There are crimes so grave, so unforgivable, that they tear at the fabric of humanity itself. And there are betrayals so profound that they crush whatever fragile faith one might still hold onto in the structures of justice. The arrest of Osama Njeem Elmasri, the Libyan war criminal, mafia architect, and unrepentant slave master, could have been a moment of reckoning. A beginning of hope for his victims, who have carried the burdens of his atrocities in their bodies and minds, their wounds which became a living testimony to the horrors this man committed. For one fleeting moment I can say for myself and I trust for many: justice seemed not just possible, but imminent.
But the Italian government, with all its polished facade of civility and pretensions of legality, reminded our world that justice is not its concern, no, let me put it clear: Not when black people are concerned. The arrest, we the oppressed hailed, was extinguished within hours. Not because the evidence was lacking or the law was unclear, but because power in its most insidious form knows no morality.
Rome betrayed the Rome Statute, and they did so with the kind of casual arrogance that only comes from knowing there will be no consequences.
His release and his swift expulsion back to Libya were not just a failure of justice; they were an act of complicity. The man who should have been shackled and marched into the International Criminal Court was instead flown back to the bosom of his mafia kingdom in Mitiga, in Tripoli, in Libya, where he was welcomed as a hero. Hero, they call him, a man whose hands seep with the blood of innocents. A man whose wealth is built on the sale of human lives. Hero to his followers, monster to the rest of us.
And what of the victims? Those who summoned the courage to recount their nightmares, their stories of torture, rape, and enslavement, to a court they believed would defend them? What of their pain, their dignity? Their suffering was not just ignored; it was spat upon. The Italian government, with its carefully orchestrated performance of legality, ensured that our voices were silenced once more. In that act of expulsion, Italy did not just fail us, t betrayed us.
Rome, the eternal city, they say, the seat of empires, they say, and the self-proclaimed defender of human rights today revealed its true face. A face that smiles at mafias and traffickers while it turns its back on the voiceless. The judiciary in Rome claimed the arrest was invalid because it wasn’t coordinated with headquarters. A convenient excuse, wrapped in bureaucratic nonsense, designed to obscure the real reason: Italy has no interest in dismantling the mafia system in Libya. It funds it, fuels it, and protects it because it profits from it. The Mediterranean is a graveyard for us the black children, and Italy is one of its gravediggers.
Meloni’s government postures as a champion against human trafficking while shaking hands with the very men who profit from it. Tajani, Piantedosi, and every other official who played a role in this travesty carry the blood of the victims on their hands. They are not just complicit; they are architects of this ongoing suffering. And let us not forget Interpol, that shadowy network of supposed law enforcement, whose silence in the face of such blatant injustice speaks louder than words ever could. They have not released a statement until now.
Where do we, the victims, turn now? When the systems meant to protect us conspire against us, when the courts we believed in abandon us, when the countries that tout their civilization and morality profit from our pain, where do we go? We who have already been displaced, enslaved, and silenced, how do we fight back when justice itself is a lie?
The ICC remains quiet, its hallowed halls echoes with the silence of broken promises. It was supposed to be the radar of accountability, the shield for the powerless against the powerful. But what is it, if not a monument to hypocrisy, if not another tool in the hands of those who oppress us? Its silence is not neutrality; it is betrayal.
Osama walks free today because the systems that claim to uphold justice are built to protect men like him. He walks free because the world values power over morality, wealth over humanity, and convenience over accountability. He walks free because Italy ensured it.
But let me be clear: this is not just Italy’s shame. It is the shame of every nation, every institution, every individual who has stood by in silence while men like him have ruled over our lives with violence and terror. Justice will not come from their courts, their governments, or their treaties. Justice, if it comes at all, will come from us—the survivors, the voices they tried to silence.
And let me promise this: we will not be silenced. Not by Elmasri, not by Rome, and not by the hollow promises of international institutions. They may have released him, but they cannot release themselves from the truth of what they have done. The blood they have spilled will stain their hands forever, and we will not let the world forget it.
