HUMAN RIGHTS & HUMAN WELFARE

Ubi Jus, Ibi Remedium

By Steven M. Schneebaum

Justice Across Borders: The Struggle for Human Rights in U.S.

The driving force behind what Professor Jeffrey Davis regularly calls “the human rights
revolution” is actually quite simple, and is anything but revolutionary. It is the conviction that if
human rights law is, in reality, a legal system, then the rights that it recognizes must be legally
enforceable. “Rights” backed up by no mechanisms to generate remedies may be fine goals to which
good people express fervent dedication, but they are essentially useless for anything beyond
inspiration, since their owners lack the ability to deploy the coercive force of the state to protect
themselves.
Legal rights are, in this regard, quite a different thing. They have actual content, which can be
gleaned from texts. They import correlative obligations: that is, they contain or imply
commandments addressed to identifiable individuals to refrain from conduct that would violate
those rights. And while their interpretations may provoke debate, the notion that a sufficiently
proven abuse justifies an officially-imposed remedy does not.
Professor Davis attempts to give a chronology of the major litigation in the United States in
which the international law of human rights has been taken into account. Yet his analysis fails to
make the critical distinction between the jurisdiction to prescribe, the right of a sovereign to regulate
conduct through legislation, and the jurisdiction to enforce, which is to say the power of the
judiciary to entertain cases, determine outcomes, and award relief. It also obscures the differences
between civil and criminal law and procedure, suggesting that the power of a court to hear a civil
case arising in a foreign territory somehow compromises the sovereignty of the situs of the injury.
It appears to be the central thesis of Professor Davis’s volume that the willingness of United
States courts to hear private suits alleging breaches of norms defined and protected by international
law has something to do with universal jurisdiction, by which states may punish offenders against
criminal-law norms who may be found within their territories. But that is simply incorrect, even if it
is a common error committed by commentators on these developments. Moreover, while it is
appropriate to celebrate the insights and the courage of the lawyers who realized what had to
happen for the law of human rights to be accepted as law by United States courts, the measure of
their success lies in their ability to present their arguments within the traditional context of the law
of torts.
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The champions of the developments in the law that Professor Davis celebrates would no doubt
chafe at his description of them as “revolutionaries.” That is not what they were, or what they are.
They are lawyers, acting in the best tradition of what lawyers do. Understanding the significance of
this distinction requires starting with some basic principles about the interplay between domestic
and international law.

