De la consultation à la participation

Les normes internationales contiennent déjà certains éléments de cette approche participative. La règle 50 des Règles pénitentiaires européennes prévoit que les détenus doivent être autorisés à discuter des questions relatives à leurs conditions générales de détention et être encouragés à communiquer avec les autorités pénitentiaires. Les Règles Nelson Mandela fixent une limite tout aussi importante : les détenus ne doivent pas être employés à des fonctions disciplinaires, sans pour autant interdire les systèmes d’autogestion des détenus qui fonctionnent correctement. Cette distinction est importante : la participation doit permettre aux personnes détenues de faire entendre leur voix sur les questions qui affectent leur vie, sans les placer en position d’autorité sur d’autres détenus ni leur transférer des fonctions qui restent de la responsabilité de l’État. Ensemble, ces principes dessinent une participation sans délégation de l’autorité coercitive de l’État.

La consultation consiste à demander aux personnes ce qu’elles pensent. La participation leur donne une possibilité définie d’influencer ce qui se passe ensuite. La différence n’est pas sémantique. Une consultation peut s’achever une fois les informations recueillies ; une participation effective suppose un retour d’information, une trace de la manière dont les avis ont été pris en compte et une explication lorsqu’ils ne l’ont pas été. Elle ne confère pas aux participants un droit de veto, mais crée pour l’institution une obligation de rendre compte de la manière dont elle a écouté leurs contributions.

La participation tout au long du parcours de détention

L’application la plus immédiate concerne les conditions quotidiennes de détention. Les personnes qui vivent dans une institution savent comment les règles formelles fonctionnent en pratique : quand l’eau est réellement disponible, qui peut accéder aux soins de santé, comment la nourriture est distribuée, où se produisent les intimidations et quels mécanismes de plainte inspirent confiance. Des conseils représentatifs de détenus, des enquêtes confidentielles et des groupes de travail consacrés à des questions spécifiques peuvent révéler des problèmes que les données administratives ou de brèves visites risquent de ne pas faire apparaître. Ils peuvent également contribuer à tester des solutions pratiques avant que des ressources limitées ne soient engagées.

La participation est tout aussi importante pour la réadaptation et la réinsertion sociale. Les programmes de réinsertion sont souvent conçus autour des services disponibles au sein de la prison ou du système de justice pénale, plutôt qu’à partir des obstacles concrets que les personnes sont susceptibles de rencontrer après leur libération. Les personnes détenues et les anciens détenus peuvent identifier les lacunes en matière d’accès aux documents d’identité, au logement, à l’emploi, aux soins de santé, au soutien familial et à la continuité des traitements. Leur contribution peut aider à faire évoluer la réinsertion, d’un ensemble standard de prestations fournies avant la libération vers un parcours qui reflète les réalités rencontrées par la suite. Les orientations des Nations Unies sur la prévention de la récidive et le soutien à la réinsertion sociale soulignent déjà l’importance du soutien au niveau communautaire ; les personnes qui ont elles-mêmes traversé le processus de libération devraient être reconnues comme faisant partie de l’expertise nécessaire à sa conception.

La même logique vaut pour les alternatives à la détention. Une mesure peut paraître proportionnée sur le papier tout en étant impossible à respecter dans la pratique. Les obligations de se présenter régulièrement aux autorités, les restrictions de déplacement, les couvre-feux ou la surveillance électronique peuvent être incompatibles avec un emploi précaire, des responsabilités familiales, un handicap ou l’éloignement des services publics. Les Règles de Tokyo exigent que les mesures non privatives de liberté respectent les droits de la personne concernée et encouragent la participation de la communauté. Associer des personnes ayant fait l’expérience de telles mesures peut aider à déterminer si une alternative réduit réellement la privation ou ne fait que la déplacer hors des murs de la prison.

La participation au contrôle préventif

L’argument en faveur de la participation est particulièrement fort dans le cadre du Protocole facultatif se rapportant à la Convention contre la torture (OPCAT). L’OPCAT donne aux organes de prévention un accès sans restriction aux informations et la possibilité de s’entretenir en privé avec les personnes privées de liberté. Ces entretiens sont indispensables. Mais ils placent généralement les personnes détenues dans la position de sources auprès desquelles les contrôleurs recueillent des informations, plutôt que dans celle de partenaires pouvant également contribuer à améliorer les questions posées, les risques considérés comme prioritaires et le suivi des recommandations.

Les mécanismes nationaux de prévention pourraient associer des personnes ayant une expérience vécue de la détention à plusieurs étapes, sans compromettre leur indépendance. D’anciens détenus et des organisations représentatives pourraient contribuer à définir les priorités thématiques, examiner l’accessibilité des méthodes d’entretien et des procédures de plainte, et identifier des questions susceptibles d’échapper à des observateurs extérieurs. Après les visites, des formes de participation sûres et confidentielles pourraient aider à évaluer si les recommandations ont effectivement changé la réalité quotidienne. Dans certains contextes, des personnes ayant une expérience vécue pourraient également intervenir en tant qu’experts externes formés. Les pratiques de contrôle dans le domaine de la santé mentale montrent déjà l’intérêt d’inclure des contrôleurs ayant une expérience vécue, susceptibles de repérer des obstacles cachés et de faciliter l’expression de préoccupations sensibles par les personnes détenues.

Cela ne transformerait pas les personnes détenues en inspecteurs des institutions qui les détiennent. La participation ne devrait pas non plus remplacer les entretiens privés, le jugement professionnel indépendant ou le contrôle confidentiel. Elle vise à les compléter, en veillant à ce que les méthodes de prévention soient éclairées non seulement par l’expertise juridique et professionnelle, mais aussi par les connaissances produites par l’expérience même de la détention.

Rendre la participation sûre et effective

La participation dans les institutions fermées comporte des risques évidents. Les détenus peuvent être sélectionnés par l’administration parce qu’ils sont considérés comme coopératifs, tandis que les femmes, les ressortissants étrangers, les personnes handicapées, les personnes LGBTQI+ et celles placées sous des régimes de haute sécurité ou d’isolement restent sans voix. Les participants peuvent subir des pressions de la part du personnel ou d’autres détenus, et la lassitude liée aux consultations peut renforcer la méfiance lorsque rien ne change. Un rôle visible peut également exposer certaines personnes à des représailles.

