Jus Cogens v. State Sovereignty: The Battle of Discriminatory Citizenship Laws

Jus Cogens v. State Sovereignty: The Battle of Discriminatory Citizenship Laws

Manasa Venkatachalam*

Introduction

With the swelling of nationalism globally, the definition of national identities is becoming increasingly restrictive. This phenomenon is extremely evident in India, where the Citizenship (Amendment) Act, 2019 (CAA) expressly relies on national origin and religion as factors to determine eligibility for citizenship. In this climate of individualistic, national identities, it is important to evaluate how this sense of belonging ties into legal frameworks governing identity, and in particular, definitions of citizenship. Given the involvement of ethnic, national, and religious factors that have become increasingly evident in the granting of citizenship in several parts of the world, the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (“ICERD”) becomes a relevant tool to assess such issues from an international legal perspective. This article utilizes the ICERD to examine this leading question: how far can states go in creating criteria to exclude those from citizenship based on ethnic or religious grounds?

Scholars belonging to the Third World Approaches to International Law school often point out how citizenship was created to sustain a colonial and imperial order, and thus, citizenship laws are aimed at excluding “backward” peoples who were viewed as incapable of possessing property and exercising rationality (see, e.g., Bhandar, p. 35; Shahid & Turner, p. 7). The historical exclusion of indigenous communities, women, and people of color from the privilege of citizenship illustrates how citizenship status is used as a tool of “othering” (Edwards). This practice continues in the post-colonial era despite global developments like the ICERD.

The proposal to codify an international prohibition on racial discrimination emerged from the recently independent Pan-Africanist segment of the United Nations. Concerned by the othering and racist discrimination inherent in colonial imperialism, Global South states engaged in forceful multilateral human rights diplomacy to build support for an international prohibition on racial discrimination (see Schabas, p. 248-52). Their efforts resulted in the U.N. General Assembly’s approval of the ICERD in 1965 (Preamble, para. 4; Keane & Waughray, p. 4; Boyle & Baldaccini, who point out how the ICERD painted racism as being “solely about the consequences of Western imperialism”). Even the International Court of Justice (para. 86) has observed that the Convention was drafted “against the backdrop of the 1960s decolonization movement.”

In many ways, the ICERD represents law-making by and for the “Third World.” The Convention’s history makes it an interesting tool to use to examine issues of racial discrimination in the Global South. Still, the ICERD is not without its issues. One significant problem is that Article 1(3) of the ICERD excludes review of domestic nationality laws from the scope of its protection. The International Court of Justice (“ICJ”) has subsequently touched upon the ambit of the exceptions to the prohibition of racial discrimination regarding nationality in its interpretation of the term “national origin.” However, the ICJ confined its analysis to the ICERD and did not consider whether the prohibition on racial discrimination has independent customary character. The International Law Commission’s (“ILC”) recent work (p. 16) on documenting jus cogens norms has introduced a new factor to consider: whether the prohibition of racial discrimination is a peremptory norm. Since peremptory norms are non-derogable,[2] if the prohibition on racial discrimination has peremptory status, all exceptions to this prohibition become irrelevant. This makes the applicable law a lot simpler and the exceptions to the prohibition on racial discrimination in Articles 1(2) and 1(3) of the ICERD inoperative. Using India’s 2019 Citizenship (Amendment) Act (“CAA”) as an example, this article attempts to resolve the conflict between the ICERD’s prohibition of racial discrimination and the carve-out provided under ICERD Article 1(3), which exempts legal provisions concerning nationality from the scope of ICERD’s protection. In doing so, this article purposely distances itself from the explanations offered by the ICJ in Qatar v. UAE, choosing to instead focus on a different approach than the judgment: the possible peremptory nature of the prohibition of racial discrimination.

I. The ICERD and Nationality

The ICERD is one of the most widely ratified human rights treaties in the world. It has 182 states parties. This makes it a powerful tool to regulate discrimination in citizenship laws and practices (see Hoornick, p. 224). Article 1 of the ICERD prohibits racial discrimination, and Article 5(d)(iii) extends this prohibition to guarantee the enjoyment of the right to nationality regardless of race, color, or national or ethnic origin. However, there are certain exceptions to this prohibition that weaken the ICERD as a tool to combat discriminatory citizenship practices. Mainly, Article 1(3) cabins the ICERD’s scope to exclude review of legal provisions of states parties concerning nationality, citizenship, or naturalization as long as such laws do not discriminate against any specific nationality. Thus, the ICERD presents contradictory positions on the issue of discrimination in the grant and denial of citizenship.

Article 1(3), ICERD: Gaps and Relevance

Paragraphs (2) and (3) of Article 1 detail exceptions revolving around citizenship to the prohibition on racial discrimination in Article 1. Article 1(3) of the ICERD reads: “Nothing in this Convention may be interpreted as affecting in any way the legal provisions of States Parties concerning nationality, citizenship or naturalization, provided that such provisions do not discriminate against any particular nationality.” Article 1(2) excludes the application of the ICERD from “distinctions, exclusions, restrictions or preferences made by a State Party to this Convention between citizens and non-citizens.” While the exception provided under Article 1(2) featured more prominently in Qatar v. UAE (see para. 83), Article 1(3) has not received such jurisprudential attention. This could be an indication of states’ and courts’ attitudes towards the sovereign sacredness attached to laws governing citizenship, as emphasized in the ICJ’s Nottebohm judgement.[2] The question that has gone unanswered owing to this lack of discussion is whether grounds other than discrimination against a particular nationality can be used to maneuver around ICERD Article 1(3).

Before delving into an analysis of the ICERD, it is important to highlight the practical importance of this inquiry. The current government in India is led by the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party. The party’s representatives, specifically the Union Home Minister, have made several statements indicating their anti-Muslim sentiment and how the CAA and the impending National Register of Citizens (“NRC”) are coordinated policies to remove Muslims from the country.[3] Consequently, the next section will highlight the disparate grant of citizenship in India and the international legal consequences of these policies.

II. India, the CAA, and the NRC

The CAA amends the Indian Citizenship Act of 1955 to make specific classes of illegal migrants eligible for citizenship. Prior to this amendment, any person who satisfied the definition of an illegal migrant would not be eligible for Indian citizenship, and neither would their children (see s. 2(b) of the 1955 Act). However, the CAA establishes that if a person (1) belongs to the Hindu, Sikh, Buddhist, Jain, Parsi, or Christian community, (2) is from Afghanistan, Bangladesh, or Pakistan, or (3) entered India on or before 31st December 2014, such a person is now eligible for Indian citizenship.

The Union Government also plans on introducing a NRC for the entirety of the nation. The NRC would contain the names of all “genuine” Indian citizens, requiring persons to submit evidence to prove citizenship per the criteria in the 1955 Act (see Arts. 3 to 6). A similar system has been implemented in the Indian state of Assam. While this policy has not yet been enacted on the national level, the intention of the CAA and the NRC, as the Home Minister noted, is to “weed out” immigrants that the government deems illegal.

Data from the State of Assam illustrates the effect a nationwide NRC and CAA could have. In 2017, the first draft of the NRC was published for Assam. It excluded 19 million people out of 32.9 million applicants for citizenship. The final NRC for Assam was published in 2019 and excludes 1.9 million people from the list, deeming them all not citizens of India. While citizenship in Assam has always been regulated slightly differently ever since the influx of migrants and refugees from Bangladesh in the 1970s, this data offers insight into the impact that the CAA and NRC could have on the rest of the nation.

The Indian CAA and Discrimination Under ICERD Article 1(1)

In short, the CAA does distinguish and exclude individuals based on identities protected by the ICERD, nullifying basic human rights guaranteed to such persons.[4] It excludes any persons other than those from Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Bangladesh from the benefits of citizenship, which can be argued to amount to discrimination based on national origin.[5] As of April 2023, India hosts over 213,000 refugees and asylum seekers, most hailing from Sri Lanka, Afghanistan, China or Myanmar (UNHRC 2022, p. 9). Around 92,000 of these people originated in Sri Lanka, 72,291 from Tibet, and 30,308 from Myanmar (UNHRC 2023), and these are only those registered with the government (UNHRC 2022, p. 9). On the other hand, 14,466 refugees and asylum-seekers are from Afghanistan (UNHRC 2023), and even fewer are from Bangladesh and Pakistan. The law also clearly distinguishes between persons based on religion, as it only covers persons from Hindu, Sikh, Buddhist, Jain, Parsi, or Christian communities.

Additionally, the CAA violates several human rights, including the right to nationality and the right against statelessness. The right to a nationality, though disputed, seems to have entered today’s body of customary international law. Making its earliest appearance in Article 15 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, it has been transposed in varying forms into six of the nine core human rights treaties,[6] all of which have widespread ratification, strongly indicating state practice and opinio juris.[7]

The deprivation of the right to nationality has far-reaching consequences. Nationality is the “right to have rights.” Though human rights are inherent, citizenship is often the right that enables the enforcement of all rights; it is the connection between the State and its citizens that ensures the former’s protection of the latter (see Kesby). The deprivation of the right to nationality, consequently, is a deprivation of the vehicle for access to fundamental rights and protection under domestic law.

And, of course, nationality and statelessness are intimately linked. Dubbed a corollary of the right to a nationality (ILC, p. 27), the obligation to prevent and reduce statelessness is now widely considered customary (Case of the Girls Yean and Bosico, paras. 139-141; Blackman, p. 1183; Adjami & Harrington, pp. 102-3 for an in-depth explanation).[8] Statelessness, simply put, is the absence of nationality (1954 Convention, Art.1; Rütte, p. 242). For this reason, the duty to prevent statelessness has been described as a negative right arising from the right to a nationality (Blackman, p. 1176). When combined with the norm of equal and effective protection of the law (Juridical Condition and Rights of Undocumented Migrant, para. 101; UDHR, Art. 1; ICCPR, Art. 26; ICESCR, Arts. 3, 7; CRC, Art. 2; CEDAW, Art. 1), states must abstain from creating discriminatory mechanisms to grant citizenship (Case of the Girls Yean and Bosico, para. 141).

The CAA was enacted with the purpose of providing citizenship to a select few based on national origin and religion and, consequently, depriving the rest of the same. Additionally, irrespective of its purpose, the CAA certainly impeded the right to nationality of persons of national origin in countries other than the three mentioned. These distinctions imply that the CAA impairs the enjoyment of human rights on an equal footing, engaging the CERD’s definition of racial discrimination.

III. Article 1(3) ICERD: A Free Pass for India?

On a purely textual analysis, Article 1(3) of the ICERD would exclude the CAA from the ICERD’s protections. India’s law clearly covers issues of nationality and citizenship, and it does not distinguish against any nationality per se. (It does distinguish on national origin, but national origin has generally been regarded as different than nationality (ICJ, Qatar v. UAE, para. 105)).

A different way to look at the issue is to assess whether the prohibition on racial discrimination has peremptory status. The ICJ declined to take this approach in Qatar v. UAE. But the obligation to not undertake racial discrimination has been deemed erga omnes by the ICJ (see dicta in Barcelona Traction (para. 34)), and the ILC deemed it a jus cogens norm in 2022 (see Annex (e)). Treaty provisions that conflict with peremptory norms are non-derogable and void per customary treaty interpretation rules.[9] Thus, any exception to the prohibition of racial discrimination would be nullified, including Articles 1(2) and (3) of the ICERD. Unfortunately, the ICJ did not touch upon this in its judgment in UAE v. Qatar. Had it, would the outcome have been different?

An obvious reason as to why the ICJ did not venture into this territory is the severity of the approach. Recognizing ICERD’s prohibition on racial discrimination as reflective of customary international law would deal a considerable blow to the sovereign discretion of States in matters of nationality. Courts are legitimate when they are perceived as having the authority to make decisions, and the ICJ is not exempt from this idea. Legitimacy capital is thus linked to authority: when international courts act in a manner that could be perceived as exceeding the scope of authority granted to them, they lose authority (see Grossman et al., p. 5). Consequently, a decision from the ICJ that would use jus cogens as a means to override significant treaty provisions representing the sovereign will of States is highly unlikely, given the shockwaves it would generate with respect to its legitimacy. That being said, such a decision would still be a legally acceptable and effective means to expand the prohibition on racial discrimination.

Conclusion

Public international law has long recognized the State’s sovereign discretion in dictating terms for membership (Donner, p. 17). A permanent population is necessary for statehood; thus, the ability to control the membership of this population is a vital aspect of sovereignty (Mantu, p. 25). However, the focus on individual human rights is eroding this sovereignty-backed discretion. One tool contributing to this erosion has been the prohibition of racial discrimination.

Still, the untapped potential of the ICERD to evaluate selective nationality laws is striking. Selective citizenship laws deprive persons of vital fundamental rights, but remain under the international legal radar. The ICERD must be used to the fullest as a counter to such laws. With the ICERD’s growing usage in international litigation, the time for a challenge to discriminatory laws like India’s CAA may be ripe.


*Manasa Venkatachalam completed her B.A. LL.B. (Hons.) from Gujarat National Law University, India, and an Advanced LL.M. in Public International Law from Leiden University, Netherlands. She has worked with NGOs, law firms and international organizations over the years, engaging with several facets of human rights and international law. She started working with Blue Ocean Law in July 2023 and is assisting the firm in representing Vanuatu at the International Court of Justice for the Advisory Opinion on the Obligations of States in respect of Climate Change. She is currently based out of Amsterdam. You can find her on LinkedIn and X.

[1] The ILC, for instance, defines it as follows: “A peremptory norm of general international law (jus cogens) is a norm accepted and recognized by the international community of States as a whole as a norm from which no derogation is permitted and which can be modified only by a subsequent norm of general international law (jus cogens) having the same character” (see Conclusion 3).

[2] See p. 20, where the ICJ determines: “It is for Liechtenstein, as it is for every sovereign State, to settle by its own legislation the rules relating to the acquisition of its nationality, and to confer that nationality by naturalization granted by its own organs in accordance with that legislation. It is not necessary to determine whether international law imposes any limitations on its freedom of decision in this domain.”

[3] For example, Amit Shah has commented that “[f]irst we will pass the Citizenship Amendment bill and ensure that all the refugees from the neighbouring nations get the Indian citizenship. After that NRC will be made and we will detect and deport every infiltrator from our motherland” and that “[w]e will remove every single infiltrator from the country, except Buddha, Hindus and Sikhs.”

[4] This follows the definition of racial discrimination per Article 1(1) of the ICERD, which defines racial discrimination as [a]ny distinction, exclusion, restriction or preference based on race, colour, descent, or national or ethnic origin which has the purpose or effect of nullifying or impairing the recognition, enjoyment or exercise, on an equal footing, of human rights and fundamental freedoms in the political, economic, social, cultural or any other field of public life.”

[5] See Judge Robinson’s definition of “national origin” in his Qatar v. UAE dissent (paras. 7-8): “According to the ordinary meaning of the words “national” and “origin”, the term “national origin” refers to a person’s historical relationship with a country where the people to which that person belongs are living… National origin refers not only to the place from which one’s forebears came; it may also refer to the place where one was born.”

[6] ICERD, Art. 7; International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, Art. 24(3); Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, Art. 9; Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, Art. 18; International Convention on the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers and Members of Their Families, Art. 29.

[7] On this, see the ICJ’s judgement in Questions Relating to the Obligation to Prosecute or Extradite (Belgium v. Senegal) (paras. 99-100), explaining how jus cogens norms are determined.

[8] This is reinforced via the Convention on the Reduction of Statelessness, Art. 1(1); the International Convention on the Protection of the Rights of all Migrant Workers and Members of their Families, Art. 29, the Convention on the Rights of the Child, Art. 7(1), and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, Art. 24(3).

[9] Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties, Art. 53; Application of Genocide Case (Further Requests for the Indication of Provisional Measures) (Separate Opinion of Judge ad hoc Lauterpacht), para. 100; ILC, Report of the Study Group on Fragmentation of International Law: Difficulties Arising from the Diversification and Expansion of International Law, para. 365; B. Simma, ‘From Bilateralism to Community Interest in International Law’ (1994) 250(2) RdC 217–384, 289.


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Bridging the Gap: African Countries Outpace the West in Descriptive Representation for Persons with Disabilities

Bridging the Gap: African Countries Outpace the West in Descriptive Representation for Persons with Disabilities

Yohannes Takele Zewale*

Editors’ Note: Although HILJ Online: Perspectives typically publishes short-form scholarship, we occasionally publish exceptional longer pieces—such as this one. 

Abstract

Descriptive representation for persons with disabilities in parliaments is not as prevalent as representation based on other identities, such as gender, race, ethnicity, and youth. However, a beacon of progress has emerged from the Global South, with only five countries—Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Zimbabwe, and Egypt—constitutionally recognizing the right to descriptive representation for persons with disabilities. Although the reasons behind this recognition in underdeveloped democracies are not yet studied, this Article explores these factors by analyzing their laws and conducting interviews with politicians, advocates, and leaders of organizations for persons with disabilities in these African countries. By doing so, this Article aims to shed light on the noteworthy strides these countries have made in integrating persons with disabilities into their parliamentary bodies ahead of Western countries. The findings suggest that factors such as the lack of real power shared by their governments, cultural and systematic differences between these African countries and the West, strategic preferences of the Disability Rights Movement, recent constitutional review processes, and other similar factors contribute to the recognition of the right to descriptive representation of persons with disabilities ahead of Western democratic countries.

