Never Again, Again: The Limits of the Genocide Convention

The 1948 Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (Genocide Convention) is one of the most significant achievements in international law. It marked a turning point in the recognition of genocide as a distinct and punishable international crime. By recognizing genocide as a crime in international law, the convention aimed to prevent future atrocities and to create legal accountability. Yet despite its moral force and legal authority, genocide has continued to occur across decades and continents. This paper argues that the Convention’s structural limitations – in particular, its narrow definition, the difficulty of proving intent, and its dependence on political enforcement mechanisms – have repeatedly allowed states to evade accountability. Through the cases of Bosnia, Rwanda, Gaza, Ukraine, and Sudan, it becomes evident that the Genocide Convention does not prevent atrocities but often generates prolonged legal debate while violence continues. 

These structural weaknesses were embedded in the Genocide Convention from the beginning. Raphael Lemkin, the man who coined the term ‘genocide’ and championed for an international legal convention, had to make significant compromises to ensure that countries would adopt it. Those compromises included leaving out targeted political groups from the legal definition of genocide, because many states would not have signed in fear of repercussions. Lemkin had originally coined the term during WWII, partly in response to the Nazi policies of systematic murder of Jewish people during the Holocaust, but also in response to previous instances in history, specifically the Armenian Genocide (Power, 19). In his book Axis Rule in Occupied Europe, he introduces the word genocide. He defines it as “a coordinated plan of different actions aiming at the destruction of essential foundations of the life of national groups, with the aim of annihilating the groups themselves" (Power, 43). However, when the word “genocide” is used today, people’s minds immediately turn to the Holocaust. Over time, it has become the dominant frame through which genocide is understood and measured, which has made it difficult to recognize later genocides that do not resemble the Holocaust in scale, method, or imagery. Concerns about labeling an atrocity as genocide often stem from comparisons in size. While the Holocaust is the most well-known and recognizable example of genocide, its elevation as the benchmark directly hinders broader conversations about the crime. As Rebecca Kinstler argues, positioning the Holocaust as the model of genocide “has at once augmented genocide’s moral force and undermined its legal uses” (Kinstler). This problem is furthered by the world’s ignorance of the Genocide Convention and the term’s legal definition. At the same time, the Convention itself was weakened in practice by state interests, as seen in the delayed ratification by the United States, which slowed momentum for the treaty and discouraged other nations from ratifying as well. When the United States finally ratified the Genocide Convention in 1988, four decades after it opened for signature, it did so with significant reservations that limited its legal obligations. The conditions under which the US ratified made it so that the International Court of Justice could not force the US to judge a case involving genocide, whether brought against it or by it. In practice, this arrangement granted the US considerable discretion: it assured that it could both shield itself from punitive action and decline to initiate legal proceedings against other states under the Genocide Convention.  

Article VIII of the Genocide Convention allows any state party to call upon the United Nations “to take such action under the Charter of the United Nations as they consider appropriate for the prevention and suppression of acts of genocide.” While in theory this creates a legal channel for intervention, in practice, many states, especially the United States, fear that using the term ‘genocide’ could bind them to unintended political or military action and therefore avoid or refuse to use it. As Samantha Power argues, governments have often “used the search for certainty as an excuse for paralysis and postponement” (Power 506). Beyond the question of recognition, the case of Bosnia also shows how intent affects prosecution. Bosnia in the 1990s illustrates this dynamic. Following the breakup of Yugoslavia, Bosnia descended into war in 1992, during which Bosnian Serb forces carried out systematic campaigns of persecution, mass killing, and forced displacement against Bosniak Muslims. Although the world became increasingly aware of the atrocities committed there, international actors were hesitant to characterize them as genocide. The term ethnic cleansing, created by Serbian officials and meaning “the elimination of an ethnic group from territory controlled by another ethnic group,” was used as a euphemism for forced deportation and genocide (Power 250). It was used both by Serbian authorities to shield themselves from the legal repercussions of genocide and by the US, UN, and European Community, which adopted the terminology in public discourse. The absence of the genocide label served as a political shield, allowing governments to distance themselves from the obligation to intervene until the violence culminated in the Srebrenica Massacre in July 1995. At Srebrenica, more than 8,000 Bosniak Muslim men and boys were systematically executed by Bosnian Serb forces, even though UN peacekeepers had been charged with protecting the safe area. This led to NATO’s military intervention later that year. Only after this escalation of violence did meaningful international military intervention follow. While Article VIII of the Genocide Convention might not be enforceable, the moral component remains. If a country such as the US calls out genocide, it is also expected to intervene politically. In the same way, in Rwanda in 1994, the US government refused to use the term ‘genocide’ because “it would cause demands for intervention that the administration did not intend to meet” (Power, 359). Instead of acknowledging the systematic and intentional nature of the killings, which would have fallen under the Convention’s definition, officials framed the violence as the product of ancient tribal hatreds or chaotic civil war, thereby distancing themselves from responsibility to act. 