I. Public Rights and Private Rights

Legal rights may be held by individuals, by groups, or by societies as a whole. Individual rights
comprise those that are mine simply by virtue of my citizenship, or my humanity (I have, for
instance, the right to write, or to read, this article, without fear that its content may provoke an
official reaction). Group rights are the ones that inhere in collectivities, but are different from the
aggregate of the rights of the individual members (the right of self-determination is an example).
And societal or public rights are those to which the state has laid claim through its own
constitutional procedures, to protect its own values, traditions, and moral convictions (as when the
state, on behalf of its members, requires that a person be properly licensed before holding herself
out as qualified to offer legal advice).
Public rights and private ones are essentially different, not just in who owns them, but in the
means provided to address violations, and in the remedies that may be ordered when such violations
are proved. The invocation of the rights of the state as a whole against an alleged offender is the
province of the criminal law, through whose offices an offender may be subjected to a penalty to be
paid to society, designed at once to reflect the magnitude of societal disapproval of the illegal
conduct and to deter its repetition. Private rights, meanwhile, are vindicated through civil legal
procedures, which authorize bilateral transactions permitting the alleged victim of an illegal act to
achieve some measure of recompense, usually financial, from its perpetrator. This system may
employ crude methods of measurement, but its goal is to achieve justice by putting the victim where
he would have been had the wrongdoing not occurred, while depriving the perpetrator of any
advantage he may have garnered from his bad conduct.
That specific events may constitute infringements of both public and private rights does not
collapse the fundamental distinction between them, which is critical to a study of any legal system’s
architecture. Certainly my reckless driving may simultaneously violate the right of the city (and of its
citizens at large) to good order and safety (requiring me to pay a fine to the municipality, and
perhaps to suffer a temporary loss of liberty), and a certain pedestrian’s right to cross the street
without injury (resulting in the award of money damages, which must be remitted to the hapless
plaintiff). But the offense against the public—the crime—justifies the pursuit of remedies not just by
those it directly harmed, but by officials asserting authority to bring prosecution in the name of “the
People,” for it is they whose collective right (if I am guilty as charged) has been abused.
The state itself is the appropriate prosecutor of criminal acts, because it is their notional victim.
It follows from this that an individual state is generally permitted the right to outlaw or to punish
conduct only when it takes place within the state’s legitimate sphere of operations. Of course, that is
not quite the same as restricting a state’s jurisdiction to proscribe criminal activity to its own borders.
Territoriality may be the first rule and guiding principle of such jurisdiction, but were the analysis to
stop there, many kinds of behavior whose prohibition is of proper concern to a state, and whose
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perpetration threatens the state with great harm, would be outside its reach. Significant exceptions
ensure that jurisdiction to proscribe is not coterminous with geographical boundaries.
International law countenances, for example, a state’s extraterritorial extension of criminal laws
to protect nationals abroad by criminalizing acts that target them. It allows a state to restrict conduct
that, although not occurring on its territory, foreseeably causes direct effects there. And, in some
cases, it authorizes domestic enforcement officers to apprehend and to bind over for trial individuals
who have committed certain kinds of actions deemed to be offenses against all nations, separately
and together.
This last exception to the territorial restrictions on the power of a national legal system to
proscribe and to punish conduct is the one generally called “universal jurisdiction.” In certain
instances, universal jurisdiction is a matter of logical necessity: when criminality, such as piracy, by its
very definition takes place outside the boundaries of any state, it follows that no state has a greater
claim than any other to assert the right to deter it, and all may apprehend, try, and punish its
perpetrators. Universal jurisdiction may be justified also when the threat posed by the prohibited
conduct is to the international legal regime itself, rather than to the laws of any local jurisdiction. Or,
the right of states to arrest, prosecute, and punish under the doctrine of universal jurisdiction may
reflect the unanimity with which certain conduct is deemed by customary international law itself to
be unacceptable and reprehensible. People who commit such acts—slave traders, torturers,
génocidaires—are punishable without regard to national borders or to the vagaries of national legal
systems, because they are “hostes humani generis”: enemies of all mankind.
In modern democracies, legislatures make the laws that permit the judicial enforcement of these
exceptions to the principle of territorial jurisdiction. Courts, whose powers are delineated by
constitutions, do not. In the United States, for example, Congress has deemed it a violation of
national law to hijack a civil aircraft in another country’s skies, if an American “is on board, or