1. Introduction

Descriptive representation refers to a representation in which representatives have similar backgrounds to the voters they represent, with the trust that voters are more effectively represented by legislators similar to them in key demographic characteristics such as gender, ethnicity, or religion.[1] With descriptive representation, the composition of the representative body necessarily shows the demographics and experiences of the citizenry.[2] In other words, representatives are “in their own persons and lives, in some sense typical of the larger class of persons whom they represent.”[3] This type of representation occurs, for example, when legislators with disabilities represent persons with disabilities or when female legislators represent their female constituents.

In her seminal work, Hanna Pitkin argues that the model of Descriptive Representation posits that a representative of a minority group should, to some extent, reflect that group’s common experiences and outward manifestations.[4] However, as articulated by scholars like Anne Phillips, the descriptive representation model goes beyond mere external characteristics, encompassing the ideals and interests of minority groups.[5] Nonetheless, its efficacy in ensuring representation for persons with disabilities remains underrealized. Hendrik Hertzberg highlights the pitfalls of majoritarian plurality electoral systems, where voters often prioritize regional representation, potentially neglecting the specific concerns of marginalized groups.[6] This oversight becomes more pronounced in the case of persons with disabilities, whose dispersed nature is not adequately addressed by such electoral frameworks. Barbara Arneil and Nancy Hirschmann’s research underscores the slower progress in political science regarding disability, revealing a lack of attention to the needs of this substantial segment of society.[7] Stefanie Reher’s observation about the glaring oversight in the descriptive representation of persons with disabilities, constituting one-fifth of the population, emphasizes the urgent need for rectification.[8] In a society that values inclusivity and equal representation, addressing this gap in descriptive representation for persons with disabilities is not just a matter of political theory but a fundamental step toward ensuring the political well-being of a marginalized and underrepresented community.

However, descriptive representation of persons with disabilities in parliaments is less common than descriptive representation based on other identities, such as gender, race, ethnicity, and youth.[9] Yet, in recent years, some countries have begun to constitutionalize the representation of persons with disabilities.[10] These countries may surprise anyone who expects the West to take the lead in recognizing human rights, including the right to representation for persons with disabilities. When measured in indices such as electoral process and pluralism, civil liberties, government functionality, political participation, and political culture, countries like Uganda, Egypt, Kenya, Rwanda, and Zimbabwe are categorized as having lower levels of democracy.[11] Nevertheless, they are ahead of the West in terms of having an inclusive legislature and constitutionally recognized descriptive representation of persons with disabilities. Unfortunately, no research has been conducted to determine the factors behind the constitutional recognition of descriptive representation of persons with disabilities in these five African countries.[12] Thus, this Article explores the factors behind the early recognition of the right to descriptive representation for persons with disabilities by these five African countries, surpassing more developed democracies.

In the rest of this Article, Part II will provide a comprehensive summary of the laws implemented in various African countries that allocate parliamentary seats for persons with disabilities. Part III will delve into the findings derived from the collected interview data to synthesize the rationales behind these countries’ decision to grant the right to representation for persons with disabilities, especially in light of their relatively lower levels of democracy. Part IV will comprise a detailed discussion expanding upon the previous sections’ insights, exploring the legislative measures’ implications and consequences, and highlighting any challenges, successes, and potential recommendations for further improvement. And Part V will provide concluding remarks.

2. Background on Descriptive Disability Representation Laws in Africa

Based on the most comprehensive available evidence, it appears that only five countries in Africa have officially recognized and implemented descriptive representation of persons with disabilities within their parliaments. What makes these five countries—Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Zimbabwe, and Egypt—truly fascinating is not just that they recognize the right of persons with disabilities to have descriptive representation in parliament. Equally noteworthy, they consciously decided to enshrine this right directly in their constitutions rather than relying on subsidiary laws. By granting this right a constitutional status, these countries have demonstrated their firm and legally binding commitment to ensuring parliamentary inclusion for persons with disabilities.

For instance, the Ugandan Constitution established a unicameral legislature,[13] which is required to enact laws favoring historically marginalized groups.[14] As a response to this constitutional call, the parliament adopted a law reserving five of the 458 seats in parliament for persons with disabilities; accordingly, there shall be five representatives with disabilities, at least one of whom being a woman.[15] A national electoral college of persons with disabilities, with five representatives from each electoral district, selects those who will occupy the five reserved seats in parliament.[16] Furthermore, every village, parish, sub-county, and district council must include at least one man and one woman with a disability.[17]

Both the Rwandan Constitution and Zimbabwean Constitution established bicameral legislatures, with Rwanda’s Chamber of Deputies and Senate[18] and Zimbabwe’s National Assembly and Senate.[19] While Rwanda and Zimbabwe both have one and two legislative seats reserved for persons with disabilities, the former has seats in the Chamber of Deputies,[20] while the latter has seats in the Senate.[21] The method they choose for selecting these representatives is similar to that of Uganda’s national electoral college of persons with disabilities.[22]

Further, the Kenyan Constitution established a bicameral legislature consisting of the National Assembly and the Senate.[23] These two houses must reflect a fair representation of marginalized groups, including persons with disabilities,[24] requiring the state to ensure the “progressive implementation of the principle that at least five percent of the members of the public in elective and appointive bodies are persons with disabilities.”[25] Additionally, the Constitution sets aside a minimum number of legislative seats for marginalized groups, including persons with disabilities.[26] Accordingly, parliamentary political parties nominate 12 members, based on proportional representation, to represent special interest groups, including persons with disabilities.[27] Two senatorial seats are reserved for two members, one man and one woman, representing persons with disabilities.[28] Also, a County Assembly must consist of members of marginalized groups, at least two of whom are persons with disabilities.[29] The members representing persons with disabilities are nominated or appointed by the winning political parties.[30]

Lastly, the Egyptian Constitution established a bicameral legislature consisting of an upper house (i.e., the Senate) and a lower house (i.e., the House of Representatives).[31] The Constitution requires the state to grant appropriate representation for minorities, including persons with disabilities, in the House of Representatives and local councils.[32] The House of Representatives consists of 596 seats.[33] Of these, 448 seats are filled through majoritarian elections, 120 are filled through party lists, and the president selects 28 representatives.[34] The country is divided into four constituencies for the list component: two 15-member and two 45-member constituencies.[35] At least one person with a disability must be listed on each list in the former, while at least three must be nominated in the latter.[36] Parties that receive more than 50 percent of the vote are given all of the seats in the constituency, ensuring that at least eight candidates with disabilities are elected to parliament.[37] Apart from the eight candidates, the president may use his power of nomination to designate additional disabled representatives.[38]

The fact that these five countries allocate parliamentary seats for persons with disabilities raises a fundamental question: How did these countries realize the right to representation of persons with disabilities in parliament ahead of Western countries with more developed democracies? This question could be answered by research interviews that advance various potential justifications.[39]

3. Rationales for Early Disability Representation Recognition

Certainly, the principle of parliamentary representation is traditionally viewed as a cornerstone for ensuring the political participation rights of any group. However, this principle undergoes nuanced scrutiny in reserving parliamentary seats for persons with disabilities, particularly in countries with varying levels of democracy. Interviewees from Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Zimbabwe, and Egypt have shed light on a multifaceted exploration of the rationales behind this decision. Their insights delve into the intricate fabric of political cultures within their nations, the broader African continent, and Western democracies. Unveiling four key rationales, namely, the absence of genuine power-sharing, cultural and systematic disparities in political ideologies, a strategic choice by the Disability Rights Movement, and the transformative impact of recent constitutional reviews, this section synthesizes the intricate dynamics that influence the decision to grant representation rights to persons with disabilities.

3.1 No Real Power Shared

First, interviewees shed light on power-sharing dynamics in these five African countries, particularly focusing on parliamentary representation for persons with disabilities. A key theme emerged during the interviews, emphasizing that allocating parliamentary seats for persons with disabilities in these countries does not signify genuine power sharing. Instead, it is closely tied to the prevailing authoritarian rule, challenging the perception of these nations as fully democratic. The interviewees argue that, in contrast to Western democracies, the legislatures in these African countries are perceived as symbolic entities, with real power concentrated in the executive branch. They assert that these legislative bodies are, in their words, “sham institutions” where the executive branch reigns supreme. Surprisingly, persons with disabilities find representation in these symbolic legislatures rather than in the executive branch, where actual power resides. This peculiar pattern raises questions about the sincerity of political inclusion for persons with disabilities.

For example, Kenyan interviewees lament the absence of ministers or deputy ministers with disabilities in any of the 22 ministerial offices under President William Ruto. They emphasize that the representation of persons with disabilities in the Kenyan Parliament is hindered by fundamental legal gaps, preventing it from serving as a model for broader inclusion within the executive. Addressing this issue, they argue, requires substantial effort both within parliament and in executive circles. Rwandan interviewees support the “no real power shared” argument by suggesting that even if persons with disabilities secure representation in parliament, they are unlikely to challenge the power dynamics of the incumbent government. The prevailing sentiment is that obtaining a few seats in these symbolic legislatures does not threaten the government’s autocratic rule. Rwanda and Zimbabwe serve as examples where, despite political representation for persons with disabilities in parliament, real power remains concentrated in the executive branch.

Similarly, Egyptian interviewees highlight the absence of ministers or deputy ministers with disabilities in current ministerial offices, reinforcing the idea that genuine power-sharing remains elusive. Their collective perspective is that these countries cannot be considered champions of democracy simply because they allocate some parliamentary seats to persons with disabilities, placing them ahead of developed countries in terms of this specific metric. Additionally, the interviewees reference a Kenyan judge and human rights activist who cautioned against celebrating governments merely for reserving parliamentary seats for minority groups. The judge emphasized the inconsequential nature of parliamentary representation if real power remains entrenched in the executive branch. Interviewees from Uganda align with this sentiment, advocating for the simultaneous fight to involve persons with disabilities in the executive, not merely in parliament.

Contrary to the prevailing skepticism, one interviewee acknowledges the tireless efforts of the Disability Rights Movement and its legislative representatives to leverage parliamentary representation to enhance the social, economic, and political involvement of persons with disabilities. This perspective suggests a nuanced understanding of the potential impact of parliamentary inclusion despite government assumptions of no genuine power-sharing. Further, there is a glimmer of optimism regarding Uganda’s progress in political representation for persons with disabilities. Some interviewees argue that Uganda surpasses other countries in this regard, citing examples of persons with disabilities engaging at the ministerial level. They laud figures like Hellen Asamo, a renowned disability rights advocate and Member of Parliament, who also serves as the Minister of State for Gender, Labour, and Social Development (Disability Affairs).[40] This comprehensive representation in Uganda is seen as exemplary and worthy of emulation by other countries.

Generally, the interviews underscore a common thread—the perception that parliaments in these African countries hold limited authority compared to established democracies, with real power concentrated in the executive branch. However, despite this belief, the Disability Rights Movement recognizes parliamentary inclusion as an empowering tool to advocate for the rights of persons with disabilities. The challenge remains to bridge the gap between symbolic representation in parliament and substantive inclusion in the executive, ensuring that political power is genuinely shared among all citizens.

3.2 Cultural and Systematic Differences in Politics

Second, interviewees revealed intriguing insights into how different cultures and political systems approach the fundamental issue of ensuring representation for minority groups, particularly the disability community, to safeguard their interests. For instance, Egyptian interviewees provided a unique perspective, suggesting that in countries with established mechanisms safeguarding minority interests, such as many Western nations, the focus on parliamentary representation may not be as critical. Similarly, Ugandan interviewees assert that Western democracies already have robust systems, beyond parliamentary representation, dedicated to protecting minority rights, including those of the disability community. They pointed to the United States Civil Rights Act of 1964 as a prime example, emphasizing its role within the judicial system. These interviewees speculated that Western societies might not prioritize parliamentary representation for persons with disabilities, assuming their rights are already adequately protected by existing laws. This viewpoint reflects a divergence in strategies between Western and African nations regarding protecting minority rights.

However, Zimbabwean interviewees offered a different perspective, contending that while anti-discrimination laws in the West, like the Civil Rights Act, have improved the socio-economic participation of persons with disabilities, they may not necessarily enhance their parliamentary representation. They argued that parliamentary representation, if appropriately utilized, could provide comprehensive protection for persons with disabilities because the parliament, as a key decision-making body, shapes laws that directly influence socio-economic and political legislation. Dismissing the argument that Western societies neglect parliamentary representation due to the existence of civil rights laws, they stressed the unique role that parliamentary representation plays in crafting inclusive legislation.

A significant dimension highlighted by several interviewees was the cultural disparity in political philosophies between the West and Africa, specifically regarding the priority given to individual versus group rights. Western democracies typically prioritize individual rights, such as food, housing, and health, over group demands like representation. In contrast, emerging African democracies, guided by the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights (ACHPR), prioritize group rights. The ACHPR, particularly in articles 19-24, underscores the importance of group rights in Africa. Yet, considering that persons with disabilities may not fit the criteria defining a specific group under the ACHPR, interviewees speculated that the collective nature of African societies and the African human rights system might have prompted the demand for representation as a group right. This distinction in approach, influenced by factors like organization, history, culture, language, psychology, territory, and political form, could explain why the representation of persons with disabilities is prioritized differently and more rapidly in African countries compared to Western democracies. The interviews suggest that acknowledging these cultural and political nuances is crucial to understanding the distinct emphasis on parliamentary representation for persons with disabilities in African democracies.

3.3 Chosen Strategy by the Disability Rights Movement

Third, interviewees considered how, in comparison to its Western counterpart, the Disability Rights Movement in Africa is a relatively recent phenomenon,[41] gaining momentum after the enforcement of numerous international human rights conventions.[42] According to insights from Zimbabwean interviewees, this movement is deeply influenced by the philosophy embedded in these conventions, particularly grasping the right to comprehensive political participation.

Further, interviewees perceive the movement to have strategically prioritized realizing the right to representation for persons with disabilities. This strategic emphasis is seen as a means to accelerate their broader advocacy efforts for various claims by persons with disabilities. A disability rights advocate from Rwanda, who is visually impaired, underscores the challenging living conditions in these countries, where persons with disabilities face multidimensional problems, surpassing challenges encountered in developed nations. The interviewees suggest that in these African countries, where persons with disabilities are marginalized across socio-economic, cultural, and political spheres, representation in decision-making bodies, especially in parliament, emerged as a crucial strategy. The rationale behind this strategic focus is articulated by one interviewee, emphasizing that parliamentary representation serves as a powerful tool to confront the manifold discrimination and marginalization faced by persons with disabilities.

By having members of the disabled community participate as representatives in parliament, the movement envisions a relatively straightforward path to demanding the respect of rights and proposing solutions to the systemic challenges encountered by persons with disabilities. The sentiment is clear—having persons with disabilities within the decision-making institution of parliament transforms them into active contributors and solution providers to the issues confronting their community. The interviewees highlight the strategic importance of parliamentary representation, who believe that being part of the decision-making process enables advocates to actively address and resolve the concerns raised by the disability community. This proactive engagement within parliament is viewed as a vital step in the broader struggle for the rights and well-being of persons with disabilities in the face of complex challenges in their respective countries.

3.4 Impact of Recent Constitutional Review Processes

Fourth, interviewees considered how, except for Uganda[43] and Rwanda,[44] several African countries, like Kenya,[45] Zimbabwe,[46] and Egypt,[47] have recently undergone constitutional reviews to foster democratic systems. These constitutional changes are viewed by interviewees as pivotal, ushering in more inclusive representation, especially for persons with disabilities. Notably, the interviewees emphasize that these constitutional shifts were influenced by the momentum gained in the Disability Rights Movement’s global campaigns. The adoption of significant human rights instruments, including the Standard Rules on the Equalization of Opportunities for Persons with Disabilities[48] and the Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (CRPD),[49] played a crucial role in shaping these inclusive constitutional provisions. Interviewees assert that these constitutional revisions, influenced by international conventions, have been instrumental in achieving disability-inclusive parliamentary representation.

For instance, Kenya introduced the reserved seat system in 2010 following the enactment of its new Constitution. Kenyan interviewees credit this constitutional change for a notable improvement in the lives of persons with disabilities. Representatives in the legislature, empowered by the Constitution, have successfully advocated for laws protecting disability rights and addressing economic challenges. Additionally, they have championed the implementation of constitutional provisions, reserving at least 5 percent of government jobs for persons with disabilities. Current efforts are focused on further legislation to increase the representation of persons with disabilities in both houses of parliament. However, Kenyan interviewees also expressed concerns about the gaps and limitations in the current parliamentary representation system, emphasizing the need for continued improvement. Despite these challenges, they acknowledge promising strides compared to countries denying persons with disabilities the right to parliamentary representation.

Further, newly enacted in 2014, the Egyptian Constitution allocates eight parliamentary seats for persons with disabilities, a notable achievement in fostering diversity and inclusivity. Interviewees highlight that this inclusive representation has catalyzed progress in promoting and protecting disability rights since its inception. Before this constitutional change, disability policies and services in Egypt were limited, but the 2014 Constitution triggered a shift towards greater recognition and inclusivity. Similarly, Uganda’s experience reveals that the representation of special interest groups, including persons with disabilities, began during the drafting of its 1995 Constitution. The government’s openness to the voices of minority groups, influenced by changes in international human rights and the impactful role of the women’s movement, played a significant role in this accomplishment. The effective leadership of disabled representatives in Uganda’s parliament has led to remarkable progress in the political, economic, and social spheres for persons with disabilities. Laws and policies on inclusive education and the recent amendment of the Persons with Disabilities Act in 2020 reflect the tangible impact of these representatives in shaping legislative agendas.

