I found the readings this week interesting.  Especially because it related a lot to what we saw and heard while we were in Berlin.  The first article really grounded a lot of what is being shown in the media.  Even as I read some of the other articles and current event on the war it was obvious the biases that can sometimes bleed through.  The way in which sometimes the articles emphasizes the disinformation for things Israel has done and then will say something about Hamas or Palestine.  I don’t know if it is intentional but I saw it after reading the first article.  I also think these articles about disinformation made me think about my social media.  We read how the Ukrainian War was remarked as the first Tiktok War.  The use of social media can be very difficult.  In many ways there is propaganda that is being pushed.  We want people to believe in our viewpoints and so we can promote harms against people and also so that we can make apparent what the other side is doing.  When there is this incentive it can be dangerous.  People who want clikcs or shares or likes can have the incentive to put out dangerous and false narratives to get people with this goal to share the post on their platforms.  I am scared as AI advances that people may start to use that to fabricate pictures from war.  At least with reusing exisiting pictures from other wars it can be tracked rather quickly.  However, AI is dangerous in that sometimes it isn’t easy to tell.  Furthermore in one article it cited that when people were looking to find coverage of the ground do to Israel bombing towers that allowed service and electricity much of the documentation that we saw in the Ukraine War did not happen in this current war.  The absence of this made people more eager and also more susceptible to disinformation.

I think also the article about the US military and the use of cyber warfare was really interesting.  As I was reading I thought it was cool but alos weird.  This is because they essentially were acting like the actors you see in movies and studying peoples habits.  Especially when they were doing the simple hacks that would annoy people as a means of slowing down this very serious terrorist organization.  Also, found it interesting and wondered at the beginning why they would be sharing this.  It seemed like the type of work that should be kept secret but here they were broadcasting it on multiple news sources.  But then when they explained that in order for them to be dangerous people had to know about it I understood.  I also as the pointed out thought about how talk of Russia hacking us was so prevalent.  I would always wonder what we did when they did it and how dangerous it was to our national security.  The article pointing out that we didn’t know how we reacted was really cool because it means that there may be actions that we do back but that as the public we are not privy too.  I like them are concerned with as cyber warfare becomes an important means of combat what that may mean for our society.  A lot of times we get away with engaging in wars because they don’t happen on U.S. soil.  With cyber warfare this may just change the game and eventually have repercussions on citizens of the US.

Our day began on arguably one of the most important streets in Berlin right now: the Sonnenalle located in the Neukölln neighborhood. Both the street and the neighborhood are home to a large Middle Eastern immigrant population, hosting many Syrian, Afghan, and Palestinian migrants. In light of the recent escalation of the Israel-Palestine conflict, this area has been home to pro-Palestine demonstrations, though Berlin has banned such rallies and the appearance of Palestinian flags in public. While our group did not witness any demonstrations, pro-Palestinian stickers, graffiti, and tapestries lined the Sonnenalle. Some shops even had flags hanging outside despite the ban. 

But politics aside, once you stepped foot onto the street, the aroma from Middle Eastern restaurants and pastry shops pulled you in. Our group went to a place called Azzam Restaurant, where we devoured delicious, classic falafel, and halloumi, a squeaky fried cheese. 

Our next stop was a pastry shop where the store owner gave us all samples of a spongy rose water sweet treat on our way out. After, we finished our time on the street with Turkish coffee. In classic Berlin fashion, we had to pay for it in cash. I only had a twenty euro bill on me. The owner casually dumped all of his change out to try to give me eighteen euros back, but eventually, we worked it out. I always forget how strong and distinct Turkish coffee is, but it was just the type of caffeine that I needed. 

Post-Sonnenallee, we traveled across town to the luxury Kempinski Hotel, located in the heart of Berlin to meet journalists, economists, and students from the Liechtenstein Institute on Self Determination (LISD). While my classmates and I wore business-casual (and I arguably was on the more casual side), the LISD students pulled out the three piece suits. We discussed what each of our groups were doing in the city. As our class was reporting, they were meeting diplomats, ambassadors, and public figures around Berlin and Paris. We all had the opportunity to speak to the guests as we feasted on mozzarella, salmon, and cake. As the lunch came to a close, I reflected on the differences in how each group of students approached the foreign policy topics we discussed. Many LISD students framed questions around specific policy outcomes, while we were more interested in the tangible implications of international relations for people on the ground. I assume this is the nature of the difference between our two groups, but it was interesting to watch this play out.

