Haguey Times

The Journey

I have always considered the Eurostar the most civilized way to travel: my memory plagued by the terror of reaching the airport at 3am, waving goodbye to my bags, wondering if they would ever be seen again, setting up camp on the floor due to the lack of seating and then being called to run to the other end of the airport when they change the gate number. No, Eurostar is definitely simpler, easier and friendlier. I did, however, expect my experience to be a little different for this trip. With all airplanes grounded, I approached St. Pancras clutching my paper-gold Eurostar tickets feeling simultaneously smug and guilty, expecting chaos and madness like the press had articulated to me over my morning croissant and juice. Contrarily, the scene was devoid of any excitement whatsoever. Not even so much as a queue through passport control. In fact, the only real excitement came from the cutest of all law enforcement officers—the sniffer dog. A black and white spaniel, perhaps dismayed at the lack of sniffing to be done at Heathrow, set to work sniffing every bag he could, then looked to his bipedal colleague for a biscuit. When he did sniff out something suspicious, he was rewarded with a tennis ball, which he happily played with while the bipeds searched the suspect case and uncovered what appeared to be a dirty sock.

We arrived in Brussels a nippy 2 hours later and set about locating the train to the Hague. I think it was here, or hereabouts, that we realised neither of us spoke Dutch, Flemish, nor for that matter any French or German that would be useful in the circumstances. Not that this mattered greatly as the vast majority of station staff were locked in the information area, fielding off the great—and somewhat angry—planeless. After our aimless wandering, we pounced on a tall, jolly (jolly tall, if you will) man with an excellent hat, who very kindly directed us to the correct platform. Joined by a similarly lost American backpacker, apparently because we looked “English speaking”, and a lost Chinese traveller, who could find neither his train nor his ticket, we stood tentatively on the platform, trying to decide whether the train before us, was indeed going to the Hague. Motivated mainly by boredom, and having confirmed the trains destination with the confident bearded man on board, we took to our seats.

The journey itself was varied. Starting in the backstreets of Brussels: we hurtled past the seedy underbelly of the home of European politics. A whole row of glass fronted ‘shops’ each with what appeared to be mannequins in the window. Appeared to be, at least until you notice one smoking. Parading about in their underwear, with, for the duration of our passing, no audience, waiting to be picked among their contemporaries, in what must be the most depressing definition of winning ever. The British tradition would not have such behaviour on show, in broad daylight, where tourists might see – it belongs in the dark, fueled by drugs and crime, and yet you can’t help but ponder whether this open acceptance in Belgium actually gives more protection and safety for the girls involved. And with that you are thrust into the Belgian countryside, Antwerp bound.

Holland was as flat and watery as one would expect. We stopped at a series of towns and crossed a series of large bridges, before hitting Rotterdam and eventually, the Hague. Leaving the station, Den Haag Hollands Spoor, and not Den Haag Centraal as we had expected, left a challenge of trams. Left with a choice of about 6 stops, one was chosen almost at random and after a short wait, boarded. With only a vague memory of the google maps image of the town, and a tram map lacking both street names and tram stops we felt, though were not entirely sure that we were going in the wrong direction. This culminated in us abandoning the tram and walking in what we considered the right direction. The trams had clearly been rerouted for maintenance works, though nowhere in the whole of the Hague did it say this. In our stroll from the East to West of the Hague, I would say I learnt two things: firstly, to go to the toilet before leaving the station, and secondly not to take a case with wheels to a cobbled city and expect to drag it. Our journey was pleasant: passing the Dutch Parliament and Ministry of justice, several typical European squares full of cafes, spilling on to the streets, beautiful buildings and the magnificent Grote Kerk. Unfortunately I could enjoy none of this, concentrating exclusively on the fullness of my bladder and the annoyingness of my case.

The Peace Palace

With a new day and a new found understanding of the tram network, I embarked on a journey to the Peace Palace, home of the International Court of Justice – the highest world court and primary judicial organ of the UN. Exciting times. The imposing building: a statement of architectural grandeur, a symbol of international justice, equality, egalitarianism and a place where facilities for women were clearly an afterthought. An afterthought that took a good few decades to come.

In the grand chamber, where hearings take place, judges, about 15 of them, line the front of the court, in what I imagine to be a deliberate endeavour to intimidate those smart aleck lawyers and serve as a constant reminder that however smart they are, they will always be at least 16th smartest in the room. Along the side of the court are the ‘commentary boxes’ like at the races, or other sporting events, I suppose. Except here their function is to give translations into either English or French, depending on what language the judge or advocate in question choses to speak in. They do seem to frequently flip between the two. Show offs.

After a session in court, we awaited our briefing from one very kind judge. He had expected there to be 15 cantabridgians, however most had been deterred or disabled by a distinct lack of air travel, and so the two of us who made it were welcomed, for convenience, into the inner quarters of the Peace Palace. First the robing room, which contained only judgey essentials: a table with chairs, judgey robes and biscuits. Very important. We passed through several other rooms and corridors, each with magnificent paintings and busts of past judges and other important figures. The judge’s room that we visited was smaller than I had imagined, but not small by any stretch of the imagination. It contained, as one would have hoped, a large collection of books on international law, but also a lot of nik-naks, which served as a reminder that judges are, at least part, human. Probably.

