With the development of peer-to-peer networks and the dark web (a sub set of the deep web), child abuse activities are now mostly occurring in anonymous and encrypted environments largely out of reach of law enforcement bodies. Images are stored by the terabytes on personal hard drives and shared by the millions. For some people the anonymity seems to have ignited what may previously have been latent tendencies. (Understanding and Preventing Online Sexual Exploitation of Children, Edited by Ethel Quayle and Kurt M. Ribisl. 2012 Routledge. Chapter 11, ‘Situational prevention of child abuse in the new technologies’. Richard Wortley, Jill Dando Institute of Security and Crime Science, University College London. Introduction.) Fueling the problem and driving it to new almost unthinkable dimensions is the issue of desensitisation and destabilisation. (Heather Wood, Internet pornography and paedophilia, Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy, (2013) 27:4, 319-338)
Human Rights Watch called for the release of Yemeni activist Hisham al-Omeisy, whom Human Rights Watch claims has been detained by Houthi authorities. Human Rights Watch states that al-Omeisy was arrested by 15 officers on 14 August 2017 in Sanaa. They claim he has not been charged, brought before a judge or given access to a lawyer or his family, and that he is in an undisclosed location. Amnesty International has made a similar statement.
War generally affects the entire population, male and female. Yet within the portrayal of war, men are usually portrayed as the aggressors and perpetrators, and women as the helpless victims. Most of the literature on women and warfare, or women and genocide, analyses the role of women from a victim-centred perspective.
For our third profile for Women in International Law Month, we were honoured to interview Professor Christine Chinkin of the London School of Economics. She is a renowned Feminist scholar, particularly for her ground-breaking work on women, peace and security, in addition to her collaboration with Hilary Charlesworth and Shelley Wright on the gendered boundaries of international law.
For our second interview of Women in International Law Month, we are joined by Dr Sarah Nouwen. She is a leading expert on international law of peacemaking and justice in Africa, and Co-Deputy Director of the Lauterpacht Centre for International Law at the University of Cambridge.
Australia has provided steadfast support for the UN’s agenda on women, peace and security, ever since the landmark Resolution 1325. This agenda has done much to shine light on the sexual violence perpetrated against women and girls in times of war. But what about the male victims – where do they fit into the picture?
Resolution 1325, passed unanimously in 2000, marked the beginning of the Security Council’s direct engagement with the issues of gender and sexual violence in armed conflict and has since served as the organising framework for the UN’s agenda on women, peace and security. The Security Council has subsequently passed a number of related resolutions on sexual violence, but only one resolution makes mention of male victims. Resolution 2106 notes that sexual violence in armed conflict “disproportionately affects women and girls, as well as groups that are particularly vulnerable or may be specifically targeted, while also affecting men and boys and those secondarily traumatized as forced witnesses of sexual violence against family members”. Evidently, there is a conceptual difficulty associated with including the male experience in an agenda otherwise focused on women and girls, and it seems that the best the Security Council has been able to do is include a passing mention.
In Resolution 1820, the Security Council notes that “women and girls are particularly targeted by the use of sexual violence, including as a tactic of war to humiliate, dominate, instil fear in, disperse and/or forcibly relocate civilian members of a community or ethnic group”. But the effects of sexual violence as a weapon of war are equally devastating when men and boys are targeted. In the same resolution, the Security Council also “[d]emands that all parties to armed conflict immediately take appropriate measures to protect civilians, including women and girls, from all forms of sexual violence, which could include … debunking myths that fuel sexual violence”. It is not clear exactly what the Security Council has in mind here, which leaves the impression that it is simply making a throwaway comment. A more detailed consideration of the myths fuelling sexual violence would help to shine light on both female and male experiences of sexual violence.
From the perspective of male victims, Resolution 1888 poses another issue. It “[e]ncourages leaders at the national and local level, including traditional leaders where they exist and religious leaders, to play a more active role in sensitising communities on sexual violence to avoid marginalisation and stigmatization of victims, to assist with their social reintegration and to combat a culture of impunity for these crimes”. But traditional and religious leaders are often highly complicit in conservative attitudes, which marginalise and stigmatise male victims of sexual violence. For this reason, the implication that they simply sit back and fail to do enough may misconceive their existing role, as well as their personal attitudes to male victims of sexual violence generally. In the Secretary-General’s report to the Security Council on conflict-related sexual violence, he made a similar recommendation to Member States and regional organisations “[t]o support the engagement of religious leaders … with the objective of curbing violent extremism, preventing the justification of sexual or other violence on religious grounds and addressing the stigmatisation suffered by survivors of sexual violences”. This recommendation appears to be worded in a slightly more appropriate way.
