Funktionsmechanismus von Anti-Suit Injunctions

Die Anti-Suit Injunction, kurz ASI, ist keine Anordnung an ein ausländisches Gericht. Sie richtet sich also nicht an den russischen Richter oder den russischen Staat, sondern an die Partei, die ein Verfahren vor russischen Gerichten betreibt. Ihr wird aufgegeben, ein solches Verfahren nicht einzuleiten, nicht fortzuführen oder zurückzunehmen. Die ASI wirkt damit nicht unmittelbar auf die fremde Gerichtsbarkeit, sondern mittelbar über die Disziplinierung der prozessführenden Partei.

Zuständigkeitskonflikte werden insoweit nicht über Anerkennungs-, Rechtshängigkeits- oder Vollstreckungsregeln gelöst, sondern durch ein in personam wirkendes gerichtliches Verbot, sich eines bestimmten Forums zu bedienen.

Art. 11ca der Russland-Sanktionsverordnung übernimmt diesen Mechanismus nun ausdrücklich in das Unionsrecht. Hat eine russische Partei vor einem russischen Gericht ein Verfahren im Zusammenhang mit einem von EU-Sanktionen betroffenen Vertrag angestrengt, obwohl eine ausschließliche Gerichtsstands- oder Schiedsklausel ein anderes Forum vorsieht, kann die betroffene EU-Partei vor einem Gericht eines Mitgliedstaats eine entsprechende Anordnung beantragen. Diese Anordnung soll die vereinbarte Gerichtsstands- oder Schiedsklausel absichern und die russische Partei verpflichten, das russische Verfahren nicht einzuleiten bzw. fortzuführen oder die hierfür erforderlichen Prozesshandlungen vorzunehmen. Wird die Anordnung missachtet, sieht Art. 11ca finanzielle Sanktionen vor, die zugunsten der betroffenen EU-Partei zu zahlen sind.

Anlass für die Einführung der unionsrechtlichen ASI ist die russische Prozessgesetzgebung. Art. 248.1 und 248.2 des russischen Arbitration Procedure Code ermöglichen russischen Gerichten, trotz entgegenstehender Schieds- oder Gerichtsstandsklauseln die Zuständigkeit für sanktionsbezogene Streitigkeiten zu beanspruchen und gegen EU-Unternehmen erhebliche Geldbußen zu verhängen, wenn diese die russische Zuständigkeit nicht akzeptieren. Art. 11ca ist insoweit eine gezielte Antwort auf russisches Prozess-Lawfare: Wo russische Gerichte vertraglich vereinbarte Streitbeilegungsmechanismen neutralisieren, sollen mitgliedstaatliche Gerichte diese nun aktiv schützen können.

Anti-Suit Injunctions als unionsrechtliches Novum

Art. 11ca ist deshalb bemerkenswert, weil die Anti-Suit Injunction dem europäischen Zivilverfahrensrecht lange fremd, ja systemwidrig erschien. Innerhalb des europäischen Justizraums beruht die Zuständigkeitsordnung auf gegenseitigem Vertrauen: Jedes angerufene Gericht prüft seine Zuständigkeit selbst; Fehlentscheidungen werden über Rechtsmittel, Anerkennungs- und Vollstreckungsregeln aufgefangen. In den Rs. Turner v Grovit und West Tankers stand die Anti-Suit Injunction deshalb für ein Misstrauen, das der Binnenjustizraum gerade institutionell vermeiden sollte.

Art. 11ca operiert jedoch nicht innerhalb dieses Vertrauensraums. Die Norm richtet sich gegen ein russisches Prozessregime, das sanktionsbezogene Streitigkeiten trotz entgegenstehender Gerichtsstands- oder Schiedsklauseln an sich zieht und damit privatautonome Streitbeilegungsmechanismen entwertet. Die unionsrechtliche ASI ist deshalb weniger ein allgemeiner Kurswechsel des europäischen Prozessrechts als eine gezielte außenpolitische Ausnahme: Wo gegenseitiges Vertrauen nicht vorausgesetzt werden kann, setzt das Unionsrecht auf kontrolliertes Misstrauen.

