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India, as the world’s largest democracy, is facing a unique challenge in the twenty-first century in managing the relationship between democracy and federalism. This challenge is most pronounced in the recent debates on delimitation – redrawing the boundaries of electoral constituencies for legislatures and fixing their numbers in tune with the latest census data. As stipulated in Art. 82 of the Indian Constitution, this exercise was conducted after every census until the 1971 census, when the strength of the Lok Sabha, or the lower chamber of the parliament, was raised to 543. In 1976, to promote population control measures, the Indira Gandhi government froze the constitutional provision mandating decennial adjustment of electoral seats until 2000, and in 2001 the Atal Bihari Vajpayee government extended the freeze until 2026. Both the 1976 and 2001 freezes required constitutional amendments (the 42^nd and 84^th amendments, respectively), pointing to a political consensus on this issue even as India’s population exploded in these decades with some obvious regional imbalances between the Northern and Southern regions of the country.

Recently, the Indian government led by Narendra Modi proposed the Constitution (131st Amendment) Bill, 2026, which provides for, inter alia, delimitation and about 50% increase (from 543 to 850) in the strength of the Lok Sabha. At one level, it cannot be gainsaid that the most populous country in the world should have a more representative parliament, rather than be stuck with the current levels of representation based on the 1971 census. The new Indian Parliament building, inaugurated in 2023 with a seating capacity for over 1200 legislators, makes the expansion of democracy in India less logistically challenging.  At another level, there is a palpable fear that delimitation will further erode the regional balance between less populous and advanced Southern states and more populous and poor Northern states. It is also feared that this move will further corrode whatever federal guarantees remain in a constitution and polity that have a unitary tilt. How do we historically approach this face-off between the imperatives of democracy and federalism in India today? I suggest that the constitutional and political debates in late colonial India on questions of democracy and federalism show a similar face-off, which fundamentally defined postcolonial India’s shaky tryst with federalism.

Two hundred years of British colonialism in the subcontinent and the resultant social and political fissures made democracy an unalloyed good for the anticolonial nationalists. So much so that what mattered to the Indian nationalists like Jawaharlal Nehru and Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel was the preservation of Indian unity and embrace of a parliamentary democracy to safeguard Indians’ right to rule themselves over and above entrenching federalism as indisputably suitable for India’s postcolonial trajectory.

Neither democracy, nationalism, nor federalism were above debate in late colonial India or the rest of the world. Many observers of the time, including thinkers like Hannah Arendt, saw the World Wars as a tragedy inflicted by the ills of nationalism and the nation-state that privileged the idea of statehood for ethnically or linguistically defined homogenous nations.

Critique of Parliamentary Democracy

Late colonial India too saw a range of critiques on democracy and federalism from different groups. One such group was the Indian Princely States, which were semi-independent native states that were indirectly ruled by the British through treaties and formed a third of colonial India’s landmass. These states and their rulers, by virtue of their unique relationship with the British, remained indifferent to democracy for most of India’s colonial history. Theoretically, the princely states were not parts of British India and formed a separate entity by themselves, which the Indian States Committee Report of 1928, a committee appointed by the British government to study their relationship with the princely states, referred to as “Indian India.” The Indian Muslims for the most part also remained skeptical of democracy as an indisputable good for the possibility of a Hindu-majority rule loomed large over them. This fear of the majority rule, something that parliamentary democracy considers to be its ideal, made sense only in places where the cultural, linguistic, and ethnic diversity was not too complex to be encapsulated in a simple formula for a first-past-the-post system of rule. It is precisely on this ground that we see a convergence of Muslim and princely political thinking on the question of India’s future. A simple parliamentary democracy would not serve the interests of either the princes or the minorities like the Muslims. This realization shaped their attitude toward constitutional debates in India from the late 1920s through the demission of the British Empire in India.

One example of this thinking may be seen in the influential book Federal India (1930), written by K. M. Panikkar and K. N. Haksar, two leading statesmen from the princely states, on the eve of the Round Table Conferences in London. These conferences convened from 1930 to 1932 were attended by representatives from all major Indian parties and debated a single question: should the future constitution of India be federal or unitary? Panikkar and Haksar’s book categorically rejected parliamentary or Westminster-style government as suitable for India. The power of this critique had a real lasting impact among many princely leaders and is best instantiated by the attempts led by C. P. Ramaswamy Aiyar, the last prime minister of the princely state of Travancore (part of present-day Kerala), to keep the state independent in 1947 on the ostensible ground that in a unitary, parliamentary India, states like Travancore would not be able to remain independent or exercise its historical sovereignty. The advocacies of the Indian princely states, the liberals, and the Muslims were a major reason why there was a political consensus on the desirability of an Indian federation, consisting of both British and princely India, after the London conferences.