would have been on board” (18 U.S.C. § 32(b)). The US, the European Union, Japan, and many
other developed national legal systems regulate the behavior of businesses outside their territories in
order to defend economic regimes, such as the antitrust laws aimed at protecting freedom of
competition. Their right to do so is in no way restricted by the emergence of international bodies,
such as the World Trade Organization, which promote multinational governance of other aspects of
global commerce. Indeed, if anything, the existence of such institutions is an endorsement of the
notion that even the regulation of trade could not be conducted efficiently were it restricted to
national frontiers.
Our Constitution itself authorizes Congress by legislation “to define and punish offenses . . .
against the law of nations” (Article I, § 8, cl. 10), and this authorization has been found to be a
sufficient basis for US criminal laws, for instance, against piracy. No constitutional constraint would
stop our legislature from expanding its interpretation of the reach of international law to address
other extraterritorial violations of public rights. And, in recent times, precisely this has happened.
For example, Congress has enacted legislation defining torture as a violation of US law, and
providing punishment for torturers found on our shores, no matter where the offense may have
been committed (18 U.S.C. § 2340A). Under this authority, “Chuckie” Taylor, son of the former
Liberian leader who himself faces trial before the United Nations special criminal tribunal for Sierra
Leone, was sentenced in January 2009 to ninety-seven years in a US federal penitentiary for atrocities
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committed in Liberia, against Liberians: the first case in which a defendant has been convicted in the
United States of committing such an offense far from our shores. And although the younger Taylor
has US citizenship, it was his presence here, not the color of his passport, which gave the court its
authority to proceed.
To read these exceptions to the principle of territorial jurisdiction too broadly, however, would
encroach upon traditional as well as contemporary concepts of sovereignty, which still underpin the
international legal regime, including most importantly the United Nations Charter. Such an
expansion would also defy the underlying logic of public rights, since the state prosecuting an
offense cannot generally bear the burden of proving that the alleged criminal conduct violated its
own legitimately protectable interests, as opposed to those of the polity in which the acts occurred.
It is not, for example, a violation of US law for a Paraguayan to murder another Paraguayan in
Paraguay, because such an act, however outrageous, poses no threat to the public order of the
United States. Even if the offender can be found in this country, he is not generally subject to
criminal prosecution here. If there is a treaty in place, the United States may be obligated to hand the
alleged perpetrator over to Paraguay to stand trial. But the sovereignty of each member of the
community of nations entails the right to assert its own interests in establishing judicially-enforceable
regulation of the conduct of those subject to its laws, and generally mandates that other countries
refrain from arrogating to themselves a similar right. It is not open to Country A to tell Country B
that an act committed by one B national against another on its own soil, which act is acceptable
under the latter’s legal system, offends against the sensibilities of the former, thus justifying the right
to prosecute the Country B national if she may be found physically present in A.
So while a murder in the United States can be said to be a crime against the vested interest of
American society in defending its domestic tranquility, a homicide in another country unconnected
to us through nationality of perpetrator or victim, and without direct effect here, simply does not
infringe this nation’s right to preserve law and order. The state in which the act occurred would have
a legitimate grievance if one of its citizens were to be criminally tried elsewhere for a purely local
offense, however heinous the act, and however arrogant the offender in claiming to have defeated
apprehension through flight. For these reasons, it is unlikely in the extreme that a national legislature
would attempt to exercise jurisdiction to proscribe such an act, or would empower the judicial
branch to conduct proceedings seeking to punish the accused actor. And were it to do so, it would
risk diplomatic (and perhaps legal) denunciation that it has overstepped its sphere of legitimate
regulation.
In exploring the extraterritorial reach of civil jurisprudence, however, in which individual and
not collective rights are asserted, entirely different considerations come into play. There is no reason
a municipal court in Detroit may not hear a lawsuit between two parties properly before it to
determine whether the defendant is liable to the plaintiff for damages resulting from a traffic
accident at the other end of the tunnel in Windsor, Ontario. No one should be offended by this: it
does not involve an encroachment on Canadian sovereignty. The State of Michigan neither portrays
itself as the victim of an actionable injury nor seeks to vindicate a public right of its own. No claim is
asserted either on behalf of the Canadian nation or some other foreign entity alleging a sufficient
interest in the outcome to justify extraterritorial reach. Nor is it necessary for the legislative branch
to enact laws declaring the poor driving that caused the accident to be illegal in Michigan, since its

