In a development that has sent tremors through the corridors of international law and the minibars of Fleet Street, the Democratic Republic of Congo has officially filed a case at the International Court of Justice against its pint-sized, gorilla-wrestling neighbour, Rwanda. The charge? A litany of grievances so tangled it would make a Gordian knot look like a shoelace. But the true absurdity, the punchline to this bitter joke, is that the United Kingdom, that sceptered isle of queue-loving, tea-sipping, Brexit-bungling bureaucrats, will provide the deciding votes. Yes, you heard that correctly. The same nation that gave us the partition of India, the Iraq War, and the frankly indefensible decision to put pineapple on pizza in some establishments is now the arbiter of justice in the heart of Africa.
One imagines the scene at the Peace Palace in The Hague. The Great Hall of Justice, with its stained glass windows and portraits of jurists with faces like constipated parrots. The judges of the ICJ, resplendent in their ermine and velvet, sit like a row of puffed-up pigeons. Among them, two British jurists, Lord Mightbother and Lady Perhapslater, both of whom have probably never been east of Calais without a government-issue hip flask. They will listen to the arguments. They will stroke their chins. They will make notes with fountain pens that cost more than a Congolese village's annual water supply. And then, when the votes are tallied, their decision will carry the weight of a Farage opinion on immigration.
Let us consider the case. The DR Congo, a nation so vast and mineral-rich that it makes Saudi Arabia look like a car boot sale, is accusing Rwanda of supporting rebel groups. Rebels who, if the headlines are to be believed, are engaged in a violent struggle for control of coltan, the magical dust that powers your smartphone. So the Congo wants justice. But what is justice in a region where the prize is a mineral that keeps the West scrolling through cat memes? The ICJ will deliberate. They will weigh evidence. They will produce a ruling that, regardless of its content, will be ignored by both parties within a fortnight. It is the diplomatic equivalent of a traffic warden ticketing a tank.
And what of the UK's role? The Foreign Office, that glorious institution that speaks in a language so passive it could make a sloth feel hyperactive, has issued a statement. 'We welcome the referral and believe in the peaceful resolution of disputes through international law.' Translated from Diplomat to English: 'We have absolutely no idea what's going on, but we sent a memo.' The British judges, meanwhile, will no doubt be guided by the highest principles: precedent, evidence, and whether they can get a decent grouse for dinner.
The irony, of course, is that the UK itself has a rather chequered history with the ICJ. Remember the Chagos Islands? Yes, that little advisory opinion a few years back that said 'give the islands back' and we responded with a collective shrug and a press release about 'ongoing negotiations'. So now the Congo comes to London, cap in hand, expecting a fair hearing. They might as well ask a fox to guard the chicken coop.
In the meantime, the real war continues. People die. Refugees flee. The coltan keeps flowing. And in a cosy chamber in The Hague, a British judge named Nigel glances at his watch, thinks of the agreeable claret waiting at his hotel, and raises an eyebrow. Justice, as we know, is blind. But in this case, she might also be a little drunk. I raise my glass of Aviation Gin (the only gin that truly understands the concept of air travel as a metaphor for existential despair) to the ICJ. May your rulings be as swift as the Congolese rivers, and as permanent as a tweet from a soon-to-be-indicted dictator.
