Implementing International Criminal Court-Ordered Collective Reparations: Unpacking Present Debates

by Marissa R. Brodney[1]

Abstract

A debate at the International Criminal Court (ICC) between the Trial Chamber and Trust Fund for Victims (Trust Fund) regarding reparations in the case against Thomas Lubanga Dyilo has stalled aspects of the reparations process and threatens to prevent some prospective beneficiaries from receiving reparations at all. Recently, the Trial Chamber ordered the Trust Fund to determine eligibility of individual beneficiaries as a prerequisite to determining Lubanga’s monetary liability for collective reparation awards. It also ordered the Trust Fund to secure consent of victims to disclose their identities to Lubanga as a precondition to obtaining reparations. The Trust Fund has refused to comply with both orders, citing concern for victim safety among other reasons. In October 2016, the Trial Chamber approved a plan submitted by the Trust Fund on symbolic collective reparations, moving elements of the reparations process forward. However, key issues central to implementing service-based collective reparation awards remain unaddressed, and victims continue to wait for reparations they have been led to expect.

This article focuses on disputes about two specific procedural matters that have arisen in the current stage of reparations proceedings: a) whether it is necessary for the Trial Chamber to determine the eligibility of individual beneficiaries of collective reparation awards as a prerequisite to determining a convicted person’s monetary liability for collective reparations that move beyond symbolic reparation initiatives, and b) relatedly, whether the convicted person should have the opportunity to review prospective reparation beneficiaries as part of this processrequiring disclosure of victim identities to both the Trial Chamber and the convicted person. The article suggests that the Trial Chamber’s interpretation of the recent Appeals Chamber judgment clarifying principles governing reparations processes at the ICC, and the Trust Fund’s reaction to Trial Chamber orders, reflect fundamental tensions within the very notion that criminal court-ordered reparations might provide reparative justice for victims of humanity’s gravest crimes. It argues that the Trial Chamber could comply with principles outlined by the Appeals Chamber in a way that would be more appropriately responsive to victim rights and concerns, and that the Trial Chamber should reconsider its approach.

Specifically, this article suggests that the Trial Chamber should grant the Trust Fund’s request to reconsider the Trial Chamber-mandated individual victim eligibility and harm assessment process, set out in the Trial Chamber’s order of 9 February 2016. Reviewing prospective beneficiaries should not be viewed as a necessary pre-requisite to determining the monetary liability of the convicted person for collective reparations, nor is Trial Chamber review of prospective beneficiaries a preferable—even if permissible—division of labor between the Trial Chamber and Trust Fund. Additionally, this article argues that the Appeals Chamber judgment should not be read as requiring disclosure of victim identities to the Trial Chamber and convicted person at the reparations implementation stage.

The article begins by introducing conceptual and socio-legal tensions inherent to integrating reparations as a transitional justice measure within a legal regime bound to protect both the rights and scope of liability of the convicted person. It then presents an overview of recent court decisions and filings regarding reparations in the Lubanga case. It outlines how these tensions filter into the Court’s legal framework governing reparations; analyzes two legal questions emerging in the context of the present debate between the Trial Chamber and Trust Fund; and situates these legal debates in a broader, socio-legal frame.


I.  Introduction: Emerging issues, difficult calculations

The International Criminal Court (ICC) is debating key questions central to implementing the Court’s first-ever reparations award, in the case against Thomas Lubanga Dyilo.[2]  The ICC has already ordered[3] and upheld on appeal[4] authorization for collective reparations for victims in the case against Lubanga.[5] Now, the ICC’s Trial Chamber II is working to ensure that the mechanisms underpinning the actual calculation and delivery of these reparations are compatible with the Court’s governing legal framework. In the process, evolving procedural requirements are coming into tension with concomitant institutional and principled obligations to do no harm to victims,[6] realize some semblance of effective “reparative justice,” or provide comprehensive, meaningful reparation at all.

Disagreements about two specific procedural matters have arisen in the current stage of reparations proceedings, as the Trial Chamber responds to the recent Appeals Chamber reparations judgment. First, the Trial Chamber, Trust Fund for Victims (Trust Fund) and other institutional actors within the Rome Statute system have begun to debate whether it is necessary for the Trial Chamber to determine the eligibility of individual beneficiaries of collective reparation awards as a prerequisite to determining a convicted person’s monetary liability for service-based collective reparations. Second, and relatedly, a debate has emerged as to whether the convicted person should have the opportunity to review the applications of prospective reparation beneficiaries as part of this process—requiring disclosure of victim identities to both the Trial Chamber and the convicted person.

In today’s procedural debates lie substantive socio-legal questions and barriers to realizing the reparations for which victims have waited, and continue to wait. These debates involve institutional actors with different mandates giving rise to different visions of what might make the ICC reparations regime effective. What does it mean, various actors are now asking, to require that a convicted person’s liability be proportional to the harm caused to victims, when many victims have not participated in proceedings?  How should the Court’s obligation to limit a convicted person’s scope of liability be reconciled with other institutional obligations to meaningfully repair multidimensional experiences of harm among victims ostensibly served by the ICC, and the communities they comprise?

The Rome Statute system is breaking new legal ground as its actors engage in an effort to order, fund, and implement collective reparations that extend beyond symbolic measures, under the umbrella of international criminal law.[7] Core socio-legal questions arise as transformative visions of reparation—a victim-centric transitional justice measure impacting both individual victims and the communities they form—run up against models of court-ordered justice that frame liability, harm and redress in terms that are individualized and quantifiable. Few reparation beneficiaries have been identified thus far through Court-mandated processes; fewer still have given consent to disclose their information to the convicted person pursuant to Trial Chamber orders; and the reparations process is moving forward by pausing to take stock. In the Court’s search for answers, the stakes are high. The approach that the Court takes in addressing these procedural issues will profoundly impact victims’ perceptions of and interactions with the ICC, in addition to framing possibilities for integrating reparative and retributive justice under the umbrella of international criminal law.

The article suggests that the Trial Chamber’s interpretation of the recent Appeals Chamber judgment clarifying principles governing reparations processes at the ICC—and the Trust Fund’s reaction to Trial Chamber orders—reflects fundamental tensions within the very notion that criminal court-ordered reparations might provide reparative justice for victims of humanity’s gravest crimes. The Court’s need to respect the rights and scope of liability of the convicted person does not necessarily accord with visions of justice that entail proactive work to foster comprehensive physical, psychological, and social repair for individuals and the conflict-affected societies they comprise. This article argues that it is nevertheless possible to comply with principles outlined by the Appeals Chamber in a way that would be more appropriately responsive to victim rights and concerns. The Court should aim to reconcile its need to protect the rights and obligations of the convicted person with the goal of ensuring that victims’ interactions with the Court are more reparative than detrimental.

This article argues that to accomplish this aim and move the reparation process forward, the Trial Chamber should reconsider its present approach to determining Lubanga’s monetary liability for Court-ordered collective reparation awards.  Specifically, the Trial Chamber should grant the Trust Fund’s request to reconsider the Trial Chamber-mandated individual victim eligibility and harm assessment process, set out in the Trial Chamber’s order of 9 February 2016.[8] Reviewing prospective beneficiaries should not be viewed as a necessary pre-requisite to determining the monetary liability of the convicted person for collective reparations, nor is Trial Chamber review of prospective beneficiaries a preferable—even if permissible—division of labor between the Trial Chamber and Trust Fund. Additionally, the Appeals Chamber judgment should not be read as requiring disclosure of victim identities to the Trial Chamber and convicted person at the reparations implementation stage.

II. Victim-centric concepts in a perpetrator-focused institution

The term “reparation” draws upon distinct if interlocking conceptual frameworks for considering repair as a component of justice processes.[9] In one sense, court-ordered reparation is a concept familiar to many domestic legal systems that require individuals to pay monetary compensation to others, as a means to redress harm caused by personal actions or omissions. In another sense, recourse to the term “reparation” in reference to war crimes and crimes against humanity—crimes codified within international law—evokes principles derived from a distinct legal tradition addressing state responsibility for repairing breaches of international law.[10] Because war crimes and crimes against humanity describe breaches of international law committed by individuals, the notion of “reparation” at the International Criminal Court inevitably comes to embody dimensions of both frames,[11] notwithstanding an express refusal to anchor the International Criminal Court’s reparations mandate in principles of state responsibility at the time of the Rome Statue’s drafting.[12]

In 2004, a landmark International Court of Justice (ICJ) advisory opinion determined that a State was obliged to compensate individuals directly for a breach of international law.[13] Today, a growing consensus may be emerging that victims have a right to reparation in some form following gross violations of human rights and grave violations of international humanitarian law.[14] Restitution, compensation, rehabilitation, satisfaction, and guarantees of non-repetition are all internationally recognized modalities of reparation, which find expression in the UN Basic Principles and Guidelines on the Right to a Remedy and Reparation for Victims of Gross Violations of International Human Rights Law and Serious Violations of International Humanitarian Law [hereinafter UN Basic Principles].[15] As is indicated in their title, the UN Basic Principles elaborate upon modalities of reparation in the context of presenting a right to reparation following grave breaches of international humanitarian law. Scholars note that there is “at least a strong tendency to acknowledge the entitlement of the individual to reparation under modern international law.”[16] At the same time, even the most “comprehensive” or “effective” reparation are unlikely to ever fully repair harm associated with crimes as serious as war crimes or crimes against humanity.[17]

Reparations have become a recognized component of transitional justice processes designed to address legacies of large-scale human rights abuses,[18] where harms perpetrated against individuals and violations of international law may converge. Reparation as a transitional justice tool differs from an understanding of reparation-as-compensation that might find analogues in many domestic legal proceedings. First, social meaning assumes a unique definitional role in thinking about reparation with respect to international law violations, and grave violations of human rights specifically. Social meaning—and the communication of that social meaning to victims—is part of what transforms a monetary transfer into effective “reparation” following crimes associated with conflict or oppression.[19] Relatedly, effective reparation as a transitional justice measure need not necessarily be monetary,[20] in contrast to the nature of many domestic awards.

Participation in justice processes themselves may serve a reparative function,[21] in domestic and international contexts alike.[22] Scholars also call attention, however, to dangers posed by justice processes that allow for victim participation but fail to adequately foster “subtle but fundamental postures” that would frame victims’ interaction with justice processes as empowering, thus potentially “reinforce[ing] ongoing traumatic experiences of social exclusion, isolation and stigma.”[23]

Today, comprehensive and effective reparation is generally understood to comprise one component of efforts to achieve “reparative justice,” which situates a notion of “constructive building” of survivors’ lives alongside retributive accountability for perpetrators.[24] Reparative justice seeks to ensure that victims’ experiences with justice processes writ large contribute to repairing the harms they suffered.[25]

International criminal tribunals have not historically recognized reparation in the context of court-ordered justice, and have been critiqued for framing a vision of international criminal justice as one focused wholly on retributive prosecution at the expense of other conceptualizations of justice and accountability.[26] In this sense, the very inclusion of a reparations mandate within the International Criminal Court can be read as an effort to expand the ambit of international criminal justice broadly[27]—a project expansive in both scope and significance.

At the same time, the International Criminal Court’s reparations mandate is part and parcel of a system designed to focus on individual persons’ culpability for specified crimes. The International Criminal Court’s ability to exert influence in the world is dependent upon its ability to ensure that individuals are convicted—and are instructed to provide a corresponding remedy—for only those crimes that may be legally attributable to them. This legal need for boundedness is necessarily at odds with a vision of justice that entails proactive work to foster comprehensive physical, psychological, and social repair for individuals and the conflict-affected societies to which they belong. The project of strengthening the legitimacy of an international criminal court that adequately protects the rights and obligations of the accused is different from, even if related to, the project of advancing transitional justice in part through the provision of effective reparation.[28]

Constituencies both within the Rome Statute system and outside it are invested in protecting and strengthening different aspects of the International Criminal Court’s reparations project. Conceptual, procedural, and institutional tensions will inevitably emerge amidst efforts to square the promise of a mandate evoking broad notions of reparative justice with the Court’s need to ensure that a convicted person is not held responsible for remedying harm he did not cause.

III. Framing the present debate

A. Introduction to reparations in the context of Lubanga

In 2012, the ICC’s Trial Chamber I delivered its first-ever decision on reparations pursuant to article 75 in the case against Thomas Lubanga Dyilo,[29] authorizing collective reparations[30] and making this order “through” the Trust Fund. Making an order through the Trust Fund ensured that reparations could be funded despite the indigence of the convicted person.[31] Lubanga[32] and Victims[33] separately appealed the decision. The Appeals Chamber’s March 2015 judgment reviewed and partially overturned the Trial Chamber’s decision, amending the order for reparations; the Appeals Chamber considered the order for reparations incomplete because it did not include five elements that, according to the Appeals Chamber, the legal framework requires.[34] The Appeals Chamber clarified that every reparations order:

1) [M]ust be directed against the convicted person; 2) must establish and inform the convicted person of his or her liability with respect to the reparations awarded in the order; 3) must specify, and provide reasons for, the type of reparations ordered, either collective, individual or both, pursuant to rules 97 (1) and 98 of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence; 4) must define the harm caused to direct and indirect victims as a result of the crimes for which the person was convicted, as well as identify the modalities of reparations that the Trial Chamber considers appropriate based on the circumstances of the specific case before it; and 5) must identify the victims eligible to benefit from the awards for reparations or set out the criteria of eligibility based on the link between the harm suffered by the victims and the crimes for which the person was convicted [emphasis added].[35]

The Appeals Chamber also clarified that making a reparations order through the Trust Fund, as the Trial Chamber did, “does not exonerate the convicted person from liability.”[36] In this way, the Appeals Chamber clarified a vision of the ICC’s reparations regime as one tethered to the scope of liability of the convicted person; a victim’s ability to claim reparations became presented as dependent on both a criminal conviction and the existence of a causal link between the harm being redressed and the specific crime for which a person was convicted.[37] Even if reparations were to be externally funded, the Court would be required to act as if the convicted person were being held monetarily responsible.

Prior to the Appeals Chamber judgment, not all stakeholders understood the Court’s reparations mandate as quite so perpetrator-centric, bound up in the Court’s overarching need to protect the rights of the accused (the ICC Office of the Prosecutor included).[38] In fact, as late as 2010, scholars such as Salvatore Zappalà—writing on the very issue of balancing rights of victims with the rights of the accused—noted that when “victims are considered for the purpose of obtaining reparation from a convicted person” pursuant to article 75 of the Rome Statute, “[t]here is no need to preserve the rights of the accused since the establishment of guilt or innocence has already occurred.”[39] In the context of reparations, persistent tensions inherent to balancing the rights of victims with the rights of the accused have become extended to address the scope of liability of the accused, in new and indeterminate ways.

B. Understanding collective reparation in the context of Lubanga

There is no international legal definition of “collective reparations.”[40] The term “collective reparation” has been used to structure reparation awards in several ways with respect to violations of international law, including by reference to the types of reparations distributed or the mode of delivering reparations, by reference to violation of a right held by a group, or by reference to violation of rights that have impacted communities or collectives.[41]

Human rights courts have developed an evolving jurisprudence addressing the way individuals’ right to reparation may accord with community-level victimization.[42] The international community has looked to the Inter-American Court of Human Rights (IACtHR) in particular for its “innovative” awards taking the form of “collective reparations,”[43] which have entailed granting reparation “to the members of the community as a whole”[44]—notably, without a corresponding need to identify individual victim beneficiaries. However, scholars have noted that the IACtHR has more discretion than criminal courts in determining reparations beneficiaries, owing in part to the IACtHR’s rights-focused approach as compared to a criminal court’s injury-focused approach.[45] The IACtHR has also determined that “[i]nternational case law and, in particular, that of the [Inter-American] Court, has established repeatedly that the judgment constitutes per se a form of reparation.”[46]

The Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) allow victims to participate in proceedings as civil parties seeking “collective and moral reparations,” which have generally comprised symbolic measures that do not entail granting monetary awards to victims.[47] However, reparations claimants at the ECCC are civil parties to proceedings,[48] unlike prospective reparation beneficiaries at the ICC who may qualify for reparations but may not have applied for reparations or participated in the context of proceedings that precede authorization of an award.[49]

When Trial Chamber I initially authorised collective reparations in Lubanga, it presented its vision of collective reparation as in keeping with the far-reaching aim of “contributing more broadly to the communities that were affected.”[50] The Appeals Chamber, however, narrowed the scope of who may permissibly benefit from collective Court-ordered reparations. Responding to an argument advanced by Lubanga that the “collective” reparation of individually suffered harm should not mean the granting of reparation to a “community” where not every member is identified as a victim of crimes committed by the convicted person,[51] the Appeals Chamber determined that the ICC reparations regime would not support the ordering of a collective award to unidentified beneficiaries.[52] Where an award for reparations is made to the benefit of a community, only members of the community meeting the relevant criteria would be eligible[53] and community members would be entitled to reparations only “in so far as the harm they suffered meets the criterion of eligibility in relation to the crimes” for which the convicted individual was found guilty.[54] By restricting the scope of who might permissibly claim the benefits of a collective reparation award, the Appeals Chamber judgment problematizes the ability of Court-ordered collective reparation to realize the Trial Chamber-iterated goal of contributing “broadly” to affected communities.

The Lubanga case is unique in its authorization of collective reparation awards to victims who are neither a definable group of civil parties nor a geographically identifiable community. In fact, many victim participants in proceedings before Trial Chamber I argued against collective reparations, because “they did not believe that they had sufficient connection with each other to benefit from collective awards.”[55] Trial Chamber I’s decision to award collective reparation despite some victim opposition did not go unnoticed, and commentators have suggested that logistical considerations alone might propel the Court to prefer collective over individual reparations generally; such considerations include limitations on available resources (implying that collective awards may be more cost-effective), and the notion that “[i]n dealing with a large number of victims, forms of collective reparations are likely to generate economies of scale.”[56]

IV. Dual frames inhabit the court’s legal framework for reparations

A. Mandate to consider reparations

Article 75 of the Rome Statute empowers the Court to authorise reparation for victims of crimes within the Court’s jurisdiction. Separately, the ICC Rules of Procedure and Evidence outline procedures governing victim applications and Court motions for reparations (rules 94 and 95); publication of reparation proceedings (rule 96); assessment of reparations (rule 97); and the role of the Trust Fund (rule 98). Together, the Rome Statute and ICC Rules of Procedure and Evidence provide a general framework guiding the authorization of reparations. The Rome Statute itself does not outline specific principles governing reparations, and the Court has not established any guiding principles on reparations outside of case law.[57] This means that the recent Appeals Chamber decision in Lubanga is important both for establishing the legal architecture to guide delivery of reparations for Lubanga’s victims specifically and for establishing principles and procedures that will be applied to reparations proceedings in other cases.

Article 75(1-3) of the Rome Statute establishes the Court’s mandate to consider reparations. Article 75(1-3) provides that:

(1) The Court shall establish principles relating to reparations to, or in respect of, victims, including restitution, compensation and rehabilitation. On this basis, in its decision the Court may, either upon request or on its own motion in exceptional circumstances, determine the scope and extent of any damage, loss and injury to, or in respect of, victims and will state the principles on which it is acting; (2) The Court may make an order directly against a convicted person specifying appropriate reparations to, or in respect of, victims, including restitution, compensation and rehabilitation; (3) Where appropriate, the Court may order that the award for reparations be made through the Trust Fund provided for in article 79.[58]

Article 75 of the Rome Statute presents modalities of reparation using the same terms that describe appropriate modalities of reparation in the UN Basic Principles: “restitution,” “compensation,” and “rehabilitation.”[59] This linguistic symmetry implies some degree of connection between the ICC’s reparations regime and a vision of reparations derived from the legal tradition that frames a right to remedy for those victimized by grave breaches of international law. At the same time, article 75 of the Rome Statute describes no right to reparation within the bounds of the Rome Statute. The court may order reparations awards. It may do so through a Trust Fund established by article 79 of the Rome Statue. Further, any reparation award shall be made on the basis of the Court’s principles governing reparation—not on the basis of any other principles that would conflict with the Court’s legal mandate.[60]

B. Legal architecture governing work of the Trust Fund

Article 79 of the Rome Statute provides for the existence of a Trust Fund.[61] The Trust Fund for Victims was created by a resolution of the Assembly of State Parties (ASP) in September 2002, after the Rome Statute’s entry into force.[62] The Trust Fund identifies itself as “an independent body from the Court, established by and accountable to the Assembly of States Parties,”[63] though this characterization of the Trust Fund as a body independent from the Court is subject to some disagreement.[64] The Trust Fund presents itself as part of a legal ecosystem “in which the elements of retributive and restorative justice aim to be reconciled.”[65] The Trust Fund does not share the Trial Chamber’s express obligations to the accused, and its mission is framed in terms that are wholly victim-centric and victims’ rights-responsive.[66]

The Trust Fund possesses a dual mandate to provide formal reparations as well as “assistance activities” to victims of mass crimes.[67] Whereas the Trust Fund’s reparations mandate is linked to the accountability of a convicted person, the Trust Fund’s assistance mandate allows the Trust Fund to direct resources to victims outside of any judicial process. The Trust Fund describes its assistance mandate as facilitating victim assistance “1) in a timelier manner than the judicial process may [have] allowed, and 2) to a more extensive range of victims who are affected by the broader situations before the Court, regardless of whether the harm they suffered stems from particular crimes charged in a specific case.”[68]

Rule 98(1–4) of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence address the Trust Fund’s reparations mandate, while rule 98(5) refers to the Trust Fund’s assistance mandate, which allows the Trust Fund to leverage “other resources” for the benefit of victims.[69] The full text of rule 98 says:

(1) Individual awards for reparations shall be made directly against a convicted person. (2) The Court may order that an award for reparations against a convicted person be deposited with the Trust Fund where at the time of making the order it is impossible or impracticable to make individual awards directly to each victim. The award for reparations thus deposited in the Trust Fund shall be separated from other resources of the Trust Fund and shall be forwarded to each victim as soon as possible. (3) The Court may order that an award for reparations against a convicted person be made through the Trust Fund where the number of the victims and the scope, forms and modalities of reparations makes a collective award more appropriate. (4) Following consultations with interested States and the Trust Fund, the Court may order that an award for reparations be made through the Trust Fund to an intergovernmental, international or national organization approved by the Trust Fund. (5) Other resources of the Trust Fund may be used for the benefit of victims subject to the provisions of article 79.

Separately, in December 2005, the Assembly of States Parties to the Rome Statute adopted the Regulations of the Trust Fund for Victims.[70] These regulations provide guidance on when the Trust Fund should consider itself “seized” of a matter involving reparations,[71] and outline specific procedures and considerations with which the Trust Fund is expected to comply in the implementation of reparation awards. The Rome Statute, ICC Rules of Procedure and Evidence, and Regulations of the Trust Fund for Victims provide distinct and interlocking guidance on how the Trust Fund is to interact with other organs of the Court following a Court order for reparations.[72]

The Lubanga Appeals Chamber suggested that the Trust Fund’s reparations and assistance activities mandates may interact dynamically in practice,[73] in situations where the “meaningfulness of reparation programmes with respect to a community may depend on inclusion of all its members, irrespective of their link with the crimes for which Mr Lubanga was found guilty”—while the legal restrictions governing reparations would make their inclusion in reparations programs impossible.[74] Assistance activities outside of court-ordered reparations have taken the form of physical and psychological rehabilitation or material support[75]—activities not dissimilar to what the Trust Fund may implement in the context of collective reparations.

C. Reconciling delimited and expansive visions of reparative justice

The International Criminal Court focuses on individual persons’ culpability for specific crimes, and has tied its reparations mandate to its need to protect the rights of the convicted person. At the same time, Trial Chamber I and the Appeals Chamber have invoked the discourse of “transformative reparation” in discussing the Court’s power to order and deliver reparations. “Transformative reparation” has been defined as reparation capable of “redressing both the single violation as well as the context of inequality” that makes individuals “vulnerable to violence and informs the consequences and impacts of this violence.”[76]

The discourse of transformative reparation takes a more expansive view of both the harm that reparation would seek to remedy, as well as any proposed form of redress. The “context of inequality” in which violations of law occur is presented as causally linked to a perpetrator’s ability to violate the rights of the victimized; contexts of inequality become part and parcel of the violation being redressed, viewed holistically. Re-casting effective reparation as “transformative” reparation becomes a means to redirect attention paid to victims because of certain experiences of victimization into a focus also on victims’ more expansive experiences of victimization, inevitably tied to socioeconomic circumstance. This discourse of transformative reparation defines itself against a circumscribed focus on decontextualized harm, instead invoking broader structural inequalities that do not fit neatly into a liability regime.

