] and ill-health,[87] the Supreme Court of the United States has indicated that “anything which might touch on an official’s fitness for public office is relevant.”[88] Further, in demonstrating the relevance of “every conceivable aspect” of the life of a candidate who seeks to occupy public office when determining their fitness, the US Supreme Court held that no conduct of an official is too “remote in time or place.”[89]

It is along the same lines that the United Kingdom’s Committee on Standards in Public Life (“CSPL”)[90] has pointed out that “private behaviour can legitimately affect an individual’s employment in public office” since what is done and said in private impact on the reputation of a public office.[91] There is no doubt that citizens “draw conclusions about an individual’s public behaviour from what they know of their private behaviour.”[92] There are various examples of politicians who, on account of their “scandalous behaviour,” casting doubt on their fitness for office, have been excluded from public office.[93] The rationale behind this is that if a politician cannot well-behave in private, there is a high risk of them doing the same in public office.[94]

In the name of fitness for public office, various states have pre-employment background investigations. Such pre-employment background investigations are not limited to politicians but also apply to all public safety professionals such as police officers.[95] Of course, while the scrutiny into public officials’ private life is highly necessary,[96] it must be balanced with their right to privacy.[97]

Several jurisdictions have also considered what is meant by “integrity of public officers” in the context of fitness for public office rule. In South Africa for example, in the case of Democratic Alliance v. The President of the Republic of South Africa,[98] the court stated that to determine a candidate’s integrity, there is need for an objective assessment of both the candidate’s personal and professional life.[99] Referring to the Oxford English Dictionary, the Court defined a person of integrity to be one whose character is unimpaired, uncorrupted, incorruptible, sinless, virtuous, upright, honest, trustworthy and sincere.[100]

Likewise, when the Kenyan High Court considered the question of integrity as a factor of determining an individual’s fitness for public office, it noted that ”a person is said to lack integrity when there are serious unresolved questions about his honesty, financial probity, scrupulousness, fairness, reputation, soundness of his moral judgment or his commitment to the national values enumerated in the Constitution.”[101] In relation to criminal convictions and integrity, the Court held that whether or not a person has “been convicted of a criminal offence is not dispositive of the inquiry whether they lack integrity or not.”[102] It is a matter of whether there are, in fact, “plausible allegations which raise substantial unresolved questions about one’s integrity.”[103]

Apparently, while the fitness for public office rule is embedded in various domestic legislations and policies, few expressly mention human rights standards as part of the considerations when determining an individual’s fitness for public office.[104] Likewise, there are no international or regional treaties, policies, declarations, or guidelines articulating the fitness for public office rule and the role of human rights standards when determining a candidate’s fitness for public office.

In light of this, the main question for discussion in this Article is that if “anything which might touch on an official’s fitness for public office is relevant,”[105] what weight should be given to international human rights norms—especially those that are part of customary international law or part of jus cogens when determining an individual’s fitness for public office? Should an individual who speaks or act against customary international human rights law or norms that are part of jus cogens be allowed to stand election for public office—an office whose duties include protecting those same rights? Should it all be left to the electorate or the state—acting out of its international obligations—to decide whether or not a candidate can run for public office? The above questions will be discussed in detail in Part VII of this Article.

IV. Impeachment for Non-Fitness for Public Office

The fitness for public office rule is the basis upon which citizens seek impeachment of those already holding public office. A public official can—after election or appointment to a public office—be impeached if they conduct themselves in a manner that they become unfit to continue serving in that office.

Impeachment is a process—initiated through a formal written allegation or complaint known as articles of impeachment, and usually instituted before a quasi-political court—that is meant to remove a public officer from public office on the grounds that he or she is unfit or no longer fit for public office.[106] In broad terms, it “is a process instigated by the government, or some branch thereof, against a person who has somehow harmed the government or the community.”[107] In this section, I discuss cases of impeachment or attempted impeachment from the United Kingdom, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Philippines, and the United States of America.

A. United Kingdom

Whereas the Office of the Treasurer of His Majesty’s Navy is an office of high trust and confidence, in the faithful and uncorrupt execution whereof, the subjects of this Kingdom are deeply interested…it was the duty of the said Henry Lord Viscount Melville to observe and pursue the provisions and directions of the said act of parliament; yet…not satisfied with the ample revenue so provided for him as aforesaid, nor regarding the duty of his high and important office, did…act and conduct himself fraudulently, corruptly, and illegally.[108]

—Exhibited by the Knights of Citizens and Burgesses
in the impeachment trial of Henry Lord Viscount Melville (1806).

England has the oldest cases of executive and parliamentary impeachment and some scholars have noted that the practice of impeachment originated in the United Kingdom.[109] Although some historians have argued that impeachment was already practiced as early as the Norman period and others tracing it back to ancient Greece or during the thirteenth century in England where royal officials were removed by the King after consultation with parliament[110], there is a general consensus that impeachments—at least in the modern context—started with the removal of Richard Lyons, an English merchant, in 1376.[111] By then, there were identifiable branches of government and impeachment processes that are similar to those of the modern state.[112] Thus, impeachment procedures spread from the United Kingdom to British colonies where they still exist today—albeit, in modern form.

In the United Kingdom, impeachment has never been provided for in UK legislation or the Standing Orders of the Commons. Erskine May has described the procedure as follows:

It rests, therefore, with the House of Commons to determine when an impeachment should be instituted. A member, in his place, first charges the accused of high treason or of certain high crimes and misdemeanors, and after supporting his charge with proofs, moves that he be impeached. If the house deem the grounds of accusation sufficient, and agree to the motion, the member is ordered to go to the lords, “and at their bar, in the name of the House of Commons, and of all the commons of the United Kingdom, to impeach the accused; and to acquaint them that this house will, in due time, exhibit particular articles against him, and make good the same.” The member accompanied by several others, proceeds to the bar of the House of Lords, and impeaches the accused accordingly.[113]

In Great Britain, the last recorded impeachment was in 1806 against Henry Lord Viscount Melville.[114] Since then and for many years, the practice of impeachment was considered obsolete in the country.[115] While the UK Select Committee on Parliamentary Privilege recommended the formal abandonment of impeachment through legislation in the 1967,[116] the 1976[117] and the 1999 Joint Committee on Parliamentary Privilege Report indicated that “the circumstances in which impeachment has taken place are now so remote from the present that that the procedure may be considered obsolete,”[118] no legislation has been passed by the United Kingdom to do away with the process.[119] It has been argued that because no such legislation has been passed, it means impeachment proceedings can still be initiated in the United Kingdom.[120] This was the basis of the attempted impeachment of former Prime Minister, Tony Blair.

Although no British Prime Minister has ever been impeached,[121] there were serious attempts to impeach Tony Blair in 2004.[122] In November 2004, the United Kingdom members of parliament, amongst them Boris Johnson, Alex Salmond, and Nigel Evans, tabled a motion in parliament requesting an investigation and report to the House on the conduct of Tony Blair in relation to the war against Iraq. They wanted the investigating committee to consider:

  1. the conclusion of the Iraq Survey Group that in March 2003, Iraq did not possess weapons of mass destruction and had been essentially free of them since the mid-1990s,
  2. the Prime Minister’s acknowledgement that he was wrong when in and before March 2003 he asserted that Iraq was then in possession of chemical or biological weapons or was then engaged in active efforts to develop nuclear weapons or was thereby a current or serious threat to the UK national interest or that possession of weapons of mass destruction then enabled Iraq to inflict real damage upon the region and the stability of the world,
  3. the opinions of the Secretary General of the United Nations that the invasion of Iraq in 2003 was unlawful, and
  4. whether there exist sufficient grounds to impeach the Prime Minister on charges of gross misconduct in his advocacy of the case for war against Iraq and his conduct of policy in connection with that war.[123]

Following this, many politicians and groups in the United Kingdom signed a petition for the impeachment and prosecution of Tony Blair[124] for “misleading the British people and using faulty intelligence to go to war.”[125] To support an invasion in Iraq, Tony Blair made unsupported claims that Iraq was in possession of weapons of mass destruction.[126] On this basis, in 2003, the United Kingdom and the United States invaded Iraq.[127] It was later proved that Iraq never possessed such weapons.[128] During the invasion, there were documented gross human rights violations.[129] Before impeachment proceedings could be instituted, Tony Blair resigned.[130]

Surprisingly, the premise of the attempted impeachment of Tony Blair was not necessarily for the human rights atrocities committed during the invasion of Iraq; rather, it was on the basis that he had misled the British Parliamentary Houses.[131] There are very few cases where there have been attempts to impeach a president on the basis that he or she has violated human rights. Some of the examples are discussed below.

B. Zimbabwe

Zimbabwe was under the leadership of Robert Mugabe from 1980 until his resignation in 2017. Over the thirty-seven years of his rule, Mugabe has become notorious across the globe for human rights violations.[132] He is among the ten most well-known dictators in the world.[133] In terms of the Zimbabwean Constitution, the president may be removed from office for “serious misconduct, failure to obey, uphold or defend the Constitution, willful violation of the Constitution or inability to perform the functions of the office because of physical or mental incapacity.”[134]

The main opposition party in Zimbabwe—the Movement for Democratic Change—has made many attempts in the past to impeach Robert Mugabe on the grounds that he has violated the Constitution of Zimbabwe.[135] The recent attempt to impeach Robert Mugabe was made by a Zimbabwean lawyer and human rights activist, Promise Mkwananzi. Mkwananzi is the leader of a social movement known as “Tajamuka” which means “we refuse and we have had enough.”[136]

In late 2016, Mkwananzi made an application to the Constitutional Court of Zimbabwe invoking Section 167 (2) of the Constitution of Zimbabwe and seeking a determination by the Court on whether Mugabe has failed his constitutional obligations under Section 90 (1) and (2) of the Constitution.[137]

Section 90 (1) of the Constitution of Zimbabwe provides that the “president must uphold, defend, obey and respect the Constitution as the supreme law of the nation.”[138] In addition, Section 90 (2) provides that the president must:

promote unity and peace in the nation for the benefit and well-being of all the people of Zimbabwe,[139] recognise and respect the ideals and values of the liberation struggle,[140] ensure protection of the fundamental human rights and freedoms and the rule of law and respect the diversity of the people and communities of Zimbabwe.[141]

Under Section 167 (2), the Constitutional Court of Zimbabwe has jurisdiction to:

hear and determine disputes relating to election to the office of President[142];…disputes relating to whether or not a person is qualified to hold the office of Vice-President[143]; or determine whether Parliament or the President has failed to fulfill a constitutional obligation.[144]

In his affidavit to the Court, Mkwananzi argued that Mugabe’s violations of human rights, such as subjecting citizens to torture and depriving them of freedom of assembly, make him unfit to be president.[145] As evidence of Mugabe’s contravention of his constitutional obligations under Section 90, Mkwananzi referred to the President’s recent public speech:

During the war, we would punish defectors severely . . . we kept them underground like rats; in bunkers . . . it is the same thing we are going to do in independent Zimbabwe. The police are ours and they should see to it that these small party protesters are thrown into jail so that they can taste the food there . . . . I want to warn them very strongly, ZANU PF will not tolerate any nonsense done in the name of religion, keep to your religious side and we will respect you. If you wade into politics, you are courting trouble and we know how to deal with enemies.[146]

Then the petitioner rightfully questioned how an individual who publicly admits to violating human rights in the past and expresses his intent to do so in the future could be fit to be president.[147]

The Constitutional Court of Zimbabwe, however, dismissed the petitioner’s case, because the respondent, President Mugabe, was not properly served with court papers.[148] Therefore, the Constitutional Court did not hear the merits of the case.

Before his resignation, President Mugabe was nominated by his party as its presidential nominee for the 2018 presidential elections.[149] In addition to challenging Mugabe’s fitness for public office, one may ask whether Zimbabwe violated its international obligations by allowing Mugabe to run for president at that time. This question will be addressed in section VII.

C. South Africa

The Constitution of South Africa, adopted in the post-apartheid era, is exemplary of a good constitution and celebrated in Africa and beyond.[150] Some scholars have referred to South Africa’s transition from apartheid to democracy as a “miracle.”[151] The legacy of the apartheid government has, to some extent, shown the dangers of allowing individuals with a racial or ethnic bias in public office.

When Nelson Mandela—the first black president of South Africa—came to power, he advocated for the reconciliation of different races in the country.[152] It is through his efforts that South Africa is referred to as the rainbow nation.[153] Although its achievements may be qualified, South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, whose mandate was to “enable South Africans to come to terms with their past on a morally accepted basis and to advance the cause of reconciliation” is one of the celebrated institutions in the post-apartheid era.[154]

Given the South African experience with some of the worst of leaders who advocated for racial segregation and discrimination, one of the fundamental considerations during the constitution-making process was how to put in place mechanisms that would prevent powerful administrators with “wide discretionary powers which they regularly abuse with impunity.”[155] Yet, as discussed above, while checks and balances and other constitutional mechanisms limit the abuse of power by public officials, they can hardly prevent a draconian leader getting into public office in the first place once he or she obtains a majority vote.

Like many other constitutions, the Constitution of South Africa provides for the removal of the president from office. Under the South African Constitution, the president may be removed from office “only on the grounds of a serious violation of the Constitution or the law; serious misconduct; or inability to perform the functions of office.”[156]

Thabo Mbeki, the predecessor of Nelson Mandela, was the first South African president in the post-apartheid era to face impeachment. When Mbeki came to power in 1999, Jacob Zuma was his Vice-President—both belonging to the African National Congress (ANC). After Zuma was implicated in some corruption scandals, President Mbeki dismissed him in 2005.[157] Notwithstanding the dismissal, Zuma won the presidency of the ANC in 2007.[158]

Meanwhile, a number of corruption cases were opened against Jacob Zuma.[159] In one of the cases, South African Judge Nicholson warned against the executive using prosecutions for political gains, noting that in the Zuma corruption cases, Thabo Mbeki had a “baleful political influence.”[160] In September 2008, Thabo Mbeki agreed to resign, amidst accusations that he was abusing power to prosecute Jacob Zuma and after the ANC asked him to step down.[161]

Despite several corruption charges against him and a past accusation of rape,[162] Jacob Zuma was elected the third black president of South Africa in 2009. While in office, Zuma has been further accused of corruption. For example, in the recent Nkandla scandal, the former South African Public Protector, Thulisile Nomkhosi Madonsela, concluded that President Zuma had unduly benefited from state funds.[163]

Notwithstanding calls by politicians and activists, as well as a court order that President Zuma must pay back the money from which he unduly benefited, the president did not budge. This prompted one opposition party to bring suit to the South African Constitutional Court, arguing that the president had failed to uphold his constitutional obligations. After the Court ruled in the 2016 case of Economic Freedom Fighters v. President Jacob Zuma that the president had “failed to uphold, defend and respect the Constitution as the supreme law of the land,”[164] another opposition party, the Democratic Alliance, called for the South African Parliament “to set up an ad hoc committee to investigate the president’s fitness to hold office.”[165] Although the motion failed, the members of opposition parties, those of the Economic Freedom Fighters in particular, continue to refuse to be addressed by President Zuma in parliament, arguing that he is unfit to hold that office.[166]

While in the Zimbabwe Constitutional Court case against President Robert Mugabe the Court did not rule on merits, in the case of President Zuma, the South African Constitutional Court unequivocally determined that Zuma had violated his constitutional obligation. This raises a fundamental question: can a president continue to occupy the office after the Constitutional Court determines that he has violated his constitutional obligations? Does the answer depend on the nature of the constitutional obligations that have been violated? The latter question may seem self-defeating given that a constitution is the supreme law of the land. The question also suggests that there may be a hierarchy among the constitutional obligations of the president. For example, is there a difference in gravity between President Zuma’s failure to comply with his constitutional obligations that relates to corruption and President Mugabe’s failure to comply with his constitutional obligations by violating human rights—among them, the right to life and freedom from torture?

The above questions are important because in cases where a court rules that a president has violated his constitutional obligations—bringing into question his fitness to continue occupying public office—removal from office is not automatic. In addition to providing grounds upon which a president may be removed from office, most states provide for an impeachment procedure—a procedure in most cases that involves voting by members of the parliament or senate.

Thus, it may be possible that a constitutional court finds that the president has violated his constitutional obligations, and yet he still survives impeachment if he commands a majority in the parliament or senate. This supports the argument made above that once a dictator is in power, he may be able to consolidate his power in a way that makes his removal impossible.

D. The Philippines

Under the Constitution of the Philippines, “the President, the Vice-President, the Members of the Supreme Court, the Members of the Constitutional Commissions, and the Ombudsman may be removed from office on impeachment for, and conviction of, culpable violation of the Constitution, treason, bribery, graft and corruption, other high crimes, or betrayal of public trust.”[167] Such impeachment may be initiated only by the House of Representatives.[168]

One of the reasons for the proposed impeachment of former Philippines president, Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, was the allegation that she was:

explicitly and implicitly conspiring, directing, abetting, and tolerating with impunity as a state policy, extrajudicial executions, involuntary disappearances, torture, massacre, illegal arrest and arbitrary detention, forced dislocation of communities and other gross and systematic violations of civil and political rights and engaging in a systematic campaign to cover-up or whitewash these crimes by suppressing and obliterating the evidence, blaming the victims, terrorizing, intimidating and physically attacking witnesses, their relatives, lawyers and supporters, and human rights workers.[169]

In addition to committing human rights abuse, Arroyo’s administration was also notorious for corruption scandals and election rigging.[170] Between 2004 and 2010, President Arroyo faced more than five impeachment attempts—most of which cited human rights abuse, murders of opposition leaders in particular.[171] Yet due to the majority she held in the House of Representatives, Arroyo survived impeachment.[172]

There are two important points to note. First, a president who violates human rights may be deemed unfit for public office and can face impeachment under constitutional provisions. Second, while a president who violates human rights may be ruled unfit for the presidential office, she may still survive impeachment because the procedure is controlled by parliamentary vote. Thus, while some may hope that the election of a president who is unfit for the office can be remedied by impeachment, this will largely depend on her control over parliament.

E. The United States of America

The Nixon impeachment process, because it was done so fairly, has withstood the test of time, and remains a high-water mark in the nation’s efforts to make sure its officials respect the law.[173]

One cannot discuss impeachment of public officials without reference to the United States of America’s impeachment history. The grounds of impeachment in the United States are laid out in the U.S. Constitution which provides that “the President, Vice President and all civil Officers of the United States, shall be removed from Office on impeachment for, and conviction of, treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors.”[174] The question is whether it is possible to interpret the phrase “high crimes and misdemeanors” to include human rights violations. Some scholars have argued that the phrase includes human rights violations.[175]

To be removed from office, an official must be formally accused, impeached by the House of Representatives and tried and convicted by the Senate.[176] While impeachment requires a majority vote of the House of Representatives, a conviction requires a two-thirds vote by the Senate.[177] This raises some of the problems already indicated above—a situation where commission of impeachable offences does not necessarily guarantee impeachment.

Over fifteen public officials have been impeached by the House of Representatives[178]—starting with Senator William Blount of Tennessee who was impeached for conspiring with the British to seize Louisiana and Florida from Spain and subsequently expelled by the Senate in 1797.[179] Public officials who have been impeached include “two presidents, a cabinet member, a senator, a justice of the Supreme Court, and eleven federal judges,” who were accused of sexual scandals, bribery, cheating on income tax, perjury, and treason.[180] While President Bill Clinton was impeached on two counts of grand jury perjury and obstruction of justice, what dominated the media was his sexual relationship with former White House intern Monica Lewinsky.[181]

One of the most well-known impeachment cases in the United States is that of former president, Richard Nixon. Faced with inevitable impeachment, Richard Nixon resigned in 1974.[182] The Articles of his Impeachment stated that “Richard M. Nixon has acted in a manner contrary to his trust as president and subversive of constitutional government, to the great prejudice of the cause of law and justice, and to the manifest injury of the people of the United States” by covering up the burglary at the Democratic Party Headquarters committed by five men that were hired by Nixon’s Election Committee.[183] In addition to covering up evidence of the burglary, Nixon was also accused of “illegal wiretapping, misuse of the CIA, perjury, bribery, and obstruction of justice.”[184]

The first U.S. president who was impeached on the grounds of human rights-related issues was Andrew Johnson. He was impeached in 1868 for his “obvious lack of concern for ex-slaves, demonstrated by his veto of civil rights bills and opposition to the Fourteenth Amendment.”[185]

The former U.S. President George Bush was, however, the first president to be clearly accused of human rights violations both within and outside the United States. Yet, “in contrast to the situation with President Nixon, there has been no official reckoning of the actions of President Bush.”[186] In their book, entitled Impeach the President: The Case Against Bush and Cheney, Dennis Loo and Peter Phillips argued that when placed in the wrong hands, the White House presents an “extraordinary and unprecedented threat … to civil liberties, civil rights, the Constitution, international law, and the future of the planet.”[187]

In addition to the accusation that he violated jus ad bellum rules on the use of force,[188] Bush’s Articles of Impeachment contained allegations of human rights violations—in particular, the right to life, freedom from torture, liberty, privacy and self-determination.[189]Responsibility for human rights violations in Iraq was imputed to Bush on the basis of the international criminal law notion of command responsibility.[190]

The United States House of Representatives charged Bush with violating the right to life of several Iraqi civilians when he allowed “the targeting of civilians, journalists, hospitals, and ambulances.”[191]This also violated a number of international humanitarian law (“IHL”) rules such as distinction.[192] Furthermore, Bush violated IHL rules when he used weapons that are indiscriminate in nature and cause superfluous and unnecessary suffering—weapons such as anti-personnel mines, cluster bombs, white phosphorous and depleted uranium weapons—in locations populated by civilians.[193]

In addition to violating the right to life of Iraqi civilians, Bush was accused of violating the right to life of members of the U.S. military when he failed to provide them with available body and vehicle armor.[194] His administration also falsified the number of U.S. soldiers killed in Iraq,[195] in violation of the victims’ relatives’ right to know the truth.[196] It is generally agreed that accountability is an important aspect of the right to life.[197] Additionally, relatives of victims whose right to life has been violated are entitled to a remedy.[198] Nonetheless, the Bush administration granted immunity to mercenaries who had operated in Iraq and committed war crimes and human rights violations.[199] The mercenaries could not be prosecuted under U.S. or Iraqi law[200] for killing “many Iraqi civilians in a manner that observers have described as aggression and not as self-defense.”[201] The U.S. House of Representatives listed these violations as grounds for Bush’s impeachment. Non-prosecution of human rights violators is a violation of the US’s international obligation.[202]

For the Iraqi civilians who survived the indiscriminate attacks by U.S. soldiers, a number of their human rights were violated as well when Bush’s troops engaged in a “collective punishment of Iraqi civilian populations, including but not limited to blocking roads, cutting electricity and water, destroying fuel stations, planting bombs in farm fields, demolishing houses, and plowing over orchards.”[203]

Bush was also accused of violating the right to freedom from torture.[204] Freedom from torture is part of customary international law and is jus cogens.[205] Terror suspects were tortured in Guantanamo Bay and several other locations known as “black sites.”[206] It is ironical that while there was a huge outcry over President Bush’s torture practices and attempted impeachment on the basis of such practices, another presidential candidate—Donald Trump—indicated his support for torture and the electorate still chose him for public office.

Furthermore, Bush’s Articles of Impeachment included the charge that he had violated the right to liberty of many detainees—both U.S. citizens and foreigners—who had been subjected to inhuman and degrading treatment while in detention.[207] Both international human rights law and international humanitarian law prohibit ill-treatment of detainees.[208] The U.S. House of Representatives accused Bush of rounding up and detaining Muslims without charge, denying them access to legal counsel and subjecting them “to systematic abuse, including beating in violation of U.S. law, the Geneva Conventions and basic human rights.”[209]

Within the United States, Bush was accused of violating Americans’ right to privacy. His Articles of Impeachment indicated that the former president had been “spying on American citizens, without a court-ordered warrant, in violation of the law and the fourth amendment.”[210] He was also accused of victimizing whistle-blowers (Valerie Plame Wilson in particular),[211] tampering with free and fair elections and corrupting the administration of justice.[212] There was also an outcry over the possibility that the former president had violated the Iraqi people’s right to self-determination and interfered with their economic rights when he started a war aimed at controlling Iraqi oil.[213]

Notwithstanding the thirty-five grounds that were cited for Bush’s impeachment—including various human rights violations—the U.S. House of Representatives voted 251 to 166 to refer the impeachment process to the Judiciary Committee. The impeachment efforts became moot when Bush’s second presidential term ended in January 2009.

The attempted impeachment of George Bush on the grounds of human rights violations is significant, as it indicates that human rights standards and norms play a part in determining a person’s fitness for public office. What is not clear, however, is whether the United States—upon realizing a candidate’s attitude and planned policies are contrary to customary human rights norms—should sit back and wait for the election of that candidate into public office with the hope that he or she will be impeached. In other words, can a presidential candidate be “impeached” before assuming office because they are unfit for public office?

If a candidate has a record of human rights violations or plans to violate human rights once in office, are there any principled arguments against a state—acting in terms of its international law obligations to protect, promote and fulfill rights of all citizens—that chooses to pre-emptively act and disqualify such a candidate? The case is even stronger in situations where the candidate plans to act against human rights peremptory norms. If the U.S. House of Representatives noted torture as an impeachable offense in the case of George Bush, was there no case for disqualifying Donald Trump’s presidential candidacy on the basis that he considered reintroducing torture?

V. Conflict of Interests and Rights, Relativity, and Universality of Human Rights

While there is a need for States to start taking human rights seriously when considering a candidate’s fitness for office, the exclusion of certain individuals from standing election to public office on that basis is not easy. Some counter-arguments can be made, such as a potential conflict of rights and a concern over the relationship between cultural relativism and the purported universality of human rights. It is therefore necessary to discuss these factors before considering whether a state violates its international law obligations by allowing an anti-human rights candidate to stand for public office.

A. Balancing Competing Interests and Rights

Whenever there is a prima facie conflict of rights, fair balancing is inherent in the binding effect of international human rights law.[214] Moreover, “the search for fair balance between conflicting interests may be universally inherent in [human rights] adjudication.”[215] In some cases, courts will seek “a just balance between the protection of the general interest of the community and the respect due to fundamental human rights.”[216]

A case where an anti-human rights candidate is excluded from standing for election to public office presents a situation of competing interests, if not a prima facie conflict of rights. On one hand, while a population or a portion thereof deserve protection from a demagogue candidate whose proposed policies would interfere with their rights, exclusion of that demagogue from standing for election potentially violates his rights and those of the people who may want to vote for him.

A close example is that of Kenyan President Uhuru Kenyatta, whose fitness for office was challenged in court on human rights grounds. Following the legalization of multi-party democracy in 1991, Kenya witnessed gross human rights violations by certain politicians accustomed to a culture of impunity.[217] The situation worsened during the 2007–2008 elections, when political violence was rampant and over a thousand people died.[218]

Uhuru Kenyatta was arraigned before the International Criminal Court (“ICC”) and faced up to five counts of crimes against humanity. In particular, through command responsibility, he was accused of having “committed or contributed to the commission of crimes against humanity,” namely murder of civilians,[219] deportation or forcible transfer of civilian populations,[220] rape and other forms of sexual violence,[221] persecution of persons belonging to certain groups or of certain political affiliations[222] and “inflicting of great suffering and serious injury to body or to mental or physical health by means of inhumane acts upon civilian supporters of the Orange Democratic Movement political party in Kenya.”[223]

Serious accusations notwithstanding, Uhuru Kenyatta and his Deputy, William Ruto, were selected by their political party as presidential nominees.[224] Some Kenyan citizens challenged Uhuru and Ruto’s nominations in Kenyan court based on various sections of the 2010 Kenyan Constitution, which outlines national principles and values of governance. The petitioners argued that since the ICC confirmed charges against Kenyatta and Ruto, as there were “substantial grounds to believe” that they were either contributors or indirect co-perpetrators to inter alia, crimes against humanity committed in Kenya between December 2007 and January 2008,”[225] it was improper to allow them to stand for election. They argued that the situation was grave “especially where the humanity here refers to the people he [Kenyatta] seeks to govern.”[226] In essence, if the crimes were committed against the people of Kenya, how could Kenyatta claim or be sworn in to protect the rights of the people he had allegedly victimized?[227]

The petitioners also argued that if Kenyatta were allowed to contest in the general election, “the honor, integrity and confidence bestowed on public office under Chapter Six of the Constitution and by Kenyans would be seriously eroded” since “a leader is not only required to be elected and/or selected in a transparent process, but also bring a measure of dignity, legitimacy and trust of the people to the office.”[228] Of course, the petitioners’ argument was also premised on the understanding that personal and institutional integrity is the touchstone of appointment and election to public office.[229]

It is important, however, to recall that confirmation of charges within the ICC does not necessarily imply conviction. It is for that reason that following the Pre-Trial Chamber’s decision confirming charges against Uhuru and others,[230] the presiding judge, Judge Ekaterina Trendafilova, emphasized that “the accused were still presumed innocent and not barred from holding public office in Kenya”.[231] Uhuru and Ruto themselves adopted the same line of argument when their nomination was challenged in Kenyan court. They argued that “under the Rome Statute establishing the ICC there are no specific prohibitions barring any suspect committed to trial from holding public office or State office in the Republic of Kenya.”[232] They further argued that those standing for election will face the judgment, vetting and assessment of the public as to their integrity. The only condition that applies is that the elections are free and fair.”[233] Uhuru’s political party also claimed that “its right as a political party to field candidates for the presidential election and to vote for those candidates would be prejudiced” if its presidential nominees were excluded from the general election.[234]

In its judgment, the Kenyan High Court noted the right of Kenyan citizens to participate in political parties, the right of every adult citizen to stand as candidate for public office without undue restriction and the right of every citizen to free, fair and regular elections as a cornerstone of the Kenyan Constitution.[235] In this regard, the court then ruled that the right of Uhuru’s political party “to field its candidates for the presidential election would be prejudiced by disqualification of [Kenyatta and his deputy] from running.”[236] It further held that while Kenyatta and his deputy face allegations of gross human rights violations, they have a right to be presumed innocent until proven guilty.[237] Accordingly, to disqualify their candidacy “would be a violation of the [citizens’] democratic right to elect representatives in a free and fair election by universal suffrage,”[238] a “right [that] must remain their best possession in a democratic society and is inalienable.”[239] Kenyatta’s case was subsequently withdrawn from the ICC for lack of evidence directly incriminating him and co-accused persons.