Gerade darin liegt aber die Ambivalenz der Norm. Art. 11ca übernimmt ein machtvolles Instrument aus dem Arsenal prozessualer Gegenwehr, ohne dessen Durchsetzungs- und Kontrollbedingungen vollständig zu europäisieren. Die Vorschrift wirft daher zwei Fragen auf: Erstens, ob eine ASI ohne sicheren Zugriff auf Vermögenswerte praktisch Druck entfalten kann. Zweitens, ob der Schutz von Schiedsvereinbarungen kohärent ist, wenn die unionsrechtliche Akzeptanz privater Schiedsgerichtsbarkeit zugleich von wirksamer Kontrolle am Maßstab des EU-Rechts abhängt.

Vollstreckungsdefizit: finanzielle Sanktionen ohne sicheren Zugriff

Art. 11ca übernimmt zwar die Logik einer ASI, nicht aber zwingend ihre Durchsetzungsarchitektur. Im common-law-Kontext beruht die Wirksamkeit einer Anti-Suit Injunction regelmäßig auch auf dem Risiko, wegen contempt of court sanktioniert zu werden. Contempt of Court meint die Missachtung des Gerichts, wenn eine Partei trotz eines gerichtlichen Verbots ein ausländisches Verfahren einleitet oder fortsetzt. Diese Missachtung kann mit empfindlichen Zwangsmitteln geahndet werden, etwa Ordnungsgeld, Vermögensbeschlagnahmen oder sogar Haftstrafen. Art. 11ca wählt einen anderen Weg: Die Missachtung der Anordnung führt lediglich zu finanziellen Sanktionen, die nicht an die Staatskasse, sondern an die gegnerische EU-Partei zu zahlen sind.

Die ASI erzeugt aber nur dann praktischen Druck, wenn die gegnerische EU-Partei die finanzielle Sanktion auch realisieren kann. Dafür braucht es Vermögenswerte, auf die ein mitgliedstaatliches Gericht oder ein vollstreckungsbereiter Drittstaat tatsächlich zugreifen kann. Hat die russische Partei keine greifbaren Vermögenswerte in der EU und lässt sich die Sanktion auch in Drittstaaten nicht vollstrecken, droht die unionsrechtliche ASI zu einem bloßen paper remedy zu werden. Ihre Effektivität hängt daher nicht nur von der gerichtlichen Anordnung ab, sondern von der geographischen Belegenheit und rechtlichen Zugänglichkeit des Schuldnervermögens.

Diese Schwäche wird durch das Sanktionsrecht selbst noch verschärft. Gerade in den Fällen, in denen Art. 11ca besonders relevant ist, kann der Adressat der finanziellen Sanktion eine gelistete Person oder ein gelistetes Unternehmen sein. Dann sind etwaige Vermögenswerte in der EU regelmäßig eingefroren. Damit ist der Zugriff auf diese Vermögenswerte sanktionsrechtlich blockiert, solange keine einschlägige Ausnahme oder behördliche Genehmigung greift.

Darin liegt ein erster Konstruktionswiderspruch: Der Unionsgesetzgeber schafft ein monetäres Druckmittel, dessen naheliegende Vollstreckungsmasse zugleich durch das eigene Asset-Freeze-Regime blockiert sein kann. Zwar hat das 20. Sanktionspaket punktuelle Freigabemechanismen geschaffen; so können eingefrorene Gelder unter bestimmten Voraussetzungen zur Deckung von Schiedsverfahrenskosten freigegeben werden. Für die Befriedigung finanzieller Sanktionen nach Art. 11ca eröffnet die Verordnung aber kein ebenso klares Vollstreckungsfenster. Die EU bewaffnet ihre Gerichte daher mit einer ASI, stattet diese aber nicht durchgehend mit einem funktionsfähigen Vollstreckungsarm aus.

Kohärenzdefizit: Schiedsvereinbarungen schützen, Schiedsgerichte kontrollieren?

Damit ist das Vollstreckungsproblem nur die erste Schwäche von Art. 11ca. Die zweite offene Flanke ist die Kohärenz der Anti-Suit Injunction: Art. 11ca schützt nicht nur Gerichtsstandsklauseln zugunsten mitgliedstaatlicher Gerichte, sondern auch Schiedsklauseln. Für Gerichtsstandsklauseln ist die unionsrechtliche Logik vergleichsweise klar: Russische Gerichte sollen in sanktionsbezogenen Streitigkeiten nicht an die Stelle eines vereinbarten mitgliedstaatlichen Gerichts treten, das EU-Sanktionsrecht achtet. Bei Schiedsklauseln liegt die Sache anders. Denn das Unionsrecht behandelt Schiedsgerichtsbarkeit gerade nicht als vorbehaltlos gleichwertiges Ersatzforum. Vielmehr akzeptiert es Schiedsverfahren nur insoweit, als die Autonomie des Unionsrechts gewahrt bleibt.