Article 75(1) and (2) of the Rome Statute outlines modalities of reparation “including restitution, compensation and rehabilitation” [emphasis added],[77] implying that the Court may consider other modalities of reparation. The Lubanga Trial Chamber determined that the Court’s mandate to consider reparations does indeed extend to “[o]ther types of reparations,” determining specifically that Court-authorised modalities of reparation may include “for instance those with a symbolic, preventative or transformative value”.[78] The March 2015 amended Reparations Order issued after the Appeals Chamber’s final decision on reparations in Lubanga embodies a transformative ethos when it says, “[r]eparations need to address any underlying injustices and in their implementation the Court should avoid replicating discriminatory practices or structures that predated the commission of the crimes”.[79] The March 2015 Order also makes reference to reparation awards with “transformative objectives.”[80]

There are fundamental tensions inherent to situating transformative visions of reparative justice in a court designed to safeguard the rights and scope of liability of the accused and convicted person. Where criminal law promotes boundedness, the socio-legal discourse of transformative reparation frames the act of repair as itself interventional, and forward-looking—as a vector not only for healing, but also for addressing and potentially modifying broader socioeconomic structures that enable violence and perpetuate abuse.

In Lubanga, the Appeals Chamber clarified a vision of International Criminal Court-ordered collective reparation as aiming to fulfill a distinct, two-pronged objective: according to the Appeals Chamber, reparations primarily “oblige those responsible for serious crimes to repair the harm they caused to the victims and they enable the Court to ensure that offenders account for their acts.”[81] Even if the Appeals Chamber may have encouraged transformative effect within the limitations it set for the Court’s reparations regime, the Appeals Chamber judgment indicates that such transformative effect would remain secondary. Tensions thus emerge between the Court’s evolving legal framework surrounding reparations, and evolving notions of what might constitute effective reparation for individuals and transitioning societies. These tensions likely amplify disconnects that commentators note are emerging between expectations victims may have of the ICC reparations regime, and the realities of what may be deliverable in practice.[82]

V. Recent procedural history regarding reparations in Lubanga

Following the March 2015 Appeals judgment and pursuant to the orders of a newly constituted Trial Chamber II,[83] the Trust Fund submitted a Draft Implementation Plan for reparations in November 2015.[84] The newly composed Trial Chamber was authorised to monitor and oversee the reparations implementation stage of reparations proceedings in Lubanga, with the authority to approve a draft implementation plan for reparations to be submitted by the Trust Fund.[85] The Appeals Chamber did not itself determine Lubanga’s monetary liability in its judgment, leaving this determination to the newly constituted Trial Chamber because “a person subject to an order of a court of law must know the precise extent of his or her obligations arising from that court order, particularly in light of the corresponding right to effectively appeal such an order, and that the extent of those obligations must be determined by a court in a judicial process.”[86] In general, this amount would appear in any given reparations order; once Trial Chamber II determines this amount in the Lubanga case, it will also be appealable.

In February 2016, the Trial Chamber determined that the Trust Fund’s Draft Implementation Plan was “incomplete” and so deferred approval of the proposed plan,[87] on account of the plan’s failure to identify beneficiaries for reparations[88] and its provision of only a summary of reparation modalities and forms.[89] Even though the Trust Fund’s Draft Implementation Plan outlined a procedure for screening prospective reparation beneficiaries,[90] the Trial Chamber recalled that in a previous decision, the Chamber had specified that the Draft Implementation Plan was to contain: “1) A list of the victims potentially eligible to benefit from the reparations, including the requests for reparations and the supporting material; 2) An evaluation of the extent of the harm caused to the victims; 3) Proposals for the modalities and forms of reparations; 4) The anticipated monetary amount [of Mr Lubanga’s liability]; and 5) The monetary amount which could potentially be advanced [by the Trust Fund]” [emphasis added].[91] The Trust Fund did indicate in its Draft Implementation Plan that it was “prepared to complement an amount of 1 million Euros from its reparations reserve for funding collective reparation awards in the present case.”[92]

Trial Chamber II determined that it would not be able to rule on the monetary amount of Lubanga’s liability, as the Appeals Chamber’s amended Reparations Order asked it to do,[93] until individual potential victims were identified and assessed with respect to their eligibility for reparations and the extent of the harm they suffered.[94] In this context, the Trial Chamber determined that the Defense must have an opportunity to submit observations on the eligibility of each victim to receive reparations,[95] citing reasoning it employed in the Katanga case[96]—which is, notably, at an earlier stage of reparations proceedings.[97]  Accordingly, the Trial Chamber ordered the Trust Fund to compile copies of identification documents, interviews, and descriptions of all factual allegations being made—and secure victim consent to submit all of this identifying information to the Defense.[98]

The Trust Fund requested leave to appeal the Trial Chamber’s February 2016 Order,[99] and was denied for lack of standing.[100] Subsequently, in two Court filings in May[101] and June[102] of 2016, the Trust Fund pushed back strongly on Trial Chamber II’s interpretation of Appeals Chamber directives. Specifically, the Trust Fund requested that Trial Chamber II “reconsider the individual victim eligibility and harm assessment process set out in its order of 9 February 2016,”[103] arguing that there exists a negative “methodological impact of the individual victim eligibility process on the further development of collective reparations programmes for the victims of the crimes for which Mr Lubanga was convicted.”[104]

The Trust Fund used data collected from interviews with prospective reparation beneficiaries in Ituri, a region in the DRC where Lubanga committed crimes for which he was convicted,[105] to conclude that the Trial Chamber-mandated individual eligibility process “damages and re-traumatizes victims.”[106] The Trust Fund communicated that of 31 potential reparations beneficiaries interviewed as of its May 2016 filing, all 31 reported wanting to participate in Trust Fund reparations programs. However, 22 did not consent to have their identities shared with the convicted person and only 9 expressly consented to sharing their identities and information with the convicted person.[107] The Trust Fund transmitted 12 files of victims who were potentially eligible to benefit from reparations to Trial Chamber II in May 2016,[108] communicating that nine of these victims “could not consent to the prerequisite requirement because of their deeply felt fear of reprisal and concern for their safety.”[109] The Trust Fund informed the Trial Chamber that it would provisionally suspend its participation in all future planned victim identification missions,[110] despite Trial Chamber directives.

Trial Chamber II has not yet granted reconsideration of the Trust Fund’s request that the Trial Chamber “revise its current procedural approach and…instead consider approving the Draft Implementation Plan of 3 November 2015 in its entirety.”[111] Instead, in July 2016, a seemingly frustrated Majority of the Trial Chamber directed its attention to the global community to ask for help in envisioning what collective reparations projects might look like for former child soldiers in the East of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.[112] The Majority of the Trial Chamber also requested that the Trust Fund “study the feasibility of developing a concrete project aiming at providing prompt symbolic reparations,”[113] noting that symbolic reparations would not require previous identification of beneficiaries.[114] In September 2016, the Trust Fund submitted a project framework for symbolic reparations, proposing construction of a) “symbolic structures” taking the shape of “commemoration centres” intended to serve as forums for art and community dialogue in three selected communities,[115] and b) “mobile memorialization” in the form of activities, events, and radio programing in five communities to “promote community awareness and sensitization about the harm caused by the enlistment, conscription, and use of child soldiers in hostilities.”[116] In October 2016, Trial Chamber II approved the Trust Fund’s proposed plan for symbolic reparations, encouraging the Trust Fund to study possibilities for expanding mobile memorialization projects to include,  “to the extent possible, the Ituri region within the confines of the proposed budget.”[117]

The Trial Chamber indicated its agreement with a notion advanced by the Trust Fund, that symbolic reparations, “provide for an enabling environment to develop and implement service-based collective reparations awards.”[118] However, the Trial Chamber has yet to address key issues inhibiting implementation of service-based collective reparations. While forward movement in the reparations process is certainly welcome, the Trust Fund has indicated that implementing symbolic reparations without also addressing problems related to service-based collective reparations may be problematic because of resulting dangers that: a) momentum and victim engagement with respect to service-based reparation schemes could be lost as a result, and b) “any inadvertent disconnect between the implementation of symbolic and service-based collective reparations projects will greatly diminish the value and efficiency and effectiveness of both.”[119] As a result, the ICC reparations regime hangs in limbo, caught between competing claims to define how the collective reparations process may permissibly proceed.

VI. Present procedural impasses: anchored in dual frames

Present debates regarding reparations in the Lubanga case involve institutional actors with different mandates, giving rise to different visions of what might make the ICC reparations regime effective. This article suggests that a) these differing visions are not irreconcilable; b) the Court should aim to reconcile the need to protect the boundedness of a convicted person’s scope of liability with the goal of ensuring victims’ interactions with the Court are more reparative than detrimental; and c) that to accomplish this aim and move the reparation process forward, the Trial Chamber must reconsider its present approach to determining Lubanga’s monetary liability for collective reparations.

In this context, two salient questions take centre stage. First, is the Trial Chamber correct in its interpretation of Appeals Chamber instructions to determine Lubanga’s monetary liability as first requiring the Trial Chamber to rule on individual reparation beneficiaries’ eligibility? This article argues that an alternate interpretation is possible, and preferable. Second and relatedly, should the convicted person have the opportunity to review prospective reparation beneficiaries as part of this process—requiring disclosure of victim identities to both the Trial Chamber and the convicted person? This article answers in the negative, arguing that current Trial Chamber directives represent a misreading of the Appeals Chamber judgment.

This article concludes that the Trial Chamber should a) grant the Trust Fund’s request to reconsider the Trial Chamber-mandated individual victim eligibility and harm assessment process, set out in the Trial Chamber’s order of 9 February 2016; and b) determine that the convicted person does not have the right to review the identities of prospective reparation beneficiaries at the reparation implementation stage. This article suggests that the Appeals Chamber judgment should be read as requiring the monetary amount of Lubanga’s liability to be proportional to the totality of the harm caused by the convicted person, rather than the harm of specific victims identified at the current stage of proceedings. This interpretation is made possible by the collective nature of the reparations awarded in Lubanga, because the cost of such collective awards may not need to be calculated by adding up the cost of each individual beneficiary’s participation in collective reparation programs.

A. Issue 1: Individual eligibility determinations as a prerequisite to determining monetary liability for collective awards?

The Trial Chamber should shift course and determine that it need not rule on eligibility of prospective beneficiaries of collective reparation awards at the present stage of proceedings, as a prerequisite to determining a convicted person’s monetary liability for collective reparations. This article argues that the Appeals Chamber did not have the Trial Chamber’s present approach in mind when it issued its judgment—and in fact expressed a belief that the Trial Chamber would employ an opposite approach—even if the Trial Chamber’s present approach may be legally permissible.

  1. What does it mean to ensure that reparations are proportionate to the harm caused?

The Appeals Chamber judgment should be read as requiring the monetary amount of Lubanga’s liability to be proportional to the totality of the harm caused by the convicted person, rather than the harm suffered by specific victims identified per Trial Chamber-required methods at the current stage of proceedings. The Trust Fund produced such an assessment in its Draft Implementation Plan, determining that approximately 3,000 direct and indirect victims could be eligible beneficiaries of collective reparations in the Lubanga case.[120] The difference in scale between this estimate and the handful of beneficiaries identified per Trial Chamber-mandated processes is striking, and raises concerns that present Trial Chamber directives may be unduly limiting the reparative function of the Court’s reparations mandate. As the Lubanga sentencing decision noted, “the evidence [at trial] established beyond a reasonable doubt that during the period of the charges, recruitment by the UPC/FPLC of young people, including children under 15, was widespread,”[121] and “[t]he [Trial] Chamber, in passing sentence, has reflected its determination that the involvement of children was widespread.”[122] Eligible beneficiaries would be more likely to retain access to reparations for which they may legitimately qualify if the Appeals Chamber judgment is interpreted as requiring the monetary amount of Lubanga’s liability to be proportional to the totality of the harm that Lubanga caused to victims identified in aggregate by the Trust Fund.

This article’s suggested approach would not require the Trial Chamber to know the exact number of victims and the precise extent of the damage caused to each of them in order to determine Lubanga’s liability for the purposes of reparations. This argument is also uniquely applicable to collective reparation awards. Unlike individual reparation awards, whose aggregate cost necessarily depends on the number of individuals deemed eligible to receive reparation, collective awards, which might take the form of rehabilitation programs, for example, could potentially service a range of eligible beneficiaries at a comparable cost to the convicted person. Collective awards, by their nature, make it possible to conceive of a stable monetary figure for reparations in a given case based on a ballpark number of recipients that could conceivably fluctuate; specific beneficiaries could be screened later for access to collective reparation programing. The need to protect the scope of monetary liability of the convicted person could be satisfied by Court-managed review of such processes for estimation and screening of prospective beneficiaries (related issues are addressed with respect to this article’s discussion of ‘Issue 2,’ analyzing the convicted person’s right of review of prospective beneficiaries).

In its judgment, the Appeals Chamber distinguished between the act of identifying harm and “assessing the extent of that harm for purposes of determining the nature and/or size of reparation awards” [123]—terming the act of identifying harm a necessarily legal determination that must be made in a reparations order,[124] and the act of assessing the extent of harm something which may either be determined by the Trust Fund in implementation, or by the Trial Chamber in the order for reparations.[125] The original Lubanga Trial Chamber’s reparations order left both processes—identification of harm and assessment of the extent of harm—to the Trust Fund.[126] Only later did the Appeals Chamber deem the complete delegation of these determinations to the Trust Fund impermissible, determining that the Trial Chamber alone can and must identify “the harms to direct and indirect victims caused by the crimes for which the person was convicted.”[127] This means that the initial reparations order did not contain a key determination that, as has now been decided, the Trust Fund cannot determine itself.  To remedy the situation, the Appeals Chamber judgment defined the harms resulting from the crimes for which Lubanga was convicted in its amended reparations order.[128]

The Lubanga Appeals judgment also explained that while the Trial Chamber would normally be required to make a determination as to estimated monetary liability in its reparations order—before the Trust Fund would be asked to present its Draft Implementation Plan.[129] The Trust Fund was exceptionally asked in this case to indicate in its Draft Implementation plan the anticipated amount that the Trust Fund considered necessary to remedy harms for the crimes for which Lubanga was convicted, “based on information gathered during the consultation period leading up to the submission of the draft implementation plan.”[130] The Trust Fund’s liability estimate of 1 million euros[131]—based on its estimate that approximately 3,000 direct and indirect victims could be eligible beneficiaries of collective reparations in the Lubanga case[132]—appears to assess the estimated totality of harm resulting from the crimes for which Lubanga was convicted, arguably “based on information gathered during the consultation period leading up to the submission of the draft implementation plan” as the Appeals Chamber requested.[133]

Trial Chamber II’s present approach implies that the Trial Chamber believes it cannot calculate precisely what Lubanga owes until it is clear exactly who will be able to claim reparation. This logic could stem from a) a belief that the cost of a collective reparation award is necessarily dependent on the number of beneficiaries benefitting from it, and b) a related reading of the Appeals Chamber-delivered principle that “[a] convicted person’s liability for reparations must be proportionate to the harm caused”[134] as requiring a preemptive determination as to the exact size of the population harmed by the crimes for which Lubanga was convicted. This interpretation casts the need to ensure proportionality between liability and harm as an effort requiring the counting of eligible beneficiaries. This approach drastically limits the number of victims who would be able to benefit from collective reparation awards.

When the Appeals Chamber defined as a principle that “[a] convicted person’s liability for reparations must be proportionate to the harm caused,”[135] it left open the possibility that “harm” might refer to the totality of the harm for which a person was convicted, as opposed to the harm suffered by individually identified prospective beneficiaries. Other, parallel determinations made in other portions of the judgment support a reading that the Appeals Chamber’s ‘proportionality principle’ was not intended to be read as the Trial Chamber presently reads it. Perhaps most notably, in its judgment, the Appeals Chamber “recalls that it has already held above that ‘reparation orders are intrinsically linked to the individual whose criminal liability is established in a conviction and whose culpability for those criminal acts is determined in a sentence,’” and “considers that it would contravene this principle to require that collective reparations can only be awarded on the basis of the individual requests for reparations received.”[136] In this way, the Appeals Chamber appears to have indicated that the Court’s need to protect the scope of the convicted person’s monetary liability in no way necessitates individual beneficiary identification antecedent to determining that monetary liability.

The Trial Chamber would only need to know how many people would be eligible to claim reparations before determining monetary liability if the cost of the overall award could only be determined by adding up the monetary benefit that individuals might draw from the collective award. Nothing in the Appeals Chamber judgment necessitates this reading of how collective reparations must be constructed or monetized, even though alternate conceptions of reparation may be less familiar. In its interpretation of the Appeals Chamber judgment, the Trial Chamber appears to conceptualize reparations analogously to the way in which damage awards are calculated in many domestic legal systems, where victims and perpetrators are parties to proceedings and the mechanisms for protecting the scope of a convicted person’s liability are familiar. Collective reparation, however—which may include rehabilitation programs or other modalities of reparation that may not necessarily be individually monetizable—need not be conceptualized analogously to the way in which courts may conceive of monetary damage awards for individuals.

In mid-July 2016, Trial Chamber II indicated that it might be shifting its stance on the issue of proportionality of reparations, toward an approach that looks beyond individual applications submitted to the Trial Chamber at the present stage of proceedings. In its 15 July 2016 ‘Order instructing the Registry to provide aid and assistance to the Legal Representatives and the Trust Fund for Victims to identify victims potentially eligible for reparations,’ Trial Chamber II described its requirement that the Trust Fund submit files of potential victims to the Trial Chamber as enabling the Trial Chamber “to supplement the sample already available and to better assess to what extent the list of victims identified is representative of all potential victims” [emphasis added].[137] By describing requested files of potentially eligible beneficiaries as a potentially representative sample of a broader set eligible beneficiaries, the Trial Chamber raises the possibility that it may be altering its approach to more closely approximate the approach advanced by the Trust Fund. Such movement would be welcome, and encouraging.

  1. Is harm assessment an administrative process to be managed by the Trust Fund?

Prior to the issuance of its March 2015 judgment, the Appeals Chamber noted that Trial Chamber I’s decision on reparations addressed distinct aspects of reparations-related procedure “to be taken both before and after the issuance of an order for reparations.”[138] The Appeals Chamber presented the issuance of a reparations order itself as delineating two distinct parts of reparations proceedings, explaining that the “first part of the reparations proceedings concludes with the issuance of an order for reparations under article 75 (2) of the Statute or a decision not to award reparations”[139] and that “[t]he second part of the reparations proceedings consists of the implementation phase, which is regulated primarily by article 75 (2) of the Statute and rule 98 of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence” [emphasis added].[140] Because present reparations proceedings in Lubanga are occurring subsequent to the issuance of an order for reparations, they may arguably be described as falling squarely within the “implementation stage” of reparations proceedings.

The Trust Fund argues that Trial Chamber II oversteps its bounds when it asserts control over the victim eligibility determination process.[141] The Trust Fund argues that eligibility screening is an administrative procedure that happens during program implementation[142]—a phase of the reparations process that the Trust Fund says it is tasked with carrying out.[143] The Trust Fund makes recourse to a December 2012 Appeals Chamber decision that says that if an “award for reparations [is] deposited with the Trust Fund…the Trust Fund plays an important role in this phase and the Regulations of the Trust Fund apply.”[144] The Trust Fund argues that by outlining in its Draft Implementation Plan the method through which victims will be screened after approval of the collective implementation award, it is complying with its Regulations and thus fulfills requirements established by the Appeals Chamber.[145]

This argument breaks down when considering the March 2015 Appeals Chamber judgment and the way in which the Regulations of the Trust Fund address collective reparation proceedings. In its March 2015 judgment, the Appeals Chamber clarified that the Trial Chamber—not the Trust Fund—must define harms that result from the crimes for which the convicted person was convicted.[146] The Appeals Chamber also clarified that the Trial Chamber has discretion as to whether it would prefer to “determine the scope, extent of any damage, loss and injury to, or in respect of, victims in the order for reparations” or instead delegate that task to the Trust Fund, which “would subsequently determine the appropriate size and nature of the reparation awards to be proposed in its draft implementation plan.”[147] It appears clear that while the Trust Fund’s potential role in reparations proceedings is limited to the implementation phase, the Trial Chamber’s role is not comparably restricted to a single phase of the process—at least at the time in which reparations are ordered. After an order for reparations is issued, the Trial Chamber’s ability to intervene in the “implementation phase” is left somewhat ambiguous. The Appeals Chamber’s December 2012 decision, referenced above, had highlighted that “the Regulations of the Trust Fund contemplate oversight and a certain degree of intervention by the Trial Chamber during the implementation phase of reparations” [emphasis added][148]—without expressly clarifying the bounds governing the scope, timing, and nature of what that intervention entails.

Additionally and interestingly, the Regulations of the Trust Fund themselves do not appear to address a key feature of the Lubanga collective reparations proceedings in which present debates are rooted: the Appeals Chamber has required identification of individual beneficiaries in the context of collective reparation awards—a process that the Regulations of the Trust Fund do not appear to discuss. The Regulations of the Trust Fund address separately and distinctly the Trust Fund’s role with respect to individual versus collective reparation awards. In the case of collective awards pursuant to 98(3)—as was awarded in Lubanga—the Regulations of the Trust Fund do not address Court approval of individual prospective beneficiaries in the context of collective reparation awards.[149] This is in contrast to the Regulations’ treatment of individual reparation awards pursuant to rule 98(2), which requires that the Trust Fund alternatively a) set out names and locations of victim beneficiaries in cases where the Court identifies each beneficiary,[150] or b) set out options for determining identification of such individuals.[151] Additionally, a 2012 Appeals Chamber assertion that “the Regulations of the Trust Fund apply” does not necessarily mean such Regulations would apply exclusively or be controlling—especially in the absence of language addressing the circumstances that characterize this case.

Trial Chamber II’s framing of the process of determining victim eligibility for reparations as a procedure that must precede program approval and implementation may therefore be understood in one of two ways: either Trial Chamber II believes that identifying eligible beneficiaries is necessary to determine monetary liability—which it alone is tasked with carrying out—or, alternatively, Trial Chamber II may view its effort to rule on individual beneficiaries’ eligibility as a permissible effort to assess the extent of harm—which the Appeals judgment does not say may only be carried out by the Trust Fund.

Irrespective of whether it might be permissible for the Trial Chamber to intervene in the harm assessment process as it has, however, this is not the optimal approach. First, the Trial Chamber is not as connected to victim communities as is the Trust Fund, by dint of their differing operational mandates. Second, Trial Chamber review processes are adding lengthy time delays to an already protracted process of realizing reparations for victims.

B. Issue 2: Disclosure of prospective beneficiaries’ identities to the convicted person at the reparations implementation stage?

A corollary question then becomes: is the Trial Chamber correct in its belief that it must require the convicted person to have an opportunity to review individual claims from prospective reparations beneficiaries—requiring disclosure of victim identities to both the Trial Chamber and the convicted person—at the implementation stage? This is a two-fold question, which requires us to ask a) what does the convicted person have the right to review, and b) what does the Trial Chamber itself need in order to assess monetary liability?

