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Making the Case for a Hybrid Chamber at the ICC

Editorial note: This article is part of a series of blog posts on critical subject-matters for the progressive development and codification of International Criminal Law. 

By: David Donat-Cattin[1] and Philippa Greer[2]*

Introduction

The International Criminal Court (“ICC”) has investigated and tried some of the world’s gravest atrocities, establishing itself as a beacon in the global fight to end impunity. However, the ICC has also been criticized for its perceived lack of effectiveness, efficiency, uniformity in its jurisprudence and—above all—its prosecutorial selection of situations and cases, as well as its approach to respect for national sovereignty. Some states, it seems, do not want their nationals tried before a body composed only of international judges, an international prosecutor, and international legal practitioners and civil servants. The individual organs of the ICC and its personnel have often been mistakenly characterized as foreign and potentially hostile actors. But what if it were possible for the ICC to integrate national judicial actors within its decision-making process, while still maintaining its international legitimacy? The creation of a hybrid chamber might allow the ICC to do just that.

Amending the Rome Statute to create a hybrid chamber would be the first step to cope with this reality. This is an idea originally articulated by ICC Judge Chung in an academic speech—and subsequently researched and developed with the help of students from Harvard Law School’s Advocates for Human Rights. A number of organizations, including Parliamentarians for Global Action, and advocates, have started to analyze the feasibility of this option.

Background: What is a Hybrid Chamber?

Hybrid chambers are those which have both domestic and international judges. Currently, however,  all of the ICC’s chambers—Pre-Trial, Trial, and Appellant—are composed exclusively of international judges. That being said, hybrid chambers have been used, and are in use, in many contexts. Several of the most prominent international, or quasi-international, criminal tribunals and mechanisms—such as the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (“ECCC”) and the Special Court for Sierra Leone (“SCSL”)—have been constituted as hybrid chambers; and several noncriminal international courts, such as the International Court of Justice (“ICJ”) and the Inter-American Court of Human Rights, allow for ad hoc judges in a manner that could be partially followed by the ICC to create a hybrid chamber. It is noted in this context that use of the term “hybrid chamber” reflects the institution of a chamber comprising of ad hoc judges in addition to the international judges constituting the ICC’s chambers. From a public international law viewpoint, such a chamber may not be classically referred to as a true “hybrid chamber,” in the same manner in which the ICJ’s integration of an ad hoc judge by each of the parties to a controversy or dispute does not categorize it as a hybrid judicial chamber.

Risks

There are several risks presented by the use a hybrid chamber that must be considered. First, a hybrid chamber might open the Court to the due process critique that a judge from the same state as a defendant might be biased in favor of, or against, that defendant, depending on the political climate following atrocity crimes. This critique could be mitigated by Articles 36(3)(a) or 41(2)(b) of the Rome Statute, which provide that “judges shall be chosen from among persons of high moral character, impartiality and integrity,” and permit the Prosecutor to “request the disqualification of a judge [if their impartiality might be in doubt],” respectively.

In instances where a defendant might argue that having a national judge is likely to result in bias against them, particularly if the judge is appointed by a new government following elections or regime change, Article 41(2)(b) of the Rome Statute offers recourse given that “the person being investigated or prosecuted may request the disqualification of a [j]udge” for lack of impartiality.

Additionally, the disjuncture between the inherently international nature of the ICC and the domestic dimension of the international atrocities involved could give rise to the  perception that justice is being provided overall by outsiders, whose external views may be irreconcilable with those from domestic communities. The fact that a hybrid chamber within the ICC would be practically embedded within the broader international structure of the Court presents a unique circumstance when one considers that the structure of hybrid international criminal tribunals and mechanisms typically comprise of organs staffed by national counterparts to international staff, beyond the judicial chambers themselves.

Further, hybrid chambers could come with increased costs, or a rebalancing of resources away from the ICC’s core mandate. The Court would also need to adapt to new procedures for selecting judges, which could create difficulties at the initial stages. These problems, especially in light of contemporary critiques of the ICC and of hybrid tribunals and mechanisms more broadly, might cause certain states parties to mistakenly perceive the institution as having become partially ineffective.

Benefits

Despite these risks, allowing for hybrid chambers in the ICC could yield several significant benefits. Most notably, this could motivate states parties to engage more readily with the Court, incentivize nonparty states to join, and accomplish the principal goal of ensuring criminal accountability.

First, hybrid chambers could help to rectify perceived failings and encourage new engagement or reengagement with the ICC. Having a national judge take part in proceedings would indicate a greater degree of respect for state sovereignty and an institutional effort to be more representative—two areas in which the Court has been falsely accused of lacking, despite its principle of complementarity. It could also serve to promote knowledge-transfer and strengthen the capacity of domestic judicial systems through the engagement of national judges in international criminal proceedings that adhere to international standards. Efforts to respect sovereignty, increase representation among judges, and stem perceived biases in case selection could also give states parties an incentive to “submit” individuals to the ICC and to refer situations to the jurisdiction of the ICC that would include a hybrid chamber. The latter point is of particular importance given that the ICC entirely relies on the cooperation of states parties to the Rome Statute and to the United Nations (“UN”) Charter in order to carry out arrest warrants. Indeed, over a decade since the ICC issued a warrant for Omar al-Bashir regarding the atrocities in Darfur, recent developments suggest that he may be transferred to the ICC by the Sudanese government on the condition that possible prosecution proceeds in situ in Khartoum, rather than The Hague, or in a hybrid ICC/Sudanese chamber.

A hybrid chamber within the ICC could also help “to guarantee lasting respect for and the enforcement of international justice,” and advance key institutional features. For instance, the participation of national judges could increase the use of the language of the incident state during trials, facilitating national media coverage and making the proceedings seem closer to home for the relevant population. The participation of national judges at the ICC might also curtail suggestions that the Court subordinates domestic reconciliation in favor of international prosecution.

Moreover, a hybrid chamber could help to reinforce domestic systems by further encouraging national judges that might one day be called to sit in the chamber to enhance their expertise. Given the increased possibility of serving at the ICC, judges from various jurisdictions would have an increased incentive to engage with the international legal system, and to develop professional networks that would facilitate the exchange of ideas, in addition to studying and  advancing their knowledge of international criminal law. This also aligns with the principle of “positive” complementarity espoused by the ICC.

Finally, a hybrid chamber could create a more specialized chamber. For example, in situations where the Court has jurisdiction on the basis of the location of the respective atrocity crimes, a judge of the territorial state appointed to the bench might be expected to have expertise in the specific language of the state in which the situation arose, in addition to cultural skills and background knowledge of the relevant state. Such specification could help to make the hybrid chamber more focused and efficient. In situations where the Court’s jurisdiction stems from the nationality of the suspect, but not the territory where the alleged crimes took place, having a national judge from the state of the accused’s nationality serving on the hybrid bench could similarly foster greater insight and specialization within the chamber. However, this second scenario appears rather unlikely from a practical standpoint, as the consistent practice of the Office of the Prosecutor (“Prosecutor”) has thus far oriented the selection of situations and cases on the basis of a preexisting territorial jurisdiction of the ICC, which allows the Prosecutor to identify multiple alleged perpetrators, regardless of their nationality, including those allegedly bearing the greatest responsibility for the most serious crimes committed in a given situation.

Logistics

Given the ICC’s three judicial divisions: Pre-Trial (three judges), Trial (three judges), and Appeal (five judges), it is important to consider the practical positioning of the proposed hybrid chamber. It is proposed that the hybrid chamber would come into play at the Pre-Trial stage and, above all, Trial stage, and would mirror the chambers’ respective composition with three judges. Only one ad hoc national judge would be appointed, while the other two judges could be appointed from among the permanent judges of the ICC. In contrast to the ECCC model of having a majority of national judges, this proposal adopts the structure of the relatively successful East Timor and SCSL hybrid tribunals. This is largely because of the challenges and costs of recruiting and funding multiple ad hoc judges. It is also in line with the Rome Statute, which discusses representation and forbids having more than one judge with the same nationality employed at the ICC at once.

The traditional selection of judges at the ICC is governed by Article 36 of the Rome Statute. In brief, Article 36 provides for a minimum of 18 judges “chosen from among persons of high moral character, impartiality and integrity,” who may be nominated by any state party to the Rome Statute, and subsequently elected by a two-thirds majority of the Assembly of State Parties (“ASP”). Following the traditional process could bolster the legitimacy of a hybrid chamber, and would require relatively few logistical adjustments. For hybrid chambers, national judges could be elected via a slightly modified method in which states parties could only nominate candidates from the relevant state. This process could be assisted by a specific mandate of an Advisory Committee on Nomination, set up by the ASP pursuant to Article 36, Rome Statute. Such a mandate could be conferred by the ASP Bureau on behalf of the entire Assembly.

While the traditional process creates transparency at the election stage, the nomination process has been criticized for enabling possible nepotism and politicization. Such risks are heightened when the pool of candidates at the nomination level is limited to those from one state. However, this risk could be mitigated, for example, by requiring that candidates meet national standards for eligibility that accord with international standards, demonstrate professional competence through writing samples, and pass a conflict of interest check. States should also be required to publish their calls for candidates and to nominate at least three eligible candidates, similar to the regulation on nominations for the Judges of the European Court of Human Rights (“ECtHR”).

The most common practice in hybrid tribunals has been for national judges to be appointed unilaterally by the implicated state, with relatively little insight into the decision. This would likely be the most politically palatable method for appointing ad hoc national judges at the ICC. To ensure transparency, legal expertise, and judicial independence, this method could be modified to require that the implicated state party adhere to the requirements of Article 36 of the Rome Statute in making their selection, and that they submit to the ASP at least three eligible national candidates on the basis of a Public Call for Applications, similar to the procedure that member states of the Council of Europe undertake for judicial nominations to the ECtHR.

The national judges for a hybrid chamber at the ICC could alternatively be selected on an ad hoc basis through current ICC judges’ selection, through a UN body appointment or through the ASP. Selection by ICC judges would see a committee of sitting judges at the ICC carry out a search and vetting process. One advantage of this selection process is that it would likely result in highly competent judges entering the chamber, since ICC judges are among the best-positioned actors to assess whether a potential candidate is qualified to serve in a hybrid judicial chamber. This method would potentially also avoid some of the politicization ingrained in the traditional ASP election process. In doing so, it could help ensure the independence of the judiciary. This would be particularly true with regard to the incident state, where there may be a risk of political interference in the selection of judges. Yet from the point of view of citizens of the implicated state, as well as civil society actors and states, appointment by ICC judges might appear insular. In order to address such concerns, ICC judges could accept nominations or applications, publicize vacancies and the search process, and enumerate selection criteria, among other measures to ensure a competitive and transparent process. However, ICC judges might still face limited resources in terms of time, support staff, and relevant funding.

Appointment by a UN organ would depend on the particular UN organ appointing the judge. The process could range from appointments made at the discretion of the Secretary-General, such as, to some extent, in the ECCC, to appointments by vote of the General Assembly, with appointments by special committees falling somewhere in between. One advantage of this method is that the UN’s prominence in the public eye creates potential for accountability, and the institution would likely continue its long-term efforts to achieve diversity and gender parity, and other legitimating values. However, appointment by a UN organ might pose many of the same challenges to transparency as selection by ICC judges, while appointment by the General Assembly could see politicization become an even greater issue than in the case of traditional ASP elections.

Methods for the Creation of a Hybrid Chamber

The Rome Statute recognizes the importance of holding judicial proceedings in a manner that may bridge the distance-gap between The Hague and the locus commissi delicti, in the proximities of which normally most victims, including survivors, witnesses, and perpetrators may be found (unless the underlying international crimes were characterized by deportation and forcible transfer of the population, or were accompanied or followed by a mass exodus of refugees or asylum seekers). In Article 3, the Rome Statute empowers the Court to sit elsewhere than in The Hague, and in Article 4, the Statute stipulates that “the Court may exercise its functions and powers, as provided for in the Statute, on the territory of any State Party and, by special agreement, on the territory of any other State.”