Generally, the recent constitutional reviews in these countries have provided unprecedented opportunities for persons with disabilities to hold legislative seats as recognized minority groups. The constitutional drafting and adoption processes have not only empowered disability rights advocates but have also compelled countries to reserve seats for persons with disabilities, marking a significant step toward greater inclusivity and representation.

4. Challenges, Successes, and Recommendations

Understanding descriptive representation of persons with disabilities involves looking at challenges, achievements, and how inclusivity is changing. Exploring how descriptive representation works, the diversity within the disability community, the laws around voting rights, and the group rights emphasized in African contexts reveal the evolving nature of descriptive representation and what it means for human rights.

4.1 Participation of Persons with Disabilities in the Representation Process

The recognition by these countries of the right of persons with disabilities to be represented in parliament is a commendable achievement, considering the potential challenges involved. These nations deserve applause for reaching this milestone ahead of others. Building on this success requires a collaborative effort between the disability community and the government. Given that these countries may not have as long a history of practicing democracy as the West, they are still establishing or developing their democratic institutions. In this context, acknowledging the rights of persons with disabilities to parliamentary representation offers a unique opportunity for their democracy to flourish inclusively.

Nevertheless, as highlighted by interviewees, including persons with disabilities in parliament should not be viewed in isolation. While entering parliament is a significant avenue for political participation, it is not the sole or ultimate objective. The executive must extend and implement inclusive practices observed in parliament, as these institutions are interdependent. Parliamentary representation loses its meaning if the executive cannot effectively implement the policies formulated by legislators. It is essential to work towards a system based on the rule of law rather than the rule of individuals, even if this is not the current reality. Progress in developing inclusive practices in parliament can serve as a model for other institutions in these developing democracies.

Additionally, actively involving persons with disabilities in electing and sending representatives to parliament is crucial, as the CRPD outlines. However, in some African countries, among the five under consideration, this may not be the case. For example, unlike in Uganda and Rwanda, where representatives with disabilities are elected through an electoral college involving direct participation, Kenya relies on winning political parties to nominate representatives for persons with disabilities without necessarily consulting the individuals themselves.[50] Many persons with disabilities in Kenya oppose this form of nomination, advocating for increased opportunities to be elected or nominated by their community. Two main reasons drive this preference.

Firstly, relying solely on political parties for nomination undermines the law meant to ensure the representation of persons with disabilities in parliaments. If a political party disregards persons with disabilities as a marginalized group deserving of priority, their concerns and interests are left unrepresented. Moreover, the principle of “progressive realization” stipulated in the Kenyan Constitution,[51] meant to guide the gradual implementation of inclusive representation, has been misused as an excuse for neglecting the adequate representation of persons with disabilities.

Secondly, nominated members of parliament and the Senate with disabilities are often expected to prioritize party interests over the disability agenda. Studies show that big parties are accused of being insensitive to minority concerns, focusing primarily on the majority or the wealthy.[52] Party-controlled nomination and election can negatively impact minority interests, as representatives prioritize the party’s objectives.[53] In Kenya, where persons with disabilities do not actively involve themselves in the nomination and voting process, party leaders may influence and manipulate them against their best interests. For instance, as interviewees suggest, Senator Mwaura, nominated as the representative for persons with disabilities, lost his position in 2022 due to his failure to advance the party’s agenda beyond disability-related issues.

To prevent such situations, empowering persons with disabilities to have control over the representation process is crucial, rather than relying solely on political parties for nominations. This empowerment ensures that the interests and concerns of persons with disabilities are prioritized and protected. Moreover, the active involvement of persons with disabilities in developing and implementing laws related to descriptive representation is essential for compliance with the CRPD.[54] The CRPD emphasizes close consultation and engagement with persons with disabilities and their representative organizations in developing and implementing legislation, policies, and decisions about disability issues.[55] This principle aligns with the slogan “nothing about us without us” from the Disability Rights Movement, emphasizing the importance of empowering persons with disabilities to choose their representatives.[56] This slogan not only reflects the fundamental principle of participation in the CRPD[57] but also serves as a binding obligation for state parties,[58] which is evident throughout the treaty.[59]

4.2 Diversity Among Persons with Disabilities

Representation must embrace the diversity inherent among persons with disabilities, recognizing that disability encompasses a range of sub-groups.[60] The term “disability” serves as an umbrella, covering various types, such as visual, hearing, physical, and intellectual disabilities.[61] As disability studies scholar Elizabeth Barnes notes, the diversity within this label is remarkably heterogeneous.[62] Mental disabilities differ significantly from deafness, and blindness presents distinct challenges from achondroplasia.[63]

The diversity among persons with disabilities extends beyond their specific disabilities. While they encounter oppression or discrimination in generalizable ways, the diverse nature of disabilities results in varied needs and interests. Difficulties in seeing, hearing, or walking elicit different and specific responses tailored to the type of disability.[64] Despite these differences, disability types are often unintentionally or purposely merged into a single category.[65] Persons with disabilities are aware of their differences, but a person with one disability may not fully understand the needs of someone with a different disability. For instance, a visually impaired individual may struggle to grasp the specific needs of a person who is deaf. This lack of familiarity extends to the wider community, creating challenges in mutual understanding. Active involvement in the nomination and voting process by persons with disabilities is crucial to ensuring their diverse needs are adequately represented and prioritized.

The CRPD underscores the importance of recognizing diversity among persons with disabilities in policy formulation, emphasizing that persons with disabilities constitute a diverse population[66] and acknowledging the diversity of disabilities as a crucial aspect of respecting differences.[67] Descriptive representatives should mirror this diversity, especially in legislatures where certain seats are allocated to persons with disabilities. Yet, in some African countries, the current application of descriptive representation falls short of CRPD standards. For example, in Egypt, though eight seats are reserved for disabled representatives, they are exclusively occupied by individuals with physical disabilities. Similarly, in Kenya and Uganda, the majority of representatives with disabilities have physical disabilities, with limited representation from other disability types. This homogenous approach contradicts the CRPD’s emphasis on recognizing and respecting the diversity of disabilities.[68]

Moreover, the number of seats allocated for persons with disabilities must reflect the breadth of disability diversity.[69] In countries like Rwanda[70] and Zimbabwe,[71] where only one or two seats are reserved, a single representative is expected to represent all types of disabilities, overlooking the diverse needs of persons with disabilities. Insufficient seat allocation not only results in underrepresentation of the interests of persons with disabilities but also risks perpetuating the election of representatives from the same disability group in every election cycle. This limitation undermines the fundamental principle of diversity within the disability community and leaves certain groups consistently underrepresented.

Countries that reserve seats for persons with disabilities in only one legislative house, as in the cases of Rwanda or Egypt, face additional challenges. In less democratic countries, the upper houses often lack effective law-making power, rendering representation in only one house less impactful. A balanced approach, as seen in Kenya, where persons with disabilities are represented in the National Assembly and the Senate, ensures more comprehensive and effective representation.[72] Thus, embracing the diversity among persons with disabilities is not just a moral imperative; it aligns with the principles outlined in the CRPD. Descriptive representation that reflects the varied needs and interests of persons with different disabilities is crucial for building an inclusive and equitable society.

4.3 Legal Capacity and Voting Rights

Ensuring the right to vote and run for office is paramount for all categories of persons with disabilities. The CRPD firmly establishes the right of every person with a disability to be recognized as a person before the law.[73] Unlike the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, its predecessor, the CRPD, refrains from outlining circumstances that could strip individuals of this right or limit their voting rights.[74] Instead, it emphasizes that persons with disabilities have the right to enjoy legal capacity on an equal basis with others in all aspects of life, including the fundamental right to vote.[75] Furthermore, the CRPD reaffirms the unwavering commitment of international human rights law to uphold the right of persons with disabilities to participate in political life.[76]

The CRPD unequivocally states that a person’s status as a person with a disability, including a mental one, cannot serve as a ground to deny the right to vote.[77] The case of Zsolt Bujdosó et al. v. Hungary (2011) further emphasized that the CRPD compels state parties to ensure the full and effective participation of persons with disabilities in political and public life on an equal basis with others, including safeguarding their right to vote.[78] The Committee on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities firmly rejected any reasonable restrictions or exceptions for specific groups of persons with disabilities, ruling that excluding the right to vote based on perceived or actual mental disabilities constitutes disability discrimination in the CRPD.[79]

Despite these clear directives, approximately 80 percent of countries globally persist in restricting or depriving persons with mental disabilities of their right to vote.[80] This is often based on the diagnosis of a disability (status approach), the perceived negative consequences of a decision (outcome approach), or the assessment of deficient decision-making skills (functional approach).[81] For example, in Uganda, an electoral college exclusively composed of persons with disabilities elects approved representatives, each of whom is required to have the right to vote.[82] However, the Parliamentary Elections Act of Uganda deems a person ineligible for election as a member of parliament if they are considered of unsound mind.[83] Consequently, Ugandans with mental disabilities are barred from participating in the electoral college, thereby denying them both the right to vote and the opportunity to stand for election.[84] This exclusion means that persons with mental disabilities remain without descriptive representation despite having unique interests and policy preferences.

Without the lifting of voting restrictions based on disabilities, persons with mental disabilities will continue to face limited opportunities for genuine descriptive representation. Furthermore, by denying specific subgroups of persons with disabilities the right to vote, we risk diminishing the overall representation of persons with disabilities in legislative bodies. The consequences extend beyond those individuals whose voting rights are curtailed, impacting the broader goal of inclusive and equitable representation.

4.4 Group Rights, Quotas, and Future Implications

In Africa, group rights for persons with disabilities take precedence, reflecting the communal nature of African societies and the African Human Rights System. Descriptive representation for persons with disabilities has been prioritized by these countries even before Western nations, as evident in both the ACHPR and the Protocol to the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, which recognizes descriptive representation as a group right.[85]

During the drafting of the Protocol, discussions initially considered quotas of five percent and reserved seats for persons with disabilities,[86] mirroring similar considerations during the drafting of the CRPD.[87] Although the proposal for a 5 percent quota was ultimately excluded from the final version of the Protocol, the provision ensuring descriptive representation in legislatures was retained.[88] This fact underscores the emphasis on group rights in African politics, contributing to realizing the right to representation for persons with disabilities in the studied countries. Interviewees highlighted that legislative or electoral quota laws in their respective countries supported the right to representation even before such measures were implemented in the West. The implementation of the right may require temporary measures like quotas, acknowledging that societal mindset and institutional inclusion might not be fully prepared for direct elections to ensure the representation of persons with disabilities.

Even in Western democracies, ensuring parliamentary representation for minority groups is challenging. While developed countries adopt additional measures for other minority groups, such as majority-minority districting for black minorities in the United States,[89] these approaches may not suit the unique circumstances of persons with disabilities. Disability’s inherent nature, not confined to specific categories, makes majority-minority districting impractical.[90] Countries like Uganda and Kenya grant descriptive representation for persons with disabilities constitutional status, declaring it a human right, similar to other fundamental rights. In contrast, in the Western context, descriptive representation remains a political decision or privilege rather than an explicitly asserted human right. Recognizing descriptive representation as a group right may have significant implications for shaping future human rights philosophy, expanding our understanding of political rights, and promoting inclusivity within the political process.

While international human rights mechanisms predominantly focus on safeguarding individual rights, certain treaties explicitly recognize distinct rights attributed to groups.[91] The exercise of the right to representation as a group right requires individuals representing the group to hold positions in a legislature. Persons with disabilities can assert their right to representation in legislatures by appointing representatives to occupy the seats to which they are entitled. Apart from the African Disability Protocol, no international human rights treaty currently recognizes the right to descriptive representation as a group right. However, if African countries domestically recognize this right, it may set a precedent for its establishment as a group right under international human rights law. This potential development would contribute to a more comprehensive and inclusive political process, expanding the scope of political rights.

5. Conclusion

The landscape of descriptive representation for persons with disabilities in parliaments reveals disparities compared to representation based on gender, race, ethnicity, and youth. Recently, five African countries—Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Zimbabwe, and Egypt—have constitutionally acknowledged the right to descriptive representation for persons with disabilities. This early recognition can be attributed to several factors. Interviewees highlight that including persons with disabilities in parliaments, without extending this representation to the executive branch, may indicate a perception of limited parliamentary power, providing a space for shared representation. Despite potential government beliefs, the Disability Rights Movement sees parliamentary inclusion as an empowering tool for advocating the rights of persons with disabilities.

The divergence in political and legal culture between these African countries and the West, marked by differences in the development of democracies and the prioritization of individual versus group rights, may have played a role in the early recognition of descriptive representation for persons with disabilities in African parliaments. Additionally, the preference for securing legislative seats for persons with disabilities may stem from the myriad forms of discrimination and challenges they face in Africa. Recent constitutional review processes have also influenced the recognition of descriptive representation, with these constitutions achieving higher inclusive representation than other countries. Key human rights instruments, such as the Standard Rules on the Equalization of Opportunities for Persons with Disabilities and the CRPD, have been crucial in driving positive changes.

However, challenges persist in certain African countries, where persons with disabilities are excluded from participating in the nomination and election of their representatives, and the execution of representation falls short of accommodating the diverse needs of persons with disabilities in compliance with the CRPD. In contrast, while strategies like majority-minority districting contribute to descriptive representation in the Western context, it remains a subject of political discourse. Recognizing the significance of countries that explicitly acknowledge the right to representation for persons with disabilities in their laws is crucial, as it not only marks an achievement but also holds the potential to shape the future philosophy surrounding human rights.


* Yohannes Takele Zewale is an S.J.D. Candidate at Syracuse University College of Law.

[1] Jane Mansbridge, Should Blacks Represent Blacks and Women Represent Women? A Contingent “Yes,” 61 J. Pol. 628, 629-30 (1999).

[2] Id.

[3] Id.

[4] Hanna Fenichel Pitkin, The Concept of Representation 90–94 (1967).

[5] Id. ; Anne Phillips, The Politics of Presence (1998).

[6] Hendrik Hertzberg, Politics: Observations and Arguments (2004).

[7] Barbara Arneil & Nancy J. Hirschmann, An Introduction, in Disability and Political Theory 1, 1–10 (Barbara Arneil & Nancy J. Hirschmann eds., 2016).

[8] Stefanie Reher, Do Disabled Candidates Represent Disabled Citizens?, 52 Brit. J. Pol. Sci. 1, 1–6 (2021).

[9] Mona Lena Krook, Electoral Quotas and Group Representation, in Research Handbook On Political Representation 198, 199 (Maurizio Cotta & Federico Russo eds., 2020).

[10] Id.

[11] Ranking of Countries by Quality of Democracy, Democracy Matrix (2020), https://www.democracymatrix.com/ranking.

[12] Krook, supra note 9 (However, while Krook underscores that certain countries, including Egypt, have begun to acknowledge descriptive representation of individuals with disabilities, she did not elaborate on the reasons why these African countries achieved recognition of such representation in their parliaments ahead of western countries).

[13] Helene Combrinck & Tobias Pieter van Reenen, The UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities in Africa: Progress After 5 Years, 14 Sur Int’l J. Hum. Rts. 133 (2011); see also Ugandan Const. art. 77.

[14] Ugandan Const. art. 32.

[15] Id. art. 78; Ugandan Parliamentary Election Act, art. 8.

[16] Ugandan Parliamentary Election Act, art. 8(2)(d); Krook, supra note 9, at 269.

[17] Ugandan Local Government Act, arts. 10, 23.

[18] Rwandan Const. art. 64.

[19] Zimbabwean Const. art. 118.

[20] Rwandan Const. art. 75(4).

[21] Zimbabwean Const. art. 120(1)(d).

[22] Rwandan Const. art. 75(4); Zimbabwean Election Act, § 45(A)(2).

[23] Kenyan Const. art. 93.

[24] Lucianna Thuo, Realising the Inclusion of Young Persons with Disabilities in Political and Public Life in Kenya, 4 Afr. Disability Rts. Y.B. 25 (2016).

[25] Kenyan Const. art. 54(2).

[26] Id. arts. 97-98, 177.

[27] Id. arts. 90, 97(1)(C).

[28] Id. art. 98(1)(D).

[29] Kenyan Election Act art. 36(1)(F) (2011); see also Kenyan Const. art. 177(1)(C).

[30] Kenyan Const. arts. 90, 97.

[31] Egyptian Const. arts. 101, 248.

[32] Id. arts. 180, 244.

[33] Jan Claudius Völkel, Sidelined by Design: Egypt’s Parliament in Transition, 22 J. N. Afr. Studies 595, 607 (2017).

[34] Id.

[35] Egyptian Law No. 46 on the House of Representatives arts. 1-5 (2014).

[36] Id.

[37] Id.

[38] Egyptian Const. art. 102.

[39] In this Article, I present findings from a research project conducted between 2022 and 2023. Since the issue lacks prior research, qualitative methods such as interviews and observation were proposed. Accordingly, I gathered a diverse group of 15 individuals, nine men and six women, with disabilities to participate in this research. The interviewees included disability rights advocates, leaders of organizations representing persons with disabilities, and politicians with disabilities. They were from Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Zimbabwe, and Egypt. IRB approval was secured; informed consent was obtained from interviewees.

[40] Minister of State for Disability, Ministry of Gender, Labour and Social Development, https://mglsd.go.ug/asamo-hellen-grace/ (last visited Oct. 23, 2023).

[41] Julie Livingston, Insights from an African History of Disability, 2006 Radical Hist. Rev. 111, 111–125 (2006).

[42] Id.

[43] Uganda 1995, Constitute Project, https://www.constituteproject.org/constitution/Uganda_2005 (last visited Oct. 22, 2023).