The Trust Fund has identified a series of victim-focused objections to the Court’s directive to secure prospective reparation beneficiaries’ consent to disclose their identities to Lubanga. First, safety concerns are acute. The Union des Patriotes Congolais (UPC)[152] retains regional popularity and prospective influence over victims’ lives, and Lubanga a sense of local authority; openly identifying oneself as a victim of crimes committed by Lubanga could foreseeably result in retaliation and other negative ramifications,[153] leading to victims’ expressed belief that their lives would be put in danger if they were to disclose their identities to Lubanga.[154] Second, the Trust Fund has argued that “the Trial Chamber’s proscribed process establishing an adversarial eligibility proceeding for reparations between the convicted person and the victims is contradictory to the goal of reconciliation between the parties,” and so is inconsistent with the aim of pursuing reconciliation between victims and the convicted person – an important objective of the ICC reparations regime.[155] Third, because the Trust Fund’s preliminary research suggests that the vast majority of victims would likely not consent to sharing their identities with Lubanga, significant numbers of victims who would otherwise be eligible would lose access to reparations entirely.[156] Finally, the Trust Fund maintains that the entire Trial Chamber-mandated harm assessment process for potential reparation beneficiaries is psychologically damaging; the Trust Fund asserts that there will be a high likelihood that “those victims most affected by trauma, stigma, shame, and vulnerability will be the least likely to come forward in this process and thus they will be the ones who lose out on the redress and rehabilitation that they so urgently deserve.”[157]

  1. Convicted person does not have right to review applicants’ eligibility at the implementations stage

This article argues that the Trial Chamber made an analytic leap in ordering disclosure of victim identities to Lubanga for review, which does not appear to follow from directives of the Appeals Chamber. Even if the Trial Chamber is correct in its determination that the Trial Chamber must hear from the Defense before deciding on the monetary amount of Lubanga’s liability, this does not necessarily mean that Lubanga must have the right to review individual applicants’ eligibility for reparations at the implementation stage.

The amended March 2015 reparations order contains the following directive:

“Prior to the Trial Chamber setting the amount of Mr Lubanga’s liability, the parties shall have the opportunity to appear before the Trial Chamber or make submissions in writing on the scope of Mr Lubanga’s liability, in light of the information provided by the Trust Fund in its draft implementation plan, within a time limit to be set by the Trial Chamber” [emphasis added].[158]

When the Appeals Chamber suggests that parties should make submissions to the Trial Chamber on the scope of Lubanga’s liability, it does not specify that such submissions must relate to individual prospective beneficiaries. In fact, the Appeals Chamber has suggested the opposite. At the same time that the Appeals Chamber has required that beneficiaries of collective reparations be identified and deemed eligible to claim access to collective awards, it also dismissed as moot an appeal that Lubanga made arguing that the “Trial Chamber denied him the opportunity to challenge the individual requests for reparations.”[159] The Appeals Chamber reasoned that individual requests for reparations would need to happen pursuant to rule 94 of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence, whereas the Trial Chamber’s granting of collective reparations under rule 98(3) meant that the Trial Chamber was not required “to rule on the merits of the individual reparation requests.”[160]

The Appeals Chamber recognized too that the stage of proceedings at which victims may file requests to participate in reparation awards, pursuant to rule 94,[161] is differentiated from the stage at which it is determined whether victims may be eligible to participate in an award for collective reparations, pursuant to rule 98.[162] In addressing an argument advanced by the Defense that the rights of a convicted person might be infringed if individuals eligible to claim reparations were not challengeable at the application stage and the convicted person were to be deemed liable for harm caused to those individuals,[163] the Appeals Chamber concluded that the rights of the convicted person would not be infringed owing to the convicted person’s ability to challenge the standard of proof and causation used to determine victims’ eligibility.[164] Furthermore, in this case specifically, the Appeals Chamber noted that the Trust Fund indicated its willingness to allow Lubanga to review the screening process of victims at the eligibility stage, subject to protective measures.[165] This language gets incorporated into the amended order for reparations[166] in the form of a directive that states: “The Trust Fund shall provide Mr Lubanga with the opportunity to review its proposed screening process of victims at the implementation stage, subject to any protective measures.”[167]

Review of a process is something altogether different from review of specific claimants. Further, in this context, the Appeals Chamber highlighted that it would be appropriate to use protective measures to safeguard victim identities.[168] Together, this suggests that the Appeals Chamber foresaw limitations on the disclosure of victim identities to Lubanga at the implementation stage, and did not intend for Lubanga to have a right to access victims’ identities and factual allegations of harm at the stage when victim eligibility for reparations is determined.

Other language in the 2015 Appeals judgment supports this reading. In a section called “The transmission of the individual applications to the Trust Fund,” the Appeals Chamber found fault with the Trial Chamber’s failure to include a clause regarding confidentiality with respect to the submissions of victims seeking to participate in reparations programs, which is contrary to regulation 108(2) of the Regulations of the Registry[169] (referring to the time of victims’ applications for reparations at the first of the above-outlined two phases of the reparations process).[170]  The Appeals Chamber then amended the order for reparations to require:

“consent to disclosure of confidential information to the Trust Fund for purposes of participation in the eventual collective programme(s) that are to be designed by the Trust Fund. The Trust Fund is instructed to refrain from further reviewing these requests until such consent is received and to permanently remove any confidential information it may have stored electronically or elsewhere in the event that consent is not granted” [emphasis added].[171]

In other words, the Appeals Chamber indicated sufficient concern about victim confidentiality to discuss a possible need for irreversible measures to safeguard confidential information from the Trust Fund. If the Appeals Chamber considered itself to have indicated that victims should be required to disclose a similar kind of confidential information to the convicted person responsible for causing harm to them, surely the Appeals Chamber would have mentioned this. After all, disclosure of confidential information to the convicted person is far more likely to result in grave consequences for the victim than disclosure of similar information to the Trust Fund.

  1. Appeals Chamber did not oblige Trial Chamber to review Defense submissions on prospective beneficiaries to determine monetary liability

If the Trial Chamber is not required to order disclosure of victim identities to the Defense because of concerns about infringing upon the rights of the convicted person, it is likely also true that there must be a way for the Trial Chamber to determine Lubanga’s monetary liability without hearing submissions from the Defense on individual victim eligibility.

As discussed above, the Trial Chamber cited reasoning employed in Katanga when it determined that the Defense must have an opportunity to submit observations on the eligibility of each victim to receive reparations;[172] the cited passage from the Katanga Trial Chamber decision discusses Trial Chamber review of individual requests for reparations pursuant to rule 94, prior to the implementation phase.[173]

The Appeals Chamber has clearly differentiated rule 94 from rule 98 proceedings. Rule 94 requests for reparations—and any accompanying review processes—are therefore not controlling at the current stage of reparations proceedings in Lubanga. Pending reconsideration of its February order to the Trust Fund, however, Trial Chamber II’s order—replete with all of its victim identification and harm assessment directives—still stands.[174]

Conclusion

The impulse to repair harm may be thought of in both legal and extra-legal terms, each bearing socio-legal consequence. In its legal guise, the notion that repairing harm might comprise a form of justice becomes conceptualized differently in frameworks that scope outward to consider socioeconomic rupture and repair, and those that focus narrowly on individual persons’ accountability for causing harm to others. The Lubanga case has authorised collective reparations, and has given rise to questions unique to conceptualizing collective reparation awards; many questions regarding individual reparations at the International Criminal Court remain unasked and unanswered.

The introduction of reparations into internationalized criminal courts has broadened what it might mean for victims to seek court-ordered justice for internationally recognized crimes. Now, victims interacting with the ICC await the judgments that will give shape to those notions of victim-centric justice in practice. The Lubanga Trial Chamber’s efforts to protect the procedural rights of the convicted person in reparations proceedings coexist alongside a growing consciousness that effective reparation might need to be in some sense far-reaching, cognizant of larger systemic inequities beyond any one convicted individual’s control. At the same time, the Court must address a concern that perhaps all present conceptualizations of effective reparation may fail to reflect adequately the lived realities of child soldiers who are now years older, who may not identify collectively, and who may not find representation in current narratives presenting reparations for their benefit. As the Court navigates legal challenges inherent to implementing collective reparation awards, it must work to ensure that legal debates and conceptual advancements with respect to reparations in international criminal law do not become too disembodied from the social worlds that propel those debates into being—where real victims of serious crimes seek justice with real meaning, to them. ­­­

The International Criminal Court occupies a unique space as a forum to discuss both criminal and transitional justice, and the Court’s different institutional players give voice to concerns of each field in legal debates about transitional justice measures in a criminal justice context. The Rome Statute framework is uniquely receptive to balancing the rights of victims with the rights of the accused in criminal justice processes; as Salvatore Zappalà has noted, “[a]ll the provisions [of the Rome Statute] dealing with the right of victims to submit their concerns to the Chambers imply the general accountability of ICC organs, and in particular of the ICC Prosecutor, towards victim communities.”[175]

Reparations proceedings at the International Criminal Court extend the familiar if difficult practice of balancing the rights of victims and alleged perpetrators under the ambit of international criminal law to a need to balance the scope of a convicted person’s liability with the scope of victimization associated with humanity’s gravest crimes. It may be prescient to question the feasibility of ever achieving such a balance, and this is something with which the ICC’s reparations project will have to grapple. In the interim, however, as the Court constructs the procedural architecture necessary to enable it to realize its first reparations award, it would benefit the Court to consider the search for balance as a guiding principle.


[1] Harvard Law School, J.D. Candidate (2018); Princeton University Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs, Master of Public Affairs Candidate (2018) [[email protected]]. Thank you to Meritxell Regue, Alex Whiting, Juan Pablo Calderon Meza, Roni Druks, Joanna Naples-Mitchell, and Editors of the Journal of the Oxford Centre for Socio-Legal Studies for thoughtful review and support in the development of this piece. Thank you to Kim Lane Scheppele and Lucie White for invaluable feedback on academic work from which certain subsections of this article are derived. The author interned at the International Criminal Court in 2016. This work is not endorsed by the International Criminal Court, and the author is solely responsible for the views expressed herein.

[2] Thomas Lubanga Dyilo was convicted in 2012 of the war crime of conscripting or enlisting children under the age of fifteen years into the armed forces and using them to participate actively in hostilities. Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment pursuant to Article 74 of the Statute’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2842, 14 March 2012, para 1358.

[3] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2904, 7 August 2012.

[4] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015.

[5] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment pursuant to Article 74 of the Statute’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2842, 14 March 2012.

[6] The Trust Fund for Victims (TFV) highlighted in May 2016 that if the TFV were to comply with Trial Chamber orders to conduct upfront harm assessments without counseling services, the TFV would be put “in conflict with its own independent duty to “do no harm” in its interactions with victims because of the re-traumatizing effect” that such assessments would have. Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016, para 50.

[7] The TFV’s Reparations Plan envisions a combination of symbolic reparations, psychosocial support, and livelihood support. See Wairagala Wakabi, ‘Reparations Plan for Lubanga Victims Takes Shape’ (International Justice Monitor, 14 October 2016) <http://www.ijmonitor.org/2016/10/reparations-plan-for-lubanga-victims-takes-shape/&gt;, accessed 17 October 2016. Reparations will be funded by the Trust Fund in the ICC’s Lubanga and Katanga cases, though this may not hold true for other cases.  For example, Bemba’s assets have been frozen and may be used to fund reparation awards. See Benjamin Duerr, ‘Beer and Bemba: how ICC big fish links to Heineken’ (International Justice Tribune, 13 April 2016) <https://www.justicetribune.com/blog/beer-and-bemba-how-icc-big-fish-links-heineken>, accessed 31 August 2016 (saying, “According to media reports, Bemba possesses at least 6 million US dollars (5 million euros)… In case of a conviction, ICC judges can order reparations. In the Bemba case, the issue will come up in the next months after the judges [have] handed down the sentence…Thomas Lubanga and Germain Katanga, have been declared indigent.”). The Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) are authorised to award collective and moral reparations, but such reparations may not be monetary. Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia, Internal Rules (Rev. 8, as revised 3 August 2011), rule 23(1­–2).

[8] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016 para 9.

[9] REDRESS defines “reparation” as “the range of measures that may be taken in response to an actual or threatened violation; embracing both the substance of relief as well as the procedure through which it may be obtained.” REDRESS, Reparation: A Sourcebook for Victims of Torture and Other Violations of Human Rights and International Humanitarian Law (2003) 8 <http://www.redress.org/downloads/reparation/SourceBook.pdf>, accessed 27 August 2016.

[10] “The essential principle contained in the actual notion of an illegal act–a principle which seems to be established by international practice and in particular by the decisions of arbitral tribunals–is that reparation must, as far as possible, wipe out al1 the consequences of the illegal act and reestablish the situation which would, in al1 probability, have existed if that act had not been committed.” Case concerning the Factory at Chorzow (Claim for Indemnity, Merits), PCIJ, Series A, No. 17, 1928, p 47. See also Rama Mani, ‘Reparation as a Component of Transitional Justice: Pursuing “Reparative Justice” in the Aftermath of Violent Conflict’ in Koen Feyter (ed), Out of the Ashes: Reparation for Victims of Gross and Systematic Human Rights Violations (Intersentia NV, 2005) 71.

[11] For an academic treatment of this very topic in the context of the ECCC, see Elisa Hoven, Mareike Feiler & Saskia Scheibel, Victims in Trials of Mass Crimes: A Multi-Perspective Study of Civil Party Participation at the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia, Cologne Occasional Papers on International Peace and Security Law (Cologne Occasional Papers on International Peace and Security Law, September 2013) 68 (stating, “The study revealed difficulty drawing a clear-cut line between the two concepts: (1) Judicial reparations for a wrong committed by an individual, (2) and redress for the violation of Human Rights instruments that generally address states.”).

[12] “[A] significant number of delegations were not prepared to accept the notion of State responsibility to, or in respect of, victims. However, this refusal does not diminish any responsibilities assumed by States under other treaties and will not – self evidently – prevent the Court from making its attitude known through its judgments in respect of State complicity in a crime.” Christopher Muttukumaru, ‘Reparations to Victims’ in Roy S. Lee (ed), The International Criminal Court: The Making of the Rome Statute: Issues, Negotiations, Results (Martinus Nijhoff Publishers 1999) 267.

[13] The 2004 ICJ advisory opinion determined that Israel was obligated to pay reparation directly to individuals damaged by Israel’s construction of a wall in the Palestinian territories; the only parties considered in this reparations decision were Israel and individual people, as opposed to two States. Legal Consequences of the Construction of a Wall in the Occupied Palestinian Territory (Summary of the Advisory Opinion of 9 July 2004) [2004] ICJ Summary 2004/2, 13 (stating, “Israel has an obligation to compensate the persons in question for the damage suffered. The Court considers that Israel also has an obligation to compensate, in accordance with the applicable rules of international law, all natural or legal persons having suffered any form of material damage as a result of the wall’s construction.”). Notably but distinctly, earlier ICJ decisions involving disputes between states did make reference to arguments that State compensation for breaches of international law should reflect damage suffered by nationals. See, e.g., Case Concerning the Barcelona Traction, Light, and Power Company, Limited (New Application: 1962) (Belgium v. Spain) Second Phase (Judgment of 5 February 1970) [1970] (“Considering that the reparation due to the Belgian State from the Spanish State, as a result of the internationally unlawful acts for which the latter State is responsible, must be complete and must, so far as possible, reflect the damage suffered by its nationals whose case the Belgian State has taken up…”). See also Liesbeth Zegveld, ‘Victims’ Reparations Claims and International Criminal Courts: Incompatible Values?’ (2010) 8 J Int Crim Justice 79, 82 (explaining that essential principles governing reparation under international law were believed to apply only to States until the ICJ’s 2004 advisory opinion regarding Israel’s construction of the wall in occupied Palestinian territories).

[14] See Zegveld (n 13) 83­–84 (stating, “Under international humanitarian law, so far, states have been reluctant to recognize, explicitly and in general, a right for victims of violations of international humanitarian law to claim reparation…An empirical investigation into these conventions shows, however, that a number of rules refer explicitly to concepts such as ‘rights’, ‘entitlements’ or ‘benefits’. It may be argued that individuals do have rights under at least some provisions of international humanitarian law, a supposition that finds support in the longstanding cross-fertilization of international humanitarian law and human rights law.”). See also Basic Principles and Guidelines on the Right to a Remedy and Reparation for Victims of Gross Violations of International Human Rights Law and Serious Violations of International Humanitarian Law, UNGA Res 60/147 (21 March 2006) (UN Basic Principles) (codifying a right to remedy and reparation); Emanuela-Chiara Gillard, ‘Reparation for violations of international humanitarian law’ (2003) 85 Int Rev Red Cross 529, 534 (stating, “violations of all rules of international humanitarian law give rise to an obligation to make reparation, and not only violations of the grave breaches provisions for which there is individual criminal responsibility” noting also that “[i]nvestigation of alleged violations and access to justice for the victims are remedies for the violations.”).

[15] UN Basic Principles (n 14) para 18 (stating that “victims of gross violations of international human rights law and serious violations of international humanitarian law should…be provided with full and effective reparation…which include the following forms: restitution, compensation, rehabilitation, satisfaction and guarantees of non-repetition.”).

[16] Friedrich Rosenfeld, ‘Collective reparation for victims of armed conflict’ (2010) 92 Int Rev Red Cross 731, 731.

[17] See Martha Minow, Between Vengeance and Forgiveness (Beacon Press 1998) 93 (noting that monetary compensation may seem inadequate compared to the enormity of violation suffered; that neither compensation nor apology can bring back what was lost; and that constructive engagement with reparation processes themselves nevertheless may renew dignity to some extent).

[18] “Transitional justice refers to the set of judicial and non-judicial measures that have been implemented by different countries in order to redress the legacies of massive human rights abuses. These measures include criminal prosecutions, truth commissions, reparations programs, and various kinds of institutional reforms.” ICTJ, ‘What is Transitional Justice?’ <https://www.ictj.org/about/transitional-justice>, accessed 14 August 2016.

[19] See, e.g,, Minow (n 17) 110 (“Social and religious meanings rather than economic values lie at the heart of reparations.”). When awards intended to serve a reparative function are not presented in such a way as to communicate acknowledgment of responsibility for harm caused—thus lending the award itself social meaning in the context of violation and repair—reparations may fail to be perceived as effective, or even as reparation at all. For example, one ICTJ report explored local responses to the implementation of collective reparation programs aimed at responding to economic and social needs of communities in Peru; it found that while projects were well-received by communities, which “considered them as concrete benefits to communities that have little resources and precarious infrastructure,” at the same time 29 percent of respondents “did not know that the projects were a form of reparation.” Cristian Correa, Reparations in Peru: From Recommendations to Implementation (ICTJ 2013) 14 https://www.ictj.org/sites/default/files/ICTJ_Report_Peru_Reparations_2013.pdf>, accessed 16 April 2016.

[20] Examples of non-monetary reparations have included official apologies or listing names of individuals victimized by a person convicted for international crimes, alongside an apology by the convicted person. See ICTJ, ‘Reparations’ <https://www.ictj.org/our-work/transitional-justice-issues/reparations>, accessed 14 August 2016.

[21] “[I]t is traditionally recognized that victims’ participation serves three main purposes: judicial, reparative and symbolic… allowing victims to convey the extent of their suffering … and to be heard at every crucial stage of the proceedings should contribute to their rehabilitation and the restoration of their dignity.” Jérôme de Hemptinne, ‘Challenges Raised by Victims’ Participation in the Proceedings of the Special Tribunal for Lebanon’ (2010) 8(1) J Int Crim Justice165, 168.

[22] “Studies in both domestic and international jurisdictions have repeatedly shown that fair procedures, as well as fair outcomes, are extremely important to participants, and that being granted a voice and being treated with dignity and respect are considered particularly valuable.” Prosecutor v. Germain Katanga, ‘Queen’s University Belfast’s Human Rights Centre (HRC) and University of Ulster’s Transitional Justice Institute (TJI) Submission on Reparations Issues pursuant to Article 75 of the Statute’ ICC-01/04-01/07-3551, 14 May 2015, para 17.

[23] Mariana Goetz, “Reparative Justice at the ICC: Best Practice or Tokenism?’ in Jo-Anne M. Wemmers (ed), Reparation for Victims of Crimes against Humanity: The healing role of reparation (Routledge 2014) 54. UN Special Rapporteur on the promotion of truth, justice, reparation and guarantees of non-recurrence Pablo de Greiff has said, “Whether those [positive] consequences occur depends on the way in which victim participation mechanisms are designed. The track record seems to be mixed, but highlights the relative dearth of institutionalized mechanisms.” As a result, de Greiff called “for support for systematic studies of victim participation measures, particularly in domestic processes, and, given their promise, of ways of turning potential into reality more effectively.” Human Rights Council, ‘Report of the Special Rapporteur on the promotion of truth, justice, reparation and guarantees of non-recurrence, Pablo de Greiff,’ A/HRC/27/56, 27 August 2014, para 95.

[24] ibid.

[25] ibid.

[26] Mark Findlay and Ralph Henham, Transforming International Criminal Justice: Retributive and Restorative Justice in the Trial Process (Willan 2005) 283.

[27] See ‘Order for Reparations (Amended)’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129-AnxA, 3 March 2015, paras 1,3 (‘Order for Reparations (Amended)’) (stating, “The Statute and the Rules of Procedure and Evidence introduce a system of reparations that reflects a growing recognition in international criminal law that there is a need to go beyond the notion of punitive justice, towards a solution which is more inclusive, encourages participation and recognises the need to provide effective remedies for victims…The reparation scheme provided for in the Statute is not only one of the Statute’s unique features. It is also a key feature. The success of the Court is, to some extent, linked to the success of its system of reparations.”).

[28] Criminal trials themselves are recognized as one important component of efforts to achieve comprehensive transitional justice. See U.S. Department of State, ‘Transitional Justice Overview’ (16 May 2016) <http://www.state.gov/j/gcj/transitional/257566.htm>, accessed 18 September 2016 (“The investigation and prosecution of crimes—including genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes, and other crimes related to human rights violations and abuses—are important components of TJ [transitional justice].”). For a concise introduction to how reparations are conceived of within a transitional justice framework and how this intersects with the reparations mandate of the International Criminal Court, see Peter Dixon, ‘Reparations and Assistance for Victims: Lessons from the ICC and Colombia’ (Beyond The Hague, 14 January 2016) <https://beyondthehague.com/2016/01/14/reparations-and-assistance-whats-the-difference/#more-1183>, accessed 28 August 2016. For a detailed examination of efforts to incorporate a more victim-centric focus into international criminal justice generally, see Luke Moffett, Justice for Victims before the International Criminal Court (Routledge 2014), ‘Introduction’ (in which Moffett describes academic treatment of victim participation at the international criminal court as representing “a struggle between trying to find a role for victims while ensuring a fair trial and upholding the rights of the defendant.”).

[29] Thomas Lubanga Dyilo was convicted in 2012 of the war crime of conscripting or enlisting children under the age of fifteen years into the armed forces and using them to participate actively in hostilities. Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment pursuant to Article 74 of the Statute’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2842, 14 March 2012, para 1358.

[30] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2904, 7 August 2012, paras 220–21. See also Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 143 (“The Appeals Chamber therefore considers that the Trial Chamber ordered reparations on a collective basis pursuant to rules 97 (1) and 98 (3) of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence.”)

[31] Rules 98(3) and 98(4) provide: “(3) The Court may order that an award for reparations against a convicted person be made through the Trust Fund where the number of the victims and the scope, forms and modalities of reparations makes a collective award more appropriate. (4) Following consultations with interested States and the Trust Fund, the Court may order that an award for reparations be made through the Trust Fund to an intergovernmental, international or national organization approved by the Trust Fund.” ICC Rules of Procedure and Evidence, rule 98 (2013).

[32] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Appeal of the Defence for Mr Thomas Lubanga against Trial Chamber I’s Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparation rendered on 7 August 2012’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2917-tENG, 6 September 2012.

[33] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Appeal against Trial Chamber I’s Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations of 7 August 2012’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2909-tENG, 24 August 2012; Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Appeal against Trial Chamber I’s Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparation of 7 August 2012’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2914-tENG, 3 September 2012.

[34] “In conclusion, the Appeals Chamber now holds that the Impugned Decision contains sufficient elements to be an order for reparations within the meaning of article 75 of the Statute, subject to the amendments detailed in this judgment.” Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 38.

[35] ibids 1, 32.

[36] ibid 5.

[37] “[T]he Appeals Chamber articulates the principle that: In the reparation proceedings, the applicant shall provide sufficient proof of the causal link between the crime and the harm suffered, based on the specific circumstances of the case. In this sense, what is the “appropriate” standard of proof and what is “sufficient” for purposes of an applicant meeting the burden of proof will depend upon the circumstances of the specific case. For purposes of determining what is sufficient, Trial Chambers should take into account any difficulties that are present from the circumstances of the case at hand.”  ibid 81.