Yet when it comes to fitness for public office and human rights, the case of Kenyatta is distinguishable from candidates who openly speak and act against human rights, especially those that are part of customary international law. The suggestion is not that candidates should be barred from running for public office based on mere suspicion or accusations. Rather, where there is undeniable public record of a candidate speaking, acting or planning to violate human rights, the state should be able to invoke its international obligations to protect everyone within its territory and exclude such individuals.

More importantly, the Kenyan Court noted that in a democratic society where a party seeks to enforce rights that conflict with other fundamental rights, “there must then be a delicate balance.”[240]As already noted above, a proposal to exclude from public office those who speak or act against customary human rights or peremptory norms of human rights law presents competing rights such as the right to freedom of expression, the right to vote, and the right to participate in the political processes of one’s own country.

It is important to note, however, that in balancing competing interests,[241] rights can be limited for the common good[242] if the limitation is for a legitimate aim,[243] necessary,[244] proportionate,[245] justified in a democratic society[246] and consistent with the constitution and international law.[247]

The argument in this Article is that there is legitimacy, necessity and justification for a state—in line with its international obligations to protect, promote, respect and fulfil the human rights of all its citizens[248]—to exclude an anti-human rights candidate from a public office whose duties include protection of human rights. In fact, as will be argued below, it is part of state obligation to exclude such an individual.

B. Cultural Relativism, Universal Human Rights, and the Fitness for Public Office Rule

Deciding who rules a state is an important element of state sovereignty.[249] Generally, states are unwilling to let any foreign state or agency influence who gets to govern their sovereign territories.[250] Emphasizing that the fitness for office rule should take into account a candidate’s attitude towards human rights, and the impact of his or her proposed plans and policies to human rights, raises the question of whether there is a potential danger of foreign norms and standards—those that have not been formerly accepted by a state through ratification of an international treaty—unduly influencing countries’ sacred processes of selecting who gets to govern. This calls for a discussion on the notions of cultural relativism, universal human rights and the fitness for office rule.

There is no doubt that many of our values are subject to cultural relativity.[251] Cultural relativism—a doctrine supported by the idea of self-determination and communal autonomy—holds that certain values in a particular community cannot be criticized by outsiders.[252] To that end, the idea of cultural relativism appears to be at loggerheads with the idea that human rights are universal. The clash is at its worst in the case of radical cultural relativists—those who believe “that culture is the sole source of the validity of a moral right or rule”[253] —and those who believe in radical universalism, the idea “that culture is irrelevant to the validity of moral validity of moral rights and rules.”[254] In many instances, however, it would appear that cultural relativism and universalism exist on a continuum, and scholars have rejected an approach that supports an idea of radical cultural relativism or radical universalism.[255] Thus, in the end, while “the universality of human nature and rights serves as a check on the potential excesses of relativism,” “the relativity of human nature, communities, and rights serves as a check on the potential excesses of universalism”[256] and moral imperialism.[257] This balance is well struck in a world where basic human rights are understood to be relatively universal with “recognition of the possible need for limited cultural variations.”[258]

Stemming from this relativism, states have expressed different views on the content of religious freedoms, women’s rights, reproductive rights such as the right to abortion, and rights of the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender and Intersex (LGBTI) communities— only to mention a few. Such differences may potentially complicate how one construes the role of human rights law in the fitness for public office rule.

There are varying views across the globe with regard to the rights and freedoms of the LGBTI communities. Based on cultural relativism narratives, there are debates on whether the protection of LGBTI is included in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.[259] Thus, while many western countries accept the protection of the rights of LGBTI, several African states have argued that homosexuality is “un-African” and accuse western states for trying to force homosexuality on Africans.[260]

Within the United Nations fora, African states have since “forged an alliance with the Organization of Islamic Conference in opposing initiatives to afford greater protection to LGBT rights.”[261] However, this view has been interrogated and challenged, showing that in actual fact, there is nothing un-African about homosexuality. In fact, there is evidence that shows that “pre-colonial Africa entertained a diverse set of ways in which non-heterosexuality and non-heteronormativity were expressed and it was colonialism that introduced the now widespread religious and legal norms that policed sexuality and gender.”[262]

Nevertheless, in the context of fitness for public office rule, a question still exists as to whether an individual’s candidacy to public office can be excluded, based on his or her negative attitude towards the protection of LGBTI rights, when there are diverging views on the issue. This question will be answered after a discussion of other examples.

Religious freedom is another right around which the issue of cultural relativism and human rights universalism is also prominent. There have been various disagreements in the United Nations regarding the protection and interpretation of religious freedoms.[263] The United States Commission on International Religious Freedom has listed many states across the globe that fail to recognize the universal right to religious freedoms.

In many Islamic states, communities have refused to accept human rights standards that demand equality between men and women on the basis of religion and culture—the reason why some Islamic states are not party to the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women.[264] In many Islamic states, there is also no freedom of religion, as Islam is believed to be the only legitimate religion.[265] Further, there are various states that have blasphemy laws; many western human rights NGOs have criticized such laws as a violation of the freedom of religion.[266]

Likewise, the Vietnamese government has for long vigorously rejected any criticism by foreign states and human rights NGOs about its limitations of religious freedoms in Vietnam,[267] indicating that “no country has the right to impose any political, economic, or cultural model on others.”[268] John Gillespie has observed that the conduct of the Vietnamese government is evidence of a relativist approach on the right to religion, an approach that is starkly different from the international community’s understanding of that right.[269]

It is important to note, however, that perceptions on freedom of religion and its regulation can change over time as a result of globalization and other factors—Thailand and Indonesia being good examples.[270] Further, it has long been argued that most religious values that are considered to be at loggerheads with certain human rights norms are in fact distorted by their proponents who think that if citizens are allowed human rights, they may use them “as weapons to challenge party power.”[271] It is along these lines that some scholars have stated that there is a politicization of Islam—that is, a situation where Islam is interpreted in a way that benefits or consolidates the power of the rulers.[272]

There are also clashes in many United Nations World Conferences on Women that are caused by cultural differences.[273] It is in this light that Tracy Higgins has asked the following question: “In the face of profound cultural differences among women, how can feminists maintain a global political movement yet avoid charges of cultural imperialism?”[274] She has since acknowledged that “cultural relativism permeates the politics of any discussion of women’s rights on the international stage.”[275] Not only has cultural relativism been central to the debate on the role of women, some Islamic states such as Saudi Arabia and Sudan also actually boycotted the 1994 United Nations Population Conference because of issues relating to reproductive rights.[276]

In view of the disagreements on cultural relativism and the role of women in public life, it becomes difficult to question, for example, President Buhari of Nigerian’s fitness for public office for publicly discriminating against women, and stating that his wife “belongs to his kitchen and his living room and the other room.”[277]Unfortunately, this male chauvinistic view is supported by some women too—even in the western world, for example, a supporter of Donald Trump believes that women should never be in leadership positions.[278]

Following the above discussion of examples that illuminate the question of cultural relativism versus human rights universalism, the question follows whether, under the proposition that the fitness for public office rule must account for a person’s attitude and human rights record, a candidate who speaks against religious freedoms, refuses equality of men and women on the basis of religion, expresses opinions against abortion or recognition of same sex marriages or any other rights, should be disqualified from standing election for a public office whose duties include protection of human rights?

The above questions can be answered by considering three points. First, one must look at a country’s domestic legislation, in particular, a state’s constitution. Where a presidential candidate or a candidate for any public office speaks or acts against human rights that are provided for in the constitution of the country within which he is running for office, his candidature should be excluded. It will not matter whether the rights in question are universally accepted in the world. Thus, for example, a candidate who speaks against homosexuality or plans to implement policies that violates the rights of the LGBTI community in South Africa should have his candidature excluded because in South Africa such rights are guaranteed in the constitution.[279] That particular candidate cannot claim or resort to the African cultural relativism argument on homosexuality because the country within which he or she seeks public office has laws providing protection for that specific group of people.[280]

Second, a candidate’s attitude towards human rights can be assessed against the international human rights treaties and other instruments that have been signed and ratified by the country within which he or she is running for public office. Thus, where a country has ratified, for example, the International Convention on the Elimination of all forms of Discrimination Against Women, a candidate who speaks or acts against women’s rights that are provided for in that treaty should not be allowed to stand for election to public office.

Third, many of the basic values that human rights treaties seek to protect are similar across cultures and communities around the world. This is one of the reasons why the Universal Declaration of Human Rights has been largely embraced by world nations.[281] Thus, while there is undeniable cultural variability, there is also “a certain core of human nature.”[282] This is the reason why slavery, genocide, caste systems and other practices that “deny the existence of a morally significant common humanity, are almost universally condemned, even in the most rigid class societies.”[283]

Thus, there are certain human rights norms and standards that are part of customary international law and jus cogens. For example, the prohibition of racial discrimination[284] and the prohibition of torture[285] are part of customary international law. Thus, in relation to racial discrimination and torture, there is no argument of cultural relativism. A candidate who, running for public office, speaks against these rights or plans to implement policies that are against rights that are protected under customary international law or are norms of jus cogens should not be allowed to stand election for public office.

Yet we have candidates like Donald Trump who not only proposed policies that violate the customary norms on racial discrimination and torture but also, after being elected president of the United States, have since implemented some of such policies.[286]

VI. Fitness for Public Office and State International Human Rights Obligations

Having discussed the fitness for public office rule, limitations on the role of human rights in determining the fitness of a candidate for public office and cases where nations sought to impeach individuals from public office on allegations of human rights violations, this section discusses whether a state violates its international obligations when it allows an anti-human rights candidate to run for public office.

While Elizabeth Holtzman, a former member of the United States House of Representatives and a member of the House Judiciary Committee which recommended the impeachment of President Richard Nixon, correctly observed that democracy is seriously threatened when politicians are allowed to “trumpet their crimes, proudly and publicly, without any fear that they will be held to account,”[287] I add that when nations allow anti-human rights candidates to run for public office, the long held views that “human rights is the idea of our time”[288] and that “ours is a human rights age”[289] are significantly undermined.

Further, in addition to Elizabeth Holtzman’s argument that failure to hold to account former presidents for crimes committed while in public office paints a picture that we are agreeable to impunity and support politicians who instigate “torture, disappearance, cruel and inhuman treatment, abrogation of our treaties [and] violation of our laws”[290]; allowing an anti-human rights candidate to run for public office suggests that human rights norms are insignificant and can be easily discounted in the fitness for public office inquiry.

A. State Responsibility for Human Rights Violations

Under customary international human rights law, states are the bearers of international human rights obligations.[291] In general, a state is responsible for human rights violations where such violations are committed by state organs such as the judiciary, legislature, executive and its bureaucracy.[292] Even where a state agent—for example, a police or administrative officer—acts outside his authority, the state is still responsible, as long as such agent purportedly acted in his official capacity.[293]

In countries that have a federal government like in the United States of America, the national government is responsible for actions of state governments. Thus, where a state government appoints a racist governor or passes a draconian law in violation of international human rights law, it is the federal or national government that is responsible.[294]

From an international human rights law standpoint, I argue that states have an international obligation to prevent human rights violations,[295] and such an obligation includes taking the necessary measures to exclude from public office, candidates who plan to implement policies that are inconsistent with human rights norms once they assume public office. This can be more fully explained in terms of state obligations to respect, ensure, protect, promote and fulfil human rights of citizens and persons within a state’s jurisdiction.

The United Nations Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights has summarized the obligations of states as follows:

The obligation to respect means that States must refrain from interfering with or curtailing the enjoyment of human rights. The obligation to protect requires States to protect individuals and groups against human rights abuses. The obligation to fulfil means that States must take positive action to facilitate the enjoyment of basic human rights.[296]

Thus, there is no doubt that state obligations entail not only the obligation to provide a remedy but also to act and prevent human rights violations—including by private entities.[297] The state obligations to respect, ensure, promote, protect and fulfil the rights of citizens are more fundamental when dealing with actions of non-state actors.[298] For example, the duty to protect entails that a state “must exercise due diligence by taking reasonable measures to prevent and punish actions by a private actor that prejudice the human rights of another.”[299] In the case of Velasquez Rodriguez v Honduras, the court noted as follows:

An illegal act which violates human rights and which is initially not directly imputable to a state…can lead to international responsibility of a state, not because of the act itself but because of the lack of due diligence to prevent the violation.[300]

It is in the same light that the United Nations Human Rights Committee observed that a state can be found liable for human rights violation for “permitting or failing to take appropriate measures or to exercise due diligence to prevent, punish, investigate of redress the harm caused by…acts [of] private persons or entities.”[301]

Along the same lines, there is a general agreement in international practice[302] that “an omission by state can constitute a human rights violation, even if the actual harm was inflicted by private parties”.[303] Before occupying public office, candidates for public office are private citizens. Thus, a demagogue who speaks, act and plans to violate human rights once does so as a private person or entity. If a state does not disqualify such a person from a presidential race or any other public office election, is that an actionable omission?

For a state to be found liable for human rights violation based on an omission, there should have been some action realistically expected from the state,[304] since not every non-action of a state qualifies as an omission.[305] There must be a clear wrongful act or omission attributable to the state that is in violation of its international obligation.[306]

Where there is a clear obligation, a state is expected “to do all that can reasonably be expected to prevent human rights abuses by private parties.”[307] It has been observed that “the expectation upon a state increases if the state knows, or should have known, that a person or entity poses a risk to another’s enjoyment of human rights.”[308] In the context of the right to life, the court, in the case of Osman v United Kingdom held that a state fails its obligation to protect and prevent a violation if:

The authorities knew or ought to have known at the time of the existence of a real and immediate risk to the life of an identified individual or individuals from the criminal acts of a third party and that they failed to take measures within the scope of their powers.[309]

An anti-human rights candidate presents two possible compelling scenarios. First, there is a situation where a candidate has occupied public office before—or an incumbent who intends to run for another term—is individually responsible for human rights violations or is liable through command responsibility. Based on the history of that candidate, the state knows that if allowed to run for another term in public office, the anti-human rights candidate is likely to continue to violate the rights of other citizens. Therefore, by allowing that candidate to run for public office again, the state fails in its obligation to protect since it could have prevented human rights violations that are eventually committed by a candidate who unequivocally indicated that they would do so once they occupy public office.

The second scenario is where a candidate—before and during his or her campaign—proposes to implement plans that are inconsistent with human rights that are guaranteed in the state’s constitution, treaties that the state has ratified and human rights norms that are part of customary international law once he or she assumes public office. It is not diligent on the part of the state to leave it up to the electorate to “judge” that candidate. States are not obligated to protect only the majority but the minority also. It is, therefore, a fatal omission on the part of the state to allow such an anti-human rights candidate to run for public office. Just in as much as a state is liable for not taking any measures against a criminal who indicates his or her intention to kill another citizen, a state is responsible for not taking measures against a candidate who indicates that they will implement discriminatory policies once in power.

Of course, once an anti-human rights candidate wins an election, he or she becomes an agent of the government. One could therefore say, that either way, a state that allows an anti-human rights candidate to run for public office will be responsible in the end as the person becomes a state agent. However, that is only the case where the anti-human rights candidate wins the election. This Article proposes considerations of human rights norms in the fitness for public office in a manner that makes states obligations regardless of whether an anti-human rights candidate wins the election or not. The principle is neither incumbent upon such candidates winning or losing elections, nor their prospects of success. Rather, a state that allows anti-human rights candidates to run for public office should be liable even where such candidates subsequently lose elections.

The obligations of the state in the above sense should be seen in the same light of inchoate crimes such inciting genocide—crimes “that do not require the completion of a harmful act in order for criminal liability to be assigned.”[310] Along the same lines, it should not be a defense that while a candidate—in his or her political campaign—promised to torture suspects for example, he or she has not tortured anyone since occupying public office. Allowing such a candidate to run for public office has far-reaching implications for human security—in particular, individual security—in the first place. The concept of human security and how it is threatened by populist demagogues who disregard human rights is discussed below.

Of course, the responsible authorities must consider several factors before disqualifying a candidate from running for public office because their actions, speech or proposed plans are inconsistent with human rights. In addition to the gravity of the violation and balancing of competing interests discussed above, the responsible state or institution must ascertain that the state has an obligation to respect, protect, promote and fulfil the right in question by virtue of it being provided in its constitution, treaties it has ratified or customary international law.

In short, if a candidate has been convicted of torture or promises to torture suspects once he or she assumes public office, the state has an obligation to exclude such a candidate from running under its international obligation to prevent human rights violations. Failure to do so is an actionable omission on the part of the state and inflicts state responsibility for human rights violation.

B. Human Security, Human Rights, and Populist Leaders

Populist demagogues—in particular, candidates running for public office—who make public their intentions to implement certain plans that will violate rights of certain groups once they assume public office negatively impact on human security and human rights in general.[311] While mechanisms within democratic institutions may make it difficult for such populist leaders to action their proposed policies, the fact that they have made their intentions public makes some citizens insecure.

For whatever reason, it is inhumane for some citizens to live in fear and insecurity—in the case of populist demagogues, citizens dreading that one day their leaders will interfere with their constitutionally protected rights.[312] As one scholar noted, every human being needs security and “security is a condition or feeling of safety, of being protected.”[313] Human security is thus broadly defined to mean “freedom of individuals from any threat or unfavorable situations.”[314]

When President Donald Trump promised to implement plans that would interfere with the rights of some citizens, some commentators assured those who were targeted that once the president elect assumed office, it would be difficult or impossible to implement his proposed discriminatory policies.[315] Many of such commentators expressed faith in the checks and balances that exist in the United States laws and political system.[316]

While checks and balances play a fundamental role in any democracy,[317] this should not be used as an excuse to allow anti-human rights candidate to run for public office. Most importantly, checks and balances are only effective where the president does not choose to appoint like-minded people to positions and institutions that are intended to “check and balance” his office and exercise of executive power.

International human rights law, in particular, “the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the wider body of human rights instruments are all meant to make human beings secure in freedom, in dignity, with equality, through the protection of their basic human rights.”[318]

While during election campaigns the harms and threats posed by populist or anti-human rights candidates running for public office may not be easily quantified or measured, they enormously affect the security of other citizens once they occupy public office. For example, since the time President Donald Trump has assumed office, some Muslim and immigrant families constantly live in fear of deportation or other forms of interference with their rights.[319]

As for populists and demagogues who tout national security threats as justification for ignoring or violating of human rights norms,[320] it should be emphasized that individual, national and international security are intertwined, and that “individual security must be the basis for national security, and national security grounded in individual security must be the basis of international security,”[321] if the world is to see everlasting peace.

Human rights are better protected in peace time than in armed conflict.[322] This is one of the reasons why for the past decades, humanity has been promoting collective security and a sense of international community.[323] The United Nations jus ad bellum norms—those that prohibit the use of force unless in self-defense or under authorization of the UN Security Council—have roots in humanity’s need for collective security.[324] Yet most of the policies—both domestic and foreign—of populist leaders are not only nativist, self-centered and self-preserving but may lead us to another world war.[325] An increased number of populist leaders across continents—those who choose not to exercise restraint—may result in conflicts spreading across the globe.

C. Possible Legal Measures to Bar Anti-Human Rights Candidates

Legal measures are part of the many measures that a state can take to prevent anti-human rights candidates from assuming public office. Expectedly, one of the institutions that can play an important role in the regulation of who gets to be accepted as a candidate for public office are institutions that are responsible for national elections. Such institutions are generally provided for in national constitutions and governed by domestic electoral law.

Most countries across the globe have electoral commissions or agencies that are tasked with the administration of elections. One common role for such electoral commissions is the registration of voters and candidates for public office. For example, Kenya’s Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission lists requirements for those who aspire to run for public office. In addition to being a Kenyan citizen, a registered voter and other requirements such as possession of a university degree recognized in Kenya, the presidential candidate:

  1. Must meet the moral and ethical requirements under the Leadership and Integrity Act;
  2. Must not have been found to have abused or misused state or public office or contravened Chapter Six of the Constitution; and
  3. Must not have been dismissed or removed from public office for contravening the provisions of Articles 75, 76, 77 and 78 of the Constitution.[326]

Article 3 (2)(b) of the Leadership and Integrity Act [Chapter 182] provides in terms of the “Guiding values, principles and requirements” that among other things, a public officer should be an individual who respects “the rights and fundamental freedoms provided for under Chapter Four of the [Kenyan] Constitution.”[327] Further, the same Act also provides that in terms of the rule of law, a state official shall be someone who, in carrying his or her duties does “not violate the rights and fundamental freedoms of any person.”[328] Chapter Six of the Kenyan Constitution contains further rules on the integrity of public office—provisions that can be interpreted to include respect for human rights.

There is, therefore, a legal framework in Kenya under which an anti-human rights candidate may be excluded from running for public office. What remains to be seen is whether these provisions can be effectively implemented. As already discussed above, there was an attempt to bar the current president, Uhuru Kenyatta, from running from public office on the grounds of alleged human rights violations.

The Election Commission of India has a somewhat similar framework that provides for constitutional and statutory qualifications and disqualifications of candidates for public office. Some of the statutory disqualifications are based on conducts that are inconsistent with the right to non-discrimination. For example, Section 8 of Representation of the People Act of 1951 contains a statutory disqualification where a candidate can be disqualified for having violated the Indian Protection of Civil Rights Act of 1955.[329] Section 4 of the Indian Protection of Civil Rights Act of 1955 criminalizes discrimination on religious grounds. A person convicted under this Act is subject to disqualification from running for public office.

Further, Section 8 of the Representation of the People Act of 1951 provides for the disqualification of “a person convicted of an offence punishable under Section 153A (offence of promotion of enmity between different groups on ground of religion, race, place of birth, residence, language, etc.”[330] or convicted under “section 505 (offence of making statement creating or promoting enmity, hatred or ill-will between classes.”[331]

The point for these examples is that it is possible to have legislation and policies that disqualify candidates from public office on the grounds of their speech or actions that are inconsistent with certain human rights norms. It is unfortunate that many states—including those that are viewed and highly rated for human rights protection—have no laws, policies or mechanisms that prevent anti-human rights candidates from running for public office. Many appear to have left it all to the electorates to decide. That approach is not only immoral but in violation of a state’s international obligations to prevent human rights violations as discussed above. Surely, a candidate’s ability to fascinate and get the majority votes in an election does not mean that candidate is fit for public office—in particular, offices that are meant to protect human rights.

D. Enforcement Challenges

There is no doubt that enforcement of the fitness for public office rule in terms of human rights norms is extremely difficult. However, that it is difficult does not mean that it is impossible. If anything, there are several advantages that can be gained from enforcing the fitness rule in terms of human rights.

First, one of the biggest challenges faced in setting human rights norms as one of the core factors in the inquiry into a candidate’s fitness for public office is lack of political will. If fitness for public office was strictly enforced and compliance with human rights norms strictly considered, many holders of public office would fail the test and be barred from seeking another term. For that reason, it is likely that many politicians—in particular, dictators—are unlikely to accept or set a fitness for public office rule that disqualifies them from positions of power based on their human rights records.

The advantage of having such a rule, however, is that holders of public office would be discouraged from violating human rights if there is an independent system or institution that would disqualify them from running for another term if they violated human rights. Thus, while in public office, it is not only about pleasing the majority or electorate so that they may vote for you when you seek another term, it is about acting in line with human rights standards provided for in the national constitution, ratified human rights treaties and those that are part of customary international law.

Hate speech, racial slurs, promotion of election violence and other human rights violations are rampant during election time.[332] In the past, this problem has largely bedeviled the African continent and other developing countries. However, with the rise of populist demagogues in America and Europe, some developed countries now face the same challenges. A fitness for public office rule that warrants disqualification of a candidate for such conduct is likely to eliminate such forms of human rights violations.

Of course, while a fitness for public office rule that is grounded in human rights could eliminate instances of racial slurs and hate speech, it does not mean that perceptions of a racist or hateful politicians are changed—it simply means that they are prohibited from expressing such perceptions in public. The downside of such a situation is that the electorate may never know a candidate’s true colors and may be caught unawares once the candidate assumes office. It may be argued, therefore, that the electorate had an advantage by knowing, for example, the true opinions of Donald Trump before he assumed office. If such opinions are known in advance, citizens, human rights organizations, and other relevant institutions are better prepared to fight for their rights.

Nevertheless, there are more advantages in forcing candidates for public office to lead by example—even before they assume public office. As was mentioned in the introduction of this Article, members of the public are influenced by the conduct of holders of powerful public office. Thus, while a strict fitness for public office rule may push candidates’ true beliefs underground, there are immense benefits to be accrued. After all, if a candidate expresses harmful beliefs after assuming public office, he or she can always be impeached or excluded from running for another term.

VII. Conclusion and Recommendations

Given that the office of the president and other public offices play a fundamental role in the realization of human rights, human security and global peace, it is critical to thoroughly screen persons who occupy such offices. While several state have the fitness for public office rule, very few spell out human rights as one of the factors considered in the inquiry of a candidate’s fitness for public office.

As a result, candidates who have spoken and acted against human rights are elected to public office. This situation has proven to be worse in face of radical populism where populists are openly attacking human rights standards. We are at a point where leaders in countries that have previously shown respect for human rights are unashamedly and publicly trumpeting their disdain for human rights.

Populist leaders have managed to convince the electorate that human rights standards are a stumbling block to government efforts to protect the citizens from global threats such as terrorism and negative effects of migration. In this era, therefore, it is worrying to leave it up to to the electorate to judge the acceptability of a candidate for public office. Such an approach is not democracy but an epitome of majoritarianism where all that matters is what the majority says.

Constitutional democracy and states’ international obligations to respect, promote, protect and fulfil human rights requires states to take reasonable measures to prevent human rights violations. Where a candidate for public office promises to take action that is inconsistent with human rights once he or she occupies public office, it is the obligation of the state to prevent such a candidate from running for public office.

Of course, preventing a candidate from running for public office limits the rights of that candidate and those who would otherwise want to vote for him or her. However, human rights can be limited where there is a legitimate purpose and in accordance with conditions that have been discussed in this Article. After all, states already disqualify candidates from running for public office on other grounds such as age. This Article has argued that there is even a stronger case for states to exclude anti-human rights candidates from running for public office.

It is therefore recommended to all states that in line with their international obligations, they should take measures that bar anti-human rights candidates from running for public. Such measures can be enforced by electoral commissions that register voters and public office aspirants. Instead of only emphasizing other factors that are considered in the fitness for public office inquiry—factors such as age, financial probity and criminal records—they should add a condition that a candidate can be barred or disqualified for conduct, speech and actions that are inconsistent with human rights that are guaranteed in the state’s constitution, human rights treaties and customary international law. Kenya and India are examples of countries that have such conditions—although their systems could be made clearer and stronger.