A cynic may note that Security Council resolutions are, by their nature, typically broad in scope and worded in such a way as to secure support from a diverse number of countries and (most importantly) all five permanent members of the Security Council. At any given time, at least some member states on the Security Council are probably unwilling to discuss male victims of sexual violence in a meaningful way.
However, this has not been an insurmountable problem. The Security Council has done more for male victims of sexual violence in armed conflict through resolutions establishing ad hoc international criminal tribunals than it has through resolutions under the agenda on women, peace and security. The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (“ICTY”) has led the way in handling sexual violence in armed conflict under international law, despite the fact that it is only an ad hoc tribunal with strict geographic and temporal limits. Numerous cases before the ICTY have made specific mention of sexual violence against males during the Yugoslav Wars. For example, Prosecutor v Brđanin (Judgement), Prosecutor v Krajišnik (Judgement), and Prosecutor v Martič (Judgement) all make mention of sexual violence against males, often in the context of discussing sexual abuse or rape generally. In Prosecutor v Mucić (Judgement), the Chamber also noted that an act of forced fellatio between two men could have constituted rape “for which liability could have been found if pleaded in the appropriate manner”.
These cases have undoubtedly helped to shine light on inhuman and politically inconvenient wartime events. But it has not been smooth sailing. The current Deputy Prosecutor of the ICTY, Michelle Jarvis, has recently acknowledged that the Prosecution missed some opportunities to characterise sexual violence against males as rape. This reflects a wider issue before international criminal tribunals: the comparatively easier route of treating males as victims of torture or some form of ill-treatment other than sexual violence.
This approach follows, as a matter of course, in the judgments. For example, in Prosecutor v Tadić (Opinion and Judgement) – the very first case before the ICTY – the indictment included charges for “persecution, inhuman treatment, cruel treatment, rape … torture [and] wilfully causing great suffering or serious injury to body and health”. The incident in which one detainee in the Omarska Camp was forced to bite off the testicles of another detainee was subsumed by the Chamber under “inhuman treatment, wilfully causing great suffering or serious injury to body and health, cruel treatment and inhumane acts”, seemingly because it could not be classified as rape (the only charge of an explicitly sexual nature in the indictment). Although the subsumption of crimes of sexual violence under different categories may provide them with an important threshold of seriousness, it will still prevent the adequate prosecution of these offences.
Sandesh Sivakumaran, one of the first legal scholars to focus in depth on male victims of sexual violence in armed conflict, has developed an insightful framework for understanding how sexual violence against men has been handled in the ad hoc tribunals. It may have been: (i) mentioned but not characterised as sexual violence, (ii) mentioned and characterised appropriately, but without any consequences attaching or (iii) mentioned and characterised appropriately, with consequences arising therefrom. The first category would include the Tadić incident explained above, as well as an incident mentioned in Prosecutor v Simić (Judgement), where a police truncheon was rammed up the anus of a detainee. The Simić incident was explained under a sub-heading of the judgment titled “Evidence relevant to other acts”, which came under a chapter of the judgment entitled “Beatings, Torture, Forced Labour and Confinement under Inhumane Conditions”. The problem with this approach is that it does nothing to show the susceptibility of males to sexual violence, clearest when males are in detention and at their most vulnerable. The second category highlights judgements which carry the risk of insinuating that the sexual violence that occurred is not overly important when compared to other harms suffered. The third category is the clearly the most appropriate. An example is the approach taken in Prosecutor v Češić (Sentencing Judgement), which included an account of two Muslim brothers detained at Luka Camp and forced at gunpoint to perform fellatio on one another in the presence of camp guards. This incident was ultimately categorised as “sexual assault, constituting a crime against humanity (rape) and a violation of the laws or customs of war (humiliating and degrading treatment)”, to which the Accused pled guilty.
