Maq Masi Blog

At the heart of international law lies a simple but unshakeable premise: human life is inviolable. To kill a person unlawfully—whether in times of peace or war—is a crime. Yet, as modern conflict has evolved into something increasingly asymmetrical, politically polarised, and digitally amplified, the legality of killing, and even the incitement to kill, requires deeper examination.

Under both national and international law, unlawful killing is generally treated as a criminal offence. Domestic legal systems call it murder or manslaughter. At the international level, the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (ICC) classifies it—when systematic or deliberate—as war crimes, crimes against humanity, or, in extreme circumstances, genocide. These classifications are not mere abstractions. They are shaped by legal thresholds: targeting civilians, using disproportionate force, or killing with the intent to destroy a group in whole or part.

War itself is not unlawful. But how war is conducted is subject to law. International Humanitarian Law—codified in the Geneva Conventions—prohibits the deliberate targeting of non-combatants and the disproportionate destruction of civilian infrastructure. It protects hospitals, schools, and homes. It demands the principle of distinction: that combatants and civilians must be treated differently, even in the fog of war.

When this line is crossed, the legal tools exist. The ICC has jurisdiction to prosecute war crimes committed by nationals of a State Party or on the territory of one. And the principle of complementarity ensures that national systems have the first opportunity to investigate; the ICC only steps in when states are unwilling or unable.

Yet enforcement is uneven. Powerful states often operate beyond reach, either because they are not parties to the Rome Statute, or because their influence allows them to evade accountability. Several of the world’s most influential nations are not subject to the Court’s jurisdiction—not because the law excludes them, but because they have chosen to remain outside it. The United States, Russia, China, India, and Israel are not parties to the Rome Statute. Some signed the treaty and later withdrew; others never joined. Their objections vary: from concerns about sovereignty and military exposure, to allegations of politicised justice and fears of selective enforcement.

While acts of killing are visibly brutal, incitement to kill is a more subtle form of violence. It often hides behind rhetoric, broadcast statements, or policy ambiguity. Still, it can be just as dangerous. The Rome Statute criminalises direct and public incitement to commit genocide. Domestic legal systems also punish incitement to violence or murder, particularly where the inciter holds influence. In international law, leaders bear heightened responsibility, because their words can activate armies, legitimise hostilities, or radicalise populations.

Determining criminality requires more than outrage. It demands legal thresholds: intent, proximity, causation, and foreseeability. A rhetorical statement—however inflammatory—is not necessarily unlawful unless it constitutes a clear call to action that results in actual or attempted violence. The line between speech and incitement is carefully drawn, often to protect both accountability and freedom of expression.

In reviewing recent international conflicts, these frameworks are consistently tested. Allegations arise of indiscriminate airstrikes, targeted assassinations, missile attacks on civilian areas, and leaders making provocative statements about military action. Some are being investigated by the ICC. Others are under scrutiny by the United Nations or independent fact-finding missions. The legal classifications vary, but the trend is clear: the distinction between law and politics is not always respected in practice, even when codified in principle.

What emerges is not merely a legal problem but a moral one. The hierarchy of grief—where some lives are grieved, and others silenced—reveals a deeper dysfunction. The law speaks of universal dignity. But enforcement often speaks in the language of power.

Still, the legal frameworks remain necessary. Without them, conflict becomes chaos. The ICC, though limited, symbolises a refusal to normalise impunity. International humanitarian law, though imperfectly enforced, still draws a line between tragedy and atrocity.

Killing is not made lawful by flags, borders, or politics. It is made lawful only by strict legal necessity—such as immediate self-defence, proportionality, and distinction. Outside of that, it is a crime, however it is justified. And incitement to kill, particularly when issued from podiums of power, is not simply a matter of speech—it is a test of accountability.

In a world increasingly shaped by rhetoric and real-time violence, we must continue to ask: not only what is done, but what is said. And not only who is killed, but who decides who may be.

If the law is to matter, it must apply to all—regardless of nationality, rank, or cause. That remains the unfinished promise of international criminal law: that in the end, justice is not a weapon of the powerful, but a refuge for the human.

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