Pour ces raisons, la participation doit être volontaire, éclairée, accessible et représentative. Elle devrait emprunter plusieurs canaux plutôt que reposer sur un seul représentant des détenus. En outre, des possibilités de participation confidentielle et des garanties contre les représailles sont essentielles. Les participants doivent connaître l’objet et les limites du processus, recevoir un retour sur ses résultats et pouvoir se retirer. Les anciens détenus qui apportent une expertise de manière suivie devraient être rémunérés sur la même base que les autres experts. Surtout, les institutions devraient être en mesure de montrer ce qui a changé grâce à la participation.

La frontière avec les formes informelles de gouvernance carcérale doit également rester claire. La participation concerne la voix, la connaissance et l’influence ; elle ne doit pas impliquer un contrôle sur la discipline, l’accès aux droits, l’attribution des services essentiels ou le recours à la force. L’État demeure pleinement responsable de la gestion des prisons et de la protection de toutes les personnes placées sous sa garde.

Conclusion

La prévention suppose de repérer les risques avant qu’ils ne deviennent des violations. Les personnes qui vivent la détention voient souvent ces risques en premier, mais les systèmes de prévention tendent à ne les associer qu’après que les experts ont décidé ce qu’il fallait examiner. Passer du témoignage à la participation ne résoudrait pas toutes les défaillances des politiques de détention et ne supprimerait pas la nécessité d’un contrôle indépendant, de ressources adéquates ou de la responsabilité de l’État. Cela améliorerait toutefois la qualité de chacun de ces éléments.

« Rien sur la détention sans les personnes détenues » doit donc être compris non comme un slogan en faveur de l’autogestion institutionnelle, mais comme un principe de meilleure prévention : les personnes les plus affectées par la détention devraient disposer de moyens sûrs et effectifs pour contribuer à façonner les politiques, les programmes et les méthodes de contrôle destinés à protéger leur dignité.

De la consulta a la participación

Las normas internacionales ya contienen elementos de este enfoque participativo. La Regla 50 de las Reglas Penitenciarias Europeas establece que los reclusos deben poder debatir cuestiones relativas a las condiciones generales de reclusión y ser alentados a comunicarse con las autoridades penitenciarias. Las Reglas Nelson Mandela trazan un límite igualmente importante: los reclusos no deben ser empleados en funciones disciplinarias, aunque no se prohíben los sistemas de autogobierno de los reclusos que funcionen adecuadamente. Esta distinción es importante: la participación debe dar a las personas detenidas voz en las cuestiones que afectan a sus vidas, sin situarlas en posiciones de autoridad sobre otros detenidos ni transferirles funciones que siguen siendo responsabilidad del Estado. En conjunto, estos principios apuntan hacia una participación sin delegación de la autoridad coercitiva del Estado.

La consulta pregunta a las personas qué piensan. La participación les ofrece una oportunidad definida de influir en lo que ocurre después. La diferencia no es semántica. Una consulta puede terminar una vez recopilada la información; una participación significativa exige retroalimentación, un registro de cómo se tuvieron en cuenta las opiniones y una explicación cuando no fueron seguidas. No otorga a los participantes un derecho de veto, pero sí genera una responsabilidad institucional de escuchar.

La participación a lo largo del ciclo de detención

La aplicación más inmediata se refiere a las condiciones cotidianas de detención. Las personas que viven en una institución saben cómo funcionan en la práctica las reglas formales: cuándo hay agua realmente disponible, quién puede acceder a la atención sanitaria, cómo se distribuyen los alimentos, dónde se producen las intimidaciones y qué canales de queja inspiran confianza. Los consejos representativos de reclusos, las encuestas confidenciales y los grupos de trabajo sobre cuestiones específicas pueden revelar problemas que los datos administrativos o las visitas breves pueden pasar por alto. También pueden ayudar a poner a prueba soluciones prácticas antes de comprometer recursos escasos.

La participación es igualmente importante para la rehabilitación y la reinserción social. Los programas de reinserción suelen diseñarse en función de los servicios disponibles dentro de la prisión o del sistema de justicia penal, en lugar de partir de los obstáculos prácticos que las personas probablemente encontrarán después de su puesta en libertad. Las personas actualmente detenidas y los antiguos reclusos pueden identificar carencias en el acceso a documentos de identidad, vivienda, empleo, atención sanitaria, apoyo familiar y continuidad de los tratamientos. Su contribución puede ayudar a transformar la reinserción, pasando de un paquete estándar ofrecido antes de la liberación a un itinerario que refleje las realidades encontradas posteriormente. Las orientaciones de las Naciones Unidas sobre la prevención de la reincidencia y el apoyo a la reinserción social ya subrayan la importancia del apoyo comunitario; las personas que han atravesado el proceso de puesta en libertad deberían ser reconocidas como parte de la experiencia necesaria para diseñarlo.

La misma lógica se aplica a las alternativas a la detención. Una medida puede parecer proporcionada sobre el papel y, sin embargo, resultar imposible de cumplir en la práctica. Las obligaciones de comparecencia, las restricciones de viaje, los toques de queda o la vigilancia electrónica pueden entrar en conflicto con el trabajo precario, las responsabilidades de cuidado, la discapacidad o la distancia respecto de los servicios públicos. Las Reglas de Tokio exigen que las medidas no privativas de libertad respeten los derechos de la persona afectada y fomentan la participación de la comunidad. Involucrar a personas que han experimentado esas medidas puede ayudar a determinar si una alternativa reduce realmente la privación o simplemente la traslada fuera de los muros de la prisión.

La participación en el monitoreo preventivo

La justificación de la participación es especialmente sólida en el marco del Protocolo Facultativo de la Convención contra la Tortura (OPCAT). El OPCAT otorga a los órganos preventivos acceso sin restricciones a la información y la posibilidad de mantener entrevistas privadas con las personas privadas de libertad. Estas entrevistas son indispensables. Pero normalmente sitúan a las personas detenidas como fuentes de las que los órganos de monitoreo obtienen información, en lugar de considerarlas también como interlocutores capaces de mejorar las preguntas formuladas, los riesgos priorizados y el seguimiento de las recomendaciones.