How do we explain the different approaches taken when the facts of a case show incidents of sexual violence? There is probably no satisfactory answer to this. Firstly, it must be appreciated that it was only with the creation of ad hoc tribunals in the 1990s that sexual violence was prosecuted under international law for the first time since World War II (sexual violence was not prosecuted at the Nuremberg trials, but it was at the International Military Tribunal for the Far East in Tokyo, following the “Rape of Nanking”). Secondly, attitudes towards and understanding of sexual violence against males are continuing to evolve. Thirdly, there have been 86 permanent or ad litem judges appointed to the ICTY since its inception and they have come from all corners of the world and from both sides of the traditional common law-civil law jurisdictional divide. This makes consistency in the prosecution and judgment of cases very hard to expect.
Consideration of sexual violence against males within the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda’s (“ICTR”) jurisprudence is much more limited than that of the ICTY. This could be reflective of a lower incidence of sexual violence against males during the Rwandan Genocide than during the Yugoslav Wars, but this cannot be determined with any authority in the absence of adequate information. In Prosecutor v Niyitegeka (Judgement and Sentence), an act of castration and hanging of the victim’s genitals on a spike was not characterised as sexual violence, possibly because it was deemed unnecessary to do so (given that the victim had already been killed and decapitated). Yet when dealing with the same count of the indictment, entitled “Crimes Against Humanity (Other Inhumane Acts)”, the Chamber did make mention of “sexual violence on the body of [a] dead woman”. This peculiar difference suggests an inability to conceive of castration by a male perpetrator as sexual violence. Consider also a harrowing account of the violence that occurred in a church in Prosecutor v Bagosora (Judgement and Sentence). Castration took place yet again and men (including priests and military observers) were forced to watch as women were raped and killed, with gendarmes beating the men with rifle butts if they averted their eyes. All aspects of their mistreatment in this scenario could be considered as sexual violence, but the Chamber did not treat the male experience in the same way. Although sexual violence was suffered here by men and women alike, the sexual aspect of the violence suffered by men was evidently lost in a sea of other disturbing details.
Australia has thus far played a positive role in the fight against impunity for conflict-related sexual violence. For example, the Australian government has developed a National Action Plan on Women, Peace and Security, to be implemented at home and overseas, in support of the UN agenda to which Resolution 1325 gave birth. But perhaps Australia can now advocate for a broader response to sexual violence, inclusive of the sexual violence that also affects males in wartime. Doing so will assist the work of any future ad hoc tribunals, possibly in South Sudan or Syria, as well as the ongoing work of the International Criminal Court.
Richard Hughes is a Juris Doctor candidate at the University of Melbourne Law School.
“[D]estroying the mausoleums, to which the people of Timbuktu had an emotional attachment, was a war activity aimed at breaking the soul of the people of Timbuktu.” – (Witness P-431)
From being forcibly dragged into the courtroom in the Extraordinary African Chambers in Dakar, Senegal, last July, to finally facing justice at the hands of Senegal the African Union, the journey to conviction of former Chadian leader Hissene Habré represents a “significant moment” for international criminal law.
As early as 1950, computer scientists such as Alan Turing were considering whether a machine might ever be capable of thought and, if so, what the implications of this might be for humankind. Turing opined that
I believe that at the end of the century the use of words and general educated opinion will have altered so much that one will be able to speak of machines thinking without expecting to be contradicted. (Alan Turing, ‘Computing Machinery and Intelligence’ (1950) 49 Mind 433, 442)
The dawn of the twenty-first century has proven Turing’s quote more or less prophetic in substance. The development of automated, autonomous and artificially intelligent machines has the capacity to revolutionise the human existence. In particular, the rise of these machines has enormous implications for the conduct of warfare.
An autonomous weapons system (AWS) is one that is capable of operating, to a greater or lesser extent, without human intervention. Autonomous machines must be distinguished from automatic machines: whereas as automatic machine can be left to carry out a defined task under strict parameters with predictable results, an autonomous machine can comprehend and respond to varied situations without human input.
