Contemporary International Criminal Law After Critique Symposium: The Sense of an Ending

[Thomas Skouteris is Associate Professor and Chair of the Law Department at The American University in Cairo. He is also Director of the Access to Knowledge Foundation and Senior Fellow at Melbourne Law School.]

International law finds itself yet again in a profound crisis—perhaps even a breaking point. The ongoing wars in the Middle East, Ukraine, Africa, and across numerous other locations do not simply remind us of a world in turmoil; they serve as stark indicators of what many might describe as the profound failure of international law itself. These conflicts, where international crimes such as genocide appear to be committed with chilling regularity, suggest that the grand edifice of jus ad bellum and jus in bello is crumbling, reduced to mere instruments of power, wielded without regard for the moral or legal principles they were meant to embody. It feels as though the very foundation of international law could be dissolving before our eyes, leaving us to grapple with the terrifying possibility that we are witnessing the twilight of a system that once promised to bring order and justice to the world.

And yet, amidst this apparent collapse, international law has never seemed more entrenched or powerful. In the thirty years since the end of the Cold War, the discipline has achieved milestones that once seemed unthinkable. The establishment of the International Criminal Court (ICC), which dares to bring sitting heads of state to justice, and the newfound relevance of the International Court of Justice (ICJ), now bold enough to challenge even the most powerful nations, suggest a legal order at the height of its power. The body of international law has grown more comprehensive than ever, its case law more nuanced, its practitioners more numerous and specialized. There is a paradox here—one that cannot easily be ignored.

This paradox breeds a feeling—a deep, unsettling sense that we are living through a fin de siècle, a moment of both culmination and collapse. It is a mood that permeates not just international law but the very fabric of our times. The existential threat of climate change looms large, the rapid advancement of artificial intelligence threatens to outpace our ethical frameworks, democratic values seem to erode daily, and the chasm of social and economic inequality widens with each passing year. Walter Benjamin’s notion of “shock,” as explored in The Arcades Project, captures the jarring dislocations that define this era. We are not merely witnessing a series of disruptions; we are living through a systemic rupture, one that challenges the very narratives we have long relied upon to make sense of our world.

But what if this feeling of fin de siècle is not a reflection of reality, but a narrative construct—a hegemonic imposition that reinterprets the present as a time of inevitable decline? This narrative, compelling as it is, gains its power not from objective truth but from its resonance with the lived experience of modernity. Marshall Berman’s exploration of modern life in All That is Solid Melts into Air delves into the emotional and psychological turmoil that accompanies rapid change. The fin de siècle trope taps into this disorientation, giving it form and substance, aligning it with broader cultural narratives that shape our collective consciousness. In their JICJ symposium opening article, Burgis-Kasthala and Sander brilliantly capture this dynamic, illuminating how the normalization of critique in international criminal law might be reinforcing rather than dismantling entrenched power structures. But what if this resonance, rather than revealing deeper truths, is simply the product of outdated interpretive tools that no longer capture the complexities of our present?

When I consider the fin de siècle narrative, I am struck by its dual focus on endings and beginnings, on decline and transformation. This duality functions as the deep structure of the narrative, echoing Hayden White’s analysis of tropes in historical writing. To cast our current era as a fin de siècle moment is to emphasize the existential anxieties and anticipations tied to global challenges such as climate change, technological upheaval, and the deepening of inequality. These anxieties are not just the backdrop; they are the driving force behind the master plots that shape our understanding of the world.

Hayden White’s master plots offer a lens through which to view this moment. The tragic master plot, with its focus on inevitable decline and loss, mirrors narratives of environmental degradation, where humanity’s downfall seems both assured and self-inflicted—a modern-day Oedipus Rex. But there is also the satirical master plot, embodied in Brecht’s ‘The Threepenny Opera’, which lays bare the absurdities of our current moment, exposing the corruption and moral decay that underlie the systems we depend on. These narratives do more than describe; they shape our reality, organizing our experiences into coherent, if disconcerting, stories that resonate deeply with our collective fears and hopes.

The fin de siècle narrative, then, is more than a feeling; it is a powerful interpretive framework that shapes how we perceive and respond to the world. But what if this narrative, for all its resonance, is itself a relic—a product of the very intellectual and ideological tools that are now failing us? Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of ‘symbolic capital’ helps explain why certain narratives gain collective validation. Those who hold power within the social field—academics, policymakers, legal professionals—possess the authority to validate certain interpretations over others. But this is not a one-way street; the fin de siècle narrative resonates at the grassroots level as well, among those who feel the dislocations of modernity most acutely. This resonance gives the narrative its potency, its ability to shape and be shaped by collective consciousness.

And yet, as compelling as this fin de siècle feeling may be, it might be nothing more than the internalization of a narrative imposed by those with the power to shape it. This narrative, while powerful, also constrains us. It limits our imagination, framing our understanding of the present within the boundaries of decline and decay, leaving little room for envisioning alternative futures. Burgis-Kasthala and Sander have observed that this phase of “post-critique” might simply reinforce the very structures it seeks to challenge, creating an illusion of progress while entrenching existing power dynamics. The reality, though, is perhaps more sobering: we may not be able to imagine beyond these boundaries at all.

Here lies the true cynicism—the recognition that our generation, especially the author himself, might be trapped within these well-worn narratives, unable to see the “new” that is needed to break free. The fin de siècle may not merely be a narrative choice, but the only narrative we know, shaped by the very tools and frameworks that now seem to be failing us. It is not just that we lack the will to imagine new stories; it is that we are fundamentally constrained by the intellectual and ideological legacies we have inherited.

This brings to mind Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending, where the protagonist, Tony Webster, reflects on his life with the unsettling realization that his understanding of the past—and of himself—has been built on a foundation of incomplete memories and misunderstood events. Like Tony, we might find that our sense of the present—and our ability to foresee the future—is similarly flawed, trapped within narratives that obscure as much as they reveal. In the end, our sense of an ending may be just that—a sense, a perception shaped by the very limitations of our intellectual heritage. And like the hero of Barnes’ novel, we might be left grappling with the uncomfortable truth that what we thought we understood was, all along, a construct of our own making, and that the “new” we seek may forever elude us, obscured by the shadows of our own narratives.