[38] See, e.g., ICC OTP, ‘Policy Paper on Victims’ Participation’ (April 2010) p 9 (“Third, for the reparations stage, the Office favours a wider approach to allow participation of victims and representations from or on behalf of victims and other interested persons who suffered harm as a result of crimes other than those included in the charges selected for prosecution. Any other approach would be overly restrictive and unfair, since the Prosecution must necessarily limit the incidents selected in its investigation and prosecution. Accordingly, the Office will support reparations applications, as appropriate, by a broader range of individuals and entities than those who are linked to the charges for which the accused is ultimately convicted.”).

[39] Salvatore Zappalà, ‘The Rights of Victims v. the Rights of the Accused’ (2010) 8 JICJ 137, 143.

[40] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Observations of Team V02 on the draft implementation plan for reparations submitted by the Trust Fund for Victims (TFV) to Trial Chamber II on 3 November 2015’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3195-tENG, 1 February 2016, para 22(c).

[41]  Sylvain Aubry and Maria Isabel Henao-Trip, ‘Collective Reparations and the International Criminal Court’  (University of Essex Reparations Unit, Briefing Paper No.2, August 2011) 2–3 <http://www.essex.ac.uk/TJN/DOCUMENTS/PAPER_2_COLLECTIVE_REPARATIONS_LARGE.PDF&gt;,  accessed 28 August 2016.

[42]  See, e.g., Gabriella Citroni, ‘Measures of Reparation for Victims of Gross Human Rights Violations: Developments and Challenges in the Jurisprudence of Two Regional Human Rights Courts’ (2012) 5 Inter-Am & Eur Hum Rts J 49, 57 (“The jurisprudence of the Inter-American Court concerning violations of human rights suffered by indigenous communities is of a particularly advanced character. The measures of reparation ordered seize the dimension of collective violations and take into account the needs expressed by the communities involved.”).

[43] Diana Contreras-Garduño, ‘Defining Beneficiaries of Collective Reparations: The experience of the IACtHR’ (2012) 4 Amst L Forum 40, 50.

[44] Inter-American Court of Human Rights Case of the Plan de Sánchez Massacre v. Guatemala, ‘Judgment of November 19, 2004 (Reparations)’ (2004) para 86.

[45] “[T]he IACtHR has a higher margin of discretion than do the criminal courts when determining reparations beneficiaries. The IACtHR’s rights-focused approach gives more discretion because it uses a more relaxed standard and burden of proof concerning, inter alia, causality in reparations. Also, under the injury-focused approach, the ICC and ECCC must as criminal courts limit the reparable harm only to that linked to the crimes for which the accused was found guilty.” Juan Pablo Pérez-León, ‘The Emerging Reparations Case-Law of the ICC Appeals Chamber in Comparative Perspective’ (EJIL: Talk!, 12 June 2015) <http://www.ejiltalk.org/the-emerging-reparations-case-law-of-the-icc-appeals-chamber-in-comparative-perspective/>, accessed 28 August 2016.

[46] Inter-American Court of Human Rights Case of García Lucero et al. v. Chile, ‘Judgment of August 28, 2013 (Preliminary objection, merits and reparations)’ (2013) para 224.

[47] For an analysis of the ECCC collective reparation mandate in practice, see Victims’ Right to Remedy: Awarding Meaningful Reparations at the ECCC (Access to Justice Asia, The Centre for Justice & Accountability (CJA) & Berkeley Law International Human Rights Clinic 2011) <https://www.brandeis.edu/ethics/pdfs/internationaljustice/Remedy.pdf>, accessed 28 August 2016.

[48] The Rules of The Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia provide that: “(1) If an Accused is convicted, the Chambers may award only collective and moral reparations to Civil Parties.” Rule 23 quinquies. Civil Party Claim (Adopted on 9 February 2009 and amended on 17 September 2010).

[49] See Prosecutor v. Germain Katanga, ‘Queen’s University Belfast’s Human Rights Centre (HRC) and University of Ulster’s Transitional Justice Institute (TJI) Submission on Reparations Issues pursuant to Article 75 of the Statute’ ICC-01/04-01/07-3551, 14 May 2015, para 14 (“It is vital that this opportunity is given to as many victims as possible, including those who have not yet applied, but may qualify for reparations.”); see also Victims’ Rights Before the International Criminal Court : A Guide for Victims, their Legal Representatives and NGOs, ‘Chapter IV: Participation’ (FIDH 23 April 2007) p 5 <https://www.fidh.org/spip.php?page=article&id_article=4208&gt;, accessed 5 September 2016 (“Victims do not have to participate in pre-trial or trial proceedings in order to make a claim for reparations”).

[50] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2904, 7 August 2012, para 179.

[51] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Mr Thomas Lubanga’s appellate brief against the Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations issued by the Trial Chamber on 7 August 2012’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2972-tENG, 5 February 2013, paras 138–41.

[52] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, paras 32, 34 (in which the Appeals Chamber determined that a reparations order “must either identify the victims eligible to benefit from reparations, or set out the criteria of their eligibility for reparations” [emphasis added]).

[53] ibid  211.

[54] ibid 214. The Appeals Chamber did provide an important caveat when it also determined that, “if there is a sufficient causal link between the harm suffered by members of that community and the crimes of which Mr Lubanga was found guilty, it is appropriate to award collective reparations to that community, understood as a group of victims. Therefore, an award of collective reparations to a community is not necessarily an error. However, the Appeals Chamber considers that the scope of the convicted person’s liability for reparations in respect of a community must be specified.” ibid 212.

[55] Luke Moffett, ‘Justice for Victims in Lubanga Case?’ (Justice Hub, 4 March 2015) <https://justicehub.org/article/justice-victims-lubanga-case>, accessed 28 August 2016. Moffett also highlights two other concerns regarding the decision to award collective reparation in the Lubanga case: “The two victims groups in the Lubanga case rejected this community-based approach, as it was the community which had actively supported child recruitment during the conflict. Many of those who committed crimes would benefit from such awards. The TFV community-based approach misconceives the notion of harm, in that it was the community that suffered, rather than responding to the suffering of individual victims.” See also Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Observations on the sentence and reparations by Victims a/0001/06, a/0003/06, a/0007/06, a/00049/06, a/0149/07, a/0155/07, a/0156/07, a/0162/07, a/0149/08, a/0404/08, a/0405/08, a/0406/08, a/0407/08, a/0409/08, a/0523/08, a/0610/08, a/0611/08, a/0053/09, a/0249/09, a/0292/09, a/0398/09 and a/1622/10’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2864-tENG, 18 April 2012, paras 15–16 (saying, “Unsurprisingly, twelve of the fourteen interviewees consider that individual financial compensation, even though limited, would be useful to them or even necessary. Nonetheless, two former child soldiers stated clearly that this form of reparation would be useless to them. At first glance, it is difficult to award collective reparations to child soldiers because they do not form a collective. Those child soldiers participating in the current proceedings are often in conflict with their own communities (the Hema ethnic group in Ituri). Whilst from an objective standpoint, this community did suffer from the enlistment of its youth in the militia and the use of its children in hostilities, it also accepted this behaviour for the most part and supported the leaders who engaged in it. Many even collaborated. An award for reparations to the Hema community as a whole would therefore not be reasonable and might be perceived as unjust by other communities.”). Note, however, that the above reactions of victims relate to an understanding of collective reparations that, while endorsed by Trial Chamber I, was not necessarily endorsed by the Appeals Chamber, which required a link between the harm suffered and the crime for which the convicted person was convicted. See Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 211.

[56] Conor McCarthy, Reparations and Victim Support in the International Criminal Court (CUP 2012) 253. Notably, McCarthy also suggests that, “from an administrative perspective, collective awards tend to minimize the transaction costs involved, since individual awards tend to require more intensive assessment processes and a greater degree of oversight.” ibid. In actuality, present proceedings regarding collective reparations in Lubanga have not borne out this distinction.

[57] Former President of the International Criminal Court Song Sang-hyun reportedly said that judges discussed establishing principles on reparations during the 2005 and 2007 plenary meetings, and it was decided these principles would be formed solely through jurisprudence in individual cases, including appeals. Conference Report: Reparations before the International Criminal Court: Issues and Challenges  (REDRESS, Grotius Centre for International Legal Studies and Leiden University 2011) 5 <http://www.redress.org/downloads/publications/SUMMARYreport.pdf>, accessed 28 August 2016.

[58] Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court 17 July 1998, UN Doc A/CONF.183/9, adopted 17 July 1998, entered into force 1 July 2002, art 75(1–3) (Rome Statute).

[59] Restitution, compensation, rehabilitation, satisfaction, and guarantees of non-repetition are identified as appropriate modalities of reparation for victims of gross violations of international human rights law and serious violations of international humanitarian law in the UN Basic Principles. UN Basic Principles (n 14) para 18.

[60] At the same time, article 75(6) clearly states, “Nothing in this article shall be interpreted as prejudicing the rights of victims under national or international law.” Rome Statute (n 58) art 75(6).

[61] Article 79 says:  “(1) A Trust Fund shall be established by decision of the Assembly of States Parties for the benefit of victims of crimes within the jurisdiction of the Court, and of the families of such victims. (2) The Court may order money and other property collected through fines or forfeiture to be transferred, by order of the Court, to the Trust Fund. (3) The Trust Fund shall be managed according to criteria to be determined by the Assembly of States Parties.”  Rome Statute (n 58) art 79.

[62] Establishment of a fund for the benefit of victims of crimes within the jurisdiction of the Court, and of the families of such victims, ICC-ASP/1/Res.6, 9 September 2002.

[63] Prosecutor v. William Samoei Ruto and Joshua Arap Sang, ‘Request for leave to submit observations in relation to the issues raised under the heading ‘Questions concerning reparation” in the “Decision on Defence Applications for Judgments of Acquittal’’ ICC-01/09-01/11-2036, 22 June 2016, para 6.

[64] “Even when indicating such independence, the Statute did not go so far as to speak of independence ‘from the Court’. In particular, even in its independence, the Office of the Prosecutor remains within the overall authority of the judges, for the necessary purposes of the administration of justice. Finally, in paragraph 7 of the ASP resolution establishing the Trust Fund, it is clearly contemplated that ‘the activities and projects of the Trust Fund and the allocation of the property and money available to it’ are ‘subject to the decisions taken by the Court. ’ All these and more are factors to be borne in mind when asserting that the Trust Fund is ‘an independent body from the Court. ’” Prosecutor v. William Samoei Ruto and Joshua Arap Sang, ‘Dissenting Opinion to Decision on the Requests regarding Reparations’ ICC-01/09-01/11-2038-Anx, 1 July 2016, para 32.

[65] ‘Legal Basis’ (The Trust Fund for Victims) <http://trustfundforvictims.org/legal-basis>, accessed 1 August 2016.

[66] The Trust Fund’s mission is “To support programs which address the harm resulting from the crimes under the jurisdiction of the ICC by assisting victims to return to a dignified and contributory life within their communities.” ‘About Us’ (The Trust Fund for Victims) <http://trustfundforvictims.org/about-us>, accessed 1 August 2016.

[67] ‘The Two Roles of the TFV’ (The Trust Fund for Victims) <http://www.trustfundforvictims.org/two-roles-tfv>, accessed 1 August 2016.

[68] ibid.

[69] ‘Legal Basis’ (n 65) (explaining that rule 98(5) reflects the Trust Fund’s assistance mandate).

[70] Regulations of the Trust Fund for Victims, ICC-ASP/4/Res.3 (3 December 2005).

[71] ibid 50(b).

[72] See Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, paras 46, 48 (stating, “The Appeals Chamber recalls that article 21 of the Statute provides a hierarchy of the applicable law for the Court, stating that the Court shall first apply the Statute and the Rules of Procedure and Evidence, and, ‘in the second place’, applicable treaties and the principles and rules of international law. Article 21 of the Statute does not include official actions taken by the Assembly of States Parties as a source of applicable law. However, article 79 (3) of the Statute stipulates that the Trust Fund is to be managed according to determinations made by the Assembly of States Parties. Thus, this statutory provision is unambiguous that the management of the Trust Fund does not lie with the Court…the Appeals Chamber considers that, for purposes of awards for reparations made through the Trust Fund, resolutions of the Assembly of States Parties in this respect should be given due regard by Trial Chambers.”).

[73] For a detailed examination of the relationship between reparations and assistance activities at the International Criminal Court and comparatively, see Peter J. Dixon, ‘Reparations, Assistance and the Experience of Justice: Lessons from Colombia and the Democratic Republic of the Congo’ (2015) 10(1) Intl J of Transitional Justice 1 (noting, for example, the tensions “between the supposed symbolic power of reparative justice and victims’ actual experience of reparations in practice.”). ibid p 89.

[74] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 215.

[75] ‘The Two Roles of the TFV’ (n 67). See also The Trust Fund for Victims, Assistance & Reparations

Achievements, Lessons Learned, and Transitioning (September 2015) 11–48 (presenting information about the TFV’s various assistance activities, including information on implementation).

[76] ‘Turning the tide on sexual violence in conflict, new UN guidance on reparations launched’ (UN Women, Press Release 2014) <http://www.unwomen.org/en/news/stories/2014/6/new-un-guidance-on-reparations-launched&gt;, accessed 2 May 2015.

[77] Rome Statute (n 58) art 75(1–2).

[78]  Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2904, 7 August 2012, para 222.

[79] ‘Order for Reparations (Amended)’ (n 27) para 17.

[80] “Programmes that have transformative objectives, however limited, can help prevent future victimisation, and symbolic reparations, such as commemorations and tributes, may also contribute to the process of rehabilitation.” ibid 67(5).

[81] ibid 2.

[82] See, e.g., Christine Evans, The Right to Reparation in International Law for Victims of Armed Conflict (CUP 2012) 109 (stating, “the reactions of victims and their organisations with regard to the reparations regime of the ICC are likely to be marred by disappointment due to their high expectations.”).

[83] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision on the ‘Request for extension of time to submit the draft implementation plan on reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3161-tENG, 14 August 2015, paras 6–7.

[84] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Filing on Reparations and Draft Implementation Plan’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3177-Red, 3 November 2015; see also ‘Annex A: Trust Fund for Victims Draft Implementation Plan for collective reparations to victims submitted to the Amended Reparations Order of 3 March 2015 in the case against Thomas Lubanga Dyilo (ICC-01/04-01/06)’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3177-AnxA (‘Draft Implementation Plan’). Additional Annex ICC-01/04-01/06-3177-Conf-Exp-AnxI is classified as “confidential ex parte, available to Trust Fund for Victims, Registry and Office of Public Counsel for Victims only.” Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Registry to reclassify document ICC-01/04-01/06-3177-Conf-Exp-AnxI’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3203-tENG, 7 March 2016.

[85] “The newly composed Trial Chamber shall monitor and oversee the implementation stage of the present order, including having the authority to approve the draft implementation plan submitted by the Trust Fund. The Chamber may be seized of any contested issues arising out of the work and the decisions of the Trust Fund.” ‘Order for Reparations (Amended)’ (n 27) para 76.

[86] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 237.

[87] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Trust Fund for Victims to supplement the draft implementation plan’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3198-tENG, 9 February 2016, para 10.

[88] “The Chamber notes that the TFV has not identified any potential victims.” ibid 12.

[89] “The Chamber is of the view, however, that the TFV has presented only a summary description of the prospective programmes and how they will be developed and managed. This information is insufficient for the Chamber to approve the implementation of the Proposed Plan.” ibid 20.

[90] See ‘Draft Implementation Plan’ (n 84) paras 29–31, 41–64. .tating, ft implementation plan”identities to Lubanga

[91] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Trust Fund for Victims to supplement the draft implementation plan’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3198-tENG, 9 February 2016, para 9.

[92] ‘Draft Implementation Plan’ (n 84) para 174.

[93] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Trust Fund for Victims to supplement the draft implementation plan’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3198-tENG, 9 February 2016, para 9, citing ‘Order for Reparations (Amended)’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129-AnxA, 3 March 2015, para 242 (“The Trial Chamber’s determination of the amount of Mr Lubanga’s liability for the awards for reparations constitutes a part of the order for reparations within the meaning of article 75 (2) of the Statute and is therefore appealable, pursuant to article 82 (4) of the Statute”).

[94] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Trust Fund for Victims to supplement the draft implementation plan’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3198-tENG, 9 February 2016, para 14.

[95] ibid.

[96] Prosecutor v. Germain Katanga, ‘Decision on the ‘Demande de clarification concernant la mise en œuvre de la Règle 94 du Règlement de procédure et de preuve’ and future stages of the proceedings’ ICC-01/04-01/07-3546-tENG, 8 May 2015, para 21.

[97] The cited reasoning came from a Decision issued at a stage of reparations proceedings governed by article 75 of the Rome Statute and rule 94 of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence, prior to the issuance of a reparations order. See Prosecutor v. Germain Katanga, ‘Decision on the ‘Demande de clarification concernant la mise en œuvre de la Règle 94 du Règlement de procédure et de preuve’ and future stages of the proceedings’ ICC-01/04-01/07-3546-tENG, 8 May 2015; Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016, para 105 (“The Trust Fund also wishes to highlight that the Katanga reparations proceedings are currently in the first stage of proceedings, which is to say “the proceedings leading to the issuance of an order for reparations”, whereas the Lubanga proceedings are in the implementation stage”) citing Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 240.

[98] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Trust Fund for Victims to supplement the draft implementation plan’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3198-tENG, 9 February 2016, para 17.

[99] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Request for Leave to Appeal against the
‘Ordonnance enjoignant au Fonds au profit des victimes de compléter le projet de plan de mise en œuvre’ (9 February 2016)’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3200, 15 February 2016.

[100] “In the light of the above, it is the Chamber’s view that the TFV does not have locus standi to request leave to appeal, under article 82(1)(d) of the Statute, against the Order of 9 February 2016. Consequently, the Chamber considers that it is not necessary to examine the other arguments put forward by the TFV.” Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision on the request of the Trust Fund for Victims for leave to appeal against the order of 9 February 2016’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3202-tENG, 4 March 2016, para 17.

[101] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016.

[102] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Additional Programme Information Filing’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3209, 7 June 2016.

[103] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016 para 9.

[104] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Additional Programme Information Filing’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3209, 7 June 2016 para 10.

[105] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016, paras 29–33.

[106] ibid 8.

[107] ibid 33(d).

[108] ibid 193.

[109] ibid 194.

[110] ibid 20.

[111] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Additional Programme Information Filing’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3209, 7 June 2016 para 97.

[112] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order pursuant to rule 103 of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3217-tENG, 15 July 2016, para 8 (in which the Trial Chamber “invites the States concerned, as well as any organisations which so wish (collectively “the participants”), to file submissions…on current or past collective projects for former child soldiers in the East of the Democratic Republic of the Congo…[and] the Chamber invites the participants to present it with proposals for future collective projects to support the setting up of a range of collective reparation projects for the former child soldier victims of Mr Lubanga.”); Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Registry to provide aid and assistance to the Legal Representatives and the Trust Fund for Victims to identify victims potentially eligible for reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3218-tENG, 15 July 2016 para 8 (in which the Trial Chamber determines “that the search for victims potentially eligible for reparations in the instant case should continue” and “considers, therefore, that the Registry must provide the TFV and the Legal Representatives of victims with all the assistance necessary for this purpose.”). For a critique of the Trial Chamber’s decision to seek external input and forestall implementation of reparation awards, see Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Annexe
 Opinion de Mme la Juge Herrera Carbuccia’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3217-Anx, 15 July 2016.

[113] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Request Concerning the Feasibility of Applying Symbolic Collective Reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3219, 15 July 2016 para 12.

[114] ibid 11.

[115] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Public Redacted version of Filing regarding symbolic collective reparations projects with Confidential Annex: Draft Request for Proposals, ICC-01/04-01/06-3223-Conf’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3223-Red 20-09-2016, 19 September 2016, paras 30–37.

[116] ibid 38.

[117] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order approving the proposed plan of the Trust Fund for Victims in relation to symbolic collective reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3251, 21 October 2016 para 16.

[118] ibid 12.

[119] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Public Redacted version of Filing regarding symbolic collective reparations projects with Confidential Annex: Draft Request for Proposals, ICC-01/04-01/06-3223-Conf’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3223-Red 20-09-2016, 19 September 2016, para 14 (stating too that, “It will therefore be important to resolve the victim screening or identification process in the service-based reparations projects.”).

[120] ‘Draft Implementation Plan’ (n 84) para 28.

[121] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision on Sentence pursuant to Article 76 of the Statute’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2901, 10 July 2012, para 49.

[122] ibid 50.

[123] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 181.

[124] ibid.

[125] ibid 183.

[126] “Accordingly, the Appeals Chamber finds that the Trial Chamber erred in delegating to the Trust Fund the task of defining the harms caused to direct and indirect victims as a result of the crimes for which Mr Lubanga was convicted. This error renders the Impugned Decision insufficiently detailed and it therefore must be amended.” ibid 184.

[127] ibid 181.

[128] ibid 184.

[129] ibid 237.

[130] ibid 240.

[131] ‘Draft Implementation Plan’ (n 84) para 174.

[132] ibid 28.

[133] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 240.

[134] ibid 6. The Appeals Chamber expands upon this principle later in the judgment when it states: “A convicted person’s liability for reparations must be proportionate to the harm caused and, inter alia, his or her participation in the commission of the crimes for which he or she was found guilty, in the specific circumstances of the case.” ibid 118.

[135] ibid 6.

[136] ibid 151. The same paragraph of the judgment notes that decisions as to criminal liability and culpability of the convicted person are “decisions which are based on the evidence and factual findings relevant to the entire trial proceedings.” ibid.

[137] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Registry to provide aid and assistance to the Legal Representatives and the Trust Fund for Victims to identify victims potentially eligible for reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3218-tENG, 15 July 2016, para 8.

[138] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision on the admissibility of the appeals against Trial Chamber I’s ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ and directions on the further conduct of proceedings’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2953, 14 December 2012, para 58.

[139] ibid 54.

[140] ibid 55.

[141] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016, paras 99–101.

[142] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Additional Programme Information Filing’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3209, 7 June 2016, para 15.

[143] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016, para 91 citing Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision on the admissibility of the appeals against Trial Chamber I’s ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ and directions on the further conduct of proceedings’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2953, 14 December 2012, para 53 (in which the Appeals Chamber concludes “reparations proceedings can be divided into two distinct parts: 1) the proceedings leading to the issuance of an order for reparations; and 2) the implementation of the order for reparations, which the Trust Fund may be tasked with carrying out.”).

[144] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016, para 91 citing Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision on the admissibility of the appeals against Trial Chamber I’s ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ and directions on the further conduct of proceedings’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2953, 14 December 2012, para 55.

[145] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016, paras 99–101.

[146] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 184.

[147] ibid 183.

[148] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Decision on the admissibility of the appeals against Trial Chamber I’s ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ and directions on the further conduct of proceedings’ ICC-01/04-01/06-2953, 14 December 2012, para 56.

[149] Regulations of the Trust Fund for Victims, ICC-ASP/4/Res.3 (3 December 2005) paras 69–72.

[150] ibid 59.

[151] ibids 60–61.

[152] “The Union des Patriotes Congolais (“UPC”) was created on 15 September 2000; Thomas Lubanga was one of the UPC’s founding members and its President from the outset. The UPC and its military wing, the Force Patriotique pour la Libération du Congo (“FPLC”), took power in Ituri in September 2002. The UPC/FPLC, as an organised armed group, was involved in an internal armed conflict against the Armée Populaire Congolaise (“APC”) and other Lendu militias, including the Force de Résistance Patriotique en Ituri (“FRPI”), between September 2002 and 13 August 2003.” Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Case Information Sheet’ ICC-PIDS-CIS-DRC-01-014/16_Eng, 10 February 2016.

[153] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘First submission of victim dossiers with twelve confidential, ex parte annexes, available to the Registrar, and Legal Representatives of Victims V01 only’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3208, 31 May 2016, para 68.

[154] ibid 69.

[155] ibid 70.

[156] ibid 74.

[157] ibid 75.

[158] ‘Order for Reparations (Amended) ’ (n 27) para 80.