As for the general public and human rights NGOs, there is a basis to approach national courts and regional courts where a state allows an anti-human rights candidate to run for public office. There is no doubt that NGOs have in the past played a fundamental role in the setting of norms and their enforcement. For that reason, NGOs can take a leading role in ensuring that states do not neglect their international obligation to protect by preventing human rights violations—in this instance, allowing someone who has policies that will clearly violate human rights.

The United Nations and other regional inter-governmental organizations can also come up with guidelines on the fitness for public office rule within which the role of human rights can be articulated and emphasized. Such guidelines can be drafted in the same spirit of the existing United Nations guiding principles such as those on business and human rights, internally displaced persons, use of force and firearms only to mention a few.

* Thompson is a Fellow at the South African Research Chair in International Law. He holds a LL.D (Human Rights) and a LLM from the University of Pretoria, a LLM from Harvard Law School and LL.B from Midlands State University

[1] Roger Scruton, The Meaning of Conservatism 52 (2001).

[2] Michael Lacey & Knud Haakonssen, A Culture of Rights: The Bill of Rights in Philosophy, Politics and Law 1791 and 1991, at 447 (1992); Matthew A. Pauley, I Do Solemnly Swear: The President’s Constitutional Oath: Its Meaning and Importance in the History of Oaths 5 (1999).

[3] Charles Fombad, Separation of Powers in African Constitutionalism 13 (2016); Daniel Maldonado, Constitutionalism of the Global South: The Activist Tribunals of India, South Africa, and Colombia 365 (2013).

[4] Mutuwafhethu John Mafunisa, Public Service Ethics 26 (2000).

[5] See, e.g., Pippa Norris & Ronald Inglehart, Cultural Backlash: Trump, Brexit and the Rise of Authoritarian Populism (2018); Kenneth Roth, Human Rights Watch, The Dangerous Rise of Populism: Global Attacks on Human Rights Values, (2017) https://www.hrw.org/world-report/2017/country-chapters/dangerous-rise-of-populism.

[6] Roth, supra note 5, at 1.

[7]Id.; see also Rikke Andreassen & Kathrine Vitus, Affectivity and Race: Studies from Nordic Contexts 24 (2016); Benjamin Moffitt, The Global Rise of Populism: Performance, Political Style, and Representation 127 (2016); Marc Rosenblum& Daniel Tichenor, The Oxford Handbook of the Politics of International Migration 12 (2012); Charles Clarke, The EU and Migration: A Call for Action 2 (2011).

[8] Roth, supra note 5; see also Philip Alston & Ryan Goodman, International Human Rights 383–85 (2012); Russell Ong, China’s Security Interests in the Post-Cold War Era, 124 (2013).

[9] Exposing the Demagogues: Right-wing and National Populist Parties in Europe 96, 346, 359 (Karsten Grabow & Florian Hartleb eds., 2013).

[10] See Pippa Norris & Ronald Inglehart, Trump, Brexit, and the Rise of Populism: Economic Have-Nots and Cultural Backlash (Harvard Kennedy School, Faculty Research Working Paper Series, 2016).

[11] Id. at 2.

[12]Id.; see also Senem Aydın-Düzgit & Fuat Keyman, The Trump Presidency and the Rise of Populism in the Global Context 5 (2017), http://ipc.sabanciuniv.edu/wp-content/uploads/2017/01/The-Trump-Presidency-and-the-Rise-of-Populism-in-the-Global-Context.pdf

[13] Norris & Inglehart, supra note 10, at 10; see also Ewen Speed & Russell Mannion, The Rise of Post-truth Populism in Pluralist Liberal Democracies: Challenges for Health Policy, 6 Int’l J. Health Pol’y & Mgmnt. 250 (2017).

[14] Norris & Inglehart supra note 10, at 2; see also Francisco Panizza, Populism and the Mirror of Democracy 8 (2005); Stephen Coleman & Karen Ross, The Media and the Public: “Them” and “Us” in Media Discourse 1 (2015).

[15] Norris & Inglehart supra note 10, at 3.

[16] Id.; see also Brendon O’Connor, A Political History of the American Welfare System: When Ideas Have Consequences 159 (2004).

[17] Norris & Inglehart supra note 10, at 3.

[18] Jan-Werner Muller, What Is Populism? 38 (2016); William Outhwaite, Brexit: Sociological Responses 91 (2017); Harry Mount, Summer Madness: How Brexit Split the Tories, Destroyed Labour and Divided the Country 13 (2017).

[19] David Moore, An ARC of Authoritarianism in Africa: Toward the End of a Liberal Democratic Dream?, in The Politics of the Right: Socialist Register 2016, at 207 n.11 (Leo Panitch & Greg Albo eds., 2015; Guy Martin, African Political Thought 8 (2012).

[20] Cas Mudde & Cristobal Kaltwasser, Populism: A Very Short Introduction 114 (2017); Toril Aalberg et al., Populist Political Communication in Europe 378 (2016); Maria Ranieri, Populism, Media and Education: Challenging Discrimination in Contemporary Digital Societies (2016); Margaret Robertson & Po Tsang, Everyday Knowledge, Education and Sustainable Futures: Transdisciplinary Approaches in the Asia-Pacific Region 110 (2016).

[21] Roth, supra note 5.

[22] Freedom House, Populists and Autocrats: The Dual Threat to Global Democracy (2017), https://freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-world/freedom-world-2017

[23] Roth, supra note 5; see also Shirin Sinnar, Human Rights, National Security, And The Role Of Lawyers In The Resistance, 13 Stan. J. Civ. Rts. & Civ. Liberties 37 (2017).

[24] Daniel Moeckli, Human Rights and Non-discrimination in the “War on Terror 67 (2008); William Aceves, The Anatomy of Torture: A Documentary History of Filartiga v. Pena-Irala 571 (2007).

[25] Roth, supra note 5.

[26] James Nelson & John Bonifaz, Legal Scholars: Why Congress Should Impeach Donald Trump, Time (Feb. 6, 2017), http://time.com/4658633/impeach-donald-trump-congress/.

[27] See Devona Walker, Top 12 Racist Politicians of Modern History, Alternet (Aug. 1, 2010), http://www.alternet.org/story/147702/top_12_racist_politicians_of_modern_history.

[28] Danielle McGuire & John Dittmer, Freedom Rights: New Perspectives on the Civil Rights Movement 357 (2011); Clarke Rountree, Venomous Speech: Problems with American Political Discourse on the Right and Left 420 (2013).

[29] Haivan Hoang, Writing against Racial Injury: The Politics of Asian American Student Rhetoric 112 (2015).

[30] See Bush Win Stun McCain, Guardian (Feb. 21, 200) https://www.theguardian.com/world/2000/feb/21/uselections2000.usa.

[31] Walker, supra note 27.

[32]Id.; see also Heidi Beirich & Bob Moser, Mississippi Senator Trent Lott and Georgia Congressman Bob Barr Have Connections to White Supremacist Group Council Of Conservative Citizens, Southern Poverty L. Center, (Oct. 14, 2004), https://www.splcenter.org/fighting-hate/intelligence-report/2004/mississippi-senator-trent-lott-and-georgia-congressman-bob-barr-have-connections-white.

[33] Herman Mason, Politics, Civil Rights, and Law in Black Atlanta, 1870-1970, at 8 (2000); Bob Short, Everything is Pickrick: The Life of Lester Maddox (1999).

[34] Ian López, Dog Whistle Politics: How Coded Racial Appeals Have Reinvented Racism and Wrecked the Middle Class 129 (2015).

[35] Roth, supra note 5.

[36] Id.

[37] See Gwen Ngwenya, Racist Black South Africans Who Kept Their Jobs?, Thought Leader (Jan. 7, 2016), http://thoughtleader.co.za/amandangwenya/2016/01/07/racist-black-south-africans-who-kept-their-jobs%E2%80%A8/.

[38] Id.; see also Racism Can Never Be Justified: Judge in Malema Case, Sowetan Live (Sept. 12, 2011), http://www.sowetanlive.co.za/news/2011/09/12/racism-can-never-be-justified-judge-in-malema-case?mode=true; Charges Against Malema for Racial Slur, IOL (Nov. 7, 2011), http://www.iol.co.za/news/crime-courts/charges-against-malema-for-racial-slur-1172814.

[39] Afri-Forum v. Malema (2011) (6) SA 240 (EqC) at 68 (S. Afr.)

[40] Matt Payton, Robert Mugabe Sparks Racism Row by Offending a White Journalist, Metro (Oct. 10, 2015), http://metro.co.uk/2015/04/10/robert-mugabe-sparks-racism-row-by-offending-a-white-journalist-5143830/#ixzz4Xkd9aURi.

[41] See Flashback: Mugabe Takes a Swipe at the UN, Whites and Obama, Lusaka Times (Jan. 31, 2017), https://www.lusakatimes.com/2017/01/31/mugabe-takes-swipe-unwhites-obama/; Chielozona Eze, Postcolonial Imaginations and Moral Representations in African Literature and Culture 72 (2011); Sarah Britten, McBride of Frankenmanto: The Return of the South African Insult 172 (2007).

[42] Roth, supra note 5.

[43] See Nigeria’s President Buhari: My Wife Belongs in Kitchen, BBC (Oct. 14, 2016), http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-37659863

[44] See id.; Amin Ngharen & Christiana Akogwu, Gender Equality, Education and Sustainable Development in Nigeria in the 21st Century: An Appraisal, 5 Int’l J. of Advanced Stud. in Econ. & Pub. Sec. Mgmt. 203, 205 (2017).

[45] Id.

[46] For instance, “Any person . . . who insults the human dignity of a person or group of persons by whatever means, including on the grounds of skin colour, race, religion or ethnic origin, incurs a suspension lasting at least ten matches or a specified period of time, or any other appropriate sanction.” Union of European Football Association, European Football Disciplinary Regulations, art. 14 (2013), http://www.ecaeurope.com/Legal/UEFA%20Documents/2013_0241_Disciplinary%20Regulations%202013.pdf; see also Michael E. Jones, Sports Law 141 (1999); Daniel Leberfeld, NFL Referee Outlines New Rules on Taunting, Touchbacks, and Chop Blocks, Breitbart (Aug. 18, 2016), http://www.breitbart.com/sports/2016/08/18/a-rare-interview-with-an-nfl-game-referee-4812896/; Russia Facing Disqualification from Euro 2016 over Racist, Violent Behaviour from Fans, N.Y. Daily News (June 14, 2016), http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/soccer/racist-violent-fans-russia-facing-euro-disqualification-article-1.2673096.

[47] See generally Louis Henkin, The Age of Rights (1990); Joseph Jacob, Civil Justice in the Age of Human Rights 2 (2016); Catherine Dupra, The Age of Dignity: Human Rights and Constitutionalism in Europe (2016).

[48] Bob Garratt, The Fish Rots from the Head: Developing Effective Boards xvii (2010).

[49] See UN Elects Saudi Arabia to Human Rights Council, Oversight on Women’s Rights, United Nations Watch (Nov. 19, 2016 10:55 PM), http://www.unwatch.org/15032-2/.

[50] See General Assembly, by Secret Ballot, Elects 14 Member States to Serve Three-year Terms on Human Rights Council, United Nations (Oct. 28, 2016), http://www.un.org/press/en/2016/ga11848.doc.htm.

[51] Joyce Bukuru, How Saudi Arabia Kept Its UN Human Rights Council Seat, Hum. Rts. Watch (Nov. 1, 2016), https://www.hrw.org/news/2016/11/01/how-saudi-arabia-kept-its-un-human-rights-council-seat.

[52] Leah Schulz, Saudi Uses Role on UN Human Rights Council to Cover Up Its Abuses, Middle East Eye (Oct. 24, 2016), http://www.middleeasteye.net/columns/saudi-and-un-human-rights-council-where-membership-has-its-abuses-37959358.

[53] Suspend Saudi Arabia from the UN Human Rights Council, Amnesty Int’l (2016), https://act.amnestyusa.org/ea-action/action?ea.client.id=1839&ea.campaign.id=53020.

[54] See United Nations Human Rights Council, Off. High Comm’r for Hum. Rts., http://www.ohchr.org/EN/HRBodies/HRC/Pages/AboutCouncil.aspx (last visited Jan. 1, 2018).

[55] Joyce Bukuru, supra note 51.

[56] See Robert Mugabe Elected African Union Chairman, Sky News (Jan. 30, 2015), http://news.sky.com/story/robert-mugabe-elected-african-union-chairman-10373326.

[57] Constitutive Act of the African Union art. 4(h), July 1, 2000, 2158 U.N.T.S. 3.

[58] Roth, supra note 5

[59] Louis Henkin, The Age of Rights ix (1990).

[60] Philip Alston, Making Space for New Human Rights: The Case of the Right to Development, 1 Harv. Hum. Rts. Y.B. 3 (1988).

[61] See Makau Mutua, Is the Age of Human Rights Over?, in Routledge Companion to Literature and Human Rights 450–58 (Sophia A. McClennen & Alexandra Schultheis Moore eds., 2016).

[62] Roth, supra note 5.

[63] Mutua, supra note 61 at 451.

[64] Johannes Morsink, Inherent Human Rights: Philosophical Roots of the Universal Declaration 4 (2009); Reis Monteiro, Ethics of Human Rights 173 (2014); O.P Dhiman, Understanding Human Rights 264 (2011).

[65] Roth, supra note 5, at 16.

[66] Kenneth Roth, Defending Economic, Social and Cultural Rights: Practical Issues Faced by an International Human Rights Organization, 26 Hum. Rts. Q. 63, 68–71 (2004).

[67] Id.

[68] See Danie Brand & Christof H. Heyns, Socio-Economic Rights in South Africa 244 (2005); Kirsty McLean, Constitutional Deference, Courts and Socio-Economic Rights in South Africa 44 (2009).

[69] Makau Mutua, Human Rights in Africa: The Limited Promise of Liberalism, 51 Afr. Stud. Rev. 17, 30–35 (2008) [hereinafter Mutua, Human Rights in Africa]; Makau Mutua, Human Rights Standards: Hegemony, Law, and Politics 177 (2016).

[70] Mutua, Human Rights in Africa, supra note 69, at 34.

[71] Sue Farran, Human Rights in the South Pacific: Challenges and Changes 118 (2009).

[72] See generally Andrew Clapham, Human Rights Obligations of Non-State Actors (2006); Zehra Arat, Non-State Actors in the Human Rights Universe 29 (2006); Manisuli Ssenyonjo, International Human Rights Law: Six Decades After the UDHR and Beyond 410 (2016).

[73] Mutua, Human Rights in Africa, supra note 69 at 25.

[74]Id.

[75] John Guidry et al., Globalizations and Social Movements: Culture, Power, and the Transnational Public Sphere 164 (2000).

[76] Id.

[77] Roger Scruton, The Meaning of Conservatism 52 (3d ed. 2001).

[78] International Centre for Policy and Conflicts v. The Hon. Attorney-General (2013) [2013] eK.L.R. 4 (H.C.K.) (Kenya).

[79] Scruton, supra note 77.

[80] See Douglas Fraleigh & Joseph Tuman, Freedom of Expression in the Marketplace of Ideas 178 (2010).

[81] See 47 The American and English Annotated Cases: Containing the Important Cases Selected from the Current American, Canadian, and English Reports, 691 (1917); see also Robert Post, Constitutional Domains: Democracy, Community, Management 393 (1995); Garrison v. Louisiana, 379 U.S. 64, 77 (1964); Monitor Patriot Co. v. Roy, 401 U.S. 265, 271–72 (1971).

[82] Kgafela Kgafela II, The King’s Journal: From the Horse’s Mouth 118 (2014).

[83] See Australian Constitution 1934 s 17; Commonwealth Electoral Act 1918 (Cth) s 326 (Austl.); Crimes Act 1914 (Cth) s 28 (Austl.); South African Police Service Act 68 of 1995 §§ 9, 17DA; see also Nihal Jayawickrama, The Judicial Application of Human Rights Law: National, Regional and International Jurisprudence 692 (2002); Christopher Anzalone, Supreme Court Cases on Political Representation, 1787-2001, at 559 (2016); Israel Law Reports 55 (Jonathan Davidson ed., 2002).

[84] See Committee on Standards in Public Life, Standards Matter: A Review of Best Practice in Promoting Good Behaviour in Public Life 25 (14th rep. 2013); Nanda Kishore Reddy et al., Ethics, Integrity and Aptitude 37 (2015).

[85] See, e.g., Peter Schweizer, Clinton Cash: The Untold Story of How and Why Foreign Governments and Businesses Helped Make Bill and Hillary Rich (2016); Bryan Harris, South Korean President Faces Impeachment over Corruption Scandal, Fin. Times (Dec. 6, 2016), https://www.ft.com/content/6774e266-bdb2-11e6-8b45-b8b81dd5d080.

[86] W. Bartley Hildreth et al., Handbook of Public Administration 60 (2d ed. 1997).

[87] See, e.g., South African Police Service Act 68 of 1995 § 34; James Hamplin, The Bizarre Words of Donald Trump’s Doctor, Atlantic (Aug. 2016), https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2016/08/bornstein-trump-linguistics/497840/. There was an extensive discussion on Trump’s health and his fitness for office when his doctor released a medical report containing language was unacceptable to many.

[88] See Garrison v. Louisiana, 379 U.S. 64, 77 (1964); see also Cong. Research Serv., The Constitution of the United States of America: Analysis and Interpretation 1209 (Kenneth R. Thomas et al. eds., 2004); Nick O’Neill et al., Retreat from Injustice: Human Rights Law in Australia 472 (2d ed. 2004).

[89] See Monitor Patriot Co. v. Roy, 401 U.S. 265, 277 (1971).

[90] The United Kingdom Committee on Standards in Public Life “advises the Prime Minister on ethical standards across the whole of public life in the UK. It monitors and reports on issues relating to the standards of conduct of all public office holders.” See Committee on Standards in Public Life, https://www.gov.uk/government/organisations/the-committee-on-standards-in-public-life (last visited Feb. 24, 2018).

[91] Committee on Standards in Public Life, Standards Matter: A Review of Best Practice in Promoting Good Behaviour in Public Life (Fourteenth Report), 2013, HC, at 25 (UK).

[92] Id; see also Kate Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride: Idealized Womanhood in Late Antiquity ix (1999).

[93] Committee on Standards in Public Life, supra note 91.

[94] Committee on Standards in Public Life, supra note 91; see also Don Pember, Mass Media Law 150 (4th ed. 1987).

[95] Frank A. Colaprete, Pre-Employment Background Investigations for Public Safety Professionals 276 (2012).

[96] See David Horner, Understanding Media Ethics 181 (1st ed. 2014).

[97] Nanda Kishore Reddy & Santosh Ajmera, Ethics, Integrity and Aptitude: For Civil Services Main Examination 37 (1st ed. 2014); Horner, supra note 96.

[98] Democratic Alliance v. The President of the Republic of South Africa 2012 (1) SA 417 (SCA) at 42 ¶ 116 (S. Afr.).

[99] Id.

[100] Id.; see also Alden Bradford, History of Massachusetts, from the Year 1790, to 1820, at 85 (1829).

[101] Trusted Society of Human Rights Alliance v. Attorney General & 2 Others, (2012) [2012] eK.L.R. 39 (H.C.K.) (Kenya).

[102] Id.; see also Monitor Patriot Co. v. Roy, 401 U.S. 265, 273 (1971).

[103] Trusted Society of Human Rights Alliance [2012] eK.L.R. at 39.

[104] See Constitution (Zimb.); Constitution (Kenya).

[105] Garrison v. Louisiana, 379 U.S. 64, 77 (1964).

[106] See Impeachment, Black’s Law Dictionary (2d ed. 1910).

[107] Buckner F. Melton Jr., The First Impeachment: The Constitution’s Framers and the Case of Senator William Blount 25 (1st ed. 1999).

[108] Great Britain House of Lords, The Trial, by Impeachment, of Henry Lord Viscount Melville, for High Crimes and Misdemeanors 1–8 (1806).

[109] Jacob Cooke, The Federalist 439 (1961); Matthew Romney, The Origins and Scope of Presidential Impeachment, 2 Hinckley J. Pol. 67, 70 (2000); Glen Rangwala et al., A Case to Answer: A First Report on the Potential Impeachment of the Prime Minister for High Crimes and Misdemeanours in Relation to the Invasion of Iraq, 59–70 (2004).

[110] See Melton, supra, note 107 at 24–25.

[111] See id.; Jack Caird, Impeachment 6 (House of Commons Library, Briefing Paper No. CBP7612, 2016), http://researchbriefings.parliament.uk/ResearchBriefing/Summary/CBP-7612#fullreport.

[112] See Melton, supra, note 107 at 24–25.

[113] Thomas Erskine May, A Treatise Upon the Law, Privileges, Proceedings and Usage of Parliament 38 (1st ed. 1844) (emphasis added).

[114] See Caird, supra note 111, at 3.

[115] Id.

[116] Select Committee on Parliamentary Privilege, Report, 1967–68, HC 34, ¶ 115 (UK).

[117] Select Committee on Parliamentary Privilege, Third Report, 1976–77, HC 41, ¶ 18 (UK).

[118] Joint Committee on Parliamentary Privilege, Paper, 1998–99, HL43-I, HC 214-I, ¶ 16 (UK).

[119] See Caird, supra note 111, at 7.

[120] Rangwala et al., supra, note 109 at 60.

[121] See Caird, supra note 111, at 4.

[122] John Nichols, The Genius of Impeachment: The Founders’ Cure for Royalism 182 (2011).

[123] See Caird, supra note 111, at 9–10.

[124] See Inam Ahmed & Shakhawat Liton, A War for Oil #11: The Rise and Fall of Blair, Daily Star (Apr. 2, 2018), https://www.thedailystar.net/backpage/the-rise-and-fall-blair-1556254.

[125] Bonnie Hinman, Tony Blair 109 (2006).

[126] See Rangwala et al., supra, note 109 at 7.

[127] See Warren Chin, Britain and the War on Terror: Policy, Strategy and Operations 77–105 (2016).

[128] Raymond Copson, The Iraq War: Background and Issues 31 (2003).

[129] See Elspeth Guild, War Or Crime?: National Legal Challenges in Europe to the War in Iraq 261 (2009); Rachel Kerr, The Military on Trial: The British Army in Iraq 1 (2008).

[130] Chris Nineham, The People v. Tony Blair: Politics, the Media and the Anti-War Movement 2 (2013).

[131] See Rangwala et al., supra, note 109 at 7.

[132] See generally Amnesty International, Zimbabwe: Deteriorating Human Rights Situation, AI Index AFR 46/4639/2016 (Nov. 2016); Tiseke Kasambala, “You Will Be Thoroughly Beaten”: The Brutal Suppression of Dissent in Zimbabwe (2006); Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace in Zimbabwe, Gukurahundi in Zimbabwe: A Report on the Disturbances in Matabeleland and the Midlands, 1980–1988 (2008); Peter Godwin, The Fear: Robert Mugabe and the Martyrdom of Zimbabwe (2011); James Arnold & Roberta Wiener, Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe (2012).

[133] Tim Ferguson, World’s Worst Rulers: Scratch One Now?, Forbes (Aug. 22, 2011), https://www.forbes.com/sites/timferguson/2011/08/22/worlds-worst-rulers-scratch-one-now/#4da61ab26190.

[134] Constitution, § 97 (2013) (Zimb.).

[135] See Tatenda Dewa, MDC Renews Efforts to Impeach Mugabe, Nehandara Radio (Aug. 11, 2016), http://nehandaradio.com/2016/08/11/opposition-mdc-t-renews-efforts-impeach-mugabe.; Fungi Kwaramba, MDC wants to Impeach Mugabe, Daily News (Dec. 11, 2014), https://www.dailynews.co.zw/articles/2014/12/11/mdc-wants-to-impeach-mugabe.; Mugabe Fights Impeachment, BBC News (Oct. 25, 2000), http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/990362.stm.

[136] See Tajamuka/Sesjikile Campaign, Pindula, http://www.pindula.co.zw/Tajamuka/Sesjikile_Campaign (last visited July 31, 2018)

[137] See Frank Chikowore, Court to Rule on Mugabe’s ‘Fitness’ To Continue as President, Huffington Post S. Afr. (Jan. 15, 2017), http://www.huffingtonpost.co.za/2017/01/15/court-to-rule-on-mugabes-fitness-to-continue-as-president.

[138] Constitution § 90 (1) (2013) (Zimb.).

[139] Id., § 90 (2)(a).

[140] Id., § 90 (2)(b).

[141] Id., § 90 (2)(c).

[142] Id., § 167 (2)(b).

[143] Id., § 167 (2)(c).

[144] Id., § 167 (2)(d).

[145] Affidavit of Promise Mkwananzi,  Promise Mkwananzi v The President of the Republic of Zimbabwe and The Minister of Justice, Legal & Parliamentary Affairs ¶¶ 25–30 (2016) (Zim.), http://www.shutdownzim.net/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/mkwananzi_constitutional_application_160807.pdf.

[146] Id., ¶¶ 40-41.

[147] Id., ¶¶ 41.1 and 41.2.

[148] See Charles Laiton, ConCourt Rejects “Mugabe Unfit” case, News Day (Feb. 9, 2017), https://www.newsday.co.zw/2017/02/09/concourt-rejects-mugabe-unfit-case/.

[149] See Zimbabwe’s Zanu-PF Confirms Mugabe as 2018 Election Candidate, BBC (Dec. 17, 2016), http://www.bbc.com/news/world-africa-38353298

[150] Saul Dubow, South Africa’s Struggle for Human Rights 9 (2012).

[151] Id.

[152] See Cath Senker, Mandela and Truth and Reconciliation 26 (2014) .

[153] See generally Donald Woods, Rainbow Nation Revisited: South Africa’s Decade of Democracy (2000).

[154] See South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, http://www.justice.gov.za/Trc.; see also Lyn Graybill, Truth and Reconciliation in South Africa: Miracle or Model? 7 (2002); Katherine Elizabeth Mack, From Apartheid to Democracy: Deliberating Truth and Reconciliation in South Africa PAGE? (2014).

[155] Fombad, supra note 3, at 325.

[156] S. Afr. Const., § 89, 1996. Judges may be removed in terms of Section 177, the Public Protector in terms of Section 194.

[157] National Director of Public Prosecutions v. Zuma 2009 (2) SA 277 (SCA) ¶ 4 (S. Afr.).

[158] See Elke Zuern, The Politics of Necessity: Community Organizing and Democracy in South Africa 180 (2011).

[159] Jacob Gedleyihlekisa Zuma v National Director of Public Prosecutions 2014 (4) SA 35 (SCA) (S. Afr.).

[160] Id. ¶ 210.

[161] See Frank Chikane, Eight Days in September: The Removal of Thabo Mbeki (2012) for an account of events that led to the removal or resignation of former president Thabo Mbeki. See also Katie Cooksey, Thabo Mbeki to Step Down as South African President After ANC Request, Guardian (Sep. 20, 2008), https://www.theguardian.com/world/2008/sep/20/southafrica1.

[162] See Jacob Gedleyihlekisa Zuma v. National Director of Public Prosecutions 2009 (1) SA 54 (N) (S. Afr.); State v. Jacob Gedleyihlekisa Zuma, 2006 (S. Afr.), http://www.saflii.org/za/cases/ZAGPHC/2006/45.pdf.

[163] See Phillip de Wet, Nkandla: The Great Unravelling (2014).

[164] Economic Freedom Fighters v Speaker of the National Assembly and Others; Democratic Alliance v Speaker of the National Assembly and Others 2016 (3) SA 580 (CC) ¶ 83 (S. Afr.), http://constitutionallyspeaking.co.za/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/CCT-143-15-and-CCT-171-15-EFF-v-Speaker-of-the-National-Assembly-and-Oth-.pdf.

[165] See DA Says President Jacob Zuma Violated the Constitution, ENCA (Sep. 1, 2015), https://www.enca.com/south-africa/da-says-president-jacob-zuma-violated-constitution.

[166] See S’thembile Cele, EFF Heads Back to Con Court So Parliament Can Punish Zuma, City Press (Feb. 14, 2017), http://city-press.news24.com/News/eff-heads-back-to-con-court-so-parliament-can-punish-zuma-20170214.

[167] Constitution art. XI, § 2 (1987) (Phil.).

[168] Id., art. XI, § 3 (1).

[169] See Neri Javier Colmenares & Bayan Muna, Summary of 2008 Impeachment Complaint vs. Arroyo, GMA News Online, http://www.gmanetwork.com/news/story/126477/news/summary-of-2008-impeachment-complaint-vs-arroyo.