Diese unionsrechtliche Vorbehaltsposition hat der EuGH im Investitionsschiedskontext in Achmea und Komstroy deutlich formuliert. Die Entscheidungen betreffen nicht die gewöhnliche Handelsschiedsgerichtsbarkeit, sondern intra-EU-investitionsschiedsrechtliche Konstellationen. In Achmea erklärte der EuGH eine Schiedsklausel in einem intra-EU-Investitionsschutzabkommen für unionsrechtswidrig. Entscheidend war, dass ein EU-Investor und ein Mitgliedstaat Streitigkeiten mit möglichem EU-Rechtsbezug vor ein Schiedsgericht bringen konnten, das nicht Teil des Gerichtssystems der Union ist und dem EuGH keine Fragen nach Art. 267 AEUV vorlegen kann. Dadurch sah der EuGH die einheitliche Auslegung des Unionsrechts und sein Letztentscheidungsmonopol gefährdet. In Komstroy übertrug er diese Logik auf intra-EU-Schiedsverfahren auf Grundlage des Energiecharta-Vertrags. Zwar sind Achmea und Komstroy nicht ohne Weiteres auf die Handelsschiedsgerichtsbarkeit übertragbar, die Entscheidungen lassen aber auf einen allgemeinen Grundsatz schließen: Schiedsgerichtsbarkeit wird unionsrechtlich problematisch, wenn Streitigkeiten mit möglichem EU-Rechtsbezug einem Spruchkörper übertragen werden, der nicht in das Gerichtssystem der Union eingebunden ist, dem EuGH keine Fragen nach Art. 267 AEUV vorlegen kann und dessen Entscheidungen keiner hinreichenden gerichtlichen Kontrolle am Maßstab des Unionsrechts unterliegen. Schiedsgerichtsbarkeit wird unionsrechtlich dort verdächtig, wo sie den Letztzugriff des EuGH auf die Auslegung des Unionsrechts leerlaufen lässt.

Genau an diese Kontrollfrage knüpft nun auch im Sanktionsrecht die laufende Rs. Reibel an. Dort geht es um die Frage, ob Streitigkeiten aus sanktionsbetroffenen Verträgen überhaupt vor Schiedsgerichte gebracht werden dürfen. Der zentrale Punkt ist die No-Claims-Clause des Art. 11 der Russland-Sanktionsverordnung. Sie verhindert vereinfacht gesagt, dass bestimmte russische oder mit Russland verbundene Parteien Ansprüche daraus herleiten können, dass ein Vertrag wegen EU-Sanktionen nicht erfüllt wurde.

Entscheidet ein Schiedsgericht über solche Ansprüche, stellt sich die Frage, wie gewährleistet bleibt, dass das Schiedsgericht die No-Claims-Clause und damit EU-Sanktionsrecht beachtet. Die Schlussanträge des Generalanwalts in Reibel beantworten dies nicht mit einem Verbot der Schiedsgerichtsbarkeit, sondern setzen auf nachgelagerte Kontrolle: Schiedsverfahren können zulässig sein, solange staatliche Gerichte später prüfen können, ob der Schiedsspruch mit EU-Sanktionsrecht und dem unionsrechtlichen ordre public vereinbar ist.

Diese Kontrolle funktioniert bei gewöhnlicher Handelsschiedsgerichtsbarkeit über die nationalen Schiedsverfahrensrechte. In Deutschland kann ein inländischer Schiedsspruch etwa nach § 1059 Abs. 2 Nr. 2 lit. b ZPO aufgehoben werden, wenn seine Anerkennung oder Vollstreckung dem ordre public widerspricht. Bei ausländischen Schiedssprüchen läuft die Kontrolle über § 1061 ZPO in Verbindung mit Art. V Abs. 2 lit. b des New Yorker Übereinkommens. Auch dort kann Anerkennung und Vollstreckung versagt werden, wenn der Schiedsspruch mit dem ordre public des Vollstreckungsstaats unvereinbar ist.

Genau hier zeigt sich das Kohärenzproblem von Art. 11ca. Die Norm schützt Schiedsklauseln pauschal gegen russische Gerichte. Die unionsrechtliche Akzeptanz von Schiedsgerichtsbarkeit reicht jedoch allenfalls so weit, wie  Schiedssprüche letztlich mitgliedstaatlicher Kontrolle zugänglich bleiben. Art. 11ca sichert das vereinbarte Forum, sagt aber nichts darüber, ob diese Kontrollvoraussetzungen für das konkrete Schiedsregime erfüllt sind.