[44] Rwanda 2003, Constitute Project, https://www.constituteproject.org/constitution/Rwanda_2015 (last visited Oct. 22, 2023).

[45] Kenya 2010, Constitute Project, https://www.constituteproject.org/constitution/Kenya_2010 (last visited Oct. 22, 2023).

[46] Zimbabwe 2013, Constitute Project, https://www.constituteproject.org/constitution/Zimbabwe_2013 (last visited Oct. 22, 2023).

[47] Egypt 2014, Constitute Project, https://www.constituteproject.org/constitution/Egypt_2014 (last visited Oct. 22, 2023).

[48] U.N. Standard Rules on the Equalization of Opportunities for Persons with Disabilities, Res. 48/96 (Dec. 20, 1993).

[49] U.N. Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, 2515 U.N.T.S. 3 (Dec. 13, 2006) [hereinafter “CRPD”].

[50] Kenyan Const. arts. 90, 97(1)(c).

[51] Id. at art. 54.

[52] Nancy L. Rosenblum, On the Side of The Angels: An Appreciation of Parities and Partisanship 401 (2008).

[53] Julian Bernauer, Ethnic Politics, Regime Support and Conflict in Central and Eastern Europe 65 (2015).

[54] CRPD, supra note 49, at preamble.

[55] Id. at art. 4(3).

[56] Michael Ashley Stein, Disability Human Rights, William & Mary Law School Scholarship Repository 75 (2007), https://scholarship.law.wm.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1285&context=facpubs.

[57] CRPD, supra note 49, at art. 3.

[58] Id. at art. 4(3).

[59] Id. at arts. 29, 33(3).

[60] Kenjiro Sakakibara, Work Exclusion and Disability Types: The Heterogeneity of Disability as Social Exclusion in the 2011 Irish Census Microdata, 28 Irish J. Sociology 65, 66 (2020).

[61] Id.

[62] Elizabeth Barnes, The Minority Body: A Theory of Disability 9 (2016).

[63] Id.

[64] Sakakibara, supra note 66.

[65] Id.

[66] CRPD, supra note 49, at preamble.

[67] Id. at art. 3.

[68] Id. at preamble.

[69] Id. at arts. 1(2), 6.

[70] Rwandan Const. art. 75(4).

[71] Zimbabwean Const. art. 120(1)(D).

[72] Kenyan Const. arts. 97-98, 177.

[73] CRPD, supra note 49, at art. 12(1).

[74] Committee on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, General Comment No. 1: Article 12: Equal Recognition Before the Law, ¶ 29, U.N. Doc. CRPD/C/GC/1 (May 19, 2014) [hereinafter “CRPD General Comment No. 1”).

[75] CRPD, supra note 49, at art. 12(2).

[76] Id. at art. 29.

[77] CRPD General Comment No. 1, supra note 73.

[78] Committee on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, Communication No. 4/2011 [Zsolt Bujdosó v Hungary], U.N. Doc. CRPD/C/10/D/4/2011 (Oct. 16, 2013).

[79] Id. ¶ 9.4.

[80] Dinesh Bhugra et al., Mental Illness and the Right to Vote: A Review of Legislation Across the World, 28 Int’l Rev. Psychiatry 395, 394–99 (2016).

[81] CRPD General Comment No. 1, supra note 73.

[82] Guidelines for Election of Representatives of Persons with Disability in Parliament 2017, The Ugandan Electoral Commission, https://www.ec.or.ug/info/guidelines-election-mps-representing-persons-disabilities-pwds (last visited June 2, 2023).

[83] Id.

[84] See Ugandan Const. art. 80.

[85] A.U. Protocol to the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities in Africa, https://au.int/sites/default/files/treaties/36440-treaty-protocol_to_the_achpr_on_the_rights_of_persons_with_disabilities_in_africa_e.pdf (last visited Mar. 23, 2023) [hereinafter “ADP”].

[86] A.U. Draft Protocol to the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities in Africa, art. 16(d), https://www.achpr.org/news/viewdetail?id=129 (last visited Oct.  9, 2023).

[87] U.N. Working Group, Compilation of Proposals for Elements of a Convention (5-16 January 2004), https://www.un.org/esa/socdev/enable/rights/comp-element6.htm (last visited Mar. 21, 2023).

[88] ADP, supra note 84, at art. 21(2)(D).

[89] Majority-Minority Districts, Ballotpedia, https://ballotpedia.org/Majority-minority_districts (last visited on June 4, 2022).

[90] Willi Horner-Johnson, Disability, Intersectionality, and Inequity: Life at the Margins, in Pub. Health Persp. on Disability 91, 95–103 (Donald J. Lollar et al. eds., 2d ed. 2021).

[91] E.g., International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights of 1966, art. 27; Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention of 1989; and U.N. Declaration of Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious or Linguistic Minorities of 1993.


Cover image credit 

Missing Questions in the ASEAN Human Rights Court Narrative

Missing Questions in the ASEAN Human Rights Court Narrative

Rafsi Albar*

Introduction

Southeast Asia has a grim track record on human rights. Suharto’s Indonesia killed alleged communists en masse during his 32-year reign. Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge in Cambodia subjugated millions, and Ferdinand Marcos’s martial law in the Philippines was marked by torture, forced disappearances, and extrajudicial killings. Today, Myanmar faces a two-fold problem: first, with its oppressive military rule, which has deprived its people of fundamental rights; and second, with the Rohingya refugee crisis, which has persisted since the Rohingya genocide started in 2016. Many see the region as continuing to follow a dark path.

The Association of Southeast Asian Nations (“ASEAN”) connects these countries and six others. Born in 1967 with the mission to accelerate economic and social cooperation for collective growth and regional stability, the organization has expanded its scope to address evolving global challenges such as environmental issues and counter-terrorism. Human rights, while already included as a guiding principle in the 2007 Charter, became formally institutionalized in the ASEAN infrastructure through the establishment of the ASEAN Intergovernmental Commission on Human Rights (“AICHR”) in 2009 and the ASEAN Human Rights Declaration (“AHRD”) in 2012.

Many have voiced discontent over the Commission’s inability to provide real solutions to pressing human rights issues in the region. Some have suggested the creation of a regional human rights court. While this idea has garnered support from scholars and the public, the debate over the Court has failed to address fundamental questions about its need and feasibility.

I. The Ongoing Discourse

Many legal scholars have concluded that the present ASEAN human rights regime is insufficient to effectively respond to the increasingly rampant human rights violations occurring in member states, ranging from the silencing of political dissent to grave violations such as systemic genocide and crimes against humanity. With the Commission’s work mostly focusing on non-contentious topics that are easily agreeable by member states—which are still important—there is a growing sentiment that the Commission is unable to address the most urgent and controversial human rights issues.

To solve the problem, some have proposed the idea of a regional human rights court. Drawing inspiration from systems in Africa, the Americas, and Europe, many suggest that the best way to achieve justice for human rights violations when a state is unwilling to act is through a supranational judicial authority. In scholarly legal discussions, several proposals have emerged regarding the structure and operation of the Court. The discourse largely focuses on details such as the Court’s jurisdiction, composition of judges, and strategies for cooperation. Yet the goal is lofty: a supranational court empowered to enforce treaties and human rights, comparable even to those in the European continent.

II. The Missing Questions

Discourse about the establishment of a human rights court within the ASEAN system has not been very nuanced, especially considering the political volatility of countries in the region. “Debates”—which are in truth minor quibbles over operational details rather than substantive disagreements on underlying factors—have mostly revolved around how the court should be formed, premised on the common presumption that its formation is inevitable. The question thus arises: are the basic foundations of this presumption—that an ASEAN human rights court is needed and possible—correct?

1. Is a Court Needed?

To be clear, questioning the appropriateness of an ASEAN human rights court does not negate the claim that the region needs a human rights framework. While a Court is likely the most sophisticated option, it is far from being the only effective one. Taking examples from the United Nations’ human rights system, alternatives like employing rapporteurs, instituting special monitoring bodies, or even allocating reparation funds for victims are arguably more feasible alternatives.

The establishment of an ASEAN human rights court must be grounded in the fundamental principles of ASEAN and its member states, and attention to differences between ASEAN and other regional organizations is critical. The European Court of Human Rights, as implied in the preambulatory clauses of the Convention on Human Rights, was built on top of a shared European identity forged through centuries of war and political interactions. Its post-war creation reflected a common European aspiration for human rights and democratic governance. This codified sense of shared destiny and common values has gained the Court widespread legitimacy and respect.

However, ASEAN’s strictly intergovernmental character differentiates it from the supranational form of the European Union. As set up by the 1967 Bangkok Declaration, ASEAN is meant to help members realize their individual potential through socio-economic cooperation and the exchange of best practices while fully maintaining members’ autonomy. ASEAN and its bodies have very limited collective decision-making authority. This structural limitation necessitates innovative approaches to work around the governance gap vis-à-vis the power to compel measures on states and raises real questions about whether the organization should concern itself with human rights.

The foundations for a more comprehensive Southeast Asian human rights regime already exist, albeit not very robustly. The ASEAN Intergovernmental Commission on Human Rights (AICHR) and its landmark instrument, the ASEAN Human Rights Declaration (AHRD), could form the basis of improvements to the regional system. Global precedents have demonstrated that the viability of a judiciary in human rights enforcement is frequently aided by the establishment of a strong non-judicial arm. Therefore, before anything else, the AICHR has to undergo some level of transformation such that it serves as a solid bedrock for the development of a court. When a court is introduced, it can build upon the groundwork laid by the Commission, leading to more cohesive and coordinated efforts in upholding human rights. Creating a court requires significant political and financial capital. It should thus be pursued only after a comprehensive review and exhaustion of other options, such as enhancing the AICHR, developing regional mechanisms for monitoring and reporting, and setting up advisory bodies.

2. Is a Court Possible?

Even if a court is desirable, it might not be possible. The “ASEAN Way” is a paradigm (in)famous for how it has shaped the decisions of the organization and its member states. It dictates how international relations are done among member states, namely through less formalistic and confrontational dialogues in the interest of stability. Although well-intended as a means of showing respect to the sovereignty of states as prescribed as part of customary international law, it poses a number of problems for human rights.

The principle of non-interference, as stipulated in Article 2.2(e) of the ASEAN Charter, limits the organization’s jurisdiction to address human rights issues. The situation in Myanmar illustrates the organization’s current limits. Despite human rights abuses in Myanmar being consistently raised in ASEAN meetings, ASEAN members have yet to take concrete steps to address the crisis. Leaders openly acknowledge the organization’s inaction. But thanks to ASEAN’s overly exaggerated sense of “respect” for sovereignty, the prospect of establishing a permanent institution to address situations like Myanmar seems even more unlikely to gain member support. Moreover, the consultation and consensus-based decision-making process of the organization makes a court even more infeasible. The consultation-and-consensus model is designed to ensure strict obedience to ASEAN’s principles, but it is often blamed for ASEAN’s sluggish responses to problems. Given that some members—not just Myanmar—are still struggling to uphold human rights on their own, political unwillingness to create a human rights court will pose a significant obstacle.

Even if member states manage to put aside their individual agendas and come to a consensus on the establishment of the court, it is not clear that the Court would be able to stand the test of time. Southeast Asian nations differ widely in their political character and the region is deeply divided. Disunity can and has derailed the workings of ASEAN on various fronts. Maintaining an ASEAN human rights court in this environment may be difficult.

Concluding Remarks

The case for an ASEAN human rights court needs to return to its foundations. While the idea of having a judicial body akin to the courts in Europe, Africa, or the Americas holds a certain appeal, the region’s unique context demands tailored and contextual approaches. This article brings to light two often-overlooked basic questions: whether a court is necessary or possible in the first place. These questions do not necessarily mean a court is impossible. But they are prerequisites to further debate – and vital points of contemplation to assure the potency of the potential court should it eventually become a reality.


*Rafsi Albar is an undergraduate at Universitas Gadjah Mada, Indonesia, concentrating on public international law. He assists teaching in administrative law, conducts various public interest legal research, and serves as an editor at Juris Gentium Law Review, the country’s foremost student-run publication.


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The ICC’s Arrest Warrant Against Putin: A Grenade Against Peace in Ukraine?

The ICC’s Arrest Warrant Against Putin: A Grenade Against Peace in Ukraine?

Andreas Chorakis*

Introduction

The founding treaty of the International Criminal Court (ICC), the Rome Statute, states in its preamble, “such grave crimes [under the Court’s jurisdiction] threaten the peace, security and well-being of the world.” However, the peacemaking role of the ICC is not as straightforward as its preamble describes. As a judicial and political forum, the ICC engages in storytelling. In most occasions, the story is told only from one side. In other words, it is a well-known practice of the Court to create villains and enemies of mankind. The indictments and issuances of arrest warrants by the Court have been used as forces of political pressure towards specific groups and individuals to such an extent that they impact peace processes and international justice.

Characteristic is the example of Joseph Kony, the leader of the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) in Uganda. In 2005, then-Prosecutor of the ICC, Luis Moreno Ocampo, decided to issue arrest warrants only against Kony and his inner circle, leaving aside any crimes committed by the Ugandan government. The arrest warrant against Kony was issued while the Juba Peace Talks were ongoing, damaging any effect of the potential peace treaty and the delivery of substantive international justice. This move was significant because, as the leader of the rebel group in Northern Uganda, the active participation of Kony in the peace process was a vital element for a successful result. However, by targeting the major opponent of the Ugandan government, the ICC kept up with its policy to prosecute the main stakeholders engaging in mass atrocities. It is also important to mention that both sides of the conflict wished to use the ICC as the main judicial institution to prosecute war crimes and crimes against humanity. While the self-referral of the Ugandan government became a catalyst to the peace negotiations, the arrest warrants against the LRA buried an effort for peace and justice by failing to contribute to a substantive delivery of criminal justice and, respectively, to prosecute all perpetrators of heinous crimes that shock the conscience of humanity.

The new target of the ICC is the President of Russia, Vladimir Putin. In March 2023, almost a year after a multi-party referral from 43 State parties to the Rome Statute, the ICC Prosecutor, Karim Ahmad Khan, proudly announced the issuance of an indictment and arrest warrant against President Putin for the crime of unlawful deportation (children) and unlawful transfer of population (children) from occupied areas of Ukraine to Russia. Hence, the construction of a new villain has started. 

Against this backdrop, it is worth examining the potential impact of Putin’s arrest warrant on the peacemaking process and the delivery of international justice in Ukraine. Legal scholarship seems to predominantly embrace the arrest warrant positively. Some scholars remark that Putin’s arrest warrant is one of the most progressive movements made by the Court, while other scholars discuss how the warrant changes the dynamics in the Russia-Ukraine War, which includes the potential involvement of the United Nations (UN) Security Council. A few scholars highlight the risks of the arrest warrant. However, there is a glaring absence of legal scholarship that explains how Putin’s arrest warrant may serve peace and justice.

I. Breaking the Throne: The Al-Bashir Case

In March 2009, then-President of Sudan, Omar Al-Bashir, had the dubious honor of becoming the first sitting Head of State to be indicted by the ICC. Similar to then-President Al-Bashir, President Putin’s status as a sitting Head of State invokes two critical articles of the Rome Statute: Article 27 (Irrelevance of Official Capacity) and Article 98 (Cooperation with Respect to Waiver of Immunity and Consent to Surrender). First, under Article 27(2), there is no immunity protection for crimes under the jurisdiction of the Court; sitting or former Heads of State cannot hide behind the immunity veil to avoid prosecution and conviction. Second, under Article 98, as the Court does not have independent resources, States must cooperate with the Court and surrender the suspect immediately. 

In the Al-Bashir case, despite the strict wording of Articles 27(2) and 98, Al-Bashir’s transfer to The Hague before the ICC judges was a tumultuous journey with no ending result. The first duty to cooperate fell on Sudan, which, due to the UN Security Council Resolution 1593 (2005), was deposed under the jurisdiction of the ICC. As the sitting Head of State, Al-Bashir had control over all enforcement mechanisms of Sudan. So, of course, Sudan could not act independently to surrender Al-Bashir. Consequently, the burden of enforcement fell to the other State parties to the Rome Statute. However, despite this obligation and the desperate cries from the Court, other African and Arab States—most of which were State parties to the Rome Statute—did not show any willingness to arrest and surrender Al-Bashir to The Hague. Even with his outstanding warrant, Al-Bashir traveled to several African and Arab States for conferences of international organizations, such as the African Union (AU) and the Arab League, without risk of surrender. For over 8 years, Al-Bashir wandered about the African continent, and no State—neither State parties nor non-party States of the Rome Statute—was willing to take the initiative to arrest him. 

Due to the other State parties’ non-cooperation, the ICC was urged to interpret itself and made a strict ruling. In May 2019, the Court issued the Judgment in the Jordan Referral re Al-Bashir Appeal, interpreting the grounds of non-cooperation concerning the laws of immunities. The Court decided that as there is no exception to the waiver of immunity for sitting Heads of State in the Rome Statute and customary international law, there is no exception to the rule of cooperation. The States that have a duty to cooperate with the Court must cooperate with the Court no matter the circumstances. The Court set a precedent to stop any other Al-Bashir cases in the future.