The most important part of my day came in the evening. After scarfing down burritos at a very aesthetically-pleasing Mexican restaurant in Kreuzberg, we walked to a neighborhood bar to interview Eyal Vex, an Israeli leftist. Vex moved to Berlin with his partner from Israel-Palestine eight years ago. Now, he worries for himself, his family, and his friends, as the conflict continues to escalate. Three years ago, right before the pandemic, he (and a few friends) opened AL Berlin, a cafe/bar/studio that hosted a variety of live musicians, different events, and meetings. A diversity of people headed to AL Berlin, but it largely was a safe haven to the Palestinian community, the Israeli leftist community, and the Middle Eastern queer migrant community. AL Berlin’s events were always widely attended, and they even had a 1,600-person festival that sold out last year. Unfortunately, the place recently closed due to an argument with a neighboring business. Vex wishes that the place was open to serve as a safe haven for Middle Eastern community members to meet and grieve. He plans on opening a new AL Berlin elsewhere, but no place is set-in-stone just yet. 

Vex also talked about his experience raising his two kids during the current conflict. He tells me how he used to let his six-year-old daughter travel to school each day by herself. Now, Vex opts to walk with her, fearing for her safety, but prefers to tell her that it’s “to spend time with her.” As he tries to navigate everything going on, he reflects on German history, his own experience, and what could be next for the country.

After leaving the bar we rejoined our Princeton bubble. In a random turn of events, my classmate Annie found out that it was Joshua’s birthday. The task in hand was clear: we had to find a cake. Although we couldn’t get one, we brought him a celebratory bright-pink donut and secretly messaged all of the class to show up where he was located. We ended the night chatting, dancing, and debriefing our very filled days.

Joshua Yang 

I’ve always considered journalism to be a form of addiction masquerading as a respectable career option or, even worse, a praiseworthy service to society. Some people with an addict’s mindset take up overworking; there are also those who prefer to take up drinking, and those who might even take up gambling — but the least fortunate of them all are those who decide to take up reporting. In truth, having tried my hand at all of the aforementioned activities, I’m sorry to say I nonetheless fall squarely into the last category. 

Journalism as an addiction works like this. I stumble around a foreign environment — in this particular instance, the city of Berlin — not just as a clueless outsider, but (worse still!) as a clueless, American outsider. I chase leads, I email sources, I visit sites; I search for an elusive thread that, once tugged on with sufficient amounts of force, will unravel into a narrative worth publishing. 

As the hours turn into days, and the days turn into empty notebooks and unresponsive contacts, the symptoms begin to take root. The fear of failure, the anxiety of underperformance, the throbs of ennui — all of these cloud my mind until I feel quite literally nauseous. 

At some point, when I am on the verge of defeat (and perhaps on the verge of quitting journalism entirely), I manage to drag myself to one last interview. Of course, this is exactly the moment when a minor miracle occurs. I meet a source, I find a promising lead, I have a story — and I am euphoric. In a single instance, my faith in the reporting process returns in a dizzying rush; I wonder why I ever doubted myself, even though I know I’ll go back to doubting myself in a few more weeks’ time. 

This happened to me today. After weeks of emailing, calling, and WhatsApp’ing my way into a thicket of dead ends, I decided to show up unannounced at Tempelhof, a former airport that once hosted the Berlin Airlift and now serves as a long-term shelter for refugees from the Middle East, Ukraine, and beyond. I was expecting to be turned away or ignored by residents, but to my surprise, I soon ran into groups of Ukrainian refugees who welcomed my presence. Over bowls of buckwheat porridge and vividly violet borscht, I asked meaningful questions and received meaningful responses — among the first I felt like I had gotten all trip long. I ended up staying for hours, and I left Tempelhof giddy and exhilarated. 

I should mention here that today was notable for a different reason: This morning, I turned twenty years old. Around 6 p.m., as the day wrapped up, my mom asked me if I had celebrated my birthday. “No, I was just working,” I responded. “But today was really productive.” 

Actually, this is one of the best birthdays I could have asked for. For most of my teenage years, I felt like I was hurtling toward a life I didn’t really want; I was just another kid growing up in the California suburbs, unhappily imagining following my parents into a soulless software engineering career. To be able to spend my first day as a twenty-year-old interviewing refugees in Berlin instead — to feel all the highs and lows of this addiction I’d chosen for myself, and to understand the value of my work with that much more certainty — feels like an incredible blessing. 