Los Mecanismos Nacionales de Prevención podrían involucrar a personas con experiencia vivida en varias etapas sin comprometer su independencia. Los antiguos detenidos y las organizaciones representativas podrían asesorar sobre las prioridades temáticas, revisar la accesibilidad de los métodos de entrevista y los procedimientos de queja, e identificar cuestiones que los observadores externos podrían pasar por alto. Después de las visitas, formas seguras y confidenciales de participación podrían ayudar a evaluar si las recomendaciones han cambiado la realidad cotidiana. En determinados contextos, las personas con experiencia vivida también podrían contribuir como expertos externos capacitados. La práctica del monitoreo en el ámbito de la salud mental ya muestra el valor de incluir a monitores con experiencia vivida, que pueden reconocer obstáculos ocultos y facilitar que las personas detenidas hablen de preocupaciones sensibles.

Esto no convertiría a las personas detenidas en inspectores de las instituciones que las mantienen privadas de libertad. Tampoco debería la participación sustituir las entrevistas privadas, el juicio profesional independiente o el monitoreo confidencial. Su finalidad es complementarlos, garantizando que las metodologías preventivas se nutran no solo de conocimientos jurídicos y profesionales, sino también del conocimiento generado por la propia experiencia de la detención.

Hacer que la participación sea segura y significativa

La participación en instituciones cerradas conlleva riesgos evidentes. La administración puede seleccionar a determinados reclusos por considerarlos cooperativos, mientras que las mujeres, las personas extranjeras, las personas con discapacidad, las personas LGBTQI+ y quienes se encuentran en regímenes de alta seguridad o segregación permanecen sin ser escuchados. Los participantes pueden sufrir presiones del personal o de otros reclusos, y la fatiga derivada de las consultas puede profundizar la desconfianza cuando nada cambia. Un papel visible también puede exponer a las personas a represalias.

Por estas razones, la participación debe ser voluntaria, informada, accesible y representativa. Debe utilizar múltiples canales en lugar de depender de un único representante de los reclusos. Además, son esenciales las opciones confidenciales y las salvaguardias contra las represalias. Los participantes deben conocer la finalidad y los límites del proceso, recibir información sobre sus resultados y poder retirarse. Los antiguos detenidos que aporten una experiencia sostenida deberían ser remunerados en las mismas condiciones que otros expertos. Sobre todo, las instituciones deberían poder mostrar qué cambió como resultado de la participación.

También debe mantenerse clara la frontera con la gobernanza penitenciaria informal. La participación se refiere a la voz, el conocimiento y la influencia; no debe implicar control sobre la disciplina, el acceso a los derechos, la asignación de servicios esenciales o el uso de la fuerza. El Estado sigue siendo plenamente responsable de la gestión penitenciaria y de proteger a todas las personas bajo su custodia.

Conclusión

La prevención depende de detectar los riesgos antes de que se conviertan en violaciones. Las personas que viven la detención suelen ver esos riesgos primero, pero los sistemas preventivos tienden a involucrarlas solo después de que los expertos hayan decidido qué examinar. Pasar del testimonio a la participación no resolvería todas las deficiencias de las políticas de detención, ni eliminaría la necesidad de una supervisión independiente, recursos adecuados o rendición de cuentas por parte del Estado. Sin embargo, mejoraría la calidad de cada uno de estos elementos.

«Nada sobre la detención sin las personas detenidas» debería entenderse, por tanto, no como un lema de autogobierno institucional, sino como un principio para una mejor prevención: las personas más afectadas por la detención deberían disponer de medios seguros y significativos para contribuir a configurar las políticas, los programas y los métodos de monitoreo destinados a proteger su dignidad.

From Consultation to Participation

International standards already contain elements of this participatory approach. Rule 50 of the European Prison Rules provides that prisoners should be allowed to discuss general conditions of imprisonment and are encouraged to communicate with prison authorities. The Nelson Mandela Rules draw an equally important boundary: prisoners must not be employed in a disciplinary capacity, although properly functioning systems of prisoner self-government are not prohibited. This distinction is important: participation should give detainees a voice in matters affecting their lives, without placing them in positions of authority over other detainees or transferring to them functions that remain the responsibility of the State. Together, these principles point towards participation without delegation of the State’s coercive authority.

Consultation asks people what they think. Participation gives them a defined opportunity to influence what happens next. The difference is not semantic. A consultation may end when information has been collected; meaningful participation requires feedback, a record of how views were considered, and an explanation when they were not followed. It does not give participants a veto, but it does create institutional accountability for listening.

Participation Across the Detention Cycle

The most immediate application concerns daily conditions of detention. People living in an institution know how formal rules operate in practice: when water is actually available, who can reach healthcare, how food is distributed, where intimidation occurs, and which complaint channels are trusted. Representative prisoner councils, confidential surveys, and issue-specific working groups can reveal problems that administrative data or short visits may miss. They can also help test practical solutions before scarce resources are committed.

Participation is equally important for rehabilitation and social reintegration. Reintegration programmes are often designed around the services available within the prison or criminal justice system, rather than starting from the practical obstacles people are likely to encounter after release.  Current and former prisoners can identify gaps in access to identity documents, housing, work, health care, family support and continuity of treatment. Their contribution can help shift reintegration from a standard package delivered before release to a pathway that reflects the realities encountered afterwards. The United Nations guidance on preventing recidivism and supporting social reintegration already emphasises the importance of community-based support; people who have navigated release should be recognised as part of the expertise needed to design it.

The same logic applies to alternatives to detention. A measure may appear proportionate on paper while being impossible to comply with in practice. Reporting obligations, travel restrictions, curfews or electronic monitoring may conflict with precarious work, care responsibilities, disability, or distance from public services. The Tokyo Rules require non-custodial measures to respect the rights of the person concerned and encourage community participation. Involving people who have experienced such measures can help determine whether an alternative genuinely reduces deprivation or merely relocates it outside prison walls.

