It is my intention to appeal to scholars of a younger generation to undertake research on the thesis which, on the basis of my experience at the International Court of Justice–and I have been a serving Member for almost a quarter of a century–I shall be presenting in this paper. In my view, one subject missing from contemporary studies on the function and work of the International Court of Justice is a pragmatic examination of the manner in which certain contentious cases presented to the International Court of Justice have disappeared from view and of whether a judgment, once handed down, has actually been complied with by the parties to the dispute.

The Treaty of Amsterdam enshrines in Article 2 (formerly Article B) of the Treaty on European Union under the new Title I called “Common Provisions” (which contains, with some amendments, the provisions of the former Articles A to F) a new objective for the Union, namely:

“to maintain and develop the Union as an area of freedom, security and justice in which the free movement of persons is assured in conjunction with appropriate measures with respect to external border controls, asylum, immigration and the prevention and combating of crime.”

In this paper, I shall attempt to take a practical view of some of the issues which the common law courts will be facing in the coming months, in granting remedies under the Human Rights Act 1998. I shall be looking at these issues from the viewpoint of a judge, sitting regularly in judicial review cases, and also as Chairman of the Law Commission, which has for many years taken full account of the Convention in its law reform proposals. Notwithstanding the width of the title, I shall concentrate on remedies in damages, since that is the area to which the Law Commission's work has been mainly directed in recent times. I shall be referring to the recent LCD Consultation Paper on proposed rules under the Act.1 I shall steer clear of the difficult subject of the “declaration of incompatibility”, which has been fairly described as “not a legal remedy but a species of booby prize…”.2

1999 may well go down in history as a watershed in the legal struggle for gay and lesbian equality. While in the late 1990s many legislatures across the world extended various statutory benefits to same-sex relationships,1 most legal systems continue to make a clear statutory distinction between same-sex and opposite-sex couples (usually by ignoring the former completely), as well as the more obvious (and deliberate) distinction between married and unmarried couples. Both distinctions have come under increasing challenge and in 1999 decisions from each of the highest courts in Canada, South Africa and Vermont, U.S.A. held legislation to be unconstitutional which treated same-sex couples differently from opposite-sex couples. In that year too, the British House of Lords held that a same-sex couple could be a “family” for certain statutory purposes,2 and the European Court of Human Rights for the first time accepted that the prohibition of discrimination contained in Article 14 of the European Convention on Human Rights covered sexual orientation discrimination.3

To public international lawyers “Lockerbie” is more than likely to evoke the cases which Libya brought in the International Court of Justice in 1992 against the United Kingdom1 and the United States under the Montreal Convention for the Suppression of Unlawful Acts against the Safety of Civil Aviation of 1971.2 The issues raised by the cases have spawned a huge literature. But, in truth, the ICJ proceedings have never been at the centre of, what might be called, the Lockerbie affair. Although they raise important constitutional issues for the United Nations, in terms of the crime committed—the sabotage of the Boeing 747 airliner on flight PA103 which exploded over Lockerbie in Scotland on 21 December 1988 killing 270 people—the ICJ proceedings have never been more than a sideshow; or as that word was once, aptly for the present case, denned in The Times crossword, an incidental skirmish. The real story is how international action, and in particular the ingenious use of international law, was successful in achieving the appearance of the accused for trial before a Scottish court sitting in the Netherlands. This example of what can be achieved in the cause of justice by legal inventiveness, imaginative diplomacy and sheer persistence, should be properly recorded.

International sanctions have grown in use significantly since they were deployed in response to Iraq's invasion of Kuwait in August 1990.1 In the decade since the Kuwait crisis, economic and other measures not involving the use of force have been deployed by the international community against the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (Serbia and Montenegro),2 Libya3 Rwanda4 Haiti5 Liberia,6 Somalia,7 Sudan,8 Sierra Leone,9 Angola,10 Eritrea and Ethiopia11 and, most recently, Afghanistan.12 International sanctions today derive—principally13—from a single source: the Security Council acting on the powers delegated to it by Member States under Article 41 of the UN Charter. However, while the sanctions contemplated by Article 41 have proved to be of continuing relevance in an increasingly interdependent world, the circumstances which enhance the potency of economic sanctions as a means of responding to an international crisis also increase the risk of loss by innocent States. The increased willingness of the Security Council to use its binding authority to impose economic sanctions has raised important questions both as to the cost of economic sanctions to implementing States, and the limits on the Council's powers.

There is a question mark over the future of the nation-state in Europe. National monetary policy has been transferred to the European level in most European Union member States. Over the next ten years the EU will have a stronger role in defence and foreign policy, immigration and law enforcement. The very policies that supposedly define the concept of national sovereignty are no longer the exclusive domain of national governments.