[159] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, paras 163–64.

[160] ibid 164.

[161] ibids 163–64.

[162] ibid 165.

[163] ibid 165.

[164] ibid 166 (“In this regard, the Appeals Chamber notes that Mr Lubanga has been able to challenge, and indeed has challenged in the present appeals, the criteria established in the Impugned Decision that are applicable to the standards of proof and causation for determining an individual’s eligibility in a collective award.”).

[165] ibid 167.

[166] ibid 167 (“The Appeals Chamber considers it appropriate to include the Trust Fund’s suggestion in this respect in the amended order for reparations.”).

[167] ‘Order for Reparations (Amended)’ (n 27) para 66.

[168] ibid.

[169] Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Judgment on the appeals against the ‘Decision establishing the principles and procedures to be applied to reparations’ of 7 August 2012 with AMENDED order for reparations (Annex A) and public annexes 1 and 2’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3129, 3 March 2015, para 161.

[170] ibid 160.

[171] ibid 162.

[172] “On the basis of all the documents submitted, and after considering, inter alia, the observations of the Defence, the Chamber will consider, on a case-by-case basis, whether the requests, within the meaning of rule 94 of the Rules, justify the awarding of reparations on an individual and/or collective basis.” Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Trust Fund for Victims to supplement the draft implementation plan’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3198-tENG, 9 February 2016, para 14, citing Prosecutor v. Germain Katanga, ‘Decision on the “Demande de clarification concernant la mise en œuvre de la Règle 94 du Règlement de procédure et de preuve” and future stages of the proceedings’ ICC-01/04-01/07-3546-tENG, 8 May 2015, para 21.

[173] Prosecutor v. Germain Katanga, ‘Decision on the “Demande de clarification concernant la mise en œuvre de la Règle 94 du Règlement de procédure et de preuve” and future stages of the proceedings’ ICC-01/04-01/07-3546-tENG, 8 May 2015, para 21.

[174] But see Prosecutor v. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, ‘Order instructing the Registry to provide aid and assistance to the Legal Representatives and the Trust Fund for Victims to identify victims potentially eligible for reparations’ ICC-01/04-01/06-3218-tENG, 15 July 2016, para 8 (potentially indicating that Trial Chamber II may be shifting in its approach to considering individual victim identification and harm assessments of all prospective reparation beneficiaries as a necessary prerequisite to determining the convicted person’s overall monetary liability for reparations).

[175] Zappalà (n 39) 142.

Legality and Power: the 2016 Turkish Coup Attempt and the State of Emergency

by Ali Erol[1]

The political and social aftermath of the coup attempt that took place on the 15th of July 2016 in Turkey illustrates how a single event can be the cause of a stark shift in the existing legal regime and in notions of legality. First, I offer a historical sketch of the social dynamics between the public and the Turkish military to demonstrate how these dynamics shaped the law regarding coups. Second, I examine the constitutional regulation of the state of emergency that was declared five days after the attempted coup. Taking these together, I point to how the historical context shaped the legal response to the coup attempt and the ways in which that response has shifted the legal regime away from a democratic regime using the state of emergency as a justification. This analysis goes beyond producing a mere description of what recently happened in Turkey. This particular case can help to shed light on similar contexts elsewhere, where sudden shifts in the social or the political structure lead to shifts in legal regimes and vice versa. Moreover, the Turkish case highlights how the government can use the state of emergency to create a state of exception, where it can disregard the formal rule of law and take decisions to create a new legal order. Giorgio Agamben, who famously wrote about the state of exception, suggests that such states are a “no-man’s-land between public law and political fact, and between the juridical order and life” since “the state of exception appears as the legal form of what cannot have legal form.”[2] In these spaces of ambiguity, in these borders where desires for certainty and for answers are often met with vicious circles that collapse unto themselves, those who already hold the considerable amount of power create conditions in which their powers can be expanded and further solidified. The subsequent analysis explicitly demonstrates the mechanisms through which such expansion of power is achieved.

The Context of the Failed Coup

The social and political circumstances in which the coup attempt took place provide vital context for understanding its failure and legal sequelae. Neither Turkey nor President Erdogan’s rule was strong when the coup attempt took place on July 15th 2016. Erdogan was struggling to consolidate his power, as he sought to be the sole ruler of the country by establishing a presidential system and removing the prime ministry.[3] Further problems for the Turkish state were caused by the PKK (Kurdistan Worker’s Party), an insurgent group that has been engaged in an armed conflict with Turkey since 1984. The ceasefire that was implemented in 2013 with high hopes of peace and resolution had disappointed, after mutual confrontations during the summer of 2015. The coup attempt happened a year after the ruling AK Party (AKP) lost the majority of the seats in the parliament due to the Kurdish People’s Democratic Party (HDP) increasing their votes. Turkey was also suffering due to the war in Syria. Not only was the Turkish economy being strained due to millions of refugees in the border camps, but Turkey’s foreign relations were tense with Russia, after the downing of a Russian jet on November 24th 2015. In addition, ISIS (the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria) had increased its attacks in different provinces in Turkey. Finally, Erdogan was still in conflict with the Islamist cleric Fetullah Gulen and his followers (now dubbed as FETO, or Fetullah Gulen Terrorist Organization by the government), who had influence in different layers of state bureaucracy.[4] It was FETO who would ultimately be accused of carrying out the 2016 coup attempt.

Shifting notions of Legality: from legal coup to illegal coup

In many ways, the myriad factors that seem to have converged in the most recent coup make the attempt similar to four other coups that Turkey experienced in 1960, 1971, 1980, and 1997. Those who conducted the coups, at the time, cited dire circumstances, the social divide, ongoing conflicts, and the economic downturn—in short, composite picture of deteriorating leadership—in order to justify the coup at hand. However, there is one important difference between previous coups and the attempted coup that took place in July 15th 2016. Article 35 of the Turkish Armed Forces Internal Service Law legally justified the four previous coups that Turkey lived through. The service law was amended in 2013 and the phrase, “to protect and safeguard the Turkish homeland and the Turkish Republic” that was used as a legal justification in those coups was deleted from the law. Consequently, the failed coup attempt that took place on July 15th did not have any legal justification. In this section, I trace the social and legal history of Article 35 and suggest that the social and historical processes that led to the amendment of Article 35 in 2013 have given people and politicians agency to speak up against the coup attempt.

There were two social and legal factors which made the first four coups legal as well as socially justifiable. Primarily, it was the unusual nature of the civil-military relations (CMRs) in the Turkish context, which differed from those in many other countries experiencing coups.  Secondly, due to this difference, the legal regime in Turkey until 2013 allowed the military interventions to be framed as legal.

Aydinli, who compares CMRs in various contexts, notes that CMRs vary across contexts. [5] She writes that in Latin America, for instance, the military is usually perceived with more animosity by the public—as a power hungry organization that often preys on the public interest and for that reason needs to be kept in check. In the US, the author notes, the CMRs are based on a sense of professionalism—to the extent that civilian politics can manipulate the army for its own gains,[6] as was the case in the Iraq war. However, in Turkey this perception is different. As Aydinli writes, “[t]he nature of Turkish civil-military relations reflects the centuries-long historical experience of the Ottoman Empire (and its gradual decline), a traumatic War of Independence (1919-1923), a Cold War that was actually quite hot in Turkey, and an immense modernization project which was ultimately entrusted to the Turkish army itself.”[7] This history created conditions where CMRs in Turkey did not fit within the paradigms of other CMRs. Therefore, Aydinli concludes: “[T]here is nevertheless a distinguishing characteristic of civil-military relations in Turkey that is marked by broad societal support of the military and, ultimately, a widespread view of the military as the ultimate protector of the nation—even, if necessary, against its own political representatives.”[8] This relationship was, perhaps, one of the most important factors that enabled previous coups to succeed and be socially justified.

However, previous coups were not only socially justified, they were executed on legal grounds—derived from the aforementioned CMRs in Turkey. The legality of the previous coups most importantly relied on Article 35 of the Armed Forces Internal Service Law that stated: “The duty of the Armed Forces is to protect and safeguard the Turkish homeland and the Turkish Republic as stipulated by the Constitution”.[9] The phrasing of this particular law gave the army a role above and beyond the political institution. In effect, the phrasing suggests that the political institution could only exist if the army allowed it to exist in a way the army saw fit. Instead of being professionals under civilian political control like the US army, the Turkish army saw itself as an overseeing authority that was socially, politically, and economically a vital part of the country.[10] For these reasons, the coups that took place almost every decade since 1960 relied on the aforementioned dynamics of CMRs in Turkey and the laws that were shaped by those CMRs as legal grounds of justification.

While Article 35 was shaped by a particular social and historical context, it also stemmed from Turkey’s legal history. The first article of this kind, which defined the duty of the army, was introduced in 1934. At the time, a similar statement was housed in Article 34 of the Turkish Armed Forces Internal Service Law, which read: “The duty of the army is to watch and protect the Turkish homeland and the Turkish Republic as stipulated by the constitution. The Army is charged with learning and teaching the art of military service. To accomplish this duty, necessary institutions and facilities are made and precautions are taken.” After the first coup in 1960, the 1924 constitution was abolished for a new constitution and the above statement was merely transposed without alteration into Article 35 of the Turkish Armed Forces Internal Service Law.

During the 1990s, however, there was a shift in the social perception of the army,[11] which was the result of four important social dynamics. First, the rise of political Islam, which started in the 1970s, made substantially greater headway in the 1990s. Second, due to the Kurdish insurgency in the southeast of Turkey, the military became much more vocal and visible in Turkey’s daily social and political life—gaining independence from the influence of civilian rule. Third, in the 1980s the president at the time, Turgut Ozal, introduced neoliberal reforms and made one of the first attempts to secure more civilian control of the military. Fourth, the mid-1990s was also the period when Turkey aggressively pursued membership of the EU and the accession process was underway.

However, total civilian control of the military was not possible until the AKP came to power in 2002. This was due to the complicated relationship the Turkish republic had with its Ottoman past. In its foundation, the Turkish Republic attempted to distance itself from its Ottoman past through reforms in law, education, alphabet, dress, and in almost every aspect of life.[12] One reason for this distancing was to establish a unified nationhood that drew from a shared sense of being Turkish, rather than relying upon a shared Islamic faith, as had been the case in the Ottoman Empire. Therefore, the separation of religion and public and political life was deemed necessary. Religion was replaced with ethnicity. In an attempt to create such separation, however, founders of the Turkish republic instituted various mechanisms of control over religious life. One such mechanism of control was the establishment of Directorate of Religious Affairs (DRA). Oncu notes, for instance, that the purpose of such regulative mechanisms was never to get rid of religion, but rather to dictate what type of religious life people could have. Therefore, Oncu argues, the purpose of the DRA was:

[T]o provide the citizens with Islamic religious services such as the appointment of preachers, muezzins and imams and the distribution of sermons. The true objective of the DRA, which was to establish control over the Islam practiced in civil society in order to contain any form of opposition against the development of modern capitalism from the quarters of heterodox Islam.[13]

To that end, DRA aimed to keep Islam out of social and political life. However, there were some, who had strong emotional ties to the Ottoman Empire and consequently were outcast by the aforementioned reforms, who wanted Islam to be a part of social and political life. Under the leadership of Necmettin Erbakan, they  initiated the Islamist movement in 1969 with the National Order Party.[14] The movement experienced its greatest successes in 1990s and became a part of the coalition government in 1996.

The National Order Party’s success was an important moment in Turkish history, marking the point at which (?) the Turkish Armed Forces manifested themselves as a meta-political watchdog. In 1997, there was the fourth coup directed at this particular coalition government in order to curb the rise of political Islam in Turkey.[15] Consequently, in addition to the DRA, the Armed Forces was another regulatory mechanism through which the founders of the republic sought to keep the social and political life away from Islamist tendencies.

Erdogan, being a student of Necmettin Erbakan and a second generation Islamist politician, grew from the failure of the National Order Party and he knew that in order to establish himself as an Islamist leader of Turkey, he had to break the hold of the Turkish Armed Forces over the political life. From 2002 until 2007, Erdogan cited the EU talks and the ascension process as reason to introduce reforms that placed the military more firmly under civilian leadership.[16] The most important reform came in 2013, when Article 35 of the Turkish Armed Forces Internal Service Law was amended in the parliament. Until that time, the law stated:

“The duty of the Armed Forces is to protect and safeguard the Turkish homeland and the Turkish Republic as stipulated by the Constitution”

Moreover, the article defined military service as:

“Responsibility to learn and conduct the art of war in order to protect the Turkish homeland, independence and Republic.”

After the amendment in 2013, Article 35 became:

“The duty of the Armed Forces is to protect the Turkish homeland against threats and dangers to come from abroad, to ensure the preservation and strengthening of military power in a manner that will provide deterrence, to fulfill the duties abroad with the decision of the Parliament and help maintain international peace.”

And military service was redefined as:

“The responsibility to learn and conduct the art of war.”

The result of this change in language framing the duty of the Turkish Armed Forces and the purpose of the military service was two-fold. The statutory role of the army ceased to be about safeguarding the republic from perceived threats. Further, the actions of the military were assigned under the control of the parliament. The shift that occurred in the framing of the duty of Turkish Armed Forces and military service also shifted what the army and soldiers were allowed to do. The phrase that had served as the legal justification of coups thus far was no longer there, therefore making coups de facto illegal and politically unjustifiable.

There are several factors which made this amendment very important. First of all, the clause that defined the Turkish Armed Forces as the protectors of the republic had been a part of the legal regime in Turkey since the inception of the republic. Secondly, as mentioned above, CMRs in Turkey were different to those in other parts of the world and the Turkish Armed Forces have almost always been at least an implicit part of life in Turkey. Thirdly, because Erdogan and the ruling AKP—the Islamist political establishment since 2002—were pushing to change CMRs, those who supported Islamism as well as some liberals celebrated this as a move towards freedom, while secularist nationalists who sympathised with the military were cautioning that this was another step towards Erdogan establishing Islamist rule. Consequently, the amendment was publicly debated. In addition to newspaper reports on the issue, the change was also debated in newspaper columns, op-eds, and on political radio and TV shows. Not only did this kind of public debate allow for a larger discussion and questioning of the assumptions that have existed regarding the role of the military in Turkey’s legal, social, and political life, but it also allowed the manifestation of the anti-military sentiment which had been growing since the 1990s. This anti-military sentiment, coupled with the debates over the amendment and shifting notions of legality, gave rise to the hostile reaction by the public to the July 15th 2016 failed coup attempt.

The Legal Aftermath

After the attempted coup, a series of changes took place in the social and legal life in Turkey. Both these changes, and the way in which they have been executed, rely on rhetorical grounds as well as legal procedures, and echo the way in which military juntas in the past have operated after a coup in Turkey. In particular, after the failed coup attempt, there have been mass detentions, suspensions and dismissals of those who have been accused of or perceived as not being allied with Erdogan and his brand of Islamism. For instance, 3,000 members of the judiciary, including 1,481 judges, have been suspended. These arrests, suspensions, and firings—now dubbed the purge—affected close to 60,000 people across many institutions: from security to education to religion to intelligence.[17] The purge reached proportions that have not been seen before in Turkey’s political history. The aim of the purge was to ‘cleanse’ all the branches of governmental institutions from the members of FETO.[18] The process by which those members have been determined, however, has not consistently relied on a legal process. State officials, security forces and the state-sponsored media told people to report individuals and social media accounts that they believed to be related to FETO or to have been disseminating propaganda against the state.[19] Only after these detentions and suspensions became too much to sweep under the rug did Erdogan declare a state of emergency – 5 days after the failed coup attempt. After the state of emergency was declared on July 20th, nine decree-laws were instituted. According to Article 91 of Turkish Constitution “[t]he Grand National Assembly of Turkey may empower the Council of Ministers to issue decrees having the force of law.” These decrees have the same status as a law

In this section, I report what social and legal changes have happened since the declaration of the state of emergency in Turkey and show how these changes made by the civil authority abandon a basic commitment to a democratic rule of law.

To do this, it is important to demonstrate how the Turkish constitution lays out the concept of state of emergency and regulates its invocation/establishment. Article 120 of the constitution states that

“In the event of serious indications of widespread acts of violence aimed at the destruction of the free democratic order established by the Constitution or of fundamental rights and freedoms, or serious deterioration of public order because of acts of violence, the Council of Ministers, meeting under the chairpersonship of the President of the Republic, after consultation with the National Security Council, may declare a state of emergency in one or more regions or throughout the country for a period not exceeding six months.”

There are other articles in the Constitution invoked by this article, such as Article 15 that states:

“In times of war, mobilization, martial law, or a state of emergency, the exercise of fundamental rights and freedoms may be partially or entirely suspended, or measures derogating the guarantees embodied in the Constitution may be taken to the extent required by the exigencies of the situation, as long as obligations under international law are not violated. (As amended on May 7, 2004; Act No. 5170)

Even under the circumstances indicated in the first paragraph, an individual’s right to life, the integrity of his/her corporeal and spiritual existence shall be inviolable except where death occurs through acts in conformity with the laws of war; no one shall be compelled to reveal his/her religion, conscience, thought or opinion, nor be accused on account of them; offences and penalties shall not be made retroactive; nor shall anyone be held guilty until so proven by a court ruling.”

Similarly, Article 17 states: “Everyone has the right to life and the right to protect and improve his/her corporeal and spiritual existence” but the “state of emergency does not fall within the scope of the provision of the first paragraph.” Article 18, for instance, prohibits forced work and labour, unless there is a state of emergency. The article clarifies that “during a state of emergency, any physical or intellectual work necessitated by the needs of the country as a civic obligation shall not be considered as forced labour.” Article 19, which concerns liberty, security, and detention times, states that “the person arrested or detained shall be brought before a judge within … forty-eight hours and in case of offences committed collectively within at most four days.” However, the article also notes “these periods may be extended during a state of emergency, martial law or in time of war.” And according to Article 121, “During the state of emergency, the Council of Ministers, meeting under the chairpersonship of the President of the Republic, may issue decrees having the force of law on matters necessitated by the state of emergency.”

Based on Article 121, the Council of Ministers have been producing decree laws since July 20th 2016, with the state of emergency being the first such law produced in response to the aftermath of the failed coup attempt. Though the stated aim of the state of emergency is to protect a democratic government under peril, there is a certain irony in that the decree laws that have been put in place thus far, and the conduct of the state as well as the security forces, are effectively abolishing a democratic rule of law, and replacing it with an authoritarian abuse of legal process. For instance, on 21st of July, the Minister of Justice, Numan Kurtulmus, declared that the state suspended the European Convention on Human Rights. This declaration was based on Article 15 of European Convention on Human Rights, which states:

“In time of war or other public emergency threatening the life of the nation any High Contracting Party may take measures derogating from its obligations under this Convention to the extent strictly required by the exigencies of the situation, provided that such measures are not inconsistent with its other obligations under international law.”

For the suspension to take effect, the Council of Ministers did not have to produce a decree law. However, Turkey’s representative to the European Council, Erdogan Iscan, had to communicate the decision to European Council General Secretary Thorbjorn Jagland. It is important to note that while suspending human rights is a common practice during state of emergencies, it still is an extraordinary situation and ultimately results in harm, human rights abuses, and other unjust treatments for those who are deemed to be guilty or even suspects.

Two articles in the decree law that was published in 23rd of July, however, need further scrutiny. In the second chapter of the decree law number 667, which regulates the “the precautions regarding the application of state of emergency”, Article 9 of the decree law 667 reads: “In the scope of this decree law, those individuals who have made decisions and followed orders cannot be managerially, financially, or criminally punished because of their duties.” And Article 10 states: “In the lawsuits against the procedures and decisions made in the scope of this decree law, [those procedures and decisions] cannot be held from being executed.” Moreover, Article 148 of the constitution states “[h]owever, decrees having the force of law issued during a state of emergency, martial law or in time of war shall not be brought before the Constitutional Court alleging their unconstitutionality as to form or substance.”

When all of these are taken together, it appears clear that the state of emergency sets up a legal structure that prevents any individual from seeking a legal remedy or protection since human rights are suspended. No agent of the state can be held responsible in any court; moreover, procedures and decisions by the courts cannot be stopped by the constitutional court. Unsurprisingly, there are now reports emerging from human rights organizations, such as Amnesty International, that security forces are beating, torturing, starving, and raping those who are detained.[20] A journalist with whom I have spoken, who preferred to remain anonymous, said that he and many other journalists he knows are trying to find a way to flee the country due to lack of legal regulation regarding how detentions are conducted. However, their passports could be seized, as has happened to their colleagues, and there are no regulating legal bodies where they can ask about the status of such seizures.

Consequently, after invoking a state of emergency, Erdogan and the AKP government changed the legal structure using decree laws. In the state of emergency’s legal frame, no agent of the state has responsibility for their actions and there is no higher regulating body to which people can appeal about wrongful conduct suffered or about any aspect of the state of emergency. Such adaptations of laws get rid of the ways in which the laws and the legal regulatory bodies act as checks on the state’s power. This creates a political regime whereby the state’s power cannot be checked by a higher authority. Consequently, the decree laws the AKP government put in place and the constitutional provisions under the state of emergency abolished democratic rule of law in Turkey. In other words, in their attempt to foil the coup Erdogan and AKP have created legal conditions that make the political regime more similar to a military junta than a democratic government under peril.

Conclusion: The State of The State of Exception

Due to an attempt at establishing a nation state during the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, Turkey had unique CMRs. This unique relationship manifested itself in the legal regime; more specifically in Turkish Armed Forces Internal Service Law Articles 34 and 35. These Articles worked as justificatory clauses for the previous four coups in the history of Turkish republic. However, the existing CMRs were dependent upon ongoing efforts to solidify national identity, which meant a strict control over religious public life. This eventually led to Islamist political movements that emerged in the 1970s, of which the current government is an offshoot. In their attempt to fix the CMRs in Turkey that were oppressive of certain groups, such as certain religious groups who wanted to see religion take precedence in public life, the AKP government made a series of changes. The biggest change regarding CMRs came in 2013 with changing Article 35 of Turkish Armed Forces Internal Service Law. Publicity around this change, coupled with Erdogan’s large following, generated a massive response against the coup attempt that took place on July 15 2016. Erdogan declared a state of emergency five days after the coup attempt, which was meant to last for only three months. However, on October 3rd, the Turkish government extended the state of emergency for another three months. During this state of emergency, the AKP government took advantage of the state of exception they have created and issued a series of decree laws that undermined the democratic rule of law and the very justification for a state of emergency, which was to protect the democratic government under peril.

This showcases the ways in which the political narrative in a given context can be used to change the legal structure for the benefit of that political regime during times of crisis. This has certainly been the case in Turkey thus far. What allowed four previous coups to take place in Turkey were the CMRs in the Turkish context and their  influence upon the legal system. As such, the Turkish Armed Forces could intervene in the ongoing political situation at any given moment and fabricate their own facts or create legal structures as they saw fit. There was, in fact, a historical legal precedent for these coups. The historical timeline however, shifted the political fact in favor of Islamist politicians starting from the 1990s. Therefore, the same moment of crisis that would once have favoured one political regime, today favored another. And in the aftermath of a coup attempt, the existing political crisis created a state of emergency and repeated everything that would have already taken place under military junta.

In a way, it is possible to read the history of the Turkish republic as a continuously implied state of emergency. The possibility to create and legally justify an explicit state of emergency has always existed since the inception of the republic until 2013. And merely three years after the amendment of Article 35 of the Turkish Armed Forces Internal Service Law, there is a civilian led overt state of emergency—initially set for three months. While it is impossible to know where the current of state of emergency will lead or when it will really end, the continuous states of emergencies pose a more serious question: Even if this state of emergency might be over in the near future, will it be possible for Turkey to distance itself from a legal regime that has continuously relied on watchdogs who could initiate immediate states of emergencies citing social and political concerns?


[1] Ali Erol is Professorial Lecturer at the School of International Service at American University, Washington, DC. I appreciate the reviewers for their invaluable feedback. I would like to send my sincere appreciation to all my lawyer and journalist friends who have helped me with this article and whom I am not naming for safety purposes. But you know who you are, thank you. I would also like to posthumously thank Dave Brubeck for his music that pushed me through the writing process.