And, in the end, my friends and I did manage to squeeze in time to celebrate. In lieu of a cake, my friends bought me a single donut; in lieu of a candle, they bought me a pack of cigarettes. We stumbled out of the bar shortly before 1 a.m., splashing in the puddles on the sidewalk outside and feeling our cheeks chapping in the frigid air. I stared out into Berlin, taking in the dark streets and the dull blue glow of the nearby U-Bahn sign. 

When I turned thirteen, I couldn’t stomach the idea of life going on as it did. When I turned twenty, I wanted the rest of my life to be like it was today — unspooling in this direction, day after day, and into the years.

Our day began with a historial deep dive. Michael, our tour guide, walked us through Checkpoint Charlie, the remnants of the Berlin Wall, and the Brandenburg Gate. It’s difficult to imagine how there was even a wall. However, something I’ve observed in my short time in Germany is that there is a very serious and thoughtful effort to remember the past, especially when it’s painful. Less relevant but deeply joyful, Michael and I were wearing matching dark blue jackets!

Next, we arrived at the American Academy in Berlin for a self care workshop. Gavin Rees, Senior Advisor for Training and Innovation with the Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma at Columbia University, encouraged us to think about self-care through a biopsychosocial lens. Thinking about our responsibility to the stories we are entrusted during this trip — the way we move through Berlin, the way we report our final projects, the way we move through the rest of our lives — feels immense. However, Rees emphasized the importance of focusing on the small things: physically taking care of yourself (i.e. eating, sleeping, drinking water), calling loved ones to debrief, and breathing. I’ve learned so much during this trip, and finding small beats of rest has been essential. 

Right after the self-care workshop, I headed to my first set of interviews. I spoke with two organizers of an intercultural garden where migrants from Ireland, Austria, Cameroon, Chile, and Ukraine volunteer. I was struck by how gardening is healing. It’s easy to share your family history when you’re comparing potatoes from your hometown. I didn’t share my own experiences, but it was self-care to listen to the stories of people with the same vision that community gardens make the world a better place. While touring the garden, I saw ripe rose-hips for the first time, learned the German word for chard (mangold), and tried a new lettuce! Serendipitously, during the tour, a woman with BENN Mierendorff Insel offered pamphlets to the garden organizers detailing how to apply for up to 30,000 euros. With new refugee housing being built in the neighborhood in the next year, BENN Mierendorff Insel is working on providing opportunities for refugees to further integrate into the community. We said our goodbyes, but not before we created a group chat, with a group photo as our profile picture!

Our last activity for the night was an English language table at Cafe Refugio, a place for long-time and new-time Berliners to come together in community. Funnily enough, we were not the only Americans there, with a Californian and New Jerseyan in attendance! We drank tea, ate delicious biscuits, and discussed our lives. I spent a good portion of my time there talking to Ahmad, a 24 year old Syrian refugee. He mentioned that his least favorite thing about Berlin is that there isn’t enough sun. As someone who grew up in a desert, I deeply agreed! Ahmad moved to Berlin when he was 18 and went through a year of high school, which he described as “isolating” as one of the two Syrians at his school. However, he’s now much happier in Berlin, connected with the community at Cafe Refugio and beyond. Ahmad’s experience of feeling “isolated” reminded me of conversations I’d had just an hour earlier with garden organizers. Not that community gardens can fix everything, but I do think they can help us imagine a lot less lonely ways of being with each other. 

Even though it was our first full day in Berlin, I am really enjoying the city, and can’t wait to see what’s next!

Berlin — Somehow KFC is at the epicenter of Berlin’s history. The white and red sign of the Kentucky food chain looms in the background of all the pictures I took at checkpoint Charlie. No matter the angle, it found a way into the shot with its strategic placement, right next to the “You are now leaving the American sector” sign at the former border crossing. Where KFC stands today, on Friedrichstr. 45, JFK once gave an address in June 1963, just five months before his assassination. What is impressive here is not the American president’s emphasis on the universality of freedom and human rights, but the fact that KFC managed to successfully lobby the state government and snatch the property from its rightful owners, the döner industry. It is quite clear that Western Capitalism won the Cold War. 

The walking tour this morning “walked us through” the history of Berlin. The memorial of the murdered Jews of Europe and the remnants of the SS headquarters at the Topography of Terror stood as reminders of the Nazis and the Holocaust. Seeing an outdoor display of “Trabis,” the GDR staple cars that required a five-year period between order and delivery, made one think just how sustainable supply chains in Soviet countries were. 