Diese Lücke tritt besonders deutlich bei Schiedsregimen hervor, die nationaler Kontrolle nur eingeschränkt zugänglich sind. Bei ICSID-Schiedssprüchen greifen die normalen nationalen Aufhebungs- und Anerkennungsmechanismen gerade nicht. Die Kontrolle erfolgt grundsätzlich nur innerhalb des ICSID-Systems als sog. self-contained regime. Je schwächer der Zugriff mitgliedstaatlicher Gerichte auf den Schiedsspruch ausfällt, desto schwieriger wird es, die Beachtung zwingenden EU-Sanktionsrechts durch nachgelagerte Kontrolle abzusichern.

Noch schärfer träte das Kohärenzproblem hervor, wenn der EuGH in der Rechtssache Reibel den Schlussanträgen des Generalanwalts nicht folgt und Schiedsverfahren für sanktionsbezogene Streitigkeiten unionsrechtlich enger begrenzt oder sogar ausschließt. Art. 11ca geriete dann in eine paradoxe Lage: Die Norm würde Schiedsklauseln gegen russische Eingriffe schützen und damit ein Forum absichern, das unionsrechtlich selbst nicht oder nur eingeschränkt zulässig wäre.

Art. 11ca knüpft daher nicht lückenlos an die unionsrechtliche Kontrollprämisse an. Zwar schützt die Norm vereinbarte Streitbeilegungsmechanismen gegen russische Eingriffe. Sie klärt aber nicht, ob das geschützte Forum seinerseits hinreichend an das Unionsrecht rückgebunden ist und ob der spätere Schiedsspruch zumindest einer wirksamen mitgliedstaatlichen Kontrolle unterliegt. Art. 11ca verteidigt also die Eingangstür zur Schiedsgerichtsbarkeit, ohne den Ausgang vollständig zu kontrollieren.

Fazit: Strategisches Misstrauen ohne vollständige Architektur

Art. 11ca markiert keinen einfachen Kurswechsel des Unionsrechts zur Anti-Suit Injunction. Die Norm zeigt vielmehr, wie sich europäisches Prozessrecht unter geopolitischem Druck verändert: weg vom reinen Vertrauen in koordinierte Zuständigkeitsregeln, hin zu prozessualer Gegenwehr gegen fremdstaatliches Lawfare. Diese Gegenwehr bleibt jedoch unvollständig. Die neue ASI ist nur so stark wie ihre Vollstreckbarkeit und nur so kohärent wie die unionsrechtliche Kontrolle des Forums, das sie schützt. Ihre finanziellen Sanktionen setzen tatsächlich und rechtlich zugängliche Vermögenswerte voraus; ihr Schutz von Schiedsklauseln setzt voraus, dass die geschützte Schiedsgerichtsbarkeit nicht zugleich den unionsrechtlichen Kontrollmechanismen entzogen ist. Solange beides nicht durchgehend gesichert ist, bleibt Art. 11ca ein Instrument strategischen Misstrauens ohne vollständige Durchsetzungs- und Kohärenzarchitektur. Nicht die Partei selbst, sondern das Gericht stellt ja das Verfahren ein, deshalb dieser Zusatz.

The post Politisiertes Prozessrecht appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

In den politökonomischen Verhältnissen des modernen Geldwesens ist der Digitale Euro allerdings weniger eine Frage des Ob, sondern vor allem eine Frage des Wie. Baut der Gesetzgeber den Digitalen Euro bewusst „unspektakulär stabil“, ohne die Potenziale eines digitalen öffentlichen Geldmediums auszuschöpfen, wird er kaum Transformation bewirken. Um die Souveränität der Währungsunion nachhaltig zu stützen, muss der Digitale Euro mutig und innovativ konstruiert werden.