Decline of Provincial Autonomy

When the Government of India Act was legislated in 1935 (at the time, arguably, the longest constitution the British parliament enacted) to provide for an Indian federation comprising of both British and princely India, the constitutional thinking on India’s future looked very different. Even as the Act was roundly criticized by Indian nationalists, including Mahatma Gandhi, its jurisprudence was based on the idea that people were not the only repositories of sovereignty in India; states were to be sovereigns too. At one level, it did make sense that the radical ideal of popular sovereignty would not appeal to a considerable section of Indians, and it would be too abrupt a break with India’s history of layered and federated forms of sovereignty, where sovereignty was not understood as invested only in one entity, even if it were the people.

The Act of 1935 proposed a decentralized approach to elections and delimitations, where provinces had the right to shape their own constituencies and electoral rolls. Thus, we see in Schedule VI of the Act, for example, Madras and Bombay provinces were to have different laws of residency requirement (120 and 180 days of residency in the previous year, respectively) for voters. The idea of an Indian federal government regulating elections at all levels was quite alien at the time, as the states/provinces were understood to have residual powers. This line of thinking continued throughout the 1930s and well into the late 1940s. When Jawaharlal Nehru made his famous speech on the Objective Resolution in the Constituent Assembly in December 1946, he made a discomfiting concession to the princes and Muslims. Even as popular sovereignty for him was the zeitgeist of the time, he grudgingly envisioned a constitution that was bottom-up, rather than top-down, wherein the provinces/states enjoyed residual powers.

In the early years of the Constituent Assembly Debates (1946–50), there was a general acceptance that the units of the federation would have inviolable rights. This is best evidenced in the work of the Provincial Constitution Committee, set up under the chairmanship of Sardar Vallabhai Patel, to examine the structure and powers of the provinces. Clause 22 of the report of this committee laid down that delimitation of the territorial constituencies was to be a provincial matter. But in the next few years, the debates in the Assembly would change drastically, no less due to political convulsions of the time, like the creation of Pakistan and the integration of 560-odd Indian princely states after the British made a hasty exit from India in August 1947 unilaterally renouncing their treaty relationships with the states.

Against Federalism

The increasing attrition of federal elements and the fear of balkanization would direct Indian Constitution-making into a more unitary path so much so that the final text of the Indian Constitution of 1950 did not even mention the word federation. B. R. Ambedkar, the chief author of the Indian Constitution, free India’s first Law Minister, and a Dalit icon, had deep-seated reservations about federalism at least from 1939, when he wrote his book Federation versus Freedom. As the title itself suggests, he considered federalism as curbing India’s political freedom, which he believed would be compromised by the princely states, a traditionally conservative group that stood to gain the most from a federal structure. Ambedkar would persuade B.N. Rau, another key author of the Constitution, to make amends to a draft Rau wrote and remove the words “federation” and “federal” from it and replace them with “Union,” signifying a tightly knit, top-down polity.

The eventual shape of the Constitution proved to be more unitary, with very few safeguards given to preserve provincial autonomy. In Indian nationalist thought, the fear that provincial autonomy would only have a deleterious impact on India’s fragile unity became axiomatic. Jawaharlal Nehru, the first prime minister of India, while addressing a group of provincial ministers, said that history teaches us two things: “One is that territorial integrity should be preserved in India and the other that people should be allowed to grow according to their own genius. But that, if allowed to remain by itself, may lead to the strengthening of the disruptive forces in the country.” This constant tussle between unity and disintegration is emblematic of Nehruvian political thought in many respects at least from the mid-1930s.

Thus, it was no surprise that matters of delimitation and electoral rolls would be taken away from the purview of provincial governments. By virtue of Article 327, the Constitution invested the exclusive right of delimitation with the federal parliament. Of course, this was a corollary of the fact that the Indian states/provinces were to be divested of the right to secede or enjoy residual powers or have territorial inviolability. By contrast, the United States Constitution (Art. 1 Sec. 4) invests the power to delimit or redistrict the electoral constituencies with the states, which also enjoy residual or unenumerated powers.

