We're listed alongside terrorists and drug peddlers. That's how he views us.
In a Madrid conference room, a Ugandan appeals judge at the International Criminal Court reflects on what it means to be formally equated, by executive order, with terrorists and drug traffickers — not for corruption or misconduct, but for the act of judging. The Trump administration's sanctions against ICC magistrates investigating American and Israeli officials represent something older than any single political dispute: the recurring human impulse to punish those who insist on accountability. At stake is not merely the career of one judge, but the fragile architecture of international law built in the aftermath of the twentieth century's worst atrocities.
- An executive order has placed ICC judges on the same sanctions list as terrorists and narcotics traffickers, a categorical insult that carries concrete legal and financial consequences.
- Banking systems, witness cooperation, and investigative access have all been disrupted — the machinery of accountability quietly strangled by the reach of American financial power.
- Victims in Gaza, Afghanistan, Sudan, and other conflict zones now face a court whose ability to pursue their cases is compromised by the very threat of U.S. retaliation against anyone who assists.
- The European Union has condemned the sanctions and signaled support, but a blocking statute that could shield judges from American pressure has yet to pass, leaving the court exposed.
- Judge Bossa continues her work anyway — not from naivety, but from a conscience shaped by decades of witnessing what impunity produces, from Rwanda to Uganda's domestic courts.
Solomy Balungi Bossa, a 70-year-old Ugandan appeals judge at the International Criminal Court, is speaking from Madrid — one of several ICC magistrates formally sanctioned by the Trump administration for their roles in investigations touching American and Israeli officials. What unsettled her most was not the political pressure itself, but the language used to deliver it: an executive order that placed her name alongside those of terrorists and drug traffickers, as though conducting international criminal investigations were morally equivalent to organized crime.
Bossa came to the ICC in 2018 after a career shaped by proximity to the worst of human behavior. She had worked at the UN tribunal prosecuting architects of the Rwandan genocide. Before that, she spent years in Uganda's legal aid system defending women whose husbands controlled their property, expelled them for contracting HIV, and faced no legal consequence. She became a judge, she said, because she wanted to help the vulnerable. That conviction has not changed.
What has changed is the terrain. The sanctions have made the work practically treacherous. Banking apps tied to the U.S. financial system become inaccessible. Witnesses and investigators hesitate, knowing that cooperation with the prosecutor could expose them to the same treatment. Cases involving Gaza, Afghanistan, and other conflicts stall as the human infrastructure of accountability grows fearful. The message, Bossa said, is clear: bend, or be treated as a criminal.
She did not soften her assessment when pressed. If the conclusion is that Trump views the ICC as a criminal enterprise, she said, the executive order itself supports it. The European Union has offered condemnation and promises, but a blocking statute to neutralize the sanctions has not materialized. Other ICC judges, those who issued warrants related to Ukraine, have been convicted in absentia by Russia. The court is caught between great powers, each willing to turn legal instruments against judges who refuse to comply.
Bossa's view of human nature, tempered by decades of witnessing atrocity, is sober. People remain unnecessarily cruel, she said — the bad outshines the good. But she has not stopped. A judge's life is already lonely, she noted with a laugh; sanctions make it lonelier. Still, she soldiers on. She expects to find satisfaction when her term ends and the sanctions are lifted — when the contribution she has made can finally be seen for what it is. Until then, her conscience is clear.
Solomy Balungi Bossa sits in a Madrid conference room, a 70-year-old Ugandan appeals judge at the International Criminal Court, one of several ICC magistrates now formally sanctioned by the Trump administration for their work investigating American and Israeli officials. The sanctions came down last year, a response to ongoing ICC probes into conduct in Afghanistan and Gaza. What struck Bossa most was not the political rebuke itself, but the categorical language: the executive order that listed her and her colleagues alongside terrorists and drug traffickers, as though a judge conducting international investigations occupied the same moral and legal category as organized criminals.
Bossa arrived at the ICC in 2018 for a nine-year term, bringing with her decades of experience in international criminal justice. She had worked at the United Nations tribunal that prosecuted architects of the Rwandan genocide—cases that left permanent marks on her understanding of what humans are capable of doing to one another. Before that, she had spent years in Uganda's legal aid system, representing women trapped in marriages where husbands controlled property, where infection with HIV became grounds for expulsion from the home, where the law itself was written to favor men. She became a judge, she said, because she wanted to help women. That impulse—to use the bench as a tool for justice in a world structured against the vulnerable—never left her.
But the sanctions have made the work nearly impossible in practical terms. Banking becomes a maze when every app connects to the U.S. financial system and those connections are severed. Witnesses and investigators feel coerced, knowing that anyone who assists the prosecutor risks their own exposure. The people who could provide evidence in cases involving Gaza, Afghanistan, and elsewhere now hesitate to cooperate. The message, Bossa said, is unmistakable: comply with what the administration wants, or face the same treatment. It is a threat dressed in the language of law.
When asked directly whether Trump's approach amounts to treating the ICC like a criminal enterprise rather than an institution built for peace and justice, Bossa did not hedge. The conclusion, she said, is not misplaced. The executive order itself makes the equation explicit. That is how he views the court and those who work within it.
The European Union has condemned the sanctions and promised support, but the process moves slowly. A blocking statute that could neutralize the effects of American sanctions has not passed. Meanwhile, other judges—those who issued arrest warrants related to Ukraine—have been convicted in absentia by Russia and face their own legal jeopardy. The court finds itself caught between superpowers, each willing to weaponize the judicial system against magistrates who do not bend to their preferences.
Bossa's assessment of human nature, forged across decades of witnessing atrocity, is bleak but not despairing. Humans remain unnecessarily cruel and selfish, she said. The bad things outshine the good. Yet she has not abandoned the work. When asked about frustration, she laughed—a judge's life is lonely even without sanctions, she noted. Add the sanctions and it becomes lonelier still. But you soldier on. She will know satisfaction, she said, when her term ends and the sanctions are lifted, when her contribution can finally be realized. Until then, her conscience is clear. She does what she does because she believes it is right, even as the world's most powerful nation insists that belief itself is a form of criminality.
Citas Notables
Judges should not be punished for doing their work. Our duty is to decide cases based on facts and law, not as governments want them decided.— Solomy Balungi Bossa
Without the rule of law, without states ensuring courts function optimally, I don't think much can be done.— Solomy Balungi Bossa
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
You've been sanctioned for investigating American and Israeli officials. Did you expect that response when you took the cases?
No. We expect political pressure—that's the nature of the work. But to be listed alongside terrorists and drug peddlers, to have your banking frozen, to watch witnesses become afraid to cooperate—that's a different order of thing. It's not pressure. It's coercion.
The Trump administration says it's protecting American interests. How do you respond to that?
Every government believes its interests are paramount. But the ICC exists precisely because we agreed, after Nuremberg, after Rwanda, that some things transcend national interest. Crimes against humanity don't belong to one country. They belong to all of us.
Does the European Union's support actually help, or is it just words?
It helps, but slowly. They've condemned the sanctions, rallied around the court. But they haven't passed the blocking statute that would actually shield us from American financial pressure. So we're grateful, but we're still waiting.
You've spent your career witnessing what humans do to each other. Has that changed how you see the world?
It's made me realistic. We're still unnecessarily cruel. But it's also shown me that good people exist, that they try. The problem is the bad things are louder, more visible. They shake your faith.
What happens to the victims in Gaza, Afghanistan, Sudan—the people whose cases depend on your work—if the court loses credibility?
They lose their only avenue for accountability. Without the rule of law, without judges willing to investigate, impunity becomes the default. And once impunity is the default, the atrocities don't stop. They multiply.