[170] See Center for People Empowerment in Governance, Fraud: Gloria M. Arroyo and the May 2004 Elections 242 (2006); Permanent Peoples’ Tribunal, Repression & Resistance: The Filipino People vs. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, George W. Bush, et al. 4 (2007); see also Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, Sandals, Impeachment Efforts, Coup Attempts and Protests, Facts and Details, http://factsanddetails.com/southeast-asia/Philippines/sub5_6b/entry-3855.html.; Cecilio Duka, Struggle for Freedom: A Textbook on Philippine History 361 (2008).

[171] Arroyo, supra note 170.

[172] Id.

[173] Elizabeth Holtzman & Cynthia Cooper, Cheating Justice: How Bush and Cheney Attacked the Rule of Law and Plotted to Avoid Prosecution? and What We Can Do about It 3 (2012).

[174] U.S. Const. art. IV.

[175] See Borgna Brunner, A Short History of Impeachment: High Crimes and Misdemeanours, Infoplease, http://www.infoplease.com/spot/impeach.html.

[176] U.S. Const. arts. II, III.

[177] Id.

[178] See Brunner, supra note 175.

[179] See Buckner F. Melton, The First Impeachment: The Constitution’s Framers and the Case of Senator William Blount (1998).

[180] Brunner, supra note 175.

[181] George C. Kohn, The New Encyclopedia of American Scandal 80 (2001).

[182] See generally Harry P. Jeffrey & Thomas Maxwell-Long, Watergate and the resignation of Richard Nixon: impact of a Constitutional crisis (2004).

[183] Stanley Kutler, Watergate: A Brief History with Documents 186 (2010).

[184] Brunner, supra note 175.

[185] See Brunner, supra note 175; see also Chester G. Hearn, The Impeachment of Andrew Johnson 120 (2007); Jonathan Birnbaum & Clarence Taylor, Civil Rights Since 1787: A Reader on the Black Struggle 155 (2000).

[186] Holtzman & Cooper, supra note 173, at 3; see also Elizabeth Holtzman, The Impeachment of George W. Bush: A Practical Guide for Concerned Citizens (2006).

[187] See Preface, Impeach the President: The Case Against Bush and Cheney (Dennis Loo & Peter Phillips eds., 2011).

[188] Bush was accused of creating “a secret propaganda campaign to manufacture a false case for war against Iraq” on the basis that Iraq presented an imminent threat to the United States. See H.R. Res. 1258, 110th Cong. (2007–2008); Khondakar Golam Mowla, 1 The Judgment Against Imperialism, Fascism and Racism Against Caliphate and Islam 595 (2008); House Democratic Judiciary Committee Staff, The Constitution in Crisis: The High Crimes of the Bush Administration and a Blueprint for Impeachment 12 (2013). On the prohibition on use of force see U.N. Charter art. 2, para. 4; see also The Oxford Handbook of the Use of Force in International Law 79 (Marc Weller et al. eds., 2015); Christopher Joyner, International Law in the 21st Century: Rules for Global Governance 166 (2005).

[189] See H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188; see also Dave Lindorff & Barbara Olshansky, The Case for Impeachment: The Legal Argument for Removing President George W. Bush from Office 189 (2007); Francis A. Boyle, Tackling America’s Toughest Questions: Alternative Media Interviews 4 (2014); 154 Cong. Rec. 16470 (2008); International Human Rights Law in a Global Context 155 (Felipe Gómez Isa & Koen de Feyter eds., 2009).

[190] See generally Guénaėl Mettraux, The Law of Command Responsibility (2009).

[191]Executive Power and Its Constitutional Limitations: Hearing Before the H. Comm. on the Judiciary, 110th Cong., 47, 319 (2009); H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188.

[192] See Protocol Additional to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949, and Relating to the Protection of Victims of International Armed Conflicts (Protocol I), 8 June 1977 arts. 48, 51(2), 52(2), 1125 U.N.T.S. 3; Protocol Additional to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949, and Relating to the Protection of Victims of Non-International Armed Conflicts (Protocol II), 8 June 1977 art.13(2), 1125 U.N.T.S. 610. The rule to distinguish between civilians and combatants is part of customary international law. See Jean-Marie Henckaerts & Louise Doswald-Beck, Customary International Humanitarian Law 3 (2005).

[193] H.R. Res. 1258, supra notes 188.

[194] H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188; Executive Power and Its Constitutional Limitations, supra note 191.

[195] Executive Power and Its Constitutional Limitations, supra note 191; H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188.

[196] Koen Feyter, Out of the Ashes: Reparation for Victims of Gross and Systematic Human Rights Violations 62 (2005); Arist von Hehn, The Internal Implementation of Peace Agreements After Violent Intrastate Conflict: Guidance for Internal Actors Responsible for Implementation 189 (2011).

[197] See, e.g., Christof Heyns, Report of the Special Rapporteur on Extrajudicial, Summary or Arbitrary Executions, ¶ 46, U.N. Docc. A/HRC/26/36 (Apr. 1, 2014).

[198] See generally Ivana Schellongova, The Right to a Remedy for Victims of Violations of Human Rights (Institut Universitaire de Hautes Études Internationales, 2005).

[199] Michael Haas, George W. Bush, War Criminal?: The Bush Administration’s Liability for 269 War Crimes 53-54 (ABC-CLIO, 2009).

[200] H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188; see also James Swanson, The Bush League of Nations: The Coalition of the Unwilling, the Bullied and the Bribed—the GOP’s War on Iraq and America 157 (2008).

[201] H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188.

[202] Kresimir Kamber, Prosecuting Human Rights Offences: Rethinking the Sword Function of Human Rights Law 143, 159, 170 (2017).

[203] Executive Power and Its Constitutional Limitations, supra note 191; H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188.

[204] Philip N.S. Rumney, Torturing Terrorists: Exploring the Limits of Law, Human Rights and Academic Freedom 82 (2014); H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188; see Convention Against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman, or Degrading Treatment or Punishment art. 2, Dec. 10, 1984, 1465 U.N.T.S. 85.

[205]Daniel Moeckli et al., International Human Rights Law 84 (2d ed., 2014).

[206] Alan W. Clarke, Rendition to Torture 171 (2012); Securing Africa: Post-9/11 Discourses on Terrorism 204 (Malinda S. Smith ed., 2013).

[207] H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188.

[208] See, e.g., Geneva Convention Relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War art. 3, Aug. 12, 1949, 6 U.S.T. 3316, 75 U.N.T.S. 135; see also Nigel Rodley & Matt Pollard, The Treatment of Prisoners under International Law 127 (3d ed., 2009); Claudio Grossman et al., Advocating for Human Rights: 10 Years of the Inter-American Moot Court Competition 878 (2008).

[209] H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188; see also Securing Africa, supra note 206, at 107.

[210] H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188; see also Dennis Loo & Peter Phillips, Impeach the President: The Case Against Bush and Cheney xiv (2011); Cindy Sheehan, Dear President Bush 109 (2006).

[211] Nancy S. Lind & Bernard I. Tamas, Controversies of the George W. Bush Presidency: Pro and Con Documents 42 (2007); H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188; The Iraq War Encyclopedia 485 (Thomas R. Mockaitis ed., 2013). For more about Valarie’s exposure and betrayal see Valerie Plame Wilson, Fair Game: My Life as a Spy, My Betrayal by the White House (2007).

[212] H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188; see also Walter M. Brasch, Sinking the Ship of State: The Presidency of George W. Bush 521 (2008).

[213] H.R. Res. 1258, supra note 188; see also W.D. Wright, The American Three-Party System: Hidden in Plain Sight 229 (2012).

[214] Jonas Christoffersen, Fair Balance: A Study of Proportionality, Subsidiarity and Primarity in the European Convention on Human Rights 198 (2009).

[215] Id.

[216] Case “relating to certain aspects of laws on the use of languages in education in Belgium” (“the Belgian linguistic case” (merits) 6 Eur. Ct. H.R. (ser. A) at 32 (1968); see also Case 4-73, J. Nold, Kohlen- und Baustoffgroßhandlung v. Comm’n of the European Cmtys., 1974 E.C.R. 491.

[217] See Int’l Ctr. for Policy & Conflicts & 5 others v. The Hon. Att’y Gen. & 4 others (2013) eKLR, ¶¶ 1–5.

[218] See Press Conference by the Prosecutor of the International Criminal Court Luis Moriono-Ocampo, https://www.icc-cpi.int/NR/rdonlyres/AC13413D-D097-4527-B0AE-60CF6DBB1B68/281313/LMOINTROstatement26112009_2_2.pdf

[219] See Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court arts. 7(1)(a) and 25(3)(a), July 17, 1998, 2187 U.N.T.S. 3; see also Prosecutor v. Kenyatta, ICC-01/09-02/11, ¶ 21 (Sept. 21, 2011).

[220] See Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court arts. 7(l)(d) and 25(3)(a); see also Prosecutor v. Kenyatta, ¶ 21.

[221] Prosecutor v. Kenyatta, ¶ 21.

[222] See Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court arts. 7(l)(h) and 25(3)(a)

[223] See Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court arts. 7(l)(k) and 25(3)(a); see also Geneva Convention art. 3.

[224] See Danielle Beswick & Paul Jackson, Conflict, Security and Development: An Introduction 178 (2d ed., 2014).

[225] Int’l Ctr. for Policy & Conflicts & 5 others v. The Hon. Att’y Gen. & 4 others (2013) eKLR, ¶ 13 (Kenya); see also The War Report: Armed Conflict in 2013, at 288 (Stuart Casey-Maslen ed., 2014).

[226] Int’l Ctr. for Policy & Conflicts, (2013) eKLR ¶ 41.

[227] Id. ¶ 22.

[228] Id. ¶¶ 15–16.

[229] Id. ¶ 20; see also Ctr. for Pub. Interest Litig. & Another v. Union of India & Another, 2011,(2) UJ 908 (SC) (India).

[230] See Prosecutor v. Kenyatta, ICC-01/09-02/11-382-Red (Jan. 23, 2012).

[231] Ken Opalo, Kenya: ICC Accused Ruto and Kenyatta May Still Run for President, Afr.Arguments (Jan. 24,2012), http://africanarguments.org/2012/01/24/kenya-icc-shakes-up-politics-but-ruto-and-kenyatta-may-still-run-for-president-by-ken-opalo/

[232]Int’l Ctr. for Policy & Conflicts & 5 others v. The Hon. Att’y Gen. & 4 others (2013) eKLR, ¶ 14 (Kenya).

[233]Id. ¶ 135.

[234]Id.

[235]Id. ¶ 140.

[236]Id.

[237]Id. ¶¶ 155,168.

[238]Id. ¶ 147.

[239]Id. ¶ 156.

[240]See S.W.M v. G.M.K (2012) eKLR (Kenya).

[241] Obbo and Another v. Attorney-General (2004) AHRLR 256 (UgSC 2004) ¶¶ 28–31 (Uganda); see also Olivier De Schutter, International Human Rights Law: Cases, Materials, Commentary 517 (2014); Globalization of Law and Human Rights: From Norms to Fulfillment 68 (Alison Brysk ed., 2013).

[242]Kemai and Others v. Attorney General and Others (2005) AHRLR 118 (KeHC 2000) ¶ 40 (Kenya); see also Brian Stiltner, Religion and the Common Good: Catholic Contributions to Building Community in a Liberal Society 152 (Rowman & Littlefield eds., 1999); Jatindra Kumar Das, Human Rights Law and Practice 31 (2016).

[243]Ndyanabo v. Attorney-General (2002) AHRLR 243 (TzCA 2002) ¶¶ 18, 33–37, 40, 41, 44 (Tanzania); Helen Fenwick, Civil Liberties and Human Rights 726 (4th ed. 2007).

[244] Media Rights Agenda and Others v. Nigeria (2000) AHRLR 200 (ACHPR 1998) ¶¶ 64–71 (Nigeria); Alex Conte, Human Rights in the Prevention and Punishment of Terrorism: Commonwealth Approaches: The United Kingdom, Canada, Australia and New Zealand 313 (2010).

[245] Michel Rosenfeld & András Sajó, The Oxford Handbook of Comparative Constitutional Law 740 (2012); Attorney-General v. ’Mopa (2002) AHRLR 91 (LeCA 2002) ¶ 33 (Lesotho).

[246] Tom Campbell, Protecting Human Rights: Instruments and Institutions 154 (2003); Amnesty International and Others v. Sudan (2000) AHRLR 297 ¶¶ 59, 80 (Sudan).

[247] Civil Liberties Organisation v. Nigeria (2000) AHRLR 186 (ACHPR 1995) ¶ 15 (Nigeria); Bertrand Ramcharan, The Right to Life in International Law 257 (1985).

[248] See The Foundation of International Human Rights Law, United Nations, http://www.un.org/en/sections/universal-declaration/human-rights-law/.

[249] Arturo Santa-Cruz, International Election Monitoring, Sovereignty, and the Western Hemisphere: The Emergence of an International Norm 166 (2013); Mark Robert Killenbeck, The Tenth Amendment and State Sovereignty: Constitutional History and Contemporary Issues 143 (2002).

[250] Killenbeck, supra note 249, at 143.

[251] Jack Donnelly, Cultural Relativism and Human Rights, 6 Hum. Rts. Q. 400 (1984); Lauren Fielder, Transnational Legal Processes and Human Rights 25 (2016).

[252] Fielder, supra note 251, at 25; see also Giuliana Ziccardi Capaldo, The Global Community Yearbook of International Law and Jurisprudence 2014, at 24 (2015); Burns Weston & Anna Grear, Human Rights in the World Community: Issues and Action 49 (2016).

[253] Donnelly, supra note 251, at 25.

[254] Id.

[255] Donnelly, supra note 251, at 401; Malcolm Evans & Rachel Murray, The African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights: The System in Practice, 1986–2000, 225 (2002).

[256] Donnelly, supra note 251, at 401; Malcolm Evans & Rachel Murray, supra note 255, at 225.

[257] Peter Danchin, Cultural Relativism and Universalism, Col. University, http://ccnmtl.columbia.edu/projects/mmt/udhr/preamble_section_7/concept_history_2.html; see also Guyora Binder, Cultural Relativism and Cultural Imperialism in Human Rights Law, 5 Buff. Hum. Rts. L. Rev. 211 (1999).

[258] Donnelly, supra note 251, at 419.

[259] Sharon Yecies, Sexual Orientation, Discrimination, and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 11 Chi. J. Int’l L. 789 (2011).

[260] Abadir M Ibrahim, LGBT Rights in Africa and the Discursive Role of International Human Rights Law, 15 Afr. Hum. Rts. L.J. 263 (2015).

[261] Id. at 265; see also Human Rights Council, “Human Rights Council Panel on Ending Violence and Discrimination against Individuals Based on their Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity” Geneva, Switzerland, Mar. 7, 2012.

[262] Ibrahim, supra note 260, at 263.

[263] See Matt Cherry, United Nations: Debates Freedom of Religion or Belief, Int’l Ethical & Humanist Union (Oct. 31, 2012), http://iheu.org/story/un-debates-freedom-religion-or-belief [http://www.perma.cc/0rCta3DXGk3].

[264] Marie-Luisa Frick & Andreas Mülle, Islam and International Law: Engaging Self-Centrism from a Plurality of Perspectives 19 (2013).

[265] See generally United States Commission on International Religious Freedom, The Right to Freedom of Religion & Belief: An Analysis of Muslim Countries (2005).

[266] See Human Rights First Welcomes New U.N. Text on Religious Intolerance, Hum. Rts. First (Mar. 22, 2013), http://www.humanrightsfirst.org/2012/11/28/human-rights-first-welcomes-new-u-ntext-on-religious-intolerance.

[267] See Remarks by Foreign Ministry Spokesman Luong Thanh Nghi on the Passage of Viet Nam Human

Rights Act 2013, Vietnam Ministry of Foreign Affairs, http://www.mofa.gov.vn/en/tt_baochi/pbnfn/ns130805202859 [http://www.perma.cc/0mEA6knJFw8]; see also John Gillespie, Human Rights as a Larger Loyalty: The Evolution of Religious Freedom in Vietnam, 47 Harv. Hum. Rts. J. 107–08 (2014).

[268] See Vietnam’s Viewpoints and Policies on Human Rights, Vietnam Ministry of Foreign Affairs (2007), http://www.mofa.gov.vn/en/ctc_quocte/ptklk/nr040819162124/ns070731133659/view#bstmJ2ObW8If.

[269] Gillespie, supra note 267, at 108.

[270] See the 2011 Report of the United States Department on International Freedom reports on Thailand, available at http://www.state.gov/documents/organization/192879.pdf, and Indonesia available at http://www.state.gov/documents/organization/192841.pdf; see also Gillespie, supra note 267, at 146.

[271] Gillespie, supra note 267, at 146.

[272] Shabnam J. Holliday, Defining Iran: Politics of Resistance 18 (2016).

[273] See United Nations Report of the Fourth World Conference on Women, 39, http://www.un.org/womenwatch/daw/beijing/pdf/Beijing%20full%20report%20E.pdf; Tracey Higgins, Anti-Essentialism, Relativism and Human Rights, 19 Harv. Women’s L.J. 89 (1996).

[274] Higgins, supra note 273 at 89.

[275]Id. at 90.

[276] See Alan Cowell, Vatican Rejects Compromise on Abortion at U.N. Meeting, N.Y. Times, Sept. 7, 1994, at Al, A8; Higgins, supra note 273 at 90.

[277] See Nigeria’s President, supra note 43.

[278] See Stephen D. Foster, Trump Supporter Says Women Shouldn’t Be Allowed To Be Leaders, Addicting Info (Oct. 27, 2016), http://addictinginfo.org/2016/10/27/watch-trump-supporter-says-women-shouldnt-be-allowed-to-be-leaders/.

[279] See S. Afr. Const. § 9 (3) (“The state may not unfairly discriminate directly or indirectly against anyone on one or more grounds, including race, gender, sex, pregnancy, marital status, ethnic or social origin, colour, sexual orientation, age, disability, religion, conscience, belief, culture, language and birth.”).

[280] Id.

[281] Donnelly, supra note 251, at 414.

[282] Donnelly, supra note 251, at 415; see also Christof Heyns & Karen Stefiszyn, Human Rights, Peace and Justice in Africa: A Reader 104 (2006).

[283] Danchin, supra note 257.

[284] Malcolm Shaw, International Law 266 (2003); see also the Dissenting Opinion of Judge Tanaka in the South-West Africa Cases, 1966 I.C.J. Rep. 3, 293, 37 ILR, 243, 455.

[285] United Nations Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, Preventing Torture: An Operational Guide for National Human Rights Institutions 1 (2010), http://www.ohchr.org/Documents/Countries/NHRI/Torture_Prevention_Guide.pdf; see also Erika De Wet, Prohibition of Torture as an International Norm Of Jus Cogens and Its Implications for National and Customary Law, 15 Eur. J. Int’l L. 97–121 (2004).

[286] See Amnesty Int’l U.K., Theresa May, Demand an End to Trump’s Muslim Ban (Aug. 21, 2017), https://www.amnesty.org.uk/actions/donald-trump-muslim-refugee-travel-ban?gclid=CLmiksiG_dECFe4Q0wodjpgP1w; Matthew Weaver and Spencer Ackerman, Trump Claims Torture Works But Experts Warn of Its “Potentially Existential” Costs, Guardian (Jan. 26, 2017), https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2017/jan/26/donald-trump-torture-absolutely-works-says-us-president-in-first-television-interview.

[287] Holtzman & Cooper, supra note 173, at 5; see also Michael Goodhart, Democracy as Human Rights: Freedom and Equality in the Age of Globalization 181 (2013).

[288] Henkin, supra note 59, at ix; see also Zachary Elkins et al., Getting to Rights: Treaty Ratification, Constitutional Convergence, and Human Rights Practice, 54 Harv. Int’l L.J. 61 (2013).

[289] Elkins et al., supra note 288; see also Joseph Jacob, Civil Justice in the Age of Human Rights 2 (2016); Catherine Dupra, The Age of Dignity: Human Rights and Constitutionalism in Europe (2016).

[290] Holtzman & Cooper, supra note 173, at 5; see also Daniel Rothenberg, Memory of Silence: The Guatemalan Truth Commission Report 157 (2016); Henrik Alffram, Human Rights Watch, Ignoring Executions and Torture: Impunity for Bangladesh’s Security Forces 71 (2009).

[291] Sarah Joseph & Adam Fletcher, Scope of Application, in International Human Rights Law 120 (Daniel Moeckli et al. eds., 2014); Rebecca Cook, Human Rights of Women: National and International Perspectives 229 (2012).

[292] Article 4 of the International Law Commission on Articles of Responsibility of States for Internationally Wrongful Acts, A/56/10, ch IV.E. I; see also Joseph & Fletcher, supra note 291, at 123.

[293] Article 7 of the International Law Commission on Articles of Responsibility of States, supra note 292; see also Sarma v. Sri Lanka, CCPR/C/78/D/950/2000 (July 31, 2003).

[294] See the case of Toonen v. Australia CCPR/C/50. D.488/1992 (April 4, 1994) wherein a state passed a law discriminating against gays and lesbians and the federal government was found responsible.

[295] Olivier Schutter, International Human Rights Law: Cases, Materials, Commentary 453 (2014); 1 Dinah Shelton & Paolo Carozza, Regional Protection of Human Rights 578 (2013); Juan Carlos, The Rights of Victims in Criminal Justice Proceedings for Serious Human Rights Violations 88 (2013).

[296] See International Human Rights Law, United Nations Off. High Comm’r for Hum. Rts., http://www.ohchr.org/EN/ProfessionalInterest/Pages/InternationalLaw.aspx.

[297] Francisco Martin et al., International Human Rights and Humanitarian Law: Treaties, Cases, and Analysis 71 (2006).

[298] Moeckli et al., supra note 205, at 124.

[299] Moeckli et al., supra note 205, at 124; see also Kjetil Larsen, The Human Rights Treaty Obligations of Peacekeepers 128 (2012); Anuradha Kumar, Human Rights 174 (2002); Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, ‘International Human Rights Law and the Role of the Legal Professions, 17, http://www.ohchr.org/documents/publications/training9chapter1en.pdf

[300] Velasquez Rodriguez v Honduras, Inter-Am. Ct. H.R. (ser.C) No. 4 ¶ 172 (July.29 1988).

[301] Human Rights Committee General Comment 31, para 8.

[302] Martin et al., supra note 297, at 71.

[303] Nïraj Nathwani, Rethinking Refugee Law 60 (2003); Burns Weston & Anna Grear, Human Rights in the World Community: Issues and Action 175 (2016).

[304] Nathwani, supra note 303, at 60; see also Markos Karavias, Corporate Obligations Under International Law 170 (2013); Moeckli et al., supra note 205, at 124.

[305] Nathwani, supra note 303, at 60; Moeckli et al., supra note 205, at 119. Further, in international human rights law, “a state is clearly not responsible for every act or omission which harms human rights.” Maria Eriksson, Defining Rape: Emerging Obligations for States Under International Law? 190 (2011).

[306] Dinah Shelton, Remedies in International Human Rights Law 48 (2015); Moeckli et al., supra note 205, at 119.

[307] Moeckli et al., supra note 205, at 124; see also Nathwani, supra note 303, at 60; Weston & Grear, supra note 252, at 175.

[308] Moeckli et al., supra note 205, at 124; see also Francesco Francioni & Natalino Ronzitti, War by Contract : Human Rights, Humanitarian Law, and Private Contractors 85 (2011); United Nations Committee Against Torture, Selected Decisions of the Committee Against Torture, Volume 1 UN, 2008, p. 83.

[309] Osman v. United Kingdom, (2000) 29 EHHR 245, para 116; see also SERAC v. Nigeria, Communication Number 155/96 (2002); Opuz v. Turkey (2010) 50 EHHR 28; A v. United Kingdom (1999) 27 EHHR 611.

[310] Larry May, Genocide: A Normative Account (2010) 189.

[311] 2 Honor Fagan & Ronaldo Munck, Globalization and Security: Social and Cultural Aspects 348 (2009).

[312] Peter Ramsay, The Insecurity State: Vulnerable Autonomy and the Right to Security in the Criminal Law (2012) 131; Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian & Nādirah Shalhūb-Kīfūrkiyān, Security Theology, Surveillance and the Politics of Fear (2015) 47; Robert Hanlon & Kenneth Christie, Freedom from Fear, Freedom from Want: An Introduction to Human Security (2016) 65; Shepherd Iverson, One Korea: A Proposal for Peace (2013) 95; Dorothy Estrada-Tanck, Human Security and Human Rights under International Law: The Protections Offered to Persons Confronting Structural Vulnerability (2016) 39.

[313] See Bertrand Ramcharan, Human Rights and Human Security, Disarmament F., no. 1, 2004, at 39, 40.

[314] Okechukwu Ukaga et al, Natural Resources, Conflict, and Sustainable Development: Lessons from the Niger Delta 141 (2012).

[315] See Francis Fukuyama, Is American Democracy Strong Enough for Trump? The Case Against Panic, Politico, (Jan. 23, 2017), http://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2017/01/donald-trump-american-democracy-214683; Erica Alini, American Institutions Will Stop Trump from Destroying the Country (Even If He Wants to), Quartz, (Nov. 29, 2016), https://qz.com/846177/donald-trump-checks-and-balances-why-the-constitution-history-and-congress-will-limit-trumps-damage/; Stacy Hilliard, Don’t Panic About President Trump—The Real Power in U.S. Politics Lies Elsewhere, Newsweek, (Nov. 10, 2016), http://www.newsweek.com/2016-presidential-election-donald-trump-checks-and-balances-congress-519513; Constrained? America’s System of Checks and Balances Seems to Be Working but There Is Still Plenty to Worry About, Economist (Apr. 1, 2017), http://www.economist.com/news/briefing/21719787-there-still-plenty-worry-about-americas-system-checks-and-balances-seems-be.

[316] Constrained, supra note 315.

[317] Jamie Mayerfeld, The Promise of Human Rights: Constitutional Government, Democratic Legitimacy, and International Law 4 (2016).

[318] Ramcharan, supra note 313, at 40.

[319] Inglehart & Norris, supra note 10, at 5; see also Molly Ball, Donald Trump and the Politics of Fear, Atlantic, (2016), https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/09/donald-trump-and-the-politics-of-fear/498116/; Mikey Smith, US Immigrants “Living In Fear” As Donald Trump’s Crackdown Sees Hundreds Arrested in Raids, Mirror, (Feb. 12, 2017), http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/politics/immigrants-living-fear-donald-trumps-9803648.

[320] See Inglehart & Norris, supra note 10, at 2.

[321] See Ramcharan, supra note 313, at 40.

[322] Julie Mertus & Jeffrey Helsing, Human Rights and Conflict: Exploring the Links Between Rights, Law, and Peace-building 490 (2006).

[323] Bardo Fassbender, Securing Human Rights?: Achievements and Challenges of the UN Security Council 38 (2011); Richard Claude & Burns Weston, Human Rights in the World Community: Issues and Action 240 (2006).

[324] Marc Weller, The Oxford Handbook of the Use of Force in International Law 50 (2015).

[325] Inglehart & Norris, supra note 10, at 5.

[326] See Requirements for Elective Post, Candidate for Presidential Election (and Running Mate), Kenyan Indep. Electoral & Boundaries Commission,  https://www.iebc.or.ke/registration/?aspirant (last visited Aug. 1, 2018).

[327] The Leadership and Integrity Act (2012) Cap. 182 § 3(2) (Kenya).

[328] Id. § 7(3).

[329] Representation of the People Act, No. 43 of 1951, India Code, § 8(b).

[330] Id. § 8(a); see also Election Commission of India, Handbook for Candidates 15 (2014), http://eci.nic.in/eci_main1/current/CandidateHandbook2014_19032014.pdf

[331] Id.; see Representation of the People Act, § 8(a).

[332] Daniel Ochieng, Political Discourse in Emergent, Fragile, and Failed Democracies, 3 (2016); Gideon Pimstone, Hate Speech, the Constitution and the Conduct of Elections 26, 46 (1999).


Can there be an accidental extrajudicial killing? Understanding standards of intent in the Torture Victim Protection Act

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By Lindsay Bailey[1] 

I. Introduction

In most cases of extrajudicial killing, the intent is clear.  A trigger is pulled or a bomb is detonated, and no one questions if the killer meant to shoot the gun and planned for the consequences of their actions. While the Torture Victim Protection Act (TVPA) requires that a killing be deliberated to qualify as extrajudicial,[2] few courts have ruled on what scienter[3] is required by the phrase deliberated.