We discussed international law, its development, its future, its efficacy, the key players, the past triumphs, the bad decisions, the ICTY bitch-slapping. A man of great intelligence, but also humour and understanding, who appeared to take a real interest in the lowly graduate students before him. A truly class act. We were told that judicial discussion often took place in the restaurant upstairs, which was frequented by most judges. This implied there were judge cliques, and I couldn’t help but wonder, ‘which ones are the cool party judges and which are the geeks?’ I thought it best not to ask.

The ICC and SCSL

A short bus ride away, the building of the ICC couldn’t be more different from that of the ICJ. In a somewhat industrial setting and encased in barbed wire, this modern building lets you know it means business. While the ICJ has a grand setting and feels civilised, the ICC is entered through what used to be the carpark. Despite the best effort to work with the space they have been given—fancy TV screens, bright white walls and modern furniture—the whole area still felt unmistakably car parky. I don’t suppose there was very much they could do about the low ceiling. This seemed to be an accurate representation of the difference between the two institutions.

The ICJ is where states go to resolve their disputes. They are gentlemen, really, and they go to other gentlemen who tell them who has behaved most gentlemanly. They shake hands for the press and its all forgotten. States have done this for over 50 years now. It makes sense. The ICC, on the other hand is new and therefore a little bit scary in the traditional legal world. There is also no hand shaking, and no forgetting. This is where people go to explain how they were forced to go to war, aged 12; where people tell how their whole village was burned to the ground. This is a far cry from the friendly ICJ. The ICC is in many ways like Little Cousin Scampi, to the ICJs Sooty. The mischievous child of the international community, lacking support from the majority of the big players. Nobody is, yet, really sure why its there, and what it adds to the international show. Its a newcomer stepping on all kinds of toes, toes that have never been stepped on before. A tap of the magic wand and a whisper in the ear will not take this court away.

The court building was donated by the Dutch government and doesn’t seem particularly appropriate. The court rooms are small, bearing in mind most trial require an unusual 4 sets of legal teams, assistants, judges and translators. The public galleries, where we set up camp, are separated by a glass wall, which can be closed off with blinds should the court require a private session. This is used, for example, if there is a strong possibility that a protected witness might reveal their, or another witnesses identity. A pretty important consideration given that many of the witnesses are putting their own, and their families lives at risk by coming to give evidence, from places where conflicts are still ongoing.

When you can see through the glass window, you can’t help but notice the defendant. He (all male, so far) sits in the corner of the court and listens and takes notes, very occasionally prodding counsel. If you saw him on the street you probably wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. He wears a suit. I had heard tales of fantastically exciting and yet simultaneously court-mocking spectacles of defendants sacking their attorneys and demanding that they run their trial themselves. This has, for some reason, been most prevalent in the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, though Mr Charles Taylor in the Special Court for Sierra Leone has had his fair share – he took to the stand for over 7 months to give his defence and has voiced his intention to call over 200 witnesses. He has no chance. Today, however, he sat quietly, eyes wandering around the court, and into the public gallery. I made sure as to avoid eye contact. Do not feed the lions, never smile at a crocodile, etc.

Charles Taylor is only residing currently in the Hague, and when I say residing I mean on remand in a Prison facility, because his trial was undesirable in Sierra Leone. Despite being heavily implicated in the war, he, as the former President of Liberia, still enjoys considerable support and so a trial in Freetown, where his contemporaries have been tried, would just not be safe. One of his supporters was in court today, giving evidene. The prosecution, fantastically precise and targeted, lead by an American Attorney, obliterated his testimony in an almost awe inspiring way. Every inconsistency was magnificently drawn out and paraded before the three judges, who politely requested clarification. The court is an interesting one: started at the same time as the ICC but with a slice of the budget, all based on voluntary donations. Similar subject matter to the ICC, but with 8 trials completed—that’s 8 more than the ICC. Perhaps that’s what you can do when hindrance is limited and largely ineffective.

Back to the Peace Palace

Contemplative, we grabbed the tram back up into the more serene ICJ. Serene in nature at least, but today, with a buzz of excitement. This was judgement day in the pulp mills case between Argentina and Uruguay. A little dispute over the stretch of water between them. TV cameras, photographers and people with head sized microphones littered the steps of the ICJ. Diplomatic representatives met in the court room and all shook hands, posing for the cameras as they did. A little ironic it seems, two plane loads of people fly from South America to the Hague, to hear a judgment on an environmental issue. A judgment that can be accessed online, in south America, even from their own beds if they really want. I shouldn’t judge, perhaps they had a plane-pool. In any case, the judgment appeared to apply a car insurance style ‘knock for knock’ to environmental law. ‘You dirtied my water!’ ‘Well, it was dirty when we got here!’ Argentina won on a slim procedural element, and Uruguay more substantially. Not ground breaking for the environment, but probably right in the circumstances.

So that was it. A whistle stop tour of the Hague. Small, quiet and reserved as a town, but at its heart lies the epicenter of international law.

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