IY-LAW

An Essay in Reflection, Responsibility, and the Rule of Law.

Inara Rahman

Inara is a student at the Earl Haig Secondary School in Toronto, Canada

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Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

It feels strange, even now, to imagine the United States — that towering symbol of democracy and justice — sitting as a defendant before the International Court of Justice. But in 1986, that’s exactly what happened. For a 20-year-old sovereign nation like Nicaragua to bring a case against the most powerful country in the world was, in every sense, a David and Goliath story — one that unfolded not on a battlefield, but in the courtroom of The Hague.

Before I’d read the ruling myself, I only had vague notions of what this case involved. Something about the Cold War, the Contras, and covert CIA operations in Central America. The usual geopolitical complexities that, for many of us, feel distant and abstract. But the more I dug into Nicaragua v. United States, the more it stopped feeling like a history lesson — and more like a lesson in ethics, in international accountability, and in how even the giants of the world can be held to account.

Let’s rewind.

In the early 1980s, Nicaragua had undergone a revolution. The leftist Sandinista government had overthrown the Somoza dictatorship, and not everyone was happy, especially the United States, which saw the Sandinistas as dangerously aligned with the Soviet Union. In response, the Reagan administration began supporting a rebel group known as the Contras, funding them, training them, even mining Nicaraguan harbors and attacking oil depots. These weren’t just allegations — they were actions the U.S. didn’t exactly deny.

Nicaragua took its case to the ICJ in 1984, claiming that the United States had violated international law, including the principles of non-intervention, the prohibition on the use of force, and the sovereignty of states. It wasn’t a small ask. It was asking the world’s top court to rule that the world’s most powerful nation had broken the law.

And astonishingly, the Court said yes.

In its 1986 ruling, the ICJ found that the United States had, in fact, violated international law. It concluded that the U.S. had unlawfully used force against Nicaragua by supporting the Contras and by carrying out direct military actions, like the mining of Nicaraguan ports. It rejected the U.S.’s argument that it was acting in collective self-defense, noting that Nicaragua had never actually attacked the United States or any of its allies.

What struck me most wasn’t just the ruling itself, but the sheer boldness of it. The ICJ — a body often seen as slow, procedural, and hesitant to challenge power — had openly condemned U.S. actions. It was a legal verdict, yes. But it also felt like a moral one.

Yet, here’s where it gets complicated.

The United States didn’t stick around to hear the judgment. It withdrew from the proceedings partway through, arguing that the Court lacked jurisdiction. When the final decision came down, the U.S. ignored it, refused to pay reparations, and blocked enforcement through the United Nations Security Council.

This is the part of the case that leaves a knot in your stomach. Because while the judgment affirmed the idea that international law applies to all countries, not just the weak ones, the aftermath reminded us of a much bleaker truth: that enforcement depends on power, not just principle.

Reading about this case, I couldn’t help but reflect on how often the law — especially international law — feels more like an aspiration than a reality. It’s like the world has agreed on rules, but we’re still figuring out whether those rules apply equally. And when a country as powerful as the U.S. can walk away from a court’s ruling without consequence, it chips away at the credibility of the very system designed to uphold justice.

But I also think there’s a quieter lesson here. Because even if the U.S. didn’t comply, the fact that Nicaragua brought the case — and the fact that it won — still mattered. It mattered symbolically, diplomatically, and historically. It set a precedent that no state, however mighty, is beyond the reach of international norms.

The judgment in Nicaragua v. United States is now taught in law schools around the world. It’s cited in textbooks, lectures, and even other ICJ opinions. It’s become a pillar of legal doctrine on state sovereignty, non-intervention, and the limits of military force.

And yet, when I think of this case, I think less of legal principles and more of what it says about courage. About what it means for a small country to stand up to a superpower not with weapons, but with words and law. Nicaragua could’ve responded with more violence, more war. Instead, it chose a courtroom.

That choice — and that quiet dignity — stays with me.

It reminds me that international justice is often imperfect, slow, and frustrating. But it’s also still worth believing in. Because the moment we stop believing in the rule of law, even when it fails, is the moment we give up on the idea that power can be tamed by principle.

Looking back, I wonder how different the case would’ve been if it happened today. With global media, social platforms, and rising youth interest in justice and human rights, would the world have paid more attention? Would the pressure on the U.S. to comply have been greater? I don’t know. But I’d like to think so.

Ultimately, Nicaragua v. United States wasn’t just a legal case. It was — and is — a story about what happens when law and politics collide. About how ideals are tested in the real world. And about how sometimes, even when justice doesn’t prevail in practice, it still matters that it’s articulated clearly — in a courtroom, for history to remember.

Because maybe justice isn’t always about what happens next.

Sometimes, it’s about what gets recorded.