The above provisions provide a solid legal basis for the establishment of chambers, especially Trial Chambers, that may integrate ad hoc Judges and receive assistance from expert personnel to transfer to the ICC the necessary knowledge and ability to exercise its functions in any given territorial state in a meaningful and legitimate way. However, in order to give full effect to the letter and spirit of the extremely important norms of Articles 3(3) and 4(2) of the Rome Statute, there would be a need to make some institutional and procedural adjustments to the ICC normative framework in order to incorporate the sui generis judicial function to be exercised by ad hoc judges.

The main purpose of having an ad hoc judge in a given situation and case would be to ensure that the ICC would have all know-how and ability to interact with domestic authorities in charge of hosting an ICC Chamber of their territories “as if” it were an organ of the domestic jurisdiction (e.g., a High Court with competence on criminal matters) and, above all, to acquire the best possible level of experience and expertise to exercise its functions on the territory of any state party (or other state), regardless of the decision to conduct part of the proceedings in loco.

Article 39 of the Rome Statute leaves the Court free to establish new Pre-Trial and Trial chambers as it deems efficient. However, these chambers are composed only of judges from the Pre-Trial and Trial divisions, respectively, all of whom are appointed to nine-year terms in accordance with Article 36. As this is not compatible with the goals of a hybrid chamber that appoints judges on an ad hoc basis (since ad hoc judges would not be ICC judges stricto sensu), it is likely not possible to create a hybrid chamber without amending the Rome Statute. As per Article 122, an amendment of an institutional nature can be proposed by any state party and must then receive unanimous support or, in the absence of consensus, a two-thirds majority vote in the ASP for its adoption and immediate entry into force.

While a detailed analysis of the language of such amendments falls outwith the scope of this article, it is suggested that Article 39 should be amended to allow for the creation of hybrid trial chambers in addition to ordinary trial chambers, with two judges from the corresponding division and a third judge appointed on an ad hoc basis. It should specify that multiple hybrid chambers in addition to ordinary trial and pre-trial chambers are permissible and should set out the appointment mechanism for judges to hybrid chambers, in addition to the service, qualifications, nomination, and election requirements regarding ad hoc judges.

Since ad hoc judges would not fall under the definition of ICC judges, textual modifications to the Rome Statute at Article 34(b), Article 35(1) and (2) and Article 37(1) would not be necessary, since there would be no need to clarify that the respective divisions may include ad hoc judges, that “full-time” service may mean service on only one case, or to exclude vacancies created by the departure of an ad hoc judge. However, the distinct Articles of Part 4 of the Rome Statute would require amendment in certain respects in order to detail how the provisions related to the independence of judges (Article 40), excusal and disqualification of judges (Article 41), solemn undertaking (Article 45), removal from office (Article 46), disciplinary measures (Article 47), privileges and immunities (Article 48) and salaries, allowances and expenses (Article 49) would apply to ad hoc judges appointed to hybrid chambers. Critical to the principle of legality before the ICC, ad hoc judges would also need to be exclusively bound to apply the law in accordance with Article 21 (“Applicable Law”) of the Rome Statute, which would impede them to apply domestic law. Additional modifications to the ICC normative framework may be undertaken in respect of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence and the Regulations of the Court.

Conclusion

Creating a hybrid chamber will necessitate several amendments to the Rome Statute, which will require significant political will. That being said, given a hybrid chamber’s potential ability to increase perceived legitimacy without major practical drawbacks, the idea is certainly worth considering.

[1] Secretary-General, Parliamentarians for Global Action; Adjunct Professor of International Law, Center for Global Affairs, New York University.

[2] Legal Officer, United Nations. The views expressed herein are those of the author alone and do not reflect the views of the United Nations.

* The authors would also like to thank Juan Pablo Calderón-Meza, Romina Morello, and Sondra Anton for their editorial assistance to this project, as well as Harvard Law School students who contributed to the drafting and research of this blog: Matthew Farrell, Nicolas Luongo, Samantha Lint, Emma Broches, Celeste Kmiotek, and Jung Min (Jasmine) Shin.

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More articles from the series:
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Online Scholarship, Perspectives

Designing Frameworks to Counter Foreign Influence: The Impact of the ECJ’s decision in European Commission v. Hungary

By: Tarun Krishnakumar

Background

On June 18, 2020, the European Court of Justice (“Court”) issued its decision in the case of European Commission v. Hungary (Case C-78/18), an action brought by the Commission under Article 258 of the Treaty on the Functioning of the European Union (“TFEU”). By its application to the Court, the Commission sought a declaration that, by enacting Act LXXVI of 2017 on the transparency of organizations receiving support from abroad (“Transparency Act”), Hungary had introduced “discriminatory, unjustified and unnecessary restrictions on foreign donations to civil society organisations, in breach of its obligations under Article 63 TFEU and Articles 7, 8 and 12 of the Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union.” In short, the Transparency Act imposed obligations of registration, declaration, and disclosure on certain categories of civil society organizations receiving foreign financial support in excess of a certain monetary threshold. Organizations not in compliance with these obligations could face penalties including fines and dissolution.1A more detailed account of the provisions of the Transparency Act is available at ¶¶ 2–10 of the decision of the Court.

In its ruling, the Court agreed with the assertions of the Commission and found that the adoption of the Transparency Act by Hungary violated its obligations under various EU law provisions—including those which guarantee the free movement of capital (Art. 63, TFEU) as well as individual rights such as the right to freedom of association (Art. 12, Charter), the right to respect for private and family life (Art. 7, Charter), and the right to protection of personal data (Art. 8, Charter). Notably, the Court found that none of the policy objectives offered by Hungary for the Act could justify the breadth of restrictions imposed under it. The stated objectives for the Transparency Act included countering foreign influence and interference in the “social and political life of Hungary,” improving transparency of civil society organizations, and countering money-laundering and terrorist financing.

Even prior to the decision of the Court, the Transparency Act—also referred to unofficially as the NGO law—had attracted widespread condemnation from within Hungary as well as internationally. Within this context, the decision of the Court did not come as a surprise to many, with its findings closely tracking the Opinion of the Advocate General, as well as the Court’s own jurisprudence. Consequently, the decision has attracted limited engagement.

Foreign Influence and the Decision in Hungary

While admittedly breaking limited ground from a jurisprudential perspective, the Court’s decision offers important lessons for another area of increasing relevance—the study of foreign influence campaigns and the designing of frameworks meant to counter them. Ranging from disinformation campaigns and covert lobbying to election interference and surreptitious funding flows, foreign influence activities are seeing a resurgence as states seek to reshape the world order by molding public opinion and decision-making across borders. In response, targeted states are considering a variety of responses to the phenomenon—ranging from stricter foreign funding regimes to foreign agent registration laws aimed at exposing foreign lobbying and political activities.

While jurisdictions like the United States have long had in place laws like the Foreign Agents Registration Act (“FARA”) to counter foreign influence and covert activities, others including Australia have recently joined the bandwagon—with several others, including the United Kingdom, actively pursuing statutory reform in the area. Often oriented to counter similar threats (for e.g. surreptitious foreign lobbying or covert activities), these frameworks vary widely in the scope of entities and activities they aim to cover. While frameworks like the Hungarian Transparency Act may validly be considered to form part of the various state responses to foreign influence, typically frameworks which target only narrow swathes of organizations—such as NGOs or civil society—are more effectively likely to serve other regulatory or political goals. Such frameworks cannot be considered as comprehensive efforts to counter-influence—a phenomenon which can be channeled through a wide variety of stakeholders including individuals and commercial enterprises.

What Hungary Means for Counter-Influence Frameworks Going Forward

In light of the increasing interest in counter-influence frameworks which rely on transparency, the Court’s decision in Hungary provides several interesting indications of future debates including obstacles that are likely to arise. While the decision was issued in the EU, many of the Court’s findings provide indications of issues that lie ahead. After all, foreign influence is a global phenomenon that is unlikely to diminish in the near future.

1. Transparency and Labelling

First and foremost, the decision reveals a divergence in approaches as regards the role of transparency and labelling in countering foreign influence. While frameworks like FARA and the Australian Foreign Influence Transparency Scheme (“FITS”) are premised on the registration of foreign agents and the publication of details about their activities on a public portal, the decision in Hungary suggests that not all jurisdictions would be bound by similar considerations in implementing such an approach.

For instance, jurisdictions in the EU may likely be less tolerant towards blanket labelling of organizations as foreign-funded or foreign agents for fear that it would disincentive donations and stymie the free movement of capital across EU member states. In the words of the Court in Hungary, the provisions of the Transparency Act operated to “create a climate of distrust with regard to [covered civil society organizations], apt to deter natural or legal persons from other Member States or third countries from providing them with financial support.” While the observations are specific to the Hungarian law at issue, the Court acknowledged, at some level, that that any advantages of labelling may be outweighed by its effects on labelled organizations.

In combination with the requirement for public disclosure of donors and “the imposition of additional formalities and administrative burdens” on covered organizations, these requirements operated to deter support to such organizations from foreign sources. While the decision of the Court on the issue centered on proportionality and scoping concerns within the Hungarian framework (discussed below), these observations are notable as non-EU states are unlikely to have similar constraints in discriminating between domestic and foreign capital flows. This may indicate a divergence in how the EU and non-EU states counter foreign influence, particularly funding.

2. Scoping and Targeting

Second, the decision in Hungary also emphasizes the importance of appropriately scoping transparency-based counter-influence legislation—particularly in terms of which entities are covered. At the outset, it is important for such legislation to clearly outline—based on an evidence-based risk-analysis—what triggers application of a registration or disclosure requirement.

In Hungary, the Court faulted the Transparency Act for covering all civil society organizations that accepted a foreign donation regardless of whether they had a “significant influence on public life and public debate” having regard to their “aims and [the] means at their disposal.” In other words, the Court acknowledged that not all organizations can wield the type of influence which may prove harmful to a state and its democratic institutions. The Court also expressed concern that the financial thresholds which triggered registration and reporting requirements under the Transparency Act did not correlate with the nature of the threat presumed. The funding thresholds were too low to suggest that recipient organizations would ipso facto pose a significant threat to Hungary.

While both conclusions of the Court, among others, can be problematic given that covert influence does not necessarily require large organizations—particularly where the targeting of influence is subtler (or not in the public eye)—it does provide markers for the way forward. Rather than an approach based on thresholds, criteria for application of counter-influence frameworks must reflect a more nuanced and risk-centric methodology. One such approach is premising application of the framework on specific activities an organization engages in for, e.g., lobbying, education, or opinion-shaping. Another may only result in registration and other requirements being triggered where an activity of an organization advances the interest of a foreign principal or funder. In other words, mere receipt of foreign funding would not trigger application of a counter-influence framework. Another still may only apply where an organization acts at the direction, control, or request of a foreign principal, i.e. as a foreign agent. The key is manifesting an objective and risk-based approach to application of registration and disclosure requirements—based on activities rather than solely on the fact that funding was received from a foreign source.

Lastly, drawing from the above, there would seem to be little rational basis for a counter-influence framework to only cover certain types of organizations. Channels of influence can range from a well-connected individual acting on their own to a large corporation with close government ties. While there is no doubt that a civil society organization can be a channel of influence, it is likely one of the least efficient, most overt, and easiest to clamp down upon. If a state is serious about countering influence, it must acknowledge that form or advertised purpose of an organization are irrelevant. Within this context, there is even less of a basis to target or exempt certain types of civil society organizations from compliance—as the Transparency Act in Hungary does in relation to religious and minority organizations. A robust counter-influence regime must center not solely on the channel of influence but on its methods. Anything less is not only likely to raise legal questions on equal treatment, but is also likely to be ineffectual in tackling influence in practice.