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legality is not the issue: negligence is the issue, which is to say the existence and the breach of a duty
of care owed by one private party to another.
Professor Davis repeatedly asserts that there is some kind of common law principle by which
courts are constrained to hear only matters that arise within their own territorial jurisdiction. But
that is simply wrong. There is nothing new or radical about the proposition that domestic courts can
and do open their doors to civil litigants seeking to protect private legal rights allegedly violated in
other countries. Indeed, there is nothing in principle requiring justification or reconciliation of such
jurisdiction with notions of sovereignty. That concept is implicated only when the state places itself
in the role of the offended party, claiming that it, and not some individual, suffered legally
cognizable and compensable injury by virtue of acts committed outside its borders.
This detour through basic concepts of jurisprudence and sovereignty is necessary in order to
dissipate a confusion that seems to have enshrouded efforts to develop international human rights
law as a means of pursuing justice in domestic courts. In particular, the significance of the US Alien
Tort Statute, 28 U.S.C. § 1350, as a device for the enforcement of emerging legal norms has given
rise to misunderstandings that are neatly, albeit probably inadvertently, demonstrated in Professor
Davis’s book.

II. What the ATS Is, and What It Isn’t

The language of the Alien Tort Statute, enacted by the first Congress as part of the Judiciary Act
of 1789, is deceptively straightforward. The Statute grants to the federal district courts “original
jurisdiction over any civil action by an alien for a tort only, committed in violation of the law of
nations or a treaty of the United States.”
Many of those who collaborated in the construction of the Judiciary Act were among the
authors of the Constitution, ratified only two years earlier. They were well-versed in the common
law. As they staked out the metes and bounds for the jurisdiction of the federal court system they
were creating, they were aware of certain basic propositions to be kept in mind by anyone trying to
make sense of their legislative bequest to us.
First, the founders understood that torts against the person have always been seen by the
common law as transitory actions, meaning that the defendant may be held liable to answer for his
deeds wherever he may be located. As Lord Mansfield wrote for the English High Court before the
War of Independence began, in Mostyn v. Fabrigas, 1 Cowp. 161 (1774), “there is not a color of doubt
but that any action which is transitory may be laid in any county in England, though the matter
arises beyond the seas.” Thus federal civil jurisdiction over torts that may arise outside its territory
gave rise to no suspicion that the new nation was arrogating to itself power that it did not deserve,
or to which it was not entitled by the international law of the day.
Second, the drafters of the Judiciary Act were surely aware that the Constitution itself (in Article
III, § 2) had established federal court jurisdiction over civil actions between citizens and aliens. So
they knew that they had already opened the doors of the federal courts to foreigners, in their civil
pursuit of American citizen defendants. Since tort suits brought by aliens against citizens could
already be brought in federal courts here, there was nothing radical about providing that a tort case
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initiated by an alien could be resolved in these same courts of special jurisdiction, even if it was
against another foreigner, so long as the defendant had sufficient legal presence in the United States.
Finally, the failed experiment of the Articles of Confederation had made the drafters keenly
conscious of the need to concentrate in the federal institutions, rather than those of the States, all
matters that might have implications for the new country’s foreign policy, which was to be national
and uniform in character. One of the causes of the demise of the Articles, indeed, had been precisely
their failure to centralize foreign policy, treating each of the constituent members of the union as
itself possessing what we today would call international legal personality.
Section 9 of the Judiciary Act expanded the jurisdiction of the federal courts beyond what the
Constitution had specifically provided, by empowering those courts to hear a case between aliens:
that is, one in which both plaintiff and defendant were foreign and there was therefore no
jurisdiction based solely on diversity of citizenship. Such jurisdiction depends only on the special
circumstances that the case sound in tort (thus avoiding throwing the courts open to a flood of
commercial litigation between foreigners), and that it require a judicial determination whether the
law of nations has been violated. The latter was considered a question far too sensitive to consign to
the mercies of State judges who had no obligation, and had sworn no oath, to serve the interests of
the nation first.
It has frequently been suggested that, since the only violations of the law of nations that could
have given rise to tort actions in 1789 were piracy and the interference with the privileges of
internationally-protected persons (such as ambassadors, ministers, and consuls), the legislative intent
behind the Alien Tort Statute limits its scope to those few cases. The statute, however, is
unambiguous. As Justice Scalia and his fellow conservatives—the very ones so keen to restrict the
ATS—routinely and correctly point out, an elementary canon of statutory interpretation precludes
recourse to extrinsic sources when an enacted text is clear. The authors of the statute must be
presumed to have known that the contents of the law of nations would change over time. Just as we
routinely apply the Interstate Commerce Clause of the Constitution (Article I, § 8(3)) to means of
transportation and communication that could not have been imagined two centuries ago, so we must
take the language of the venerable statute as we find it, applying it to modern causes and institutions.
To the extent that what the drafters called “the law of nations” has come to include norms of
human rights and their protection, then the Judiciary Act gives the federal courts jurisdiction over
tort suits, brought by aliens, alleging violations of those rights, unless and until Congress declares
otherwise.
This is exactly what Justice Souter held in the only case to provide the Supreme Court’s guidance
on the meaning of the Statute, Sosa v. Alvarez-Machain, 542 U.S. 692 (2004). He declined the
invitation of the Bush Administration to eviscerate the legislation, unsurprisingly holding—to the
chagrin of many on both sides of the issue—that it means exactly what it says.
That is, the Alien Tort Statute opens the doors of the federal courts to certain types of civil
litigation that would otherwise be relegated to State tribunals. It is not the source of any causes of
action, and it is ungrammatical to say that human rights abuses “violate” the act. In short, the ATS is
not normative. It is jurisdictional. As the Sosa Court put it, the Statute “address[ed] the power of the
courts to entertain cases concerned with a certain subject,” Sosa, 542 U.S. at 714, to wit: torts alleged

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to have been committed in violation of international law, as that body of law may be understood
from time to time.
But that is the strength and potential utility of the Alien Tort Statute as a vehicle for vindicating
private rights, without the arrogation of extraterritorial jurisdiction. The ATS provides great
opportunities to those who would use it wisely, and judiciously, to bring cases before domestic
courts to defend rights protected by international law.