Participation in Preventive Monitoring

The case for participation is especially strong under the Optional Protocol to the Convention against Torture (OPCAT). The OPCAT gives preventive bodies unrestricted access to information and the opportunity to conduct private interviews with persons deprived of their liberty. These interviews are indispensable. But they usually position detainees as sources from whom monitors obtain information, rather than as partners who can also improve the questions asked, the risks prioritised and the recommendations followed up.

National Preventive Mechanisms could involve people with lived experience at several stages without compromising their independence. Former detainees and representative organisations could advise on thematic priorities, review the accessibility of interview methods and complaint procedures, and identify issues that outsiders may overlook. After visits, safe and confidential forms of engagement could help assess whether recommendations have changed daily reality. In selected contexts, people with lived experience could also contribute as trained external experts. Practice in mental-health monitoring already shows the value of including monitors with lived experience, who may recognise hidden barriers and make it easier for detainees to discuss sensitive concerns.

This would not transform detainees into inspectors of the institutions holding them. Nor should participation replace private interviews, independent professional judgment, or confidential monitoring. Its purpose is to complement them by ensuring that preventive methodologies are informed not only by legal and professional expertise, but also by knowledge generated through detention itself.

Making Participation Safe and Meaningful

Participation in closed institutions carries obvious risks. Prisoners may be selected by the administration because they are considered cooperative, while women, foreign nationals, persons with disabilities, LGBTQI+ people and those in high-security or segregated regimes remain unheard. Participants may face pressure from staff or other prisoners, and consultation fatigue may deepen mistrust when nothing changes. A visible role can also expose individuals to retaliation.

For these reasons, participation must be voluntary, informed, accessible and representative. It should use multiple channels rather than rely on a single prisoner representative. Furthermore, confidential options and safeguards against reprisals are essential. Participants should know the purpose and limits of the process, receive feedback on its outcomes, and be able to withdraw. Former detainees who contribute sustained expertise should be remunerated on the same basis as other experts. Above all, institutions should be able to show what changed as a result of participation.

The boundary with informal prison governance must also remain clear. Participation concerns voice, knowledge and influence; it must not entail control over discipline, access to rights, allocation of essential services, or the use of force. The State remains fully responsible for prison management and for protecting everyone in its custody.

Conclusion

Prevention depends on seeing risks before they become violations. People who live through detention often see those risks first, yet preventive systems tend to involve them only after experts have decided what to examine. Moving from testimony to participation would not solve every failure of detention policy, and it would not remove the need for independent oversight, adequate resources or State accountability. It would, however, improve the quality of each.

“Nothing about detention without detainees” should therefore be understood not as a slogan of institutional self-government, but as a principle of better prevention: those most affected by detention should have safe and meaningful ways to shape the policies, programmes and monitoring methods intended to protect their dignity.

The five principles are as follows. First, human rights are not top-down projects but forged in political claims and struggles emerging from below. Secondly, human rights must be guided by a commitment to substantive equality and questions of distribution. Thirdly, human rights must be decolonial and reparatory. As the author puts it: “Unredressed injustices echo through the generations” and demand “an adequate reckoning of these accounts.” (p 230) Fourthly, human rights push back against visions of the world which see everything as a commodity; instead, it insists upon a place for public goods. Fifthly, human rights must respect planetary boundaries and ecological limits. Hohmann rightly observes that this principle requires “an element of humility” (p 247).

The conclusion’s five principles resonate with my experience of social rights, especially the right to adequate housing. As Chief Human Rights Commissioner in Aotearoa New Zealand, I led a national human rights inquiry into what my colleagues and I called “the right to a decent home”. We worked closely with the National Iwi Chairs Forum, the lead organisation representing the Indigenous peoples of Aotearoa (Māori), as well as civil society organisations. The inquiry’s various reports rest upon Framework Guidelines on the right to a decent home in Aotearoa, which include a chapter on colonisation. The Framework Guidelines devote a section to the values that are embodied in human rights. These values endeavour to reflect the world views of both Māori and non-Māori. In her book, Hohmann gives careful attention to Indigenous peoples and housing. Her concluding principles chime with the Framework Guidelines.

After stepping down as Chief Commissioner, and inspired by Māori, I’ve tried to re-imagine human rights for our challenging times. Hohmann’s five principles help to point the way forward. Agreed, we need to engage with social movements emerging from below. We must take more seriously economic inequality and public goods (the ‘commons’). We need to grasp pluralistic (not only liberal) values. Indeed, our planetary limits are existential.

However, more collective thought is needed. Contrary to the liberal myth, human rights are not apolitical, so do we need to remove narrowly understood human rights from the limited, liberal world view and relocate re-imagined human rights in another political paradigm, such as participatory, democratic socialism?

And what to do about the corporate leviathans that threaten our planet and widen economic inequalities? For literally thousands of years, humanity has tried to devise arrangements for the democratisation of state public power, such as the separation of powers, an independent judiciary, free and fair elections, freedom of the press, other human rights, and so on. We’ve not solved the problem of undemocratic state power, but we have made some progress. What about the democratisation of corporate public power? The UN Guiding Principles on Business and Human Rights are a step in the right direction, but few commentators would argue that the Guiding Principles democratise corporate public power. Should the global human rights movement confront the immense challenge of democratically unaccountable corporate public power? Hohmann compellingly suggests it should.

This book makes a terrific contribution to the struggle for “a just housing future”. But it goes further than that. It helps us think about the future of human rights.

In addition to criminalising LGBTQIA+ consensual sexual acts, the new law criminalises persons entering into same-sex marriages, and the organisers, officiators, and witnesses of such marriages with imprisonment ranging from ten to twenty years (Article 391). It similarly criminalises forming LGBTQIA+ societies/associations (Article 392). Unlike many countries that have always had anti-LGBTQIA+ laws, Niger never expressly criminalised LGBTQIA+ activities/relationships until now.

Despite the lack of a criminalising provision in Niger’s 2003 Penal Code, homosexuality was nevertheless stigmatised, and law enforcement agencies sometimes invoked Articles 275 and 276 (public indecency), or 277 and 278 (indecent assault), to incarcerate LGBTQIA+ persons. Only Article 282 addressed homosexuality, limited to committing an indecent or unnatural act with a minor of the same sex.