II. A History Repeated?: The Putin Case

The first question is the enforceability of the arrest warrant. Russia has not waived the customary law immunity of its Head of State, and as a non-party State of the Rome Statute, it has no obligation to comply with the Court’s decision. Thus, the burden of enforcement mainly rests on Ukraine and other European Union (EU) Member States in the event that President Putin is present in their territories. As noted by Amsterdam Law School Professor Sergey Vasiliev, whether or not President Putin decides to visit an EU Member State falls in the spectrum of speculation. He also notes that even prior to the warrant, President Putin had reduced his travels to destinations outside Russia. 

A further question is the impact of the arrest warrant on peacemaking and substantive international justice in Ukraine. This issue is complex. In the context of transitional justice and attribution of criminal responsibility, the ICC has been used as a forum to prosecute perpetrators of war crimes committed during active hostilities. Characteristic is the example of the Juba Agreement for Peace in Sudan, which names the Court as one of the main forums for delivering international justice as part of the peace process.

However, the Court is not a peacebuilding institution but a criminal prosecution mechanism for the most heinous crimes. The prosecutorial function of the Court is often detrimental to the peace process as it criminalizes certain parties of the conflict. The criminalization of one side of the conflict not only tarnishes the public image of those accused, but it also politically disenfranchises the individual and their constituency. Consequently, warlords, regional leaders, and armed group leaders are unwilling to enter peace negotiations as arrest warrants are pending against them, and they have been identified as international criminals. This phenomenon was seen with the Ituri conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo and the arrest warrants against the former leader of the Union of Congolese Patriots (UPC), Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, and the former leader of the Patriotic Resistance Force in Ituri (FRPI), Germain Katanga.

Additionally, the prosecutorial role of the Court could easily jeopardize the peacemaking role of international organizations. International organizations such as the EU and the AU can be a neutral forum for peace talks as they offer flexibility and neutrality. Moreover, these organizations have developed strong mediation skills due to their enlargement process.

In the case of Ukraine, the EU can be the main negotiator and peacemaker in the Russia-Ukraine War. The EU has played the same role in the past, on certain occasions with great success, such as the Bosnian War, and on other occasions with great failure, such as the situation in Cyprus. As a mainly political organization, the EU has the capacity, the skills, and the appropriate means to provide a peaceful solution for Ukraine. However, under the pressure of the arrest warrant, the EU could not fulfill its role. Having a fear of being arrested and being transferred to The Hague, the Russian political authority would avoid any visit to EU countries or any negotiations in an EU Member State’s territory. Therefore, the EU would lose its main advantage as a neutral negotiation mediator.

Moreover, the EU would need to spend its resources to enforce the arrest warrant. Such a policy would length the gap in the relationships between the EU and Russia, prolonging the armed conflict. Thus, the arrest warrant can provoke more damage to the EU’s role than any benefit. 

Conclusion

The arrest warrant against President Putin is indeed a challenging step for the ICC. The Court has indicted one of the world’s most powerful and prominent political leaders. On the one hand, such a move could increase the Court’s appeal. On the other hand, enforcing the arrest warrant is a complex matter that demands the cooperation of key factors, such as the EU. The implications of enforcing the arrest warrant could easily create a new Al-Bashir situation, which would not only damage the image of the Court as a forum of justice but also diminish the role of important stakeholders, such as the EU, in resolving the crisis. The ICC is one the main narrators in the Russia-Ukraine War, and its approach will vividly picture the villains and the enemies of mankind. The impact of the ICC’s storytelling will remain open for consideration in any future peacemaking efforts. 


* Andreas Chorakis is a MPhil/Ph.D. Candidate at Middlesex University. He is currently a Teaching Fellow at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) University of London. He has taught modules at Middlesex University London and the University of Law, specializing in English Business Law, Civil Litigation, and Human Rights. He is developing his research in Business and Human Rights Law, International Dispute Resolution, International Criminal Law and General International Law. He is a graduate of the Geneva Graduate Institute (LL.M., 2018) and the University of Athens (LL.B., 2017).


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International Treaty Negotiations and the Status of the ‘Principle of the Common Heritage of Mankind’: The 2023 BBNJ Treaty Text

International Treaty Negotiations and the Status of the ‘Principle of the Common Heritage of Mankind’: The 2023 BBNJ Treaty Text

Nayomi Goonesekere*

This piece explores the contours of the principle of the common heritage of mankind (“the Principle”) as embodied in the recently concluded text for the BBNJ Treaty, on 4 March 2023, as well as the various provisions of the major law of the sea treaties, with a special focus on treaty negotiations.  

In 1967, Ambassador Arvind Pardo of Malta in his seminal address before the United Nations (U.N.) General Assembly stated that “the seabed and the ocean floor are a common heritage of mankind and should be used and exploited for peaceful purposes and for the exclusive benefit of mankind as a whole.” This concept was affirmed in the 1970 U.N. Declaration of Principles Governing the Seabed and Ocean Floor and the Subsoil thereof beyond the Limits of National Jurisdiction. In contrast to competing frameworks, the common heritage of mankind principle (“the Principle”) has strong communitarian and natural law underpinnings. It represents the notion that certain resources which fall outside national jurisdiction and to which all states have access should not be unilaterally exploited by individual states and their nationals, corporations, or other entities. It posits that an international arrangement or regime should govern the utilization of the global commons for the benefit of all humanity. The Principle is multifaceted and its core elements entail the active sharing of benefits, conservation and sustainable development, peaceful use of resources, governance via a common management system, and the obligation to cooperate. 

The Principle’s status as customary international law is controversial and represents the conflicting interests of industrialized and developing states (often former colonies) who have disagreed about whether rights to common space resources should vest in all of mankind, rather than in who captured the resource, and whether benefits should be equitably distributed, taking particular notice of developing states’ needs. Amidst this difficulty, the Principle has developed as an undergirding part of international law, through codification activities by the U.N. with respect to the law of the sea, the governance regimes of the moon and outer space, and Antarctica. The recently adopted Biodiversity Beyond National Jurisdiction Treaty (“BBNJ,” “BBNJ Treaty,” or “High Seas Treaty”) and its negotiation history sheds new light on the thorny issue of whether the common heritage of mankind has achieved the status of customary international law. This piece argues that the near-universal support for the common heritage-based regime contained in the BBNJ Treaty adds force to the status of the Principle as custom, especially when coupled with its continuity in international law, both as a part of the 1982 U.N. Convention on the Law of the Sea (“UNCLOS”) and its 1994 Implementation Agreement, which enjoy widespread state acceptance today. 

On  March 4, 2023, diplomats representing nearly 200 countries took a giant plunge to protect the world’s oceans by endorsing the text of the BBNJ Treaty, which was later adopted by U.N. member states on June 19, 2023. The BBNJ Treaty marks the culmination of nearly 20 years of discussions regarding the conservation and sustainable use of marine areas beyond national jurisdiction, supplementing the UNCLOS. The BBNJ introduces a regime for the protection of biodiversity on the high seas and in the deep seabed, which collectively comprise nearly two-thirds of the world’s oceans. Within this agreement, the Principle that Ambassador Pardo proposed fifty-six years ago appears at the forefront of international treaty-making both through its place in the text of the BBNJ Treaty and the negotiations that preceded its finalization. 

The Principle’s inclusion in the BBNJ was not a foregone conclusion. The principle had been removed from a draft of the text as recently as May 17, 2019. However, the centrality of the concept to this new regime governing the high seas and deep seabed is highlighted by the fact that the Principle made its way back into the final text, after strong retaliation by states. During the Third Session of the Intergovernmental Conference (“IGC”) on the BBNJ, the G77, China, Myanmar, Paraguay, Philippines, Thailand, and Malawi asked that the common heritage of mankind be reflected directly in the treaty text to ensure that it was fully operationalized in the relevant parts of the agreement. They stressed that it would help promote sustainable use of the high seas, equitable sharing of benefits, and capacity building in developing countries through financial and technical support. Palestine, issuing a statement on behalf of the G77 and China, reminded the delegates: “We set as our clear goal the conservation and sustainable use of marine biological diversity of areas beyond national jurisdiction. This goal can only be achieved when guided by the bedrock principle of the Common Heritage of Mankind … [t]he oceans and seas beyond national jurisdiction – common to us all – are to be treasured for the benefits that shall be shared equitably with due regard for future generations.” Speaking on behalf of the African Group, Algeria observed that “adopting a new BBNJ instrument without this principle would be like giving life to a treaty of this importance without a soul, or like putting a ship in the water without a navigational instrument.” 

From the start of the BBNJ negotiations in 2004, the question of the Principle’s inclusion in the BBNJ Treaty was a key point of discussion in two respects: first, in connection with its applicability to marine genetic resources in areas located beyond national jurisdiction, i.e., the High Seas, as well as the seabed and ocean floor and subsoil thereof (“the Area”). This is because the treatment accorded to marine genetic resources is one of the core substantive provisions of the BBNJ and seeks to expressly regulate the exploitation of resources such as microorganisms, bacteria, algae, corals, and other living resources. Through the Principle’s adoption, the delegates negotiating the BBNJ sought to place controls on the utilization of marine genetic resources by stipulating fair and equitable access and benefit sharing with developing states that do not have the financial or technical capabilities to collect or sample such resources. Secondly, the BBNJ Treaty as a whole enshrines the Principle both in its preamble and its provisions governing the scope of its application by express mention in the Treaty’s language. 

As in the negotiations preceding earlier law of the sea treaties, such as the UNCLOS, the United States asked for the removal of the common heritage principle from the scope of substantive provisions dealing with the utilization of marine genetic resources. However, a number of other states, which include both industrialized and developing states, such as the G77, China, the Caribbean Community, and Indonesia supported the inclusion of the communitarian approach. The G77, China, and the Caribbean Community, who were the Principle’s strongest proponents during negotiations, also submitted written proposals which identified the Principle as one of the general principles that would inform the objectives and implementation of the treaty. By the Fifth (and final) Session of the IGC on the BBNJ delegates made significant progress on definitions of key terms related to marine genetic resources such as “access,” “collection,” and “utilization” in line with proposals submitted by developing states. Delegates also agreed to notify a clearing house mechanism for projects involving collection or sampling of marine genetic resources in areas beyond national jurisdiction. However, diverging views persisted on the establishment of mechanisms for access and benefit-sharing, monetary benefit-sharing, and intellectual property rights – echoing the United States’ views at the First Session of the IGC on the BBNJ that “such a regime [would] stifle or impede exploration, science, innovation, and entrepreneurship.”

Following these negotiations, the substantive provisions of the treaty now reflect the Principle’s core elements. For example, in regulating the exploitation of marine genetic resources, the BBNJ provides that the activities involving “material of marine plant, animal, microbial or other origin containing functional units of heredity of actual or potential value” (used in genetics and microbiology research as well as products such as biochemicals used in medicine, cosmetics, food supplements and industrial processes) “are in the interest of all states and for the benefit of all humanity” and must “tak[e] into particular consideration the interests and needs of developing states” (Article 11). The benefits – both monetary (such as payments for commercialization of products) and non-monetary (such as sharing research results or technology transfer) – arising out of activities involving marine genetic resources and their associated “digital sequence information” like DNA data must be shared fairly and equitably amongst states (Article 14). A clearing house mechanism which is to be established will allow for the monitoring of the collection and use of marine genetic resources (Article 12). The BBNJ thus creates groundbreaking access and benefit-sharing obligations that will require companies to pay for the use of marine genetic resources beyond national jurisdiction for the very first time. Under the existing Convention on Biological Diversity and its Nagoya Protocol, companies were only required to make monetary and non-monetary contributions in order to utilize genetic resources under national jurisdiction from national territories, national seas, and exclusive economic zones. 

Further, all provisions of the BBNJ are subject to the overarching principled approach that “n order to achieve the objectives of [the] Agreement, Parties shall be guided by […] (b) the principle of the common heritage of humankind which is set out in the Convention” (Article 7(b)). The Principle is also crystalized in the Preamble, which recognizes the “importance of … a just and equitable international economic order which takes into account the interests and needs of humankind as a whole and, in particular, the special interests and needs of developing states, whether coastal or landlocked.” By incorporating the Principle into key provisions that form the object and purpose of the treaty, the BBNJ drafters have ensured that any future treaty interpretation and application in respect of the BBNJ’s substantive provisions will be guided by the Principle’s overarching values, as confirmed by the customary rules of treaty interpretation enshrined in Articles 31(1) and (2) of the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties.

The BBNJ’s embrace of the Principle adds new evidence to the hotly debated question of whether the common heritage of mankind has achieved the status of customary international law. Indeed, Ambassador Pardo’s ultimate objective as a proponent of this Principle was for “the common heritage principle to replace freedom of the seas as the foundation of international law of the sea.” The near-universal support enjoyed by the BBNJ Treaty, which incorporates the Principle in key substantive provisions and as a guiding element of its 76 Articles, provides strong evidence that the common heritage of mankind represents customary international law with respect to areas beyond national jurisdiction. 

Briefly revisiting the negotiation and subsequent practice of the UNCLOS and its Implementation Agreement reveals that the strong natural law and communitarian underpinnings of the Principle are evident in these regimes as well. The UNCLOS’s emphasis on the importance of ensuring universal access to deep seabed mineral resources emphasizes the BBNJ and the principle of the common heritage of mankind’s continuity with existing international law. 

The Principle’s continuity in international law is specifically highlighted by the rejection of the United States’ opposition to its application to the deep seabed mining regime set out in the UNCLOS. The United States eventually did not ratify the UNCLOS and instead lobbied for the inclusion of more market-oriented features in Part XI of UNCLOS, which provides a regime for the Area, by criticizing stipulations for the mandatory transfer of private technology, the possibility of national liberation movements sharing in benefits, and the absence of assured access for future qualified deep seabed miners to promote development of these resources. Nevertheless, the UNCLOS proceeded with the inclusion of the Principle in its regime for the Area in Articles 136, 137(2) and 140(1). This is especially evident where it declares that “the Area and its resources are the common heritage of mankind” and that activities in the Area are to be carried out for the benefit of mankind as a whole while paying special attention to the interests and needs of developing countries and of peoples who have not attained independence in accordance with U.N. General Assembly Resolution 1514 (XV).

The more market-oriented features advocated for by the United States were subsequently featured in the 1994 Implementation Agreement (amending Part XI of the UNCLOS). The Implementation Agreement renders inapplicable the obligation under the UNCLOS to transfer technology to developing countries and requires the Enterprise (an autonomous operational organ of the International Seabed Authority for the development of its own deep sea mining activities in the Area) to operate through joint ventures on the basis of sound commercial principles. Yet the core provisions in the UNCLOS prohibiting sovereign claims in the Area and requiring equitable sharing of benefits were not lost as a result of these changes. Notwithstanding the modifications effected by the Implementation Agreement, the tenet that the Area and its resources are the common heritage of mankind remains as an overriding and overarching mandate guiding states in the interpretation and application of the relevant provisions of Part XI of the UNCLOS and its Implementation Agreement. Cogently, the Preamble of the Implementation Agreement reaffirms that “the seabed and ocean floor and subsoil thereof, beyond the limits of national jurisdiction … as well as the resources of the Area, are the common heritage of mankind.” 

Prior to the BBNJ, the UNCLOS and its Implementation Agreement were the only examples of a widely accepted treaty regime specifically incorporating the Principle with respect to the Area and its resources. The customary international law status of the Principle is reinforced by the universal jurisdiction enjoyed by these treaties, as illustrated by the 154 states as well as the European Community, that have ratified the UNCLOS and its Implementation Agreement and have started implementing their provisions embodying the principle of the common heritage of mankind as custom. Moreover, it is a well-known fact that no state has unilaterally pursued deep seabed mining. All activity in the Area has been carried out under the UNCLOS and the Implementation Agreement. The consistency of this state practice has made multilateral agreements such as BBNJ and UNCLOS the “only game[s] in town.”  

All of these treaty provisions that incorporate the common heritage principle in different ways have led to the creation of specific common heritage-based regimes that cure much of the historical uncertainty associated with the Principle’s legal status. Through the BBNJ, UNCLOS, and Implementation Agreement, the common heritage of mankind has transformed from a principle to a detailed rule with respect to the law of the sea. This is further highlighted by the context in which the Principle has developed at the U.N. through international treaty negotiations, which has strengthened its influence within international law. Decisionmakers faced with applying the Principle to a legal dispute will now have considerable certainty with respect to its meaning, scope of application and legal status. The broad manner in which the Principle has been adopted in the recent BBNJ regime will likely extend its influence to future management of common space resources such as regional fisheries and international environmental protection. 

A perusal of international treaty negotiations which have impacted a large part of the world’s oceans – the seabed and the ocean floor beyond national jurisdiction as well as the high seas and deep seabed – makes it evident that the principle of the common heritage of mankind is now entrenched in the regime for the international commons. The state practice that will follow the adoption of the BBNJ Treaty will add further certainty to the customary international law status of the principle. 


*Nayomi Goonesekere is a disputes associate based in London. She holds an LLM in International and Comparative Law from The George Washington University Law School as a Thomas Buergenthal Scholar. She has served as Associate Legal Officer and Judicial Fellow at the International Court of Justice.


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Intellectual Property and “The Lost Year” of  COVID-19 Deaths

Intellectual Property and “The Lost Year” of COVID-19 Deaths

Madhavi Sunder and Haochen Sun*

Editors’ Note: Although HILJ Online: Perspectives typically publishes short-form scholarship, we occasionally publish exceptional longer pieces such as this one. 