Die gegenwärtige Funktion des Euro

In der traditionellen ökonomischen Geldtheorie erfüllt Geld drei grundlegende Funktionen: als Zahlungsmittel, Wertaufbewahrungsmittel und Rechnungseinheit (dazu grundlegend Aaron Sahr). Im Wirkungsbereich des Euro werden alle drei Funktionen bereits lückenlos verwirklicht: Im alltäglichen Geschehen des Marktes bildet der Euro als Rechnungseinheit einen allgemeingültigen Wertmaßstab, der Preise auszeichnet – von der Supermarktkasse bis zum Onlineshopping. Egal ob in Form von Bargeld, auf dem Konto einer Geschäftsbank oder in anderen Anlagemöglichkeiten, auf Euro lautende Geldmedien können uneingeschränkt als Wertaufbewahrungsmittel genutzt werden. Auch im Zahlungsverkehr bestehen für den Euro keinerlei Funktionseinschränkungen. Im digitalen Raum ermöglichen Zahlungsdienstleister wie PayPal und Apple Pay oder Kreditkartenanbieter wie Visa und Mastercard jederzeit die Zahlung in Euro. Analog lassen sich diese Mittel über moderne Near Field Communication (NFC) nutzen, die den kontaktlosen Datenaustausch ermöglicht, während das herkömmliche Bargeld als konventionelles Zahlungsmittel hinzutritt. Der Euro funktioniert – sowohl analog als auch digital. Wozu also ein Digitaler Euro?

Eine Abhängigkeit von privaten Finanzunternehmen

Reduziert man das Wesen des Geldes allein auf diese ökonomischen Funktionen, hätte ein Digitaler Euro tatsächlich wenig Mehrwert. Diese Reduktion blendet allerdings die politökonomischen Machtstrukturen aus, die dem derzeitigen Geldsystem zugrunde liegen. Zwar zeichnet sich die EU für die Währung des Euro als abstrakt bestimmte Rechnungseinheit hoheitlich verantwortlich. Doch im Zahlungsverkehr besteht eine direkte Rückbindung an die EZB – und damit eine Verpflichtung zu rechtsstaatlichen Grundsätzen – allein beim Bargeld. Bargeld ist derzeit die einzige Form öffentlichen Geldes, die für Bürgerinnen und Bürger als Endnutzer des Geldsystems zur Verfügung steht.

Alle anderen nutzbaren Formen des Geldes beruhen auf einer Gewähr privater Unternehmen und sind somit privates Geld. Bereits die Geldschöpfung liegt nicht bei der EZB, sondern bei privaten Geschäftsbanken, die durch ihre autonomen Kreditvergaben über den Umfang der umlaufenden Geldmenge bestimmen. Seit der Finanzkrise gelten besonders große Banken aufgrund ihrer weitreichenden Verflechtungen am Markt als „too big to fail“. Neben die Geschäftsbanken treten die Anbieter von Zahlungsdienstleistungen wie PayPal, Apple Pay, Visa, Mastercard usw. Formal wickeln diese Unternehmen lediglich Zahlungsvorgänge ab und verschieben privates Geld von A nach B. Doch wer Zahlungsvorgänge technisch abwickelt, kontrolliert auch den zentralen Zugang zu einer wirtschaftlichen Teilhabe am Markt. Und so haben diese Unternehmen die Macht, Transaktionen zu sperren, Nutzerinnen und Nutzer auszuschließen, Gebührenstrukturen zu bestimmen und Daten über das Zahlungsverhalten ihrer Nutzerinnen und Nutzer zu sammeln. Zahlungsanbieter diktieren die Regeln und Bedingungen der monetären Teilhabe am Markt.

Erschwerend kommt hinzu, dass die im Euroraum dominanten Anbieter dieser Zahlungsdienstleistungen eine geschlossene Gruppe US-amerikanischer Großunternehmen bilden. Im Rahmen der US-Sanktionen gegen die Richterinnen und Richter des ICC sperrten etwa PayPal, Visa und Mastercard ihre Zugänge (dazu Kai Ambos). Das Oligopol der US-amerikanischen Zahlungsanbieter kann in dieser Form jedoch nicht nur Einzelpersonen, sondern auch Unternehmen, Staaten oder die gesamte EU sanktionieren. Global agierende Finanzkonzerne sind so zu politischen Machtinstrumenten herangewachsen (dazu kürzlich Carola Westermeier und David Hengsbach). Im digitalen Raum besteht für Bürgerinnen und Bürger gegenwärtig keine Möglichkeit, auf eine öffentliche Alternative der EU zurückzugreifen. Bargeld ist im digitalen Raum nicht nutzbar.