Jokes aside, the stories our tour guide shared, especially about Berlin’s post-war days of the Wall, were shocking. The one that hit closer to home was that of Peter Fechter. Fechter was born in Berlin in January 1944. A little over a year later, on August 2nd, 1945, USSR General Secretary Joseph Stalin, UK Prime Minister Clement Attlee, and US President Harry Truman signed the Potsdam Agreement, dividing the German capital into four occupation zones, each administered by one of the Allied powers. The Fechters ended up in the Soviet-controlled Eastern sector where they spent the early years of the Cold War. But the conflict eventually heated up, and from the rubble of the breached trust among “allies,” the Berlin Wall was built.. In 1962, Fechter, by then nineteen years old, was hired to lay the bricks of a second wall, an additional barrier between West and East. Realizing that he was erecting the bars of his own cell, he took a tragic leap of faith. On August 17th, 1962, as he tried to defect to the American sector, he was caught in the barbed wire of no man’s land, the neutral territory between the two walls, and bled to death. “Er wollte nur die Freiheit,” he only wanted freedom, reads the inscription of his memorial. Peter Fechter is just one of hundreds who died trying to escape the authoritarian surveillance state of the GDR. Fechter’s memorial stands in what used to be West Berlin. He had finally made it. 

After the tour, a couple of us walked to the Bundestag to attend a demonstration of Yazidis facing deportation. Many Yazidis came to Germany after their community was persecuted by the Islamist militants of ISIS. Despite the recognition of the Yazidi genocide in January, the German government has now sent thousands of deportation notices to members of the community all around the country, from Dortmund to Düsseldorf and Munich. “We have no home in Iraq,” some of the people at the rally told us and mentioned how cruel it would be to force “children who have been born and raised in Germany” to move to a country they have never known, while others pointed at the atrocities that women and children endured in the hands of ISIS to prove that the government’s decision to send them back is “unexpected and unfounded.” One is left to wonder what is driving the government’s hand. We will be out tomorrow to investigate.

Shruthi Bharadwaj

We started our second day in Nuremberg with a plan and a lot of ambition. My roommate, Uma, had found a refugee women’s support group event at a community center just a bit away from the train station, from which we would depart to Berlin in the afternoon. Over breakfast, we devised how the day would play out. We would travel to the Nuremberg Academy, but one small group would leave early from there, taxi to the community center, and get incredible interviews with attendees and organizers of the event. From there, we were to get on the Nuremberg metro and make our way to the train station by 2:00 p.m.

Our morning at the Academy went without issue. We spoke with Emma about the International Criminal Court, bringing accountability to Russia’s war crimes against Ukraine, and about the future of international justice prosecutions. After an engaging two hours at the Academy, we stopped by Gregory’s Coffee for a snack and to regroup before heading to the community center. Though most of the class was interested in our excursion, we decided it may be best to keep the group going to the center small to not overwhelm participants or distract from the event’s purpose. Sara, Marilena, Uma, and I ultimately decided to make the trip.

Upon arrival at the community center, I was immediately shocked by its beauty – a far cry from the nondescript brown brick blocks that made up the social services infrastructure of my hometown. Villa Leon was a large castle-looking structure with an adjoining glass annex, all settled on a little lake with a path that guided visitors to the entrance. The side of the building, against the lake water, was adorned with a mural of happy people from around the world on a boat rowing into the community center. It seemed to be painted by the town’s children, and I smiled particularly wide at a crudely drawn woman in a sari standing at the helm of the boat. With renewed enthusiasm, the group and I marched over the bridge into the great snag in our plan for the day. After yanking on the front door to no avail and pleading our case with the door’s intercom speaker, we were informed that the center was closed on Mondays and that we would have to visit another day (which we did not have).

Disappointed but undeterred, we decided to give a building across the way marked “familienzentrum” a try. The door to the familienzentrum swung open right away to reveal a bustling kindergarten, and walls decorated with the same bulletin boards that lived in the halls of my own elementary school thousands of miles away in New Jersey. The board was filled with smiling photos of the school teachers, each from a different country and fluent in different languages – I quickly spotted a Tamil teacher and a greeting in Tamil script under her name. Clearly, they take representation in social services seriously in Nuremberg, which I found incredibly encouraging. I didn’t grow up with teachers who understood anything about immigrant culture, and I can only imagine the world of difference it would make for a young refugee child to have adults at school they could identify with.