Reconciling Federalism and Democracy

This history should be salutary for the present face-off between democracy and federalism in India today. If democracy as championed by the Indian anticolonial nationalists foiled the attempts to inscribe a more robust federal structure for India wherein units could exercise certain inviolable rights and make them equal partners in governance, today we are seeing the opposite. The states that will get fewer seats through the delimitation fear that federalism will be the casualty and are standing in the way of India being a truly descriptive or representative democracy.

The delimitation move has been interpreted by its detractors as a punishment for Southern states that succeeded in controlling population growth and ensuring higher economic growth in comparison to the poorer and populous states in the North like Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, and Madhya Pradesh. At one level, this is a profoundly anti-democratic argument, yet the argument has power in the context of southern states like Kerala and Tamil Nadu, which were historically strong advocates of federalism and the fear that their federal bargain is being compromised now. Not only do these advanced states contribute more to the federal coffers, but in the face of delimitation they will also have less control over the levers of power in Delhi.

The strong opposition based on federal grounds resulted in the Constitution Amendment Bill failing to garner 2/3 votes in the lower house. It is one of the tragedies of postcolonial India that democracy and federalism have come into conflict when they both should serve the interests of the people. Perhaps this conflict is a symptom of the peculiar historical trajectory of India, where rather than a compromise, the imperatives of democracy overshadowed the needs of federalism for a country of India’s size and diversity.

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Legal frameworks for remunerated sexual services often reveal a weakness in our democracies: how to protect sex workers as a marginalized group without patronizing them. A bill recently introduced in the French Senate proposes to replace the current End-Demand legislation with full decriminalization. Drafted by a mixed group of interdisciplinary researchers and sex workers of different backgrounds, the bill tackles this weakness head-on.

Sex workers’ active participation of in drafting the bill led to a nuanced and detailed text. It not only eliminates incoherencies in the existing legal framework, but also emphasises the protection of sex workers’ rights – and therefore, crucially, has the support of those affected.

From an exclusionary legislative framework…

The current legislation dates back to 2016 and rests on two main pillars. First, the law criminalizes paying for sexual services while offering said services officially remains legal. Second, so-called “exit programs” (parcours de sortie de prostitution, or PSP) offer those who want to leave sex work social, financial and educational support to change profession. An often overlooked third element of the legislation made assaulting a sex worker an aggravating circumstance (Art. 11, loi n° 2016-444). The model, first introduced in Sweden in the 1990s, aims to reduce demand for sexual services and thereby suppress – or at least significantly diminish – sex work, which it considers an obstacle to gender equality (hence: End-Demand Model).

Critics raise both factual and legal objections to the French legislation On the factual side, sex workers’ living and working conditions have substantially deteriorated, and violence against them has risen. On the legal side, the law does not differentiate between sex work that is freely exercised and human trafficking.

Before their adoption, the proposals for the 2016 legislation drew the same criticism that has proven well-founded ten years later. That the law was nonetheless adopted can be linked to the testimonial injustice that sex workers often face: The term coined by Fricker refers to a deficit of credibility attributed to a speaker du to prejudice on the hearer’s part. Opposition to the End-demand-legislation had little impact on the legislative process, which was steered by a handful of elected officials in favour of its adoption. Community organizations had fewer opportunities to be heard than abolitionist organizations. Parliamentary debates rested on poorly substantiated estimations of exploitation and the portrayal of sex workers as victims of exploitation. This created an atmosphere in which lawmakers could dismiss any dissenting voice: active sex workers were automatically discredited as privileged and therefore unrepresentative.

When protest during the legislative procedure brought no change, community organizations turned to strategic litigation. National courts and the ECHR ruled against the appellants, relying on the margin of appreciation of the national parliament and emphasizing that parliament had debated these issues during long, thorough and balanced procedures. At the constitutional level, the Conseil constitutionnel not only declined to second-guess the political choices underlying the law but also refused scrutiny of their factual basis. This judicial restraint is standard practice, but it entrenched the assumption that most sex work is forced and left intact the epistemic exclusion of active sex workers claiming the opposite. The ECHR followed the same path: it stayed within its established practice and used none of the available means to give weight to the testimonies of active sex workers, whose voices disappeared behind the margin of appreciation left to parliament.

… to active participation in the legislative process

To address this the research project “Droit(s) et Politique(s) du Travail Sexuel 2026” ,created at the Centre de Recherches Critiques sur le Droit (CERCRID) at the University of St. Étienne, France, aimed at a new approach. It brought together a multidisciplinary team of academic researchers, sex workers, sex worker-led organizations (e.g. Fédération du Parapluie Rouge, Tullia) and allies (Médecins du Monde) to work out a legislative proposal that considers the needs of sex workers from the outset. The project culminated in a bill that Paris senator Anne Souyris introduced in the French Senate. A two-day conference accompanied the introduction, taking stock of a decade of End-Demand legislation and setting out the circumstances of the new project.

