In recent weeks, the hearings at the International Court of Justice (ICJ) in The Hague have drawn global attention-not merely for the procedural arguments presented, but for what they reveal about the evolving nature of international justice. At the center of the proceedings is Myanmar, accused of committing genocide against the Rohingya population. Yet, the legal strategies deployed by Myanmar’s military rulers illuminate a deeper, more insidious challenge: the deliberate erasure of victims from the courtroom itself, raising questions about whether international law can effectively confront crimes designed to erase identity and existence.

At first glance, the arguments presented by Myanmar’s legal team appeared technical, almost mundane. Lawyers concentrated on issues of jurisdiction, the admissibility of evidence, procedural timelines, and the authority of various representatives to speak on behalf of the state. These debates, while relevant to any complex international case, masked a remarkable absence: the Rohingya, the very people whose lives and communities were targeted in what the world recognizes as a systematic campaign of destruction, were seldom mentioned. Their history, their suffering, and their ongoing displacement were treated as tangential, as if the case existed in a vacuum rather than as a response to crimes committed against them.

This omission is not accidental. It reflects a deliberate legal strategy that mirrors the very crimes being adjudicated. Genocide, as defined under international law, involves more than mass killings. It is the systematic destruction of a people, encompassing the annihilation of cultural, social, and political identity. In Myanmar, decades of institutionalized discrimination had already rendered the Rohingya invisible in the eyes of the state well before the military’s 2016-2017 operations. Citizenship was denied, movement restricted, education limited, and public discourse framed to delegitimize Rohingya identity. By the time mass violence erupted, the groundwork for erasure had already been laid. The junta’s courtroom approach represents an extension of that logic: if you can deny the group exists, you can obscure the crime.

The ICJ proceedings have thus become a battleground over recognition. Myanmar’s defense seeks to transform what should be a human-centered inquiry into an abstract procedural debate. In doing so, it attempts to strip genocide of its human element, recasting it as a dispute over technicalities between states rather than crimes against people. This tactic is deeply troubling because genocide law cannot operate in abstraction. The Genocide Convention, born from the horrors of the Holocaust, was designed to prevent legal formalism from shielding perpetrators. Its function depends on courts identifying victims, naming protected groups, and examining intent. When a state refuses even to acknowledge the existence of the group at the heart of the case, it is not defending itself in good faith; it is attempting to hollow out the law’s essence.

This strategic avoidance carries serious consequences. International courts, including the ICJ, are designed to be cautious and methodical. They prioritize jurisdictional clarity, procedural fairness, and consent among states. These are necessary attributes for the legitimacy of global justice, but they are also vulnerabilities. When procedural concerns dominate over substantive engagement with evidence, they create opportunities for regimes to exploit legal processes. The Myanmar junta’s maneuvers demonstrate a pattern observed in other atrocity cases: delay justice long enough, bury facts beneath procedural debate, and hope that political attention fades.

Time, however, is not neutral for the Rohingya. Nearly a million remain in overcrowded refugee camps in Bangladesh, where humanitarian conditions are dire. Within Rakhine State, conditions continue to deteriorate, with renewed restrictions on movement, limited access to aid, and deepening food insecurity. Every year of legal delay entrenches displacement and normalizes a status quo in which return, citizenship, and justice slip further from reach. The human cost of procedural delay is real and immediate.

The ICJ’s handling of the Myanmar case will have implications far beyond one country. If procedural arguments are allowed to dominate while the court ignores the underlying atrocities, it risks establishing a dangerous precedent. Other regimes accused of mass atrocities may learn a simple lesson: factual rebuttal is unnecessary; it suffices to obscure, delay, or deflect. This would not merely undermine a single case but could erode the deterrent effect of international law itself, signaling that genocide can be managed as a technicality rather than condemned as an existential crime.

Moreover, this case underscores the tension between legal rigor and moral responsibility. International law is not only a system of rules; it is a language of recognition. Naming victims, acknowledging their suffering, and affirming their humanity is integral to justice. Silence, whether deliberate or procedural, carries meaning. It is a tool of erasure and denial that extends beyond words on a page. The ICJ must therefore treat Myanmar’s refusal to name the Rohingya as both legally and morally significant. Doing so is not a compromise of procedural integrity; it is a reaffirmation of the law’s purpose.

The political dimension is equally important. Muslim-majority states, many of which actively supported the Rohingya case, have a stake in the outcome. International law’s credibility in protecting vulnerable populations hinges not only on access to courts but on whether those courts confront reality rather than retreat into abstraction. The Myanmar hearings are thus a test of the global system’s willingness to resist the proceduralization of genocide-a test of whether power can be challenged even when wielded by regimes skilled in manipulation and delay.

Ultimately, the Rohingya case at The Hague forces a reckoning with a central question: can genocide law remain effective in a world of fragmented states, contested sovereignty, and authoritarian resilience? Modern conflicts increasingly involve actors who lack legitimacy or territorial control, yet who exploit procedural loopholes to avoid scrutiny. If international justice fails to adapt, the Genocide Convention risks becoming a tool for perpetrators rather than a shield for victims.

Justice for the Rohingya is contingent on more than a final ruling. It depends on whether international law, at its most basic level, is willing to say who the victims are. Recognizing the Rohingya is not symbolic; it is essential to the law’s very function. To ignore this requirement is to condone a new form of denial-one that operates through legal argumentation rather than brute force.

The ICJ hearings have exposed the precarious balance between procedure and substance in international law. They reveal that denial, when cloaked in legal formality, can become a tool of oppression as potent as the weapons used on the battlefield. Whether the world’s premier court insists on confronting the reality of genocide-or allows perpetrators to erase victims through footnotes and procedural maneuvers-will determine not only the fate of the Rohingya but the integrity of global justice itself.

The message is clear: genocide cannot be litigated in abstraction. Legal process alone cannot protect victims; recognition must accompany adjudication. If the ICJ upholds this principle, it will reaffirm the law’s role as a defender of human life and dignity. If it fails, it will signal that international justice can be manipulated, leaving the world’s most vulnerable populations exposed to further erasure. For the Rohingya, and for the credibility of global justice, naming them is the first step toward delivering real accountability.

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Source: Weekly Blitz :: Writings