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Pirates vs. Emperors
History shows that when a powerful empire sets sail overseas its
spokespeople often depict the undertaking as an effort to create order
and bring peace. When a pirate ship ventures into the open seas, by
contrast, the empire portrays the endeavor as a crime against humanity.
The difference is not so much what emperors and pirates do--both pillage
and plunder, albeit to vastly different degrees. What matters most is
which of the two is in a position to effectively define right and wrong.
May 07, 2009
History shows that when a powerful empire sets sail overseas its
spokespeople often depict the undertaking as an effort to create order
and bring peace. When a pirate ship ventures into the open seas, by
contrast, the empire portrays the endeavor as a crime against humanity.
The difference is not so much what emperors and pirates do--both pillage
and plunder, albeit to vastly different degrees. What matters most is
which of the two is in a position to effectively define right and wrong.
This history seemed to repeat itself on April 20--only days after Barack
Obama called the United States a "nation of laws" and said that his
administration would not prosecute Americans for torture. On that
night, police and FBI agents led a shackled Abdiwali Abdiqadir Muse, a
teenager from war-ravaged, poverty-stricken Somalia accused of piracy,
into federal detention for his role in an American ship captain's
kidnapping. While presented as a step toward law-based accountability,
the scene evokes images of an old story--the reigning double standards
of what passes for international justice.
About 16 centuries ago the renowned theologian St. Augustine related a
tale about a pirate captured by Alexander the Great who asked his
prisoner "how he dares molest the sea." "How dare you molest the whole
world?" responded the pirate. "Because I do it with a little ship only,
I am called a thief; you, doing it with a great navy, are called an
emperor."
Centuries later, this unjust dynamic became widespread as Western
powers carved up the globe. Throughout their colonies they established
courts that prosecuted crimes defined by the occupying power. Not
surprisingly, the courts typically focused their efforts on the alleged
crimes of imperial subjects, while upholding the institutionalized
injustices and the acts of physical violence needed to sustain it.
The creation of the United Nations was, among other things, an attempt
to overcome the resulting impunity for the relatively powerful. But
while the U.N. has had much success in setting international legal and
human rights standards, it has been largely ineffective in enforcing
them, especially when doing so would challenge the interests of
powerful member-states.
This failure is principally one of design, one embedded in the United
Nations' very structure due to the World War II victors' efforts to
ensure that the new international body would allow them to pursue their
interests on the global stage. As the Mexican delegate to the founding
convention in San Francisco in 1945 noted, the U.N. Charter assured
that "the mice would be disciplined, but the lions would be free."
More than 60 years later, his words have proven to be prophetic.
Accountability for "mice" and impunity for "lions" -- and the mice with
whom they are on good terms -- has become the rule, not the exception in
international affairs.
Among many examples, witness the current international tribunal in
Cambodia. Between 1969 and 1973, the U.S. military carpet-bombed
Cambodia, causing the deaths of tens, perhaps hundreds, of thousands of
civilians, while indirectly contributing to the Khmer Rouge's seizure
of power. Yet the U.N.-backed court will not try any U.S. officials for
committing serious crimes.
As Marlon Brando, in his role as a human rights lawyer in apartheid-era
South Africa in the 1989 film, A Dry White Season, explained, "Justice
and law could be described as distant cousins, and here ... they're not
even on speaking terms."
Bridging the gap between law and justice requires that we in the United
States acknowledge the double standards that effectively allow a small
number of powerful countries to determine who should face international
justice, while exempting themselves from scrutiny. We must reject
President Obama's statement upon the recent release of the torture
memos that "nothing will be gained by ... laying blame for the past"
--words that seem to apply only to some crimes and wrongdoers.
It requires that we imagine the possibility that people like "us," and
the officials from countries with which we ally ourselves, might also
be held legally accountable for actions abroad, and to endeavor to make
the possibility real.
Until we do so, let us not pretend that law and justice are one and the
same, or that emperors and pirates are compelled to live by the same
standards.