One might speculate that this law is a byproduct of the military coup in July 2023 and the usurpation of power by General Abdourahamane Tchiani. But that is not the case. The former president, Mohamed Bazoum, had also sought the implementation of anti-LGBTQIA+ laws, even suggesting the death penalty.

While criminalising lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender acts violates many human rights like the right to privacy (Article 17, International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights [‘ICCPR’]), freedom of expression (Article 19), the right to life (Article 6), etc., criminalising intersex persons, because of their status as such, also violates the right against torture and cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment (Article 7).

Intersex persons have inherent sexual characteristics/genes that do not conform to the sex or gender binary. These characteristics are not artificially induced. Rather, these exist from birth. If the law criminalises intersex individuals, they are forced to undergo medical interventions to align with binary stereotypes. But Article 390 also criminalises those who undertake medical transitions to change their sex at birth. While this might extend only to a binary man/woman transitioning to the opposite binary gender, the language of the provision is precarious and should be urgently addressed.

Intersex persons already face tremendous violence, discrimination in all spheres of life, denial of equal opportunities, and even intersex infanticide. Niger’s law exacerbates their miseries.

Forced medical interventions on intersex persons amount to torture or cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment, prohibited by Articles 2 and 16 of the 1984 UN Convention against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (‘UNCAT’). They can cause severe irreversible consequences, including permanent infertility, pain, incontinence, loss of sexual sensation, and chronic depression. Forced medical interventions without free, full, and informed consent of intersex persons, particularly children, also violate the right to the highest attainable standard of physical and mental health (Article 12 of the 1966 International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights).

They also violate the 1989 UN Convention on the Rights of the Child (‘CRC’). The CRC encourages States to abolish traditional practices prejudicial to the health of children  (Article 24[3]), like female and intersex genital mutilation. They are seldom in the best interests of the child (Article 3), and restrict enjoyment of good health (Article 24(1)). Even if some medical intervention is urgently required for the child’s health, medical intervention undertaken only to conform to gender stereotypes is wrongful. Forcing a child to undergo genital surgeries not only prejudices their health, but also vitiates their right to preserve their own identity (Article 8), which is fundamental to human dignity. This law transgresses Niger’s duty to safeguard children from violence, injury, neglect, negligent treatment, and abuse (Article 19).

Hence, Niger’s new Penal Code violates the human rights of intersex persons, particularly children. The Human Rights Committee (ICCPR) and the UN Human Rights Council have previously urged Niger to decriminalise consensual sexual intercourse between same-sex adults and enact comprehensive anti-discrimination legislation prohibiting discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity. Niger rejected their recommendations.

While many countries have criminalised non-heterosexual orientations, criminalising gender identity and voluntary sex transitions is a new low. International human rights bodies must continue to call for reform in Niger. Until reform, the survival of intersex persons in Niger is extremely endangered.

Der Bericht der Sonderberichterstatterin ist bedeutsam, weil er eine Grundannahme des modernen Naturschutzes infrage stellt: dass Natur getrennt von den Menschen geschützt werden könne, die mit ihr leben, für sie Sorge tragen und aus ihr kulturelle, spirituelle und soziale Bedeutung schöpfen. Stattdessen betont der Bericht, dass Menschenrechte, kulturelle Praktiken, Wissenssysteme, Traditionen und Beziehungen zu Orten keine Hindernisse für Naturschutz sind. Sie gehören oft zu seinen stärksten Grundlagen.

Die Gunma Declaration spiegelt denselben Wandel wider. Sie wurde im Januar 2025 nach einem internationalen Symposium in Japan verabschiedet, das vom International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) einberufen wurde – dem satzungsgemäßen Beratungsgremium für Kulturerbe der United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO). Die Erklärung führt das Konzept der „heritage ecosystems“ (Erbe-Ökosysteme) ein. Dieses Konzept versteht Erbe nicht als isolierte Stätten oder Objekte, sondern als miteinander verbundene Beziehungen zwischen Völkern, Orten, Wissenssystemen, Kulturen und Umwelten. Besonders bedeutsam ist, dass die Gunma Declaration der erste Rahmen ist, der Indigene Völker und die Erklärung der Vereinten Nationen über die Rechte Indigener Völker (UNDRIP) ausdrücklich in das Verständnis kultureller Authentizität im Welterbesystem einbezieht. Das Welterbesystem der UNESCO ist das internationale System, durch das Staaten unter der Welterbekonvention von 1972 Erbestätten identifizieren, nominieren und verwalten.

In vielerlei Hinsicht ist dies eine historische Entwicklung. Indigene Völker kritisieren seit Langem, dass das Welterbesystem Natur und Kultur voneinander trennt und Indigene Gemeinschaften als Stakeholder behandelt, nicht als selbstbestimmte Rechtsträger. Die Gunma Declaration schlägt eine andere Richtung ein. Sie erkennt Indigene Traditionen, Wissenssysteme und Beziehungen zu angestammten Heimaten als zentrale Bestandteile von Erbe-Governance an. Sie erkennt auch an, dass Erbe nicht statisch ist. Vielmehr ist Erbe ein lebendiges System, das durch fortdauernde Beziehungen zwischen Gemeinschaften und den Umwelten, in denen sie leben, aufrechterhalten wird.

Doch die Entstehung der Gunma Declaration offenbarte zugleich eine unbequemere Realität. Das Problem bestand nicht einfach darin, dass Indigene Völker im wissenschaftlichen Komitee des internationalen Symposiums, das die frühen Entwürfe der Erklärung vorbereitete, nicht vertreten waren. Es bestand darin, dass Indigene Weltanschauungen, Wissenssysteme und Verständnisse der Untrennbarkeit von Gemeinschaften, Natur, Kultur und immateriellem Erbe herangezogen wurden, während Indigene Völker selbst aus dem anfänglichen Beratungsprozess und dem Erklärungstext systematisch ausgeschlossen, zum Schweigen gebracht und unsichtbar gemacht wurden. Einige Teilnehmende des Symposiums argumentierten, dass die ausdrückliche Benennung Indigener Völker Spaltung verursachen würde. In einer Kleingruppendiskussion wurden Indigene Kulturen zudem als „kontaminiert“ bezeichnet und daraus abgeleitet, dass sie keine ausdrückliche Erwähnung verdienten. Tatsächlich wurden Indigene Völker und UNDRIP erst durch beharrliche Intervention in den verabschiedeten Text aufgenommen.

