Europe Is Not Rwanda’s Court of Appeal

 

In international law, jurisdiction is not a matter of moral confidence; it is a matter of legal authority. Yet recent interventions by the European Parliament in Rwanda’s domestic judicial affairs suggest a troubling assumption that political conviction can substitute for jurisdiction. Through resolutions, hearings, and public condemnations—most recently regarding the case of Victoire Ingabire—the European Parliament has increasingly positioned itself as an external reviewer of Rwanda’s courts. This posture may resonate politically in Brussels, but it is legally unsound and normatively problematic.

 

Rwanda is not a member of the European Union, nor is it subject to the European Parliament’s institutional competence. Its judiciary derives its authority from its Constitution, its laws, and its sovereign right to administer justice within its territory. Treating European parliamentary debate as a form of appellate oversight of Rwandan courts misunderstands both the limits of European power and the foundations of the international legal order. The recent exchange on X between the European Parliament’s diplomacy account and Rwanda’s Minister of Foreign Affairs illustrates this tension clearly. By reminding the Parliament that its jurisdiction extends to Greenland, Aruba, or New Caledonia—but not to Rwanda—the Minister reaffirmed a fundamental principle of international law: sovereignty is not conditional, and judicial authority cannot be transferred through political debate. The Minister spoke clearly from his understanding. Being a lawyer himself, with experience of teaching the law and mastering the art of diplomacy, he spoke from what he masters. 

 

The European Parliament is a political institution, not a court of law. Its resolutions are non-binding expressions of opinion, yet in the cases of Paul Rusesabagina and Victoire Ingabire they have taken on a quasi-judicial character, openly questioning the legitimacy of domestic court decisions and implying political manipulation of Rwanda’s judiciary. This conflation of political advocacy with legal adjudication risks eroding respect for judicial independence, particularly when directed at African legal systems.

 

In Rusesabagina’s case, European discourse has often prioritized symbolism and reputation over legal substance. His recognized humanitarian role during the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi does not negate subsequent conduct for which he was prosecuted and convicted, including terrorism-related offences connected to attacks on civilians. European Parliament resolutions have tended to minimize these facts while amplifying procedural criticisms, rarely considering the rights of victims or the state’s duty to protect its population. Human rights analysis that privileges the narrative of the accused while marginalizing victims is neither neutral nor complete.

 

Ingabire’s case has been treated similarly, frequently abstracted from Rwanda’s post-genocide legal and constitutional framework. Rwanda’s laws on genocide denial and divisionism are often portrayed in European debates as instruments of political repression, yet they are rooted in a historical reality in which speech played a decisive role in mobilizing mass violence. International human rights law does not recognize freedom of expression as absolute, particularly where public order, social cohesion, and the prevention of atrocity crimes are at stake. Applying European free-speech norms without accounting for this context reflects a normative mismatch rather than a principled legal critique.

 

The recent parliamentary hearing, marked by emotional testimony from a family member, further illustrates the problem. Empathy, however genuine, does not confer legal authority. Domestic judicial decisions are not overturned by testimony before a political subcommittee, nor does such testimony transform a parliament into an appellate forum. When European MPs publicly cast doubt on the integrity of Rwanda’s judiciary, they implicitly deny the competence of African courts to interpret and apply their own laws. This posture echoes older patterns of legal paternalism that contemporary international law was meant to overcome.

 

The asymmetry in the European Parliament’s approach is also striking. European states facing serious human rights allegations are typically afforded deference to their domestic courts, with international engagement framed around dialogue and cooperation. Rwanda, by contrast, is subjected to repeated political condemnation that treats its judiciary as presumptively suspect. Such double standards weaken the universality of human rights norms and erode trust in the institutions that claim to uphold them.

 

Rwanda’s rejection of what it described as arrogance and interference is therefore not mere rhetoric. It is a legal assertion that criticism does not equate to jurisdiction and that moral conviction does not substitute for legal competence. Respect for human rights cannot be built on the systematic delegitimization of domestic courts by external political actors, nor can accountability be advanced through resolutions detached from legal process and historical reality.

 

This episode is about more than individual cases or social media exchanges. It raises a fundamental question about the international legal order: whether post-colonial states are treated as equal sovereigns, capable of administering justice within their constitutional frameworks, or as perpetual subjects of external moral supervision. For human rights advocacy to retain credibility and legitimacy, it must be grounded in legal rigor, contextual understanding, and genuine respect for sovereignty, rather than in performative condemnation that risks reproducing the very inequalities it claims to oppose.