The reluctance to label atrocities as genocide in the first place is reinforced by the Convention’s narrow legal definition, which makes proving genocidal intent exceptionally difficult even after mass violence has occurred. The Convention is used both by courts, which determine whether something legally constitutes genocide, and by state governments, which may declare an atrocity to be genocide without judicial confirmation to act on it. While genocide is ultimately decided by the courts, the Convention focuses on the responsibilities of contracting parties to “prevent and punish it” (Genocide Convention art. 1). In this sense, it is structured so that member states are responsible for intervening, even in the absence of a formal legal ruling. Under Article II, for an act to qualify as genocide, “it must be committed with the intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnic, racial, or religious group” (Genocide Convention art. 2). For a defendant to be convicted of genocide, both the act and the perpetrator’s intentions must be proven, which can be extremely difficult. As Omer Bartov notes, “intent can also be derived from a pattern of operations on the ground,” even in a court of law. Yet this remains difficult to demonstrate in practice, as patterns of violence are often subject to different interpretations (Bartov). Unsurprisingly, governments are not typically willing to admit outright to genocidal intentions. Instead of interpreting intent based on patterns of targeting and systematic violence, political leaders frequently claim that intent cannot be proven until overwhelming evidence is available, which is often gathered after the atrocities are complete. In the case of Rwanda, US officials acknowledged that massacres were happening but resisted calling them a genocide on the grounds that the perpetrators’ intentions were not clear. Thus, US officials ignored abundant evidence already available at the time: pre-prepared assassination lists, coordinated roadblocks, state-controlled radio broadcasts calling for the extermination of Tutsis, and region-wide patterns of targeted killings. In this instance, the State Department ultimately used the euphemism “acts of genocide,” manipulating language to avoid the legal and moral implications of recognizing genocidal intent (Power 359). 

Similarly, in Bosnia, the Serbian leaders were later only convicted of genocide for the Srebrenica massacre, not for any other action in the war. Courts argued that the intent was only sufficiently clear in that instance. Furthermore, the Serbian leaders who carried out the Bosnian massacre were able to live in Serbia for decades before being arrested and prosecuted at The Hague. The focus on intent can also slow down international criminal prosecutions. In the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) and the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY), prosecutors often had to prove not only that defendants committed mass killings, but that their purpose was the destruction of a protected group, rather than political, military, or retaliatory motives. Many genocide scholars believe that the debate over whether it is genocide or not is useless when wanting action, for example, in Rwanda, “We (the United States) had enough proof that it was genocide, and for those who didn’t agree, we had crimes against humanity on a massive scale”, proving the debate over the word only delayed action (Power 358). As a result, convictions for genocide are far rarer than for other war crimes or crimes against humanity. 

The situation in Gaza provides a contemporary illustration of the structural limitations of the Genocide Convention, particularly concerning prevention, intent, and enforcement. In December 2023, the South African government invoked its obligations under Article 8 of the UN Genocide Convention to bring a case against Israel to the ICJ, alleging that Israel had breached its obligations to prevent and punish genocide against the Palestinian population in Gaza. While Gaza represents the first time a genocide claim is brought forward during a conflict rather than after, it still shows how the Convention fails to stop the atrocities. Furthermore, a decision on the case is likely to take years, demonstrating the limits of legal judgment. Despite the ICJ’s provisional measures ordering Israel to take all actions within its power to prevent acts prohibited under the Convention, the continuation of Israel’s genocidal campaign remains evident. While the ICJ’s orders are legally binding, the court has no way to enforce them, rendering them largely ineffective in stopping ongoing horrors and killings. This limitation is further worsened by political interference, in this case, particularly the United States’ continued support for Israel through financial and military assistance, its vetoing of UN Security Council resolutions related to the conflict, and its imposition of sanctions against members of the international judicial system involved in proceedings concerning arrest warrants against Israeli leadership. Even in the event of a conviction, it is unlikely that Benjamin Netanyahu will face justice, given that he has already been accused of war crimes and has continued to travel internationally without arrest. As in other cases, the invocation of the Genocide Convention has generated prolonged legal and political debate rather than immediate protective action, allowing the atrocities to persist for longer than necessary. 