In Mamani et al v. Sánchez de Lozada and Sánchez Berzaín (“Mamani”), the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals held that Defendants would not be liable for extrajudicial killings if the killings resulted from “accidental or negligent shooting” by forces under their command.[4] This ruling unjustifiably narrowed the definition of extrajudicial killing by raising the burden of proof for the Plaintiffs in the case and setting a precedent that lowers the standard of care for military and police everywhere. While Plaintiffs argued that the killings were not accidental, even if what Defendants argued was hypothetically true—the deaths were a result of accidental or negligent shootings—the TVPA’s definition of deliberated could, and should, encompass this type of extrajudicial killing.

An accidental killing, as part of a larger planned military operation, should be considered “deliberated” under the TVPA. The Court should rely on the text of the statute and the intent of the drafters to interpret deliberated in this type of case.  The term deliberated is ambiguous because it could refer to a variety of standards of scienter.  The legislative history does not clarify this ambiguity, but it is clear that the drafter’s intent was to follow customary international law’s definition of extrajudicial killing. In light of this intent, courts should interpret deliberated to comply with international law.  International law imposes liability for extrajudicial killings that resulted from negligent actions by the plaintiff.  A negligence standard serves policy goals, including encouraging governments to take steps to prevent extrajudicial killing and placing the burden of preventing extrajudicial killing on the actor who is both the least cost avoider and the most capable of taking preventative measures.

II. Defendants in Mamani argued that killings of protestors committed by security forces were accidental.

Mamani is an ongoing civil case for punitive and compensatory damages for extrajudicial killing under the TVPA, among other claims.[5] The facts of the case center around 2003 protests in Bolivia known as the Gas War.  The defendants are the former President and Defense Minister of Bolivia. Defendants implemented a controversial plan to export gas through Chile.  Large demonstrations erupted, protesting this plan.  The military killed 58 civilians while suppressing these protests.[6]  Relatives of the Plaintiffs were among those killed, including a pregnant woman and an eight year old girl who were sheltering their homes.

Plaintiffs alleged that the Defendants “planned to send the military to shoot to kill and injure people without regard to whether they were engaged in any conduct that would justify the lawful use of lethal force.”[7]  Defendants denied this allegation. Plaintiffs also alleged that their relatives’ deaths were a result of the military intentionally aiming at their relatives. Defendants also denied this allegation and claimed that the Plaintiffs’ relatives’ deaths were a result of “accidental or negligent shooting.”[8]

III. Prior to Mamani there was no precedent for what scienter standard would fulfill the deliberated requirement when killings are committed by security forces when suppressing a protest.

Before Mamani, the TVPA’s requirement that extrajudicial killings be deliberated has not been the subject of lengthy legal opinions.[9]  The only TVPA cases in American courts that based their claim on extrajudicial killings were based on extremist attacks,[10] targeted assassinations or summary executions,[11] shooting down a plane,[12] murder after torture,[13] or the use of pesticides or Agent Orange.[14]  It would be challenging to argue that these killings were negligent or accidental due to the nature of these incidents and Defendants have only advanced such an argument in the pesticide cases.[15]  The Defendants in the pesticide cases would have had a fundamentally different scienter than the Defendants in Mamani because they only intended to “kill or harm plants.”[16]  Conversely, Defendants in Mamani do not deny that security forces intended to kill or harm some people—their argument is that they did not intend to kill or harm the victims.  Shooting a gun is a very different act from spraying pesticide. Mamani is thus a case of first impression, for adjudicating a claim against state security forces who killed citizens while suppressing a protest and thus for determining what scienter is required for a shooting to qualify as extrajudicial.

In Mamani, the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals held that defendants could only be liable for extrajudicial killings that were “undertaken with studied consideration and purpose” which does not include killings that were a result of “accidental or negligent shooting.”[17]  In making this determination, the court did not cite any other case that defined deliberated in the TVPA context.  Even if the court had cited other cases, the other TVPA cases that discuss deliberation address a completely different class of extrajudicial killing and their standards were not developed for application against state security forces suppressing a protest.  The court had an opportunity to set a precedent, and they set the wrong one. The court should reconsider their interpretation of deliberated, based on the ambiguity of the word deliberated in the text and the legislative history, the clear intent to comply with customary international law’s definition of extrajudicial killing, and the policy implications of a strict standard of intent.

IV. The textual meaning of deliberated is ambiguous because there are a variety of levels of scienter that are compatible with deliberation.

A strict textual reading of the phrase deliberated does not yield a specific legal definition.  Black’s Law Dictionary defines deliberated as “[c]arried on coolly and steadily, especially according to a preconceived design.”[18] The Eleventh Circuit explained that an action is deliberate if it is “undertaken with studied consideration and purpose.”[19]  If deliberated is interpreted to essentially mean planned, the text of the statute is ambiguous as to what aspects of the actus reus of killing the scienter of deliberated applies to. Does the defendant need to deliberately pull the trigger or deliberately aim at a specific person?

While it may be tempting to assume that deliberated should take on the same meaning as it does in criminal statutes for first degree murder,[20]  the TVPA creates a civil cause of action.  Thus, deliberated should be interpreted to be consistent with one of the scienter requirements under tort law. There is an ongoing debate about the appropriate level of scienter for intentional torts, with courts divided between single intent and dual intent.[21]  In negligence and strict liability cases, tort law also uses a lower level of scienter.  Deliberated could be interpreted to be consistent with any of these definitions of scienter.

Dual intent would require the defendant to intend to commit the act that killed or injured the plaintiffs and “desires to cause consequences of his act, or . . . believes that the consequences are substantially certain to result from it.”[22] This standard would only exclude a negligent shooting if the defendant would have thought killing someone was not “substantially certain” to result.  For instance, the Restatement of Torts uses the illustration where “A throws a bomb into B’s office for the purpose of killing B. A knows that C, B’s stenographer, is in the office. A has no desire to injure C, but knows that his act is substantially certain to do so. C is injured by the explosion. A is subject to liability to C for an intentional tort.”[23] Under this standard, security forces would be liable for the “accidental” shootings in Mamani if they knew that shooting a gun was substantially certain to cause someone’s death. Furthermore, this standard would not exclude a shooting where the defendant shot with the intent of wounding, rather than killing, the victim.[24]  Deliberated could be interpreted consistently with this standard- the defendant planned the act and planned the harm, or disregarded that harm was substantially certain to result.  The defendant would not need to have deliberated for a lengthy period of time- only a second to plan to target and shoot an individual would be sufficient to meet this standard.

Combined with the doctrine of transferred intent, dual intent would also include a negligent or accidental shooting where the defendant intended to kill or injure a different individual.  If the defendant intends to commit an intentional tort against a third party and harmed or killed the victims, the defendant is liable for an intentional tort.[25]  This would include an accidental or negligent shooting, if the plaintiffs can demonstrate that the defendants had intended to shoot someone else, and intended to either kill or injure them.  Deliberated is also consistent with transferred intent- while the defendant did not plan to shoot and kill this specific victim, they did plan to shoot someone.

Many courts have rejected the dual intent definition of scienter, and instead use single intent.  Single intent would only require the defendant to intend to make contact with the victim.[26]  They would not have to intend any harm.  This would exclude an accidental or negligent shootings where the defendant did not intend to make contact with the victim.  Under the doctrine of transferred intent, this would include cases where the defendant intentionally shot a gun to make contact with a third party and accidentally hit the wrong target.  This would include an accidental shooting where the security forces intended to make contact with one person, and accidentally made contact with the victims.  This definition of scienter is also consistent with deliberated, because the defendant planned to make contact with someone.

Deliberated could also be consistent with a negligence standard. An actor is negligent when their conduct breaches the standard of care that a reasonable person would take in that situation to protect others from a risk of harm.[27]  This standard of care is defined based on what a “reasonable [person] under like circumstances” would do.[28]  The difference between negligence and dual intent, is that in dual intent the harm must be “almost certain” to result from the action, while in negligence the actor is disregarding a lower level of risk of harm that a reasonable person would have prevented.[29] This standard could be consistent with deliberated in the sense that the defendant would have planned their action or inaction, even if they did not plan for that action to breach the duty of care and harm someone. For instance, if the military deliberated about a plan to suppress a civil uprising and accidentally killed protesters because the plan did not adhere to the standard of care that a reasonable military plan would, the plan itself was still deliberated.  If a soldier shot accidentally a civilian, and was not conforming to the standard that a reasonable soldier would follow under a similar situation, they still deliberated about pulling the trigger.

Finally, deliberated could be consistent with strict liability.  Under tort law, individuals can be held strictly liable for “abnormally dangerous” activities “if the activity creates a foreseeable and highly significant risk of physical harm even when reasonable care is exercised by all actors and the activity is not one of common usage.”[30]  This standard is different than negligence because even if the defendant exercised all reasonable care, they would still be liable for the deaths they cause.[31]  This scienter has been limited to a short list of activities, and use of firearms is not one of them.[32]  However, suppressing a civil uprising is far less common than using firearms.[33]  Even the most careful government exercising reasonable care could foresee that they would unintentionally kill innocent people. Furthermore, deliberated could be consistent with strict liability, because defendants planned to and deliberately did engage in an abnormally dangerous activity.

Deliberated could apply to any tort scienter standard, including dual intent, single intent, strict liability, and negligence.  Furthermore, any of these standards could include some liability for an “accidental or negligent shooting (including mistakenly identifying a target as a person who did pose a threat to others)[.]”[34] Dual intent would include an accidental shooting where the shooter was aware that they were substantially certain to hit someone or intended to hit a third party. Single intent would include an accidental shooting where the shooter intended to make contact with a third party.  Negligence would include an accidental shooting where the shooter did not take reasonable precautions against hitting the victim.  Strict liability would include all shootings during the suppression of a civil uprising. Without further guidance in the statute, a strict textual reading does not answer the question of what scienter is required for a successful claim of extrajudicial killing or whether accidental or negligent shootings have sufficient scienter to qualify as extrajudicial.

V. The legislative history does not demonstrate that the drafters contemplated that deliberated would necessarily require a standard of intent higher than negligence.

The legislative history of the TVPA demonstrates that the drafters did not necessarily intend for the deliberated standard to require any scienter beyond planning some kind of action and deviating from a reasonableness standard with respect to the assessment of whether the killing was extrajudicial.  The legislative history only mentions deliberated once.  It states that “[t]he inclusion of the word deliberated is sufficient also to [ex]clude killings that lack the requisite extrajudicial intent, such as those caused by a police officer’s authorized use of deadly force.”[35]  The drafters did not clarify what they understood to be “the requisite extrajudicial intent” and what definition of deliberated would be “sufficient to [ex]clude killings that lack the requisite extrajudicial intent.”  The only clarification is the drafters’ example of a police officer’s authorized use of deadly force.

Requisite extrajudicial intent could be a general question about the intent to cause death. The requirement could be an intent to kill, the intent to pull the trigger, the intent to willfully disregard the risk of death, or the intent to undertake an action that a reasonable person would know created a significant risk of death. The report does not indicate which standard of intent to use here.  The example provided by the drafters, killings resulting from a police officer’s authorized use of force, is not illustrative because a police officer could be held liable for wrongful death based on an intent to disregard the risk of causing death, a deliberate and malicious plan to intentionally cause death, or intentionally taking actions that a reasonable person would know would cause death.[36] Thus, this interpretation of requisite extrajudicial intent does not necessarily yield a specific scienter definition of deliberate.

Alternatively, the requisite extrajudicial intent could be a requirement about the intent that the killing take place without a trial and without any of the justifications for lethal force that are authorized under international law.  That is, the requirement could be that the defendant specifically intended to commit an extrajudicial killing.  At first, this seems narrower. The requisite extrajudicial intent of a police officer would be to intend to kill someone without authorization under international law- and a police officer who killed someone with authorization had no extrajudicial intent.  However, to intend to kill someone without authorization under international law or to intend to kill someone without authorization does not necessarily clarify intent.  Perhaps police officers do not have authorization to negligently kill someone, or a reckless killing would not be authorized under international law.  This leads to the question- what does it means for a police officer to intend to kill someone without ‘authorization’?

The drafters could not have intended for ‘authorization’ to mean sanction from a higher power. Police officers are liable for actions that they take while following orders, if those actions are illegal. The legislative history specifically notes that “low-level officials cannot escape liability by claiming that they were acting under orders of superiors.”[37]

Instead, the drafters probably intended for ‘authorization’ to be equated with legal under international law or domestic law. A killing without trial by security forces is only authorized under international law if the killer reasonably believed that the killing was necessary and reasonably believed they were targeting the right person.[38]  Similarly, a killing without trial by American police officers is only authorized under domestic law if the officer reasonably believed that lethal force was necessary and that they were using lethal force against “the right man”.[39]  A definition of deliberated that is sufficient to exclude killings where security forces reasonably believed that the killing was necessary would be a very low standard. The killer could only escape liability for an accidental or negligent killing if they reasonably believed that killing that person was necessary, or were trying to kill a different person whose death they reasonably believed was necessary and took reasonable precautions to prevent unnecessary deaths.  This interpretation of the legislative history demonstrates that the TVPA could include a construction of deliberated that only requires a deliberated plan to use lethal force and a failure to reasonably consider whether that lethal force would result in killing was necessary and proportional.

VI. The legislative history demonstrates that the drafters intended to comply with customary international law, so courts should interpret deliberated consistently with the negligence scienter for extrajudicial killing found in customary international law.

 

A)   The drafters intended for the TVPA to comply with customary international law.

The legislative history of the TVPA repeatedly states that “[t]he TVPA incorporates into U.S. law the definition of extrajudicial killing found in customary international law.”[40] This indicates that the drafters did not intend to ignore customary international law with their use of deliberated and that it is appropriate to incorporate the international law definition of intent for extrajudicial killing into domestic proceedings, especially in light of the ambiguity in the TVPA.  Furthermore, the 1988 House Report recognized that the TVPA was proposed “to carry out obligations of the United States under the United Nations Charter and other international agreements pertaining to the protection of human rights[.]”[41]  Insofar as carrying out obligations under the United Nations Charter requires respecting statements made by Special Rapporteurs, for the drafters’ purpose to fulfilled the TVPA would need to reflect the Special Rapporteur’s definition of extrajudicial killing.  For these reasons, it is appropriate to consider the customary international law definition of extrajudicial intent when faced with ambiguity in the TVPA.

B)   Customary international law uses a negligence standard for extrajudicial killing.

Customary international law has never established a requirement that shooters deliberately target specific individuals for extrajudicial killing and only requires a negligent act to find extrajudicial intent. Accepted sources of evidence of customary international law include treaties, international jurisprudence, international resolutions, actions by states reflecting the view that practices violate the law, and the writing of scholars.[42]

None of the international instruments establishing the obligation to refrain from violating the right to life mention an intent requirement.[43]  The most recent report of the United Nations Special Rapporteur on extrajudicial, summary or arbitrary executions stated that the scienter of an extrajudicial killing could be demonstrated through “criminal intent but also negligence through acts of omission or commission, that is, a situation where the State “knew of should have known” but failed to take actions that could have prevented deaths.”[44]  Other reports from the Special Rapporteur stated that extrajudicial killings may take place “in a shoot-out with government forces or police”[45] and include “incidents of indiscriminate killing of civilian non-combatants,”[46] such as “shooting at unarmed crowds without warning [.]”[47]  Under this standard, the allegedly accidental and negligent killings in Mamani would qualify as extrajudicial killings.

Regional human rights courts have also found liability for extrajudicial killing based on a negligence standard. In Gul v. Turkey, a police officer shot through a closed door multiple times. In finding the police officer guilty of extrajudicial killing, the European Court of Human Rights held that it did not need “to determine whether the police officers had formulated the intention of killing or acted with reckless disregard for the life of the person behind the door. [The court] not fulfil the functions of a criminal court as regards the allocation of degree of individual fault. It is satisfied that the police officers used a disproportionate degree of force in the circumstances[.]”[48] Similarly, in “Caracazo” v. Venezuela police and military personnel indiscriminately shot civilians while suppressing protests. Again, officers may never have formed the deliberate intention to shoot the civilians.  Rather, they deliberately formed an intention to shoot indiscriminately.  The American Court of Human Rights held that the police officers’ actions were extrajudicial killings.[49] In McCann v. the United  Kingdom, the European Court of Human Rights noted with disapproval that  “the jury focused on the actions of the soldiers as they opened fire as if it were considering their criminal culpability and not on matters such as the allegedly negligent and reckless planning of the operation.”[50] The ECHR then held that the use of deadly force may be justified “where it is based on an honest belief which is perceived, for good reasons, to be valid at the time but which subsequently turns out to be mistaken.”[51]  The use of “an honest belief . . . for good reasons” implies that the ECHR uses a reasonableness standard when assessing liability for extrajudicial killing. International tribunals interpreting the laws of war have similarly found military officers responsible for indiscriminately killing civilians when civilians “were the subject of reckless fire into areas where civilians were known to have been.”[52]  Notably, this was in a trial for war crimes, which typically require high levels of intent. Thus, international tribunals have consistently held that the appropriate standard for intent in extrajudicial killing cases, even in criminal law cases where the standard of intent should be higher than a torts case.

Statements by the United States government and American authorities on international law have not interpreted the customary international law norms of extrajudicial killing to require a high level of intent.  The American Law Institute’s Restatement (Third) of the Foreign Relations Law states “[I]t is a violation of international law for a state to kill an individual other than as lawful punishment pursuant to conviction in accordance with due process of law, or as necessary under exigent circumstances.”[53]  Nowhere in this definition is there a scienter requirement.  In 2001 the US Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights and Labor included “killings committed by police or security forces that resulted in the unintended death of persons without due process of law (for example, mistargeted bombing or shelling or killing of bystanders)” as a type of arbitrary killing.[54]  This statement from an executive department explicitly includes unintended deaths as extrajudicial killings.

Many of the treaties, the laws of war, and some of the statements from the Special Rapporteur discussed above were already in force at the time the TVPA was passed.  This indicates that at that time of drafting the customary international law definition of extrajudicial intent was probably a negligence standard.  While some of these sources of customary international law were established after the statute was passed, the reference to customary international law should not encompass only customary international law as it existed at the time the bill was passed. When the drafters proposed the TVPA “to carry out the obligations of the United States,”[55] they did not cite “current obligations.” The drafters were probably aware of the possibility that future treaties may be signed.  The current and past scienter requirement for extrajudicial killing under international law is negligence, and would encompass an accidental shooting.  As discussed infra, implementing this negligence standard would also be consistent with the drafter’s intent to exclude killings “caused by a police officer’s authorized use of deadly force.” Thus, a negligence standard for intent is both consistent with international law standards and the drafters’ purpose.

VII. Compelling policy support using a negligence standard.

Regardless of the intent of the drafters or the meaning of deliberated, there are extensive policy reasons for defining using a negligence standard for extrajudicial intent.  A negligence standard will deter extrajudicial killing and create incentives for governments to take reasonable precautions to avoid negligently killing their citizens.  It distributes the cost of taking precautions against extrajudicial killing to the government, who is the least cost avoider and the most capable of taking on the cost of avoiding killing. The arguments against negligence- keeping the floodgates of litigation closed and preserving the special condemnation for intentional crimes- are not compelling.  Ultimately, a negligence standard is more likely to reduce the incidence of extrajudicial killing and provide victims with redress- which is the stated goal of legislation entitled the Torture Victims Protection Act.

A)   A negligent standard will create incentives for governments to take reasonable precautions against killing their citizens.

A standard of intent that favors the victims creates incentives for governments and individuals acting under the color of law to take reasonable precautions that reduce the risk of extrajudicial killings. This definition would deter governments from negligently planning their responses to riots or strikes in a manner that would put civilians at risk of being killed unnecessarily.  It would encourage governments to closely monitor and extensively train individuals acting under the color of law to comply with international law norms around what killings are permissible. If the defendants knew that they could only be held liable if they possessed dual intent, or even single intent, they are less likely to take reasonable steps to prevent extrajudicial killing.

B)   The shooter is the least cost avoider.

A negligence standard for deliberate also distributes costs in a more equitable way.  If the standard required the intent to harm the individual, when there was no intent to harm the victim absorbs the entire costs of the shooting.  However, in many cases the victim is unable to avoid being shot, for instance, a pregnant woman sitting on the couch in her home.  They would have to take on enormous costs to avoid being shot (such as fleeing the country), or take on the cost that arose from the shooting.  The costs of prevention for the shooter are far lower.  Taking reasonable steps to prevent unnecessary deaths will create some burden on the shooter.  They may take longer to subdue the protest, and perhaps more soldiers would have been killed.  However, they both have the ability to take these reasonable steps, and avoidance is almost certainly less burdensome for them than the victim.  They could choose not to shoot or choose to avoid shooting when there is a substantial risk of harming innocent individuals.  Since tort law distributes the costs of harm among individuals, the law should use a standard that always puts the costs of shooting on the shooter because the shooter incurs fewer costs in avoiding unnecessary killing.   This should be the case whether the defendant intentionally or negligently kills the victim. While the costs of avoiding a negligent killing are higher than the costs of avoiding an intentional killing, the costs for the shooter are still lower than the costs for the victim.

C)   The government actors are more capable of absorbing the costs of avoidance and should be incentivized to ensure the costs of avoidance are not borne by a small segment of the population.

Policymakers should consider which actor is most able to avoid harm, not just which actor has the lowest costs of avoiding harm.  In extrajudicial killings, the defendant is necessarily a government agent, with all the resources and power of the government behind them.  They have the resources of the government to plan appropriately and reasonably.  They also have the resources of the government to litigate if necessary.  The victim is a citizen.  In Mamani, the victims are the most marginalized and impoverished citizens of Bolivia, although this might not be the case with every extrajudicial killing.  Even if the citizen’s costs of avoiding being killed were slightly lower than the government’s costs of avoiding shooting, the government is often more capable of absorbing a higher cost than a citizen.  In criminal law, the intent and evidentiary standards are higher because the government is the plaintiff and the justice system is concerned that the power of the government is grossly disproportionate to the power of the individual as defendant. In torts where the government is the defendant, the same principle about the power of the government should be applied.  Thus, the intent standard should be lower as the justice system should be aware that the power of the defendant government to prevent harm is grossly disproportionate to the power of the individual.

Another difference between a least-cost avoider analysis for a government and an individual is that the government considers the cost and benefit to society as a whole. The cost of a negligent government action may be borne by a few individuals, while the benefit is spread out across the entire society.  Conversely, an individual receives the whole burden of their decisions- as well as the whole benefit.  The government received the benefit from their decision to shoot- but that benefit might not have been shared equally with the plaintiff, or individuals like the plaintiff.  If the government makes a utilitarian decision that shooting some people to end a protest is necessary and will benefit society as a whole, they should be held to a very high standard of accountability to individuals who are harmed from that decision.  This will ensure that the government takes appropriate steps to avoid harming a segment of society, even if it benefits another segment of society, and will redistribute the costs throughout all of society. Ultimately a negligence standard would more frequently put the cost on the government than a standard that required a higher level of scienter, which will put the avoidance costs on the actor who is most capable of absorbing them and will redistribute avoidance costs throughout society.

The policy reasons for a stricter deliberated standard are not compelling.

There are some policy reasons for a stricter standard.  First, a stricter standard would prevent the ‘floodgates’ of litigation from opening and bringing cases from across the world into the United States. If pleading a case is more challenging, plaintiffs are less likely to make it.  Ultimately, whether this argument is persuasive depends on whether the reader is ever persuaded by the floodgates arguments that are advanced in a variety of areas of law.  Second, a stricter standard distinguishes the grievous offence of extrajudicial killing from negligent killing.  Lowering the standard for extrajudicial killing might make it seem less serious in the eyes of the public and the defendants. Similarly, torture is differentiated from inhuman or degrading treatment by the requirement that torture inflicts severe suffering. The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia has stated that “the distinction between torture and inhuman or degrading treatment . . . allow[s] the special stigma of torture to attach only to deliberate inhuman treatment causing very serious and cruel suffering.”[56]  Domestic statutes also differentiate between degrees of murder using standard of intent, which allows society to impose particularly severe sanctions on murder that was premeditated or carried out with a depraved heart. While imposing special liability for malicious or intentional crimes is a legitimate policy goal, tort law imposes liability in a different way than criminal law.  Criminal law divides crimes up for different levels of liability by separating crimes into different levels of scienter.  The name of the crime and the punishment is different depending on the scienter.  Conversely, in tort law the punishment is in the form of damages which are primarily calculated based on the harm to the victim.  Whether the tort was intentional or unintentional, the compensatory damages remain the same because they are based on the harm suffered by the victim.  Punitive damages may be added if a tort was committed in a particularly callous manner.  The desire to differentiate intentional extrajudicial killing from negligent accidental killing can be manifested in the damages phase, rather than the phase that articulates the elements of the offense.

VIII. Conclusion

In Mamani, the defendants are trying to avoid liability for killings by security forces by claiming that the killings were accidental or negligent. Even if their claims were true, the defendants should still be liable under the TVPA.  Prior to Mamani, no American court had ruled on what scienter would fulfill the TVPA’s deliberated requirement when security forces kill civilians while suppressing a protest. Mamani was a case of first impression, and the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals was wrong to rule that if the killings were accidental, as Defendants claimed, they were not extrajudicial.

Instead, the Court should have set a scienter standard that is true to the intent of the legislature and reflects the best possible policy choice.  Deliberated is ambiguous, and could refer to planning an act (single intent, negligence, or strict liability), or planning the consequences of the act (dual intent).   The legislative history does not clarify which level of scienter the drafters intended to use, but demonstrates that the drafters intended to use a definition that is consistent with international law.  International law holds security officers liable for extrajudicial killing if they were negligent in assessing if the killing was necessary.  This includes accidental and negligent deaths.  There are compelling policy reasons for using a negligence standard, including encouraging governments to take reasonable precautions before killing their citizens and placing the costs of avoidance or death on the least cost avoider and the actor who is most capable of absorbing the costs.  The alternative, higher levels of scienter, would mean that ordinary citizens would bear the cost of the government’s negligent actions.  Ultimately, the purpose of the TVPA is to prevent extrajudicial killing and provide redress for extrajudicial killing, and a negligence standard is consistent with the text of the statute and best accomplishes these goals.

[1] Lindsay Anne Bailey is a JD Candidate (2019) at Harvard Law School. The views represented in this Student Features do not reflect the views of the legal team in Mamani et al v. Sánchez de Lozada and Sánchez Berzaín.

[2] The Torture Victim Protection Act defines extrajudicial killing as a “deliberated killing not authorized by a previous judgment pronounced by a regularly constituted court affording all the judicial guarantees which are recognized as indispensable by civilized peoples. Such term, however, does not include any such killing that, under international law, is lawfully carried out under the authority of a foreign nation.” Torture Victim Protection Act of 1991, §3(a), 28 U.S.C. § 1350 (1994).

[3] Scienter refers to the mental state sufficient to hold an individual legally accountable for their acts. The term is broader than mens rea, which solely applies to criminal intent.

[4] Mamani v. Berzaín, 654 F.3d 1148, 1152, 1155 (11th Cir. 2011). This was not a holding that the shootings were in fact accidental. Rather, it was a holding that if the shootings were accidental, as Defendants claimed and Plaintiffs disputed, then the Defendants were not liable.

[5] The case has been ongoing since September 2007, when Plaintiffs initially filed their complaints. The case went to trial from March 5 to April 3, 2018, in federal court in Fout Lauderdale. The jury ruled in favor of the plaintiffs on April 3, 2018. The judge overturned the jury verdict under Rule 50 on May 30, 2018.

[6] Second Amended Consolidated Complaint for Extrajudicial Killing; Crimes Against Humanity; and Wrongful Death at para. 6, Rojas Mamani et al v. Sanchez Berzain, No. 1:08-cv-21063-JIC (S.D Fl, 2013).

[7] Id. at para. 3.

[8] Defendants’ Memorandum of Law in Support of Their Motion for Summary Judgement at 19, Rojas Mamani et al v. Sanchez Berzain, No. 1:08-cv-21063-JIC (S.D Fla. 2017).  Note that throughout, for the purposes of scienter accidentally refers to a shooting where security forces did not intend to hit the target, but did intend to pull the trigger.