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Joseph Nevins
Joseph Nevins is an associate professor of geography at Vassar College. He is a co-author of "A People's Guide to Greater Boston" (2020). His other books include: "Dying to Live: A Story of U.S. Immigration in an Age of Global Apartheid" (2008) and "Operation Gatekeeper and Beyond: The War on "illegals" and the Remaking of the U.S. - Mexico Boundary" (2010).
History shows that when a powerful empire sets sail overseas its
spokespeople often depict the undertaking as an effort to create order
and bring peace. When a pirate ship ventures into the open seas, by
contrast, the empire portrays the endeavor as a crime against humanity.
The difference is not so much what emperors and pirates do--both pillage
and plunder, albeit to vastly different degrees. What matters most is
which of the two is in a position to effectively define right and wrong.
This history seemed to repeat itself on April 20--only days after Barack
Obama called the United States a "nation of laws" and said that his
administration would not prosecute Americans for torture. On that
night, police and FBI agents led a shackled Abdiwali Abdiqadir Muse, a
teenager from war-ravaged, poverty-stricken Somalia accused of piracy,
into federal detention for his role in an American ship captain's
kidnapping. While presented as a step toward law-based accountability,
the scene evokes images of an old story--the reigning double standards
of what passes for international justice.
About 16 centuries ago the renowned theologian St. Augustine related a
tale about a pirate captured by Alexander the Great who asked his
prisoner "how he dares molest the sea." "How dare you molest the whole
world?" responded the pirate. "Because I do it with a little ship only,
I am called a thief; you, doing it with a great navy, are called an
emperor."
Centuries later, this unjust dynamic became widespread as Western
powers carved up the globe. Throughout their colonies they established
courts that prosecuted crimes defined by the occupying power. Not
surprisingly, the courts typically focused their efforts on the alleged
crimes of imperial subjects, while upholding the institutionalized
injustices and the acts of physical violence needed to sustain it.
The creation of the United Nations was, among other things, an attempt
to overcome the resulting impunity for the relatively powerful. But
while the U.N. has had much success in setting international legal and
human rights standards, it has been largely ineffective in enforcing
them, especially when doing so would challenge the interests of
powerful member-states.
This failure is principally one of design, one embedded in the United
Nations' very structure due to the World War II victors' efforts to
ensure that the new international body would allow them to pursue their
interests on the global stage. As the Mexican delegate to the founding
convention in San Francisco in 1945 noted, the U.N. Charter assured
that "the mice would be disciplined, but the lions would be free."
More than 60 years later, his words have proven to be prophetic.
Accountability for "mice" and impunity for "lions" -- and the mice with
whom they are on good terms -- has become the rule, not the exception in
international affairs.
Among many examples, witness the current international tribunal in
Cambodia. Between 1969 and 1973, the U.S. military carpet-bombed
Cambodia, causing the deaths of tens, perhaps hundreds, of thousands of
civilians, while indirectly contributing to the Khmer Rouge's seizure
of power. Yet the U.N.-backed court will not try any U.S. officials for
committing serious crimes.
As Marlon Brando, in his role as a human rights lawyer in apartheid-era
South Africa in the 1989 film, A Dry White Season, explained, "Justice
and law could be described as distant cousins, and here ... they're not
even on speaking terms."
Bridging the gap between law and justice requires that we in the United
States acknowledge the double standards that effectively allow a small
number of powerful countries to determine who should face international
justice, while exempting themselves from scrutiny. We must reject
President Obama's statement upon the recent release of the torture
memos that "nothing will be gained by ... laying blame for the past"
--words that seem to apply only to some crimes and wrongdoers.
It requires that we imagine the possibility that people like "us," and
the officials from countries with which we ally ourselves, might also
be held legally accountable for actions abroad, and to endeavor to make
the possibility real.
Until we do so, let us not pretend that law and justice are one and the
same, or that emperors and pirates are compelled to live by the same
standards.
