v Lubanga

Looking out of his fishtank is Thomas Lubanga. He sits—from my perspective—sullenly, relegated to the back, wearing a suit and flanked by bored-looking security. Scanning the room, he’s one of the few black faces present—one of the elements that makes the whole process, some times, seem somewhat of an absurdity. The robes grant solemnity but are almost a caricature of themselves, unable to do more than blur the lines of individuals and far from creating homogenous figures of that which each is supposed to represent. The pixilation and distorted voice made the speaker sound like they were lifted from a bad sci-fi movie, and barely after we had arrived the session reverted to silence and we sat in solemn quiet as their lips moved and no sound came out.

He looks at us, again, and we recall that we are not looking through a one-way mirror but a whindow, and our view of him is his view of us as we sit gawking, faced with a man dressed as a diplomat, who would perhaps be amicable or likeable if you met him in person, or perhaps he would be haughty or abrasive—but in any case, he sits before us in his suit, accused of some of the more heinous crimes mankind has identified, categorized, and created punishments for.



You can question the merits of bodies like the ICC: many have, and many will continue to do so. There is something to say for the idea that tribunals simply aren’t the place to deal with mass crimes where half a society is guilty, or that conviting the commander while letting the soldier—the one who killed your loved one with his own hand before your eyes—goes free and moves in next door. Shouldn’t the millions of dollars going into these expensive prosecutions, the one black face in the sea of white prosecutors, be better spent on victims, or on poverty? But there’s something to be said as well that monsters must be brought to justice, and organizing mass murder, genocide, sexual torture, or any of a number of heinous crimes needs the swift and decisive hand of justice, that there should be no forgiveness for those who have committed the unforgivable. These arguments circle like flies around a corpse, and are equally incapable of bringing back the dead. What’s left are the living, like our Mr Lubanga before us, sitting in an aquarium of a courtroom, bored and listening to the distorted testimony of a protected witness whose testimony he already knows. What’s left is someone who has done horrible who looks just like anyone else you’d meet on the street. Makes you wonder at what point his humanity checked out of the hotel and left.

Counts

M. Lubanga is allegedly responsible, as co-perpetrator, of war crimes consisting of:

• Enlisting and conscripting of children under the age of 15 years into the Forces patriotiques pour la libération du Congo [Patriotic Forces for the Liberation of Congo] (FPLC) and using them to participate actively in hostilities in the context of an international armed conflict from early September 2002 to 2 June 2003 (punishable under article 8(2)(b)(xxvi) of the Rome Statute);

• Enlisting and conscripting children under the age of 15 years into the FPLC and using them to participate actively in hostilities in the context of an armed conflict not of an international character from 2 June 2003 to 13 August 2003 (punishable under article 8(2)(e)(vii) of the Rome Statute).

Lubanga is being tried on child soldiery offenses, though he is alledgedly responsible for a multitude of other crimes.

Germany is a country where you don’t cross against the lights. The joke is that if three Europeans (an Italian, a Frenchie and a German) come to a red light at 3 AM on a deserted street, the Italian will cross without looking, the Frenchie will look and then cross, and the German will stand there and wait for the light to change. I’ve seen ‘em do it. Anyways, the other thing you’re not supposed to do is ride across red lights on your bike, which I hear is punished by flogging or at least a dressing down on the part of some otherwise quite nice old lady. I think it’s a ridiculous restriction, but then again, bike helmets and traffic laws were made for lesser (and smarter) mortals than I. In any case, there I was with a super high quality borrowed bike, trying to cross the street. The thing had one gear which was likely partially rusted to the chain, a crooked handlebar, margianally functioning brakes, and a seat so high I could barely reach the pedals. Needless to say, maneuvering was quite tricky, so when I came to the intersection and saw the stopped cars, I assumed I was allowed to cross and/or was willing to risk it anyways, as stopping and starting was too complicated on the bike. So I toodle on in to the middle of the intersection, when two things happened simultaneously: (a) I realized I was crossing against the light, meaning traffic would start up any second, and (b), my tire became completely jammed in the tram lines, leaving me stranded in the intersection, frantically trying to extricate my bike before the cars let loose. Happily for all parties involved I succeeded.