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Catch-22

Afghanistan’s relationship with the Rome Statute is neither fully legalistic nor purely political.

By Salis Malik | October 2025


One does not have to dig deep into Afghanistan’s turbulent political soil to unearth yet another paradox. This nation is legally tethered to the world’s highest criminal court, yet ruled by a regime that denies the court’s very existence. In the grand theatre of international law, this contradiction stands out like an unblinking spotlight on a stage of shifting shadows. The Taliban, now firmly in control of Kabul, insist they owe no allegiance to the International Criminal Court (ICC). But history - and a few stubborn articles of international treaties - beg to differ.

One must return to the foundational text that binds Afghanistan, the Rome Statute, to understand this rift. Adopted in 1998 and entering into force in 2002, the Rome Statute serves as the legal bedrock upon which the ICC stands; it grants the Court jurisdiction over the most serious crimes of concern to the international community as a whole, including genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes, and the crime of aggression, whenever national courts are unwilling or unable to prosecute. Afghanistan acceded to this treaty in 2003, thereby placing itself under the jurisdiction of the ICC, and from that moment onward, any such crimes committed on Afghan territory, or by Afghan nationals, fell within the reach of the Court’s prosecutorial mandate.

When seen through the legal lens, the question emerges: can Afghanistan truly withdraw from the Rome Statute when its current regime - the Taliban - openly rejects the very jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court (ICC)? This is not merely a technical query on treaty law but an intersection of law, politics, and geopolitics in a country in perpetual flux for over four decades. Afghanistan, after all, acceded to the Rome Statute in 2003, committing itself to the jurisdiction of the Court over genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes, and the crime of aggression. Yet today, the regime in Kabul insists that it neither recognizes the ICC’s authority nor sees itself bound by its investigative reach. The irony is as deep as it is paradoxical: a State Party whose de facto rulers refuse to play by the very rules it once ratified.

Moreover, from a strictly legal standpoint, the Rome Statute offers an exit route - Article 127 permits a state to withdraw by notifying the UN Secretary-General. But therein lies the first knot: only a recognized government can perform such an act under international law. The Taliban, despite controlling Afghanistan in practice, remains unrecognized by the vast majority of states and the United Nations. The ambassador of the former Republic still holds the official seat of Afghanistan at the UN. This means that, procedurally, the “Afghanistan” that signed onto the Rome Statute has not, in the eyes of the world, ceased to exist, even if the political reality on the ground says otherwise. The result is a bizarre legal duality: in the courtroom of international law, Afghanistan remains bound to the ICC; in the court of Taliban opinion, it is entirely free of its shackles.


Politically, this friction plays into the Taliban’s wider quest for international legitimacy. Recognizing their withdrawal from the Rome Statute would imply recognizing them as Afghanistan’s legitimate rulers - a step few nations are willing to take without concessions on human rights, women’s freedoms, and counterterrorism assurances. Thus, the ICC’s ongoing investigations into alleged war crimes by all sides - the Taliban, former Afghan forces, and even foreign actors - remain a thorn in Kabul’s side. For the ICC, Afghanistan is a test case of its reach: can an international court enforce accountability in a state ruled by a government that rejects its very existence?

The geopolitical dimension is equally intricate. The ICC’s probe into Afghanistan touches on sensitive areas involving not just Afghan actors but also foreign militaries, making it an arena where global powers have a stake in the outcome. The Taliban, in turn, may find tactical advantage in using ICC defiance as a signal to both friends and foes - a declaration of sovereignty in a world where they remain diplomatically isolated. However, the absence of ICC jurisdiction would also remove a potential lever that outside powers might use to pressure the regime into compliance with international norms.

Afghanistan’s relationship with the Rome Statute is neither fully legalistic nor purely political; it is a hybrid of treaty law, recognition politics, and realpolitik. Even if the Taliban could, in theory, initiate withdrawal upon gaining recognition, the process would take a year from notification and would not shield them from investigations into alleged crimes committed while Afghanistan was still a member. Thus, the ICC’s shadow will continue to loom over Kabul - whether the Taliban acknowledge it or not.

Without a doubt, the interplay between legal procedure, political recognition, and geopolitical pressure will determine whether Afghanistan ever truly “leaves” the Rome Statute. Until then, it exists in a state of limbo - bound on paper, unbound in practice - a paradox that, much like Afghanistan’s modern history, is as much about power as it is about principle.

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