[9] The most extensive discussion of the definition of deliberated was in Flatow where the court cited Black’s Law Dictionary to define deliberated as “[c]arried on coolly and steadily, especially according to a preconceived design; given to weighing facts and arguments with a view to a choice or decision; careful in considering the consequences of a step;” Flatow, 999 F. Supp. at 17. The majority of the other cases are conclusory about whether the killing was deliberated. See, e.g., Elahi v. Islamic Republic of Iran, 124 F. Supp. 2d 97, 107 (D.D.C. 2000) (“the uncontroverted evidence introduced at trial demonstrated that the assassination of Cyrus Elahi was a deliberate act.”).

[10] See, e.g., Flatow, 999 F. Supp. at 17; Eisenfeld v. Islamic Republic of Iran, 172 F. Supp. 2d 1 (D.D.C. 2000); Wagner v. Islamic Republic of Iran, 172 F. Supp. 2d 128 (D.D.C. 2001); Weinstein v. v. Islamic Republic of Iran, 184 F. Supp. 2d 13 (D.D.C. 2002); Stethem v. Islamic Republic of Iran, 201 F. Supp. 2d 78 (D.D.C. 2002).

[11] See, e.g., Elahi, 124 F. Supp. 2d 97 (D.D.C. 2000); Hilao v. Estate of Marcos, 103 F.3d 767 (9th Cir. 1996).

[12] Alejandre v. Republic of Cuba, 996 F. Supp. 1239 (S.D. Fla. 1997).

[13] See, e.g., Ford ex rel. Estate of Ford v. Garcia, 289 F.3d 1283, 1286 (11th Cir. 2002); Warfaa v. Ali, 33 F. Supp. 3d 653, 666 (E.D. Va. 2014).

[14] Arias v. Dyncorp, 517 F. Supp. 2d 221, 226 (D.D.C. 2007); In re Agent Orange Prod. Liab. Litig., 373 F. Supp. 2d 7, 112 (E.D.N.Y. 2005).

[15] See In re Agent Orange, 373 F. Supp. 2d at 112 (finding that the “use of herbicides” was not extrajudicial killing because the herbicides were not “used to intentionally inflict pain and suffering”); Arias, 517 F. Supp. 2d at 226 (holding fumigants “shifted in the wind” and drifted into Ecuador which is not a deliberated killing).

[16] In re Agent Orange, 373 F. Supp. 2d at 112.

[17] Mamani v. Berzaín, 654 F.3d 1148, 1152, 1155 (11th Cir. 2011).

[18] Flatow v. Islamic Republic of Iran, 999 F. Supp. 1, 17 (D.D.C. 1998) (citing Black’s Law Dictionary).

[19] Mamani, 654 F.3d at 1155.

[20] See, e.g., Miss. Code Ann. § 97-3-19 (Lexis Advance through the 2017 Regular and 1st Extraordinary Sessions)

(“The killing of a human being without the authority of law by any means or in any manner shall be murder . . . when done with deliberate design to effect the death of the person killed, or of any human being, shall be first-degree murder[.]”) Deliberated appears nowhere in the latest Model Penal Code.  It made up part of the “degree structure that has dominated American murder provisions[,]” which the latest code has removed. Model Penal Code § 210.2 cmt. (Am. Law Inst. 1984). Since the criminal law system is moving away from using malice aforethought to define mens rea, courts should be hesitant to incorporate criminal law’s definition into the TVPA.

[21] See generally, Nancy J. Moore, Intent and Consent in the Tort of Battery: Confusion and Controversy, 61 Am. U. L. Rev. 1585 (2012).

[22] Restatement (Second) of Torts §8A (Am. Law Inst. 1965). See, e.g., White v. Muniz, 999 P.2d 814, 816 (Colo. 2000); Garratt v. Dailey, 279 P.2d 1091 (1955); Burr v. Adam Eidemiller, Inc., 126 A.2d 403 (1956).

[23] Restatement (Second) of Torts §8A, illus. 1 (Am. Law Inst. 1965).

[24] Under the eggshell skull rule, the plaintiff has the right to collect for unintended damages, even if they were not foreseeable. See, e.g., Caudle v. Betts, 512 So. 2d 389, 392 (La. 1987).

[25] An actor is subject to liability to another for battery if  he acts intending to cause a harmful or offensive contact with the person of the other or a third person.” See, Restatement (Second) of Torts §13 (Am. Law Inst. 1965) (emphasis added). Criminal law also assigns liability to a defendant who intended to kill one person but kills an unintended victim. See, e.g., People v. Scott, 927 P.2d 288 (1996); Model Penal Code § 2.04(2) (Am. Law Inst. 1984).

[26] See, e.g., Wagner v. Utah Dep’t of Human Servs., 122 P.3d 599, 601 (Ut. 2005); Rajspic v. Nationwide Mut. Ins. Co., 718 P.2d 1167 (1986); Maines v. Cronomer Valley Fire Dept., Inc., 407 N.E.2d 466 (1980); White v. University of Idaho, 797 P.2d 108 (Idaho 1990); Brzoska v. Olson, 668 A.2d 1355 (Del. 1995); Meyers v. Epstein, 232 F. Supp. 2d 192, 198 (S.N.D.Y. 2002); Cheney v. Studstrup, 32 F. Supp. 2d 1278, 1284 & n.6 (D. Utah 1998); Delahanty v. Hinckley, 799 F. Supp. 184, 187 (D.D.C. 1992); Williams v. Kearbey, 775 P.2d 670, 673-74 (Kan. Ct. App. 1989); Polmatier v. Russ, 537 A.2d 468, 469-70 (Conn. 1988).

[27] See, Restatement (Second) of Torts §281–282 (Am. Law Inst. 1965).

[28] Id. at 283.

[29] See id. at §282, cmt. c.

[30] Restatement (Third) of Torts §20 (Am. Law Inst. 2010). See, e.g., Klein v. Pyrodyne Corp., 810 P.2d 917 (1991)

[31] Restatement (Third) of Torts §20 cmt. b (Am. Law Inst. 2010).

[32] Miller v. Civil Constructors, Inc., 651 N.E.2d 239 (Ill. App. Ct. 1995); Resteiner v. Sturm, Ruger & Co., 566 N.W.2d 53 (Mich. Ct. App. 1997); Matulevich v. Matulevich, 498 A.2d 939 (Pa. Super. Ct. 1985).

[33] While Plaintiffs have argued in their expert reports that protests are relatively common in Bolivia, the experts do not argue that violent suppression of protests is common. While protests might be a common activity, using the military to suppress them is not. Opening Expert Report of Daniel M. Goldstein, Rojas Mamani et al v. Sanchez Berzain, No. 1:08-cv-21063-JIC (S.D Fl, 2016).

[34] Mamani v. Berzaín, 654 F.3d 1148, 1152, 1155 (11th Cir. 2011).

[35] H.R. Rep. No. 102-367, at 5 (1991), reprinted in 1992 U.S.C.C.A.N. 84, 87. Notably, the legislative history actually states “to include killings that lack the requisite extrajudicial intent”, but based on the context it appears that the report ought to have stated “to exclude”, and include was a typographical error.

[36] See generally, Personal liability of policeman, sheriff, or other peace officer, or bond, for negligently causing personal injury or death, 60 A.L.R.2d 873, 3 (2017).

[37] S. Rpt. 102-249 (1991).

[38] See infra Part VI.  Notably, this memorandum does not address the definition of “necessary”.

[39] See generally, Personal liability of policeman, sheriff, or other peace officer, or bond, for negligently causing personal injury or death, 60 A.L.R.2d 873, 3 (2017).

[40] S. Rpt. 102-249 (1991). See also id. at 5 (“definition was drafted to be consistent with the 1949 Geneva Conventions”); H. Rpt. 102-367 (1991) (The concept of “extrajudicial killings” is derived from article 3 common to the four Geneva Conventions of 1949.”); H. Rpt. 101-55, at 4 (1989) (extrajudicial killing is defined “in accordance with international standards”).

[41] H. Rpt. 100-693, at 1 (1989).

[42] Restatement (Third) of Foreign Relations Law of the United States §102, 103(2)(a)–(d) (Am. Law Inst. 1987).

[43] International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (Article 6); Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights (Article 4); African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child (Article 5); Protocol to the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights on the Rights of Women in Africa (Article 4); Arab Charter on Human Rights (Article 5, 6); European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (Article 2); American Declaration of the Rights and Duties of Man (Article 1); American Convention on Human Rights (Article 4); Inter-American Convention on the Prevention, Punishment and Eradication of Violence against Women “Convention of Belém do Pará” (Article 4).  While the United States has not ratified all of these treaties, they can still inform the definition of what activities customary international law would consider to be extrajudicial killing.

[44]U.N. Special Rapporteur on extrajudicial, summary or arbitrary executions, Report of the Special Rapporteur on extrajudicial, summary or arbitrary executions on a gender-sensitive approach to arbitrary killings, para 97, U.N. Doc. A/HRC/35/23 (June 6, 2017).

[45] U.N. Special Rapporteur on summary or arbitrary executions, Summary or arbitrary executions, para 96, U.N. Doc. E/CN.4/1984/29 (Feb. 21, 1984).

[46] U.N. Special Rapporteur on summary or arbitrary executions, Summary or arbitrary executions, para. 150, E/CN.4/1986/21 (Feb. 7, 1986).

[47] Id. at para 175.

[48] Case of Gul v. Turkey ¶ 80, Application no. 22676/93 (2000), http://hudoc.echr.coe.int/eng?i=001-59081.  These cases may be differentiated from Mamani because Mamani is investigating personal liability, while these regional courts assess state liability.

[49] Case of the Caracazo v. Venezuela, Judgment (Reparations and Costs) (2002), http://www.corteidh.or.cr/docs/casos/articulos/Seriec_95_ing.pdf

[50] McCann v. United Kingdom, ¶ 166 Eur. Ct. H.R. (ser. A) (1995).

[51] Id. at ¶ 200, 324.

[52] International Committee of the Red Cross, Practice Relating to Rule 11. Indiscriminate Attacks, https://ihl-databases.icrc.org/customary-ihl/eng/docs/v2_rul_rule11.

[53] Restatement (Third) of Foreign Relations Law of the United States §702, cmt. f (Am. Law Inst. 1987).

[54] US Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights and Labor, U.S. Dep’t of State, Country Report on Human Rights Practices 2000, Appendix A: Notes on the Preparation of the Reports (Feb. 23, 2001).

[55] H.R. Rep. 100-693, at 1 (1989).

[56] Judgment, Mucic et al, (IT-96-21-T), Trial Chamber, 16 November 1998, para. 488.

To Stay or to Leave? The Unsolved Dilemma of the Eritrean Asylum-Seekers in Israel

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[The full text of the Article may be found at this PDF]

By Cristiano d’Orsi*

This work was conceived with the idea to analyze the conditions of Eritrean asylum-seekers in Israel who, according to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (“UNHCR”), deserve international protection.[1] It seeks to highlight gaps in their protection and to identify gap-filling solutions that would be amenable to both Israeli authorities and Eritreans asylum-seekers.

This work will follow the usual path of an individual fleeing persecution in his or her country of origin and seeking a safe haven abroad. Thus, Part I of this work, after this introductory note, will be dedicated to the arrival of Eritrean asylum-seekers in Israel. Part II will focus on the reaction of Israeli authorities once the Eritreans have managed to enter the country. It will review attempts to remove the Eritreans as unwanted guests. Part III will scrutinize the conditions of the Eritrean asylum-seekers that manage, at least temporarily, to remain in Israel. The analysis will cover recent domestic legislation and the sort of “limbo” in which Eritreans find themselves, with very few rights, and with no clear future in Israel or elsewhere. Part IV will examine the status of essential socio-economic rights (right to work and right to health) that Eritrean asylum-seekers can claim within Israel. This Article concludes by illustrating the major challenges for the Eritrean asylum-seekers in Israel and by making recommendations to improve their situation in the country.

* Dr. Cristiano d’Orsi is a Research Fellow and Lecturer at the South African Research Chair in International Law (SARCIL) at the University of Johannesburg, South Africa. A previous version of this work has been presented at the conference “Migration and Exile in the Horn of Africa: State of Knowledge and Current Debates,” held in Khartoum (Sudan) on November 17–18, 2015. Special thanks to Prof. Reuven Ziegler of the University of Reading and Dr. Tally Kritzman-Amir of the College of Law and Business, Israel for their assistance and contributions.

[1] UNHCR’s Oral Comments on the Legislative Proposal: Law for the Prevention of Infiltration (Nov. 27, 2017) (on file with author).

Blog

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Welcome to the Harvard International Law Journal’s online Blog. Blog features commentary and analysis of current developments in international law. We construe international law somewhat broadly on our online platform, to include discussions of how recent developments in international relations, international politics, military affairs, economics, and similar fields impact and interact with the international legal community. We hope you enjoy.

Comment

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The Harvard International Law Journal is soliciting submissions for Comment, the online extension of its print publication. Each “Comment  is no more than 5,000 words and allows authors to engage with print articles, adding criticism, additional context, or comparison to situations in other fields. These posts are meant to be timely and engage with recent developments in international law. Please see the Online Submissions  link for more details.

Frontiers

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The frontiers of international law are shifting. From climate change to corruption, we have seen a positive expansion of global norms.  This year, ILJ will be soliciting 500-word think pieces tracing emerging trends in public and private international law. These “Frontiers” pieces are designed to spark conversation about exciting new developments in international law as well as worrisome setbacks in cases where enforcement has dropped or norms undermined.

We’ll be soliciting these reflections from leading scholars in the international law field starting in Spring 2019.

Does the United Nations Convention Against Torture Oblige States Parties to Criminalize Torture in their Domestic Laws?

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By Ezéchiel Amani Cirimwami

In their recent paper, “Torture by Private Actors and ‘Gold-Plating’ the Offence in National Law: An Exchange of Emails in Honour of William Schabas,”  Professors Paola Gaeta and Andrew Clapham discussed whether States Parties to the United Nations Convention Against Torture (UNCAT) are obliged to make torture a separate criminal offense under domestic law. This question has been met with different answers over time. While some scholars believe the UNCAT itself does not specifically say there must be a distinct offense or definition named “torture” in domestic law, the UN Committee Against Torture (CAT) has consistently stated, including in a General Comment, that the introduction of a separate offense of torture in national law is preferred. The main opposing arguments to this interpretation of the UNCAT may be found here, here and here.

The debate concerning the criminalization of torture in domestic law centers on Article 4 of the UNCAT, which imposes on states parties an obligation to “ensure that all acts of torture are offences under [national]…criminal law.” The same obligation also applies “to an attempt to commit torture and to an act by any person which constitutes complicity or participation in torture.” Moreover, each state party is required to make these offenses punishable by “appropriate penalties” that reflect “their grave nature.”

The CAT has stressed the importance of fulfilling this obligation so as to avoid possible discrepancies between the crime as defined in the Convention and the crime as addressed in national law:

Serious discrepancies between the Convention’s definition and that incorporated into domestic law create actual or potential loopholes for impunity. In some cases, although similar language may be used, its meaning may be qualified by domestic law or by judicial interpretation and thus the Committee calls upon each State party to ensure that all parts of its Government adhere to the definition set forth in the Convention for the purpose of defining the obligations of the State

See Official Records of the General Assembly, Fifty-eighth Session, Supplement No. 44 (A/58/44), chap. III, consideration of reports submitted by States parties under article 19 of the Convention, Slovenia, para. 115 (a), and Belgium, para. 130.

Professor Gaeta, however, appears to disagree in part with the above interpretation, stating: “[S]tates parties, although they are obliged to make acts of torture ‘punishable’, are not also obliged to criminalise in their domestic laws acts amounting to torture as a separate offence under the UN Convention Against Torture.” Phrased differently, Professor Gaeta believes UNCAT does not require state parties to criminalize torture, since states can use other domestic criminal laws to impose punishment for torture. Hence, she concludes that “[i]t is therefore not surprising that some states parties to the UN Convention Against Torture have not (yet) introduced in their legal order a specific crime of torture, arguing that acts amounting to torture are already punishable using charges under other domestic laws.”

Professor Clapham, by contrast, observes that “the special place that torture has in the human rights catalogue (or ‘Decalogue’) suggests that the label of torturer should attach to someone convicted of this offence. Labelling something a human rights crime could have knock-on effects.”

State practice in this regard is inconsistent. Without specifically naming torture, some states, such as Canada, Panama, Ethiopia, and the Netherlands, have introduced legislation on international crimes in which torture is specifically provided for as a war crime and as a crime against humanity. While these states may maintain the obligation in Article 4(1) of UNCAT does not include a specific, separate offense in national criminal law, several other states, most notably Belgium, Colombia, Qatar, Australia, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), have provided for a specific offense of torture, distinct from all other offenses, in their domestic laws. The DRC, for example, adopted Law No. 11/008 of 9 July 2011 on the Criminalization of Torture, which introduced an “autonomous offense” of torture in its penal code. Furthermore, in the law’s Preamble, the DRC clearly explains its view of the scope of the Article 4 of the UNCAT, stating that under the UNCAT, it was obliged to criminalize the crime of torture as a specific criminal offense.

I agree with the position of the DRC. There are two reasons why their position reflects the current state of international law. First, by situating Article 4 within the UNCAT’s broader framework, it becomes clear that this provision binds state parties to criminalize in their domestic law the crime of torture. Second, compelling insights have emerged from the Draft Articles on the Prevention and Punishment of Crimes Against Humanity, which the International Law Commission (ILC) adopted on first reading. As it will be demonstrated, from the ILC’s perspective, the obligation set forth by the UNCAT is to criminalize torture as a separate offense in domestic law.

Clarifying the scope of Article 4(1): Views from the ICJ and the ILC

ICJ

Reading Article 4 in isolation from the other provisions of UNCAT cannot properly capture its full meaning. In accordance with Article 31(2) of the 1969 Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties, to clarify the scope of obligations arising from Article 4 of UNCAT, one must read this provision in its context, which includes, inter alia, the text of the UNCAT as a whole. First, the reader must identify which provisions of the UNCAT should be read together to form a single source of meaning. In this regard, the ICJ has already laid the groundwork for Article 4.  When determining the scope of obligations arising from Article 7(1) of UNCAT, the ICJ found:

The obligation to prosecute…is normally implemented in the context of the Convention against Torture after the State has performed the other obligations provided for in the preceding articles, which require it to adopt adequate legislation to enable it to criminalize torture, give its courts universal jurisdiction in the matter and make an inquiry into the facts. These obligations, taken as a whole, may be regarded as elements of a single conventional mechanism aimed at preventing suspects from escaping the consequences of their criminal responsibility, if proven.

Questions relating to the obligation to prosecute or extradite (Belgium v. Senegal) ¶ 91 (emphasis added).

According to the ICJ, to fulfill the Article 7 obligation to extradite or prosecute, states parties must adopt the necessary national measures to criminalize torture (Article 4) and to establish jurisdiction (Article 5). These are the “basic elements” or “logical prior steps” that lead to the implementation of the aut dedere aut judicare principle with respect to torture. This Latin legal maxim imposes a legal obligation on the states to extradite or prosecute a person found in its territory if the person is suspected of certain crimes. Accordingly, the state having the custody of a suspect has to either extradite the person to another state having jurisdiction over the case or to instigate its own judicial proceedings. The object of the principle is to avoid crimes being left unpunished because there is no extradition or prosecution. Thus, if an alleged offender of foreign nationality comes into a state’s territory and is not extradited to another state, the state must be able to exercise criminal jurisdiction to prosecute the acts of torture that he or she allegedly committed, regardless of where the alleged acts took place or against whom they were perpetrated. When it comes to this obligation, states parties that do not criminalize torture are confronted with two issues. First, there is the problem of classification: states parties cannot establish universal jurisdiction unless they can point to a statutory offense in their domestic law that encompasses the crime of torture.  Second, it is unclear which statutory authority may be used to initiate the prosecution of persons who have perpetrated torture elsewhere. This is an important issue, since the obligation to prosecute or extradite is not applicable to all serious offenses—only grave breaches of the four 1949 Geneva Conventions and the 1977 Additional Protocol I. It is also inapplicable to charges under national law like simple assault offenses, abusive treatment or breach of military discipline. Thus, Gaeta’s reading of Article 4 of UNCAT, which asserts that states are not legally obliged to criminalize torture because criminalization can be done by using “other charges” under domestic laws, cannot be supported. As the ICJ acknowledges, the obligation to prosecute or extradite provided for in Article 7 of UNCAT is only applicable to torture. Hence, it is not applicable to these “other charges.” One could say that the obligation to prosecute or extradite is applicable to charge of war crimes if a state chooses to criminalize torture under the latter charge. However, this reading is not without its problems. War crimes that oblige prosecution or extradition are grave breaches, and the grave breaches provisions apply only to international armed conflicts. The other major limitation is that on its face, those grave breaches provisions apply only to “protected persons” under each Geneva Convention and, therefore, do not apply all the time, everywhere, nor necessarily to everyone. Finally, the criminalization of torture under war crimes charges tends to reduce the scope of Article 4 to the context of armed conflict, which is a major element of war crimes. This is a problem because torture is a crime under UNCAT regardless of whether it is committed during an armed conflict or not.

ILC

In 2017, the ILC adopted, on first reading, the Draft Articles on the Prevention and Punishment of Crimes Against Humanity as well as the accompanying Commentaries. The ILC had been engaged in the consideration of this topic since 2014, with Mr. Sean D. Murphy as the Special Rapporteur. In addition to Draft Article 6(1) being written in the same manner as Article 4(1) of UNCAT, the ILC’s Commentary on the Draft Articles notes that:

Draft article 6 sets forth various measures that each State must take under its criminal law to ensure that crimes against humanity constitute offences, to preclude certain defences or any statute of limitation, and to provide for appropriate penalties commensurate with the grave nature of such crimes. Measures of this kind are essential for the proper functioning of the subsequent draft articles relating to the establishment and exercise of jurisdiction over alleged offenders.

ILC Commentary on the Draft Articles p. 61, ¶ 1 (emphasis added).

The ILC also observed that if there are discrepancies between the definitions provided for in the future Crimes Against Humanity Convention, and those incorporated in domestic laws, loopholes could be created that could lead to impunity. Therefore, in an effort to avoid such loopholes with respect to crimes against humanity, “draft article 6, paragraph 1, provides that each State shall take the necessary measures to ensure that crimes against humanity, as such, constitute offences under its criminal law.” (Emphasis added.)

Hence, reading Article 4(1) of the UNCAT in light of Draft Article 6(1) on Crimes Against Humanity helps to assert that, from the ILC’s perspective, the obligation set forth by the UNCAT is to criminalize torture as a separate offense in domestic law.

Concluding Remarks

This post analyzed whether the UNCAT obliges states parties to criminalize torture in domestic law. With respect to the scope of the obligation arising from Article 4 of the UNCAT, I disagree with Professor Gaeta. Not only does the UNCAT establish a clear obligation upon states parties to ensure that all acts of torture are offences under their criminal law, this author also contends that Article 4 of the UNCAT obliges states parties to criminalize, in their domestic law, the crime of torture as such.


Ezéchiel Amani Cirimwami is currently completing a joint PhD at the Vrije Universiteit Brussel and the Université Catholique de Louvain on the procedural obligation to extradite or prosecute for core international crimes and the role human rights law plays when considering this obligation. Beginning in March 2019 he will be a visiting researcher at the Max Planck Institute for International, European and Regulatory Procedural Law as part of their Guest Program. In addition, Ezéchiel Amani is a sitting judge in the Democratic Republic of the Congo after having served as a deputy public prosecutor for a number of years.

 

What Counts as a Crime Against Humanity?

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By Gerald L. Neuman

The International Criminal Court (ICC) makes headlines around the world when it issues its occasional judgments. But most of the work of fighting impunity for severe crimes condemned by international law depends on national enforcement. Two separate efforts are currently underway to strengthen international cooperation in ensuring national prosecution: 1) a multi-year project of the International Law Commission (ILC) to draft articles for a future convention on the prevention and punishment of crimes against humanity, comparable to the existing Genocide Convention and Convention Against Torture; and 2) an episodic state-led initiative to draft a mutual legal assistance treaty for the most serious international crimes. The Human Rights Program at HLS recently convened a private workshop to discuss the vitally important ILC project.

A key issue in establishing state obligations to prosecute international crimes involves the choice of a definition that is appropriate to the obligations that are being imposed. The notion of “crimes against humanity” has a long history, but its definition has evolved over the years. The definition negotiated for the Rome Statute, which created the ICC—an international tribunal with a limited capacity to prosecute and adjudicate—may not provide the right definition for an obligatory system of consistent national prosecution.

The Rome Statute enumerates (section 7) ten offenses amounting to crimes against humanity, plus a residual category for comparable inhumane acts. Some of these offenses are self-evidently atrocious, like extermination, while others cover a broad range of conduct, like imprisonment and deportation. The whole enumeration is subject to a “chapeau” element intended to justify regarding them as severe, namely that the action is performed as part of a widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian population, with knowledge of the attack.  A particular defendant need only have performed a single instance of the conduct to be guilty of a crime against humanity; much of the opprobrium for low-level perpetrators arises from the fact that they have participated in a large-scale attack on civilians.

Unfortunately, the pivotal term “attack” received a seemingly formalistic definition in section 7. Taken literally, no physical violence is necessary for an attack, but merely multiple instances of any conduct on the list, pursuant to a state policy. Commentators have pointed this out, but the ICC has not had occasion to give a narrowing interpretation. After all, only extreme situations come before the ICC. Not only is the Court’s capacity limited to a small number of cases—the Rome Statute also restricts the pool by requiring a finding that the case is of sufficient gravity to justify the Court’s attention.

What works for a court of such limited jurisdiction may not be suitable for a treaty obligating states to pursue comprehensive enforcement. The issue is not worrisome in regard to the offense of extermination, but it becomes problematic in regard to the offense of imprisonment in violation of fundamental rules of international law. Past decisions have read such language broadly, to include detention that complies with national law if the national statute violates an international human rights norm. International tribunals have had little incentive to restrict this definition when the detention occurs in connection with a genuine violent attack on civilians. The criminal code of Australia spells out the standard for imprisonment as met by any violation of articles 9, 14, or 15 of the International Covenant on Civil Rights. The result could be that a disproportionate policy of pretrial detention, which is common in many countries, amounts as such to a crime against humanity and that states are obliged to prosecute the judges and jailers who implement it.

The designers of a future treaty on crimes against humanity need to deal explicitly with this definitional issue and its consequences. One possibility would be to clarify or revise the definition of an “attack” for purposes of the treaty. Similarly, other safeguards could be adopted to countervail against the borrowed definition. One cannot simply rely on prosecutorial common sense to eliminate the problem in practice, for several reasons. First, the ILC project would also enable nonnationals to raise the risk of falling victim to a crime against humanity as an absolute defense against removal. And in some countries (though not Australia), the criminal justice system will enable private prosecution of crimes against humanity. This important new treaty needs a solution appropriate to its context.


Gerald L. Neuman is the J. Sinclair Armstrong Professor of International, Foreign, and Comparative Law, and the Co-Director of the Human Rights Program at HLS. He teaches human rights, constitutional law, and immigration and nationality law. His current research focuses on international human rights bodies, transnational dimensions of constitutionalism, and rights of foreign nationals. He is the author of Strangers to the Constitution: Immigrants, Borders and Fundamental Law (Princeton 1996), and co-author of the casebook Human Rights (with Louis Henkin et al., Foundation Press).


Some Reservations Concerning the Judicialization of Peace

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[Click here for PDF]

By Roberto Gargarella*

Responding to Courtney Hillebrecht, Alexandra Huneeus, with Sandra Borda, The Judicialization of Peace, 59 Harv. Int’l L.J. 279 (2018).

In their recent article, The Judicialization of Peace, Courtney Hillebrecht and Alexandra Huneeus, with the collaboration of Sandra Borda, made an impressive contribution to the discussion of the role of international courts in domestic politics. This Comment engages in  this conversation about the role of international tribunals in Colombia’s peace process, challenging some of the views presented by the authors, and suggesting some alternatives to the authors’ approach. In particular, the Comment objects to the way in which they understand the working of international tribunals, with the help of a theory of democracy that significantly differs from the one the authors seem to be assuming in their article.