3. Balancing Privacy and Transparency

Third, the decision also outlines the potential for counter-influence frameworks to clash with privacy and data protection norms. As transparency-based frameworks often rely on public disclosures of information relating to foreign principals and sources of funding, concerns arise in relation to the legal bases for collection, processing, and disclosures of personal information. While approaches to privacy and data protection law will vary in scope, approach, and philosophy (such as between Europe and the United States), states should carefully tailor counter-influence frameworks so as to be consistent with applicable (and rapidly evolving) norms.2At the same time, this is likely to be more of an issue in a harmonized environment like the EU with many rights being conferred on EU residents as a whole rather than citizens of a specific state.

If the objective is disclosure of foreign funding or control, in the absence of special circumstances, it may be sufficient to disclose generalized and non-identifying information relating to the source—particularly where individual sources are concerned. Where funding or control relates to a foreign corporation, government, or public figure, more specific disclosures may be acceptable in light of the reduced privacy concerns. At the end of the day, states must be careful to toe the line between disclosures of foreign sources and requiring disproportionate disclosures which may have the effect of disincentivizing the funding relationship in the first place.

Conclusion

While not intended to be an analysis of the merits of the decision of the Court in Hungary, this comment has sought to signpost certain aspects of the decision which provide indications on future debates about foreign influence and the global frameworks meant to counter it. While foreign influence frameworks will require to be appropriately structured to be effective, the Hungary decision demonstrates that another key issue will be how such frameworks interact with norms in other spaces—including privacy, equal treatment, and proportionality in restricting other rights. To address these concerns, frameworks will be required to adopt a narrowly tailored and evidence-based approach to the risks posed by foreign influence. Anything less may undermine critical societal interests and, more importantly, fail to counter malign influence.

The author is an attorney admitted to the practice of law in the United States and India. He is also a researcher affiliated with the Foreign Influence Transparency Initiative (FITI) at the Center for International Policy (CIP). All views expressed are personal.

Executive Editor: Natasha Nicholson Gaviria
Content, Online Scholarship, Perspectives

Answers to MSF’s Questions in Response to the U.S. Military Investigation into the Kunduz Attack: An Insider’s Perspective

By: Brian Lee Cox

Editorial note: This essay is part of a cross-platform online collaboration with Just Security, Lawfire, and Opinio Juris in recognition of the fifth anniversary of the attack on the MSF trauma center in Kunduz, Afghanistan. For the other articles from the online collaboration, please see the links below.

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Exactly five years have passed since the horrific attack by the U.S. military on the Médecins Sans Frontières (“MSF”) trauma center in Kunduz, Afghanistan, and the redacted official military investigation was released to the public more than four years ago. On the day the investigation report was released to the public, MSF published a list of ten questions posed to the U.S. military in regards to the official investigation. Now, more than four years later, no official response to these questions has been made publicly available.

The questions appeal to matters with enduring relevance to the study and practice of the law involving armed conflict, such as protections for medical workers and humanitarian activities during war and the pursuit of effective accountability following attacks on civilians in armed conflict. The organization deserves meaningful answers to the unresolved questions, and informed answers can provide a useful contribution to the study and practice of international law and military justice.

While I am no longer a member of the U.S. military and my answers thus do not qualify as an official response, based on my professional endeavors in my capacity as a U.S. Army judge advocate I am deeply familiar with the circumstances of the attack and the official response following the airstrike. I have engaged in extensive conversations regarding the airstrike with many friends and former colleagues who were directly involved with advising various echelons of military command after the tragic attack, and, before I retired from military service in 2018, I was assigned to develop in-depth training for fellow judge advocates involving the Kunduz airstrike and lessons learned following the attack.

My study of the airstrike and the official and public narratives that ensued has continued since my retirement, and I am currently completing a project that engages in a thorough critical assessment of the official investigation and lessons “learned” therefrom. While that project is nearing completion, the fifth anniversary of the attack on the MSF trauma center in Kunduz, Afghanistan presents an opportunity to address, from an informed insider’s perspective, the questions posed by MSF as an organization to the U.S. military.

MSF as an institution deserves answers to these unresolved questions, but official answers are not on offer. The surviving victims of the horrendous attack, the families of those killed, and the organization that continues to provide vital medical services across the globe in the most dangerous circumstances imaginable, deserve better clarity than is currently available from official sources regarding what went wrong with the attack and what was done about it.

This imperative inspired the current cross-platform collaboration on the fifth anniversary of the airstrike. A central aspect of the ongoing discussion of the attack and its broader implications is providing the answers that the victims, families, and MSF association deserve. This essay offers an insider’s perspective regarding the answers to the unresolved questions posed by MSF. The essay is structured around those ten questions by copying them from the applicable MSF webpage and answering each in turn.

  1. What was the physical description of the intended target provided by the Afghan forces and how did it match the description of the MSF hospital?

The official investigation report does not contain direct evidence of the physical description of the intended target that was provided by Afghan forces to the U.S. Special Forces (“USSF”) element. The description was provided over a telephone and through an interpreter in person to the U.S. ground force commander that was co-located at the provincial governor’s compound with some members of the Afghan ground element. However, the available evidence is consistent regarding the nature of the description and how it was communicated.

This is the sequence described by the ground force commander when the aircrew of the supporting AC-130 gunship requested a physical description of the proposed target after the target acquisition and identification system aboard the aircraft pointed to “the center of a field” once the crew entered the grid coordinates provided by the ground element to the aircrew: “I asked the [redacted, likely from the context a reference to a member of the Afghan ground element] and the description I got, and this is before they even SP’d [‘starting point,’ a colloquial method for describing initiation of a movement] from [redacted, likely from the context a reference to Camp Pamir at the airfield to the south of Kunduz City] was a long T-shaped building with a small off shoot. I can’t remember the word I would have used for it. In a walled in compound with multiple out buildings and there was a gate facing to the north with an arch” (pg. 389). Whatever the precise description provided by the joint terminal attack controller (“JTAC”) to the aircrew, the aircrew focused on the “T-shaped building” portion of the description and identified the main building of the trauma center about 400 meters south of the point on the ground initially indicated by the aircraft target acquisition and identification system.

Based on the circumstances at the base of operations at the time, further clarification of the events is unlikely. As the ground force commander recalls during his interview with the investigation team, “If I wanted to get information, Sir, I would have to talk to my interpreter, who would talk to the [redacted, likely a reference to the specific unit of the Afghan Special Security Forces (‘ASSF’) involved in the operation] who would call to somebody” (pg. 387). The ground force commander indicated that he could not recall the name of the member of the ASSF with whom he communicated (pg. 387), and he also does not know with whom this point of contact was communicating over the telephone (pg. 388).

The assertion that Afghan forces may have intentionally provided a physical description that matched the MSF trauma center in hopes that the U.S. military would attack the hospital is addressed briefly elsewhere in discourse involving the attack. This is a topic I address at length in my full study of the official investigation, but a summary is in order here.  While I do not completely rule out the possibility based on my study of the available evidence, my conclusion is that this allegation is incredibly unlikely.

The transcript of the interview with the ground force commander does indicate that the ASSF ground assault force that was planning to move back into the city from Camp Pamir did intend to conduct raids on two different targets—one was described as an “National Directorate of Security (‘NDS’) prison” and the other was not described. This creates the possibility that the second target was the MSF trauma center, but the ground force commander recalls that the ASSF members “just said it was further north, like up around the market somewhere” (pg. 387). The MSF trauma center is located to the south of the NDS facility, not “further north.” Furthermore, if this is a reference to the main market in the center of Kunduz City, this is 600 meters or so north of the compound of the provincial governor where U.S. and Afghan forces had established their base of operations. The spatial orientation of the various points of interest alone makes it factually unlikely, wholly apart from the issue of potential motivation and likely consequences, that Afghan forces intentionally duped the U.S. military into targeting the MSF trauma center by deliberately providing a target description that matches the hospital.

  1. Which forces—either U.S. or Afghan—on the ground had “eyes on the target” [National Directorate of Security compound] before and during the attack? And if the U.S. forces did not, why not?

Neither USSF nor ASSF ground elements had “eyes on” the intended target. The security situation at the base of operations Afghan and U.S. military forces established in Kunduz City would have prevented the group from sending anyone out of the compound to establish eyes on. The ground force commander recalls that on the day of the airstrike, the group experienced “the heaviest contact we had received up to that point” in the mission (pg. 530). The group was rationing battery power to maintain some limited radio contact with higher headquarters and supporting aircraft, and sending a contingent out of the secured base of operations—referred to alternately as the PGOV (“provincial governor”) or PCOP (“provincial chief of police”) compound—in search of the NDS facility would not have been tactically feasible.

Depending on the particular targeting circumstances and the specific aircraft being utilized, a lack of visual contact with the target by ground forces can significantly increase the risk of target misidentification. However, the loitering overhead orbit of the AC-130 and the sensor suite aboard the aircraft actually put the aircrew of this particular aircraft in a much better position to identify the target than the ground element.

The visual field available for crews of most fixed wing aircraft is often described as looking through a “soda straw” when trying to identify targets on the ground. The sensor suite on an AC-130, in contrast, includes a multispectral television sensor and a high definition infrared sensor, both of which were utilized extensively in the target identification process. As examined below, the central factors that led to the tragic outcome of the Kunduz airstrike were inadvertent application of existing ambiguities in doctrinal terminology and a resulting lack of clarity involving the intent of the ground force commander.

The inability of the ground element to put eyes on the target was not a significant contributing factor. The aircrew observed the target area for a total of 68 minutes before initiating the airstrike (pg. 027) and, when they did, they attacked the target they intended to strike.

  1. During the airstrike, how many calls or warnings were record[ed] from Afghan Special Forces to the U.S. Special Forces commander or the Joint Terminal Attack Controller to inform them of the targeting error, i.e. that the intended target (National Directorate of Security compound) was not being hit?

There is no indication from the factual record that members of the ASSF element were aware of the targeting error. At the time that the AC-130 initiated the strike, the so-called “battle damage assessment (‘BDA’) video” (colloquially referred to as the “gun tape”) indicates that the ASSF ground assault force (“GAF”) convoy was five kilometers away from the (mis)identified target (pg. 066, footnote 179).

The multispectral television sensor operator on the AC-130 recalls in a sworn statement provided to the investigation team after the airstrike that the GAF was “stopped around 650m from the Obj” [objective] even after the airstrike and that the convoy “didn’t advanced (sic) to the compound before we had to RTB” (return to base) to refuel (pg. 363).

The ASSF ground element was not physically in a position, then, to determine exactly which target was being attacked. The members of the U.S. ground element at the PCOP compound were not aware that the wrong target had been attacked until after the airstrike concluded, which is further evidence indicating that they did not receive any calls or warnings from the ASSF about the targeting error during the attack.

  1. Why was the attack not called off before the AC-130 completed its mission? Who would have been responsible to call off the attack of an AC-130 deprived of its essential communication capacity operating in a densely populated area? And why didn’t he/she?

The airstrike was not called off before the AC-130 completed its mission because the personnel directly involved in the attack remained under the mistaken belief that the targeted compound was a “Taliban stronghold” for the duration of the attack. Because a “self-defense” rules of engagement (“ROE”) justification was provided by the JTAC to the aircrew, approval from a higher echelon of command was not required.