The question of whether AWS could ever be in compliance with international humanitarian law (IHL) has been thoroughly discussed, with conclusions ranging from adamant rejection to more favourable and nuanced critiques. Human Rights Watch, for example, published the dramatically titled report ‘Losing Humanity: The Case Against Killer Robots’, which called for a complete ban on AWS on the premise ‘that fully autonomous weapons would not only be unable to meet legal standards but would also undermine essential non-legal safeguards for civilians.’ Professor Mike Schmitt, on the other hand, points out that autonomous weapons may be (though will not necessarily be) more compliant with the laws of armed conflict than traditional military systems (Michael N Schmitt, Autonomous Weapons Systems and International Humanitarian Law: A Reply to the Critics).
These discussions, though crucial to the development of the law regulating AWS, overshadow an equally important but much less-considered challenge: the question of how international criminal law (ICL), the system of enforcement developed to promote accountability for violations of IHL, can be applied to crimes involving machines as perpetrators.
The most intuitive response to this question seems to be that the programmer ought to be liable. After all, one might assume that it is the programmer who designs the parameters that dictate the machine’s behavior. This, however, is an overly simplistic approach to what will likely be, in the coming decades, a complicated area of law. An AWS, rather than having one programmer and one user to whom liability may be clearly attributed, is likely to have been programmed by an entire team of developers and to be operated by a team of users (See, eg, General Atomics Aeronautical, Predator UAS (2014)). Moreover, it is likely to operate alongside human peers and commanders in a combat setting.
This raises several challenging questions. First, can a machine ever be liable for a crime in its own right? Secondly, in any event, how can we create accountability for any humans directly involved in a crime alongside an AWS? Finally, can that accountability extend along the chain of command?
These issues have been discussed at length elsewhere — individually by other authors, some of whom are cited in this work; and cohesively by this author in an undergraduate dissertation from which this work is adapted. The following discussion attempts to introduce the issues and frame what is likely to be a significant legal debate as AWS technology develops and becomes more widespread.
Can a machine commit a war crime?
Can a machine ever satisfy the mental elements of a criminal law that has evolved over centuries to moderate and punish human behaviour?
Questions like this tend to spark debates about whether the human capacity for logical, emotional and moral reasoning can ever be replicated in a machine. However, this debate is misplaced in an exploration of mens rea and machine liability because it conflates questions of law with existential questions of sentience, morality, and reason. IHL is silent as to ethical or moral reasoning. Decisions are either lawful or not lawful; within the scope of what is lawful, the law offers no moral guidance or judgment (See generally Dale Stephens, ‘The Role of Law in Military Decision-Making: Lawfare or Law Fair’ (SJD Thesis, Harvard University, 2014) ch 1). A person can be criminally liable for a breach of the laws of armed conflict regardless of their motives, their morality or their ethical reasoning.
The exact definitions and requirements of mens rea vary between jurisdictions and offences and have been discussed at length elsewhere. For the purposes of this discussion, intent is taken to require knowledge and volition: knowledge of the relevant act or omission and the circumstances or results, and volitional action to engage in the act and bring about the contemplated result (or at least volitional acceptance of the risk of the result) (See Prosecutor v Bemba (Pre-Trial Decision) –, cited in Johan van der Vyver, ‘Prosecutor v Jean-Pierre Bemba Gombo’ (2010) 104 American Journal of International Law 241).
In a technical sense, knowledge is ‘the sensory reception of factual data and the understanding of that data.’ (Gabriel Hallevy, ‘Virtual Criminal Responsibility’ (2010) Original Law Review, citing William James, The Principles of Psychology (1890) and Hermann von Helmholtz, The Facts of Perception (1878). Although Hallevy applies the term ‘artificial intelligence’ to systems already in use, including in industry, medicine and gaming. His general discussion of machine liability is therefore applicable to the immediate future development of machines in warfare as well as many machines already in use). There are machines in operation today that possess knowledge in this sense. GPS units, fingerprint scanners, facial recognition technologies and medical sensors all use a combination of input devices and contextual information to receive, store and process knowledge in a similar fashion to the human brain.
Volition is another matter, and depends on the sophistication of the machine’s programming and its independence from human operators. A distinction must be drawn between a machine carrying out the task for which it was programmed, and a more sophisticated machine which was not programmed for a particular task, but was instead programmed with learning capabilities and the capacity to make autonomous decisions. In the former case, the intention does not belong to the machine, but to its human operator. Even in the latter case, it is difficult to draw a line between what the programmer designs a machine to do, and what the machine does of its own volition.