One might, by way of introduction, return to the general question. What is one to make of the debate between Professor Birks and the apparent schematic disorder of the common law? One immediate response is to consign this whole debate to a past age. Those who believe that meaningful legal reform can be achieved through classification risk being ridiculed.7 Such a view is understandable. The amount of intellectual energy spent on emancipating unjust enrichment from the categories of contract, tort and equity seems to bear little relation to the actual social benefits detectable in the restitution decisions themselves.8 And the experimentation with the public and private law dichotomy appears to have proved of little worth in the face of such social horrors as child abuse.9

What do we know about the role of legal systems as determinants of the location of foreign direct investment (FDI)? The short answer to this question is: not enough.1 In recent decades, most governments have come to believe that FDI is an important source of the capital and technology necessary for economic development, and to seek new ways to induce foreign investors to locate within their jurisdiction.2 Commentators and development agencies regularly argue or imply that FDI flows are to some extent determined by the effectiveness of the host State's legal system.3 That is, it is suggested that the manner in which laws are implemented in a State can act as a deterrent or an attraction to potential foreign investors.4

The protection of the global environment has become one of the central objectives of the international community in recent decades. Issues such as climate change, the depletion of the ozone layer, and the loss of the biological diversity has resulted in a growing international awareness of the problems facing the planet. Moreover, there is also recognition that States will need to act more collaboratively at the international level if effective solutions are to be found to these problems. However, concurrently there is also recognition that many States have pressing socio-economic concerns of their own, and that they have neither the resources nor the capabilities with which to devote to such global issues—so called “developing” States. This article examines the response of international environmental law to these two, potentially opposing, trends, viz., the need for universalism, on the one hand, and sensitivity to the needs of developing States, on the other. In particular, the article will examine the emerging legal principle of “common but differentiated responsibilities”, as well as discussing the various means of operationalising it. Nevertheless, as will be discussed below, there is still much debate as to the conceptual basis of this principle—leading one to question its real aim. Is it to contribute to a fairer world system in which developed States recognise their historical responsibility for past environmental damage, or is it simply an expedient means of ensuring the participation of developing States in what are primarily Northern concerns?

The permanence of the genocide definition1 over more than five decades is remarkable considering how much criticism has been directed against it since the adoption of the Genocide Convention in 1948.2 The existence of a stable internationally agreed definition of genocide presents indubitable advantages, particularly if compared with the lasting uncertainties in the definition of other international crimes, such as crimes against humanity. However, the genocide definition is also characterised by a number of problematic aspects and unresolved interpretative questions, some of which have been addressed in the decisions of the ad hoc Tribunals for the Former Yugoslavia and for Rwanda.3 Divergent approaches to the mens rea requirement, to the definition of the four protected groups against whom genocide can be committed, or to the identification of acts that constitute genocide had been confined to an exclusively academic ambit until not long ago, but can now be determinative of an acquittal or conviction. With the exception of one decision by the ICTY,4 all other judgments on genocide have come from the ICTR, in whose custody are some of the most prominent members of the interim government and of the militias accused of having organised and carried out the 1994 Rwandan genocide.5

The legal version of post-modernism has not failed to challenge comparative law. It points out that, traditionally, comparatists have participated in a project of objectivity, universalism and neutrality of law, of which the “new” approach to comparative law is altogether sceptical.1 In the era of globalisation, both the discipline and its critique have gained relevance. What the transition of post-socialist countries and the unification of Europe have effected regionally, globalisation now accomplishes on a global scale: it creates desires for harmonisation and, as a pre-requisite, legal comparison. However, not only the technical function of comparative law is needed, but also its critical potential. In the process of globalisation, different legal systems and different cultures are confronted with each other and must interact. This provokes new questions about the options and limits of comparative law and legal unification, regarding, for instance, the applicability of specific moral and legal standards to other cultures by comparatists and law-makers. These questions are all the more pressing as we begin to realise that governing globalisation, in particular economic globalisation, with the help of global law perhaps requires a concept of a global legal order which is based on a “global legal pluralism”.2

In the fifth week of NATO's 78–day aerial intervention in the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY), the FRY initiated proceedings in the International Court of Justice against ten of its member States which it accused of violating the principles of international law in relation to the jus ad bellum and the jus in bello.1 NATO's action, known as Operation Allied Force, had commenced on the night of 24 March 1999 when cruise missiles were directed on Serbian targets located in the Kosovan capital of Pristina and in the Republic's capital of Belgrade.2 This robust application of armed force came on the eve of the 50th anniversary of NATO, an organisation which was established after the Second World War for the collective defence of its member States, and constituted the first offensive launched against another sovereign State in the organisation's entire history.