The inadvertent misapplication of applicable rules of engagement is discussed in more detail below in the response to Question #6. For present purposes, though, this explains why the approval chain for the attack did not extend beyond the ground force commander. The ground force commander (“GFC”) was the “on-scene commander” in doctrinal terminology, and in ROE terms commanders “always retain the inherent right” of self-defense.

Beyond the personnel directly involved in the attack, the chief of operations, or “CHOPS” as the position is colloquially called, at the Special Operations Task Force-Afghanistan (“SOTF-A”) headquarters element was in all likelihood the person at the lowest level of responsibility that could have stopped the attack if the targeting mistake had been realized in time. The CHOPS leads the current operations integration cell (“COIC”), and the COIC, in turn, is “the focal point for controlling the execution of operations.” Because the SOTF-A headquarters was the lowest level of command on the task organization chart (pg. 040) above the ground force commander (as the “commander” of “Area of Operations-North”), the SOTF-A CHOPS likely would have been best situated to intervene and stop the airstrike if the targeting mistake had been recognized in time.

When the initial call was made by the MSF Country Director at 2:19 AM, which was 11 minutes after the airstrike began, the headquarters member on the receiving end of the call went to the Joint Operations Center (“JOC”)—a term more widely used than COIC—to ask about an airstrike. Because of the prevailing operational circumstances, no one in the JOC realized at that time that it was the AC-130 that was in fact targeting the trauma center (pg. 067–068).

The person with whom the MSF Country Director was communicating eventually realized that it must be the AC-130 that was attacking the trauma center. This person then entered the JOC and declared, at 2:33 AM, “You’re hitting the Trauma Center” (pg. 068). Notwithstanding this revelation, the attack continued for another four minutes, until 2:37 AM, according to the investigation report.

The report does include as an exhibit a sworn statement from the person I assess, based on the context of the statement, to be the SOTF-A CHOPS. In this statement, the (presumably) CHOPS recalls, likely referring to the point at which the revelation was made that the trauma center was under attack, “My initial reaction was to do nothing about the strike because I did not know the situation on the ground that warranted the strike to be conducted, and as the [redacted] I will always give the [redacted, presumably a reference to the GFC] the benefit of the doubt when conducting engagements in self-defense” (pg. 435). At 2:38 AM, the (presumably) SOTF-A CHOPS called for a ceasefire, but the last round had already been fired at the trauma center one minute earlier.

This mosaic assemblage of circumstances accumulated from throughout the full investigation report describes the personnel who would have been responsible for calling off the attack if they had been sufficiently certain that the MSF trauma center was being attacked. Regarding the aspect of the question involving deprivation of essential communication capacity, technological communications challenges existed but did not constitute a significant factor in the targeting error. As unfortunate as it is, military operations in densely populated areas have become the norm rather than the exception in contemporary warfare. This phenomenon has invariably increased the risk to civilians, but has not obviated the necessity to use force in densely populated areas.

  1. How do you reconcile the difference in the duration of the attack between the U.S. version of events and the MSF internal review?

I currently have no adequate explanation for the difference, but I do note that the investigation team had access to detailed transcripts of radio communications, video from the “battle damage assessment recorder” of the AC-130 (pg. 062, among others), and a log of electronic messages sent from the SOTF-A JOC to personnel with the ground element at the PCOP compound (pg. 512). After reviewing information from these and other sources, the investigation report concludes that the attack lasted for “30 minutes, 8 seconds” (pg. 027).

The official account differs significantly from the findings published in the MSF internal review, which estimates that the attack lasted approximately an hour or more and that it ended as late as 3:15 AM. While I do not have access to the underlying data used to develop this estimate, I would welcome the opportunity to review the data in an effort to reconcile the difference between the accounts of the duration of the attack.

  1. Given that U.S. troops were not directly under fire, what are the limits of engagement of U.S forces in combat activities?

The answer to this question gets to the very heart of what truly went wrong with the attack. General Joseph Votel, who was commander of U.S. Central Command when the investigation was released to the public and who briefed MSF representatives before he announced the release, was asked by a reporter at the press conference announcing the release of the investigation if there is “something in particular with the human error . . . that jumps out at you?”

There absolutely is one factor “in particular” that led to the tragic outcome of the airstrike, but the “human error” exists far beyond the personnel involved in the attack. To date, this human error has not been identified by the U.S. military, and it existed long before the Kunduz airstrike and persists now even five years on. General Votel’s answer, that “the communication between the air and the ground” merited “more discussion between what was going on” is well short of the mark, but the same is true for the wider institutional effort to identify what truly went wrong.

The single factor that contributed most to the “human error” involved in the attack on the MSF hospital involves application of ambiguous language present in existing rules of engagement and other use of force policy. In this particular attack, the ambiguity responsible for the human error involved comes down to the use of one word: hostile.

A full assessment of the functional effect of this and other ambiguities in existing practice and doctrine is not feasible in the current format, but for this essay I can summarize the findings of my comprehensive evaluation of the official investigation and lessons “learned” therefrom. The depiction that emerges directly addresses the question of the “limits of engagement” in the Kunduz airstrike “given that U.S. troops were not directly under fire.”

There is no provision of the rules of engagement that categorically prohibits attacking a target even if troops are “not directly under fire,” but the approval process for such an attack is different than for a so-called “self-defense” engagement. The trouble is, the same word is used doctrinally to describe both an “offensive” and a “self-defense” rules of engagement authorization. The rules of engagement permit the use of force in self-defense in response to a “hostile act” or demonstration of “hostile intent,” while describing an “offensive” engagement that is not in response to a perceived hostile act or demonstration of hostile intent as an attack against a “declared hostile force.”

This ambiguity alone is problematic, but a there is a third doctrinal use of the word “hostile” that, in effect, creates a bridge between a “self-defense” and an “offensive” use of force. Both colloquially and doctrinally, the word “hostile” is also used more generally to describe an adversary without regard to the potential ROE characterization of the adversary.

Examples of this imprecise use of the word “hostile” in military doctrine and practice are too abundant to count, but the U.S. Department of Defense Law of War Manual observes, as but one example, that “spying, sabotage, and other hostileactivities behind enemy lines would render a person liable to prosecution for such conduct” (emphasis added).  Another doctrinal example, this from a publication focused on protections for civilians in armed conflict, warns that “in some cases hostile actors may attempt to blend in with” displaced persons and separately suggests to military planners that training exercises should “include civilians who are not hostile” (emphasis added).

While this ambiguity regarding use of the word “hostile” may seem rather innocuous, it manifests in targeting mishaps with devastating consequences. This ambiguity is the single most significant factor that led to the tragic outcome of the Kunduz airstrike.

The “hostile” trail begins with the description of the intent for the close air support that was communicated by the ground force commander to the JTAC. As the ground force commander recalls in the interview with the investigation team after the attack, he remembers “very specifically spelling” out his intent for the requested close air support “to reduce heavy weapons and strong points to allow” the ASSF ground assault force to maneuver to their objective, the Afghan government NDS facility (pg. 391). The ground force commander further clarifies that he wanted to identify the target “prior to the actual contact” in order to “make sure that we were on target and that everyone understood exactly what needed to happen” before the ASSF ground assault force became decisively engaged en route to the objective (pg. 391).

This intent is consistent purely with the “self-defense” usage of the word “hostile,” which permits a use of force in response to a “hostile” act or demonstration of “hostile” intent. The JTAC summarizes this intent in an ambiguous manner that could be consistent with either a “self-defense” or “offensive” engagement. Later, as the aircrew is trying to identify the intended target and describes the activity of the people they are observing at what was in fact the trauma center, the JTAC asserts that the “compound is currently under the control of the TB [Taliban], so those 9 PAX [personnel] are hostile” (pg. 033, emphasis added). This meaning for the word “hostile” is consistent with the doctrinal usage to describe an adversary without regard to ROE classification.

While the ground force commander intended the requested close air support to be purely for the defense of the ASSF and the JTAC instead communicated the non-descript usage of the word “hostile,” the aircrew interpreted the intent in a manner consistent with the “offensive” ROE application. The transcript of a radio conversation between the navigator and fire control officer of the supporting AC-130 reveals that at one point the navigator believes that the JTAC has “already confirmed that this prison complex [factually the MSF trauma center] is hostile” (pg. 060). Although this usage, too, is consistent with the ROE ambivalent meaning of the word “hostile,” the recollections of the members of the aircrew that are reflected in their sworn statements after the attack reveal that they interpreted the observation by the JTAC in a manner consistent with an “offensive” use of force.

The TV sensor operator observes in a sworn statement, for example, that the JTAC “said [before the attack that] the compound was under enemy control and that those [redacted] were declared hostile” (pg. 363, emphasis added). In a sworn statement that appears from the context to be provided by the pilot of the AC-130, the affiant recalls that the JTAC “relayed to us that the complex that we were monitoring [factually the trauma center] was under ‘TB’ (Taliban) control and that all associated personnel were declared hostile” (pg. 492, emphasis added). Similarly, in a sworn statement that from the context appears to be provided by the electronic warfare officer aboard the AC-130, the affiant recalls that the JTAC determined the compound being observed by the aircrew “was under Taliban Control and declared all personnel in that compound to be hostile” (pg. 500, emphasis added).

The practical effect of interpreting “hostile” in this manner is that, in ROE terms, “Once a force is declared hostile by appropriate authority, U.S. forces need not observe a hostile act or demonstrated hostile intent before engaging the declared hostile force” (emphasis added). The JTAC, of course, is not an “appropriate authority” to make such a “hostile” declaration, and the official investigation report makes clear that no one involved in the attack was conferred with such authority.

Due to the widespread ambiguity in doctrine and practice related to the term “hostile,” however, no one involved in the attack knew the difference. The JTAC proffered a ROE justification that was consistent with a self-defense engagement, but also used the term “hostile” in the ROE-neutral meaning without being aware that the aircrew would interpret this to be declaring the people being observed at the MSF trauma center to be a “hostile force.” The aircrew accepted the “self-defense” ROE justification, which permits a use of force in response to a “hostile” act or demonstration of “hostile” intent, but unwittingly interpreted the ROE-neutral “hostile” observation as an assertion that the people being observed were a “declared hostile force.”

If this mistake had been recognized, the airstrike would have never taken place. That is, if the members of the aircrew were aware that the ground force commander’s actual intent was to identify the target before the ASSF ground assault force came under attack and then to “reduce heavy weapons and strongpoints” in defense of the GAF, the aircrew would not have initiated the attack when the JTAC directed them to do so. Due to several factual circumstances, the ground force commander believed the ASSF ground assault force to be under attack when he advised the JTAC to direct the AC-130 to initiate. He also believed the aircrew was operating in accordance with his intent to defend the ASSF GAF and that “there shouldn’t have been any confusion” after he had clarified his intent earlier (pg. 391).

In actuality, the aircrew observed that the ASSF ground assault force was several hundred meters from the perceived objective, the MSF trauma center, when the airstrike was initiated. The aircrew never visually identified any weapons at the compound they were observing, let alone “heavy weapons and strongpoints” as described by the ground force commander. The absence of weapons is to be expected since the members of the aircrew were in fact observing the MSF trauma center and the hospital had a strict “no weapons” policy. At the command to initiate the attack, then, the aircrew would have been fully aware that they were not carrying out the intent of the ground force commander if they would have properly understood the intent. This would have prompted the aircrew not to engage, and they never would have done so since the ASSF ground assault force never came under fire from the MSF trauma center.

It is the existing ambiguity regarding practical and doctrinal application of the term “hostile” that caused the fateful misunderstanding. This is without a doubt “human error” as the investigation and official narratives indicate. However, the error is not attributable to the humans directly involved in the attack.