Introduction

In their recent article, The Judicialization of Peace, Courtney Hillebrecht and Alexandra Huneeus, with the collaboration of Sandra Borda, made an impressive contribution to the discussion of the role of international courts in domestic politics. Their analysis is focused on the case of Colombia and the still-ongoing peace process. Local authorities launched this process in 2016, under the supervision of two international courts, namely the Inter-American Court of Human Rights (“IACtHR”) and the International Criminal Court (“ICC”). Drawing on empirical data, the Article examines the actual influence of the international courts on the construction of peace and offers “a more nuanced approach” to the question, thus challenging alternative and “too simplistic” views on the subject. In addition, the authors distinguish three different paths through which international courts engage with, and are engaged by, local actors, in the construction of peace: a “top-down” path, through which international courts let locals know about their expectations regarding the peace process; a “shadow” path, which refers to the way in which state and non-state actors negotiate “in the shadows of the law,” using international law to legitimate their policy preferences; and a “bottom-up” path, through which local actors push back, usually against courts, trying to persuade courts about their own views.

In what follows, I shall take part in this conversation about the role of international tribunals in Colombia’s peace process, challenging some of the views presented by the authors, and suggesting some alternatives to the authors’ approach. In particular, I shall object to the way in which they understand the working of international tribunals, and do so with the help of a theory of democracy that significantly differs from the one the authors seem to be assuming in their article.

In order to advance my arguments, I shall proceed as follows. First, I shall present the ideal democratic theory—a dialogic approach to democracy—that I shall use as my normative standpoint. Then, I shall examine some practical implications derived from the use of this theory, which should be relevant for recognizing some of the difficulties affecting the article on which I am commenting. Finally, I shall focus my attention on the working of the Colombian Constitutional Court during the peace process, and study it from the aforementioned dialogic perspective.

I. Why Should We Care About Deliberation? What Kind of Democratic Dialogue Could We Propose?

At one point in their article, the authors assert that “the terms of Colombia’s peace were produced through—not despite—the international courts’ ongoing deliberative engagement with the peace process” (p. 329). More specifically, in a section called “Judicialization as Deliberation,” and after having reviewed the “three main paths by which [international] courts engaged with, and were engaged by, domestic actors” (p. 294) the authors state:

These multiple modes of interaction were an important part of the four-year process that resulted in the 2016 peace agreement. They remind us that the impact of international courts does not happen in a top-down directive manner alone. Judicialization, by this telling, took the form of deliberation. The impact of the courts’ jurisdiction was to make the ongoing peace debate more infused with references to the guidance and constraints provided by international law, to make more actors at the domestic level aware of the international courts and laws, and, ultimately, to allow the manner in which these international norms were debated and understood to shift.

(p. 316).

These judgements seem to me problematic. The problems I am thinking about derive from the lack of precision they show concerning how to understand the ideas of democracy and deliberation. To recognize what I am saying, we can think about the following example. Imagine that most normative decisions about Colombia’s peace process resulted from orders, comments and suggestions coming from an empowered group of Colonels, now in charge of the three Armed Forces. Those facts would not justify us describing the “participation of the Armed Forces as deliberation.” More significantly, that kind of participation by the Armed Forces in the peace process would be in any way attractive for those of us concerned about democracy; after their intervention, the process did not become more  “deliberative.” In sum, democracy is not improved when deliberation is reduced to a procedure that is fundamentally structured by the pressures and decisions of actors that have limited democratic legitimacy

In my view, a theory of democratic dialogue—like the one I have tried to advance in my writings on the subject[1]—does not demand that we consider all kinds of dialogic instances or examples as valuable or positive (positive, I mean, in moral, political, or legal terms). Rather, this theory encourages us to pay attention to the specific characteristics of such decision-making process and recognize whether certain basic requirements about public discussion and social inclusion are being properly considered. In addition, a dialogic theory requires us to reflect about some basic questions concerning the who, how, what, and for what purpose of the dialogue: Who are debating? Why? About what and for what reason?.

Given that I have written substantially about these issues, let me just illustrate what an adequate deliberative process would demand, through a few brief points and examples:

Equality. First, a valuable debate requires the different actors to be situated in positions of relative equality. Thus, for instance, a debate organized by the pater familias, where the authoritarian father has the “final,” unquestioned authority would not be interesting for our purposes. The same could be said regarding a deliberation between “We the People”[2] and their representatives; and even—and more relevant for our analysis—regarding a “conversation” between different branches of power, or a “dialogue” between national and international authorities. For example, if the local judiciary decided one thing, but an international court decided the opposite with “final” authority, then it would seem odd to suggest that those institutions engaged in a “conversation”: what kind of conversation would this be, if the local authorities had no real possibility to contradict what the international court decided, or the latter had the “last say” in all matters related to human rights law?

Non-Discretional Procedures. In connection with the previous point, I would also stress that public debates should be structured in ways that are respectful to the interests of their participants; they should be based on procedures that, for example, limit the risks of manipulations or abuses by one or part of the participants. Debates should be structured around justified procedures that, among other things, prevent participants from operating discretionally. In that respect, and as an illustration, one could maintain that public hearings like those organized by different Latin American courts, in recent years, failed the proposed test: participants in those hearings never came to know, after the end of the debates, what happened with the arguments that presented at the hearings (whether they had influenced the court’s decision or were ignored altogether); which arguments mattered to the court; which were discarded and for what reasons, etc. In each case, it was for the judges to decide, with complete discretion, when and how to call for a public hearing, and what to do with the arguments that were voiced in those hearings.[3]

The Limits of Public Dialogue. Public debates should be limited to matters of “public morality.” In other words, they should not deal with issues related to how people live or should live their own lives. In a proper democratic order, individuals should be allowed to live their own lives as they wish, without external, perfectionist intrusions.[4] In fact, a deliberative theory assumes that each person must be “sovereign” in what concerns her own private life, in the same manner that a community should be “sovereign” concerning issues of public morality.[5] For instance, for this theory, an ordinance as the one that was declared unconstitutional in the case Romer v. Evans,[6] would be out of order: democratic politics should not interfere with issues related to the individual’s most intimate decisions.

All the “Potentially Affected.” Deliberative democrats assume that the chances to adopt more impartial resolutions are maximized when “all those potentially affected” take part in their discussion. For similar reasons, they assume that the risks of improper biases augment when only a few or only a small segment of society becomes in charge of making such public choices. The established legal practice in the Americas, however, does not seem to follow these criteria. For instance, in most cases, criminal law decisions (that is, decisions concerning what conducts are going to be criminalized and in what way) tend to be reserved or transferred to expert commissions, and the citizenry at large are prevented from intervening in those relevant discussions. A good illustration of this criterion appears in article 39 of Argentina’s 1994 Constitution, which establishes that “Bills referring to constitutional reform, international treaties, taxation, budget, and criminal legislation shall not originate in popular initiatives.”

Dialogue Inclusive of the Public. In line with the previous comment, I would add that public dialogue should not be restricted to a communication or exchange of arguments among national or international authorities. More specifically, a proper dialogue should always be open to “We the People” and, in particular, be sensitive to the voices of individuals and groups that we can reasonably assume find serious difficulties for having access to and influence in the decision-making process. Consequently, dialogues that were limited to public agents should not be seen, in principle, as attractive expressions of what I have been here calling a proper, possible dialogue.

Particularly, in the context of the legitimacy problems that characterize the Judiciary, both at the national and international level, and also in light of the crisis of representation that affects the political system, the prospective of a “dialogue between the branches” does not look like a particularly exciting proposal. Of course, for many of us who have been criticizing traditional forms of judicial review during decades, the emergence of institutional alternatives that, in one or another way, dilute the power of the judges’ “last word,” represents good news.[7] However, in an institutional context like the one I suggested (which also includes profound and unjustified inequalities; a concentrated media; political campaigns that are financed by rich corporations, etc.), the perspective of promoting more “dialogue” between the branches loses much of its potential attraction: for advocates of a deliberative democracy, a dialogue between elites and high public officers produces highly unattractive results.

Genuinely Deliberative. Participants in the conversation should exchange and discuss their viewpoints, be sensitive to the others’ ideas and motivated to modify their own viewpoints when they realize that they were wrong in all or part of their arguments, or recognize that the others’ viewpoints were more persuasive. The point I want to make here has two main dimensions: one is motivational, and the other is more structural. The motivational aspect of the matter is crucial: participants need to be sensitive to “the force of the better argument,” according to Habermas’s formulation.[8] However, here I want to stress the structural aspect of deliberation, particularly in the face of an institutional system that has been built around the idea of “checks and balances”. This system, in my view, was directed to prevent “mutual oppressions,” but not equally well-prepared for the promotion of dialogue. In fact, the Madisonian thrust behind the proposal for a system of “check and balances” was to provide each of the branches with “defensive tools”: each part of the government had to prepare to resist the foreseeable attacks coming from the other branches. As Madison put it, in Federalist 51, it was necessary to give“those who administer each department the necessary constitutional means and personal motives to resist encroachments of the others.” Of course, “public debate” may also emerge from the peculiar institutional structure that was then chosen,[9] but it seems clear to me that the system of “checks and balances” was directed at preventing or channeling “civil war,” rather than to encouraging a collective conversation of any kind.[10]

Participation and Deliberation. For this view, instances of political participation should, in principle, be promoted and encouraged (see the point above). However, this approach also assumes that, if such instances of political participation are not preceded by politics of transparency; diffusion of information; opportunities for discussion, confrontation of viewpoints, mutual correction, etc., the entire process of consultation becomes suspect. Think, for instance, about the Brexit experience and how that process was carried out—in a hurry, without a previous and proper distribution of information, with few opportunities for public exchange of arguments, and so on.[11] Or think about a case like that of Bolivia and the ratification process that followed the writing of the new 2009 Constitution. The Bolivian Constitution was composed of by 411 articles, and hundreds of sub-clauses, and the citizenry was invited to ratify or deny the validity of the document. What would the people’s ratification or rejection mean, in such a context? In that opportunity, people were forced to say “yes” or “no” about hundreds of different, important, and sometimes contradictory issues. In sum, there seems to be something deeply wrong in processes of popular consultation of the revised kind (that is, concerning how the deliberative process is structured), which threatens to undermine the meaning and worth of having a popular consultation.[12]

II. Practical Implications

The previous considerations may help us understand what makes a dialogic process attractive and what makes it unworthy. More specifically, those considerations may help us recognize what kind of dialogue could result worth pursuing in the area of International Human Rights Law. In what follows, I shall briefly illustrate these claims through three examples taken from the The Judicialization of Peace article.

A. Gelman v. Uruguay

Let me begin with the example of a decision by the Inter-American Court of Human Rights (IACtHR) in Gelman v. Uruguay.[13] The case plays an important role in the context of the article I am commenting. In fact, the authors claim that they want to offer “a more nuanced mapping of when and how international accountability courts can affect peacemaking processes” (p. 287). This fine-tuned approach would differ from alternative views that tended to “make general statements about the effects of international justice mechanisms on peace processes” (p. 287).[14] In part, this “more nuanced approach” is advanced against what different skeptics and reformers—including, among others, Ariel Dulitzky, Jorge Contesse and myself—wrote on the subject, particularly after the Gelman v. Uruguay decision.[15] In my view, our disagreements on the matter refer not so much to the form in which we describe the working of international tribunals, but rather to the way in which we understand the nature of those tribunals and the scope of their work.[16] More particularly, I believe, our disagreements originate in our different approaches to democracy.

For instance, if I were required to summarize my criticisms to the Gelman decision in just one line, I would say that the decision was wrong for not being properly “nuanced,” this is to say not sufficiently sensitive to the different democratic character or pedigree of the different amnesty laws passed in Latin America in recent years.[17] This was the main conclusion of my analysis, after revising different amnesty laws in the region, and recognizing that these diverse amnesty laws had extremely diverse democratic origins and legitimacy.[18] Taking a dialogic or deliberative conception of democracy as my standpoint, I objected to the decision of the IACtHR after considering that given the relatively weak democratic credentials of the IACtHR, the international court should have better calibrated the strength, modes, and scopes of its intervention.

Perhaps, it is there—in how we understand and define our basic normative standpoints—where our main differences with the authors reside. For instance, in their article, the authors claim that, in the realm of transitional justice, “the reality is that international courts sometimes hinder peace, sometimes foster a better peace, and sometimes are indifferent” (p. 286). The authors seem to be saying that international courts, in general, are doing a pretty good job in the area. This general conclusion would be grounded on the fact that international courts have neither proposed “too punitive” solutions, nor became “spoilers of peace and democracy” (p. 330). Now, claims as such express normative assumptions that the authors do not—but should—clarify. Unfortunately, without a better idea of what democracy or penal moderation means, it becomes almost impossible to determine whether a certain decision or practice favors rather than undermines democracy. Similarly, the authors praise the international courts’ contribution to political deliberation. But, again, we need certain previous conceptual clarifications before concluding that international or domestic court are favoring rather than preventing the achievement of those desired goals. We need to know, for instance, how the idea of political deliberation is defined, or we need to have a clearer notion about how a deliberative democracy should work.

B. The Colombian Peace Agreement

A second, relevant example concerns the debate that was launched in Colombia around the peace agreement. That debate may become of little or no interest if the voices of all those “potentially affected” are not consulted; if participants do not participate in the dialogue from a relatively equal position; if the established procedures for debate are not structured in ways that are respectful to the different participants; if the voices of those affected are not seriously considered; etc.

And what would a democratic approach say concerning the alleged contribution of international courts to the Colombian peace process? Perhaps, one could partially agree with what the authors claim in the Article and assert, with them, that “the terms of Colombia’s peace were produced through—not despite—the international courts’ ongoing deliberative engagement with the peace process” (p. 329). But immediately then we should pose a question like the following: Why would this result be attractive from our chosen deliberative perspective? The presence of more “veto points,” more “interest groups,” or more international actors taking part of this conversation says very little about the chance of achieving more impartial decisions, or about the possibilities of improving our democratic decision-making process. As Carlos Nino once put it: “There is no guarantee that the results of this cumbersome mix of different decisions centers reflect the present, majoritarian conclusion of all the people concerned following a free and open debate.”[19]

C. Constitutional Interpretation

Finally, the deliberative view sketched above may also be important in order to improve our thinking about questions of constitutional interpretation. For many of us, advocates of a dialogical democracy, constitutional interpretation requires an open and ongoing discussion about the meaning of the Constitution, where all the Constitution’s subjects intervene in an equal footing.[20] This view about legal interpretation seems to greatly differ from the one that the authors take as given in their article. In their piece, legal interpretation seems to refer, not to norms that belong to all, and whose meaning needs to be defined collectively by all, over time, but rather to an extremely complex process that calls for the intervention of experts, who are supposed to help other agents (non-experts) to understand the intricacies and complexities of international law.

In a section named “Engaging the International Courts Through Legal Interpretation,” the authors claim:

International law and international courts possess a highly specialized vocabulary and language. Further, the courts have a strategic advantage in that they possess insider knowledge of their own workings, and the extent of their resources and capacity. To engage with international courts effectively, actors must gain knowledge of this language and institutional structure.

(p. 311). I tend to disagree with this approach. In contrast to it, a deliberative perspective would suggest, first, that in order to properly participate in the collective conversation about the content and meaning of the law—a conversation that fundamentally belongs to local actors—international tribunals and authorities have to recognize the limited democratic legitimacy that they have, and also the particular institutional place they occupy in this dialogue.[21] It seems clear that, as a result of their expertise and experience, international tribunals and authorities can make an important contribution to the collective conversation about the scope, contents and limits of the law. But, again (and I am not interested in making a nationalist or parochial point about this), they have to understand that they are not supposed to come into the collective conversation so as to “teach” the rest of the participants what they do not understand about the law; or assume that their role in this conversation is to “reveal” to the rest how to rightly understand the meaning of international law (a meaning that, supposedly, would be incomprehensible to lay people).

III. The Colombian Constitutional Court

The previous considerations about deliberation, democracy, and legal interpretation may also help us to improve our analysis about the working of domestic courts in the construction of peace. In their approach to this specific topic, the authors state, for example: “International law and the [intentions of international tribunals] were used—and usurped—within the domestic political and judicial debate over peace, imbuing those debates within the narrative of law and judicialization” (p. 302). In my opinion, this claim manifests some of the difficulties that characterize the authors’ approach to the subject. The phrase suggests a view that is based, among other things, on a controversial understanding of what “the law” is and how it should be interpreted. The authors seem to be assuming that international law represents an important “portion” of the law to be applied in these circumstances, and that domestic political and judicial authorities “import” that “portion” of the law, sometimes “using” it as they should, and sometimes “usurping” it as they should not. This understanding of the relationship between international law and domestic law seems problematic, both as a description of the legal practice, and as an indication about how this entire process should work. More specifically, the authors’ description of the three paths through which the peace debate became thoroughly judicialized (“top-down,” “bottom-up,” and “shadows”) does not properly capture how non-political actors use and should use international law and international court’s decisions. In fact, the Colombian Constitutional Court (CCC) demonstrated, at least in some fundamental decisions related to the peace process, that it perfectly understood what role it was supposed to play, in the context of a dialogic democracy. Unfortunately, the authors’ approach seemed both unable to properly capture these virtuous decisions by the Court, and also incapable of recognizing the reasons and dimensions of the CCC’s failures in other similar circumstances. Let me try to illustrate and justify these claims.

According to the view that I have here advanced, “the law” is composed of local, national, and international dispositions (which include well-established legal practices) that are (as it should be) collectively interpreted and re-interpreted by the different members of the legal community, in an ongoing, unfinished process. Of course, it seems clear that international decisions appear, in many occasions, abused, misused, manipulated, or “usurped” by local authorities. However, and after acknowledging this, one should immediately recognize that domestic authorities (and the citizenry, in general) have to actively participate in the discussion about the meaning of the law that is going to be applied at the local level.

This alternative, deliberative understanding of the law helps us to better understand how the “judicialization of peace” has actually been working in Colombia, and at the same time offers useful tools for advancing a critical examination of such practice. For instance, in the article, the authors demonstrate that, in certain rulings, the CCC made an extensive use of decisions coming from international authorities, while in other occasions it did not; and also that, in occasions, the CCC quoted a certain international tribunal much more than the other, but immediately then tended to do the opposite thing without properly justifying its shifting foundations (p. 309). I understand that these oscillations by the CCC may suggest a certain misuse of “external” sources. However—I would suggest—in order to present a proper description and analysis of what the Constitutional Court has actually been doing, we need to do a different exercise, where “counting” citations of decisions by international courts would not help us much. What we need to know is how the Court processed those external antecedents; how it engaged with the arguments offered by international authorities; how it integrated certain ideas and interpretations proposed by international courts in its own reasoning; in sum how it carried on the “ongoing conversation” about the meaning, content, scope and limits of the law. Those are the relevant questions, I believe, and are also questions whose answers promise to help us improve both our description and critical evaluation of the Court’s work.

In my view, and contrary to what the authors suggest, the Colombian Constitutional Court demonstrated, in crucial occasions, to be well aware of its juridical duties and also about the nature of its duties. In particular, the CCC showed it was aware of the fact that it was participating in an ongoing collective conversation about the meaning of the law—a conversation that includes many actors and voices (coming from above and below) different from the same CCC. Moreover, the Court recognized that public decisions had to be taken in a deliberative manner, and that its own decisions had to honor this objective. Many of the Court’s most relevant decisions confirm those assumptions and show its commitment to the ideals, forms and procedural requirements of a deliberative democracy.[22]

In what specifically concerns the peace process, some of the Court’s most recent decisions illustrate how important this deliberative understanding of the law was, for the same Court; and when and how the Court failed in the application of that understanding.

Take, for instance, the decision made by the Court in May 2017, when it examined the norm allowing the government to “fast-track” laws related to the 2016 Peace Agreement (Constitutional Amendment 1, 2016).[23] The government had promoted these procedural reforms—the “fast track”—in order to accelerate the implementation of the Agreement (and particularly the amnesty law that the members of the guerrilla demanded). Through its decision on the case, the tribunal considered that two basic parts of the “fast track” mechanism created by Congress were unconstitutional. According to one of the objected clauses, all changes to each of the laws developing different aspects of the Agreement had to be approved by the government before coming to a congressional vote. According to the second objected clause, Congress could only vote to approve or deny the law, implementing the peace process without the possibility of debating and voting on each of the articles individually. For the Court, implementing those two clauses would have implied replacing the Constitution by altering the deliberative and decision-making powers of Congress.[24] In the words of the President of the Constitutional Court at that time, Luis Guillermo Guerrero, the ruling was not aimed at undermining the force of the Peace Agreement, but rather to “open up spaces for democratic deliberation.”[25]

From a democratic perspective, the Court’s strict scrutiny of the “fast-track” law seemed totally justifiable: the government needed to show that it was doing its very best in order to “build democratic legitimacy,” but instead showed that it was willing and ready to circumvent the constitutional and procedural requirements of democratic deliberation. The Colombian Constitutional Court reasonably resisted the government’s ill-fated initiative, and in that way reaffirmed its commitment to deliberative democracy.

This interesting judgment of the Court contrasts with another, more recent decision, where the tribunal, in my view, failed to understand what the same deliberative concerns that it had employed once and again before, required it to do, in the new case.[26] On that occasion, the Court upheld a Congress-approved legislation, which established that the Peace Agreement between the government and the FARC could not be amended for the next twelve years (Constitutional Amendment 2, 2017). This is to say, the following three governments would be unable to modify approved parts of the accord. The short-term purpose of the political initiative was obvious: it was directed to shield the Agreement from potential changes to be introduced by the incoming government. According to the norm that was upheld on that occasion, “institutions and authorities of the state have the obligation to comply with what is established in the final accord in good faith . . . until the end of three complete presidential periods following the signing.” For the Court, that article incorporated a “principle of stability and security that is deferential to the purposes of the Agreement.” Unfortunately, on this occasion, and against what its own legal discourse usually suggested, the Court limited rather than encouraged democratic deliberation: it accepted an unreasonable limit to the collective conversation about how to deal with one of the most important and serious problems in Colombia’s history. Fearing that the incoming government would promote a political decision (about the peace agreement) that the Court anticipated as mistaken, the Court validated the decision by (now ex-) President Santos to prevent the coming generations from continuing to reflect about a difficult matter that affects the life of the vast majority of Colombians.

Conclusion

In this Comment, I revised some of the arguments that appear in The Judicialization of Peace, and offered some alternatives to them. In particular, I suggested that the authors’ analysis would be enriched if they clarified their own views about democracy, deliberation, and constitutional interpretation. I also offered some ideas about what a deliberative theory could look like and suggested that this alternative approach could help us to better explain and critically evaluate the development of the Colombian peace process and the intervention of international and domestic tribunals.


   Suggested citation: Roberto Gargarella, Some Reservations Concerning the Judicialization of Peace, 59 Harv. Int’l L.J. Comment (Feb. 3, 2019), http://www.harvardilj.org/2019/02/reservations_peace/

*   Professor at the University of Buenos Aires and the University Torcuato di Tella. Senior Researcher at the National Research Council, CONICET (Argentina).

[1]   See, e.g., Roberto Gargarella, Deliberative Democracy, Dialogic Justice and the Promise of Social and Economic Rights, in Social and Economic Rights in Theory And Practice 105 (Helena Alviar et al., eds. 2014); see also Roberto Gargarella, Full Representation, Deliberation, and Impartiality, in Deliberative Democracy 260 (Jon Elster, ed., 1998).

[2]   U.S. Const., pmbl.

[3]   See, e.g., Miguel Benedetti & Jimena Saenz, Las Audiencias Publicas Ante La Corte Suprema [Public Hearings before the Supreme Court] 280–81 (2016) (Arg.).

[4] Carlos Nino, The Ethics of Human Rights (1991).

[5]   For a general analysis on the subject see, for example, id.

[6]   517 U.S. 620 (1996) (invalidating a state constitutional amendment passed in Colorado, which prevented protected status based upon homosexuality or bisexuality).

[7]   See, e.g., Mark Tushnet, Weak Courts, Strong Rights (2008); Jeremy Waldron, Law and Disagreement (1999).

[8]   See 1 Jurgen Habermas, Theory of Communicative Action, 24, 25, 28, 36, 42 (1984).

[9]        See generally Cass Sunstein, The Partial Constitution (1993).

[10]     I have defended this view, for example, in Roberto Gargarella, We the People Outside of the Constitution: The Dialogic Model of Constitutionalism and the System of Checks and Balances, 67 Current Legal Probs. 1, 22–23 (2014).

[11]      See Thomas Colignatus, The Brexit Referendum Question Was Flawed In Its Design, LSE Brexit (May 17, 2017),  http://blogs.lse.ac.uk/brexit/2017/05/17/the-brexit-referendum-question-was-flawed-in-its-design/ [https://perma.cc/V4GM-7WBA].

[12]      See European Union Observation Mission, Final Report on Bolivian Constitutional Referenedum of January 25, 2009, at 35 (2009), http://eeas.europa.eu/archives/eueom/missions/2009/bolivia/pdf/eueom_bolivia_2009_final_report_en.pdf [https://perma.cc/EX5G-WQL8].

[13]      Gelman v. Uruguay, Merits and Reparations, Judgment, Int-Am. Ct. H.R. (ser. C) No. 221 (Feb. 24, 2011).

[14]     Seemingly, for these “simplistic” views, international courts would constrain national policy-making “in a top down manner” (p. 286), and push for “punitive” solutions, in ways that spoiled “peace and democracy” (p. 330). In the realm of transitional justice, the authors claim, “the reality is that international courts sometimes hinder peace, sometimes foster a better peace, and sometimes are indifferent” (p. 286).

[15]      For instance, right before presenting their “more nuanced approach,” the authors quote Dulitzky’s and Contesse’s writings, and their suggestions saying that the IACtHR should become more deferential to national actors (p. 285). See, e.g., Jorge Contesse, Contestation and Deference in the Inter-American Human Rights System, 79 L. & Contemp. Probs. 123 (2016); see also Ariel Dulitsky, An Inter-American Constitutional Court?, 50 Tex. Int’l L.J. 45 (2015); Ariel Dulitzky, The Inter-American Human Rights System Fifty Years Later: Time for Changes, 127 Quebec J. Int’l L., (Special Edition) 127 (2011). In addition, they quote my own criticisms to the Gelman decision, when I claimed that the IACtHR’s decision was “not sufficiently respectful of democracy” (p. 285).

[16]      In fact, Ariel Dulitzky and Jorge Contesse have advanced very moderated and well-balanced criticisms to the functioning of international courts. In other words, I would not consider their analyses to be “non-nuanced.”

[17]      Actually, this was exactly what I wrote in the more complete piece I presented on the subject. See Roberto Gargarella, No Place for Popular Sovereignty. Democracy, Rights, and Punishment in Gelman v. Uruguay, 2013 SELA (Seminario Latinoamericano De Teoría Constitucional Y Política [Latin American Seminar On Constitutional And Political Theory]) Paper, 3, 16. In that opportunity, I stated: “the [IACtHR] assumed a vision of democracy that was not only based on distrust of the citizenry but moreover . . . completely insensitive to relevant nuances as regards the robustness or legitimacy of popular decision-making.” Id. at 37. Earlier in the paper, I asserted: “the approach adopted by the IACtHR in Gelman belied a schematic structure lacking any nuance.” Id. at 15. In other words, rather than condemning the overall work of the IACtHR, I basically challenged one decision by the Court for not having a “more nuanced approach” in relation to democracy and human rights.

[18]      More specifically, I complained about the tribunal’s resistance to differentiate between the amnesty law that had been enacted in Uruguay, after a long and profoundly deliberative, democratic process, and other amnesties conceded in the region out of non-democratic or hardly democratic decision-making processes. See id. at 15.  In my article, I distinguished four main cases, related to four main examples: 1) the self-amnesty proclaimed by the National Reorganization Process in Argentina (Argentina’s last dictatorship) before surrendering power; 2) the self-amnesty proclaimed by the regime of Alberto Fujimori in Peru following the massacre at Barrios Altos, and after he had shut down the democratic Congress; 3) the pardon laws passed by the democratic government under President Raúl Alfonsín in Argentina putting an end to the trials of persons responsible for the serious human rights violations that took place in Argentina starting in 1976; and 4) the Expiry Law passed in Uruguay and reaffirmed in two instances by popular vote. See id. 7–11.

[19]      Carlos Santiago Nino, The Constitution of Deliberative Democracy 166 (1996).

[20]     I have advanced this view, for example, in Roberto Gargarella, La interpretación y el diálogo democrático [Interpretation and Democratic Dialogue], Revista Del Centro De Estudios Constitucionales [Journal. Ctr. for Const. Stud.], enero – junio, 2017, at 169 (Mex.)

[21]      A crucial point emerges, but one which I cannot properly address within the context of this paper. The discussion concerns the question about who should be allowed to participate in these particular conversations. My intuition is that the Habermasian notion of “those potentially affected” would mainly, although not only, refer to local participants, who have a special stake in what concerns the violation of rights of local authorities. See Habermas, supra note 8.

