On 5 May 2025, the International Court of Justice (ICJ) delivered a decision that may prove as legally precise as it is morally unsatisfying. In a deeply consequential ruling, the world’s highest court rejected Sudan’s urgent request to impose provisional measures against the United Arab Emirates over alleged complicity in acts of genocide in West Darfur. The reason? Not a lack of evidence or urgency — but jurisdictional technicalities rooted in a nearly 20-year-old legal reservation.
Sudan’s complaint against the UAE was historic and harrowing. It accused Abu Dhabi of directly aiding the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), a paramilitary faction implicated in atrocities ranging from mass murder to ethnic cleansing, rape, and village burnings. These actions, Sudan argued, amount to genocide against the Masalit people, an ethnic minority concentrated in the region of West Darfur. In its application, Sudan requested that the Court urgently order the UAE to cease any support to the RSF and to prevent any further acts that could fall under the scope of the Genocide Convention.
Yet the ICJ, while acknowledging the “unfolding human tragedy” in Sudan, ruled that it simply lacked the legal authority to move forward. The culprit? A reservation the UAE filed in 2005 upon acceding to the Genocide Convention, declaring that it did not accept the jurisdiction of the ICJ under Article IX of the treaty. The Court determined that this reservation — though morally debatable — was legally valid and binding, thereby blocking the case from proceeding.
Law Over Justice
Let’s be clear: the ICJ did not evaluate the truthfulness of Sudan’s allegations. It did not weigh the evidence of atrocities. It did not pass judgement on the UAE’s actions. It merely ruled that it lacks prima facie jurisdiction to hear the case because the UAE opted out of this form of international accountability nearly two decades ago. In a system of voluntary justice, where states must explicitly consent to be held accountable, the loopholes are often wider than the protections.
This is not a flaw in the ICJ’s logic; it’s a flaw in the architecture of international law. Legal reservations like the one used by the UAE serve as diplomatic escape hatches — instruments that allow powerful states to avoid judicial scrutiny while publicly embracing the norms of international treaties. The ICJ had little choice but to respect this legal reality. But the broader result is a setback for global accountability and a blow to victims still seeking justice.
The Darfur Nightmare Repeats
For the people of West Darfur, especially the Masalit, this decision is not academic. It is a deferral — if not a denial — of international protection at a time when the scale of suffering is immense. Human rights groups, UN agencies, and journalists have documented an appalling pattern of violence: targeted massacres of Masalit men and boys, systematic rape of women and girls, and the destruction of entire communities. The RSF, a group with a long history of brutality, is widely believed to be responsible — and Sudan alleges the UAE is materially supporting this group with weapons, funding, and logistics.
One might ask: how can such a serious case be dismissed so early, so clinically? The answer lies in how international law is built — slowly, cautiously, and often under the shadow of geopolitics. Treaties like the Genocide Convention bind states to refrain from horrific acts, but they also allow states to opt out of enforcement mechanisms like ICJ jurisdiction. The result is a court that is often unable to act where it is needed most.
A Wider Web: Somalia’s Puntland and the UAE’s Shadow Network
What makes this situation more complex — and morally tangled — is the network of regional actors facilitating or tolerating the flow of weapons and mercenaries that fuel the war in Sudan. One such actor is Puntland, the semi-autonomous federal state in northeastern Somalia.
Multiple credible reports suggest that the UAE has been using Bosaso airport in Puntland as a clandestine logistics hub for smuggling weapons, military equipment, and foreign fighters to Sudan. This strategic port city, under the watch of Puntland’s President Said Abdullahi Deni, has reportedly allowed Emirati-linked aircraft to fly in and out under opaque arrangements, avoiding federal oversight from Mogadishu. The airport has become, in effect, a regional node in the UAE’s covert military supply chain — enabling operations that may directly contribute to atrocities in Sudan.
President Deni, whose ties to the UAE run deep, has faced criticism in Somali political circles for allowing foreign intelligence and military operators to use Puntland territory as a geopolitical playground. While Deni presents himself as a champion of stability and economic growth, his administration’s permissive posture toward Emirati military activity raises profound ethical and legal questions. Puntland’s collaboration with the UAE, whether deliberate or by negligence, makes it complicit in a broader pattern of destabilization across the Horn of Africa.
This development also raises alarms about sovereignty. The Somali federal government has repeatedly warned Puntland against entering unauthorised security arrangements with foreign powers. Yet the continued use of Bosaso by UAE-linked forces, particularly amid escalating violence in Sudan, suggests that regional leaders like Deni are prioritizing foreign alliances over national or humanitarian responsibility.
The ICJ’s ruling is a sobering reminder that the worst atrocities in our time are not always committed in the shadows — they’re often facilitated by well-lit runways, diplomatic backchannels, and regional alliances dressed up as development partnerships. The UAE’s growing influence in East Africa — from Eritrea to Somaliland to Puntland — has been enabled by transactional relationships with local elites who, willingly or not, provide the access needed for covert operations.
This is the dirty underside of modern foreign policy. Military cargo doesn’t always move through conflict zones — it flows through commercial airports, under civilian flight codes, with the blessing of governments that trade access for cash or protection. In this context, legal reservations at The Hague are not just technicalities. They are part of a larger system of impunity — one in which wealthy states use legal shields and regional proxies to avoid the consequences of catastrophic interventions.
While the ICJ’s decision is grounded in legal precedent, it leaves behind a trail of unanswered questions and unmet responsibilities. The ruling does affirm one crucial principle: even when the Court cannot act, states remain bound by their international obligations. The UAE, like every signatory to the Genocide Convention, is still legally and morally required to prevent and punish acts of genocide, regardless of whether the ICJ can enforce that duty.
But this affirmation feels tragically symbolic. Without a binding judicial order, the victims in Darfur — and the many others caught in the crossfire of proxy wars — are left with little more than moral proclamations.
Where Do We Go from Here?
Sudan must now pursue alternative diplomatic and legal avenues, possibly through the United Nations Security Council or regional African mechanisms. Civil society groups should intensify efforts to document the full scope of atrocities and expose the logistics networks enabling them. Puntland’s role in this web of complicity deserves urgent scrutiny — by Somali lawmakers, journalists, and the international community.
Most importantly, states like the UAE must be forced to confront the consequences of their foreign policy. Legal immunity is not moral immunity. Every bomb dropped, every village burned, and every ethnic group targeted in Sudan raises a deeper question: who made it possible?
The ICJ may not have had jurisdiction. But the court of public opinion — and the demands of history — certainly do.