I Will ask because: I, We, demand answers
How do you measure the worth of a human soul in a world where those who destroy it walk free? What does it mean to fight, to work tirelessly, to shed your blood and voice in the hope that justice will prevail, only to watch it crumble before your eyes? These are the questions that torment me now, not as an abstract exercise in philosophy, but as a raw and personal reckoning.
What is justice if not a promise? A solemn contract that binds the criminal to protect the powerless and the victim, the state to serve its people, and humanity to uphold its moral conscience? Yet, here I am turning upside down late night staring into the void left by that broken promise, wondering if justice is just another illusion—an elegant lie which has always been whispered to the victims to keep them hopeful while the oppressors carry on with impunity.
Does justice even exist in a system built by the very hands that profit from injustice? For years, I believed in the International Criminal Court, in the treaties and charters that spoke of universal human rights. I believed that the truth, the agonizing testimonies of those who endured slavery, torture, and unimaginable violence would pierce through the walls of indifference. I believed that men like Elmasri, whose crimes are too monstrous to be ignored, would be brought to account.
But now, I am forced to ask: is the system of justice merely a performance, a stage upon which the powerful act out their moral superiority while secretly nurturing the very evils they claim to abhor? Is it possible for the oppressed to find justice within institutions that are designed, at their core, to serve the oppressors?
What am I to make of a government that claims to fight human trafficking while shaking hands with the architects of the trade? How does one reconcile the words of a constitution with the actions of its leaders? Can the Italian government, with all its posturing and pretenses, truly claim to stand for law and order when it so willingly protects a war criminal?
And then there is the question that haunts me most: what is the purpose of hope in the face of such betrayal? For years, I have carried the burden of hope, not just for myself, but for those who could no longer carry it for themselves. I have spoken out, fought, and believed because I thought that change was possible. But hope, in the wrong hands, is a weapon. It is a leash that keeps the victims tethered to systems that will never truly serve them.
Was it foolish to hope? Was it naive to believe that the truth, the undeniable truth of Elmasri’s crimes would matter in a world ruled by convenience and profit? When a man so steeped in blood can be released with a shrug and a wave, what does it say about the value of the lives he destroyed?
And yet, here is a bitter truth that cannot be ignored: not all criminals are treated equally in the halls of so-called justice. Walid, an Eritrean accused of human trafficking, and Kidane, a man of similar infamy, were hunted, captured, and extradited across borders to face the ICC. Their crimes are heinous, yes, but so are Elmasri’s. Why, then, is one man hauled from country to country, while another is released in hours and escorted home to applause?
This is where the right questions must be asked: are these courts designed only for Africans? Is accountability reserved only for those whose skin color or nationality renders them expendable to the global order? Walid and Kidane were subjected to the full weight of international law, and rightly so—but why does that same law bend and break when faced with a man like Elmasri? Why does it falter when the accused is entwined with European, Meloni's interests, when his mafia system props up the very economies that pretend to fight him?
Perhaps the most damning question of all is this: does humanity even deserve justice? For if we, the victims, must endlessly relive our suffering just to plead for the bare minimum of a trial, a sentence, a semblance of accountability, then what does that say about the world we inhabit? Is it not a world that rewards power and punishes vulnerability, that nurtures evil while silencing the cries of the oppressed?
And yet, even as I write these words, I know I cannot let go of hope entirely. Not because the systems deserve it, but because we, the victims, deserve more than despair. We deserve answers. We deserve to see the chains of impunity broken. We deserve to live in a world where men like him do not walk free, where governments do not betray their own principles, and where justice is not a performance but a reality.
So I ask again, not just of the Italian government, but of every institution, every leader, every citizen who claims to stand for justice: where do we go from here? How do we rebuild faith in a system that has so thoroughly failed us? How do we demand accountability when those in power protect their own?
As for me, I ask this of myself: how do I continue to fight when every battle seems lost? How do I carry the stories of my people, their pain, their trauma, and their truth without being crushed by the weight of it?
These are not questions for philosophers in ivory towers. These are questions for the living, for those of us who refuse to be buried by silence. They are questions for you, for me, for anyone who dares to believe that justice is still worth fighting for.
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