[22]     See Leonardo Garcia Jaramillo, Constitucionalismo Deliberativo [Deliberative Constitutionalism] (2015). See generally Roberto Gargarella, Latin American Constitutionalism (2013), Roberto Gargarella, The Legal Foundations of Inequality (2010).

[23]     Corte Constitucional [C.C.] [Constitutional Court], mayo 17, 2017, Sentencia C-332/17 (Colom.), http://www.corteconstitucional.gov.co/relatoria/2017/C-332-17.htm [https://perma.cc/G9Q7-EYL7?type=image] (examining the constitutional status of the “fast-track” mechanism created by Congress in order to accelerate the implementation of the peace agreement).

[24]     Juanita León, Las dos caras del golpe al fast track [The two sides of the blow to Fast Track], La Silla Vacía (May 18, 2017) (Colom.), https://lasillavacia.com/historia/las-dos-caras-del-golpe-al-fast-track-60989 [https://perma.cc/XKF7-VGWF].

[25]     Corte Constitucional [C.C.] [Constitutional Court], octubre 11, 2017, Sentencia C-630/17 (Colom.), http://www.corteconstitucional.gov.co/relatoria/2017/C-630-17.htm [https://perma.cc/NC43-3M87?type=image] (referring to the purpose of fast track authority) (translated from “abriendo espacios para la deliberación democrática”).

[26]     See id. (examining the constitutional status of a law shielding the peace agreement from political reforms in the following twelve years).

Measuring Transformation: At the 50th anniversary of the American Convention on Human Rights, a move to maximize its structural impact

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By Flávia Piovesan and Julia Cortez da Cunha Cruz

Latin American and Caribbean countries are among the most violent and unequal nations in the world. Only 8% of the global population, the region accounts for 37% of the world’s homicides. At the same time, of the twenty most unequal countries in the world, six are located in Latin America. While democratization has strengthened the protection of citizens’ rights, countries in the region still need in-depth institutional reforms to consolidate the rule of law, end impunity, and fulfill human rights.

The Inter-American Human Rights System could play a role in addressing these challenges. Over the past 50 years, both the Inter-American Commission and  Court of Human Rights have turned the emancipatory promises of human rights law into concrete social change. They have destabilized dictatorial regimes, commanded an end to impunity during democratic transitions, and contributed to the protection of vulnerable groups. However, in order to overcome today’s challenges, the system can learn from its past: Which cases were the most successful in transforming national realities? Which ones were not? What can we do to foster the implementation, effectiveness, and impact of its decisions?

Inter-American institutions have taken steps in this direction, seeking to improve case monitoring and producing knowledge about implementation. In 2017, the Commission signed a cooperation agreement with Paraguay to develop a regional system that systematizes its recommendations and monitors their implementation. That same year, the Commission created the Special Program to Monitor IACHR Recommendations with the aim to develop roadmaps for compliance. Among other proposals, the Commission is looking into adopting indicators to monitor the implementation process, as well as scaling up the strategy of in loco missions.

As a complement to these initiatives, the system should start measuring the impact of its decisions over the region. It could approach this issue from different angles – for example, one could count the number of public ceremonies in which states publicly recognized their responsibility for human rights violations, or calculate the total value that states have paid as compensation to victims of abuse. Among these possibilities, our suggestion focuses on a form of measurement that captures the unique role played by the Inter-American System in advancing structural human rights reforms. This form of measurement will demonstrate that the system not only saves individual lives, but also fosters long-lasting changes.

In response to the abovementioned challenges and needs, we champion the creation of an Observatory of Structural Impact fostered by the Inter-American Human Rights System. The Commission has unanimously approved the idea and will launch the observatory later this year. It will be a participatory and dynamic platform, dedicated to identifying structural transformations triggered by the system. The observatory will encompass both normative changes and the adoption of human-rights-based public policies. This type of impact is measurable – and once the observatory starts analyzing it, we may be able to identify drivers of structural transformation. The system can then use this information to maximize the positive impact of its decisions, strengthening democracy, the rule of law, and the protection of human rights in the region.

In the 50th anniversary of the American Convention on Human Rights, we believe there is no better tribute to its founding ideals.


Flávia Piovesan, member of the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights and Professor of Law at the Catholic University of São Paulo

Julia Cortez da Cunha Cruz, human rights lawyer at the NGO Conectas

ECtHR Orders Permanent Ban: Can international courts impose disciplinary measures on legal representatives?

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By Leyla-Denisa Obreja

On December 12, 2018, the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) issued a press release announcing its decision to “permanently” prohibit Ukrainian lawyer, Nataliya Yevgenivna Tselovalnichenko “from representing or otherwise assisting applicants in both pending and future applications.” This unprecedented decision contains questionable legal arguments to justify a permanent ban. The ECtHR has not made public any information regarding the Court’s reasoning, nor the deliberative process, which led to this disciplinary sanction. As such, we do not know the facts of the case that led to the ban. Although the ECtHR may have banned representatives in singular proceedings before, this decision was unexpected. Is the Court acting within its competence when it applies lifelong disciplinary sanctions? This post will analyze the legality of this action in two respects. First, it will examine this action in the specific context of the ECtHR’s legal regime. Second, it will consider the decision of an international court to ban a legal representative in the general context of existing international rules and practices.

What we know about the ban

The ECtHR claims to have reached this decision out of “concern not to prejudice applicants” and in light of the “fraudulent and abusive behaviour” of Ms. Tselovalnichenko. Specifically, the Ukrainian lawyer has allegedly “submitted documents which had obvious signs of forgery, while in several [other cases] she had lodged applications on behalf of deceased applicants without informing the Court of their deaths.” These are the only facts the ECtHR mentions with respect to the alleged misconduct of the Ukrainian lawyer. Press reports indicate that Tselovalnichenko is a human rights activist and, as of 2016, Chairwoman of the NGO “Luhansk Human Rights Initiative.” These reports suggest that she is known by experts in the field for trying to “flood” the European Court with applications related to the Donbas hostilities. In the aftermath of Euromaidan and the 2014 Ukrainian revolution, Donbas has seen escalating conflicts between the Ukrainian government and separatist, pro-Russian forces.

The procedural rule acting in support of this ban is Rule 36(4b) of the Rules of the European Court. It states that “[i]n exceptional circumstances and at any stage of the procedure, the President of the Chamber may, where he or she considers that the circumstances or the conduct of the advocate or other person appointed under the preceding sub-paragraph so warrant, direct that the latter may no longer represent or assist the applicant and that the applicant should seek alternative representation.”

The ban in the context of ECtHR rules

Rule 36(4b) contains three requirements that must be met in order for a ban to be imposed on a legal representative: exceptionality, authority, and procedure. Each of these elements will be examined in turn.

Exceptionality: It is unclear what constitutes “exceptional circumstances” under the Rules of the Court. If the “exceptional” nature of the conduct was based on the allegation of forgery, it then begs the question as to whether the Court is invested with the capacity and authority to declare that the document is forged in the first place. It is also unclear whether the Court conducted an investigation in cooperation with the Ukrainian authorities and how the Court came to conclude that these documents were forged. Despite the fact that European laws vary in how they conceptualize and sanction forgery and other types of fraud, it appears that in most States, this conduct would be subject to an investigation and sanction. The ECtHR is not authorized to investigate, nor to institute, criminal proceedings against individuals. Nevertheless, under Rule 36, it can impose a ban on the applicant’s counsel, with or without prior or subsequent criminal proceedings in Member States.

Authority: Under Rule 36, the President of the Chamber orders the ban. According to Rule 1, “the term Chamber means any Chamber of seven judges […] and the expression President of the Chamber means the judge presiding over such a Chamber.” The press release does not identify the Judge who ordered the ban, nor does it provide any details about the Chamber in question.

Procedure: Once banned, Rule 36 states that the legal representative may not continue to assist or represent the applicant. Further, the ban can be declared at any point in the proceedings. This rule, combined with the fact that it is the President of the Chamber who orders the ban, suggests that the ban can only be imposed within a specific and singular procedure. The use of the word “applicant” further implies that the ban extends to the representation of an applicant in a singular proceeding. Neither Rule 36, nor any other rule of the Court, mentions the possibility of a permanent ban. In exercising such a measure, the Rules of the Court do not indicate how the representative in question can appeal a ban. Since a permanent ban is not provided for in the Rules of the Court, following the principle of legality, the decision of the Court is likely ultra vires, or not sufficiently justified by the existing Rules of the Court.

However, several other Rules of the Court could act in support of this decision. These are Rules 44B and 44D. Rule 44B suggests that the “President of the Chamber may take any [appropriate] steps” if the parties fail to abide by the orders of the Court. Rule 44D underlines that in the case of “abusive, frivolous, vexatious, misleading or prolix submissions,” the President of the Chamber can ban a representative from the proceedings, “refuse to accept all or part of the submissions or make any other order which he or she considers it appropriate to make.” A broad interpretation of Rule 44D could indeed justify the ban, as the President of the Chamber maintains the authority to “make any order he or she consider[ed] appropriate.” Admittedly, these actions are permissible during a singular proceeding. Yet they do not extend further, affecting future acts of representation before the Court.

The ban in the context of human rights law

What makes this ban surprising is the fact that it was declared by a human rights body. It is imperative to briefly examine whether this ban has indeed followed the very spirit of the norms the Court is called to defend and enforce. A similar ban by any international judicial or quasi-judicial body would be worth examining, but the operative area of the ECtHR, specifically the defense of human rights, makes this paradox particularly worthy of our attention. This ban implicates the right to reputation, the freedom to exercise a profession, and the right to an effective remedy. 

It is easy to see how the right to reputation, which falls under Article 8 of the European Convention of Human Rights (and Article 12 of the UDHR), might have been jeopardized by the ECtHR’s press release. It is common for the right to reputation to clash with the freedom of expression. The proper balance between these competing rights is often hard to maintain, a problem that the Court has had to address in several cases. Previously, the Court has drawn the line at the commission of a criminal offense: “Article 8 cannot be relied on in order to complain of a loss of reputation that is the foreseeable consequence of one’s own actions such as, for example, the commission of a criminal offence.” By claiming that the Ukrainian lawyer was “fraudulent, abusive” and forged documents without instituting criminal proceedings or otherwise cooperating with the Ukrainian authorities to uncover the authenticity of these documents, the ECtHR might have overstepped its bounds. Moreover, it appears that the involvement of the Ukrainian government came only after the Court reached its decision. Nevertheless, because many of the facts surrounding this ban are still unknown, it may be premature to claim that the ECtHR has violated Mrs. Tselovalnichenko’s rights. Many elements must be met for a violation of the right to reputation to exist, among which are the seriousness of the attack on the person’s reputation and a “prejudice to personal enjoyment of the right to respect for private life.” 

It is also necessary to consider the freedom to exercise a profession and to seek a remedy. In 2000, the Council of Europe adopted a series of recommendations for Member States that seek to guarantee the freedom of exercise of the profession of lawyer. Principle VI dictates that disciplinary proceedings must give lawyers the opportunity to participate in the proceedings and apply for judicial review. Further, Principle I stipulates that decisions to practice as a lawyer “should be subject to a review by an independent and impartial judicial authority.” In support of these principles, the Council of Europe recalls various instruments, including the European Convention on Human Rights and UN Basic Principles on the Role of Lawyers. It is unclear whether the Ukrainian lawyer has had the opportunity to participate in these proceedings and justify her actions and the legality of the documents she submitted. From the press release, it is apparent that these safeguards were not respected.

How other international courts impose disciplinary bans

Appearing before an international court requires a certain level of decorum, preparation, and professionalism. The stakes are high and the risk of misconduct can arise. In anticipation of these risks, other international courts have adopted rules and procedures to clarify the disciplinary measures that can be taken against legal representatives.

In the case of the International Court of Justice (ICJ), procedural rules do not regulate exclusions or bans for legal counsel and advocates. Despite this fact, Chen argues that the ICJ has permissive rules of admissibility of evidence. The author suggests that the ICJ might not have excluded evidence obtained illegally in certain cases, including the Corfu Channel Case. Examining the ICJ’s practices with respect to forged, privileged, and confidential evidence, Chen argues the Court should promulgate a set of rules to regulate its exclusionary discretion. The ECtHR exercises a similar amount of discretion in the imposition of bans. In fact, the ECtHR has developed a fair trial doctrine that states “a trial is not necessarily corroded by the use of illegally obtained evidence.” Given the ECtHR’s discretion to exclude evidence, it is necessary to ask whether the exclusion of evidence, rather than the exclusion of a representative, would have been more suitable in the case of the Ukrainian lawyer. Comparative legal practices suggest that illegally obtained evidence might be declared admissible under exceptional circumstances. It remains unclear why the ECtHR opted for a ban instead of declaring the alleged forged evidence inadmissible and allowing the representative to continue the proceedings.

The International Criminal Court (ICC) has a Code of Professional Conduct for Counsel. Chapter IV regulates disciplinary measures and establishes the forms of misconduct, the counsel’s liability, the procedure to file a complaint of misconduct, the limitation period, and the authority of the Disciplinary Board to take action. Counsel has a right to participate in the proceedings and submit a response. There, certain standards of equitability are in place and the disciplinary regime is more coherent and organized.

The Inter-American Court of Human Rights does not have regulations regarding the possibility of applying disciplinary measures, but it does refer to incomplete or illegible evidence in Article 59 of its Rules of Procedure. Article 59 permits the Court to allocate supplementary time to the parties to “correct [the] defects or to submit relevant clarifications” related to the evidence brought before the Court. A failure to comply with this rule could lead to the Court dismissing the evidence in question.

The rules of the Court of Justice of the European Union (CJEU) provide for the possibility of exclusion of a representative. Article 46 of the Rules of Procedure of the Court of Justice state that “the Court may at any time, having heard the person concerned and the Advocate General, decide to exclude an agent, adviser or lawyer from the proceedings by reasoned order. That order shall have immediate effect.” These rules also incorporate the necessity of a hearing before proceeding with a declaration of exclusion. The International Bar Association has drafted a Guide for Establishing and Maintaining Complaints and Discipline Procedures (2007), that underlines the importance of giving a lawyer “reasonable opportunity and time to respond to the complaint” in disciplinary procedures.

Not all international courts and quasi-judicial bodies have rules in place for declaring bans and exclusions. Yet when they exist, they usually incorporate a review system and some type of procedural safeguards.

Discussion

Given the massive caseload of the ECtHR and the enhanced risk of misconduct by the applicant’s counsel, the Court should codify rules on the procedures and safeguards of temporary or permanent bans and other disciplinary measures. There have not been many public cases involving bans at the ECtHR, which has denied experts the opportunity to scrutinize the Court’s lack of safeguards and guarantees for legal representatives in the Court’s procedures. One author notes, however, a pressing need for international courts to adopt common ethical standards for lawyers in light of “issues of dishonesty and documentary evidence” in the practice of the CJEU and the ECtHR.

However, the case of Tselovalnichenko’s ban raises several questions as to the limits of an international court’s authority and the relationship between the court’s actions and the competence and jurisdiction of a State party.  First, can an international court permanently prohibit a legal representative from appearing before a court without a prior investigation in cooperation with the relevant Member State? Second, how can and should an international court signal to a State party that it suspects forgery has taken place while maintaining the court’s impartiality? Laws and regulations that guarantee the independence and freedom of counsel in an international context must be put in place to guarantee that State actors do not try to exercise pressure over lawyers when their interests are implicated in a dispute.

Lastly, how can international courts sanction legal representatives if the ability and competence to practice law stems, not from the mandates of international courts themselves, but from the national bar associations and government institutions that regulate the legal profession. It follows, therefore, that future reforms might be needed to clarify the rules and conditions that legal representatives must satisfy to carry out their activities before these courts. In Europe, many have called for the adoption of a European Convention to Protect Lawyers, underlining increased risks in Eastern Europe. Future rules should regulate the disciplinary procedures under which lawyers are suspended or banned at a domestic and national level, and how the consequences of these bans inform each other and limit the representative powers of lawyers. 


Leyla-Denisa Obreja is a human rights scholar and lawyer. She recently completed a PhD program at Bond University (Australia) on the topic of States’ due diligence obligations to prevent intimate partner violence.

 

The Justice Conundrum: Africa’s Turbulent Relationship with the ICC

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By Jon Silverman

In Volume 59 of the Harvard International Law Journal, authors Courtney Hillebrecht and Alexandra Huneeus, with Sandra Borda, argue in “The Judicialization of Peace” that the International Criminal Court (“ICC”) and the Inter-American Court of Human Rights, in their positive engagements with Colombia’s long-running internal conflict, have “facilitated and hastened a change in the settled norms around transitional justice.” They posit that this hastening has been achieved through a long series of dialogues between courts—both internal and international—and government, and among non-state actors, such as NGOs, the media and academia. The authors use the term “shadow effect” to describe the engagement of the courts, particularly the ICC, with the peace process in a way which nurtured transition within a framework of legal accountability.

The authors point out that this outcome confounded expectations because, during four years of negotiations, many had predicted that the involvement of the two courts would impede the peace process. The Colombian experiment is certainly instructive, but can it be seen as a blueprint for changing “the settled norms of transitional justice?”  As the authors of the article point out, “Colombia has more stable institutions and a stronger domestic judiciary than any other situation before the ICC.” This post will query whether any of the lessons from Colombia are applicable to sub-Saharan Africa, where the ICC has focused all of its prosecutions, and whose states, in the main, suffer from weak institutions and destabilizing ethnic contestation.

I have drawn this post from qualitative research, funded by the British Academy, into the engagement of the ICC with two East African states, Kenya and Uganda, where the court has been seen as anything but a midwife of accountability. My research included some thirty semi-structured interviews with civil society representatives, including judges and advocates, about the ICC and the so-called “impunity gap” in Africa. I supplement this ethnography with more general observations about the performance of the ICC’s Office of the Prosecutor (“OTP”) over a decade and a half.

Sparring with the ICC

A plethora of explanations have been offered for Africa’s growing disaffection with the ICC. Mueller suggests that initial support for the court was strong as long as its investigations centered on non-state actors such as the Lord’s Resistance Army, but when the focus shifted toward ex-heads of state and even serving presidents, self-preservation became the dominant response. This ICC challenge to the principle of immunity from prosecution for leaders and senior officials for genocide, war crimes and crimes against humanity is anathema to the African Union (“AU”) and was condemned by the Assembly of the AU, meeting in Equatorial Guinea in July 2014.

For Evelyne Owiye Osaala, primary responsibility lies with the UN Security Council (“UNSC”) for being “selective in the recognition and waiver of immunities for international crimes in favour of the interests of its permanent members.” This argument is commonly voiced on the African continent by those who believe that U.S. President George W. Bush and U.K. Prime Minister Tony Blair should have been held to account legally for the invasion of Iraq in 2003. For many, the thesis that the UNSC demonstrates partiality was strengthened by the capture of the former Ivory Coast president, Laurent Gbagbo, by French and American troops in 2011 when Paris and Washington demonstrably threw their weight behind Gbagbo’s election opponent, Alessane Outtara.                 

By contrast, Nel and Sibiya point out that the ICC has opened preliminary investigations in Iraq, Colombia, Afghanistan and Georgia, “thereby dispelling the myth that the ICC only focuses on situations in Africa.”

The Bashir Effect

All of these assessments have merit, but the real issue is whether a subtler approach by the OTP, relying on a “shadow effect” rather than confrontation, might have done more to challenge long-cherished presumptions of the inviolability of presidents on the continent. It is undeniable that the March 2009 issuing of an ICC warrant for the arrest of Sudanese president, Omar al-Bashir, began the process of framing the court as an instrument of Western colonialism, a viewpoint summed up by the Gambia’s then Information Minister, Sheriff Baba Bojang, who reportedly called the ICC “an international Caucasian court for the persecution and humiliation of people of colour, especially Africans.”

The indictment did not deter Bashir from successfully testing the concept of impunity by visiting Nigeria for an African Union summit in 2013 and South Africa in 2015. The visit which provided the impetus for this research study was Bashir’s visit to Uganda in 2016, when he attended the re-inauguration of President Museveni. At the ceremony, the Ugandan leader’s attack on the ICC as “a bunch of useless people”, provoked a walkout by the ambassadors of the US and Canada.

Like South Africa, Uganda had once been a proponent of the ICC and, indeed, was the first country to refer a case—that of the Lord’s Resistance Army leader, Joseph Kony—to the court, after it came into being in 2002. Announcing the referral, Museveni and the ICC Prosecutor, Luis Moreno-Ocampo appeared at a joint press conference in London, which an opposition member of parliament in Uganda criticized as a misstep because it gave the impression that the OTP was doing the bidding of the Ugandan president. As if to assert his independence, Ocampo followed this up with a visit to Kampala at which he declared that he would “interpret the referral as concerning all crimes under the Rome Statute committed in Northern Uganda, leaving open the possibility of investigating alleged atrocities by government forces.”

It is true that Ocampo’s dealings with Colombia also opened up the possibility that the army, as well as the FARC rebels, might come under investigation from the court but crucially, the Colombian government eschewed a strategy of confrontation with the OTP for one of “judicial diplomacy.” This entailed cooperating with all requests for information and for meetings with the OTP during field visits and in 2009, adopting the Rules of Evidence and Procedure of the ICC and ratifying the Agreement on the Privileges and Immunities of the Court.

This deft legal courtship between Colombia’s institutions and the OTP made it unnecessary for one side to be seen as a supplicant and the other as a potential punisher. By contrast, in East Africa, a civil society with far shallower roots used the ICC indictment against Sudan’s Bashir to lock horns with leaderships determined to uphold the immunity of heads of state, with predictable consequences. When Bashir made a return state visit to Uganda in November 2017, the Uganda Victims Foundation could have had little hope of success when filing an application at the International Crimes Division of the High Court for enforcement of the outstanding arrest warrants. The court duly declined to issue a provisional warrant and instead fixed the hearing to a later date, “effectively quashing any attempts to arrest the Sudanese president.”

The Kenyatta/Ruto Prosecution

As the “Judicialization of Peace” makes clear, the OTP could plausibly present the opening of a preliminary investigation in Colombia as a means of facilitating and nurturing the peace process. In Kenya, by contrast, the OTP failed to persuade the then-government to voluntarily refer the post-election violence of 2007 to the ICC and so the prosecutor, for the first time in the court’s history, had to use his proprio motu powers to initiate an investigation. The danger of thus “owning” the intervention—which led to indictments against President Uhuru Kenyatta and his deputy, William Ruto—was that the OTP would be as much on trial as were the defendants.

In 2007, Kenyatta and Ruto were bitter opponents and their tribal communities—Kenyatta’s Kikuyu and Ruto’s Kalenjin—engaged in bloodshed which led to more than one thousand deaths, mainly in the Rift Valley. But, for the 2013 election, while under indictment from the ICC, they formed an alliance which effectively subverted the notion of “victim-centered justice,” so central to the ICC’s mandate. A report by the civil society alliance, Kenyans for Peace with Truth and Justice, put it like this:

In a strange ironical reversal, Mr Kenyatta and Mr Ruto now presented themselves as victims, the hapless targets of an imperialistic plot against Africans. A plot, moreover, that would ultimately undermine democracy in Africa by blocking reconciliation efforts, such as those that the political alliance headed by Uhuru, representing the Kikuyus, and Ruto, representing the Kalenjins was purportedly trying to achieve. In turn, the ICC was cast as the pliant tool of a Western conspiracy against Kenya’s sovereignty.

The Weakness of the Office of the Prosecutor

When the trial began in The Hague, it became apparent early on that the OTP was struggling. The prosecutor, Fatou Bensouda, later complained that over half the witnesses in the case against William Ruto withdrew or retracted their initial testimony, and others were killed or bribed in the Kenyatta case:

The level of interference with those witnesses was such that it started before; it was maintained throughout the cases; and even after. My office was trying to find various ways to protect and preserve the evidence and bring it before the judges This was a huge challenge, including their own protection as well as that of most of their families. We were having to protect witnesses even against their own communities; it became very complicated in the end. Not only were the witnesses pulling away from the case, but there were even attempts at interfering with their family members.

Lawyers interviewed for this research argue that the OTP should have expected this level of non-cooperation, which makes its determination to go ahead with the prosecution all the more surprising (a similar interpretation can be made about the case against Laurent Gbagbo which also collapsed at trial in early 2019). Here again, by exercising its “shadow effect,” the ICC may have a more potent, if less showy, weapon than by prosecuting. After all, faced with an unwillingness to cooperate by a state, the OTP has none of the resources available to a domestic prosecutor, such as subpoenas, surveillance and policing, and cannot visit the scenes where the crimes were perpetrated without the acquiescence of national state authorities.

In the Kenyatta case, requests for information from the Kenyan authorities went unanswered and the Attorney-General refused to hand over phone, land and asset records. But lawyer Gary Summers, who was part of the Kenyatta defense team from August 2011 onwards, believes the OTP can’t escape blame for the failure of the prosecution:

It was amateurish. You can’t just rely on human rights NGOs to find witnesses and interview them.  You needed trained investigators on the ground in Kenya to check the sources of some of the allegations. The OTP relied far too heavily on the report of the Waki Commission [the commission set up by the Kenyan government in 2008 to investigate the post-election violence of the previous year] to find witnesses. Indeed, the case against Kenyatta started with a single informant, Witness, no 4. The ICC needs a prosecutor who is ruthlessly focused on the target. This wasn’t the case with either Ocampo or Fatou Bensouda

(Interview with author, October 29, 2016).

Edigah Kavulavu of the International Commission of Jurists, Kenya Section, supported the prosecutions but remains disappointed by the way they turned out:

The general mood here was that we would get justice through the ICC. And that the Kenyan case would be an example to the rest of the world. But the OTP only had a small outreach office in Nairobi, from where witnesses were interviewed. And there was no proper profiling of victims. The OTP based its judgements about witnesses/victims almost entirely on information from civil society NGOs. And when the case finally opened in court, it was obvious that Ocampo was not trial-ready

(Interview with researchers, November 1, 2016).

Searching for any positive legacy of the Kenyatta/Ruto prosecution, it should be noted that it was the catalyst for discussions leading to the setting up of an International Crimes Division in Kenya’s High Court to make good on the promise of complementarity.

Likewise in Uganda, following the 2008 Juba Peace Agreement between the government and the Lord’s Resistance Army, a war crimes division was established in the High Court (later rebranded, when Uganda adopted the International Criminal Court Act, as the International Crimes Division). Nevertheless, the performance of the ICC in Africa has been a poor one, as it continues to grapple with the ongoing geo-political turbulence of internecine and inter-state rivalries.

The Individual or the Community?

This post has sought to examine the fractious relationship between the ICC and Africa through the prism of the “judicialization of peace” achieved in Colombia. It has pointed out the significant differences between a state with relatively stable institutions underpinned by a self-confident civil society and countries where the impunity of leaders may have been challenged but not overturned. But there is another distinction which has to be considered.

The ICC was established to try crimes committed by individuals rather than states, and in prosecuting Uhuru Kenyatta, the ICC addressed his individual criminal liability for crimes committed during the 2007 post-election violence rather than putting the state of Kenya on trial. However, within Kenyan society, Kenyatta’s individuality is intimately bound up with a heritage of Kikuyu patrimonial obligations. Historically in this patron-client arrangement, there is “a shared understanding of the appropriate relationship between leaders and their communities that gave rise to complex moral economies in which rulers were expected to provide for their followers in return for their support.”

In Uganda, Museveni, from the Bahima tribe, is seen as a bulwark against the “troublesome” Acholi of the northern region (from which the Lord’s Resistance Army sprang). In other words, in these East African countries, a criminal prosecution of the patron can be presented as an attack on the clan, raising the possibility of all those dependent on the patron being deprived of material benefits and political influence if he is brought down. In these circumstances, it was all too easy for the embattled Kenyatta to make a case that, as the representative of the largest ethnic group, he embodied the nation, standing resolute against an alien, Western-backed institution, the ICC. With the African Union implacably opposed to the court, the post-Enlightenment notion of individual responsibility and culpability is steadily being reinterpreted on the African continent as a concept of collective condemnation and the ICC made to look like the cuckoo in the nest.


Jon Silverman is Professor of Media and Criminal Justice at the University of Bedfordshire (UK), where his research projects have included media coverage of war crimes trials in Sierra Leone and Liberia and the relationship between the International Criminal Court and Africa. He is about to embark on research into the impact of social media on ethnic relationships in Sierra Leone and Liberia. In 2017, he was an international election observer on behalf of the National Democratic Institute for the second round of the Liberian presidential election.

Volume 60, Issue 1

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