III. Why ATS Cases Matter

Every tort suit requires the court to determine whether the defendant owed the plaintiff a duty
of care, whether the duty was violated, and whether the violation caused compensable injury. As in
any other civil litigation, however, before reviewing these substantive matters, the court must decide
such preliminary issues as jurisdiction, over both the subject matter of the suit and the person of the
defendant. If the forum is a federal one, it must also determine that entertaining the action does not
transgress any of the special constitutional and statutory rules (as well as the equitable and comity
constraints) that circumscribe the authority of the federal courts.
The ATS expressly lays down two specific jurisdictional prerequisites, in addition to those
applicable to all actions that sound in tort. First, the plaintiff must be an alien: a matter rarely in
serious dispute. The second requirement is the focus of nearly all of the reported ATS jurisprudence:
can commission of the tort alleged in the complaint correctly be characterized as “in violation of the
law of nations or a treaty of the United States”?
The issue before the court is not whether to “convict” the defendant. Rather, the court must
determine whether the complaint, assuming that its well-pleaded allegations are true, asserts a
transgression of international law. The ATS was revived from nearly two centuries of slumber in the
landmark case of Filartiga v. Pena-Irala, 630 F.2d 876 (2d Cir. 1980). In that case, the two plaintiffs
were the father and sister of a young man who was allegedly tortured to death by the chief of police
of Asuncion, Paraguay, in retaliation for his father’s political activities opposed to the regime of
Alfredo Stroessner. The defendant was found within the jurisdiction of the United States District
Court for the Eastern District of New York. In the complaint against him, brought under the ATS,
the plaintiffs were surely aliens, and the action sounded in tort. The question for decision—that is,
the question that would determine whether the federal court had jurisdiction over the subject matter
of the case—was whether allegations of torture were sufficient to implicate “the law of nations.”
In his unpublished decision in Filartiga at first instance, Judge Eugene Nickerson of the US
District Court for the Eastern District of New York, considering himself constrained by precedent,
reluctantly concluded that for violation of the law of nations to have occurred, perpetrator and
victim must be of different nationalities. The precedential significance of the decision by the Second
Circuit on appeal—which reversed the district court and remanded the case for trial—lay in the
proposition that this is no longer an accurate statement of the law, even if it ever was. Rather, in the
latter half of the twentieth century, the way in which a state and its agents treat its own nationals had
come to be recognized as a proper matter for concern of the international legal regime. Every
individual is the owner of private rights recognized in international law, and therefore in principle
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enforceable in the United States, even against those acting in the name of his or her own
government.
As Justice Horace Gray (not, as Professor Davis writes at page 32, Justice Oliver Wendell
Holmes) famously held for the Supreme Court in The Paquete Habana, 175 U.S. 677, 700 (1900),
international law is part of our national legal system, “to be ascertained and administered by the
courts of justice of appropriate jurisdiction, as often as questions of right depending upon it are duly
presented for their determination.” And the ATS does precisely this: it requires the courts to decide
the meaning and reach of the law of nations when adjudicating cases before them (and in this
particular statutory context, deciding at the door of the courthouse whether their power reaches the
issues presented).
In this sense, what the ATS asks courts to do is what they have always done, in a manner fully
consistent with our constitutional structure and the separation of powers. It requires judges assigned
the judicial power of the United States in conformity with Article III of the Constitution to
determine whether the allegations of the complaint they are called upon to adjudicate disclose an
action arising under the laws of the land. Formulating the legal issue this way does not, of course,
underestimate the difficulty of resolving it, or applying that issue to the facts, in any given case. But
the vindication of private rights under the law of torts does not require the extension of universal
jurisdiction merely because it asks the courts to determine whether customary international law
prohibits the conduct of which the defendant stands accused. The question is always whether the
plaintiff’s rights were violated, not whether the state’s were. Neither the legislature nor the courts are
asked to assert or to defend the interests of society as a whole.
Yet, as a practical matter, the ATS does take the concept of transitory torts one step beyond its
traditional formulation. The Filartiga case could have been brought, and would have been heard,
before a New York State court, and its proceedings would have been unremarkable. Before the
court would have stood an individual defendant, found on the streets of Jackson Heights, New
York, and alleged to have committed a brutal assault, resulting in the death of the plaintiffs’
decedent, in Paraguay. The defendant was entitled to no personal immunity from suit, and the
nation in whose name he claimed to have acted refused to assert the act of state doctrine in his
defense. Assuming that service of process had been effected properly, the State court could have
tried the Filartiga case before a courtroom empty of spectators.
But when the same case was brought before a United States district court under the ATS, before
it could be concluded that these plaintiffs were potentially entitled to a remedy in tort against this
defendant, the court had first to determine that the conduct alleged—torture under color of national
authority, resulting in death—in fact constituted a violation of international law. Judge Irving
Kaufman found that it did, observing that torture is forbidden not only by a host of instruments
binding on Paraguay, but also by that nation’s own constitution, as well as by the evolved norms of
customary international law. The fact that the victim and the offender were both Paraguayan, and
the situs of the offense Paraguay, did not affect the legitimate assertion of private rights guaranteed,
and protected, by international law.
The enormous significance of this holding derives from the fact that, for the first time, a United
States court expressly concluded that the international law of human rights imposed obligations on
individuals, which duties would be violated by such acts as torture. This has absolutely nothing to do

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with any extraterritorial expansion of US federal court jurisdiction: Filartiga was a tort suit, and the
rights the plaintiffs sought to vindicate were their own private rights, not public rights whose
defense is the role of the state.

