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Showing posts with label Nick Cheesman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nick Cheesman. Show all posts

WikiLeaks and the politics of Interpol

Photographers attempt to capture a picture of Julian Assange, believed to be in this prison van, leaving Westminster Magistrates Court on December 7, 2010 in London, England. Wikileaks wesite founder Julian Assange appeared in court, before a district judge, to fight an extradition after being accused by the Swedish authorities of one count of rape. Mr Assange was remanded in custody pending a hearing next week.
by Nick Cheesman

(December 08, Melbourne, Sri Lanka Guardian) The issuance of an Interpol wanted notice for the Australian founder of Wikileaks within days after his website began releasing hundreds of thousands of classified United States government cables is blatantly political.

Interpol's charter prohibits it from taking up cases that are predominantly political in character, but this has not prevented it from issuing the red notice against Julian Assange, on the basis of a highly dubious warrant supplied by Swedish police.

Lawyers representing Assange have described the manner in which the red notice was issued as unusual, but in fact Interpol has long pursued persons wanted for political reasons, some of them at the behest of police forces with records of torture and extrajudicial killing.

Among them, Interpol in 1999 went after Azekhan Kazhegeldin, when he was campaigning against the incumbent government of Kazakhstan. In 2001 the former prime minister was convicted in absentia for a variety of crimes.

Kazhegeldin's lawyer succeeded in getting the notice revoked, having shown that it was politically motivated. But the following year, the Interpol general assembly voted to reinstate it.

Such cases raise a number of questions relevant to the case against Assange.

First, what criteria does Interpol use to distinguish between political and non-political cases? The Interpol charter lacks guidelines. However, its rules on processing information stipulate that material received from national police forces is presumed to be accurate and relevant.

In other words, Interpol takes for granted that what its members send is reliable, and actionable under its mandate. It apparently has no equivalent of a judicial authority to scrutinize evidence and ask questions before issuing a notice, and seems to act on this presumption alone.

Second, if a notice is wrongly issued, how can someone get it revoked? There is no external or independent authority to receive complaints. If a national bureau or judiciary will not cancel an arrest warrant, the wanted person can do no more than present evidence to Interpol to show that the warrant is politically motivated.

In doing so, the person comes up against Interpol's presumption that the police issuing the arrest warrant have acted in good faith and in accordance with the agency's rules.

For the appeal to be considered, information that the person gives to Interpol must in turn be passed to the national police force which issued the warrant. The whole procedure is biased towards the police, since they are given ample opportunity to construct contrary evidence and rebut the accused person's case, with the presumption of accuracy and relevancy on their side.

The secretive process can take years, during which time the accused must live with the threat of arrest anywhere, anytime. And even if the person can prove that they have been politically targeted, Interpol's general assembly can vote to overrule the secretariat and reinstate the notice, as happened in Kazhegeldin's case.

Third, more broadly, can Interpol be made accountable? Among international organisations, the global policing agency is one of the most enclosed and opaque. Other international bodies that ought to be asking questions of it, such as the United Nations Human Rights Council, have been silent.

This may in part be because Interpol has in recent years helped in hunting for war criminals to be brought before international courts. Perhaps senior U.N. bureaucrats and others have calculated that it is not worth jeopardizing those operations for the sake of a few troublemakers like Assange. If so, the calculation is false.

As long as the international police themselves go un-policed, anyone who oversteps the line in even one state can be made a fugitive everywhere. As long as Interpol can issue wanted notices without external oversight, any person who threatens a political establishment can be made a latent criminal.

Interpol's targeting of Julian Assange, and through him WikiLeaks, is a good opportunity to ask hard questions: not of the wanted man or his organisation, but of the policing regime that is hunting him; a regime which purports to be apolitical but in reality is anything but.

A slightly edited version of this article first appeared in the Canberra Times, 8 December 2010, under the title, "Why isn't Interpol called to account?" The views shared in the article do not necessarily reflect those of the AHRC, and the AHRC takes no responsibility for them.


About the Author: Nick Cheesman is a member of the Asian Legal Resource Centre currently doing research at the Australian National University, Canberra.

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No rule of law, no guarantees in Sri Lanka

By Nick Cheesman writes from Canberra

( April 15, Canberra, Sri Lanka Guardian) The Australian government on April 9 announced that it has decided to suspend the processing of applicants for asylum from Sri Lanka, along with those from Afghanistan, because circumstances there are “evolving”.

The immigration minister, Chris Evans, said that the government has “very sound public policy grounds” for its decision.

This is either a disingenuous lie or an acknowledgment that Canberra is dangerously ignorant about a country which it should know better. Either way, it is wrong.

Sri Lanka’s insecurity is not an attribute of its ethnic conflict alone. The war in the north and east was just one particularly visible and violent consequence of deep internal problems that have worsened considerably in the last two decades.

The end of the war has not halted the violence and impunity with which police and soldiers operate all over the island. It has not repaired any of the country’s collapsed legal machinery. And it has not restored hopes of a genuinely democratic future.

If the Australian government truly believes that circumstances in Sri Lanka are evolving, then perhaps it could explain why the opposition presidential candidate, former army commander Sarath Fonseka, has been kept in custody on a fabricated case since February.

He is just one among thousands of people being held under arbitrary or tenuous charges, many of who are routinely tortured or threatened with torture.

Perhaps the government could also explain how it reconciles this state of affairs with Australia’s duty under international law not to repatriate anyone to a place where he or she is at risk of torture.

And perhaps it could clarify why the violent attacks on journalists, lawyers, activists and other citizens that continue unabated in Sri Lanka have never been properly investigated, or perpetrators brought to justice.

Sugath Fernando was a victim of one of these attacks. A small businessman, he died not because of the civil war, nor because he was doing something illegal, but rather because he challenged corrupt local police. Officers assaulted his family at their home near Colombo and said that they would kill him if he did not withdraw a complaint against them.

Fernando begged the national police chief and official Human Rights Commission for help. He got none. An assassin shot him dead on a busy street in September 2008. Despite ample evidence, no one has been arrested in the 18 months since. His wife and children recently obtained refugee status abroad; not in Australia.

The basic problem for all Sri Lankans—whether the former general whose political goals led to his arrest, or the businessman whose sense of justice led to his death—the problem that the Australian government has either failed to grasp or refuses to accept, is that there is no rule of law in Sri Lanka.

This is partly a consequence of two civil wars in which security forces and their affiliates abducted, tortured and killed on an unprecedented scale. These practices have penetrated the entire system of policing and have corroded the authority of the courts. They have destroyed trust in the concept of legality as a basis for society.

It is also the result of a constitution that places the executive president over the parliament and judiciary. The incumbent, Mahinda Rajapaksa, told a public rally in March that constitutionally he is above the law. Contrary to the Australian government’s view that circumstances are evolving, many people fear that Sri Lanka is headed towards dictatorship.

Under these conditions, the claims of Sri Lankan officials that their country is safe are absurd. Where can someone go to have a grievance heard? To whom can anyone turn for security? Without the rule of law, guarantees of safety are worthless.

The end of war does not restore rule of law. The holding of elections does not signify respect for civil and political rights. And nothing justifies the suspending of claims for asylum as a matter of public policy.

If Australian policymakers really think that things are improving in Sri Lanka, then Australians need new policymakers. If Australian politicians think that acting tough on asylum seekers will win a few more votes, then they must count those votes against the lives of people whom they have endangered, people whom they have the legal and moral responsibility to protect.


This is a slightly different version of an article that was originally published in the Canberra Times on 13 April 2010.