IN A quiet courtroom in the Hague, history stirred. A legal ripple, as gentle as a sigh from the Pacific, reached the shorelines of global governance. The International Court of Justice declared, in an advisory fashion though, that one country may, indeed, sue another for climate change. The words hung heavy in the air, stirring both celebrations and scepticism. Rightly so.
The court did not issue a binding judgement, but its opinion is anything but inconsequential. For countries such as Vanuatu, the Marshall Islands and others edging towards oblivion in the face of rising seas, the ruling feels like justice emerging from the shadows. Yet, for all its idealism, the ICJ opinion raises more questions than it answers. Chief among them is: how does one measure and prove harm caused by an invisible, borderless, multi-decadal phenomenon like climate change?
If Tuvalu is flooded next week, can it point a legal finger at Texas? If cyclones batter the Bay of Bengal, can Bangladesh hold Brussels accountable? If drought scorches the Sahel, can Niger sue New York?
There is an undeniable poetic justice in the concept. For too long, countries that have contributed the least to global warming have suffered its gravest consequences. The emitters of soot and smoke built empires on the back of carbon while island nations gasped for breath beneath the rising tide. But translating this moral clarity into a legal remedy is another matter altogether. Law demands evidence, not emotion 鈥� causation, not catharsis.
To sue a country for climate damage is to venture into a legal labyrinth. Who, after all, is to blame when the atmosphere warms? Is it the state that extracted the coal or the corporation that burnt it? Is it the nation that became industrialised in the 19th century or the one that still relies on fossil fuels for survival in the 21st? Is it the government that signed the Paris agreement or the one that exited it two years later?
The International Court of Justice, in its wisdom, sidestepped these intricacies by stating that countries have a duty to make the most ambitious efforts to curb emissions and a failure to do so could constitute a violation of international obligations. But what constitutes 鈥榓mbition鈥�? And, how do we calculate whether a given country鈥檚 emissions have led to the loss of a coastal village in Kiribati?
This is where things become dangerously murky. Climate science, for all its precision, does not function like a crime lab. You cannot trace the carbon atom that flooded a field or destroyed a school. Attribution studies, the emerging science of linking specific weather events to climate change, can offer probabilities, not certainties. We may know that a heatwave in Canada was made 20 times more likely by climate change, but we cannot prove that emissions from China specifically caused it. And yet, legal liability demands specificity.
The court鈥檚 opinion bravely attempts at circumventing these limitations by proposing a broader understanding of international responsibility. But here too lies a contradiction. The international law is grounded in sovereignty, consent and jurisdiction. If the United States or China, the two largest emitters, have not accepted the jurisdiction of the International Court of Justice, how then can they be compelled to compensate the Solomon Islands or Bangladesh? One cannot hold a ghost accountable in a courtroom that refuses to enter.
The ruling does, however, open up intriguing possibilities in domestic courts. Climate justice activists, emboldened by this opinion, may now bring lawsuits in national jurisdictions 鈥� a Bangladeshi NGO, for an example, filing a case in a US federal court citing American oil companies鈥� emissions as materially harmful to their people. The court may not recognise international advisory opinions as binding, but it cannot ignore the shifting global legal tide.
The ruling also subtly shifts responsibility from corporations to governments. It is no longer just ExxonMobil or Shell in the dock but the states that permitted their emissions. This legal reorientation could create an unprecedented cascade of litigation, where plaintiffs argue not just corporate negligence but national complicity. It is, in essence, an indictment of governance, of policy and of wilful blindness.
One cannot help but reflect on the political implications of this. A developing country, for an example, wins a judgement for damage against a wealthy nation, say, $10 billion for infrastructural loss. Who pays? Taxpayers in the developed country, many of whom may be barely scraping by under inflation and austerity? Do we risk creating a geopolitical tinderbox where climate justice in the global south is perceived as economic punishment in the global north?
Perhaps, this explains why countries such as the United Kingdom, despite professing their commitment to climate action, quietly bristle at the notion of legal obligation. It is easy to preach morality at climate conferences than to accept liability in a court of law. Climate justice has for long been a rhetorical device. This ruling dares to turn it into a receivable invoice.
Yet, one must also acknowledge the beauty of what happened in the Hague. This was not a lawsuit initiated by politicians or climate diplomats but by a group of young Pacific law students 鈥� a David-sized cohort staring down a Goliath of global inaction. One of them, Tongan student Siosiua Veikun, stood outside the courtroom barely able to speak. 鈥榃e鈥檙e in a whirlwind of emotions,鈥� he said. 鈥業t鈥檚 a victory we can take back to our community with pride.鈥�
What a tragic irony that the smallest nations must fight the hardest for their survival. Flora Vano of Vanuatu described the ruling as 鈥榯he fruit of our suffering.鈥� This fruit, however, is only half-ripened. For all the jubilation, the court鈥檚 opinion does not force anyone to do anything. It cannot compel the United States to slash emissions or require China to pay restitution. It can only advise, recommend and moralise. But that, perhaps, is its quiet power.
Legal revolutions rarely begin with verdicts. They begin with opinions, dissents and whispered declarations. What the International Court of Justice has done is to legitimise the grievance of climate-vulnerable states, to enshrine suffering as a matter not just of weather but of justice. It will be up to national governments, civil society and future courts to complete the arc of accountability.
And this brings us back to the original conundrum: if Country A wants to sue Country B for climate damages, what exactly must it prove?
Will a melting glacier in Nepal be able to identify its perpetrators? Can a flooded village in Fiji trace its tragedy back to Berlin or Boston? These questions, for now, have no clear answers. But, perhaps, that is precisely the point. The law must now deal with the ethereal, the cumulative and the shared responsibility of humanity. Climate change is the ultimate collective action failure. The International Court of Justice has dared to suggest that this failure need not be legally invisible.
Still, one must remain cautious. As Harge Narulla, a climate barrister, rightly warned, 鈥楾he ICJ has no police force.鈥� The weight of its words depends entirely on the political will of those it admonishes. That may yet be its Achilles鈥� heel.
But the seed has been planted. If the past century gave us the Nuremberg principles, the next may give us the Suva principles 鈥� legal doctrines rooted in planetary stewardship. Climate justice is no longer the cry of activists on the margins. It is now a matter of jurisprudence.
For nations such as Bangladesh, which stands at the frontline of this unfolding disaster, this ruling offers both hope and a legal lifeline. It is no longer inconceivable that future climate refugees, displaced communities and battered economies could knock on courtroom doors, not with pleas for aid but with demands for justice.
And that, despite all the uncertainties, all the geopolitical friction, all the scientific complexity, is a moment worth marking.
Because when a courtroom halfway across the world dares to recognise that drowning countries have rights, even if in principle, then, perhaps, justice is not such a distant shore after all.
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HM Nazmul Alam ([email protected]) is an academic, journalist and political analyst.
