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Elnur Enveroglu

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Justice, and the defence of justice, have throughout history been ideals repeatedly squeezed by pressure, political interests and seemingly endless disputes over what constitutes right and wrong. The concept of justice has rarely existed in a political vacuum. Different interpretations of events, competing interests and conflicting geopolitical agendas have consistently created room for actors to cast a shadow over what should otherwise be a universal principle.

That problem becomes even more consequential when it reaches the institutions designed to protect international law.

International law was built on the premise that rules should stand above politics. However, the more closely one examines the visible record of recent international affairs, the harder it becomes to ignore the growing perception that the law itself can be pulled into political battles. The language of justice remains universal, but its application can appear increasingly selective. And when the institutions entrusted with defending the law become embroiled in questions of political influence, institutional independence and double standards, the credibility of the entire system begins to suffer.

The International Criminal Court, in this particular context, has faced major controversies and criticism over allegations of political bias, selective justice, questions surrounding national sovereignty and contentious arrest warrants involving senior political figures. The Court's decision to issue arrest warrants for Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and former Defence Minister Yoav Gallant, for example, has further intensified the political debate surrounding the institution and the limits of its jurisdiction.

None of this means that international law itself should be put on trial. Quite the opposite. It means the institutions operating in its name deserve closer scrutiny.

There is a fundamental difference between the law and those empowered to enforce it. A legal framework may be neutral on paper while its interpretation and implementation are inevitably shaped by human beings, institutions and, in some cases, political calculations. The motives behind legal action therefore matter just as much as the legal language used to justify it, and this is where the history of the ICC becomes particularly difficult to ignore.

Throughout its existence, the Court has faced criticism from governments and political actors across different regions, while the United States has also maintained longstanding objections to aspects of its jurisdiction and operation. But some of the most serious questions surrounding the institution emerged from within its own walls. Well, the case of Luis Moreno Ocampo, the ICC's first chief prosecutor, remains particularly significant.

Ocampo's legacy has been the subject of intense scrutiny following the 2017 investigation known as The Secrets of the Court. Led by the French investigative publication Mediapart and the European Investigative Collaborations, the investigation was based on more than 40,000 confidential documents, including financial records, diplomatic correspondence and internal communications. The revelations were serious enough to prompt the ICC to announce an internal investigation into the matters raised.

Among the allegations were questions about Ocampo's offshore business interests while serving as chief prosecutor. Investigative reporting documented companies connected to him in Panama and the British Virgin Islands, while also raising questions about the way he managed private financial affairs during his time at the Court. Ocampo defended the legality of offshore companies and disputed allegations of wrongdoing, but the episode inevitably raised questions about the gap between the public responsibilities of an international prosecutor and private financial interests.

Nevertheless, the controversy did not end there.

The Court Secrets investigation also examined Ocampo's activities after leaving the ICC, including his involvement in politically sensitive cases and his private consulting work. Investigative reports raised questions about conflicts of interest and about the extent to which his international contacts and former position could be used in private legal and political campaigns. One investigation, for instance, reported that he had worked for Libyan businessman Hassan Tatanaki and received substantial fees for his services.

These episodes do not, by themselves, constitute a verdict against the ICC as an institution. But they expose a deeper problem: international justice is only as credible as the people and institutions entrusted with administering it.

When those institutions become associated with political lobbying, private interests or allegations of selective intervention, the damage extends far beyond one individual.

The question then becomes unavoidable: where does the boundary between international justice and international politics actually lie?

That question is particularly relevant when considering the former conflict between Azerbaijan and Armenia.

The conflict became part of the broader international legal and political debate, and Ocampo himself became involved in advocacy surrounding the issue. For Baku, his interventions were viewed as part of a broader lobbying campaign. Whatever one's political position on the conflict, the episode illustrates how quickly international legal language can become entangled with geopolitical advocacy, and that is precisely where the credibility problem begins.

A court can possess statutes, chambers, judges and prosecutors. It can issue warrants, launch investigations and produce legal documents written in impeccable judicial language. But none of those mechanisms can manufacture legitimacy on their own because legitimacy has to be earned.

The danger is that when legal institutions become perceived as political actors, the language of justice itself begins to lose its authority. A legal decision may remain formally valid. However, its political impact can overshadow its legal reasoning. The institution may insist that it is simply applying the law, while governments and societies increasingly ask whether the law is being applied consistently.

Thus, that gap between legal authority and political credibility is where international justice is most vulnerable.

The problem is not that international law is inherently weak. The problem is that its moral authority can be weakened by those who claim to speak on its behalf.

This is why the debate surrounding the ICC should not be reduced to a simple argument between supporters and opponents of international justice. The real question is much more uncomfortable: can an international legal institution remain genuinely independent when it operates in a world where law, diplomacy, lobbying and geopolitical power are constantly colliding?

The answer cannot be found simply in stronger legal language or more aggressive judicial action. It, obviously, requires institutional transparency, consistency and a demonstrable distance from political agendas.

Because justice cannot operate like a weapon that is taken off the shelf when politically convenient and put away when it becomes inconvenient.

International justice was created to ensure that power does not become a substitute for law. If the institutions of international justice themselves become perceived as instruments of political power, they risk creating the very problem they were established to prevent.

That is the paradox at the heart of today's international legal order.

The law may be written in black and white. But when politics begins to determine how it is interpreted, enforced or presented to the world, the lines can quickly become blurred.

And once those lines disappear, restoring confidence in justice becomes considerably harder than issuing another legal ruling.

The greatest threat to international justice, therefore, may not come from those who openly reject the law.

It may come from those who invoke the law while quietly allowing political interests to determine where, when and against whom it is applied.