[2] Giorgio Agamben, State of Exception (University of Chicago Press 2005) 1

[3] Steven A. Cook, ‘How Erdogan Made Turkey Authoritarian Again’ (The Atlantic, 21 July 2016) <http://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2016/07/how-erdogan-made-turkey-authoritarian-again/492374/> accessed 27 October 2016

[4] Ali E. Erol, ‘A Short History of Polarization: Origins of the Failed Coup in Turkey and Its Consequences for Turkish Society’ (KRYTYKA, 22 July 2016) <http://krytyka.com/en/journal/opinions/short-history-polarization-origins-failed-coup-turkey-and-its-consequences-turkish> accessed 27 October 2016

[5] Ersel Aydinli, ‘A Paradigmatic Shift for the Turkish Generals and an End to the Coup Era in Turkey’ [2009] The Middle East Journal Volume/issue and page number?

[6] ibid 584

[7] ibid 584

[8] ibid 585

[9] This and subsequent translations of Turkish Armed Forces Internal Service laws are my translations.

[10] Yavuz Cilliler ‘Popular Determinant on civil-military relations in Turkey’ [2016] Arab Studies Quarterly 506 Issue or volume number?

[11] Aydinli (n 5) 587

[12] Bernard Lewis, Emergence of Modern Turkey (Oxford University Press 1968)

[13] Ahmet Oncu, ‘Turkish Capitalist Modernity and the Gezi Revolt’ [2014] Journal of Historical Sociology 161 Volume or issue number?

[14] Cihan Tugal, ‘Gulenism: Middle Way or Official Ideology’ in Umut Ozkirimli (ed) The Making of a Protest Movement in Turkey: #occupygezi (Palgrave Macmillan 2014)

[15] Ali E. Erol ‘Coherence Co-Constructed: Using Coherence for Analysis and Transformation of Social Conflicts’ [2015] Narrative and Conflict: Explorations of Theory and Practice 71 Volume or issue number?

[16] Freedomhouse, ‘Turkey Ratings Change (Freedomhouse, 2005) <https://freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-world/2005/turkey> accessed 27 October 2016

[17] Paul Kirby, ‘Turkey Coup Attempt: Who’s the Target of Erdogan’s Purge?’ (BBC News, 20 July 2016) <http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-36835340>

[18] Paul Kirby ‘Turkey Coup Attempt: Who is the Target of Erdogan’s Purge’ (BBC News, 20 July 2016) <http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-36835340> accessed 27 October 2016

[19] Yeni Akit, ‘Cumhurbaskanligindan Vatandaslara Onemli Uyari’ (Yeni Akit, 18 July 2016) <http://www.yeniakit.com.tr/haber/cumhurbaskanligindan-vatandaslara-onemli-uyari-195122.html> accessed 27 October 2016

[20] Amnesty International ‘Turkey: Independent Monitors Must be Allowed to Access Detainees Amid Torture Allegations’ (Amnesty International, 24 July 2016) <https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2016/07/turkey-independent-monitors-must-be-allowed-to-access-detainees-amid-torture-allegations/> accessed 27 October 2016

Book Review: ‘Entrepreneurial Litigation: Its Rise, Fall, and Future’ by John C. Coffee (Harvard 2015)

by Pedro Fortes[1]

Among the scholars who have shaped the debate on class actions in the US, John C. Coffee, Jr is the one most focused on the monetary incentives leading that class counsel to litigate and, in general, on how collective litigation is influenced by money. His most recent book Entrepreneurial Litigation: Its Rise, Fall, and Future (Harvard 2015) is the consolidation of decades of successful academic work, in which Coffee, Director of the Center on Corporate Governance at Columbia Law School, has studied plaintiff attorneys as ‘private attorney generals’, pursuing public goals for private gain.[2] In this mature work, he investigates the origins, the emergence and globalisation of class actions, analysing possible reforms to improve the potential of these juridical instruments to enhance access to justice, judicial economy, and corporate deterrence.

Entrepreneurial Litigation is mandatory reading for everyone interested in the possibilities and limitations of collective actions for law enforcement in contemporary societies. This book is an instant classic, because of its clear argumentation, comprehensive scope, and sharp defence of a hybrid combination of public and private enforcement. The role of law as the guardian of democracy requires litigation to implement protective legislation in society,[3] leading to the establishment of a normative architecture in the US that aggregates multiple small value claims and encourages legal entrepreneurs to pursue collective actions.[4] Particularly for a socio-legal audience, this book explains the growth of collective action in connection with transformations of the legal profession and the plaintiff bar, focusing also on the practical application and the impact of the law. However, some arguments seem to be supported only by anecdotal evidence and socio-legal researchers may find inspiration for comprehensive empirical research related to collective actions, especially the actual experience with public and private enforcement.

In this book, the growth of entrepreneurial litigation is illustrated by concrete historical examples. The reader learns more about Clarence H. Venner, a pioneer of derivative suits in the 1910s – labeled as a “menace to corporate society” and a “professional agitator”, even if his judicial actions were the result of careful research and based on legal flaws and procedural errors.[5] The historical account also describes the appearance of Abraham Pomerantz as the ‘father of the Shareholder Suit’ in the aftermath of the Great Depression,[6] inspiring the development of a professional plaintiff bar led by Harry Lewis, William Weinberger, and Alan Kahn.[7] In the particular case of securities class actions, Lawrence Milberg and Melvin Weiss led the rise of a network of class counsel with strong control over the collective action, low oversight from the client, and the risk of collusive settlements.[8] This book therefore provides a historical account that links to the conceptual analysis Coffee has already developed in a series of articles between 1983 and 2006.

Additionally, the author examines the class action reform that restricted the possibilities for collective actions in the US through a series of laws[9] and judicial precedents.[10] Coffee provides a list of the typical critiques of class actions: collective litigation leads to extortion as a form of ‘legalised blackmail’;[11] collective litigation leads to the exploitation of clients, because only lawyers benefit from collusive settlements;[12] collective litigation does not produce any social benefits for anyone;[13] class actions are undemocratic and violate the separation of powers.[14] All these critiques are dismissed as exaggerated, anecdotal, inconsistent, or rhetorical. For instance, the criticism of opt-out collective actions is dismissed as a mere formalist defence of litigation autonomy that would impose insurmountable obstacles for access to justice and the protection of substantive rights of poor claimants.[15] In a remarkable passage of this book, Coffee puts the figure of the private attorney general in perspective by defending its democratic credentials as ‘a private enforcer performing a public role in order to solve collective action problems…by protecting the public against nonenforcement by public enforcers’.[16] Coffee proves his point with empirical evidence, showing that monetary recovery from securities class actions is often much higher than parallel recovery by the Securities and Exchange Commission.[17] According to him, public enforcement is limited because public bureaus are underfunded, resource-constrained, risk averse, and have limited capacity to deal with a sudden flood of cases or even a single costly and complex case.[18]

This diagnosis leads the author to the defence of a model of semiprivate attorney general, consisting in a hybrid combination of public and private enforcement. On one hand, the architecture of class actions may enable well-funded legal entrepreneurs to litigate complex cases and advance the private enforcement of law.[19] On the other hand, the regime of monetary incentives may distort the collective action, by inducing class counsel to settle cases in their own interest instead of their clients. [20] Coffee proposes a division of labour between class counsel and public officials, suggesting that public enforcers should be responsible for the regular and more urgent cases, leaving the major complex class actions to specially retained law firms operating under supervision of the public bureau.[21] The presence and oversight of public bureaus could also reduce risks of collusion,[22] excessive aggregation of weak claims,[23] and lack of political accountability.[24] Coffee defends reforms that will increase the interaction between private and public enforcement and greater oversight of the private attorney general.[25] According to the author, the objective of this model of semiprivate attorney general ‘is a strategy to combine entrepreneurial zeal with greater accountability and thereby to improve both public and private enforcement’.[26]

This is a very important debate not only for the US class actions, but also for the European model of collective redress and for the Latin American tradition of civil public actions. However, the treatment of the international experience with collective actions in the book is problematic. First, the book seems to suggest the expansion of collective actions across the globe as an imitation of American ideas abroad,[27] failing to recognise the existence of the different families or traditions of Latin America[28] and Europe.[29] Collective redress is not really the European style of class actions,[30] but an alternative approach to collective actions – just like the Latin American tradition of civil public actions.

Secondly, Coffee seems to ignore the possibility of legal entrepreneurship within public enforcement, by considering public interest litigation as non-entrepreneurial[31] and focusing on compensatory damages as the main goal of collective actions.[32] This position downplays the possibilities of public entrepreneurship[33] and the Brazilian experience of developing legal institutions through collective litigation by public actors.[34] This important book therefore fails to connect its core ideas to the international experience, but European and Latin American scholars may still examine those ideas from the standpoint of their own respective traditions of collective actions, economic incentives, and possibilities for both private and public entrepreneurship. The regime of these economic incentives and the coordination of political aspects are essential factors for the design of these juridical mechanisms and the future of collective actions.


[1] Pedro Fortes is an Associate Professor of Law at FGV Law School (Rio de Janeiro) and a public prosecutor at the Attorney General’s Office of the State of Rio de Janeiro.

[2] John C. Coffee, Jr, ‘Rescuing the private attorney general: Why the model of the lawyer as bounty hunter is not working’ (1983) 42 Maryland Law Review 215; John C. Coffee, Jr, ‘Understanding the plaintiff’s attorney: The implications of economic theory for private enforcement of law through class and derivative actions’ (1986) 86 Columbia Law Review 669; John C. Coffee, Jr, ‘The regulation of entrepreneurial litigation: balancing fairness and efficiency in the large class action’, (1987) 54 The University of Chicago Law Review 877; John C. Coffee Jr (1995) 95 ‘Class wars: The dilemma of the mass tort class action’, Columbia Law Review 1343; John C. Coffee, Jr, ‘Class action accountability: Reconciling exit, voice, and loyalty in representative litigation’ (2000) 100 Columbia Law Review 370; John C. Coffee, Jr, ‘Reforming the securities class action: An essay on deterrence and its implementation’ (2006) 106 Columbia law review 1534.

[3] John Coffee, Jr, Entrepreneurial Litigation: Its Rise, Fall, and Future (Harvard 2015) 11.

[4] Ibid 28.

[5] Ibid 34-5.

[6] Ibid 36-8.

[7] Ibid 39-40.

[8] Ibid 64-77.

[9] The Private Securities Litigation Act (1995); The Securities Litigation Uniform Standards Act (1998); The Class Action Fairness Act (2005).

[10] Walmart Stores, Inc v. Dukes 131 S. Ct. 2541 (2011); AT&T Mobility LLC v. Concepcion, 131 S. Ct. 1740 (2011); Comcast v. Behrend, 133 S. Ct. 1426 (2013).

[11] Coffee, Entrepreneurial Litigation (n 3) 133-6.

[12] Ibid 136.

[13] Ibid 136-7.

[14] Ibid 149-51.

[15] Ibid 151.

[16] Ibid 152.

[17] Ibid 174-6.

[18] Ibid 176-80.

[19] Ibid 219.

[20] Ibid 219.

[21] Ibid 222.

[22] Ibid 223-4.

[23] Ibid 224-5.

[24] Ibid 225-7.

[25] Ibid 232-6.

[26] Ibid 236.

[27] Ibid 197.

[28] Angel Oquendo, ‘Upping the Ante: Collective Litigation in Latin America’ (2009) 47 Columbia Journal of Transnational Law 248; Manuel A. Gómez, ‘Will the Birds Stay South? The Rise of Class Actions and Other Forms of Group Litigation Across Latin America’ (2012) 43 The University of Miami Inter-American Law Review 481; Manuel A. Gómez, ‘Smoke signals from the south: the unanticipated effects of an ‘unsuccessful’ litigation on Brazil’s anti-tobacco war’, in Deborah Hensler, Christopher Hodges, and Ianika Tzankova (eds), Class actions in context: how culture, economics, and politics shape collective litigation (Edward Elgar 2016); Antonio Gidi, ‘Class actions in Brazil: a model for civil law countries’ (2003) 51  The American journal of comparative law 311; Antonio Gidi, ‘Class Action Code: A Model for Civil Law Countries’ (2005) 23 The Arizona Journal International & Comparative Law 37; Agustin Barroilhet, ‘Self-interested gate-keeping? Clashes between public and private enforcers in two Chileans class actions’ in Deborah Hensler, Christopher Hodges, and Ianika Tzankova (eds), Class actions in context: how culture, economics, and politics shape collective litigation (Edward Elgar 2016).

[29] Stefan Wrbka, Steven van Uytsel, and Mathias Siems, Collective actions (CUP 2015); Eva Lein and others (eds), Collective redress in Europe: why and how? (BICCL 2015); V. Harsági and C. H. van Rhee (eds), Multi-party redress mechanisms in Europe: squeaking mice? (Intersentia 2014); Christopher Hodges, ‘Collective redress in Europe: the new model’ [2010] Civil justice quarterly 370.

[30] Coffee (n 3) 201-2.

[31] Ibid 7.

 [32] Ibid 204.

[33] See Elinor Ostrom, Public entrepreneurship: a case study in ground water basin management (PhD Thesis, UCLA 1965).

[34] See Salo Coslovsky, Compliance and competitiveness: how prosecutors enforce labour and environmental laws and promote economic development in Brazil (PhD Thesis, MIT 2009); Lesley McAllister, Making law matter: environmental protection and legal institutions in Brazil (Stanford 2008).

Volume 2 | Issue 1

Opening Matters

Socio-Legal Perspectives on Current Global and Local Challenges
by Felix-Anselm van Lier and Matilde Gawronski


The Socio-Legal Lecture

Education for Climate Change
by Mary Robinson


Articles

Who Owns the World? Landscapes of Sovereignty, Property, Dispossession
by Eve Darian-Smith

Implementing International Criminal Court-Ordered Collective Reparations: Unpacking Present Debates
by Marissa R. Brodney

‘Just terror’: or why terrorists use legalistic justifications for their terroristic activities
by Donald Holbrook


Of Law and Society Today

Legality and Power: the 2016 Turkish Coup Attempt and the State of Emergency
by Ali Erol


Wire from the Field

The Invisible Violence Behind the Legal Façade
by Elena Butti


Book Review

‘Entrepreneurial Litigation: Its Rise, Fall, and Future’ by John C. Coffee (Harvard 2015)
by Pedro Fortes


Closing Matters

This Issue’s Editorial Team



 

Who Owns the World? Landscapes of Sovereignty, Property, Dispossession

by Eve Darian-Smith[1]

Abstract

This essay engages with the concept of the global commons in the context of politics surrounding climate change and environmental degradation. Global commons rhetoric is becoming increasingly evident in a wide range of social movements that seek to protect the oceans, atmosphere and biodiversity. There is a growing sense that these resources are collectively shared and owned by everyone. At the same time, and working in the opposite direction, elite companies and countries are buying up land and resources on a massive scale. In what ways is the concentration of land possession in the hands of a few shifting debates about national sovereignty, individual rights to property, and the constitution of a global commons? Reflecting on the politics of resistance to the Keystone XL Pipeline, this essay picks up a question that has ever increasing urgency in our contemporary era – who owns the world and, relatedly, who has the capacity and authority to determine, defend, modify and resist the western-based legal concepts of ‘property’ and ‘possession’?


The question ‘who owns the world?’ presents contradictory responses about the nature of ownership itself. On the one hand, how can ownership at the scale of the planet be anything but absurd in its imposition of an entirely anthropocentric concept on something that cannot be governed or controlled? On the other hand, maybe everyone does or should own some elements of the world (e.g. the atmosphere). But how would that form of possession be defined and imagined? More pragmatically, how could the Anglo-American legal system deal with the concept of collective ownership of the atmosphere and translate it into some sort of regulatory framework? In this essay I play with the contradictory responses to ownership of the global commons as they emerge in the context of the politics surrounding climate change and environmental degradation.[2] As the shared property of humankind, the concept of the global commons forces us to reflect upon our rather limited state-based property laws. In my view, it is this very limitation of conventional western legal frameworks and concepts of ownership that makes the idea of a global commons so timely, interesting and provocative.

With rising awareness of environmental impact on human behaviors and available resources such as water and food, there is a gathering sense that perhaps some elements such as the atmosphere and oceans should really belong in some fundamental way to a collective humanity. The concept of global commons suggests that every person, irrespective of class or status or nationality, has access to and enjoys a common resource. The global commons builds upon a more familiar concept of the open commons which generally refers to such things as public lands, national parks and beaches, and the open access public domain that includes language, internet, unformed ideas, opinions and so on. In theory, these properties and things are open to the public who cannot be excluded from use and access.[3] In practice, however, there are many instances in which certain lands are cordoned off to select sub-sets of people, or access denied on particular grounds of justice, morality or risk (e.g. child pornography on the internet). In short, open access commons are not static or fixed and are constantly being both expanded and diminished according to the political will of national governments and the respective values of their populations.

Open commons are typically owned by governments representing the public at large, and are primarily regulated by national laws of property and intellectual property. National laws are supplemented by international treaties precluding the appropriation of such things as the deep-sea bed and outer-space, and international agencies such as UNESCO which designates certain sites part of a World Heritage. However, it is becoming increasingly evident that inter/national property laws and treaties are of limited application when it comes to thinking about the global commons and ensuring protection and access for the world’s population to resources that may not be limited to any one country or reflect the geopolitical borders of nations. As state and non-state actors increasingly encroach upon some open commons (through fishing, mining, polluting and so on), managing the global commons becomes enormously complicated. One only has to think of Japan’s Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster in 2011, and the global impact of radioactive waste in the oceans and atmosphere, to appreciate the scale of the problem and our current legal and political inadequacies.

In the first part of this essay I explore the emergence of global commons rhetoric in the United States. I then contrast this rhetoric about global ownership with a counter phenomenon occurring around the world which is the concentration of land, resources and possessory rights into the hands of a very few. This concentration of rights points to what some scholars have called the ‘second enclosure’ movement.[4] I then explore public resistance to the Keystone XL Pipeline as a site in which global commons rhetoric was actually performed, in turn animating the concept of the global commons in North American political discourse. Finally, in interrogating the ‘global’ I suggest that thinking about what constitutes the global commons underscores the limits of our modernist liberal paradigm and western worldview. I argue that taking seriously the concept of the global commons suggests new sets of social relations, new ways of looking at ourselves in the world, and new configurations of a public/private sphere that decenter our dominant state-centered legal orders and offer up new spaces of legality and norm-making.[5]

Emerging global commons rhetoric

While the idea of an open commons may be familiar in some societies and cultures, it is exceptionally rare in US market-led politics that has been entrenched for over four decades in the ideology of neoliberalism, privatization, individual gain, and exclusive property rights – all antithetical to the idea of a shared public good. In recent years, three notable events have occurred of great significance to people living in the United States. Together these events have introduced the concept of the global commons into mainstream media, underscoring the idea of common pool resources to be shared by everyone irrespective of race, class, gender or religion.

The first of these events occurred in November 2014. This was the announcement of an historic China/US agreement between Presidents Xi Jinping and Barack Obama setting limits and reductions on carbon emissions in an attempt to protect a shared global resource, the earth’s atmosphere. The departing European Union climate commissioner, Connie Hedegaard, said that halting the growth in Chinese carbon dioxide emissions would ‘be a very important gift from China to the whole world’.[6] The second of these events occurred a year later on 6 November 2015. This was the declaration by Obama that the final phase of the Keystone XL Pipeline would not be approved. After six years of review the TransCanada Corporation was blocked from running pipes from Alberta into Montana and South Dakota and through to Steele City in Nebraska which were planned to transfer up to 830,000 barrels of crude oil a day. The third of these events occurred approximately a month later in December 2015 and was the culmination of two tense weeks at the UN Climate Change conference in Paris. The conference negotiated a global agreement to reduce greenhouse gas emissions and make every effort to prevent temperatures from rising more than 1.5 degree Celsius over the coming decades. The Paris Treaty represented a consensus by the 196 countries attending, and was endorsed in April 2016 with the signatures of 175 of those countries.

President Obama’s pronouncements to protect the earth’s atmosphere, to defend the lands and water tables running across the American heartland, and to pledge the country’s support to reduce climate change have been met with both enormous pleasure and a great deal of outrage. Obama’s introduction of the concept of global commons into mainstream media has been loudly praised by environmentalists and those on the political left, while on the political right it has been condemned by a range of corporations, big energy producers, and Republican leaders who claim Obama’s actions will stifle innovation and growth, reduce jobs and ultimately hurt the economy.[7]

Whether Obama’s actions will be adequate to help cut global carbon emissions and reduce environmental degradation is anyone’s guess. What I wish to focus on in this essay is how the President’s actions have surprisingly, and I think very excitingly, revitalized the concept of the commons – and specifically a global commons – in everyday conversations. This emergence of an open commons rhetoric is surprising because over the past four decades the concept of the commons, the idea that there are things owned by no one and shared by everyone, has been virtually eviscerated in the United States. But as more and more people have come to accept that climate change and rising seas implicate in very alarming ways the stability of wealthy industrialized states, there has emerged a low-key yet perceptible shift in political conversations, especially amongst younger people.[8] Obama’s pronouncements since 2014 have brought these peripheral conversations about the value of protecting common pool resources front and center. As one of the world’s major superpowers where the free-market private sector reigns supreme, these pronouncements are really quite remarkable and open up a range of new questions in the US media: What exactly are the commons? How have the commons been historically managed? Does animating the idea of the commons reinforce liberal notions of property, individualism and the divide between private and public? Or does the idea of common pool resources in the 21st century challenge these modernist ideals and present new relations between people that are not contained and constrained by nation-states? Finally, when thinking about the management of global commons, what are the implications for countries in terms of power-sharing, cooperative sovereignty, democracy, or even what count as authorized regulatory processes? What about non-state communities and their different ways of managing resources beyond those envisaged by dominant western societies?

Pluralizing legal spaces and subjectivities

This essay is not meant to provide solutions or a programmatic way forward, but rather intended as a provocation to thinking about law in the 21st century under conditions of legal plurality that involves, amongst other things, elements of postnationalism, postcolonialism, posthumanism, and postsovereignty.[9] Thinking about the global commons provides an opportunity to reflect upon new spaces of legality and correspondingly new modes of collective political and social activity that may not be bound by the horizons and logics of nation-states. These new modes of activity may also highlight the inadequacies of a dominant western legal framework that has enabled our current era of growing global inequities, oppressive finance capitalism, and explicit dispossession and displacement of the majority of the world’s population.

With respect to reflecting about new forms of politics I take a cue from the work of Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe and specifically the last chapter in their influential yet controversial book Hegemony and Socialist Strategy. It should be remembered that this book was written in 1985, just as Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher had been re-elected for a second term, but before the fall of the Wall, before the internet, before climate change was identified, before unending wars on terror, and well before conversations about globalization and its impacts. In this book Laclau and Mouffe wrote about new democratic struggles in what they called ‘a plurality of political spaces’. In explaining this term, Laclau and Mouffe argue that original forms of democratic thought were always linked to the state. And within the state was ‘constituted a public space linked to the idea of citizenship’.[10] In contrast, they identified more radical forms of politics that would transcend Marxist class analysis and ‘broaden the domain of the exercise of democratic rights beyond the limited traditional field of ‘citizenship’’.[11] In a remarkable passage Laclau and Mouffe wrote – and remember this is 1985:

What we are witnessing is a politicization far more radical than any we have known in the past, because it tends to dissolve the distinction between the public and the private, not in terms of the encroachment on the private by a unified public space, but in terms of a proliferation of radically new and different political spaces. We are confronted with the emergence of a plurality of subjects, whose forms of constitution and diversity it is only possible to think if we relinquish the category of ‘subject’ as [citizen].[12]

Today in much scholarship there is increasing attention given to the plural spaces of political engagement – and here I am thinking of the works of human geographers such as Doreen Massey and David Harvey who have in turn inspired a generation of spatially-oriented critical sociolegal thinkers such as Lauren Benton, Nick Blomley and David Delaney. Together these scholars highlight the need for all sociolegal scholarship to take seriously the spatial challenges – be these physical, metaphorical, or symbolic – to prevailing normative understandings of law and justice.[13] It is in the context of these emerging conversations about law and space that the concept of the global commons presents one way of thinking about how a ‘plurality of subjects’ and ‘proliferation of radically new and different political spaces’ – including those conventionally designated public and private – are being reconfigured in our contemporary historical moment.