So materialisieren sich Menschenrechtsverletzungen in der Erbe-Governance. Internationale Erbe-Institutionen, die eigentlich mit dem Schutz kultureller Vielfalt betraut sind, können Konzepte vorantreiben, die Indigene Verständnisse von Land, Kultur, Natur, Rechten und relationaler Verantwortung eng widerspiegeln, diese aber zugleich als westliche Innovationen präsentieren – häufig unter Ausschluss Indigener Völker. Die substanzielle Lücke der Gunma Declaration ist daher eine Frage der Autorität: Lang bestehende Indigene Verständnisse wurden „kolumbisiert“ (also als neu entdeckte westliche Ideen dargestellt), um das Konzept der „heritage ecosystems“ zu prägen, während Indigene Völker selbst in den Strukturen marginalisiert blieben, die diese Ideen interpretierten und institutionalisierten.

Die drängende Herausforderung für Naturschutz, Erbe-Governance und Menschenrechte besteht daher nicht einfach darin, wie Indigene Rechte und Autorität einbezogen werden sollen. Die schwierige Realität ist, dass Erbe-Institutionen häufig nicht einmal bereit sind, Indigene Existenz und Wissenssysteme zu den Bedingungen Indigener Völker selbst anzuerkennen.

Obwohl die Gunma Declaration bedeutsam ist, erinnert sie uns zugleich daran, dass tatsächlicher Wandel mehr erfordert als die „Kolumbisierung“ Indigener Konzepte. Es erfordert, dass Indigene Völker von Beginn an sinnvoll einbezogen und als selbstbestimmte Rechtsträger anerkannt werden – mit Autorität über die Kulturen, Orte und Umwelten, die sie erhalten und mittragen.

Hinweis: Dieser Beitrag beruht auf meinem Open-Access-Artikel im International Journal of Cultural Property mit dem Titel „Critical Reflections on the Development of the Gunma Declaration on Heritage Ecosystems: Challenges, Contradictions, and Opportunities for Indigenous Peoples“. Der Artikel wurde von Cambridge University Press im Mai 2026 als #PaperOfTheMonth ausgezeichnet und ist Teil eines Sonderhefts zum Thema „Decolonising Cultural Property: Indigenous Perspectives and Challenges“.

The Special Rapporteur’s 2026 report is significant because it challenges one of the foundational assumptions of modern conservation: that nature can be protected separately from the people who live with, care for, and derive meaning from it. Instead, the report emphasises that human rights, cultural practices, knowledge systems, traditions, and relationships with places are not obstacles to conservation. They are often among its strongest foundations.

The Gunma Declaration reflects this same shift. Adopted in January 2025 following an international symposium convened in Japan by the International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) – the statutory advisory body on cultural heritage to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO) – the declaration introduces the concept of “heritage ecosystems”. This concept understands heritage not as isolated sites or objects, but as interconnected relationships between peoples, places, knowledge systems, cultures, and environments. Significantly, the Gunma Declaration is the first framework to explicitly reference Indigenous Peoples and the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) as part of the World Heritage system’s understanding of cultural authenticity. The UNESCO World Heritage system is the international system through which States identify, nominate, and manage heritage places under the 1972 World Heritage Convention.

In many respects, this represents a historic development. Indigenous Peoples have long criticised the World Heritage system for separating nature from culture and for treating Indigenous communities as stakeholders rather than self-determining rights-holders. The Gunma Declaration moves in a different direction. It recognises Indigenous traditions, knowledge systems, and relationships with ancestral homelands as central components of heritage governance. It also acknowledges that heritage is not static. Rather, it is a living system sustained through ongoing relationships between communities and the environments they inhabit.

Yet the development of the Gunma Declaration also revealed a more uncomfortable reality. The problem was not simply that Indigenous Peoples were absent from the international symposium’s scientific committee that prepared the early drafts of the declaration. It was that Indigenous worldviews, knowledge systems, and understandings of the inseparability of communities, nature, culture, and intangible heritage were being drawn upon, while Indigenous Peoples themselves were systematically excluded, silenced, and erased from the initial deliberation process and declaration text. Some symposium participants argued that explicitly naming Indigenous Peoples would cause division. In one small-group discussion, Indigenous cultures were also described as “contaminated”, and it was argued on that basis that they did not warrant explicit reference. Indeed, Indigenous Peoples and UNDRIP were only included in the adopted text through sustained intervention.

This is how human rights violations in heritage governance materialise. International heritage institutions – tasked with protecting cultural diversity – may advance concepts that closely reflect Indigenous understandings of land, culture, nature, rights, and relational responsibility, yet present them as Western innovations – often excluding Indigenous Peoples. The substantive gap the Gunma Declaration presents is thus one of authority: longstanding Indigenous understandings were “Columbused” (presented as newly discovered Western ideas) to inform the concept of “heritage ecosystems”, while Indigenous Peoples themselves remained marginal to the structures that interpreted and institutionalised those ideas.

The pressing challenge facing conservation, heritage governance, and human rights is not simply how Indigenous rights and authority should be incorporated. The difficult reality is that heritage institutions are often unwilling to even acknowledge Indigenous existence and knowledge systems on Indigenous Peoples’ own terms.

Although the Gunma Declaration is significant, the declaration also reminds us that meaningful change requires more than “Columbusing” Indigenous concepts. It requires Indigenous Peoples to be meaningfully included from the outset and recognised as self-determining rights-holders with authority over the cultures, places, and environments they help sustain.

Note: this post draws on my open-access article in the International Journal of Cultural Property, titled “Critical Reflections on the Development of the Gunma Declaration on Heritage Ecosystems: Challenges, Contradictions, and Opportunities for Indigenous Peoples”. The article was awarded the May 2026 #PaperOfTheMonth by Cambridge University Press and is part of a Special Issue on Decolonising Cultural Property: Indigenous Perspectives and Challenges.

