With hearings opening this month at the International Court of Justice in The Hague, the genocide case concerning Myanmar and the Rohingya has entered its most consequential phase. Formally, the proceedings are about whether Myanmar violated the 1948 Genocide Convention. In reality, the case has evolved into something far larger: a stress test of whether international law can still function when regimes accused of mass atrocities manipulate legal institutions to shield themselves from accountability.

The hearings in “The Gambia v. Myanmar” are historic in scale and scope. Eleven states have formally intervened, including the UK, Germany, France, the Netherlands and Canada. This level of multilateral engagement is rare and reflects the gravity with which the international community views crimes committed against the Rohingya.

Since 2017, more than 740,000 Rohingya have fled Myanmar into Bangladesh, joining earlier waves of refugees. UN investigators have documented killings, mass rape, village burning and systematic efforts to erase Rohingya identity. Provisional measures ordered by the court in 2020 required Myanmar to prevent genocidal acts and preserve evidence. The question now is not only whether those obligations were breached, but whether the legal process itself can withstand political subversion.

At the heart of this moment lies an uncomfortable issue international law has long avoided: legitimacy. Who has the authority to represent a state accused of genocide when that state is ruled by a junta that seized power by force? Myanmar’s military overthrew a civilian government in February 2021, imprisoned elected leaders and has since waged a nationwide campaign of violence against its own population. Yet, in The Hague, lawyers appointed by that same junta continue to present themselves as the lawful voice of Myanmar.

At the heart of this moment lies an uncomfortable issue international law has long avoided: legitimacy

Dr. Azeem Ibrahim
This contradiction exposes a structural weakness in the international legal order. Courts like the International Court of Justice are designed to adjudicate disputes between states, not to determine which governments are legitimate. That ambiguity once allowed the system to function smoothly. Today, it is being exploited. Authoritarian regimes increasingly understand that international law, rather than constraining power, can be instrumentalized to delay justice, exhaust victims and a veneer of procedural legitimacy.

The Rohingya case illustrates this danger with unusual clarity. Myanmar’s military leadership stands accused of acts that meet the legal threshold of genocide, yet it seeks to defend itself before the world’s highest court while continuing campaigns of mass violence at home.

Since the coup, the conflict has widened dramatically. Independent monitors estimate that more than 3 million people have been displaced across Myanmar, with entire regions subjected to aerial bombardment and collective punishment. In this context, the idea that the same authorities can credibly argue compliance with international humanitarian and human rights law stretches belief.

The court has so far sidestepped the representation issue, focusing narrowly on jurisdiction and admissibility. That caution is understandable. A ruling on representation could have implications far beyond Myanmar, affecting cases involving contested governments or exile authorities. Yet avoidance also carries risks. If international courts are seen as indifferent to how power is obtained and exercised, their moral authority erodes. Justice becomes procedural rather than substantive, focused on form over reality.

This matters well beyond Myanmar. Around the world, regimes accused of atrocity crimes are learning from one another. Legal tactics are shared, adapted and refined. From invoking sovereignty to contest jurisdiction to flooding courts with technical objections and exploiting diplomatic paralysis, the playbook is increasingly familiar. If the International Court of Justice allows a junta accused of genocide to use it as a shield, it sends a signal that legal process itself can be weaponized against accountability.

If international courts are seen as indifferent to how power is obtained and exercised, their moral authority erodes

Dr. Azeem Ibrahim
The Rohingya case also raises broader questions about enforcement. Even a favorable judgment for Gambia will not, on its own, bring justice to survivors. The court lacks direct enforcement mechanisms. Compliance depends on political will, including pressure from states, multilateral bodies and regional actors. That is why legitimacy matters so deeply. A ruling against a regime widely viewed as unlawful risks being ignored. A ruling that fails to address the realities of power risks being dismissed as detached from lived experience.

For countries hosting Rohingya refugees, particularly Bangladesh, the stakes are acute. Nearly 1 million Rohingya remain in camps in Cox’s Bazar, reliant on dwindling humanitarian aid. Repatriation remains impossible so long as conditions in Myanmar are unsafe and discriminatory laws remain in place. The world court proceedings are often cited as evidence that justice is moving forward, yet, for refugees, justice delayed continues to feel like justice denied.

There is also a regional dimension. The Association of Southeast Asian Nations has struggled to respond meaningfully to Myanmar’s crisis, constrained by norms of noninterference. Yet instability in Myanmar now spills across borders, fueling refugee flows, transnational crime and insecurity. A credible legal process at the international court could help the conditions for coordinated pressure. A hollow one will reinforce cynicism and inaction.

Ultimately, the Rohingya case confronts the international community with a choice. International law can remain narrowly procedural, treating states as abstract legal entities divorced from how power is exercised. Or it can adapt to an era in which coups, repression and mass atrocities are increasingly central features of global politics. The International Court of Justice does not need to become a political body to recognize that law divorced from legitimacy cannot deliver justice.

What happens in The Hague over the coming weeks will resonate far beyond Myanmar. It will signal whether international courts are capable of responding to modern atrocity crimes or whether they risk becoming forums in which perpetrators learn to outlast their victims. For the Rohingya, and for countless others watching from conflict zones around the world, that distinction is not academic. It is existential.