Expulsions and dispossessions

Emerging conversations about the global commons and resource sharing are rising in prominence in tandem with another phenomenon that appears to be working in exactly the opposite direction. This second phenomenon is the enormous rush to grab lands in Africa, the Americas and around the world by rich countries and elite corporations anxious to secure food production and exclusive rights to natural resources and biodiversity. This land rush involves what some are arguing is an unprecedented enclosure of the commons, and involves the mass dispossession of peoples of their lands in a literal sense, as well as spiritually and psychologically displacing people from their sense of place.

Saskia Sassen in her book Expulsions: Brutality and Complexity in the Global Economy (2014) writes that we have entered a new era of capitalism in the 21st century. The post WWII era, she argues, was ‘driven by a logic of inclusion, by concerted efforts to bring the poor and marginalized into the political and economic mainstream’. But, she goes on, the ‘nation-based assumptions underlying this project of building the just society began to crumble toward the century’s end’.[14] Today, Sassen argues, the costs for maintaining functioning societies are antithetical to the economic logics driving financial markets. And as a result, today’s pervasive economic system is creating disposable populations expelled from civil and political life outside the protections of law and state.[15]

It is hard not to take Sassen’s argument very seriously. For what we are currently experiencing is the undoing of the liberal welfare state system and the dismantling of the middle classes that includes the crushing of failed states (such as Greece and others in the global south through IMF and World Bank structural adjustment schemes), the promotion of unending regional wars and remote drone warfare, the incarceration of millions in for-profit jails, the abandonment of asylum seekers on boats in the Mediterranean sea, the escalation of massive permanent refugee camps around the world, and the slow violence of environmental degradation and climate change.[16] As noted by the Office of the United Nation’s High Commissioner for Refugees in a 17 June 2015 report, there are now more on the run from oppression and more refugees in the world than at any time since the staggering figures of post-WWII.  The report notes that nearly 14 million people were newly displaced in 2014 alone, and this figure includes 11 million people who are scattered within the borders of their own countries, the highest recorded in the UN agency’s 50 year history.

What this cumulative vision underscores is that in all of these instances people are being expelled – literally and figuratively – from public life. Many of these people have been abandoned by their countries, have no recourse to national or international laws, and will probably live their lives expelled from state protections and capacities to access laws of any sort. This horrific reality is driven by the new logics of finance capitalism that sees more value in land and natural resources than in people’s value as workers and consumers which were the hallmarks of an older form of market capitalism.[17]

While some commentators see the mass dispossession of peoples from lands, cultures and opportunities as reflecting the new logics of finance capitalism, other scholars see this recent form of dispossession as the latest iteration of colonial forms of oppression that emerged primarily in the 18th century. In an important special journal issue, Reflections on Dispossession, Brenna Bhandar and Davina Bhandar explore the dialectical relationship between capital accumulation and the logics of dispossession on which capitalism is ontologically and epistemologically founded.[18] They interrogate the constitutive interrelations of self-possession and dispossession, and embedded notions of freedom and slavery, that are historically encapsulated in the idea of a self-determining individual capable of owning their body and mind as property. They write:

To be dispossessed of one’s home, land, territory, means of subsistence, history, language, and sense of self has been a defining experience of much of the world’s population in the modern era. The global reaches of imperialism have not been relegated to a distant past, but are a networked legacy instrumental to shaping contemporary forms of modernity. Yet the acceleration of dispossession, and the extension of its grasp in contemporary late capitalism have produced its own cultural logics, affects and ways of being, which we refer to here as ‘cultures of dispossession’.[19]

Bhandar and Bhandar argue that ‘cultures of dispossession have become an intrinsic part of living in capitalist societies’.[20] If that is correct – and I think that it is – then how is it possible to reconcile historical and contemporary practices of exclusion and displacement (of migrants, refugees, indigenous communities, marginalized poor and racialized and criminalized minorities) with the idea of the global commons and collective sharing of air, water, natural resources, biodiversity, outer space, knowledge, experience etc.? Doesn’t the very idea of global commons contradict the historically embedded capitalist logics of dispossession? How can the ‘propertyless’, ‘homeless’ and ‘stateless’ make a claim to owning anything? Moreover, doesn’t a claim to global ownership transgress the normative private/public divide that crystallized around the legal concept of exclusive ownership rights to private property?[21] As suggested at the outset of this essay, President Obama has introduced these questions, perhaps inadvertently, to the general American public in a cluster of acts defending the earth’s lands, waters, atmosphere and biodiversity. Significantly, these questions fly in the face of a society that has built its nationalist identity on an ideology of ‘manifest destiny’ that involved conquering ‘nature’ and possessing and exploiting land, slaves and indigenous peoples.[22]

 Darian-Smith - Indian_Land_for_Sale

Figure 1: United States Department of the Interior advertisement offering ‘Indian Land for Sale’. The man pictured is a Yankton Sioux named Not Afraid Of Pawnee. 1911.

Carving up the commons today

The idea of the global commons includes elements that are arguably held by all humankind such as biodiversity, genes, peace, cultural assets, the earth’s atmosphere and so on.[23] Against this inclusive conceptualization, we are concurrently experiencing the privatization and enclosure of common pool resources all over the world – in the massive land grabs that have taken place across the global south in the name of development, in the privatization of water, the corporatization of food, the commodification of public space, fisheries and oceans, as well as the commodification of a range of cultural assets and intellectual properties.

As the concept of the commons is stretched beyond tangible resources such as land and water, so too are the mechanisms used to enclose them. We can see this in the commodification and economizing of almost everything: in the privatization of creative works, information, and knowledge, in the corporatizing of universities, the monopolizing of indigenous knowledge and experience, and the patenting of ‘bacteria, genes, living tissue and both natural and bioengineered life-forms’.[24] Together these forms of enclosure are creating a pervasive cordoning off of public goods that amount to what David Bollier has described as ‘the silent theft and private plunder of our common wealth’.[25] Legal scholar James Boyle calls the enclosing of the public domain the ‘second enclosure movement’ of late modernity which may, like the first enclosure movement, have detrimental consequence.[26] Boyle laments, ‘We rush to enclose ever-larger stretches of the commons of the mind without convincing economic evidence that it will help processes of innovation and with very good reason to believe it will actually hurt them’.[27] Yet as the property law scholar Margaret Davies notes:

The scholarship on new enclosures and the public domain can give the impression that an ever-increasing slice of the finite pie which is the world’s tangible and intellectual resources is being reduced to property. In some contexts this is undoubtedly true, but a broad historical perspective presents a more complicated picture of shifting demarcations between objects and subjects of property, between public, common and private domains, and between things which are regarded as available for human exploitation and those which are not.[28]

In conjunction with the complexities associated with the so-called second enclosure movement is the shifting role of the nation-state. Historically, governments would hold some common resources on behalf of the populations. The state was seen as the protector or trustee of common goods such as water, national parks and beaches. Today, however, the state is typically regarded as working with corporations in exploiting the commons at the expense of ordinary people. National governments all around the world have allowed the privatization of what was formerly thought of as publically-owned resources. This has resulted in the conflation of public (i.e. state) with private (i.e. private market sector), creating in turn a deliberately ambiguous economic sphere that is both decentralized and largely unaccountable. In this context Wendy Brown notes, ‘The economization of everything and every sphere, including political life, desensitizes us to the bold contradiction between an allegedly free-market economy and a state now wholly in service to and controlled by it’.[29]

The conflation between state and market, public and private, is most evident in huge extractive industries and land grabs in Africa and Latin America that are enabled by countries such as the US, China, Russia and Australia.[30] Importantly, the dominant Anglo-American international legal system facilitates the appropriations and exploitation of the global commons. Nicole Graham in her book Lawscape: Property, Environment, Law (2011) talks about the ‘dephysicalisation’ of property in modern Anglo-American law which treats property as an abstract right rather than a material thing and place. As an abstracted property right, disconnected from people and places, property law can be applied across space and time and was essential in earlier processes of European colonization and appropriation of foreign territories. Today, the dephysicalisation of property law enables companies to purchase land around the world and win legal actions against local communities fighting the takeover of their territories, resources and embedded cultural and social identities. As Graham argues, the dominant legal conceptualization of property leaves little room to recognize people-place relations, which are involved in many conflicts about land and ecosystems currently unfolding around the world. She writes: ‘The strangeness and crises of people-place relations prescribed by modern law are increasingly evident from disputes over property rights where what has been lost has not been the right, but the place’.[31] In some cases places are literally wiped from the face of the earth with the building of mega dams, the mining of mountain tops, and the deforestation of rainforests. As places disappear, the embedded social economies and culturally based people-place relationships are also obliterated. People are physically, psychologically, and symbolically dispossessed from their way of life and being in the world.

Surrounding the politics of climate change, it seems that on the one hand we have calls across a spectrum of social movements and non-state actors to imagine a new kind of global commons. This global commons would be truly open, and in belonging to humankind would work in the best interests of an interconnected and interdependent global population. But on the other hand we have an overwhelming global market system that through the abstraction of property law is implementing a ‘second enclosure movement’, resulting in turn in the physical and psychological dispossession of millions of ordinary people. This suggests that emerging demands to protect the global commons and the pressing realities of global dispossession are mutually constitutive and historically interlocking processes that are finding themselves in increasing tension under 21st century late capitalism. This returns us to the earlier discussion on ‘cultures of dispossession’ whereby the global displacement of millions is the result of today’s capitalist system grounded in colonial histories of dispossession, racialization and violence.[32] This highlights a profound dilemma. Proposing the protection of the global commons as a response to halting climate change and environmental degradation critiques, but does not displace, the capitalist system and its logics of dispossession that make such a solution necessary in the first place.

For this reason, some indigenous communities will not support the idea of a global commons since it means embracing the logics of capitalist accumulation and affirming colonial histories of indigenous dispossession on which capitalism advanced.[33] For these indigenous communities, there is nothing to be held in common with former colonizers and there is no desire for any form of collective ownership or stewardship. Rather, for these communities the objective is to refuse liberal recognition and reclaim their ability for self-governance through the returning of lands, places, resources, histories, laws, languages, memories, legacies and knowledge that was taken away from them in the first place. In other words, their historical loss is not a common loss to be recognized and ‘restored’ by liberal states through international law for the benefit of all of humanity, but a particular loss implemented on them through policies of explicit racism and genocide that structurally endure into the 21st century.[34]

The ‘politics of refusal’ held by some indigenous communities stands in stark contrast to other indigenous communities that may be in favor of, or see little alternative to, pursuing reconciliation and collaboration with former colonizers. As discussed below with respect to resistance to the Keystone XL Pipeline, the indigenous communities involved in this case fell into the latter group and regarded the rhetoric of the global commons as a political and legal platform through which to effect social change. How to reconcile these differences amongst and across various indigenous communities in settler states and elsewhere is beyond the scope of this essay. But these differences are important to keep in mind when discussing the concept of the global commons since they temper the argument that protecting global commons is in the best interests of the world’s population. We should not forget that what one person may think of as a restored ‘global commons’ may for another be a stolen ‘local particularity’ on which their identity, culture, livelihood and future depends.

These debates also highlight the slippage between truly open global commons and limited commons whereby some people are excluded from access. We can see this slippage in the establishment of world heritage sites which are typically considered to be open commons, protected and preserved for a global humanity. But as was the case of the Yosemite National Park (established in 1890 and designated a World Heritage site in 1984), the Ahwahneechee tribe of the Yosemite Valley was run off the land in order to create a pristine natural landscape for mostly non-indigenous visitors to enjoy.[35]

Performing the global commons – Keystone XL Pipeline

The Keystone XL Pipeline controversy presents a moment in which a range of non-state actors resisted a powerful transnational corporation and in the process affirmed the value of what Nicole Graham calls ‘people-place’ relations.[36] Putting it another way, the Keystone XL Pipeline controversy played a powerful political and symbolic role in shifting the popular imagination in North America around notions of common lands and intertwined common futures. What was at stake was not just the lands upon which the pipeline was to run, but a new understanding of how the pipeline would impact a range of global commons including the atmosphere, ground water, and biodiversity.

The Keystone XL Pipeline was the fourth and final phase of a project commissioned by the TransCanada Corporation to run a pipeline from Alberta (Canada) to refineries in Illinois and Texas (United States). The Keystone XL Pipeline was proposed to run through Montana and South Dakota to Steele City in Nebraska and was planned to transfer up to 830,000 barrels of crude oil a day. For various reasons, including TransCanada’s poor record of project management and pipeline ruptures, the project met with considerable opposition in the United States (and Canada) by Democrats, environmental activists, farmers, tribal communities, and the general public. Of particular concern was that the route travelled over the Sand Hills in Nebraska which is a wild and fragile prairie and was designated a National Natural Landmark in 1984 for being the largest wetland ecosystem in the United States. Environmental concerns were also a great worry to the many Native American tribes whose reservations are crossed by proposed pipeline routes. Indigenous peoples cannot forget centuries of colonialism, and specifically remember dispossessing land grabs by white farmers in the 19th centuries as well as decades of non-compensation for the dumping of toxins on reservation land that has polluted water and created genetic disorders among their children across generations.[37]

Darian-Smith - 2 - 13feb17_nokxl_dc

Figure 2: An estimated crowd of 35-50,000 gathers near the Washington Monument on Feb 17, 2013 to protest the Keystone XL Pipeline and support action on climate change. 17 February 2013.  https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:13feb17_nokxl_dc.jpg

Public demonstrations and opposition to Keystone persisted for five years and involved groups from Canada, across the United States, and many international organizations (Figure 2). During this time activists of many stripes and affiliations organized marches and demonstrations and mobilized global media to bring worldwide attention to the negative potentials in terms of oil spills and greenhouse gas emissions of the Keystone project. These groups did not agree on every issue but they all agreed that the pipeline would cause damage now and in the future and should be stopped. Perhaps one of the most unlikely of these coalitions was the Reject and Protect march, a five-day gathering of the Cowboy/Indian Alliance in Washington DC in April 2014 (Figure 3). This alliance brought together indigenous and non-indigenous peoples – those who had historically taken land and those who were historically dispossessed of it – in ‘truly unprecedented ways’. As noted by one native participant at the demonstration, ‘It’s no surprise to me that mother earth is what’s bringing us together – literally on common ground.’[38]

In a passionate plea to President Obama, Wiowey Najin Win, Director of Owe Aku, a grassroots organization of the Lakota people, urged Obama to be visionary:

The KXL can contaminate the ground water and surface waters with not only its vile tarsands oil but the many lethal and deadly chemicals mixed with it…Common sense tells an intelligent person that the KXL tarsands pipeline is a black snake with deadly venom that must be kept away from our lodges and our environment. Would you make the decision to allow a rattlesnake to live in your living room or the bedroom of your daughters and sons? …Do not open the door to this beautiful land and water to the black snake so that it can enter our lodges. It will not care or discern that it is a Lakota standing there or a white man standing there. The white farmers and ranchers are just as much at risk as we Lakota are…I urge you to see beyond the desire to be part of the backslapping good ole boy network of Fat Taker pleasing the appetite of insatiable greed…I urge you to be brave and visionary and not only stand apart from, but stand against, Fat Taker.[39]

Darian-Smith - 3 Screen Shot 2016-09-06 at 14.47.38

Figure 3: Reject and Protect Demonstration, Cowboy Indian Alliance to stop Keystone XL Pipeline. Washington D.C.,  April 22, 2014. Photo taken by Mary Anne Andrei. https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/uGB7Cu_S_0CXqJF9vJ0v_dMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0

With mounting public resistance and legal challenges, President Obama ultimately rejected the Keystone XL Pipeline on 6 November 2015.  This was seen by many across the US and Canada and around the world as a major political and symbolic victory. Anti-Keystone activists had been effective in evoking a range of common interests in their united stand against the mining corporation’s attempt to enclose lands and exploit natural resources, transforming ‘perceptions of self-interest, making possible coalitions where none existed before’.[40]  These coalitions had also been successful in subverting the paradigm of modern property law and its ‘dephysicalisation’ by presenting alternative people-place relations that prioritized local communities and their various interactions and connections with land.[41] Obama’s siding with the activists and calling for the need to protect a collective global future affirmed a set of values at odds with finance capitalism and the maximizing of economic profit. By standing in alliance with a range of non-state actors in the form of environmental activists, social justice organizations, and anti-globalization social movements, Obama affirmed that another future is possible outside the free-market quick-profit logic that runs so deeply in American political discourse.[42]

Resistance to the Keystone XL Pipeline also marks another feature emerging around the world in the context of rising global dispossession, inequality, and precarious existence. This is what Judith Butler and Athena Athanasiou call the ‘performative in the political’ in which disenfranchised communities come together, often in desperation, to assert their collective stance against exploitation, discrimination and erasure. In their book Dispossession: The Performative in the Political (2013), Butler and Athanasiou are concerned with how groups of people perform their dispossession,  concurrently calling for new ways of belonging and being that do not necessarily hinge on the premise of property ownership and self-interested individualism.[43] While Butler and Athanasiou don’t explicitly refer to the concept of global commons, their theorizing suggests that we can think of resistance to the Keystone XL Pipeline as the performing or enacting of the global commons. In this context, Athanasiou’s concluding words from the book seem most appropriate:

If there is a crowd, there is also a media event that forms across space and time, calling for the demonstrations, so some set of global connections is being articulated, a different sense of the global from the ‘globalized market’. And some set of values is being enacted in the form of collective resistance: a defense of our collective precarity and persistence in the making of equality and the many-voiced and unvoiced ways of refusing to be disposable.[44]

Protecting the global commons

While there may be a rising consciousness about the global commons amongst ordinary people, protecting common pool resources presents distinct challenges in international law. Despite attempts, international law has not yet been able to provide an effective institutional framework to govern global common goods such as biodiversity, water, and the atmosphere, and other less obvious common resources such as global justice or a global public sphere. This is in large part because international law developed historically ‘as a system of norms regulating reciprocal relations between sovereign states’, hence locking out of most conversations non-state actors without claims to national sovereignty and who do not ground their claims within the liberal framework of self-possessing individuals.[45]

Kathyrn Milun explores this problem in her book The Political Uncommons (2010). She highlights the problems faced by an international legal system in attempting to govern global commons because, she argues, the very cultural logic inherent in international law is bound to state systems of governance that were built on the dispossession of indigenous peoples. Milun’s argument brings us back to the earlier discussion around Brenna Bhandar and Davina Bhandar’s ‘cultures of dispossession’ and the historically embedded capitalist logics of removal in contemporary societies. These cultural and capitalist logics seemingly preclude notions of collective relations to land outside a western property regime. Yet Milun is ultimately optimistic, arguing that we can learn from cross-cultural engagements with different forms of land tenure that are increasingly finding accommodation within mainstream law courts.[46] This optimism is also evident in the very gradual accommodations being made to indigenous worldviews such as occurred in the drafting of the Universal Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.[47] The opening up of the Westphalian system is forcing new notions of global governance and shifts in how to understand geographical and intellectual property as a collective resource that does not necessarily demand exclusive access or control. As Francesco Francioni has written in the context of how best to govern global common resources, this shift ‘compels a rethinking of sovereignty not only in terms of [it being the] ultimate locus of authority, but also as the indispensable source of power to effectively achieve the goal of respecting and protecting these ‘common goods’ in the general interest of humanity’.[48]

Rethinking of conventional legal concepts and legal relations is occurring as grassroots organizations around the world, and particularly in the global south, are increasingly demanding a say in the management of resources. These grassroots organizations champion what the Nobel-winning economist Elinor Ostrom argues in her book Governing the Commons (1990), namely that local communities may be the better solution in the managing of the global commons.[49] Admittedly, Ostrom’s argument is primarily about limited commons where a specific group or village has access to a particular resource. So Ostrom’s argument is not about truly open commons and over the years there have been critiques made of her work that suggest her use of community case studies have limited global application.[50] In other words, Ostrom’s argument does not easily translate to the concept of the global commons or to the expansion of the commons to include such things as genetic materials and knowledge that are not subject to exclusive use or scarcity reasoning. That being said, Ostrom’s contributions are significant in that she shows a range of alternative non-state solutions to resource management, arguing against the western presumption that only markets or centralized states are capable of managing common resources.[51]

In 2009 the World Social Forum issued a manifesto titled ‘Reclaim the Commons’, and many environmental, pan-indigenous, and new labor movements took up the theme of local self-determination. The World Social Forum and other international NGOs and organizations have been essential in nurturing a worldwide push-back against neoliberal market logics and the privatization of global commons. Sometimes these efforts have been successful, if only symbolically, such as the $19 billion ruling against Chevron by an Ecuadorian court for polluting the region’s rainforest and its globally significant biodiversity. In other cases there is slow but real change, as with the adoption in a number of Latin American countries of the global guidelines on land tenure published in 2012 by the Committee on World Food Security. These guidelines include such things as respect for human dignity and gender equality.[52] These moments of pushback and resistance by non-state actors, while perhaps fleeting and unenforceable in the immediate sense are – I would argue – still immensely important in that they present alternative ways of being in the world. To put it in Butler and Athanasiou’s terminology of performativity, these moments provide opportunities for different enactments of political, economic, social, and cultural practice.[53] Implicit in the global commons rhetoric are different epistemologies and ontologies than those ‘implied by the neoliberal marketplace and state’.[54] These include different constructions of property, resources, possession, control, individualism and self-interest, as well as different spaces for alternative legal framings and social organization. Hence, argues Bollier, ‘The law of the commons represents something of a threat to formal law because its substance and legitimacy derive from the always-shifting social practices of the community’.[55]

Concluding comments

I like to think of struggles around the world against the enclosure of global commons not as Christopher Hill described resistance to the first enclosure movement – a World Turned Upside Down – but rather as a World Turned Inside Out. What we are increasingly experiencing – in both the global south and global north – is a new phenomenon whereby people who have historically been corralled and contained by nation-states as domesticated citizens are now being expelled from that framework and forced to challenge from an ‘outsider’ position the very western legal system and capitalist logic that sought to manage them in the first place. These outsiders – indigenous peoples and LGBTQ communities, as well as racially, ethnically and religiously marginalized groups – are ‘returning’ to demand a place at the decision-making table.[56]

Yet there is something new to the current moment with the numbers of the displaced and disenfranchised rapidly swelling as concentrations of power and possession settle in the hands of the very few. As the hollowing out of the middle classes continues, and the populations of the marginalized rise to include those who were historically the oppressors, opportunities are emerging for new coalitions such as the Cowboy/Indian alliance protesting the Keystone XL Pipeline. These new coalitions speak to what Laclau and Mouffe noted back in 1985, and which I referred to at the beginning of this essay, of the ‘proliferation of radically new and different political spaces’ and a ‘plurality of subjects’ that exist alongside the cultural logics of modern state-building and dispossession. These new spaces and subjectivities are opening up across a global/local spatial continuum and include actors that range from elite climate scientists to impoverished environmental refugees. Peasants, laborers, immigrants, indigenous peoples, and millions of the world’s poor are increasingly talking to each other through new media and organizing across space and time, cultures and languages, laws and religions.

However, it is important not to romanticize collective efforts that champion the global commons and resist environmental degradation and processes of dispossession. It is important to remember that the late capitalist system through which these collective efforts are being forged has not been dislodged, nor have western ‘cultures of dispossession’ been transcended.[57]  What collective efforts and new coalitions do remind us of is that we now live in a postnational and postcolonial world and that our destiny may not be one of inevitable tragedy.[58] They also remind us that we need to include in any understanding of the global commons plural legal norms and non-state legal actors, as well as inclusive and dynamic concepts of sovereignty, property and collective forms of legal ownership. And somewhat counter-intuitively, since the global commons is a concept intertwined with deep histories of exploitative capitalism, embracing its promise also reminds us to give back to indigenous peoples who want it control over lands and resources that have been stolen. Perhaps most importantly, these moments of collective resistance to market logics and environmental degradation underscore new possibilities of being and relating in the world that question the taken-for-granted relationship between state and citizen, and the public/private, insider/outsider, lawful/lawless, propertied/propertyless distinctions that relation engenders.