Irreversibility matters because it eliminates the argument that third states supporting Israel can separate legitimate security facilitation from unlawful practices. Once you sustain an administration that kills through racially segregated courts, you cannot claim you only support the lawful parts.

This is where the state responsibility doctrine becomes critical. Because the ICJ characterised the right to self-determination as a peremptory norm (paragraph 233 of the AO), Israel’s continued presence constitutes a serious breach engaging the customary duties codified in Article 41(2) of the Articles on State Responsibility for Internationally Wrongful Acts (ARSIWA): no state may recognise the resulting situation as lawful, nor render aid or assistance in maintaining it. The European Union’s (EU) Foreign Affairs Council’s (Council) 21 April 2026 decision not to suspend the EU-Israel Association Agreement is where these questions become concrete. This decision followed the EU’s External Action Service finding Israel in breach of the Agreement’s human rights clause (Article 2) and the enactment of the March statute.

How State Killing Makes the Apparatus Irreversible

To understand why irreversibility changes the legal calculus, it is necessary to examine what the ICJ found and how the statutes operationalise it. At paragraph 229 of its AO, the Court identified a structure: Israel’s laws “impose and serve to maintain a near-complete separation” between settlers and Palestinians, violating the prohibition on apartheid in Article 3 of the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (ICERD).

The Death Penalty for Terrorists Law makes that bifurcation lethal through differential jurisdiction. Article 3 establishes mandatory death by military court for Palestinians who cause death in acts of terrorism, excluding Israeli citizens or residents. Israeli citizens face civilian courts where Article 6 imposes death only for killings to negate the existence of the State of Israel. Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International documented that Palestinian residents face mandatory death in military courts, whilst Israeli citizens face death only for a narrowly defined intent that functionally excludes nationalist killings of Palestinians.

The military courts administering death operate with a 99.7% conviction rate, based largely on torture-extracted confessions. These conviction rates matter because they demonstrate the courts are not impartial tribunals but components of the apparatus the ICJ found unlawful. When the United Nations’ Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (CERD) stated that the law perpetuates racial discrimination, it confirmed differential vulnerability to state killing along ethnic lines. Administrative detention was theoretically reversible. State-administered execution is not.

When Third State Support Breaches the Duty of Non-Assistance

The duty of non-assistance requires no proof of complicit intent. At paragraph 278 of its AO, the Court held that the duty of distinguishing dealings with Israel between its own territory and the OPT encompasses, among other obligations, the duty “to abstain from entering into economic or trade dealings with Israel concerning the Occupied Palestinian Territory or parts thereof which may entrench its unlawful presence in the territory,” and “to take steps to prevent trade or investment relations that assist in the maintenance of the illegal situation.” The Court’s phrase “may entrench” establishes a probabilistic standard. States need not prove their conduct caused a specific harm, only that it sustains Israel’s administrative capacity.

The Court found Israel’s entire presence unlawful. There is no lawful administration to sustain. Arms, intelligence, and preferential trade that sustain capacity therefore sustain the wrongful situation, within which a death regime operates.

Unlike complicity under ARSIWA’s Article 16, which requires that assistance be given with knowledge and with a view to facilitating the wrongful act, the Article 41(2) duty covers conduct after the fact that maintains the unlawful situation, with the International Law Commission considering it “hardly conceivable” that a state would lack notice of a serious breach. Any residual doubt about notice dissolved when the CERD Committee called on States Parties to ensure that their “resources are not used to enforce or support discriminatory policies and practices against Palestinians living in the Occupied Palestinian Territory.” When the EU’s External Action Service found Israel in breach of Article 2 of the Agreement, and the Council nonetheless decided not to suspend, the Union placed itself squarely within the conduct paragraph 278 prohibits. Twenty UN experts stated that suspension is “a legal imperative,” not a matter of political discretion.

What This Reveals About Metropolitan Responsibility

The Council’s decision reveals how the ICJ’s “may entrench” standard operates as burden inversion. The question is whether conduct sustains the apparatus through which apartheid is maintained and death administered, not whether governments intend to facilitate it. Once the apparatus kills, separability collapses. The courts executing Palestinians are those that the ICJ found unlawful. International legal infrastructure has constituted settler-colonial projects in Palestine, not merely recognised them.

Article 41(2) asks when metropolitan support becomes co-constitutive of the wrongful situation. The answer: when it sustains administrative capacity that kills through racially segregated courts. This tests whether the duty of non-assistance retains doctrinal content or serves merely as a rhetorical cover for sustaining colonial structures.

GBV in refugee camps is not random. It is produced by the conditions of displacement: overcrowded shelters, economic precarity, and patriarchal community norms. Domestic violence, child marriage, and sexual exploitation thrive where accountability is weak. Informal justice mechanisms, often the only recourse, tend to reinforce patriarchal expectations, urging survivors to remain silent or accept reconciliation rather than pursue justice. UNHCR’s GBV factsheet shows how restrictions on movement and limited education opportunities heighten risks of exploitation and abuse.

Intersectionality and the Weight of Displacement

Kimberlé Crenshaw’s theory of intersectionality reminds us that Rohingya women’s experiences of GBV cannot be understood through gender alone. Displacement itself shapes the contours of GBV. Migration uproots women from familiar social networks, leaving them dependent on humanitarian structures that often fail to protect them. Statelessness compounds this, stripping away legal identity and access to rights. The camp becomes both a place of refuge and a site of harm.

Testimonies collected by UNFPA Bangladesh show women walking for days with children, losing homes and relatives, and arriving in Bangladesh with nothing. Research on lived experiences of displacement highlights how migration transforms gender roles, forcing women into new responsibilities while exposing them to heightened risks (Global History Dialogues).

Statelessness, displacement, poverty, and cultural norms intersect to produce unique forms of harm. A Rohingya woman is not only a survivor of violence; she is also a refugee denied legal status, a mother navigating food insecurity, and a member of a community excluded from formal employment. Each axis of marginalisation compounds the others, creating barriers invisible if viewed in isolation.