The heart of the project was a community consultation involving around 70 people who participated in workshops supported by translators and, where needed, cultural mediation. The research group collectively developed criteria for workshop participation to ensure a representation of the broad range of sex workers as well as third parties, differing in migration background, age and situation. Participating organizations across France received these criteria and either reached out to individuals within their clientele who matched the relevant profile or circulated the information in their network. These workshops mapped out sex workers’ concerns, which the team later used to draft the bill.

What are the proposed changes?

The bill takes a broad approach. Rather than creating special legislation for sex workers, it integrates them into existing legal frameworks like criminal law and employment law that already contain protective mechanisms suited to securing sex workers’ human rights. Unlike the 2016 legislation, which leaned heavily on values like equality and human dignity, this text focuses strikingly on whether its regulations will concretely improve sex workers’ living and working conditions. It therefore contains hardly any provisions open to accusations of moral policymaking. This also means fewer incoherencies – to name only the most glaring: criminalizing payment for a service whose provision is not itself illegal.

In criminal law, this translates into abolishing all pimping offenses, which currently extend to almost all third party-related activity, as well as the criminalization of demand for sexual services. Instead, the bill proposes to focus explicitly on harmful and exploitative conduct which existing criminal offenses such as slavery, forced labour, human trafficking and extortion already cover.

The bill also recognizes sex work not exercised under exploitative conditions as a legal economic activity (activité économique licite) under the French employment code. It proposes tax breaks as incentives to create businesses where sex workers hold effective control, an option considered less susceptible to exploitation. To combat stigma, the bill proposes adding discrimination on the grounds of a legal economic activity to art. 225-1 of the Criminal Code.

The bill centers sex workers as experts on their own situation. Community organizations therefore play a key role: they are the ones who oversee safe working conditions and coordinate the exit programs that are to be reshaped more broadly into programs offering access to rights, social integration, and career transitions.

The bill addresses the diversity of sex workers’ situations by including an article restricting abusive business strategies for online platforms. Lastly, it addresses the protection of minors, which the evaluation of the 2016 legislation identified as an overlooked problem.

A blueprint for inclusive democracy

This is only the beginning, and the bill still has a long way to go. Its prospects remain uncertain in a French political climate increasingly marked by conservative shifts and anti-immigration sentiment. Outside the sex worker community, the abolitionist End-Demand model continues to enjoy support. Yet the project is already breaking new ground.

Sex work remains a controversial subject. The protection of individuals must be weighed against societal values like equality, morality or public decency. Which of these values takes precedence is, according to the relevant courts, a choice for society to make. Yet if “society” equates with the parliamentary decision-making process, active sex workers are not sufficiently represented. This epistemic imbalance weakens the democratic foundation of the legislation as well as the idea of human rights protection that extends to the margins of society.

The values and concerns of “society” – particularly its more privileged segments – are already sufficiently represented within parliamentary institutions. Concerns like public morals, human dignity and restrictive migration regimes will enter the decision-making as soon as the bill moves to the next steps of the legislative procedure. By including sex workers as experts in the drafting process, the proposal remedies their potential exclusion in the following steps. If the bill goes to parliament, their input will already shape the subject and framework of the debates. The proposal’s focus on concrete protective mechanisms, rather than moral policymaking, makes an actual human rights-based approach to sex work more likely – one that actually improves the living and working conditions of those affected.

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Academic literature and international legal documents on transitional justice have concentrated on transitions from dictatorships or armed conflicts, while neglecting hybrid regimes. In such regimes, physical violence is less characteristic (even though not unknown), but centralised corruption, state-organised plunder of resources, and the gradual demolition of the guarantees of democracy and the rule of law during the ancien régime require exceptional transitional measures when building a new democratic regime. Just as the questions of democracy and the rule of law are not binary (“yes” or “no”), transitional measures after hybrid regimes should also be proportionate. In European cases, as far as the legal framework is concerned, besides general international law, the case-law of the ECtHR is mostly relevant. The present piece does not outline a precise roadmap, but it can be helpful for those who are or will be planning such roadmaps by conceptualising certain key dilemmas.

Concepts

“Transitional justice” includes various legal techniques, norms, and processes, de facto practices, and political narratives that are designed to help the transition from a non-democratic state (dictatorship, hybrid regime) into a democracy. It is much more than just court-like procedures about crimes by officials of the ancien régime.