Clearly, there are significant questions about whether a machine could form mens rea. These questions might only be answered as the technology develops. In order to create accountability in the meantime, it is necessary to consider AWS in a broader context.
A gun, a soldier, or an innocent agent?
The ambiguity of machine intelligence means at least three legal options must be considered. The first is another intuitive response: why discuss the liability of machines at all? Under this approach, an AWS is no more than a gun or other weapon in the hands of a human operator. This makes sense when considering, for example, remotely-piloted Predator drones.
Equating an AWS with a gun makes less sense, however, where humans are the supervisors rather than the operators of the machines. Setting aside questions of use and command restrictions, the key feature of an AWS is autonomy; an AWS by its very definition has the capacity to perform functions independently of human input. It is this feature that places AWS in a fundamentally different class than an AK-47 (which requires contemporaneous human input) and an antipersonnel mine (which requires non-contemporaneous human input).
AWS and perpetration by another
That being the case, two options remain for situating the AWS in the framework of ICL. One is to treat the programmer or the human user of the AWS as a perpetrator-by-another (Hallevy, above, 11-13). In this approach, the machine is deemed capable of perpetrating the actus reus or physical elements of the offense, but incapable of forming the requisite mens rea or mental elements. This is more or less equivalent to the indirect perpetration model in article 25(3)(a) of the Rome Statute. The AWS is treated the same way as an infant or a mentally incompetent adult.
AWS and group criminal liability
The problem with this model is that, as discussed above, it is more simplistic than the real-world environment in which AWS are likely to operate. It is necessary to consider how the indirect perpetration model might work alongside group modes of liability. Fortunately, this is not a novel concept in ICL: the Pre-Trial Chamber of the International Criminal Court accepted in Katanga that group liability can apply to cases of indirect perpetration (Prosecutor v Katanga (Decision on Confirmation of Charges) cited in Jernej Letnar Cernic, ‘Shaping the Spiderweb: Towards the Concept of Joint Commission Through Another Person under the Rome Statute and Jurisprudence of the International Criminal Court’ (2011) 22 Criminal Law Forum 539).
AWS as perpetrators
Finally, AWS may be viewed as perpetrators in their own right (Hallevy, above, 10). This approach initially seems outlandish in light of today’s widespread technology. However, in the not-entirely-futuristic event that an AWS is programmed with machine learning capabilities and makes a decision that was not specifically dictated by a programmer or user, this might be the most rational approach.
In this last approach, the problem becomes one of accountability. A human can be fined, jailed, or even sentenced to death for a crime; these punishments are unlikely to have any impact on machines. Hallevy argues that as with corporate criminal responsibility, the punishment ought to be adapted to the perpetrator: corporations, for example, cannot be jailed but can be fined (Hallevy, above, 22-6). The difference, however, between corporations and machines is that when a corporation is punished, ultimately its human owners suffer. The same cannot necessarily be said of machines, and this is an area that warrants significant further consideration.
AWS and command responsibility
What liability for the commander of an AWS? Schmitt argues that under the ICL doctrine of command responsibility, the ultimate responsibility for a war crime committed by an AWS would lie with the military commander responsible for deploying the machine into the circumstances in which the crime was committed (Schmitt, above). The concept of holding a superior responsible for crimes committed by subordinates is an accepted principle of customary international law (See, eg, Prosecutor v Delalic et al (Appeal Judgment), Prosecutor v Limaj et al (Trial Judgment))
However, command responsibility is not vicarious liability (See generally Ilias Bantekas, International Criminal Law (Hart Publishing, 4th ed, 2010)), and the application of the doctrine in the context of AWS raises some important questions. The first is whether a commander can be held liable for a crime committed by a machine despite general doubt as to whether a machine can ever possess the requisite mental elements of a crime. The second concerns the nature and degree of understanding required before a commander can be said to have had ‘reason to know’ that a crime was about to be committed. The third is what would constitute ‘punishment’ in the context of a crime committed by an AWS.