IV. “Pas Aux Armes, Citoyens!” Dismantle the Barricades!

If international law is part of our domestic law, then asking judges to decide whether an act of
torture allegedly conducted under the at least apparent authority of a state (or an extrajudicial killing,
or complicity with the apartheid regime of South Africa) is or is not consistent with the law of
nations, is a classic invocation of “the province and duty of the judicial department,” as defined by
Chief Justice John Marshall in Marbury v. Madison, 1 Cranch (5 U.S.) 137 (1803), which is “to say
what the law is.” This is not a “revolutionary” notion. Nor is it sensible to describe as
“revolutionary,” almost a quarter of a millennium later, a strict reading of legislative language
expressly enacted by the First Congress, in 1789.
Is it possible that determining whether a particular act, undertaken by an agent of a foreign state,
is “a violation of the law of nations or a treaty of the United States,” may require the courts to assay
information outside the scope of their usual dockets? Of course it is, but the canon permits
(sometimes it even compels) courts in such circumstances to defer to the political branches. Is it
possible that an ATS case may be brought against a defendant who is entitled to immunity under the
Foreign Sovereign Immunities Act, or who may legitimately ask the courts to stay their hand by
appeal to the act of state doctrine? Again, of course it is, and the interpretation of that Act and that
doctrine are familiar exercises for the judiciary. Is it possible that an ATS plaintiff may ask the courts
to expand the theretofore recognized boundaries of international law, arguing that a particular act of
which she was a victim has, through metamorphosis of the legal regime, become a violation today
although its status yesterday was less certain? Once more, it most certainly is, but the scope of the
law has always been subject to the pulls and pushes of advocacy. Were it not so, a Constitution
written in large measure by men who purported to own other men as chattels could hardly have
been transformed, just two centuries later, into a beacon of hope for the world’s oppressed.
Filartiga was not, seen in retrospect, a hard case. Later litigation has raised far more nuanced and
vexing questions concerning whether, in fact, defendants’ alleged conduct did constitute torts in
violation of international law at the time of commission, and even if it did, whether the court should
nonetheless abstain from hearing the case out of deference to equitable principles, or to the
authority of the other, coequal branches of government.
Yet United States judges have found numerous torturers and abusers who sought refuge and
anonymity on our shores to be liable to their victims, depriving the perpetrators of safe haven
(Professor Davis recounts the particular facts of many of these cases). The courts have held that the
depredations of the Philippine people by their deposed President Marcos infringed their private
rights, and were actionable under the ATS because they were also violations of international law (in
In re Estate of Marcos Human Rights Litigation, 978 F.2d 493 (9th Cir. 1993). They have concluded that
rape and forced pregnancy, used as weapons of war, violate the law of nations, and for such
violations the leader of the Republika Srpska, Radovan Karadzic, may be held legally responsible (in
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Kadic v. Karadzic, 70 F.3d 232 (2d Cir. 1995)). They have denied to corporations the excuse of willful
ignorance when their government joint venture partners abused the rights of ethnic minorities (in
Doe v. UNOCAL, 395 F.3d 932 (9th Cir. 2002)).
Many factors have come into play in judicial review of those issues: whether the asserted
international norm has actually become customary law by accretion of state practice supported by
opinio juris; whether, even assuming the existence of an unambiguous customary norm, it is addressed
to this defendant and contains this plaintiff within its scope of protection; whether the defendant is
entitled to the immunity from suit that the United States extends as a matter of law (not, as
Professor Davis seems to suggest, out of comity or custom) to sovereigns and their agencies and
instrumentalities; and whether, even assuming that the statutory jurisdictional prerequisites have
been satisfied, separation of powers doctrine suggests that the court should nevertheless decline to
proceed.
And many questions remain to be addressed. The extent to which private actors, particularly
corporations, may be liable in tort for human rights violations committed by their public joint
venture collaborators remains unsettled, and is certain to be the subject matter of litigation over the
next few years. The precise degree of involvement by a state to be required before an act of simple
thuggery may properly be portrayed as a violation of the law of nations has not yet been resolved by
the courts. Cases brought to vindicate even well-established rights may continue to founder on
evidentiary reefs. And, of course, plaintiffs’ counsel—those from NGOs whose missions center on
the promotion of human rights, as well as those whose fees depend on litigation success—will
continue to prod, to probe, and to push the limits of those international law violations deemed
sufficiently “specific, universal, and obligatory” to justify invocation of federal jurisdiction under the
ATS after Sosa (see 542 U.S. at 732).
The hurdles that an Alien Tort Statute plaintiff must overcome are high and numerous.
Insistence that these hurdles be cleared cleanly, however, does not imply a concealed hostility to
international law in general, or to the law of human rights in particular. To the contrary, history has
taught that rights thrive best when their roots in the traditions of our common law system are
deepest, and when their development is carefully nurtured within those traditions. The recognition
that international law today embraces rights and obligations addressed to individuals requires no
reliance on anything beyond what our Constitution ordains and what our founders, in Congress
assembled, handed down to us over two centuries ago.
A legal system founded on precedent often does not readily accept the engrafting of rights
foreign to its original roots, and frequently rejects them as artificial political intrusions rather than
natural legal developments. Such efforts, however well-intentioned, invite legislative tinkering to
undo what may be seen as judicial activism irreconcilable with the common law. When part of the
aim of the exercise is to defend the proposition that international human rights law is law, and that
the rights it vouchsafes are legal in nature, it seems particularly unwise to risk denunciation of the
entire project by describing it as “revolutionary” when it manifestly is anything but.
To say this is in no way to undermine the creativity of the lawyers whose vision made the
Filartiga line of cases possible. Their invaluable contribution was precisely the realization that human
rights law, toward the end of the twentieth century, had taken its place in the international legal
pantheon: it was the source and protector of rights as well as obligations, and could be the basis for