In attacking without first observing a “hostile act” or demonstration of “hostile intent,” the aircrew unwittingly conducted an attack in a manner consistent with the ROE designation of a “declared hostile force” while still believing they were carrying out the intent of the ground force commander. The bridge from the ROE “self-defense” usage of the term “hostile” (intended by the ground force commander) to the ROE-neutral description of an adversary (communicated by the JTAC) to the ROE “offensive” usage to connote a “declared hostile force” (interpreted and applied by the aircrew) set the conditions for the aircrew to “violate” the ROE by engaging in an “offensive” attack without authorization. The “human error” existed long before the airstrike, and it remains unidentified in existing doctrine and training to this day.

What, then, are the “limits of engagement” when U.S. forces “in combat activities” are not “directly under fire”? The short answer to that question is that the U.S. forces involved unquestionably exceeded the existing limits. The trouble is that the personnel involved in the attack were not aware that they were exceeding the limits of engagement. As General Votel observed during the press conference announcing the release of the investigation to the public, the personnel “were trying to get to the right answer here and do the exact right thing.” Deficiencies in existing doctrine and practice prevented them from doing the “exact right thing,” but this central contributing factor has yet to be identified, let alone rectified, by the U.S. military.

This examination of the application of relevant ROE is not complete and comprehensive. The NATO version of the ROE was also involved in the mistaken attack, though the ambiguity pertaining to the term “hostile” is also present there. A more complete assessment of the role of both the U.S. and NATO sets of ROE is possible by drawing on the classified versions of both. However, most of the provisions that are relevant to the Kunduz airstrike are present in the versions of the ROE that are available to the public.

Finally, sources of use of force policy other than the ROE, such as the “Tactical Guidance,” implementation of the “no-strike list” database, “clearance of fires” procedures, doctrine related to attaining “positive identification,” among others, are addressed in my comprehensive assessment of the official investigation and the lessons “learned” therefrom. However, for present purposes, the abbreviated examination of the ROE that is focused on ambiguous application of the term “hostile” is sufficient to address the “failure” of U.S. forces to comply with the relevant “limits of engagement” when, as in the Kunduz airstrike, the forces are not “directly under fire.”

  1. How do you justify that no court martial is recommended in response to the killing of 42 people and considering the protected status of the hospital?

As tragic and horrific as the outcome of the attack is, decisions regarding potential legal sanctions for the personnel involved in the attack must be made in consideration of the process that led to the airstrike. If the personnel had been aware of the protected status of the hospital and attacked it anyway, the outcome of the decision not to initiate court-martial charges would have been very different.

I have discussed the circumstances of the airstrike and the disposition decisions with many friends and former colleagues who were directly involved in advising the command teams that decided not to initiate charges. Without exception, these judge advocates have communicated to me that they are of the opinion that criminal charges were not appropriate based on the process that led to the strike.

The issue of perspectives regarding accountability for unintended outcomes for attacks in armed conflict is addressed further in the closing reflections of this post. And I consider the issue of accountability in greater detail in the Just Security and Lawfire posts of this collaboration. However, based on my detailed review of the investigation and other official accounts of the circumstances of the attack, I endorse the decision not to initiate court-martial proceedings.

This does not mean that I think accountability for the airstrike is not vitally important. But I worry that focusing on accountability for individual personnel based on the outcome of the airstrike risks diverting attention away from the institution that bears responsibility for the process that led to the tragic outcome.

  1. Who within the chain of command is ultimately responsible for the deaths of 42 people, and how is that person being held accountable?

The matter of accountability is addressed in the answer to the previous question involving the decision not to initiate court-martial proceedings for anyone directly involved in or otherwise responsible for the attack. As I note below in concluding reflections, true “accountability” in the context of the attack on the MSF trauma center needs to be centered on the U.S. military as an institution rather than any individual person directly involved in or otherwise responsible for the attack.

  1. Does the United States consider the actions of U.S. forces to be negligent, and if not, why?

The official report is replete with findings that would indicate that the personnel involved in the attack were negligent, probably even reckless, and potentially even worse. If the outcome of the attack is the focus of the assessment, it is not controversial to conclude that the personnel were at least negligent. However, as I describe in other posts, the official investigation is unfortunately an entirely unreliable source of information. Aside from the findings of the official investigation, if the process of the attack is the focus, a characterization of “negligence” is not as straightforward.

There is no doubt that the personnel involved in the attack got it horribly wrong. I conclude in the full assessment of the official investigation that the navigator and the fire control officer of the AC-130 aircrew did not comply with the requirement to take feasible precautions in the attack, and this can certainly be characterized as negligent.

My conclusions regarding these violations of the feasible precautions rule, however, are complicated by the fact that these conclusions in essence involve a failure to comply with the doctrinal duty to confirm “validity with respect to” the applicable ROE. These personnel should have clarified the uncertainty they seemed to have regarding application of the ROE, but ultimately all the personnel, including the navigator and the fire control officer, appeared to genuinely believe they were complying with applicable use of force law and policy.

My assessment is that the truly culpable negligence rests with the entire U.S. military as an enterprise. The official investigation report provides abundant evidence that the personnel involved in the attack on the MSF trauma center were thoroughly trained in relevant use of force law and policy. The investigation itself was purportedly conducted “with painstaking attention to detail” and was “followed by an in-depth review process.”

As the response to Question #6 describes, the single most significant factor in the tragic outcome of the attack was utilization of ambiguous terminology that was consistent with existing doctrine and that nonetheless led to a “violation” of the relevant ROE. The official investigation report not only fails to identify the true nature of the factors that contributed to the tragedy, but it systematically mischaracterizes even the most basic aspects of relevant use of force law and policy. That this report is purportedly the product of “painstaking attention to detail” that was “followed by an in-depth review process” further impugns the enterprise that generated such an absolute failure to account for what went wrong.

The discernible negligence here, then, rests with the enterprise that trained the personnel involved in the airstrike and those responsible for evaluating the attack afterward. As I observe below in the concluding reflections, this systemic negligence is correctable. However, it is the enterprise, rather than the products of that enterprise, that is the one truly deserving of the characterization of “negligent.”

  1. How will the disciplinary measures chosen deter U.S. military personnel from violating the laws of war in the future?

In short, the disciplinary measures imposed will have very little effect in preventing the circumstances that caused the catastrophic outcome of the Kunduz airstrike from contributing to a similar tragic outcome again in the future. This is not because the administrative measures imposed are inadequate. Rather, the disciplinary measures that were imposed are misdirected.

Although the outcome of the airstrike is horrendous, the personnel involved, as General Votel asserts, “were trying to get to the right answer here and do the exact right thing.” The aircrew observed the target area for 68 minutes before initiating the airstrike (pg. 027), and when they did, they “knew with 100% certainty” (pg. 058, n.122) that they were attacking the correct objective and thereby that they were carrying out the intent of the ground force commander. The ground force commander, in turn, believed that “there shouldn’t have been any confusion” about his intent for the requested close air support after he clarified his intent to the JTAC. The JTAC unwittingly created a linguistic bridge between the ground force commander’s stated intent to employ close air support in a manner consistent with “self-defense,” and the “offensive” engagement carried out instead by the aircrew. The JTAC did so by stating that the compound being observed by the aircrew was “currently under the control of the TB [Taliban]” and that the people being observed at the compound were thus “hostile.” They were all trying to “do the exact right thing,” but the training and doctrine they were applying in doing so led to a catastrophic outcome.

Even worse than being ineffective, my concern is that the disciplinary measures imposed will ultimately prove to be counterproductive. The narrative reflected in the official investigation upon which accountability measures were based is itself impermissibly focused on the outcome of the airstrike. How is it, to borrow from one such finding of the official investigation, that the personnel “did not attempt to distinguish between combatants and non-combatants” (pg. 095) but a senior commander can nonetheless maintain that the personnel “were trying to get to the right answer here and do the exact right thing”?

It is because the investigation is manifestly erroneous to conclude that the personnel “did not attempt to distinguish between combatants” and civilians. Doing so would violate the law of armed conflict (“LOAC”) distinction rule. This would constitute a serious violation of international law and would qualify as a war crime. So would engaging in a “facially disproportional” attack (pg. 091), though this official finding fails to present a recognizable formulation of the LOAC proportionality rule upon which it is based. These and similar findings of the official investigation constitute a gross misrepresentation of the applicable factual circumstances and the legal and policy standards from which the investigation draws to develop the relevant conclusions.

Even though the personnel involved in the attack were “trying to do the exact right thing,” as General Votel notes when describing the conduct of the personnel involved in the Kunduz airstrike, “unfortunately they came up short.” The fact that they did “come up short” is attributable to inadequate doctrine and training that persists across the U.S. military as an enterprise. The true causal factors have yet to be identified or corrected, though the personnel directly involved in or otherwise responsible for the attack have received, as General Votel observes, “adverse administrative actions [that] can carry severe repercussions on the careers and professional qualification of these individuals.”

The disciplinary measures imposed following the Kunduz airstrike were not effective in the endeavor to prevent similar tragedies from occurring in the future. The reason is that the measures were directed against individual military members who were inadequately trained by the enterprise that called upon them to use force on its behalf, rather than against the enterprise itself. Even worse, the sense that the personnel involved in the attack are punished for the outcome of the attack even though they were “trying to do the exact right thing” contributes to a prevailing sentiment of enmity toward implementation of military justice in armed conflict. This enmity can actually discourage compliance with existing limitations on the use of force by generating a sense of antipathy toward imposition and implementation of legitimate rules.

To this effect, a reflection captured in one of the sworn statements that is included as an exhibit to the Kunduz investigation should be shared and considered. The affiant, whom I assess based on the context of the statement to be the SOTF-A chief of operations, or “CHOPS,” is asked by the interviewer, “What changes should be made to guidance, SOPs [standard operating procedures], unit procedures or training which could have mitigated” the attack on the MSF trauma center (pg. 436). The initial response of the affiant is, “[t]his is not a simple question to answer because the implication is that there was a breakdown or an issue with the guidance, SOPs, unit procedures or training.”

The reflection that follows this initial answer is lengthy, but it is worth including in full here for consideration. The affiant goes on to observe:

“There is a reason that Special Forces elements were asked to conduct this mission. The experience, maturity, professionalism, and ability to operate in the most extreme and austere environments is why they were chosen. There is risk that commanders have to accept when placing American Soldiers in extremis situations, and when [General] Campbell told [redacted, likely from the context a reference to the ground force commander] to take his forces and seize a foothold in a city that had been seized by an estimated [redacted] INS [insurgents], there was risk associated with this extremely dangerous mission asked of these SF [Special Forces] Soldiers. To highlight the risk, from the moment the USSF convoy departed the airfield, they were in a constant firefight for over 2 days. Every time I spoke with [redacted, likely a reference to the ground force commander] (approximately 6 times from 01 OCT – 03 OCT), I heard constant gun fire and explosions in the background” (pg. 436).

The affiant concludes this reflection by observing, “I believe that any changes/restrictions to guidance, SOPs, or unit procedures as a result of the airstrike would hinder the ground forces’ ability to act in their own self-defense.” This sentiment and the rest of the reflection invoke a conceptual challenge involving the endeavor to achieve accountability and implement effective corrective actions following attacks that result in unintended consequences in armed conflict. While the challenge is inherently conceptual, the attack on the MSF trauma center demonstrates the practical implications of the pervasive conceptual challenge. With the question involving the effectiveness of the specific accountability measures that were implemented after the airstrike addressed, the present inquiry turns to consider some concluding reflections involving matters of broader conceptual and practical concern.

Concluding Reflections

The requirement to utilize force, often lethal force, to achieve an identified outcome sets armed conflict apart from a non-conflict setting. For corrective actions and accountability measures following accidents in armed conflict that result in unintended consequences (such as civilian casualties and fratricide) to be meaningful and effective, both the actions and measures must be developed and implemented with a clear understanding of and appreciation for the operational and information environment that existed before and during the accident. The official investigation conducted following the Kunduz airstrike does not present an accurate assessment of either the operational or information environment encountered before and during the airstrike by the personnel involved in the attack.