After getting some names and numbers to follow up on for future stories at the familienzentrum, we decided that it was best to make our way back to the train station to meet with the rest of the group. We were still well ahead of schedule since we didn’t make it to the support group, so as we were walking into the train station, we decided to chat with the taxi drivers milling outside. Unexpectedly, it was the best set of interviews I’ve had so far on the trip. The men we met, Hussein, Umar, and Umar (there were two Umars), were so excited to speak to us about their lives in Nuremberg. Originally from Pakistan, Hussein spoke to us at length about his time in Italy, then in Nuremberg, and his experiences with appendicitis and the German healthcare system. Overall, he had glowing reviews for Germany (and the affordable appendicitis treatment). Umar, a refugee from Syria who walked to Italy, lived in Greece and then came to Germany, had some complaints about the understaffing of social services and was a little less pleased. Still, he laughed and cited his biggest complaint about Nuremberg life as the poor tipping habits of German cab customers.

Though things did not exactly go to plan, I give Nuremberg the same glowing reviews Hussein does, and look forward to what Berlin may have in store for us!

Monday, October 16 marked our last day in Nuremberg and our first in the city of Berlin. 

In our final hours in Nuremberg, in the southern state of Bavaria, the group gathered inside the train station to prepare for the next phase of our trip. We grabbed lunch at the station, which offered a variety of options — cannoli, currywurst, enormous blocks of cheese, and of course, American fast food chains. (Dunkin Donuts has a different menu in Germany!)

Then, it was time to hop on our train, a sleek, high-speed vehicle that carried us 275 miles in about three hours. With no time to lose upon arrival, we crossed the street to our dinner destination. The Cube, a large glass structure adjacent to the station, is home to a food hall on the ground floor where we were set to meet a group of volunteers.

Their task, we found, is to meet Ukrainian refugees fleeing the war as they get off the train in Berlin. I had the pleasure of eating at a table with three of these volunteers. Zahra is a young filmmaker who worked primarily in the children’s corner that was set up in the train station, helping out during the height of surging arrivals from Ukraine last year. Alp, who is from Turkey but also spent three years in New York and now makes his home in Berlin, shared with us his knowledge of the city, its changing neighborhoods, and its many communities. David turned out to be a bit of a train enthusiast, telling us about his visit to the MTA Museum in New York City, and that he initially got involved with greeting refugees simply because he worked at the train station and was there when refugees began to arrive.

Trains were a running theme throughout the day; aside from our three-hour journey and our discussions of migrant travels, weekly train passes were also distributed during dinner. David explained to us that, although Germany’s trains have a reputation for modernity, the country only uses a paper ticketing system. There are no turnstiles in the subway here, and no place to scan a ticket before boarding; whether or not your ticket is checked is solely up to whether or not a conductor on the train asks you to produce it. In fact, after riding a high-speed train to Nuremberg and multiple metro trains in Munich earlier in the week, today was the first time my ticket was actually checked. (Imagine the money we could’ve saved had we skipped buying the tickets in the first place!)

All of this is to say, trains produce a lot of material for discussion, and actually gave us an opportunity to connect with these new people we met in Berlin tonight. Lively discussions bounced back and forth as we shared stories about lackluster American public transit, and compared higher- and lower-tech ticketing infrastructures.

Expectedly, it’s sometimes easy to feel out of place as an American abroad, especially when you don’t speak German, and especially when you’re traveling with a large and noticeable group. It’s nice to come across a common experience with people — something as simple, even childlike, as the enjoyment of a train.

A profound historical legacy, an idyllic downtown, and an inefficient public hospital–Nuremberg has a lot to offer. 

I’ll focus on the final aspect of this trifecta, and leave the rest for breathless guidebooks. Coming to Germany, I thought little of its healthcare system. I had heard good things, and didn’t expect to need it. But when an ear-ache went from “I’m probably just tired” to “maybe I need a doctor,” I found myself approaching a gray building in central Nuremberg that housed one of the city’s main hospitals. I went in, walked through several corridors looking for someone who spoke English, and emerged in another linoleum hallway, unsuccessful. Along the way, I picked up some German: urologie, ophtalmologie, kardiologie. The cognates might have helped me navigate a chronic disease. But for a simple earache? I was on my own. 