Women’s Agency as a Pathway to Justice

Rohingya women face layers of disadvantage, such as displacement, poverty, and patriarchal norms; that too often leave them invisible or unheard. Breaking that cycle means putting empowerment at the heart of the response, so their voices and leadership can’t be ignored. Rohingya women are not just victims of displacement; they are leaders reshaping their own futures. In the camps, they organise networks, run informal schools, and speak out for health and education. Programmes like UN Women’s LEAP initiative show how women’s groups in Cox’s Bazar provide peer support, challenge patriarchal norms, and create safe spaces where survivors can be heard. These efforts are about more than survival: they are acts of resistance against the structures that allow gender‑based violence to persist.

When women are able to organise collectively, they protect themselves, document abuse, demand accountability, and connect survivors to humanitarian and legal actors. Experiences from Uganda, where refugee women’s cooperatives have built economic independence, and Jordan, where Syrian women have created informal schools and legal awareness campaigns, show how collective action can turn vulnerability into resilience.

These initiatives are only possible through women’s agency. Strengthening agency through education, legal empowerment, and recognition of women’s leadership is essential if justice is to move from aspiration to reality. In this way, women’s agency is not only about survival, it is the foundation for dismantling GBV and building justice in contexts of displacement.

Yet agency alone is not enough. Without recognition or access to courts, these initiatives remain fragile. Women’s voices are powerful, but they need systems willing and designed to listen.

Access to justice remains the most pressing gap. Humanitarian programmes provide psychosocial support and safe spaces, but they cannot substitute for legal accountability. Restrictions on movement, education, and communication prevent women from pursuing formal remedies. Donor politics further depoliticise GBV programming, as agencies avoid challenging host state policies. The UN’s Her Rights, Her Justice initiative documents Rohingya women reclaiming protection through grassroots action, but also shows how survivors struggle to access meaningful justice. International justice processes, such as those examined in Progress in Development Studies, often fail to consult women directly, raising questions about legitimacy.

Conclusion

The struggle of Rohingya women in Cox’s Bazar illustrates how GBV, intersectionality, women’s agency, and displacement converge. Violence is not incidental but structural, produced by bordering practices and sustained by humanitarian governance. They are suffering from overlapping vulnerabilities of gender, statelessness, poverty, and without legal recognition. As the International Court of Justice considers Myanmar’s responsibility for crimes against the Rohingya, the global community must also confront the architecture of containment in Bangladesh. Justice for Rohingya women requires more than services, it demands recognition of their rights, amplification of their voices, and dismantling of the structures that sustain violence. Only then can protection become real, and displacement cease to be a site of perpetual harm.

Against that background, the second part turns from diagnosis to structure. If the prohibition on the use of force is weakening, the question is not only why this is happening, but also whether the existing international system retains the institutional and normative capacity to resist that erosion. This requires closer examination of the limitations of the UN framework, the constraints of collective security mechanisms, and the extent to which meaningful legal responses remain available.

The Need to Address Institutional Impediments in UN Decision-Making

Here, any honest analysis must also grapple with the UN Security Council’s veto problem. The veto was a deliberate design feature, accepted as the price of great-power participation. But it means the collective security system is structurally incapable of responding to violations by, or protected by, any permanent member. Accordingly, reform efforts should be intensified.

The norms and principles, such as the “Uniting for Peace” procedure and R2P, on the one hand, and the relevant mechanisms, such as the International Court of Justice (ICJ) and the International Criminal Court (ICC), on the other, offer partial alternatives and deserve more serious utilisation than they currently receive. So does the development of clearer legal standards around economic coercion – an area where the law remains underdeveloped and where powerful actors currently operate in a legal grey zone.

What is Actually at Stake

In view of the foregoing, it is hard to remain optimistic. The trajectory is not good. The prohibition on the use of force is under sustained pressure from multiple directions simultaneously: expansive doctrinal reinterpretation, selective enforcement, and an institutional architecture that is structurally ill-equipped to hold great powers accountable. States currently exploiting legal flexibility may find, as power balances shift, that they have weakened the very rules that could one day protect them. But that long-term self-interest argument has rarely been persuasive enough on its own to change behaviour in the short term.

A clear choice now confronts the international system: either to uphold a rule-based order grounded in legal constraints or to accept a power-driven, unpredictable, and unstable system. The former may be politically challenging, but it remains the only viable path to sustainable peace and stability. The latter, by contrast, invites long-term instability in exchange for short-term gain. The preservation of international law is therefore not merely a normative aspiration but a practical necessity. If the current trajectory of erosion is not reversed, the international system risks becoming increasingly fragmented, unpredictable, and prone to conflict. Once the long-established threshold of applicable international law is eroded, such an outcome would represent a collective loss for all members of the international community, ushering in an era of profound instability.

The task for scholars and practitioners is not to lament the current situation but to think carefully about what can realistically be done within it. This includes identifying where the pressure points are, which institutional levers remain functional, and how the normative case for the prohibition on the use of force can be framed in terms that connect with political realities rather than floating above them. Cataloguing violations is necessary but not sufficient. The harder question -what specific reforms, arguments, and coalitions might slow or reverse the erosion- is the one that deserves more sustained attention. The world is in urgent need of collective wisdom, in which diplomacy and international law are once again effectively utilised in the pursuit of international peace and security.

Conclusion

The international legal order has never operated in a world free from power politics, inconsistency, or selective enforcement. Its value has always lain elsewhere: in the existence of commonly recognised limits capable, however imperfectly, of restraining the unrestricted use of power. What makes the present moment especially concerning is the possibility that those limits are gradually losing both their normative clarity and practical authority at the same time.

No single reform or institution is likely to reverse this trajectory on its own. Yet abandoning the effort would carry consequences extending far beyond any individual conflict or geopolitical rivalry. Once the prohibition on the use of force becomes sufficiently malleable, international law risks ceasing to function as a meaningful constraint and instead becoming little more than a vocabulary through which power justifies itself after the fact. Preventing that outcome requires more than formal commitment to legal principles. It requires sustained institutional engagement, intellectual honesty, and a renewed willingness by states and legal actors alike to defend the integrity of the rules upon which international stability ultimately depends.