While the accounting of the factual record appears to be supported by the evidence gathered during the investigation, the findings are not supported by the evidence derived by the investigation team. Similarly, the official findings are based upon articulations of applicable law and policy that do not present a faithful application of the sources from which the formulations are drawn. Both of these factors render the official findings legally deficient. The corrective actions and accountability measures implemented after the airstrike are based on these findings that are legally deficient, and this impugns their reliability as well.

The assessment conducted in the present inquiry of the circumstances that led to the tragic attack on the MSF trauma center and of the corrective actions and accountability measures implemented is not consistent with the prevailing perspectives expressed by senior MSF representatives in the wake of the Kunduz airstrike. I have studied the MSF reaction and narrative extensively during the course of my assessment of both public and official accounts of the attack. While my assessment of the investigation and subsequent corrective actions and accountability measures does not align with prevailing MSF perspectives, I am committed to the pursuit of both meaningful corrective actions and effective accountability measures to ensure that the errors that caused the horrific outcome of this airstrike do not contribute to another in the future.

I conclude in the full assessment of the Kunduz investigation and lessons “learned” therefrom that the attack on the trauma center does not constitute a war crime, and this conclusion is summarized in the Opinio Juris post of this collaboration. While I explain this conclusion in detail in the full assessment of the investigation, I close the present essay with an observation involving the connection between public narratives and the inherently legal characterization of an attack as a war crime.

This closing observation draws on the ongoing work of Professor Shiri Krebs of Deakin Law School. Dr. Krebs has researched and written extensively about the potential unintended consequences of invoking inherently legalistic terminology such as “war crimes” in public narratives involving actions in armed conflict. She concludes her latest article on the topic with the observation that in our current “fake news” era, “where alternative facts are often generated to counter unwelcomed facts and narratives, it is more important than ever to seek new and better ways to produce and introduce information, and prompt reforms based on the lessons learned.”

This and previous similar observations on the topic by Dr. Krebs have been a guiding force for my current project assessing the Kunduz investigation and lessons “learned” therefrom. The idea for the current cross-platform collaboration was inspired in large part by the call to “seek new and better ways to produce and introduce information.” Like Dr. Krebs, I am concerned that the focus on whether the Kunduz airstrike should be characterized as a war crime may be inadvertently diverting attention away from the institutional reforms that must be implemented following the tragic attack.

Although my assessment of whether the Kunduz airstrike constitutes a war crime diverges from the perspectives expressed by MSF as an organization, I am no less committed to achieving the reforms that are necessary to correct the institutional failures that led to the horrific outcome of the attack and that have thus far been an impediment to the effort by the U.S. military to identify and implement the required reforms.

Nothing short of a sweeping change of culture within the U.S. military as an enterprise is needed. Only this can generate the widespread and systemic reforms that must be implemented to first identify, and then correct the pervasive inadequacies of training and knowledge related to use of force law and policy that led to the tragedy in Kunduz and that persist still today. In this endeavor, I hope to be an ally of MSF rather than an adversary—even if our perspectives do not completely align.

Providing an insider’s perspective of the answers to the unresolved questions posed by MSF is an important first step. The surviving victims of the airstrike, the families of those killed, and MSF as an institution deserve informed answers, even if official answers were not offered. Along with the answers provided in this essay, I declare my commitment to advocate for the institutional reforms that must be implemented and, if permitted to do so, to collaborate with the U.S. military to successfully implement the needed reforms. The victims and families of the attack on the MSF trauma center, as well as MSF as an organization, deserve nothing less.

Editors: Maria Trinidad Alonso Quiros; Lukas Roth

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More articles from the online collaboration:
Opinio Juris: The Attack on the MSF Trauma Center in Kunduz and the Limitations of a Risk-based Approach to War Crimes Characterization (Part I; Part II)

 

Online Scholarship, Perspectives

Forgetting and Remembering: Reflections on Memorializing Counter-Narratives Through Law

Editorial note: This article will be a part of a new ILJ Online series on the international law of protest.

By: Samantha Clare Goh

Britain considers itself to be at the center of a “culture war”. BBC’s move to omit the lyrics of anthems glorifying Britain’s colonial past sought to remember the victims of British colonial atrocity. In turn, Culture Secretary Oliver Dowden’s response has been to accuse the BBC of attempting to “erase” British history. Such talk of remembering, forgetting, and how to deal with historical narratives was also echoed in the furor surrounding the removal of Oxford University’s Rhodes statue, and indeed many other statues around the world that embody colonial history. This war of memory was precipitated by the Black Liver Matter protests, and the original front it was fought on was with regard to police brutality—in remembering African American victims of police brutality, and remembering misconduct of police, both of which had largely been forgotten insofar as the official narrative dictated by the state through legal institutions was concerned.

Yet where the state dictates historical narratives through law, those who stand up to such state oppression through law remain even more deeply engraved in history. To put in Foucauldian terms, this perspectival discourse decentralizes the “truth” of those in power, and is used as a weapon for systemic change. I seek to explore the reciprocal relationship between the state and the individual in using law as a tool for reckoning with the past. Although the state can use law to shape collective memory, this can likewise magnify the significance of moments of resistance to such oppression.

Forgetting to Remember: Collective Memory and Official “Truth”

The relative merits of historicism through law is fiercely debated. It is a common worry amongst academics that legal trials reduce history to specific events committed by particular individuals, as dictated by states. The issues of decontextualization and selectivity solidify the state’s political influence over the creation of official narratives, which become history. We have seen this with colonialism, post-war regimes, and totalitarian countries alike.

Trials decontextualize and are limited by judicial and rational argument. During the Algerian War, in which the former French colony fought for its independence, war crimes committed by French soldiers besmirched the values of universalism, equality, and liberty which the French state often espoused. As such, when French courts later had to rule on Nazi crimes against humanity, its definition was narrowly-construed to exclude French soldiers’ crimes during the Algerian war. This erasure of French colonial atrocity limited the ability of victims of the Algerian war to reckon with this past. Loytomaki recounts how the code of pensions was the only avenue for a young man in France to avenge his mother’s abuse at the hands of French soldiers. In a similar vein, international human rights law has never directly ruled on the injustices of communist regimes. What little engagement there has been with communism is limited to rulings on the fairness of restitution measures—yet to do even this requires the measures to be put in place domestically before it can be judged in the international fora.1Somers v. Hungary, CCPR/C/57/D/566/1993, Views of the Human Rights Committee, ¶ 9.4 (Jul. 29, 1996) (“The only issue is whether the award of less than full compensation for the loss of the author’s property, under Act XXV of 1991, is contrary to article 26.”). Therefore, the issue considered by the Human Rights Committee is whether existing restitution measures were fair and non-discriminatory under art. 26 ICCPR. The prior establishment of restitution measures by the state is therefore a precondition for such an assessment. We therefore see the limits of the trial, which is ultimately situated within a legal system crafted by the state or an international system that defers to state sovereignty, with the state holding unwieldy influence over the scope of legal inquiry.

If decontextualization limits the trial’s scope, selectivity instrumentalizes the trial and attempts to justify wrongs by producing a subject which constitutes the “bad.” Loytomaki raises another example, of French general Aussaresses whose memoirs described France’s systematic culture of torture during the Algerian war. This conflicted with official accounts and he was prosecuted for “praise of war crimes.” Although this was the first instance war crimes had been acknowledged in French courts, the judgement ultimately reaffirmed the state’s narrative of torture as only committed by rogue actors like Aussaresses. Much like in the famous trial of Adolf Eichmann, the weight of all the historical atrocities of war were placed on one individual, who at the end of the day sat in the court room with the nakedness of a mere human. What has often been mistaken in international criminal tribunals as a metamorphosis from evil war criminal to relatable and pitied man is in fact a mere misrepresentation of the weight of his crimes and individual guilt.

Cohen notes the prevalence of “pleas for historical relativity” in such trials. Such defenses often depict the defendant’s actions as commonplace. “Why me? Everybody killed the Jews,” Eichmann had asked. Meanwhile, Aussaresses claimed that French soldiers “didn’t ask too many questions” when given orders, and were all aware of the systematic torture taking place. Often, these individuals were simply acting under state authority. Attributing guilt to a select individual therefore ignores the larger institutional structure which compelled such acts. As a consequence, the search for the guilty that normally proceeds from devastating historical events is satisfied and reckoning is coerced through the finding of guilt in the individual, conveniently scapegoating the state. Hunt refers to this as the “creation of martyrs”—these “bad” individuals are created to excuse institutionalized wrongdoing.

As such, this limiting (decontextualization) and instrumentalizing (selectivity) of the law by the state to craft an official narrative proves to be dangerous. Said’s creating and blocking of narratives, Orford’s self-justifying narratives, Cohen’s memory eradication, Simpson’s “unprecedenting,” Foucault’s centralized discourse of the powerful—many theorists have warned of the power that is vested in the state that controls historical narrative. At the center of these warnings is the role of law in cementing such narratives, through legal language, trials, and institutionalized relations of power. Such historical narratives follow a familiar template: the limitations of law exclude wrongs committed by “good” state actors, but alongside this, the trial is instrumentalized to selectively punish certain individuals which epitomize the “bad.” In this official narrative, we forget the wrongdoings of “good” actors, and along with it, the rights of the “bad.”

Within the US, this has played out domestically on two fronts: dismissal of police brutality cases, and black incarceration. Justice Sotomayor, in a 2018 dissent, pointed out how the doctrine of qualified immunity amounts to “an absolute shield for law enforcement officers.” Any potential finding of guilt is thus greatly limited by the doctrine, which decontextualizes the outcome of the trial from systemic and institutionalized police misconduct. Meanwhile, the high African American incarceration rates and sentencing disparities between different races for comparable crimes demonstrates a level of selectivity which raises questions surrounding the instrumentalization of law. Much like in international criminal tribunals, the state uses law to limit sentencing in police misconduct cases, whilst instrumentalizingit in sentencing African Americans. The resulting narrative embedded in the collective memory of the state, as produced through the trials, goes as such: force applied by police is justified because they are apprehending criminals, which are mostly African Americans that commit “wrongdoings” warranting tough responses. This is the very attitude underlying U.S. President Donald Trump’s recent defense of the Kenosha gunman, claiming that the gunman “probably would have been killed” by African American protestors and was shooting in self-defense. Therefore, in choosing to forget the wrongdoings of favored parties, at the expense of African Americans’ rights, a version of history which subjugates African Americans is remembered.

Remembering the Forgotten: Individual Memory and Counter-Narratives

Above I critique a top-down perspective to memorializing, where the state employs law to craft an official narrative, and this collective memory of the state in turn becomes that of the individual. However, perhaps this does not accord requisite autonomy to the individual and his ability to use the legal avenues at his disposal to also engage in memorializing through law.

A society’s reckoning with truth is supposed to depoliticize, allowing society to come to terms with and move beyond past atrocities. Yet, Ignatieff has pointed out that nations don’t have a “unitary psyche.” Therefore, where such depoliticization is co-opted by the state without acknowledgement of its own wrongdoings, particularly in the case of widespread knowledge, a dissonance is produced between the narratives of the state and individual.

The result is the opposite of the state’s intention to move forward—individuals are unable to move on, left behind with a historical burden which grows heavier without reckoning. Macklem gives us two examples which help us distinguish between instances of dissonance between the state and its community, and the state and an individual. Both examples take place in a post-war Czechoslovakia that was recently freed from Nazi occupation, and demonstrate where narratives of the community or individual travel bottoms-up to be institutionalized in law. At community level, desire for reckoning led Czech civilians to attack, imprison and kill Germans with such widespread lawlessness that it led to the government’s official institutionalization of this “de-Germanization.” Since such sentiments were ubiquitous across those in the community, and was not incompatible with the official narrative of the ruling regime, its institutionalization was easily realized.