By hybrid regimes, I mean regimes that are between well-functioning (embedded, consolidated) democracies and dictatorships (i.e. violent, oppressive regimes with systematic and severe human rights violations). Instead of having an adjective attached either to “autocracy” or “democracy”, the terminology “hybrid regime” expresses better the in-between status that I would like to stress here.

By “Europe”, I mean the signatories to the ECHR. Therefore, it is not a geographical, but a legal concept which is relevant in order to establish the relevant legal framework (especially ECtHR case-law) of potential transitional justice processes.

Hiatuses of the current transitional justice discourse

If you try to find solutions for the questions of what kind of transitional measures should be taken in the future after a hybrid regime ends in Europe, you will be disappointed. In the literature on transitional justice there is little that can be used – just bits and pieces here and there, some fragments, but nothing specifically addressing these issues. Concerning the topic of the present piece, the discourse suffers from four hiatuses:

First, it is based on a mistaken premise of the “end of history paradigm” (according to which relapse is just an exceptional accident). The way most of the literature writes about transitional justice still mirrors the mood of the 1990s: non-democratic regimes tend to become democracies (“end of history” euphoria), and even if there are relapses (it would be difficult to deny this historically), these are rather just unfortunate accidents. To use medical language, transitional justice is conceived as a one-off “post-traumatic” treatment of exceptional accidents. I suggest that it should rather be seen as a continuous “anti-alcoholic” treatment aimed at avoiding future relapses. The emergence of dictatorships or hybrid regimes nowadays does not just “happen” to countries as an externally caused accident, these developments grow out of inherited cultural patterns.¹⁾ And even if they are externally caused (e.g. via military invasion), in the long run they often distort the local culture (i.e. attitudes and beliefs of the local population) into a feeding ground for their own regime. I call this “institutional alcoholism”.

The usual German translation of transitional justice “Vergangenheitsbewältigung” (literally “dealing with the past”) expresses exactly this misunderstanding of equating transitional justice with just dealing with what has happened in the past. This is not simply a “framing issue”, as it actually has practical consequences for what type of measures are recommended and for how you weigh trade-offs between various measures. If non-democratic relapses are only exceptional accidents, then you do not have to worry about the demoralising effects of amnesties – you just want to get it done and get back to normalcy. But if you think that relapses are culturally conditioned and that they can easily happen (just like an alcoholic tends to relapse without external help), then you are much more careful with letting perpetrators get away and just move on.

Second, it lacks focus on hybrid regimes (ie its triggering threshold is too high). Both the academic literature and dedicated international documents on transitional justice have concentrated so far mainly on transitions from full-blown dictatorships or civil wars, normally requiring “severe and systematic” violent incidents (mass tortures, abductions, killings, rapes, etc.), often in the context of international armed conflicts or civil wars. In hybrid regimes, however, physical violence is less characteristic (even though not unknown), but centralised corruption, state-organised plunder of resources, and the gradual, often informal and systematic demolition of the guarantees of democracy and the rule of law during the ancien régime require exceptional transitional measures when building the new democratic regime.

Third, it lacks focus on crony capitalism, plundering and corruption (ie it almost exclusively focuses on physical violence and violations of civil and political rights). Another feature of the discourse is its almost exclusive focus on physical violence (“past widespread or systematic violence”, see Zunino p. 5) or violations of civil and political rights (ibid 49 and 51). Economic questions normally come up only either as the (triggering) economic context of physical violence or when there is a transition from a non-market-economy (typically socialist regime) into market economy. The discourse is traditionally understood as a subfield of international human rights law – issues such as crony capitalism, resource plundering and corruption are, however, difficult to conceptualise as human rights violations. If you leave these untouched though, then non-democratic forces will have the resources to return and it will convey the message that you can get away with it, so in the future it is worth trying it again.

Fourth, it is legalistic and almost exclusively principle-driven. The discourse generally lacks good empirical studies, thus the effects of the measures are still unclear. Besides classical legal-doctrinal analyses, most of the literature is about implementing moral principles (to date the best comprehensive study is still an almost twenty-year-old Canadian paper).

Why do we need transitional justice?

While saying that ordinary justice measures suffice when returning from a hybrid regime back to democracy might sound theoretically appealing, this viewpoint actually ignores the nature of non-democratic regimes (dictatorships and hybrid regimes). Even though transitional justice does not necessarily need to be illegal according to the legal system of the ancien régime (breaking legal continuity, ie revolutions in a Kelsenian sense, can actually be quite risky both from a practical and a legitimacy perspective), it does need to address transitional issues specifically.