Today’s conflict in Ukraine constitutes another contemporary example of genocide, even though it is not widely recognized as such. As discussed earlier, the central challenge of the Genocide Convention lies in proving intent. In the case of Ukraine, Russia has engaged in genocidal rhetoric toward the Ukrainian population since well before the full-scale invasion began. Legal scholars, policy experts, and historians have identified a consistent pattern following Russia’s February 2022 invasion that points toward genocidal intent (Apt). This pattern includes the systematic denial of Ukrainian national identity, explicit calls for the destruction of the Ukrainian nation, and the repeated dehumanization of Ukrainians in official discourse and state-controlled media. Evidence of this rhetoric predates the invasion. As early as 2009, in the Time magazine article “Putin to the West: Hands Off Ukraine,” Vladimir Putin stated that relations between “Big Russia and Little Russia — Ukraine…have always been the business of Russia itself.” (James). This statement is not only a warning against Western interference but also a denial of Ukraine’s sovereignty and political independence, reinforcing the view that Ukraine is not a legitimate national entity in its own right. More recent examples further illustrate the discourse's dehumanizing nature. In a Telegram post, the Russian head of the occupation authority in Crimea, Sergey Aksyonov, stated that “The Nazi vermin will be destroyed – this time completely. So that not even ashes will remain from it.” in reference to Ukrainians (Apt). This rhetoric is also evident in President Putin’s words. On February 8, 2022, shortly before the invasion, Putin stated with reference to Ukraine, “‘Like it or not, take it, my beauty,’ a phrase drawn from a vulgar rhyme about necrophiliac rape, implying an intention to inflict similar destruction on Ukraine and a view of Ukraine as a corpse” (Kachmar 16). As noted in legal analyses, this language frames Ukraine as an object without agency. It implies inevitable violation and destruction, reinforcing a dehumanizing narrative that supports an inference of genocidal intent. This rhetoric has also been shown to influence Russian soldiers on the ground. A Ukrainian civilian who managed to flee Mariupol told The New York Times that when she asked a Russian soldier at a checkpoint how to return to Ukraine, he replied, “We will exterminate everyone there, go to Russia.” Such statements demonstrate how these narratives are internalized by soldiers and translated into threats of collective destruction (Kachmar, 20).  

Beyond rhetoric, the accusation of genocide against Russia is further supported by the country’s actions, including mass murders of civilians, deliberate attacks on shelters, evacuation routes, and humanitarian corridors, indiscriminate bombardment of residential areas, military sieges designed to inflict life-threatening conditions, widespread rape and sexual violence, and other acts that collectively align with the prohibited conduct enumerated under Article II of the Genocide Convention. Particularly significant is the forcible transfer of Ukrainians: “Russia has reported the relocation of over one million people from Ukraine to Russia since the invasion began, including over 180,000 children” (Kachmar, 3). This act is explicitly prohibited under the Convention, which defines genocide as including “forcibly transferring children of the group to another group”, thereby reinforcing how these actions fall within the Convention’s legal definition of genocide (Genocide Convention art. 2). Similarly, evidence from Bucha further supports this pattern: after Russian forces retreated, investigators documented widespread summary executions of civilians killed at close range, often with hands bound and showing signs of torture, with witnesses describing door-to-door operations and public killings, sometimes carried out arbitrarily or “simply for having a tattoo of Ukraine’s national emblem.” (Kachmar, 24). These acts reinforce the existence of a broader pattern of targeted violence under Russian occupation and further support an inference of genocidal intent, particularly as the Convention defines genocide to include "Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group” (Genocide Convention Art. 2). 

Although Russia’s rhetoric and actions point toward genocidal intent, many states continue to resist recognizing the war in Ukraine as genocide. This reluctance is reinforced by Russia’s position as a permanent member of the UN Security Council, which exposes another major weakness of the Genocide Convention. Similarly, China’s persecution of the Uyghurs and other Muslim minorities in Xinjiang has been allowed to continue largely because China’s veto power enables it to block any action in the Security Council. As a result, attempts to mandate collective action can be stopped from the outset, making enforcement effectively impossible. The convention never accounted for countries with veto power committing genocide. Few states are willing to bring a genocide claim against a powerful country with veto authority in the Security Council, as doing so carries significant diplomatic, economic, and geopolitical consequences. States must weigh legal principles against strategic interests, and in many cases, self-preservation and alliance politics prevail over enforcement of the Convention. This reveals a recurring problem: the Genocide Convention relies on an enforcement system that fails when the state accused of genocide is powerful enough or has allies powerful enough to shield itself from international consequences. Even when genocidal rhetoric and actions are clearly documented, the convention fails to trigger timely intervention or overcome political barriers to enforcement. 