However, for an individual alone in his cause or marginalized by the state, law as a tool for memorializing becomes all the more important. The temporal fragility of individual memory seeks sustained existence through means of law. Brok was a Czech man who developed an unhealthy lifelong obsession with reckoning with the past. Over the course of his life, he continuously sought to reclaim legal ownership of his family’s building which had been confiscated by Nazi authorities and subsequently excluded from post-war restitution initiatives. Brok persevered with his cause until death, despite a lifetime of setbacks which saw him repeatedly bring the case to state court, only to fail—success was found only when his son elevated the case to the international sphere, before the Human Rights Committee. It was perhaps this persistence as a counter-narrative to the state that now gives his narrative the significance it has. If he had won on the first instance, his story would have ended there. Yet it was the resolute insistence to not be forgotten, juxtaposed against the excruciating indifference of the state’s legal institutions to his plight, that made his narrative significant enough for international attention, and also significant enough to memorialize in Macklem’s work. His final memorializing was more powerful only because his narrative had been so forgotten.

Some of those forgotten are being dredged up, once again seeking memorializing through law, such as in the reopening of Elijah McClain’s case. Whilst this probe is an important step forward, one should also be wary of allowing such cases to collapse into merely attributing blame to individual officers. In view of caution against missing wider institutional factors, ongoing awareness of and objections to systemic racism are encouraging. The extent to which marginalized African American communities’ narratives have remained systemically forgotten by the state has also led to the internationalization of the issue. Malcolm X had hoped that such internationalization would help bring governments to account, thereby achieving reckoning for the marginalized. It is to be seen whether international law would succeed in memorializing this counter-narrative, which seeks to remember those whom America had forgotten. One hopes that they find similar successes that Brok did on the international plane.

Yet regardless, in the production of counter-narratives, memorializing is not limited to legal outcomes. There is something martyr-like about the individual whom the state so blatantly targets through law that he becomes the counter-narrative. The adversarial nature of the trial gives a platform to defendants, and some take this up as a final act of memorializing. According to recounts, ex-Argentinian commander Massera denounced the junta court that he stood before, which had been established by the country’s new democratic government seeking to punish previous regimes, stubbornly proclaiming that “[h]istory belongs to me.”  Likewise, when Nazi leader Klaus Barbie was tried for crimes against humanity committed during the World War, his defense lawyer analogized his actions to French crimes in Algeria, judicializing both the atrocities of the Algerian war and the court’s historical selectivity. The scandal and rebelliousness of such acts of memorializing, in the face of the authority of the state apparatus and its narrative, serves to reinforce the place of these counter-narratives in history. There is a dual quality to martyrdom—where Hunt’s martyred individual epitomizes the prevailing of state power, this other aspect of martyrdom turns the oppressed individual into a martyr for his cause, and epitomizes the resilience of the individual against state power.

Ultimately, the martyr can either justify or highlight state wrongdoing, but which direction it goes is dictated by the people. Perhaps this reiterates that reckoning is only achieved when society is genuinely satisfied. This notion of martyrdom is why the unrest within American society over racial injustice could be tipped over the edge by one individual—society deemed that George Floyd was not an African American potential-criminal against whom police force was justified, but another African American victim whose plight highlights systemic and institutionalized police oppression. We are told to “say their names” to remember those forgotten by the narrative the state pushes. The state tries hard to forget the oppression which helps to produce this official narrative, yet the resulting counter-narrative eventually ends up coming back with a vengeance. While they were subjugated by the law, this subjugation was in a way a memorializing of its own.

Conclusion

States limit and instrumentalize the law to craft a certain historical narrative, but the individual’s power to correspondingly use the legal avenues at his disposal as an act of counter-memorializing that rebels against the official narrative is not to be underestimated. This radical form of memorializing inverts the trends, breaking down the official narrative and simultaneously amplifying the counter-memory. Such counter-memorializing through law is important in upholding the narratives of the marginalized. It is perhaps for this reason that Arendt despaired that the rightless man with no legal recourse also has no history, living and dying without trace.

While remembering a certain version of the state’s official narrative inevitably forgets other marginalized narratives, the reclaiming of these counter-narratives is an act of remembering that entails forgetting the state’s narrative. This flux of remembering and forgetting also characterizes modern-day culture wars and debates surrounding colonial-era statues. Dark colonial pasts were forgotten to remember a certain version of imperialist narratives, but these narratives are now in turn being forgotten, to remember the forgotten colonial atrocities and its victims. This is ultimately a picture of one narrative fighting to replace another.

Memorializing through law is not a one-way street. The state and individual take turns using it as a tool for reckoning. When the state excludes the individual through law, the individual in turn fights back with law, alternating between the construction and deconstruction of narratives. States exclude individuals from memory, and individuals forcibly reinsert themselves into the narrative. Oftentimes, it is only through their initial forgetting that their later reinsertion is vested with the memorial significance that it returns with, in the same way the defiance of the act of tearing down a statue behaves as a counter-narrative, forming a powerful statement of memorializing. Through forgetting, later acts of memorializing are therefore reinforced. Thus, this is a reciprocal relationship consisting of centralizing and decentralizing truths, a struggle for power which forms an historical narrative in itself.

Executive Editor: Yixian Sun

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Online Scholarship, Perspectives

Speech Crimes and Persecution: Undoing the Legacy of Nahimana

Featured image ©OSeveno/WikimediaCommons.

By: Radhika Kapoor and Sharngan Aravindakshan

On the international accountability front, there presently exists an excellent opportunity for clarifying the scope and threshold for speech crimes in international criminal law. In late 2019, the International Criminal Court (“ICC”) authorized the ICC Prosecutor to proceed with investigating atrocities committed against the Rohingya population of Myanmar. In addition, the United Nations International Fact Finding Mission on Myanmar (“FFM”), in its 440-page report on large-scale violations by government forces in Myanmar, stressed the Myanmar government’s strategic and effective use of Facebook to spread hate against the Rohingya among the general populace. Given the emphasis placed on Facebook’s role in fanning the flames of anti-Rohingya hate, it is likely that the prosecution’s charges against the persons responsible will include at least one count of a speech crime, possibly including hate speech amounting to persecution. This article picks up the jurisprudential trail of persecutory speech as a crime against humanity (“CAH”) from the Nahimana Judgment by the Appeals Chamber of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (“ICTR”) and examines the soundness of its rationale. It then locates the existing standard for persecutory hate speech in the context of the Myanmar-Facebook issue, which instantly makes clear the deficiencies of Nahimana’s muddled legacy.

Nahimana’s Obfuscation

The ICTR Trial Chamber in Prosecutor v. Nahimana was required to determine whether hate speech (both simpliciter as well as speech accompanying calls for violence) might constitute the underlying actus reus for persecution as a CAH. The Trial Chamber held that it could, ruling that hate speech “targeting a population on the basis of ethnicity, or other discriminatory grounds” could constitute persecution (¶1072). Subsequently, the case reached the ICTR Appeals Chamber. In the years since that final ruling on hate speech as persecution, issued in 2007, the Nahimana Appeal has come to be considered a significant metric to assess hate speech as persecution. However, the Nahimana Appeals judgment failed to articulate a clear, replicable benchmark for hate speech as persecution in international criminal law, both by limiting itself to violations of particular fundamental rights and by misguidedly insisting on calls to violence.

Although the ICTR Statute does not define persecution as a CAH, a series of cases at the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (“ICTY”) laid important foundations for identifying actions amounting to persecution as a crime against humanity.  For instance, the ICTY Trial Chamber in Tadić found that persecution ought to entail an act of discrimination that contravened an individual’s fundamental rights (as enshrined in customary and treaty law). Subsequently, the ICTY Trial Chamber in Kupreskić held that in addition to contravening fundamental rights, the act of persecution should also rise to a level of gravity that was similar to other CAH. This general definition—that persecution required a contravention of fundamental rights, rising to a level of gravity that was similar to other CAH—was accepted by the ICTY Appeals Chamber in Krnojelac, and later by the ICTR Appeals Chamber in Nahimana.

On applying this conception of persecution to the facts at hand, the Nahimana Appeal found that hate speech simpliciterand hate speech that incited violence, targeting a population on the basis of ethnicity or other discriminatory ground, violated the right to respect for dignity and the right to security, respectively (¶ 986). However, the Appeals Chamber also went on to state that “hate speech alone” might not violate a person’s rights to life, freedom, and physical integrity (¶ 986).

To be sure, there can be little dispute with this; not every instance of hate speech necessarily violates these three enumerated rights. But why did the Appeals Chamber class these rights separately from the fundamental rights to security and dignity? Presumably, the Appeals Chamber’s rationale was that violations of rights such as security and dignity would struggle to meet Kupreskić’s gravity threshold before being classified as persecution, while violations of more “serious” rights such as freedom and physical integrity would more easily cross that threshold. This is hinted at in the subsequent paragraph of the judgment, which explicitly questioned whether the violations of the fundamental rights of respect to dignity and security were “as serious” as the other CAH listed in the ICTR Statute (¶ 987). However, in the very same paragraph, the Appeals Chamber also recognized that it was the “cumulative effect” of all the underlying acts of the crime of persecution which must reach a level of gravity equivalent to that for other CAH (¶ 987), thereby doing away with any need to distinguish between the effect of violation of different fundamental rights, despite having so distinguished between them. Nowhere, in fact, did the Appeals Chamber justify its illusory, hierarchical differentiation between various fundamental rights.

Additionally, while assessing whether the speech in question satisfied Kupreskić’s “gravity” threshold, the Nahimana Appeals Chamber emphasized the physical impossibility of speech “in itself” successfully killing or physically harming persons (¶ 986). It is difficult to dispute this platitude; however, an insight into the Appeals Chamber’s reasoning can be found in the significance it placed upon the “calls for violence” that accompanied the speech in question to assess that it did, indeed, rise to the level required by Kupreskić. At the same time, the Appeals Chamber seemed skittish about the possibility of what it termed as “mere” hate speech rising to Kupreskić’s standard (¶ 987). The Appeals Chamber did not explain the reason for its forced differentiation between these two kinds of speech.

A Complicated Legacy

Contrary to the Nahimana Appeal Chamber’s insistence, persecution as a CAH does not have to “kill” or “injure” a person in order to attract criminal responsibility; its commission is complete if a fundamental right has been breached, on discriminatory grounds, with a level of gravity similar to other CAH. In any case, given the chapeau requirements of Article 3 of the ICTR Statute, any speech capable of amounting to persecution as a CAH must be “part of a widespread or systematic attack” against any civilian population on national, political, ethnic, racial, or religious grounds. This in effect automatically excludes isolated incidents of hate speech or hate speech not linked to mass violence. Creating an additional layer of differentiation between “mere” hate speech and hate speech calling is both incorrect and unnecessary for the purposes of persecutory speech as a CAH. As the Trial Chamber correctly pointed out, denigrating or dehumanising speech can also generate the requisite conditions conducive to large-scale attacks against the targeted population.

Regardless, the spectre of Nahimana continues to haunt international criminal jurisprudence. As recently as 2018, the Appeals Chamber for the International Residual Mechanism for Criminal Tribunals in Šešelj, after relying on the Nahimana Appeal, muddied the waters further by hinging its finding that there was no persecution upon whether the concerned speech had actually “incited violence” against the victims (¶ 163). Given that the crime of persecution does not – either statutorily or customarily – require a “physical element”, this trend is worrying.