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the imposition of remedies. That was an epochal step in the realization of the ambitions of those
who wrote, for example, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and ultimately, provides all of
us with the comfort of knowing that there is domestic jurisdiction over—and, therefore, the
prospect of judicial relief from—at the very least, what Justice David Souter called “settled violations
of the law of nations” (Sosa, 542 U.S. at 729-30).
Yet calling this a “revolution” is as misleading as were the predictions of the Bush
Administration (in its briefs before the Court) and its apologists (in the mainstream media) that, if
the Supreme Court did not take the opportunity presented by Sosa to overrule all of the private
litigation brought since Filartiga, the threats posed to US economic interests would cause massive
disinvestment, upheaval, and catastrophe. In common law systems, truly “revolutionary” judicial
decisions are nearly an oxymoron: decisions must be drawn from history and reconciled with what
other courts and judges have done, and in this respect the Second Circuit’s Filartiga opinion differed
in neither form nor jurisprudential approach from our standard common law heritage. Nor did the
courts, after Filartiga or because of it, even proclaim that they were adopting a new approach to the
Alien Tort Statute. What they said they were doing, on the contrary, was applying the standard
adjudicatory tools to standard disputes to be resolved, albeit with a heightened sense that the
incorporation of international law (and the international law of human rights in particular) into the
law of this nation had practical consequences, and was not merely a matter of aspirational
moralizing.
The caselaw that Professor Davis chronicles, beginning with Filartiga, amply demonstrates this
very lesson. There has been nothing radical about its maturation. It has not been thrown off stride
by sudden or unexplained turns in the road, nor has it seen rejection of the premises of the law of
torts in order to justify a result that a judge considered to be wise albeit not easily reconcilable with
precedent. This is not to defend every ATS outcome—whether expansive or narrow in its
interpretation of the statute’s reach—as correctly decided. There is no empirical evidence to suggest
that judges in these cases (even Supreme Court justices!) are any more or less prone to human error,
or to ideological influence, than are judges who rule on cases with lower profiles.
Yes, the courts have been conservative in their interpretation of the scope of the ATS, but
courts are by nature conservative in their construction of statutory language. Therein lies the
challenge for human rights advocates. It is neither helpful nor accurate to proclaim, as Professor
Davis hints, that every case in which it is concluded that the plaintiff did not carry his burden is a
defeat for human rights law as such (if not another avatar of the vast conspiracy to undermine the
development of international law more generally). Nor may each instance in which an ATS plaintiff
succeeds in obtaining a judgment be proclaimed a victory or vindication for human rights in gross.
“The struggle for human rights in U.S. courts” (this is the subtitle of Professor Davis’s volume)
has had many iterations in our nation’s history. All things considered, the handful of cases brought
under the venerable Alien Tort Statute hardly constitutes the vanguard of that “struggle.” Not in a
country within whose judicial system Plessy v. Ferguson, 163 U.S. 537 (1896) gave way, after less than
six decades, to Brown v. Board of Education, 347 U.S. 483 (1954), concluding that state-sponsored
segregation in public facilities could not be reconciled with constitutional guarantees of equal
protection.

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Here, “the struggle for human rights” has had many dimensions, few inspired by international
law at all, because of our liberal tradition of constitutional interpretation. Many advocates are trying
hard to change that, believing that developments in international law have now overtaken, and
therefore may serve as progressive influences on, our constitutional jurisprudence. They see victories
in cases like Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551 (2005), in which the Supreme Court looked inter alia to
international law to inform the decision that the judicial execution of individuals aged under eighteen
at the time of their offenses is “cruel and unusual punishment,” thereby prohibited by our
Constitution. They derive inspiration from Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558 (2003), overruling a
precedent from only seventeen years earlier, and finding that international law, among other things,
has helped to define a legally-cognizable right not to have consensual, adult homosexual acts
criminalized by the state. And they find their governing statement of principle in the words of Judge
Eugene Nickerson, writing in Filartiga on remand and rejecting the decision of the Magistrate Judge
from which Professor Davis quotes extensively: international law is law, not “a mere set of
benevolent yearnings, never to be given effect”(Filartiga v. Pena, 577 F. Supp. 860, 863 (E.D.N.Y.
1983)).
Perhaps any proclamation of victory is premature. Perhaps the jingoistic backlash against even
the modest gains that have been made in recognizing international law as a source of individual
rights—motivating bills before the last several Congresses that would prevent or prohibit the courts
even from citing international sources in their decisions, much less relying on such sources—will yet
prevail. There are battles yet to be fought, and territory hard won yet to be defended, in the struggle
to make contemporary international law truly “part of our law.” Yet Sosa shows us that, far from
revolutionary, the notion that US judges may determine questions of the meaning and reach of
international law is fully consistent with our contemporary, constitutional system of governance.