Joseph Nevins
Joseph Nevins is an associate professor of geography at Vassar College. He is a co-author of "A People's Guide to Greater Boston" (2020). His other books include: "Dying to Live: A Story of U.S. Immigration in an Age of Global Apartheid" (2008) and "Operation Gatekeeper and Beyond: The War on "illegals" and the Remaking of the U.S. - Mexico Boundary" (2010).
History shows that when a powerful empire sets sail overseas its
spokespeople often depict the undertaking as an effort to create order
and bring peace. When a pirate ship ventures into the open seas, by
contrast, the empire portrays the endeavor as a crime against humanity.
The difference is not so much what emperors and pirates do--both pillage
and plunder, albeit to vastly different degrees. What matters most is
which of the two is in a position to effectively define right and wrong.
This history seemed to repeat itself on April 20--only days after Barack
Obama called the United States a "nation of laws" and said that his
administration would not prosecute Americans for torture. On that
night, police and FBI agents led a shackled Abdiwali Abdiqadir Muse, a
teenager from war-ravaged, poverty-stricken Somalia accused of piracy,
into federal detention for his role in an American ship captain's
kidnapping. While presented as a step toward law-based accountability,
the scene evokes images of an old story--the reigning double standards
of what passes for international justice.
About 16 centuries ago the renowned theologian St. Augustine related a
tale about a pirate captured by Alexander the Great who asked his
prisoner "how he dares molest the sea." "How dare you molest the whole
world?" responded the pirate. "Because I do it with a little ship only,
I am called a thief; you, doing it with a great navy, are called an
emperor."
Centuries later, this unjust dynamic became widespread as Western
powers carved up the globe. Throughout their colonies they established
courts that prosecuted crimes defined by the occupying power. Not
surprisingly, the courts typically focused their efforts on the alleged
crimes of imperial subjects, while upholding the institutionalized
injustices and the acts of physical violence needed to sustain it.
The creation of the United Nations was, among other things, an attempt
to overcome the resulting impunity for the relatively powerful. But
while the U.N. has had much success in setting international legal and
human rights standards, it has been largely ineffective in enforcing
them, especially when doing so would challenge the interests of
powerful member-states.
This failure is principally one of design, one embedded in the United
Nations' very structure due to the World War II victors' efforts to
ensure that the new international body would allow them to pursue their
interests on the global stage. As the Mexican delegate to the founding
convention in San Francisco in 1945 noted, the U.N. Charter assured
that "the mice would be disciplined, but the lions would be free."
More than 60 years later, his words have proven to be prophetic.
Accountability for "mice" and impunity for "lions" -- and the mice with
whom they are on good terms -- has become the rule, not the exception in
international affairs.
Among many examples, witness the current international tribunal in
Cambodia. Between 1969 and 1973, the U.S. military carpet-bombed
Cambodia, causing the deaths of tens, perhaps hundreds, of thousands of
civilians, while indirectly contributing to the Khmer Rouge's seizure
of power. Yet the U.N.-backed court will not try any U.S. officials for
committing serious crimes.
As Marlon Brando, in his role as a human rights lawyer in apartheid-era
South Africa in the 1989 film, A Dry White Season, explained, "Justice
and law could be described as distant cousins, and here ... they're not
even on speaking terms."
Bridging the gap between law and justice requires that we in the United
States acknowledge the double standards that effectively allow a small
number of powerful countries to determine who should face international
justice, while exempting themselves from scrutiny. We must reject
President Obama's statement upon the recent release of the torture
memos that "nothing will be gained by ... laying blame for the past"
--words that seem to apply only to some crimes and wrongdoers.
It requires that we imagine the possibility that people like "us," and
the officials from countries with which we ally ourselves, might also
be held legally accountable for actions abroad, and to endeavor to make
the possibility real.
Until we do so, let us not pretend that law and justice are one and the
same, or that emperors and pirates are compelled to live by the same
standards.
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