The Nahimana Standard in Myanmar: Hate Speech on Facebook

Over the course of the past decade, senior officials and authorities in Myanmar disseminated inflammatory messages targeting Muslims—particularly members of the Rohingya community —through a variety of channels, including pamphlets, songs, print media, and social media.  Significantly, much of this hate speech was disseminated through Facebook. Accordingly, the FFM in its report paid particular attention to the official Facebook accounts of public authorities in Myanmar used to disseminate anti-Rohingya hate speech. These included the official Facebook pages of the Office of the Commander-in-Chief, the State Counsellor’s Information Committee, and the Ministry of Information.

The FFM identified a series of Facebook posts from official accounts implying that murdering non-Buddhists was a “small sin”; repeatedly referring to the Rohingya as “blood-thirsty Bengali terrorists,” illegal immigrants, “aliens,” and “extremists”; and accusing “Bengali terrorists” of “mass murder.” Note that the term “Bengali” is frequently invoked to imply—without basis—that the Rohingya are illegal aliens who do not belong to Myanmar. In its report, the FFM also highlighted various comments under these posts, which used similarly extreme anti-Rohingya language, including references to Islam as the “evil-religion [that would] disappear from our land one day,” and assertions that the Rohingya were “animals” while Rohingya women were dishonest, “unattractive [and] have bad hygiene.”

These posts and communications formed part of the Myanmar authorities’ overarching attempt to paint the Rohingya as a band of terrorists who posed an existential danger to Buddhist lives within Myanmar, paving the way for a military crackdown against the Rohingya in 2017. The FFM acknowledged this as well, finding anti-Rohingya hate speech to be linked to the larger, underlying theme of showing the existence of a “Muslim threat” to the “Buddhist character” of Myanmar.

That a large portion of this campaign of hate was executed on Facebook is not a coincidence. Facebook was already the primary medium for public communication, and Myanmar authorities would frequently rely on it to transmit official information to the public. The official Facebook account of the Office of the Commander-in-Chief had 2.9 million followers, the Ministry of Information had 1.3 million followers and the State Counsellor’s Information Committee had 400,000 followers. Facebook became an easy medium for both anti-Rohingya rhetoric as well as deliberate misinformation from official Myanmar mouthpieces. In a country where Facebook was so ubiquitous that it had come to be considered the Internet, incendiary posts by influential Myanmar authorities spread like wildfire.

It is noteworthy that the Myanmar authorities’ hate speech on Facebook may not have always called for violence or other forms of coercive action—although some certainly did. (Indeed, the authorities’ stratagem appears to have been to paint the Rohingya as violent, instead.) However, despite Nahimana’s indelible—yet unfounded—insistence to the contrary, the crime of hate speech as persecution does not require calls to violence or violations of one’s right to life and physical integrity. As the Appeals Chamber in Nahimana also recognized in principle but failed to incorporate into its findings, hate speech simpliciter—which is devoid of calls to violence—blatantly violated the right of the Rohingya community to dignity, thereby depriving them of a fundamental right enshrined in international law. Today, in the year 2020, it would be difficult for a reasonable trier of fact to deny that the cumulative upshot of the concerned acts, i.e., the various instances of hate speech disseminated by the Myanmar authorities on Facebook in the background of the ongoing and increasing violence against the Rohingya, was a key factor in creating the explosive atmosphere required for the mass, widespread violence against the Rohingya. Hate speech, when resulting in the deprivation of fundamental rights and on meeting the required gravity threshold, constitutes the crime of persecution as CAH. In Myanmar’s case, the government’s consistent anti-Rohingya rhetoric on Facebook to spread instantaneous and widespread racial hatred against the Rohingya should accordingly be tested on the anvil of this threshold. Hopefully, unlike Nahimana, this opportunity to clarify the law will not be missed.

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Online Scholarship, Perspectives

River Borders, Cartographic Aggression and International Law: An Analysis of the Kalapani Dispute

By: Mary Kavita Dominic

Since May 2020, tensions have been simmering between India and Nepal over the historically disputed territory of Kalapani. These tensions threaten to boil over with the Parliament of Nepal passing a Constitutional Amendment Bill that alters the country’s maps to include this strategically key area within its borders. This has been widely perceived as an act of cartographic aggression by Indian officials. As with any border dispute, it would be useful to unscramble this diplomatic standoff through a legal prism. Of particular import are some of the questions that this issue raises in connection with river boundaries and cartographic assertions.

Legal Staticity versus Geographic Dynamism

The Kalapani dispute is symptomatic of an egregious marriage between natural geographies and modern-day Westphalian states. The status of River Kali as a boundary river between India and Nepal lies at the heart of this dispute. The predisposition of these nation-states towards permanent sovereignty and clearly demarcated borders has been vexed by the indeterminacy and transitory nature of Kali.

In 1816, Kali was designated as the boundary river between India and Nepal in Article V of the Treaty of Sugauli. Concluded between the Kingdom of Gurkha (present-day Nepal) and the British East India Company, the treaty had identified the territory lying to the east of Kali as falling within Nepal’s sovereignty. In return, the King of Nepal had renounced all claims on the region lying to the west of the river.

What appeared to be a straightforward provision in this treaty, however, was rendered incongruous by the topography of Kali. It was asserted by Nepal that the source of Kali was located in the mountains near Limpiyadhura, which is higher in altitude than the rest of the river’s flow. In keeping with this reasoning, it laid claim to the land that stretched downwards from Limpiyadhura and extended to the East. Conversely, India contended that the source of the river was situated further east in Kalapani, a sliver of land wedged between the borders of India, Nepal, and the Tibetan Autonomous Region of China.

Intrinsic to this dispute, therefore, was the problem of identifying the main channel of Kali, which in turn had implications for delimiting the border between India and Nepal. In fact, this dilemma was not unique to the Kalapani dispute. With shifting climate patterns across the world, the dynamism of river boundaries has posed a challenge for international law.

Interpretation of River Border Treaties

International law is no stranger to the ambiguities posed by geographical features in boundary agreements. A case in point is the 2002 border dispute between Nigeria and Cameroon, where the International Court of Justice (“ICJ”) had to identify the mouth of the river Ebeji. Nigeria had claimed that the mouth of Ebeji had changed over time. Acknowledging that the river did not indeed have a single mouth, the court sought to settle this dispute by ascertaining the intention of the parties at the time of the border agreement and making use of maps to identify the location of the mouth of Ebeji (¶¶ 59–60).

Here, in a manner reminiscent of the Kalapani dispute, the parties had to grapple with the indeterminacy of river borders and the resulting ambiguities in a boundary agreement. While resolving this issue, the court found it fit to rely on the original intention of parties as well as cartographic evidence. Such an approach was typical of the “Intent School” of treaty interpretation, whereby emphasis was placed on the intention of the parties to the treaty.

In a similar vein, it might be useful to glean the original intention of the parties to the Treaty of Sugauli, since its terms are unclear as to the delineating river channel. Towards this end, examining the travaux préparatoires of this treatywould be an instructive resource. However, both India and Nepal are yet to furnish any evidence, cartographic or otherwise, that predate the treaty or qualify as its preparatory works. Instead, both states have chosen to rely on surveys and cartographic exercises undertaken after the conclusion of the Treaty.

For instance, Nepal has mostly cited topographic surveys published by the East India Company from 1820 to 1846. Additionally, its former director-general of the Department of Survey has drawn attention to maps prepared by the Survey of India from 1850 to 1856. For their part, Indian officials have also referred to a post-dated map for advancing their claims, namely an 1875 map drawn up by the British colonial government.

The logic behind this approach can be attributed to the teleological school of treaty interpretation. Arguably, under customary international law, subsequent practice of parties is prioritised as a primary source of treaty interpretation, over and above secondary sources such as travaux préparatoires. This position is also reflected in the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties (“VCLT”; see articles 31 and 32). Although India and Nepal have not yet ratified the VCLT, it would be in their interest to demonstrate that subsequent surveys and cartographic exercises in the Kalapani-Limpiyadhura region have shown the river boundary to be coextensive with their respective interpretations. Indeed, Nepal, which is a signatory to the VCLT and India, whose Supreme Court has affirmed the customary status of the VCLT, would have much to gain from citing maps as subsequent conduct that affirms their position in relation to the Treaty of Sugauli.

Against this backdrop, it must be pointed out that the 1875 map cited as evidence by the Indian authorities does not carry a Nepali certification. On the other hand, Nepal claims that the maps prepared between 1850 and 1856 were issued by the Survey of India with the participation of Nepali authorities. While this has been consistently denied by India, if it were to be proven otherwise, it might prima facie weaken India’s position. After all, a cooperative cartographic exercise would be better indicative of subsequent practice, as compared to the unilateral drafting of a map. This brings us to the next bone of contention, i.e., the evidentiary value of maps under international law.

Evidentiary Value of Maps

Maps have always figured prominently in territorial disputes. In the past, courts and tribunals were loath to place excessive reliance on them, particularly when they described territory of which the creators had little knowledge or when they were sketched in order to promote a country’s claims. In fact, maps were mostly treated as secondary or hearsay evidence with little or no value.

With the establishment of the ICJ, however, there arose cases where this question had to be settled more conclusively. In a 1953 case between the United Kingdom (“UK”) and France, where both states asserted sovereign claims over a group of islets and rocks, Judge Carneiro observed that the evidence supplied by maps was not always decisive in the settlement of legal questions relating to territorial sovereignty. Although it could constitute proof of the exercise of sovereignty, he opined that a more searching and specialized study would be required in order to decide which of the contending maps prevailed (Individual Opinion, ¶ 20).

This principle, however, appears to have undergone some dilution in two subsequent cases. In the Frontier Land case decided in 1959, the ICJ had to decide between contradictory documents that attributed two plots of land in the Belgo-Dutch Frontier to the states of Belgium and the Netherlands, respectively. The court held that the map of a Delimitation Commission which was incorporated by reference in a treaty, but was inconsistent with the text of the instrument, would prevail over the written provision (pp. 220, 225-226).

This was taken a step further in the Temple of Preah Vihear case, where the ICJ had to decide if the territory surrounding the ruins of the Temple of Preah Vihear fell within the sovereignty of Cambodia or Thailand. In this case, the relationship between the map and the treaty was far less direct than the Frontier Land Case. Nevertheless, the Court treated a map, not formally approved by a Delimitation Commission, as if it were part of the treaty. In the eyes of the majority, Thailand had, by her conduct or lack thereof, acquiesced in the map as representing the outcome of the delimitation (pp. 21-24).

Thus clearly, there has been a shift in the evidentiary value attributed to maps, particularly when delimitation disputes are involved. In the present case, there does not appear to be a map attached to the Treaty of Sugauli. Although there exists a Nepal-India Joint Technical Level Boundary Committee (“JTBC”) that issues boundary base maps, it has declared the Kalapani-Limpiyadhura region as beyond its capacity to resolve. It is in this context, where there is no consensus about the accurate map, that previously mentioned factors of treaty interpretation including intention, subsequent conduct, etc., become relevant in the political dialogue between India and Nepal.

Concluding Remarks

At the end of the day, this cartographic tussle over the source of a river exposes the land bias inherent in international law. As much as interstate disputes appear to concern the position of a river boundary, the true subject of the dispute is often land territory. Staying true to this principle, the differences over the origin of Kali is nothing but a territorial dispute over strategically important land, located at the trijunction of India, Nepal, and China.

In such a high-stakes territorial dispute, it is important that both India and Nepal resolve this amicably without falling foul of international law. With both sides accusing each other of unilateral or exclusionary acts, including the passing of a map in the Parliament of Nepal or India’s construction of a road on disputed territory, this objective stands frustrated. More regrettably, it undermines the spirit of the long-standing Treaty of Peace and Friendship between the two countries.

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