With regards to the first question, if the law is reluctant to find that a machine is capable of forming mens rea, then it cannot be said that a crime has been made out for which the commander might be liable. The law as it stands therefore creates a significant gap in accountability for commanders of AWS.
The second question arises because as the algorithms used in AWS become increasingly complicated, it becomes increasingly less likely that a commander without extensive specialist training will understand the AWS in enough detail to have knowledge that a crime is about to be committed. It could be argued that a commander with even basic training regarding the AWS ought to have known, but this ventures dangerously close to presuming knowledge, an approach rejected by the ICTY in the Limaj trial. Again, this creates a gap in accountability.
Finally, as to the third question, it might be sufficient that a commander conduct ‘an effective investigation with a view to establishing the facts’ (Limaj Trial, above, ). This point is unsettled, though, and warrants further consideration. Moreover, it is not likely to be a politically palatable option in light of strong public sentiment against AWS.
AWS are no longer the realm of science fiction, and the international legal community (led by countries with advanced militaries including Australia and its allies) must seriously consider the implications of this. To date, almost all of this consideration has been dedicated to the compliance of AWS with IHL. The aim of this discussion has been to introduce some of the questions that will arise in the event that AWS, in design or eventuality, are not so compliant. While we are yet to discover whether such systems will actually be deployed, the research being undertaken to this end means that blanket denial is no longer helpful and the challenge must be acknowledged.
Sarah Ahern is a member of teaching staff at Adelaide Law School where she tutors International Law and International Humanitarian Law. This post is adapted from her undergraduate dissertation ‘The Limits of International Criminal Law in Creating Accountability for War Crimes Committed by Autonomous Machines’. You can contact Sarah at firstname.lastname@example.org or on Twitter @SarahKAhern.
On 22 August 2015, former ‘first lady’ of the Khmer Rouge, Ieng Thirith, passed away at the age of 83. Ieng was the Minister of Social Action during the period of Democratic Kampuchea and had been indicted before the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) on charges of genocide, crimes against humanity and grave breaches of the Geneva Conventions. However, in September 2012, proceedings against Ieng were stayed after she was found to be unfit to stand trial due to progressive dementia. Following Ieng’s death, residents of Phnom Penh expressed their frustration with the lack of prosecution (for example in the Khmer Times article Khmer Rouge ‘First Lady’ Dies). This post reflects on howthe ECCC’s approach to assessing Ieng’s fitness to stand trial — and the consequences its findings — tried to strike the delicate balance between the imperative to secure a prosecution and need for a fair trial.
Fitness to Stand Trial
In 2004, the Trial Chamber of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) considered the concept of fitness to stand trial in a decision on a motion for the medical examination of the accused in Prosecutor v Pavle Strugar (Decision Re the Defence Motion to Terminate Proceedings). The Trial Chamber considered that for an accused to be fit to stand trial, he or she must:
- have the capacity to plead;
- understand the nature of the charges;
- understand the course of proceedings;
- understand the details of the evidence;
- be able to instruct counsel;
- understand the consequences of the proceedings; and
While the finding of fitness to stand trial is a legal determination made by the court, medical experts are typically employed to assess the condition of the accused and produce a report detailing their findings. Before relying on the expert’s report, the court must evaluate whether the report contains sufficient information as to the sources of the expert’s conclusions, and whether those conclusions were drawn impartially.
The ECCC Rules (rule 32) provide for the medical examination of an accused at the request of a party, in order to determine whether the accused is fit to stand trial. On 21 February 2011, Ieng’s defence team filed a request for an assessment of her fitness to stand trial. Between April and October 2011, an expert geriatrician and four psychiatric experts carried out assessments. They concurred that Ieng’s symptoms were consistent with a diagnosis of dementia and, as a result of her condition, her capacity to understand the course of the proceedings and to instruct counsel was significantly impaired. However, the experts explained that there was a possibility that Ieng’s condition would improve by using a medication for Alzheimer patients and through occupational therapy.
The Trial Chamber acknowledged the gravity of the crimes for which the accused was charged (Decision of Ieng Thirith’s Fitness to Stand Trial). However, it noted that properly qualified medical experts, upon assessment of the accused with credible testing methods, had found that Ieng was unable to meaningfully participate in her defence. Accordingly, the Trial Chamber, having weighed all relevant factors in the balance, found Ieng unfit to stand trial.