Introduction

Protecting intellectual property (IP) is a question of life and death.[1] COVID-19 vaccines, partially incentivized by IP, are estimated to have saved nearly 20 million lives worldwide during the first year of their availability in 2021.[2] However, most of the benefits of this life-saving technology went to high- and upper-middle-income countries.[3] Despite 10 billion vaccines being produced by the end of 2021, only 4 percent of people in low-income countries were fully vaccinated. Paradoxically, IP may also be partly responsible for hundreds of thousands of lives lost in 2021, due to an insufficient supply of vaccines and inequitable access during the critical first year of vaccine rollout, most notably in low-income countries that lacked the ability to buy or manufacture vaccines to save their populations. IP is implicated in the choked supply of COVID-19 vaccines in low-income countries, particularly during the crucial first year of the vaccines’ availability in 2021.[4]

This Article first diagnoses how the IP system bears some blame for a “lost year” of COVID-19 deaths and devastation in 2021. While the promise of monopoly rights in breakthrough technology helps incentive life-saving innovation, holding life-saving knowledge hostage in corporate monopolies to maximize private profit has tragic consequences. This Article diagnoses a number of causes for the inequitable distribution of life-saving COVID-19 vaccines, from misguided reliance on IP rights and voluntary mechanisms to share knowledge and vaccines, to the rise of vaccine nationalism and vaccine diplomacy, to unequal global IP institutions that disenfranchise low-income countries and continue to reproduce colonial era dependency by poor countries on high-income nations’ for life-saving technologies. Ultimately, unequal access to life-saving vaccines during the COVID-19 pandemic wreaked untold havoc on human lives and the global economy. Glaring inequity in global access affected rich countries, as well, as variants emerged in poorly vaccinated parts of the world and spread worldwide, prolonging the health and economic effects of the pandemic.

In response to the diagnosis, this Article develops cures to promote a timely and equitable supply of critical medicines in the next pandemic. As the WHO draft Pandemic Treaty recognizes, there is a critical “need to establish a future pandemic prevention, preparedness and response mechanism that is not based on a charity model.”[5] This Article suggests several reforms to prevent such inequity in the next pandemic, including delinking vaccine development that depends on public funding from monopoly rights in technology, enhanced legal requirements to share publicly funded technologies in pandemic times, and investment in technology transfer hubs and local vaccine manufacturing capacity in low- and middle-income countries. We further suggest reforming the IP system to create a robust global technology transfer mechanism and to stimulate faster sharing of patented medicines and vaccines.

I. “The Lost Year” of COVID-19 Deaths

Paradoxically, IP may be partly responsible for hundreds of thousands of lives lost in 2021 due to insufficient supply of vaccines and inequitable access during the critical first year of vaccine rollout, most notably in low-income countries that could not buy or manufacture vaccines to save their populations. A mathematical modeling study published in The Lancet in September 2022 found that 45 percent of deaths in low-income countries could have been averted if just 20 percent of the most high-risk patients in those countries had been vaccinated in 2021—the goal initially set in April 2020 by the COVID-19 Vaccines Global Access (COVAX) facility to ensure equitable access to vaccines upon vaccine availability. As The Lancet study notes regrettably, however, “[d]ue to vaccine shortfalls, these targets were not achieved by the end of 2021,”[6] and substantial numbers of deaths in the poorest nations were not averted as in rich countries.

What accounts for the COVID-19 vaccine shortfall in the poorest countries during the critical first year of the availability of the COVID-19 vaccine? Despite the benefits of vaccine development and distribution to high- and middle-income countries, 2021 proved to be “the lost year” during which hundreds of thousands of lives in low-income countries could have been saved, virulent variants of COVID-19 could have been stemmed, and the length of the global pandemic could have been shortened. The Lancet study, while acknowledging “the considerable uncertainty inherent in estimating vaccine impact,”[7] concludes that “more lives could have been saved if vaccines had been distributed more rapidly to many parts of the world,” which, going forward, requires that “[i]ntellectual property…be shared more quickly in the future, with more open technology and knowledge transfer surrounding vaccine production and allocation.”[8] IP was hardly the only roadblock to a global vaccination campaign in the pandemic response. The Lancet study identifies other critical factors that contributed to the inequitable distribution of vaccines, including misinformation, vaccine hesitancy, insufficient vaccine donations, and poor distribution and delivery infrastructure. But make no mistake: for better and for worse, in the world’s response to the COVID-19 pandemic, IP looms as a central figure.

The role of IP in this crisis is hotly debated. Pharmaceutical companies highlight the role IP played in incentivizing the development of COVID-19 vaccines while downplaying IP’s role in mediating manufacture, access, and distribution.[9] There remains considerable debate about IP’s positive and negative role in pandemics. Is IP’s role limited to developing breakthrough drugs but not their distribution? We readily accept IP’s goal to promote efficiency, but does IP also have an obligation to promote equity? We should pay attention to issues of distributional justice in IP law.[10] This Article seeks to broaden our understanding of the implications of IP in life-saving technologies, from vaccines to diagnostics and therapeutics, during a global pandemic.

While the development of COVID-19 vaccines is a success story, the distribution of COVID-19 vaccines is not. Of 7 billion vaccines administered globally by late 2021, approximately a year after the vaccines were developed, over 70 percent of shots had gone to high-income countries. Less than 4 percent of people in low-income countries received the shot by the end of 2021. In low-income African countries, including Nigeria, Mali, and Uganda, a mere 1 percent of the population had been vaccinated a year after the vaccines were rolled out. Even by early January 2022, a mere 8.5 percent of people in low-income countries had been vaccinated with at least one dose, starkly contrasting to 60 percent vaccinated in high-income countries.[11]

What happened? Despite the best-laid plans in 2020 to equitably distribute vaccines to first inoculate the most at-risk patients around the world in all countries, namely medical providers and the elderly through pre-pledged donations by rich countries, when the critical time came, wealthy country governments instead cut to the front of the line, buying up doses from vaccine producers such as Moderna and Pfizer, often enough to inoculate their populations many times over. Vaccine nationalism became the rule. And because the vaccines were protected by IP supply was limited to a few authorized manufacturers, supply could not keep pace with demand, and low-income countries were left empty-handed. Rich countries pledged donations, but often, the donations failed to materialize or arrived just as the donated vaccines were set to expire.[12] The result was vaccine apartheid. In the words of U.N. Secretary-General António Guterres, “we passed the science test” but received “an F in ethics.”[13]

II. The Diagnosis: Intellectual Property’s Role in the Covid-19 Pandemic

A. Vaccine Development: Fruits of Public-Private Partnership, But Who Calls the Shots?

The development of revolutionary COVID-19 vaccines has been hailed as an IP success story. Pharmaceutical companies like Moderna and Pfizer argue that patents and other IP protections in their groundbreaking mRNA technology were essential to their success. The real story of the successful development of COVID-19 vaccines is more complex. The timely development of the vaccines was not the result of private companies going it alone but instead the fruit of critical public-private partnerships between governments and pharmaceutical companies, with governments investing billions of dollars in research and development, clinical trials, and advanced purchase contracts promising to buy hundreds of millions of doses. These investments significantly de-risked COVID-19 vaccine development by private companies, thus qualifying the usual claim by private corporations to monopoly control in their patented inventions.

In the United States, the Trump Administration launched “Operation Warp Speed” in early 2020, a public-private partnership to hasten the development, manufacturing, and distribution of effective COVID-19 vaccines. Operation Warp Speed paid $14 billion in taxpayer dollars to several private companies racing to develop a cure for the pandemic. Operation Warp Speed funds, plus additional American taxpayer funding, included $1.5 billion for Johnson & Johnson, $1.2 billion for Oxford-AstraZeneca, and $2.48 billion for Moderna. These funds were for research and development, including costly clinical trials and advance purchase orders.[14] While Pfizer did not receive Operation Warp Speed funding for research and development, it did receive $2 billion from the Operation Warp Speed budget for an advance-purchase order to manufacture 100 million doses of a COVID-19 vaccine for use in the United States when the vaccine was shown to be safe and authorized for use by the FDA.[15] Companies like Moderna also benefited enormously from publicly funded research supported by the National Institutes of Health (NIH).[16]

Public-private partnership is the rule, not the exception, when it comes to vaccine development. As leading public health scholar Lawrence Gostin writes, “[t]he intellectual property system does not generally incentivize companies to produce vaccines or medicines intended for small or uncertain markets.”[17] Developing new vaccines can cost billions of dollars and take several years, with no promise of return on investment, especially for diseases primarily afflicting populations in low-income countries.[18] Focusing on cures to the legal innovation infrastructure for pandemics, Gostin makes the case to “overcome market disincentives through targeted financing and partnerships.”[19] Decades of experience well before the pandemic teach that we cannot rely on IP alone for vaccine production, which only incentivizes market-driven innovation. It is no surprise that in the context of COVID-19, it was ultimately government funding that got Moderna over the finish line.[20]

The breakthrough COVID-19 vaccines demonstrate the critical role of public-private partnerships in vaccine development. Patents incentivize pharmaceutical companies to innovate certain drugs that serve those who can afford to pay. But publicly-funded university and government research, alongside public-private partnerships, are key for vaccines that address uncertain diseases and often in low-resource settings. Just as private companies like Moderna had invested large sums in their research for years before the pandemic, the NIH had invested over $17 billion in vaccine research between 2000 and 2019, which was critical to the breakthrough COVID-19 vaccines.[21] A study of the funding for the Oxford-AstraZeneca vaccine, which committed to manufacture 1.3 billion doses for low-income countries, concluded that “public and charitable funders provided the majority of identifiable funding to the University of Oxford towards the R&D of the Oxford–AstraZeneca vaccine…which may have significant implications for the global discourse around vaccine nationalism and COVID-19 health technology access.”[22]

Recognizing the critical role of public funding is a first step to understanding the need for increased governmental authority over how these technologies are shared, licensed, and ultimately distributed. A critical problem, however, is that though COVID-19 vaccines were the fruit of significant public investment, this taxpayer-funded innovation is trapped in corporate monopolies that allow private companies to call all the shots for this technology. As we explore further, even though companies like Moderna announced they would not enforce their patents on the mRNA vaccine,[23] generic companies were unable to manufacture the vaccines themselves for fear of violating Moderna’s other IP rights and because the generic producers lacked critical “know-how” from Moderna, which still held essential knowledge of how to safely and effectively make the vaccines under lock and key in the form of tacit knowledge and trade secrets. Companies like Moderna and Pfizer refused to share this critical knowledge beyond a handful of licensed manufacturers, leading to an undersupply of vaccines during critical months in 2021 when billions more doses were needed to vaccinate vulnerable populations in rich and poor countries. Worse, governments seem to have thrown away their shot to compel companies to share technology with more manufacturers to ramp up production of life-saving shots. Now, we continue analyzing what went wrong during the COVID-19 pandemic, turning next to the colossal failure to distribute COVID-19 vaccines equitably.

B. Vaccine Distribution: Failure of Philanthropy

Even before effective COVID-19 vaccines were developed in late 2020, global health experts predicted a frenzied global race to procure a limited supply of vaccines that would leave low- and middle-income countries waiting at the back of the line. Two Western leaders of world health organizations imagined a way out of this dilemma. In early 2020, Richard Hatchett, director of the Coalition for Epidemic Preparedness Innovations, and Seth Berkley, the head of the Vaccine Alliance, or Gavi, brainstormed and established the COVID-19 Vaccines Global Access (COVAX) facility.[24] COVAX would have rich countries pledge funds to pool vaccine purchases targeted to low-income countries. The goal was for COVAX to pool funds from rich countries to enable COVAX to purchase 2 billion vaccine doses to deliver to low- and middle-income countries. If all went according to plan, COVAX would procure enough vaccines to ensure that 20 percent of the most vulnerable citizens in all countries, namely medical workers and the elderly, were vaccinated by the end of 2021, regardless of a country’s wealth.

Ultimately, COVAX did not achieve even half its goal,[25] and low-income countries fell tragically behind in vaccinations. Rich countries rushed to make advanced purchases of shots directly from vaccine producers like Moderna and Pfizer, with some countries, like Canada, procuring enough doses to vaccinate their population many times over.[26] The well-planned vaccine diplomacy COVAX leaders imagined gave way instead to vaccine nationalism and hoarding.

Companies like Moderna and Pfizer, which closely held critical knowledge about mRNA vaccine production through patents and tacit knowledge or “know-how,” licensed only a handful of manufacturers to produce vaccines. The limited supply raised the prices of the vaccines, and the drug companies catered almost exclusively[27] to wealthy countries and regions such as the United States, the EU, and Israel. These same companies had no market incentive to ramp up manufacturing for shots for low-income countries who could not afford to pay much more than the manufacturing price. There was little left over from a limited supply of vaccines for COVAX to purchase on behalf of low-income countries. High-income countries did not donate to COVAX as promised. Left underfunded and undersupplied, COVAX could not compete to secure vaccines. Worse still, leaders of African and other low-income countries were told they could not seek to procure doses directly from developers but that they had to go through COVAX.

Many have opined on why COVAX failed. Public health scholars Matt Kavanagh and Renu Singh have offered a scathing critique of COVAX’s “demand-side model” built on private property and market-based tools.[28] Kavanagh and Singh blame COVAX’s reliance on the status quo concerning strong IP rights for corporations.[29] This market-based approach ignored the public investment in vaccine development and the critical public interest in equitable vaccine access to end a pandemic where no one is safe unless everyone is safe. From the start, the parties at the table leading the COVAX initiative, including the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, insisted that pharmaceutical companies should retain strong IP rights in vaccines,[30] imposing no obligations on companies to share their knowledge and relying instead on the charity of rich countries to pool funds to purchase IP-protected vaccines for the poor, or on private pharmaceutical companies to transfer knowledge voluntarily.

Neither happened. Ultimately, waiting for voluntary funding (by wealthy countries) or voluntary sharing of technology (by pharmaceutical companies) was in vain. Most notably, because COVAX did not alter the status quo rules of IP, companies like Moderna and Pfizer had no market incentive, nor were they legally compelled to license their technologies to more manufacturers to increase global vaccine supply.

C. Failure of Technology Transfer of Critical Vaccine Production “Know-How”

The pandemic also demonstrated corporate actors’ failure to voluntarily share critical trade secrets required to scale up the production of vaccines. Notably, even more than patents, trade secrets in the form of corporate “know-how” and “show-how” with respect to how to make safe and effective vaccines proved to be critical technology at play during the COVID-19 pandemic. Unlike in earlier public health crises, such as the AIDS epidemic of the late 1990s and early 2000s, compulsory licensing of patents was not enough to facilitate the production of COVID-19 vaccines by generic producers. Effective and safe production of vaccines, in particular the new mRNA vaccines produced by Pfizer and Moderna, were not easily replicated with the patented formula alone but required affirmative sharing of corporate know-how and show-how in order to make the vaccines safely and effectively. But companies such as Pfizer and Moderna did not voluntarily share this IP with the technology access pool created by the World Health Organization known as C-TAP[31] or with potential vaccine manufacturers in low- and middle-income countries. The failure of companies to voluntarily share this know-how and of governments to mandate sharing proved deadly.

In the end, waiting for voluntary funding or donations of doses (by wealthy countries) or voluntary sharing of technology (by pharmaceutical companies) was in vain. Notably, COVAX and C-TAP, premised on voluntary sharing, did not alter the status quo rules of IP. Companies like Moderna and Pfizer had no market incentive, nor were they legally compelled to license their technologies to more manufacturers to increase global vaccine supply. A critical lesson of COVAX and C-TAP is that in the early months of a pandemic, increasing the supply of vaccines is only accomplished by compelling technology transfer by companies holding the secrets to making life-saving vaccines. We discuss proposals for spurring technology transfer of know-how in Part IV.

III. The Failure of Institutions: The Rise and Demise of the WTO IP Waiver

Equitable access to medicines in a pandemic is both a human rights issue and a pragmatic one: no one is safe unless everyone is safe. We now turn to an alternative approach to global public health in pandemic times outside of the IP system. Publicly funded vaccines and other life-saving technologies, such as masks, diagnostic tests, and drug treatments, are necessary goods that must be made widely available in pandemic times to save human lives and to end a pandemic. An alternative approach spearheaded by countries in the Global South rejects monopoly rights on life-saving knowledge during the emergency of a pandemic, focusing on the need to scale up equitable supply and distribution of goods massively. Thus far, this alternative has failed, partly due to structural disempowerment in yet another global governance institution focusing on IP: the World Trade Organization (WTO).