The primary and overarching purpose is to avoid relapse, the question is though how sub-goals can help this. Non-democratic regimes do not have the cultural and legal immune systems that are necessary to avoid future relapses, and these immune systems need to be built up. Officials of the ancien régime will not automatically deal with past injustices either (some of them also lack the necessary credibility to do so), you thus need some impulses or personal changes to set the machines into motion. These points hold both for dictatorships and for hybrid regimes.

Unavoidable trade-offs

There are often conflicting purposes regarding transitional justice processes. While the overarching purpose is clearly to avoid a relapse, it is not clear through which mix of sub-goals this can be achieved. Whether it is “justice”, “truth”, “reconciliation”, “stability”, “prosperity”, “legitimacy”, “democracy”, or “the rule of law” (which are all very much open-ended concepts themselves), remains somewhat opaque. Moreover, there are also unavoidable trade-offs between these goals. To illustrate the dilemmas, Jon Elster notes the contradicting expectations concerning trials in transitional justice situations (Closing the Books: Transitional Justice in Historical Perspectives at 212):

• Trials should be speedy, in the sense of starting up immediately […].
• They should be swift, in the sense of being concluded quickly.
• They should be severe, using […] long prison sentences.
• They should be just, both in the substantive sense of punishment according to desert and in the procedural sense of respecting the rule of law.
• They should be thorough, in the sense of convicting a large fraction of the collaborators.
• They should be efficacious, in the sense of using scarce resources as efficiently as possible.

Well, good luck with fulfilling all these expectations at the same time! The best, but admittedly somewhat vague, advice to transitional governments is thus “to pursue as much transitional justice as possible and yet only as much as is prudent”.

The toolbox

It is important to emphasise that transitional justice is not just about legal measures, and especially much more than just trials. The various measures do not exclude each other: they can and should be applied together. Their application can also be quite messy: one person can belong at the same time to the victims and the perpetrators. As the 2004 Report of the UN Secretary-General formulates about the applicable toolbox: “We must learn as well to eschew one-size-fits-all formulas and the importation of foreign models, and, instead, base our support on national assessments, national participation and national needs and aspirations.” This is exactly why we have to rethink transitional justice for hybrid regimes.

There are three main categories of measures in the toolbox: First, measures of Transformative Justice Reshaping the Political Community. These include symbolic ruptures, maybe a new constitution (or rather not, as this can easily re-ignite polarisation in transitional situations, thereby undermining future liberal democracy), institutional reforms, vetting/lustration, and measures aimed at discovering/remembering the past. Second, measures of Restorative Justice Helping Victims. While this can be part of the toolbox, after hybrid regimes this is less central (cf. above the lack of massive and severe human rights violations). Third, measures of Retributive Justice Punishing Perpetrators and Beneficiaries. This can include “naming and shaming”, expropriation and asset recovery (partly through non-conviction-based confiscation, whereby especially Article 1 of Protocol 1 ECHR needs to be considered), vetting/lustration (within the limits of Article 8 ECHR, inter alia), and criminal trials (whereby especially Articles 6 and 7 ECHR need to be respected).

A few concrete pieces of advice on how to avoid pitfalls

In order not to be too academic, I finish with some concrete advice:

• Resist the temptation to do nothing: send a message to the future. At the same time, be aware that vengeance is usually a poor guide for institution-building.
• Trade-offs are unavoidable, so you consciously need to balance and prioritise your goals.
• Have a precise plan – with incrementalism and continuous self-corrections during implementation. Do outreach activities: explain and involve.
• Set traps: officials of the ancien régime have a tendency to betray each other, if they understand that the ancien régime is unlikely to return (“strategic defectors”), and if you give them the opportunity to do so (prisoner’s dilemma in the service of transitional justice).
• Be careful with the very top leader on trial: such a symbolic trial can mobilise hard-core supporters of that leader and can thus easily backfire. In contrast, trials against cronies and against other high officials (excluding the actual former leader) are safer options.
• Deal with property issues.
• Stay legal: respect the ECHR with the right legal technique. Revolutions in a legal (Kelsenian) sense have a high price in the long run.
• Be aware of how polarisation can undermine liberal democracy: avoid ideologically divisive measures as much as possible.
• Show a good example: be transparent in your goals, be fair in the procedure, and most importantly govern well.

Opinions expressed in this article are in personal capacity and do not engage the European Court of Human Rights.

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