“Perhaps the greatest difficulty the civilians have in accepting the trust is caused by what I have come to regard as an English peculiarity logically detachable from the trust, namely, the distinction between the legal and the equitable estate. In Scots law, which, even if it did not invent and develop the trust for itself but took it over from England—the point is doubtful—has accepted it without inhibitions or reservations, no such distinction has ever been known. There the trustee becomes owner and the beneficiary acquires a contractual right against him.”1

Examples can be found from ancient times of concern for the protection of cultural artefacts and early legislation to protect monuments and works of art first appeared in Europe in the 15th century. Cultural heritage was first addressed in international law in 1907 and a body of international treaties and texts for its protection has been developed by UNESCO and other intergovernmental organisations since the 1950's. The 1954 Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict of UNESCO (henceforth the “Hague Convention”) is the earliest of these modern international texts and was developed in great part in response to the destruction and looting of monuments and works of art during the Second World War. It grew out of a feeling that action to prevent their deterioration or destruction was one responsibility of the emerging international world order and an element in reconciliation and the prevention of future conflicts. International law relating to the protection of cultural heritage thus began with comparatively narrow objectives, the protection of cultural property in time of war.

There have been several cases reported over the last few years on the meaning of “habitual residence”. This comparatively new phrase is much in use not only in domestic legislation but also in various Hague Conventions on the reform of private international law and it is in widespread use by the European Commission. Habitual residence is the basis for allocating jurisdiction to that State's court, especially in relation to matrimonial causes and child custody. For example, it has been proposed by the European Commission as a replacement for domicile in the new Convention on the Jurisdiction and Enforcement of Judgments in Civil Matters. Habitual residence is also extremely important in connection with tax matters and social security. It is additionally used in the Immigration Act 1971. Other than its purpose in allocating jurisdiction, habitual residence is beginning to be adopted as a connecting factor for choice of law, for instance the Rome Convention on Choice of Law in Contract.

The right of individuals to have recourse to international human rights bodies has been regarded as one of the most significant developments in securing respect for and the promotion of universal fundamental rights and freedoms.1 First, it ensures that individuals subjected to human rights violations have an alternative forum should the domestic judicial forums not be persuaded of the existence of rights violations, for whatever reason. Secondly, the availability of an individual's right of recourse affirms the fact that the individual is an actor cognisable by international law, and is not dependent on the intervention of other States for the safeguarding of his or her rights.2 This is particularly important, as many States are slow to engage complaint mechanisms against another State for fear of reprisal (be it in the form of economic or political sanctions, or the instigation of a complaint under the same mechanism by the other state), lack of interest, or otherwise.3 Thirdly, the existence of such fora, and the right of individual complaint from a variety of countries, are useful in developing a common universal standard of human rights observance.4 The combined result of these is that implementation of the goals set out in the international human rights instruments is facilitated because the means for their enforcement are not dependent upon international politics but rather are put in the hands of the rights holders. In turn, such machinery should improve State compliance.5

The beginning of the new millennium spawned a biosafety protocol1 for the transboundary movement of genetically modified organisms,2 against the background of an existing WTO code3 concerned mainly with liberal trade. The co-existence of the two codes, and their almost separate development, reflects the fact that the international movement of GMOs raises concerns both of biosafety and liberal trade. However, their co-existence also invites a number of questions—viz., the level to which they complement each other, the level of duplication, and the levels to which they are adequate qua normative frameworks for biotechnology products. In short, the two systems beg the question whether they co-exist happily, or provide for incoherence. This article is not intended as an exhaustive analysis of the codes, but rather as a framework for a focus on the respective codes, as well as their relationship to each other, from a legal perspective.

InCentros Ltd and Erhvers-og Selskabsstyrelesen (hereinafter Centros),1 the European Court of Justice ruled that it is contrary to Article 52 (now Article 432) and Article 58 (now Article 48) of the EC Treaty for the authorities of a member State (in casu Denmark) to refuse to register a branch of a company formed under the law of another member State (in casu the United Kingdom) in which it has its registered office, even if the company concerned has never conducted any business in the latter State and intends to carry out its entire business in the State in which the branch is to be set up. By avoiding the need to form a company there it would thus evade the application of the rules governing the provision for and the paying-up of a minimum share capital in force in that State. According to the Court, this does not, however, prevent the authorities of the member State in which the branch is to be set up from adopting appropriate measures for preventing or penalising fraud, either with regard to the company itself, if need be in co-operation with the member State in which it was formed, or with regard to its members, where it has been determined that they are in fact attempting, by means of the formation of a company, to evade their obligations towards creditors established in the territory of the member State of the branch.