In contrast to the philanthropy approach of COVAX that would leave IP protections in place, in the WTO, low- and middle-income countries led an alternate effort to waive IP rights to enable global manufacturers to scale up vaccine production to get desperately needed vaccines in Africa and other poor regions. In response to the exceptional circumstances of the COVID-19 pandemic, South Africa and India submitted an IP waiver request to the WTO in October 2020.[32] They proposed waiving the implementation, application, and enforcement of Sections 1, 4, 5, and 7 of Part 2[33] of the Agreement on Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights (TRIPS Agreement).[34] The waiver proposal was unprecedented in the history of IP protection because it was intended to trigger a moratorium on protecting IP rights, including copyright and related rights, industrial designs, patents, and undisclosed information. Once adopted, the waiver would remain until widespread vaccination was in place globally and most of the world’s population had developed COVID-19 immunity.[35]

In their submission, South Africa and India further asserted that IP rights were a major cause of the manufacturing and supply problems with diagnostic kits, personal protective equipment, ventilators, medicine, and vaccines.[36] While some countries were in a position to overcome supply issues by manufacturing their medical products, many developing or least-developed countries (LDCs) were not and, therefore, would remain extremely vulnerable without the rapid scaling up of global production.[37] Therefore, they argued that an unprecedented solution was needed to address the impact of a pandemic that could not be effectively contained without expeditious access to affordable medicines and vaccines.[38]

World leaders, policymakers, and scholars had high hopes for the IP waiver proposal, with more than 120 countries supporting it as of May 2021.[39] Most notably, American President Joe Biden issued a statement that month outlining his support for the proposal.[40]

Proponents of the waiver claimed it was a necessary response to the COVID-19 crisis.[41] Just as the AIDS crisis prompted the Doha Declaration on the TRIPS Agreement and Public Health in 2001, the scale of the COVID-19 pandemic necessitated an immediate and substantive response.[42] Since December 2020, when the United States Food and Drug Administration approved the first COVID-19 vaccine, vaccine inequity has prolonged human suffering in many developing countries. While the United States and the United Kingdom had already vaccinated roughly half their populations by early May 2021, vaccination rates in developing economies were significantly lower,[43] with India having vaccinated just 9.4 percent of its population and Asia and Africa’s overall vaccination levels standing at just 4.4 percent and below 1 percent, respectively.[44] Worse still, owing to the extortionate prices charged by pharmaceutical companies, governments worldwide purchased COVID-19 vaccines at prices up to 24 times the estimated cost of production.[45]

Despite the widespread support noted above, the European Union (EU) and Big Pharma vehemently opposed the IP waiver. A much smaller group of high-income countries contested that IP played a significant role in stunting the manufacture and distribution of vaccines in 2021. At a TRIPS Council meeting, the EU asserted that “there is no indication that IPR issues have been a genuine barrier to COVID-19-related medicines and technologies.”[46] Pharmaceutical companies acknowledged that IP protection had been important in incentivizing them to develop COVID-19 vaccines. However, they disputed that IP had any role in the failed distribution effort. In expressing his objections to the IP waiver, Pfizer’s CEO claimed that while a sizeable company like his would continue to invest in science, he was unsure “if the same is true for the thousands of small biotech innovators that are dependent on accessing capital from investors who invest only on the premise that their intellectual property will be protected.”[47]

In June 2021, the EU submitted a counterproposal to the TRIPS Council, insisting that countries take full advantage of the compulsory licensing scheme for patents under the TRIPS Agreement. One month after the postponement of its Twelfth Ministerial Conference in November 2021, the WTO held a series of informal negotiations with the EU, India, South Africa, and the US at the ministerial and technical levels. The result was the “Quad” proposal, which adopted the compulsory licensing measures proposed by the EU and limited the waiver effects to vaccines alone, as requested by the United States.[48]

Based on the Quad proposal, the WTO Ministerial Conference adopted the Ministerial Decision on the TRIPS Agreement[49] in June 2022. The Decision clarifies, among other things, three primary existing flexibilities allowing developing countries to invoke compulsory licensing of patented technology under TRIPS Article 31 to contain the COVID-19 pandemic. First, eligible developing countries can expeditiously issue compulsory licensing orders to use patents (including patents on medical ingredients and production processes) necessary for producing COVID-19 vaccines without passing formal laws[50] and without obtaining permission from the patent holders.[51] Second, any eligible developing country can export COVID-19 vaccines produced through compulsory licensing to another eligible developing country. Third, eligible developing countries can also remunerate affected patent holders in lesser amounts because “the humanitarian and not-for-profit purpose” of vaccine production must be considered.[52] The Ministerial Decision also clarifies the ability of countries to access otherwise protected regulatory data under TRIPS 39.3 to promote expeditious vaccine approvals.[53]

The Ministerial Decision officially tolled the death knell of the IP waiver proposal because it does not waive the implementation of any IP protection provision under the TRIPS Agreement.[54] Lengthy negotiations lasting for nearly one year and eight months resulted only in clarifications of pre-existing TRIPS flexibilities that developing countries were already entitled to capitalize on, even without such clarifications. The waiver was limited to vaccines and did not include diagnostics and treatments, as India and South Africa initially proposed. Notably, the Ministerial Decision is limited to technology covered by patents and does nothing to address the most difficult technology transfer challenges to scaling up vaccine production, which requires access to know-how and show-how not covered by patents. Finally, as it applies only to the COVID-19 pandemic, the Decision does not proactively deal with public health emergencies caused by future pandemics.

IV. The Cure: Spurring Technology Transfer to Promote Supply, Access, and Agency

It is critically important to go beyond a diagnosis of what went wrong to develop cures to promote timely and equitable access to critical medicines necessary to save lives in the next pandemic. Given the failure of voluntary mechanisms during the COVID-19 pandemic, reforms proposed and canvassed here focus on mechanisms to spur technology transfer, including critical know-how and show how low- and middle-income country manufacturers can build capacity now so in the event of a future pandemic they may be self-sufficient and ready to produce vaccines and essential medicines themselves.

In particular, we recommend the following:

  • Strengthen technology transfer mechanisms, including modifying the patent system to require greater disclosure of tacit knowledge and know-how related to the manufacturing of vaccines, diagnostics, and therapeutics; placing knowledge-transfer obligations on patentees receiving significant public funding through ex-ante contracts; and strengthening Article 66.2 of the TRIPS Agreement to ensure that developed countries fulfill their obligation to promote technology transfer to least-developed countries;
  • Establish a global mechanism for monitoring and assessing technology transfer to measure whether developed countries are effectively incentivizing technology transfer to least-developed countries;
  • Foster local manufacturing capacity, including facilitating the sharing of tacit knowledge and financing regional technology transfer hubs; and
  • Facilitate faster sharing of medicines and vaccines protected by patents by amending TRIPS flexibilities to enable the expedited export of medicines and vaccines from countries with manufacturing capacity to those without during public health crises. Amendments must address the complexities and limitations of the existing compulsory licensing system and make it more effective and efficient.

Technology transfer cannot wait until the next pandemic. This process must begin to help scale up local production capacity in Africa and other low- and middle-income regions through funding and knowledge sharing with regional technology transfer hubs, including mRNA technology transfer hubs.

A. Strengthening Technology Transfer Mechanisms

Enhancing mechanisms of technology transfer is key to equitable access and distribution of vaccines during a pandemic. Peter Lee has described the current paradox: though patents are premised on a quid pro quo in which inventors receive exclusive rights in exchange for disclosing a novel invention, disclosure rules under current American patent rules exclude from protection tacit knowledge and critical know-how that is necessary for those skilled in the art to manufacture the vaccines. Lee suggests modifying the patent quid pro quo model to require greater tacit knowledge disclosure from patentees, for instance, by resurrecting the best mode requirement and imposing an ongoing requirement to disclose information related to commercializing technologies, particularly for vaccines, diagnostics, and therapeutics.

Lee also suggests that public institutions should place knowledge-transfer obligations on patentees receiving significant public funding, such as biopharmaceutical firms holding patents on COVID-19 vaccines.[55] Sapna Kumar and Ana Santos Rutschman similarly propose an ex-ante approach, arguing that governments and non-governmental funders should integrate pandemic planning into contracts used to fund medical research, for example, through dormant licenses that would be triggered in the event of drug shortages in a pandemic. The licenses would require recipients of public funding to assure that any resulting drug will be made available in sufficient quantity and at accessible prices. Recipients would also agree to share technology and know-how with a qualified third-party manufacturer in exchange for payment of royalties. As Kumar and Rutschman argue, by acting proactively, governments can reduce drug shortages during future pandemics and save lives.[56]

David Levine and Josh Sarnoff argue that many mechanisms already exist to allow governments to compel trade secret holders to share know-how in public health emergencies, including the Defense Production Act under existing federal law in the United States. Levine and Sarnoff argue that the primary obstacle to mandatory disclosure of trade secrets is not law—even TRIPS “does not prohibit governments from compelling trade secret rights,” they write—but rather, political will. Like Kumar and Rutschman, Levine and Sarnoff advocate for reasonable compensation to trade secret holders for compelled disclosure to promote access in some cases. In addition, they propose that sharing trade secrets may be encouraged with legislative nudges and incentives.[57] Others, like Kavanagh and Singh, advocate for internationally binding commitments to share know-how, including mechanisms to encourage compliance with a built-in expectation of national self-interest.[58]

Legal mechanisms to facilitate sharing are critical for vaccine distribution and also for vaccine development. Taking a different tack on the issue of technology transfer, Laura Pedraza-Fariña argues for the creation of legal infrastructure that allows and encourages sharing knowledge among researchers across multiple disciplines to nurture the “boundary-crossing innovation” necessary to cure complex diseases.[59]

B. Establish a Global Mechanism for Monitoring and Assessing Technology Transfer

In addition to these suggestions, we urge that the technology transfer mechanism in the TRIPS Agreement itself also be strengthened. Article 66.2 of the TRIPS Agreement states that “[d]eveloped country Members shall provide incentives to enterprises and institutions in their territories to promote and encourage technology transfer to least-developed country Members to enable them to create a sound and viable technological base.” The 2001 WTO Ministerial Conference and subsequent Doha Declaration made it clear that this provision imposes a mandatory obligation on developed countries.

Nevertheless, the WTO has yet to establish a mechanism for monitoring and assessing whether and how developed countries have fulfilled this treaty obligation. In 2003, the TRIPS Council set up an Article 66.2 reporting system that requires developed countries to submit detailed reports every three years and annual reports updating them.[60] However, the system lacks sufficient teeth to ensure developed countries’ compliance with their Article 66.2 obligation.[61] Submitting a report does not necessarily mean that a developed country’s self-assessment has rendered it compliant with Article 66.2. For instance, despite the increase in annual reports submitted, many of the programs reported by developed countries did not even target LDCs.[62] Therefore, the transfer of technology from developed countries to LDCs has been described as “lackluster” by both least-developed member states and WTO officials.[63]

Still lacking is a global mechanism that can evaluate two critical aspects of the Article 66.2 obligation: first, whether a developed country has taken effective actions to incentivize technology transfer to an LDC and, second, whether such actions have contributed to the growth of a technological base in the LDC concerned. It is incumbent upon the WTO to reshape the reporting system operated by the TRIPS Council into a global mechanism capable of monitoring and critically assessing whether developed countries have met these two aspects of their obligation and of making recommendations on any necessary follow-up actions. A major focus of this mechanism would be the transfer of technologies that could boost the least-developed countries’ capacity to manufacture medical products.[64]

The COVID-19 pandemic has demonstrated the urgent need to establish such a global mechanism, thereby providing the international community with a prime opportunity to pressure the WTO and developed countries to adopt reform measures and accept the mechanism to stimulate the transfer of soft and hard technologies.[64] The transfer of soft technologies, such as substantial know-how to LDCs, is necessary to boost the production of COVID-19 vaccines because vaccines are complex biological products heavily dependent on specific manufacturing processes and practices often not disclosed in a patent.[66] For instance, it is very difficult to replicate biological processes involving recombinant proteins from the information contained in patents alone, as “the high degree of process dependence in the cell-mediated synthesis of biologics” makes it “quite possible that an attempt to make the patented protein by a different method will yield a product that lacks the asserted utility of the claimed invention.”[67] The cost and effort of reverse-engineering originator firm manufacturing processes have contributed to a history of delays in the entry of biosimilars into the market. In one recent case, Inovio even claimed in a court filing that its plan to expand the manufacturing scale of the experimental COVID-19 vaccine was being blocked by a supplier’s refusal to share critical manufacturing information.[68]

C. Fostering and Financing Local Manufacturing Capacity

The reliance of much of the Global South on imports proved deadly. Going forward, we must move from a dependency model to build capacity for local vaccine production in critical regional hubs around the world, including Latin America, Asia, and Africa. William Fisher, Ruth Okediji, and Padmashree Gehl Sampath outline a multi-step strategy to foster local production capacity for vaccines and pharmaceuticals in the Global South, which includes building domestic legal infrastructure to regulate and support local drug production, government purchasing of medicines and vaccines, technology transfer through apprenticeships, robust quality-control, and capitalizing on the economic and political power of regional economic communities in Africa, Latin America, and Asia.[69]

Efforts have begun to establish WHO-supported technology transfer hubs in key locations in Latin America, Asia, and Africa. The African Union has set a goal to build capacity to locally produce 60 percent of the continent’s vaccine needs by 2040. This is a hefty goal, as Africa currently imports 99 percent of its vaccines. The WHO is supporting an mRNA technology transfer hub at Afrigen in Cape Town, South Africa, and the hub has had significant initial successes.[70] However, securing financing for the hubs presents a significant hurdle. The WHO is struggling to raise the significant finances necessary to establish other planned hubs in countries such as Brazil, India,[71] and Nigeria.[72] In the meantime, access to critical mRNA know-how, held by Moderna and Pfizer, continues to be elusive, as these firms have thus far failed to offer significant support to the initiatives.[73]

The United States and other developed countries must give robust “financial and logistical” support to regional tech transfer hubs in Africa and elsewhere now. As Pedraza-Fariña explains,  “know-how transfer, in particular when new technologies are involved, is notoriously tricky” and requires “learning-by-doing … [that] can only happen through immersive training” through, for example, regional tech-transfer hubs. Countries such as Indonesia, Thailand, and Vietnam are “some of the only lower-income countries that are now producing COVID-19 vaccines,” she writes, because of the positive spillovers of having participated in an influenza vaccine technology transfer program spearheaded by the WHO in 2005.[74] Critical investment in technology transfer hubs in diverse regions in the Global South is needed so countries can build their knowledge and capacity now for success in future pandemics.

D. Facilitating Faster Sharing of Medicines and Vaccines through TRIPS

The TRIPS Agreement should create a new global mechanism that can effectively facilitate faster export of patented medicines and vaccines from a country with adequate manufacturing capacity to another without such capacity when a public health crisis occurs. Article 31bis of the TRIPS Agreement was designed to meet this goal. It allows a member state that cannot manufacture patented medicines or vaccines under compulsory licensing to import them from another member state. However, the compulsory licensing system has proved to be fatally ineffective, not only because of the complexity, length, and cost of its undertaking process but also because of the burdensome requirements, challenge of recovering expenditures, and resulting lack of incentives for generic manufacturers.[75] For example, the exporting country must ensure that generic drugs are exported only to the importing country, are easily identifiable in color or shape as generic drugs, and are manufactured only in the specific amount necessary to meet the importing country’s requirements.[76] Achieving economies of scale in countries with little manufacturing capacity presents further obstacles.[77] Therefore, the Article 31bis mechanism remains in limbo because few countries have revised their domestic laws to activate it.[78] Since its introduction in 2003, the mechanism has been used only once.[79] That sole instance involved collaboration between Rwanda as the importing country and Canada as the exporting country for the antiretroviral drug Apo-TriAvir. It took the Canadian generic company Apotex three years to supply this much-needed medicine, which is much too slow in the context of a pandemic.[80]

The COVID-19 pandemic also highlighted serious problems with the Article 31bis mechanism. In spring 2021, Biolyse, a Canadian pharmaceutical company, attempted to take advantage of compulsory licensing to provide 15 million doses of the Johnson & Johnson COVID-19 vaccine to Bolivia, where only around 5 percent of the population had thus far been vaccinated. However, the Canadian government refused to grant a compulsory license to allow Biolyse to manufacture the vaccine using Johnson & Johnson’s patent.[81] Similarly, in Spring 2022, in the face of vehement opposition from Pfizer, the Dominican Republic declined to grant a compulsory licensing order to manufacture Paxlovid, Pfizer’s patented medicine for treating COVID-19 infection.[82]

Although the Ministerial Decision seeks to accelerate the compulsory licensing process to enable developing countries to contain the COVID-19 pandemic, it has not fixed any major problems with the Article 31bis mechanism. The export permit that the Decision has introduced is virtually meaningless. It allows an eligible developing country to export vaccines that it produces to another eligible country. However, because China and India, the two developing countries with the greatest vaccine manufacturing capacity, are excluded from being eligible beneficiaries of the Decision, the export permit is infeasible in practice. No other developing country can swiftly manufacture vaccines to meet the public health needs of another developing country.

Moreover, because the Decision applies only to the production of COVID-19 vaccines, no eligible developing country can avail itself of compulsory licensing to offer COVID-19 diagnostics and therapeutics.[83] In the last quarter of 2022, there was an oversupply of COVID-19 vaccines internationally.[84] What is badly needed are testing tools and treatment medicines in the many countries where people are vaccinated yet still become infected with COVID-19.

Against this backdrop, the international community should endeavor to create a global mechanism to facilitate faster sharing of patented medicines and vaccines to deal with the COVID-19 pandemic and any future public health crisis. We must enhance compulsory licensing to achieve the faster export of medicines and vaccines.[84] In the case of chronic diseases such as HIV/AIDS, people could wait years for effective medicines exported by countries that can take advantage of the Article 31bis mechanism. However, most public health crises are caused by highly transmissible viruses, creating an urgent need for life-saving medicines and vaccines.