Consequences of Unfitness
After declaring Ieng to be unfit to stand trial, it fell upon the Trial Chamber to determine the consequences. Given the experts’ opinions that there was a slight possibility of Ieng’s condition improving through medication and occupational therapy, the national judges imposed orders for mandatory treatment, while the international judges ordered her immediate unconditional release. In this divided situation, the Trial Chamber found that it should adopt the outcome most favourable to the accused, ordering that she be released unconditionally.
Continued Detention with Mandatory Treatment
The decision of the Trial Chamber to release Ieng from detention without condition was promptly appealed by the Co-Prosecutors to the ECCC Supreme Court Chamber (Immediate Appeal against Trial Chamber Decision to Order the Released of Accused Ieng Thirith). The Supreme Court Chamber found that the Trial Chamber was obliged to exhaust all measures available to it to enable the accused to become fit to stand trial, including making orders that the accused undergo treatment while being detained in a hospital or comparable facility (Decision on Immediate Appeal Against the Trial Chamber’s Order to Release the Accused Ieng Thirith). The Supreme Court Chamber stated that the unconditional release of the accused would forego any effort in the direction of resuming proceedings against the accused, and ‘such an outcome is irreconcilable with the interests of justice from all points of view, including the accused, prosecution, civil parties, and Cambodian society as a whole’ (at ). There is a basis for such orders in international criminal law, with precedents in Prosecutor v Jovica Stanisic and Franko Simatovic (Decision on Defence Appeal of the Decision on Future Course of Proceedings) and Prosecutor v Vladimir Kovacevic (Decision on Appeal Against Decision on Referral Under Rule 11bis) before the ICTY. The Supreme Court Chamber ordered the Trial Chamber to institute the recommended treatment and to review Ieng’s condition in six months.
Release from Detention with Judicial Supervision
On 13 September 2012, after experts had again reviewed Ieng’s condition, the Trial Chamber delivered its verdict that Ieng remained unfit to stand trial and ordered that she be released without conditions (Decision on Reassessment of Accused Ieng Thirith’s Fitness to Stand Trial Following Supreme Court Chamber Decision of 13 December 2011). Again, the Co-Prosecutors appealed to the Supreme Court Chamber, submitting that Ieng should be subject to six conditions for release:
- That she reside at a specified home address;
- That she make herself available for weekly safety checks by authorities or officials appointed by the Trial Chamber;
- That she surrender her passport and national identification;
- That she not directly or indirectly contact other co-accused (excluding her husband, Ieng Sary);
- That she not directly or indirectly contact any witness, expert or victim who is proposed to be heard before the Trial Chamber and not to interfere with the administration of justice; and
- That she undergo examination by medical practitioners appointed by the Trial Chamber every six months.
(Immediate Appeal Against Decision on Reassessment of Accused Ieng Thirith’s Fitness to Stand Trial Following the Supreme Court Chamber Decision of 13 December 2011, Case No 002/19-09-2007, 14 September 2012, at ).
Conditions that restrict the rights of freedom of movement and privacy, such as those proposed by the Co-Prosecutors, should only be imposed if the conditions are necessary to achieve a protective function, the least intrusive means of achieving that function, and proportionate to the function. In the Supreme Court Chamber’s judgment on the appeal (Decision on Immediate Appeal against the Trial Chamber’s Order to Unconditionally Release the Accused Ieng Thirith), it analysed whether each proposed condition met these criteria. It found that, in light of Ieng’s medical condition, it would be unnecessary and disproportionate to retain Ieng’s passport and identification card and to make orders prohibiting her from contacting the other co-accused, witnesses, experts or victims. The Supreme Court Chamber considered the other proposed conditions to be minimally intrusive and necessary to protect the legitimate interests of ensuring Ieng was available to the Court and to monitor her health. By undertaking such an analysis, the Supreme Court Chamber’s ultimate decision balanced the necessity to afford Ieng a fair trial and the interests of society in seeing the alleged perpetrators of the crimes committed in Democratic Kampuchea being brought to justice.
Esther Pearson is an Assistant Editor of the ILA Reporter.