The situation in Sudan further confirms the limits of the Genocide Convention and highlights its failure to prevent repetition. In the case of Darfur, genocide was widely recognized by international actors in the early 2000s, and arrest warrants were eventually issued by the International Criminal Court against Sudanese officials, including then-President Omar al-Bashir. Despite this recognition and the existence of legal accountability mechanisms, violence against civilian populations in Sudan never completely ceased. Since April 2023, Sudan has once again descended into violent conflict, this time between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), a paramilitary group that traces its origins to the Janjaweed militias responsible for the Darfur genocide in the early 2000s. Today’s conflict shows how little deterrent effect this legal recognition by the ICC has had. Recent reporting from Darfur describes mass killings, ethnic targeting, rape, and forced displacement that closely resemble the atrocities committed two decades earlier. In his 2024 report from the Chad–Sudan border, Nicholas Kristof recounts how Arab militias lined up men and boys from Black African ethnic groups to execute them, with one militia leader stating plainly: “We don’t want to see any Black people… There is no place for you Black people in Sudan” (Kristof). Such statements demonstrate explicit racial targeting and intent to eliminate specific groups, echoing earlier genocidal rhetoric in the region, pointing toward the re-emergence of genocidal violence, even if formal legal recognition has not yet been established. The Convention is not limited to situations where genocide has already been legally established; it also imposes a duty on states to prevent genocide when credible warning signs and patterns of violence emerge. Unlike previous cases where governments debated terminology or questioned intent, Darfur had already been formally recognized as genocide. Arrest warrants had been issued, patterns had been documented, and the warning signs were well known. Yet despite this history and despite the region’s documented instability, the UN withdrew its peacekeeping force. This time, the failure cannot be attributed to uncertainty over the definition or insufficient evidence. The world has already seen this pattern before. The recurrence of mass killings and ethnic targeting in Sudan demonstrates that even when genocide is formally recognized and perpetrators are charged, the Convention does not prevent future atrocities. Accountability arrives late, if at all, and fails to protect populations at risk. The warning signs are not new; what is new is the repetition in full awareness of them. 

The cases discussed here, of Bosnia, Rwanda, Gaza, Ukraine, and Sudan, demonstrate that the failures of the Genocide Convention are not accidental but structural. The requirement to prove specific intent narrows the legal threshold and enables political hesitation. Article VIII depends on states willing to act, yet powerful nations can shield themselves or their allies through veto power and geopolitical leverage. Even when genocide is formally recognized, as in Darfur, accountability arrives late and fails to prevent repetition. There are now calls for a convention on crimes against humanity, one that would remove the semantic debate and allow for immediate action. When crimes against humanity are committed, they are defined by their widespread or systematic nature, making denial more difficult. Yet even such a convention would likely face the same enforcement problem: states are unlikely to accept meaningful legal constraints on their own power. The contemporary cases of Palestine, Ukraine, and Sudan confirm that the convention’s failures are not confined to the past. In Gaza, legal action was initiated only after widespread destruction, with enforcement rendered ineffective by political protection and institutional weakness. In Ukraine, extensive genocidal rhetoric and patterns of violence have failed to trigger timely recognition or intervention, particularly given Russia’s veto power within the UN Security Council. Sudan, perhaps most starkly, shows that even prior genocide recognition and prosecution do not prevent repetition, as mass violence has returned to Darfur despite decades of warning and precedent. Never again is once again a lie. 

Works Cited

Apt, Clara. “Russia’s Eliminationist Rhetoric against Ukraine: A Collection.” Just Security, 1 Aug. 2022, www.justsecurity.org/81789/russias-eliminationist-rhetoric-against-ukraine-a-collection/. 

Bartov, Omer. “Opinion | I’m a Genocide Scholar. I Know It When I See It.” The New York Times, 15 July 2025, www.nytimes.com/2025/07/15/opinion/israel-gaza-holocaust-genocide-palestinians.html. 

Kachmar, Oleh. “An Independent Legal Analysis of the Russian Federation’s Breaches of the Genocide Convention in Ukraine and the Duty to Prevent.” New Lines Institute, 27 May 2022, newlinesinstitute.org/intl-law-peace/an-independent-legal-analysis-of-the-russian-federations-breaches-of-the-genocide-convention-in-ukraine-and-the-duty-to-prevent/. 

Kinstler, Linda. “The Bitter Fight over the Meaning of “Genocide.’” The New York Times, 20 Aug. 2024, www.nytimes.com/2024/08/20/magazine/genocide-definition.html. 

Kristof, Nicholas. “Opinion | I Saw a Genocide in Slow Motion.” The New York Times, 2 Mar. 2018, www.nytimes.com/2018/03/02/opinion/i-saw-a-genocide-in-slow-motion.html. 

Marson, James. “Putin to the West: Hands off Ukraine.” TIME, 25 May 2009, time.com/archive/6946776/putin-to-the-west-hands-off-ukraine/. 

Power, Samantha. A Problem from Hell: America and the Age of Genocide. Basicbooks, 2002. 

United Nations. “Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide.” United Nations, 9 Dec. 1948.