Radhika Kapoor joins JiC for this guest-post on empathy and defendants at international tribunals. Radhika is a Harvard Kaufman Fellow at the Public International Law and Policy Group, Washington DC. She graduated from Harvard Law School’s Master of Laws Program in 2019, and is currently working on peace negotiations in Sudan and transitional justice in BangladeshThe views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of her organization.
Given the nebulous structure of the international criminal justice project and the uncertainty of its purpose, it is difficult to formulate a coherent framework to evaluate its efficacy or success. Does an international criminal tribunal intend to establish a historical record, to develop a means to deter potential war criminals from engaging in similarly pernicious acts, or to dampen recurrence rates?
While every one of these options merits lengthy analysis, here I examine one remarkable, albeit contested, function served by international criminal trials: that of humanizing the international criminal defendant. I also assess whether this may be useful in the context of understanding atrocity, transitioning to stability, and finding space for empathy.
Showcasing Humanity at International Criminal Courts
Watching the graphic documentary screened at Nuremberg to illustrate the horrific conditions of German concentration camps, Nazi defendants had varied reactions: while the New York Times recorded the prisoners as “the coolest and most collected spectators,” prison psychologist Gustave Gilbert remembered differently. Per his account in Nuremberg Diary, defendant Hjalmar Schacht refused to watch the film; Albert Speer looked sorrowful; Arthur Seyss-Inquart seemed impassive; Hans Frank was tearful. Gilbert’s insight into the defendants’ psychological states is illuminating, making the viewer realize that while each of these persons was implicated in a systematic policy of murderous criminality, they all nevertheless undertook vastly dissimilar mental journeys during the trial. It also raises questions about the capacity of humans to respond to public castigation: In such a situation, where the worst of one’s acts are revealed to the world – a moment which for some defendants possibly marked their first encounter with the ‘truth’ – would one show dignity, stoicism, or remorse?
Such glimpses into the humanity of the defendant are transformative for the viewer or reader: it precludes her from considering the defendant as a monolithic, one-note monster. This experience can be uncomfortable; there are few things as disconcerting as tempered hatred, or the sensation of lukewarm outrage against an evildoer. However, a confrontation with the humanity of the perpetrator holds tremendous significance.
First, criminal justice processes predicated upon rejecting the humanity of the accused can help perpetuate the precise animosities that they purport to curb; the institutionalized, egregious human rights abuse of suspected terrorists in Guantánamo Bay has become a “rallying point in jihadist propaganda.” Furthermore, dehumanization may have ripple effects, culminating in fear or otherization of an entire group for the actions – real or perceived – of a few. We may muse today, for instance, whether the mere fact of being Muslim plays a part in determining an individual’s susceptibility to detention on charges of extremism. In the 1930s, journalist Rebecca West lamented that every German man, woman and child had not been slaughtered after the first World War. (She argued later that she was capable of distinguishing between decent Germans and Nazis.) Some of these ideas continue to find resonance today, as evinced in the US President’s immigration policy, calling for a border wall on the basis that unregulated migrants brutally kill thousands of Americans, and deserve to be kept out at all costs. Here in India, the otherization of Indian Muslims in the form of generalized blame for the Covid-19 pandemic continues to fuel communal violence. Continue reading