V. Conclusion

It is certainly true that, through the creative use of the ATS by non-government organizations
(notably the Center for Constitutional Rights, the Center for Justice and Accountability, and Human
Rights First), numerous victims of human rights abuses have found some measure of vindication in
courtrooms in the United States. These victims have seen their abusers shamed and speechless:
powerless and scorned, just as the plaintiffs themselves once were at the hands of their tormentors.
While those are laudable accomplishments, however, they do not justify an otherwise impermissible
extension of jurisdiction over cases, or over defendants, beyond that which the Constitution and the
laws of this country provide.
So Professor Davis’s extensive and anecdotal reports of the emotional responses of ATS
plaintiffs and their lawyers, and of counsel for defendants as well, provides interesting historical
context, but little by way of legal analysis. It simply does not follow that because the outcome of a
lawsuit warms the heart, it is legally correct. His elaborate quotations from Bush Administration
officials who openly disdained the ATS, as they undermined the efforts of human rights abuse
victims to use the Statute to their advantage even after the Supreme Court concluded that such use
was entirely constitutional, shows how far supposedly “conservative” lawyers are wont to stray from
established law when it serves their ideological purposes to do so, but it reveals little of use to a legal
analysis of the accomplishments of ATS litigation, or to its future.

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All of this, in the end, casts little light on the real struggle: a battle over whether this country will
live up to the goal declared for it by Thomas Jefferson, that in formulating its laws and in
conducting its relations with other states, it would seek to demonstrate “a Decent Respect to the
Opinions of Mankind.”
Customary international law reflects those “Opinions,” and in the contemporary world that law
includes the rights of individuals to be free from certain kind of abuses, wherever in the world those
abuses may occur. To recognize this, and to embrace the power of the courts of the United States to
provide remedies in appropriate circumstances, requires no extension of “universal jurisdiction,” and
no aggressive expansion of traditional notions of the common law.
Indeed, the real “revolutionaries” here are not those heroic lawyers whose accomplishments
Professor Davis rightly extols, who have defended and seek to expand the body of US law that
would enshrine the international law of human rights. Their position is entirely of a piece with the
conceptions of this Nation’s founders. No, the real “revolutionaries” are those who would restrain
or reverse the incorporation of international law into our national legal system, and who would place
this country outside—they would probably say “above,” but such a term only compounds legal and
historical errors with arrogance—the march of progress toward ensuring that all human beings are
entitled to fundamental rights as a matter of law.
The United States of America, true to its aspiration of offering open access to its courts, permits
those who seek to vindicate those private, personal rights to do so in our judicial system. The goal is
not—or is not only—accountability, although greater accountability for human rights violations will
inevitably result. It is certainly not vengeance, although these cases permit, and sometimes even
bring about, the imposition of serious penalties against those who have cruelly abused the most
vulnerable. Nor is it vindication, however sweet it may be for those who have been mercilessly
abused.
The objective is, quite simply, justice, not only “across borders,” but also here at home.

Cases Cited

Brown v. Board of Education, 347 U.S. 483 (1954)

Doe v. UNOCAL, 395 F.3d 932 (9th Cir. 2002)

In re Estate of Marcos Human Rights Litigation, 978 F.2d 493 (9th Cir. 1993)

Filartiga v. Pena-Irala, 630 F.2d 876 (2d Cir. 1980); on remand, 577 F. Supp. 860, 863 (E.D.N.Y. 1983)

Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558 (2003)

Marbury v. Madison, 1 Cranch (5 U.S.) 137 (1803)

Mostyn v. Fabrigas, 1 Cowp. 161 (1774)

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The Paquete Habana, 175 U.S. 677 (1900)

Plessy v. Ferguson, 163 U.S. 537 (1896)

Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551 (2005)

Sosa v. Alvarez-Machain, 542 U.S. 692 (2004)

Steven M. Schneebaum, a member of the District of Columbia Bar, is a shareholder in the Washington, D.C.
office of Greenberg Traurig LLP, and a member of the adjunct faculty at the School of Advanced International
Studies, The Johns Hopkins University. He has served as counsel for parties and amici in many of the landmark
human rights cases of the last three decades, beginning with Filartiga, and is currently on the Legal Advisory Council
of the Center for Justice and Accountability. He is the author of numerous articles and speeches on the incorporation of
international law into domestic legal systems, including an earlier essay in this Journal.

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