Conclusion

It is time to revisit the toxic marriage between IP and health: in sickness and in health, till death do us part. The tradeoff–breakthrough innovation in exchange for monopoly rights that raise prices and keep critical know-how under lock and key–does not work in pandemic times. Vaccines, the workhorse tool for saving lives and ending a pandemic, are often the result of public-private partnerships, as markets alone do not sufficiently incentivize these investments. Given significant public investments in vaccines, it is not appropriate that the know-how underlying these technologies should be trapped in private monopolies, with pharmaceutical companies calling all the shots. Sharing life-saving technologies underlying pandemic vaccines is critical to boosting vaccine production and promoting equitable access to vaccines in a timely fashion. Developing legal mechanisms for mandatory technology transfer in publicly-financed vaccines is critical now to help build local manufacturing capacity in the Global South so low- and middle-income countries are not again trapped in a state of dependence on the charity of the Global North. In a global pandemic, no one is safe unless everyone is safe. Widespread and equitable vaccine access is a moral imperative because it saves millions of lives. Equitable vaccination is also key to stemming new variants and promoting the global economy’s well-being. As late public health experts Paul Farmer and Sister Simone Campbell wrote in May 2021, “Only a people’s vaccine that is accessible to all will end the pandemic.”[86]


* Madhavi Sunder is the Frank Sherry Professor of Intellectual Property Law at the Georgetown University Law Center. Haochen Sun is a Professor of Law at the University of Hong Kong Faculty of Law. The authors are grateful to Bill Alford, Mark Wu, and Peter Yu for comments, as well as to students at Harvard Law School and Texas A&M University Law School. Special thanks to Eva Bishwal for excellent research assistance.

[1] See Haochen Sun, Technology and the Public Interest 156-58 (2022).

[2] Oliver J. Watson et al., Global Impact of the First Year of Covid-19 Vaccination: A Mathematical Modelling Study, 22 The Lancet Infectious Diseases 1293 (2022).

[3] Id.

[4] See generally, Matthew M. Kavanagh, Lawrence O. Gostin & Madhavi Sunder, Sharing Technology and Vaccine Doses to Address Global Vaccine Inequity and End the COVID-19 Pandemic, 326 JAMA 219 (2021), https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jama/fullarticle/2781756; Matthew M. Kavanagh & Madhavi Sunder, Biden Must Push Drug Firms To Share Science With the World, BL (Apr. 23, 2021), https://news.bloomberglaw.com/health-law-and-business/biden-must-push-drug-firms-to-share-science-with-the-world; Matthew M. Kavanagh & Madhavi Sunder, Poor Countries May Not Be Vaccinated Until 2024. Here’s How To Prevent That, Wash. Post (Mar. 10, 2021), https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2021/03/10/dont-let-intellectual-property-rights-get-way-global-vaccination/.

[5] Zero Draft of The WHO CA+ for The Consideration of The Intergovernmental Negotiating Body at its Fourth Meeting, 7 World Health Organization [WHO], https://apps.who.int/gb/inb/pdf_files/inb4/A_INB4_3-en.pdf (last visited Aug. 12, 2023).

[6] Watson et al., supra note 2.

[7] Id. at 1300.

[8] Id. at 1300-01.

[9] See Sheryl G. Stolberg et al., Pressure Mounts to Lift Patent Protections on Coronavirus Vaccines, N.Y. Times (May 17, 2021), https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/03/us/politics/biden-coronavirus-vaccine-patents.html.

[10] See generally, Anupam Chander & Madhavi Sunder, The Romance of the Public Domain, 92 Calif. L. Rev. 1331 (2004); Madhavi Sunder, The Invention of Traditional Knowledge, 70 Law & Contemp. Probs. 95 (2007).

[11] See Coronavirus (COVID-19) Vaccinations, https://ourworldindata.org/covid-vaccinations.

[12] Ali Sawafta & Rami Ayyub, Palestinians Cancel Deal for Near-Expired COVID Vaccines from Israel, Reuters (June 18, 2021), https://www.reuters.com/world/middle-east/israel-give-palestinians-1-million-covid-vaccine-doses-israeli-statement-2021-06-18/#:~:text=TEL%20AVIV%2C%20June%2018%20(Reuters,the%20PA%20health%20minister%20said.

[13] Michelle Nichols, U.N. Chief Grades World on Vaccine Rollout: ‘F In Ethics’, The Guardian (Sept. 21, 2021), https://www.reuters.com/business/healthcare-pharmaceuticals/un-chief-grades-world-vaccine-rollout-f-ethics-2021-09-21/.

[14] Congressional Research Service, Operation Warp Speed Contracts for COVID-19 Vaccines and Ancillary Materials (Mar. 1, 2021), https://crsreports.congress.gov/product/pdf/IN/IN11560.

[15] Sydney Lupkin, Pfizer’s Coronavirus Vaccine Supply Contract Excludes Many Taxpayer Protections, NPR (Nov. 24, 2021), https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2020/11/24/938591815/pfizers-coronavirus-vaccine-supply-contract-excludes-many-taxpayer-protections.

[16] Arthur Allen, For Billion-Dollar COVID Vaccines, Basic Government-Funded Science Laid the Groundwork,  Scientific American (Nov. 18, 2020), https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/for-billion-dollar-covid-vaccines-basic-government-funded-science-laid-the-groundwork/.

[17] Lawrence O. Gostin, Global Health Security: A Blueprint for the Future 193 (2021).

[18] Id. at 194.

[19] Id.

[20] Sharon LaFraniere et al., Politics, Science and the Remarkable Race for a Coronavirus Vaccine, N.Y. Times (Nov. 21, 2020), https://www.nytimes.com/2020/11/21/us/politics/coronavirus-vaccine.html (“Moderna got nearly $2.5 billion to develop, manufacture and sell its vaccine to the federal government and teamed up with the National Institutes of Health on the scientific work, a highly successful partnership that managed to sidestep the political meddling by Mr. Trump and his aides that had bedeviled other efforts to confront the virus.”).

[21] Anthony E. Kiszewski et al., NIH Funding for Vaccine Readiness Before The COVID-19 Pandemic, 39 Vaccine 2458 (2021).

[22] Samuel Cross et al., Who Funded The Research Behind The Oxford–Astrazeneca COVID-19 Vaccine?, BMJ Global Health (Nov. 17, 2021), https://gh.bmj.com/content/bmjgh/6/12/e007321.full.pdf.

[23] Press Release, Statement by Moderna on Intellectual Property Matters During the Covid-19 Pandemic (Oct. 8, 2020), https://investors.modernatx.com/Statements–Perspectives/Statements–Perspectives-Details/2020/Statement-by-Moderna-on-Intellectual-Property-Matters-during-the-COVID-19-Pandemic/default.aspx.

[24] Adam Taylor, Why Covax, the Best Hope for Vaccinating the World, Was Doomed to Fall Short, Wash. Post (Mar. 22, 2022), https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/2022/03/22/covax-problems-coronavirus-vaccines-next-pandemic/.

[25] Adam Taylor, Covax Promised 2 Billion Vaccine Doses to Help the World’s Neediest in 2021. It Won’t Deliver Even Half That, Wash. Post (Dec. 10, 2021), https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/2021/12/10/covax-doses-delivered/.

[26] Sandrine Rastello & Kait Bolongaro, Canada Has Reserved More Vaccine Doses Per Person Than Anywhere, Bloomberg (Dec. 7, 2020), https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2020-12-07/canada-has-reserved-more-vaccine-doses-per-person-than-anywhere#xj4y7vzkg.

[27] Amnesty International, Covid-19: Pharmaceutical Companies’ Failure on Equal Vaccine Access Contributed to Human Rights Catastrophe In 2021 (Feb. 14, 2022), https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2022/02/covid-19-pharmaceutical-companies-failure-on-equal-vaccine-access-contributed-human-rights-catastrophe-in-2021/ (reported that in 2021, Pfizer and Moderna “projected revenues of up to US $54 billion, yet supplied less than 2% of their vaccines to low-income countries”).

[28] Matthew M. Kavanagh & Renu Singh, Legal Paradigms and the Politics of Global COVID-19 Vaccine Access, in Intellectual Property, COVID-19, and the Next Pandemic: Diagnosing Problems, Developing Cures (Haochen Sun & Madhavi Sunder eds., forthcoming 2024).

[29] Id.

[30] Erin Banco et al., How Bill Gates and Partners Used Their Clout To Control the Global Covid Response — With Little Oversight, Politico (Sept. 14, 2022), https://www.politico.com/news/2022/09/14/global-covid-pandemic-response-bill-gates-partners-00053969 (”During the pandemic, the foundation pushed back publicly on pressuring pharmaceutical companies to share its intellectual property, saying doing so would do little to spur rigorous vaccine development in the short term”).

[31] Michael Safi, WHO Platform for Pharmaceutical Firms Unused Since Pandemic Began, The Guardian (Jan. 22, 2021).

[32] Communication from India and South Africa, Waiver from Certain Provisions of the TRIPS Agreement for the Prevention and Containment and Treatment of COVID-19, WTO Doc. IP/C/W/669 (Oct. 2, 2020).

[33] See id.

[34] Agreement on Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights art. 31, Apr. 15, 1994, Marrakesh Agreement Establishing the World Trade Organization, Annex 1C, 1869 U.N.T.S. 213999.

[35] See supra note 32.

[36] Id.

[37] See id.

[38] Id.

[39] See Over 120 Countries back IP Rights Waiver on Covid-19 Vaccines, Pharm. Tech. (May 7, 2021), https://www.pharmaceutical-technology.com/news/ip-waiver-covid-19-vaccines/.

[40] See Andrea Shalal et al., U.S. Reverses Stance, Backs Giving Poorer Countries Access to COVID Vaccine Patents, Reuters (May 5, 2021), https://www.reuters.com/business/healthcare-pharmaceuticals/biden-says-plans-back-wto-waiver-vaccines-2021-05-05/.

[41] See, e.g., Siva Thambisetty et al., The TRIPS Intellectual Property Waiver Proposal: Creating the Right Incentives in Patent Law and Politics to end the COVID-19 Pandemic, SSRN Electronic Journal (May 24, 2021), https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=3851737#.

[42] See Kavanagh & Sunder, Poor Countries May Not Be Vaccinated Until 2024. Here’s How To Prevent That, supra note 4.

[43] See Farasat Bokhari, US-Backed Vaccine Patent Waiver: Pros and Cons Explained, The Conversation (May 6, 2021), https://theconversation.com/us-backed-vaccine-patent-waiver-pros-and-cons-explained-160480.

[44] See id.

[45] See Anna Marriott and Alex Maitland, The Great Vaccine Robbery, The People’s Vaccine (Jul. 29, 2021), https://webassets.oxfamamerica.org/media/documents/The_Great_Vaccine_Robbery_Policy_Brief.pdf.

[46] Thiru Balasubramaniam, WTO Trips Council: European Union Dismisses Concerns that IPRs Are a Barrier to COVID-19 Medicines and Technologies, Knowledge Ecology International (Oct. 20, 2020), https://www.keionline.org/34275.

[47] See Kevin Breuninger, Pfizer CEO Opposes U.S. Call to Waive Covid Vaccine Patents, Cites Manufacturing and Safety Issues, CNBC (May 7, 2021), https://www.cnbc.com/2021/05/07/pfizer-ceo-biden-backed-covid-vaccine-patent-waiver-will-cause-problems.html.

[48] Thiru Balasubramaniam, TRIPS Waiver Negotiations Go Down to the Wire in the Run-Up to MC12, IISD (June 7, 2022), https://www.iisd.org/articles/policy-analysis/trips-waiver-negotiations-mc12.

[49] Ministerial Conference of the World Trade Organization, Ministerial Decision on the TRIPS Agreement adopted on 17 June 2022 (22 June 2022) WT/MIN(22)/30, WT/L/1141.

[50] See id. ¶ 2.

[51] See id. ¶ 3(a).

[52] See id. ¶ 3(d).

[53]Ana S. Rutschman, Introductory Note to Ministerial Decision on the TRIPS Agreement (WTO), 62 Int’l Legal Materials 289 (2023).

[54] See Reto M. Hilty et al., Position Statement of 5 July 2022 on the Decision of the WTO Ministerial Conference on the TRIPS Agreement adopted on 17 June 2022 (“While the Decision refers to ‘clarifications and waiver’, it does not in fact waive any intellectual property (IP) rights as such under the TRIPS Agreement.”).

[55] Peter Lee, New and Heightened Public-Private Quid Pro Quos: Leveraging Public Support to Enhance Private Technical Disclosure, in Intellectual Property, COVID-19, and the Next Pandemic: Diagnosing Problems, Developing Cures (Haochen Sun & Madhavi Sunder eds., forthcoming 2024).

[56] Sapna Kumar & Ana Santos Rutschman, New Licensing Avenues to Promote Public Health, in Intellectual Property, COVID-19, and the Next Pandemic: Diagnosing Problems, Developing Cures (Haochen Sun & Madhavi Sunder eds., forthcoming 2024).

[57] David S. Levine & Joshua D. Sarnoff, Compelling Trade Secret Sharing, in Intellectual Property, COVID-19, and the Next Pandemic: Diagnosing Problems, Developing Cures (Haochen Sun & Madhavi Sunder eds., forthcoming 2024).

[58] Kavanagh & Singh, Legal Paradigms and the Politics of Global COVID-19 Vaccine Access, supra note 28.

[59] Laura Pedraza-Fariña, COVID-19 as a Complex Disease: The Case for a Non-Traditional Team Approach, in Intellectual Property, COVID-19, and the Next Pandemic: Diagnosing Problems, Developing Cures (Haochen Sun & Madhavi Sunder eds., forthcoming 2024).

[60] Jayashree Watal & Leticia Caminero, Least-Developed Countries, Transfer of Technology and the TRIPS Agreement, WTO Staff Working Paper ERSD-2018-01 (Feb. 22, 2018), https://www.wto.org/english/res_e/reser_e/ersd201801_e.pdf.

[61] See Suerie Moon, Does TRIPS Art. 66.2 Encourage Technology Transfer to LDCs? An Analysis of Country Submissions to the TRIPS Council (1999–2007), ICTSD (Dec. 2008), https://unctad.org/system/files/official-document/iprs_pb20092_en.pdf.

[62] See id. (“Many of the policies and programmes reported either barely targeted or did not at all target LDCs.”).

[63] David M. Fox, Technology Transfer and the TRIPS Agreement Are Developed Countries Meeting Their End of the Bargain?, 10 Hastings Sci. & Tech. L.J. 1, 20 (2019).

[64] William Fisher, Ruth Okediji, & Padmashree Gehl Sampath, , Fostering Production of Pharmaceutical Products in Developing Countries, 43 Mich. J. Int’l L. 1, 14 (2022).

[65] Hard technology encompasses physical and tangible assets, including machinery, equipment, and hardware designed for practical applications.

[66] See Ana S. Rutschman & Julia Barnes-Weise, The COVID-19 Vaccine Patent Waiver: The Wrong Tool for the Right Goal, Bill of Health (May 5, 2021), https://blog.petrieflom.law.harvard.edu/2021/05/05/covid-vaccine-patent-waiver/.

[67] Dmitry Karshtedt, Limits on Hard-to-Reproduce Inventions: Process Elements and Biotechnology’s Compliance with the Enablement Requirement, 3 Hastings Sci. & Tech. L.J. 109, 135–36 (2011).

[68] See W. Nicholson Price II et al., Knowledge Transfer for Large-Scale Vaccine Manufacturing, 369 Sci. 912, 912 (2020).

[69] Fisher et al., supra note 64.

[70] Stephanie Nolen, Can Africa Get Close to Vaccine Independence? Here’s What It Will Take, N.Y. Times (April 25, 2023).

[71] See Swati Bharadwaj, WHO to Set Up mRNA Vaccine Hub in Hyderabad As Part of Global Plan, Times of India (February 22, 2023).

[72] See Adam Taylor, Plan to make mRNA vaccines in developing countries needs U.S. funding, backers say, N.Y. Times (March 14, 2023).

[72] Id.

[74] Pedraza-Fariña, supra note 59.

[75] See Dina Halajian, Inadequacy of Trips & the Compulsory License: Why Broad Compulsory Licensing Is Not a Viable Solution to the Access to Medicine Program, 38 Brook. J. Int’l L. 1191, 1203 (2013).

[76] Id. at 1211.

[77] See Prabhash Ranjan, The Case for Waiving Intellectual Property Protection for Covid-19 Vaccines, 456 Observer Rsch. Found. (2021).

[78] See William A. Reinsch, Compulsory Licensing: A Cure for Distributing the Cure?, Center for Strategic & International Studies (May 8, 2020), https://www.csis.org/analysis/compulsory-licensing-cure-distributing-cure.

[79] See Halajian, supra note 75, at 1204.

[80] See Laura Chung, Use of Paragraph 6 Systems for Access to Medicine, 36 n.c. j. int’l l. 137, 170 (2010).

[81] See Kerry Cullinan, Company Pushes Canada to Grant Compulsory License for Johnson & Johnson COVID-19 Vaccine Intellectual Property, Health Policy Watch (Nov. 15, 2021), https://healthpolicy-watch.news/company-pushes-canada-to-grant-compulsory-license-for-johnson-johnson-covid-19-vaccine/.

[82] See Sheryl G. Stolberg, As Poor Nations Seek Covid Pills, Officials Fear Repeat of AIDS Crisis, N.Y. Times (May 11, 2022), https://www.nytimes.com/2022/05/08/us/politics/covid-pills-global-aids-hiv.html.

[83] Ministerial Decision, supra note 49, at ¶ 8.

[84] Francesco Guarascio & Jennifer Rigby, COVID Vaccine Supply for Global Programme Outstrips Demand for First Time, Reuters (Feb. 2, 2023), https://www.reuters.com/business/healthcare-pharmaceuticals/covax-vaccine-supply-outstrips-demand-first-time-2022-02-23/.

[85] See Sun, supra note 1, at 189.

[86] Paul Farmer & Simone Campbell, To Save Lives, We Must Scrap Patent Protections on Coronavirus Vaccines, National Catholic Reporter (May 5, 2021), https://www.ncronline.org/news/coronavirus/save-lives-we-must-scrap-patent-protections-coronavirus-vaccines.


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