I found someone who spoke English and kindly offered to help me find the right people. We arrived at an office, where my visit produced almost 15 pages of paperwork. Another hallway, another waiting room. I sat. And waited. Thirty minutes in, a nurse came and took me to an examination room. Finally, I thought. I had an interview scheduled for later in the afternoon, and I was looking forward to getting the problem resolved. 

But I had to wait a bit more. The hospital wing seemed to only have one doctor for a number of patients. No problem, I first thought. It wouldn’t be too long I assumed, and I could find something to do. An hour went by. I studied a diagram of the ear hanging on the wall. Now, I can confidently assert my multilingual knowledge of the mittel-ohr (middle ear) and its workings–a skill I hope I never need, and one that is a bit difficult to capitalize on when the rest of my German is “hello,” “thank you,” and “cardiologist” (a phrase from earlier that afternoon). When I’d mastered the intricacies of German medical vocabulary, I began to grow concerned. “Where was the doctor?” I asked a nurse. He had no idea. 

After two hours of waiting, she appeared. Asking if I spoke English or Spanish, I opted for Spanish, and she told me about her background as a Honduran medic now working in Germany. Within five minutes, we finished the appointment. I was perfectly fine, if a little exasperated at the three hours I had spent. 

While the situation for me was largely only frustrating, and ultimately very easily resolved, it highlighted the institutional barriers many non-German speakers face. In an interview later that day, I was told there are often few translators for some languages, leaving many asylum seekers in Germany reliant on an individual person for asylum interpretation, translation at the doctor, and assistance with daily life. If that individual has any biases against them, particularly in the case of LGBTQ+ asylum seekers, basic necessities can become all the more difficult to navigate. We are used to our first language being readily at our disposal. To have this not be the case reminded me of the importance of translation in the migration process–an issue often under-discussed in policymaking surrounding refugees. 

At the same time, my doctor’s experience as a Honduran migrant underscored the duality of status in Germany. The country has spent the past few years working to recruit skilled workers to end scarcities in areas like the medical sector, however, many migrants report poor treatment and immense racism, dissuading others from moving to the state. I think about the wing of the hospital, single-handedly served on a Sunday afternoon by one migrant doctor. Immigrants are critical to Germany. What will happen if their value isn’t widely recognized? 

The rest of the day was more enjoyable, spent interviewing an LGBTQ+ asylum activist and exploring Nuremberg. Unfortunately, the doctor’s visit prevented me from attending some of our scheduled programming. But this earache and empty hospital also taught me lots about the state of migration in a changing country.  

One of the most cited concerns when refugees were allowed into Western countries was national security. There was uncertainty in the background of these refugees and whether or not they would bring violence and radical ideologies with them. Even if we chalk up allowing war criminals from the wars the refugees were fleeing into the country to administrative ignorance — and the lack of their ability to do procure intelligence about foreign wars to accurately vet the people they were letting in — why was nothing done afterwards when the country had evidence of someone’s war crimes? I wonder if it is a threat to National security to have a war criminal walk freely on your soil — I cannot imagine it not being so — what if they continue to cause (as the cases cited in the reveal podcast show) in the host country. Another question that I am asking — which may be our of sheer ignorance — is why the war criminals don’t face deportation or expulsion from the country altogether? Will that also require prosecution first? Are there laws against letting war criminals in if that is known at the time of their admission into the host country’s borders?

And even if not before, why don’t host countries care to identify and prosecute war criminals not just with the motivation of punishing them for egregious actions — but for the sake of them not perpetrating them in whatever form against the refugee community now in the country. Why are Western host countries that champion human rights so apathetic to war criminals? Something else emphasized so rightfully in the commons post is this: “Is it more important to prosecute Putin for aggression in Ukraine? Certainly, but at the cost of consecrating the idea that there is one justice for the West and there is another justice for enemies of the West?” The self-proclaimed vanguards of human rights commit them under that banner but when an enemy they paint as an encroacher of human rights they now demand a different  reaction. “International justice kicks in against enemies and outcasts,” says Reed Broody. Paraphrasing Phillipe Sands said on the podcast, if western powers are to create a tribunal that can prosecute the crime of aggression what if this tribunal is then used to prosecute them? Can they claim immunity? And if not, will they ever agree to its creation? If a truly effective universal system is to be set up it requires the cooperation of western powers but with powers slipping from their fingers on an international level by the creation of such a tribunal — it is unlikely they will agree. So we’re stuck in this cycle where hypocrisy fuels selective justice.