[1] Eve Darian-Smith is Professor and Chair in Global Studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Ideas for this essay were first explored in a keynote delivered at the conference of the Law and Society Association of Australia and New Zealand, Brisbane (2014), and further developed in my presentation of the Annual Socio-Legal Lecture, Centre for Socio-Legal Studies, University of Oxford (2016). I am grateful for being invited to give these public lectures and for the excellent feedback I have received from faculty and students on both occasions. I also thank Jon Goldberg-Hiller and Margaret Davies for their very thoughtful comments on an earlier draft.

[2] Jeremy Davies, The Birth of the Anthropocene (Univ of California Press 2016).

[3] Margaret Davies, Property: Meanings, histories, theories (Routledge 2007) 64-6.

[4] James Boyle, ‘The second enclosure movement and the construction of the public domain’ (2003) 66 Law and contemporary problems 33; James Boyle, The public domain: Enclosing the commons of the mind (Yale University Press 2008).

[5] Boaventura de Sousa Santos, Toward a new common sense: law, science and politics in the paradigmatic transition (Routledge London 1995).

[6] Edward Wong, ‘China’s Climate Change Plan Raises Questions’ (New York Times, 12 November 2014) <http://www.nytimes.com/2014/11/13/world/asia/climate-change-china-xi-jinping-obama-apec.html?_r=0&gt; accessed 30 May 2016.

[7] William Maudlin and Amy Harder, ‘Obama Faces Obstacles to Emissions Deal with China’ (Wall Street Journal, 12 November 2014) <http://www.wsj.com/articles/u-s-china-agree-to-curb-greenhouse-gas-emissions-1415763692&gt; accessed 30 May 2016.

[8] This has been particularly evident in the success of Bernie Sanders in his bid for the Democratic nomination in the 2016 campaign for president of the United States.

[9] Eve Darian-Smith, ‘The Constitution of Identity: New Modalities of Nationality, Citizenship, Belonging and Being’ in Austin Sarat and Patricia Ewick (eds), Handbook of Law and Society (Handbook of Law and Society, Wiley Blackwell 2015) 351-66.

[10] Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hegemony and socialist strategy: Towards a radical democratic politics (Verso 2001) 185.

[11] Ibid 185.

[12] Ibid 181.

[13] See Eve Darian-Smith, Laws and societies in global contexts: Contemporary approaches (Cambridge University Press 2013) 167-83.

[14] Saskia Sassen, Expulsions (Harvard University Press 2014) 212.

[15] See Judith Butler, Precarious life: The powers of mourning and violence (Verso 2006).

[16] Rob Nixon, Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor (Harvard University Press 2011).

[17] Sassen, Expulsions (n 14) 10.

[18] Brenna Bhandar and Davina Bhandar, ‘Cultures of Dispossession: Critical Reflections on Rights, Status and Identities’ (2016) 14 darkmatter Journal .

[19] Ibid 2.

[20] Ibid 10. See also: David Harvey, The new imperialism (Oxford University Press, USA 2003); David Harvey, Rebel cities: from the right to the city to the urban revolution (Verso Books 2012); Judith Butler and Athena Athanasiou, Dispossession: The performative in the political (John Wiley & Sons 2013). With respect to settler colonial contexts see: David Lloyd and Patrick Wolfe, ‘Settler colonial logics and the neoliberal regime’ (2016) 6 Settler Colonial Studies 109; Lisa Ford, Settler sovereignty: Jurisdiction and indigenous people in America and Australia, 1788-1836 (Harvard University Press 2010); Lisa Ford and Tim Rowse, Between Indigenous and Settler Governance (Routledge 2012).

[21] Joseph William Singer, Entitlement: the paradoxes of property (Yale University Press 2008).

[22] Amy S. Greenberg, Manifest manhood and the antebellum American empire (Cambridge University Press 2005); Figure 1.

[23] See Jane B. Holder and Tatiana Flessas, ‘Emerging commons’ (2008) 17 Social & Legal Studies 299.

[24] David Bollier, Think like a commoner: A short introduction to the life of the commons (New Society Publishers 2014) 74.

[25] David Bollier, Silent theft: The private plunder of our common wealth (Routledge 2013); Davies, Property: Meanings, histories, theories (n 3) 71.

[26] Boyle, ‘The second enclosure movement and the construction of the public domain’ (n 4); Boyle, The public domain: Enclosing the commons of the mind (n 4).

[27] Boyle, ‘The second enclosure movement and the construction of the public domain’ (n 4) 49-50.

[28] Davies, Property: Meanings, histories, theories (n 3) 76.

[29] Wendy Brown, Undoing the demos: Neoliberalism’s stealth revolution (MIT Press 2015) 4.

[30] Charles Geisler, ‘New Terra Nullius Narratives and the Gentrification of Africa’s “Empty Lands”‘ (2015) 18 Journal of World-Systems Research 15; Ruth Hall, ‘Land grabbing in Southern Africa: the many faces of the investor rush’ (2011) 38 Review of African Political Economy 193.

[31] Nicole Graham, Lawscape: property, environment, law (Routledge 2010) 185-6.

[32] Bhandar and Bhandar, ‘Cultures of Dispossession: Critical Reflections on Rights, Status and Identities’ (n 18).

[33] See Glen Sean Coulthard, Red skin, White masks (University of Minnesota Press Minneapolis, MN 2014).

[34] Audra Simpson, Mohawk interruptus: Political life across the borders of settler states (Duke University Press 2014); Coulthard, Red skin, White masks; Aileen Moreton-Robinson, The White Possessive (University of Minnesota Press 2015).

[35] Lafayette Houghton Bunnell, Discovery of the Yosemite, and the Indian War of 1851: Which Led to that Event (FH Revell Company 1892).

[36] Graham, Lawscape: property, environment, law (n 31).

[37] See for instance the report filed by Zumila Wobaga, spokesperson for the Sioux Nation Treaty Council, on the uranium contamination of the Northern Great Plains of the United States, in November 2015 (United Nations General Assembly, Report of the Special Rapporteur on the implications for human rights of the environmentally sound management and disposal of hazardous substances and wastes, Baskut Tuncak (Human Rights Council, A/HRC/27/54, 2014).

[38] See ‘Cowboys and Indians Stand Together Against Keystone XL’ (National Geographic, 14 May 2014) <http://voices.nationalgeographic.com/2014/05/14/cowboys-and-indians-stand-together-against-keystone-xl/> accessed 15 May 2016.

[39] Wiowey Najin Win, ‘Testimony before the South Dakota Public Utilities Commission’ 2015) <www.oweakuinternational.org> accessed 24 August 2016.

[40] Also: ‘…it is not enough merely to offer criticisms of the logic of enclosure. What is needed is deeper. We need a change in the way these issues are understood, a change that transforms even our perceptions of self-interest, making possible coalitions where none existed before’ (Boyle, ‘The second enclosure movement and the construction of the public domain’ (n 4) 52).

[41] Graham, Lawscape: property, environment, law (n 31).

[42] Boaventura de Sousa Santos, ‘Another knowledge is possible: Beyond northern epistemologies’ (2007) .

[43] Butler and Athanasiou, Dispossession: The performative in the political (n 20). See also: Davina Cooper, Everyday utopias: The conceptual life of promising spaces (Duke University Press 2013).

[44] Butler and Athanasiou, Dispossession: The performative in the political (n 20) 197.

[45] Francesco Francioni, ‘International common goods: an epilogue’ in Federico Lenzerini and Ana Filipa Vrdoljak (eds), International law for common goods : normative perspectives on human rights, culture and nature (International law for common goods : normative perspectives on human rights, culture and nature, Hart Publishing 2014) 443, 444.

[46] Kathryn Milun, The political uncommons: the cross-cultural logic of the global commons (Ashgate Publishing, Ltd. 2011). See also: Kirsten Anker, Declarations of Interdependence: A Legal Pluralist Approach to Indigenous Rights (Routledge 2014); Joshua Kleinfeld, ‘The Double Life of International Law: Indigenous Peoples and Extractive Industries’ (2016) 129 Harvard Law Review 1755.

[47] See however Moreton-Robinson, The White Possessive (n 34).

[48] Francioni, ‘International common goods: an epilogue’ (n 45) 447-8.

[49] Elinor Ostrom and others, ‘Revisiting the commons: local lessons, global challenges’ (1999) 284 science 278.

[50] David Harvey, ‘The future of the commons’ (2011) 2011 Radical history review 101, 103.

[51] Ostrom and others, ‘Revisiting the commons: local lessons, global challenges’ (n 49).

[52] For more information on the Voluntary Guidelines on the Responsible Governance of Tenure of Land, Fisheries and Forests in the Context of National Food Security see: <http://www.fao.org/nr/tenure/voluntary-guidelines/en/&gt;.

[53] Butler and Athanasiou, Dispossession: The performative in the political (n 20).

[54] David Bollier, The Future of the Commons: Notes from a retreat exploring the potential of the commons to fight enclosures and build commons-based alternatives (2009) <http://commonstrust.global-negotiations.org/resources/Bollier,%20Crottorf%20retreat.pdf> accessed 24 August 2016.

[55] Bollier, Think like a commoner: A short introduction to the life of the commons (n 24) 85.

[56] James Clifford, Returns (Harvard University Press 2013).

[57] Bhandar and Bhandar, ‘Cultures of Dispossession: Critical Reflections on Rights, Status and Identities’ (n 18).

[58] Garrett Hardin, ‘The Tragedy of the Commons’ (1968) 162 Science 1243.

This Issue’s Editorial Team

Editors-in-Chief

Matilde Gawronski

Friso Jansen

Felix-Anselm van Lier

Copy-Editor

Victoria Baltrusch

Advisory Board

Dr Bettina Lange

Dr Nicole Stremlau

Special Thanks

The Editorial Team would like to thank the Fellows and students of the Centre for Socio-Legal Studies, including a number of anonymous reviewers, for the support and advice given, without which this first issue of the JOxCSLS would have never been completed.

Ethiopia’s Sharia Courts

By Michael Kebede [1]

Samira[2] walked into Sheikh Sirak’s courthouse teary, clutching a tattered sheet held together by sticky tape.  If her absentee husband’s brother and lawyer stood for stolid detachment, she cut the inverse image of scorned fury.  She said in court that her husband’s divorce request came without warning, as a bolt from the blue, that she tore it apart the minute she saw it two days before.  When she mended and read it she realized it was a court summons.  The judge told her that she must submit a reply to the Registrar stating whether she consents to the court’s jurisdiction.  She was of two minds; she wanted to incriminate her husband, to tell of his trickery; but she wanted to know whether consenting to the court’s jurisdiction would help or hurt her.

The judge refused to hear her until she consented to the court’s jurisdiction.  She left, trembling.  I followed her out.  At the Registrar’s office, she said her husband first left Ethiopia for the capital of an Arab country a few months after their marriage.  When he came back, she became pregnant.  He convinced her to abort the child on the promise that they would start a family once he was stably employed in Addis Ababa.  He returned to the Arab capital.  A few months later, she received the divorce notice and summons to court.

As she fought tears, the Registrar coolly repeated that to cry would solve nothing, that she had better wipe her face and think of a solution.  She said she had “no idea” about sharia, whether consent to this court’s jurisdiction would do her good.  The Registrar, a Christian, said that compared with the secular court, the sharia court would better serve her faith.  Haltingly she talked to a nearby lawyer, who repeated the Registrar’s advice.  The lawyer said he would take on her case pro bono, that he would try what he can, including delays that may give her time to salvage her marriage.  He finally said that she could not force her husband to stay her husband—that regardless of delays or appeals to elders, the husband is still entitled to a divorce.  Thus without considering the differences in property division between the sharia and secular courts, she signed a form consenting to the sharia court’s jurisdiction.  This case is still underway.

* * *

Ethiopia’s Federal Sharia Court, a yellow, half-finished four-story building, sits on about five hundred square metres in Kebena, a largely Christian neighbourhood in northern Addis Ababa.  A year ago, the court was in a neighbourhood called Menen, in a building one informant described as a run-down single-story travesty of a courthouse.  Someone else explained that the court once sat in the same building as the secular federal courts.  It was moved to Menen after a strong-willed sharia court president insisted that as a religious institution, it must distinguish itself from the secular courts.  The court’s initial proximity to the secular courts exposed sharia judges to petty insults—the judiciary’s refusal, for example, to renovate the sharia part of the building while the rest of the building was being renovated—and made more painful the lower pay of sharia officials as compared with secular judges.  These insults haunted the court in its subsequent locations, but for some their new address soothed the pains of inferior treatment.  It was perhaps like the autarky of a despised nation within a nation, whose links with the latter stunt its fate long after devolution.

The court lacks some amenities afforded to other federal buildings in Addis Ababa.  The loss of electricity, for example, does not stop work at most other federal courthouses because they have electric generators.  A bidding process to buy a generator has started for the sharia court but the secular federal court’s funding schedule, which controls all funding for the sharia court, has been so irregular as to prevent the sharia court from buying amenities.  Still, one elderly informant remembered the court from the imperial regime, and said its present condition is a cut above its marginality under Haile Selaissie.  ‘It was’, he said, ‘in a rotten backroom peopled by ignorant qadis who did the bidding of Orthodox Christian priests, not like now, when the courtrooms are better and the qadis of greater learning and independence.’  It is these better learned and more independent qadis, their mostly Christian auxiliaries, and the court’s many litigants and witnesses that I spent two months interviewing.

* * *

The historic and hegemonic image of Ethiopia, in an old chestnut first coined by monarchs manoeuvring for the support of European powers, is that of ‘an Island of Christianity in a sea of Muslims.’  In Gibbon’s Decline and Fall we find the image of an embattled Christian kingdom, ‘[e]ncompassed on all sides by the enemies of their religion, the Æthiopians slept near a thousand years, forgetful of the world, by whom they were forgotten.’  Haile Selassie was the last of the country’s leaders to trade on a Christian image of Ethiopia.

But Ethiopia is equally a nation of Muslims.  Although the most recent national census from 2007 puts Islam’s demographic share at 34%, UNICEF and the US State Department describe Ethiopia as approximately 45% Muslim and 45% Christian and the rest as various types of animist.  Three of Ethiopia’s nine states are overwhelmingly Muslim; two have Muslim populations of over 95%; and Ethiopia’s most populous state, Oromia, is majority Muslim.  What is more, in no region of the world, save the Arabian Peninsula, did Islam arrive earlier.

Islam first came to the region during the Prophet’s life.  Some four score of his first followers fled attacking tribes of Mecca and sought refuge in the Christian kingdom of Axum.  King Armah of Axum not only gave these exiles a haven, but also rebuffed envoys from Mecca that offered bribes in exchange for the refugees.  The king is reputed to have said, ‘Not for a mountain of gold would I surrender even one of Prophet Mohammad’s followers.’  Muslims describe this affair as the first hijrah or migration to Abyssinia.  The Hadith records that the Prophet Mohammad said, ‘Abyssinia is a land of justice in which no one could be oppressed’ and that Muslims should ‘let the Abyssinians alone as long as they let you alone.’

Subsequent centuries saw the formation of strong military centres along the east African coast, the conversion of costal and nomadic populations, the domination of regional commerce by Muslims, and the emergence of strong Islamic political units. Christian kingdoms and Muslim sultanates warred over access to commercial routes and the sea.  Islam’s most spectacular feat of expansion came in the sixteenth century, when a brief period of Islamic military conquest—a storied campaign led by Ahmed Gragn or Ahmed the Left Handed— took vast swathes but ultimately ended in the collapse of highland Muslim power.  From then until the nineteenth century, Islam spread into the north central plateau while the highland Christian monarchy weakened.  Finally, in the nineteenth century, mystical orders of Islam spread in central and southern Ethiopia; during this century the country’s Christian monarchs visited crisis on Muslims by attempting forcible conversions.

All the while the sharia developed in Muslim communities.  As with everywhere else where Islam took root, Muslims assented to local interpreters of the sharia, but in a format wholly unlike the state sharia of the last two centuries.  The jurisdiction and basic structure of Ethiopia’s current federal sharia court originated in the early twentieth century, when Menelik II, the last of Ethiopia’s nineteenth century monarchs, established courts to resolve disputes between Muslims.  Subsequently in the mid 1930s, Italy occupied Ethiopia and attempted to rule it indirectly through Muslims.  The Italians supported Muslim institutions, including official shari’a courts, and built some of the country’s biggest mosques.  One year after Ethiopian insurgents and the British‑trained Gideon Force defeated the Italians and Haile Selassie regained power, the Imperial regime issued a proclamation limiting shari’a courts’ jurisdiction to Islamic family law between Muslims who consented to the court’s jurisdiction.  That basic formula, preserved by the federal proclamations that recognized the sharia court in 1944 and in 1999, still defines the court’s ambit.  In addition to the federal court, there are sharia courts in eight of Ethiopia’s nine states.

State sharia courts continued their work for the duration of socialist government, which lasted from 1974 to 1991, leaving Christianity and Islam marginalized.  The current regime, in power now for twenty-four years, inaugurated a period of religious liberalization that, in addition to continuing to fund state sharia courts, permitted Muslims freer movement to and from Mecca.  This liberalization has washed Ethiopia into global currents of Islamic reformism.  In this period, Ethiopia became America’s chief regional client in the so-called War on Terror, leading to the local entrenchment of the Manichean distinction between good and bad Muslim.

***

During my last week of fieldwork, a cruel offense upon migrant Ethiopians by soldiers of the Islamic State (IS) rattled the nation.  IS released a video on April 19th, 2015 showing masked men on a beach in Libya murdering twenty-eight Ethiopians.  A voice in the video said the executions were punishment for the Ethiopians’ failure to pay a tax due from enemy Christians in IS territory.  IS had released a similar video three months prior showing its soldiers beheading Egyptian Christians.

April 19th was a Sunday.  The video stole from my sister and many others a full night of sleep.  Kin of the slain in Cherkos, a poor neighbourhood in Addis Ababa, announced public funerals.  The funerals started on Tuesday and attracted throngs by noon; when mourners marched, state and federal police violently dispersed them.  By dusk the government had announced three days of official mourning to begin on Wednesday.  Police went door to door in some neighbourhoods to publicize the keynote event, a morning of rallies in Meskel Square.  At 9:00am on Wednesday the square teemed with thousands.

A succession of dignitaries held forth, including Addis Ababa’s mayor and the patriarch of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church.  The prime minister spoke last.  Crowd members yelled anti‑government slogans and held up their arms in an “X”.  When his speech ended, federal police waded violently through the crowd, kicking, punching, and swinging batons—an image from the day shows a soldier leaning on a fellow soldier to gain leverage as he lands a spinning jump-kick on someone’s neck.  Police fired tear gas.  The crowd scattered and police arrested many.

The events shook the sharia court, whose identity unenviably combines the Islamic and the governmental.  The court president gave a teary interview.  He said the IS attack was odious, but a deed of Wahhabi, of immoderate Muslims.  He said the Wahhabis are bent on turning Ethiopia into an Islamic state, are a dormant giant that may someday come menacingly into its own.

But he had another more disturbing, more ominous, take.  The “clashes,” as he called them, between soldiers and the crowd on the official day of mourning were the doing of a nefarious fifth column, of the Blue Party, the leading opposition force in Ethiopia’s then imminent elections.  He said the Blue Party stood to do to Ethiopians at home what IS did to Ethiopians abroad.  Ending in an inflection beloved of state authorities, he said they must be tattooed from the body politic.   Anti-terrorism thus met authoritarianism in a mutual embrace emblematic of our time.

These events turned my informant, once warm and genial, into a hardened party spokesman.  I broke rank as a researcher one afternoon that week when I challenged, ever so gently, my informant-cum-friend’s depiction of all the opposition as a pestilence.  His tone turned turgid and impenetrable.  I veered him back by intoning party shibboleths before returning to cloudy Oxford where my department awaited my fieldwork presentation.


Image by Michael Kebede.

[1] Michael Kebede is reading for an Mst in Socio Legal Research at the Centre for Socio-legal Studies at the University of Oxford; his research investigates the role of Islamic courts in Ethiopian federalism. Prior to Joining the Centre, Michael was a law clerk for Chief Justice Saufley of the Supreme Judicial Court of Maine in the United States.  Michael obtained his JD at Boston College Law School and his BA at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and has been admitted into the New York and Massachusetts bars ([email protected]).

[2] The author has replaced all real names with aliases.

The What and Why of the JOxCSLS

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the new issue of the Journal of the Oxford Center for Socio-Legal Studies (JOxCSLS). This issue builds on the OSLR-project which was initiated by Oxford post-graduate law students in 2010, but it seeks to go new ways. At first glance, this new approach is reflected in the Journal’s new form. The  JOxCSLS comes with a fresh design, which emphasises our goal to make our Journal an easily-enjoyable and accessible read. We also strike a new path in the choice of the content by combining rigorous, peer-reviewed socio-legal research with a lighter look ‘behind the scenes’ of the socio-legal world.

That said, you will still find what you would expect from an academic journal. The JOxCSLS will continue to feature peer-reviewed articles which cover a broad range of socio-legal topics. Each issue will also contain book reviews. Beyond this rather typical canon, however, we want to explore the socio-legal world in new and hopefully surprising ways. In this sense, the  JOxCSLS remains a classic with a facelift.

In this issue three peer-reviewed contributions form the classic academic core. Po-Hsiang Ou heads us off with an empirical exploration of inter-expert risk communication in the Economic and Monetary Union (EMU). He uncovers, through interviews and archive work, how a ‘club network’ of policy makers strategically adopt an optimistic culture of risk regulation with regards to fiscal rules. He shows how the ‘technical inputs’ provided by EMU economic experts are always to some extent ‘mixed with political judgement’. David Kwok then describes the encounter of two very different worlds of ‘legal culture’ in 19th century Hong Kong. He traces the ‘long and arduous process’ in which the English adversarial legal system sunk into a society which was previously governed by a Chinese mediatory approach to justice. Finally, Pedro Rubim Borges Fortes analyses the shortcomings of the Brazilian collective litigation system, whose lack of economic sanctions induces private companies to pursue strategies of ‘lucrative illegality’. Based on observation of 405 collective actions and 10 interviews with relevant legal actors, he offers an empirically-based argument in favor of optimal economic deterrence.

The three ‘lighter’ sections of our Journal will illuminate some of the paths which lead to such socio-legal findings. Discovering law’s connections with wider social, political, historical or cultural forces means keeping one’s eyes and ears open to the world.

We included the section ‘Of Law and Society Today’ to sharpen our reader’s eye for the socio-legal relevance of current societal debates. In this issue, M.Bob Kao revisits the United States Supreme Court’s recent landmark Obergefell v Hodges decision on marriage rights for same-sex couples and its potential impact on Taiwan’s jurisprudence. Inspiration should be drawn, Bob argues, not so much from the legal arguments employed in the judgement but rather from how non-legal strategies were coordinated and strategically employed to persuade opponents and doubters.

Socio-legal questions often emerge at unexpected instances – they can be found in the visual arts, in music, in architecture, or in everyday objects. The JOxCSLS now offers some space for such socio-legal observations. In the section ‘Socio-Legal Objects?’, Friso Jansen finds socio-legal inspiration in blood-glucose meters.

Socio-legal research usually requires empirical methodology. We already have a wealth of journals and books dealing with research design and methodology at hand. Few scholars, however, tell us what it is actually like to do socio-legal research. The new OSLR seeks to close this gap. We are now tapping the ‘Wire from the Field’, through which our contributors share some more personal insights into the practice of fieldwork. Such first-hand accounts go beyond common questions of methodology by telling stories about the challenges and the joys of fieldwork. In this issue, Michael Kebede reports from Ethiopia where he investigated the work of Sharia Courts.

In changing the format and style of the JOxCSLS, we hope not only to offer an enjoyable and inspiring read for the library halls, but it should also be a good companion for the morning coffee. While maintaining high academic standards, we want to further promote this ‘view behind the scenes’ of socio-legal studies in the future and thereby open up new avenues for innovative research. We very much hope that this issue will be a source of inspiration for many of our readers. In this spirit, we invite you to join us in exploring the socio-legal world and look forward to your comments, questions, and suggestions.

Sincerely,

Felix-Anselm van Lier, Matilde Gawronski and Friso Jansen