Der Digitale Euro

Hier knüpft der Digitale Euro an. Er soll als öffentliche Form digitalen Geldes unmittelbar von der EZB bereitgestellt und im rechtsstaatlichen System der Währungsunion hoheitlich verantwortet werden. Wie beim Bargeld sollen rechtliche Strukturen seine Funktion als universelles Zahlungsmittel gewährleisten. Genau diesen Anspruch begründet ein Digitaler Euro gegenüber der emittierenden Zentralbank. Als rechtssichere Alternative zu den etablierten Finanzinstrumenten hat der Digitale Euro so das Potenzial, die bestehenden Machtstrukturen innerhalb des Geldsystems zu verschieben und die selbstverwaltete Funktionsfähigkeit der Währungsunion im digitalen Zeitalter zu erneuern. Auch gegenüber den zunehmend auf den Markt drängenden Krypto-Assets (dezentral auf einer Blockchain abgebildete Vermögenswerte wie der Bitcoin) und Stablecoins (Krypto-Assets, deren Wert an Referenzen wie den US-Dollar oder Gold rückgebunden ist), kann ein Digitaler Euro eine nachhaltige Alternative darstellen (zur Einordnung von Krypto-Assets und Stablecoins durch die Bundesbank).

Der Digitale Euro hat also erhebliches Innovationspotenzial. Um dieses auszuschöpfen, sollte ein Digitaler Euro insbesondere vier Eigenschaften aufweisen:

Erstens ist ein Digitaler Euro als gesetzliches Zahlungsmittel zu etablieren. Wie beim Bargeld schafft dieser Status einen rechtlichen Annahmezwang: Ein Digitaler Euro muss dann grundsätzlich zur rechtlichen Tilgung von Geldschulden akzeptiert werden – sowohl von privaten als auch von staatlichen Akteuren.

Zweitens erfordert ein Digitaler Euro hohe Datenschutz- und Privatsphärenstandards. Bei der Nutzung digitalen Geldes entstehen zwangsläufig Daten. Während die Geschäftsmodelle der privaten Zahlungsanbieter von der Weiterverwendung dieser Daten getrieben sind, eröffnet ein Digitaler Euro die Möglichkeit, ein Geldmedium mit bargeldäquivalentem Datenschutz und rechtsstaatlicher Grundrechtsbindung zu erschaffen (zu Datenschutzfragen weitergehend Andreas Kerkemeyer). In seiner online-Funktion sind dazu möglichst wenige personenbezogene Daten zu verarbeiten, sodass keine Zahlungsprofile erstellt werden können; in seiner offline-Funktion ist die Datenübermittlung auf die Gültigkeit des genutzten Geldes sowie den eingesetzten Zahlungsbetrag zu reduzieren.

Drittens sollte ein Digitaler Euro kostenlos nutzbar sein, um eine echte Alternative zu kostenlosen Zahlungslösungen wie PayPal zu bilden.

Viertens sollte es für einen Digitalen Euro kein gesetzlich fixiertes Haltelimit geben. Ein solches wird insbesondere diskutiert, um die Geschäftsbanken vor Einlagenabflüssen zu schützen. So besteht die Sorge, dass kurzfristig größere Summen von Giro- oder Sparkonten auf den Digitalen Euro übertragen werden. Um dieser Entwicklung vorzubeugen, soll Bürgerinnen und Bürgern nur ein begrenzter Betrag an Digitalen Euro zur Verfügung stehen. Doch die gesetzliche Fixierung eines solchen Haltelimits würde zugleich dauerhaft – trotz etwaiger waterfall und reverse waterfall functionality (Art. 13 Abs. 3 Verordnungsentwurf), die durch die Verknüpfung mit einem Bankkonto eine Geldübertragung über das Haltelimit hinaus ermöglichen – die Funktion eines Digitalen Euro als vollwertiges Geldmedium begrenzen und damit seine allgemeine Akzeptanz im Zahlungsverkehr verringern. Insoweit wäre es sinnvoll, die Festlegung eines Haltelimits einer flexiblen Ausgestaltung der EZB zu überlassen, ohne diese gesetzlich zu binden.

Eine Verantwortung des Gesetzgebers der Währungsunion

Per Definition ist ein Digitaler Euro unmittelbar von der EZB als Organ der EU auszugeben. Ohne eine rechtliche Ermächtigung kann die EZB indessen keine genuin neue Form des Geldes emittieren. Der Gesetzgeber der Währungsunion muss also die rechtlichen Voraussetzungen dieser neuen, nämlich digitalen Zentralbankwährung des Euroraums schaffen.

Für die Währungspolitik der Euro-Mitgliedstaaten ist die EU gemäß Art. 3 Abs. 1 c) AEUV ausschließlich zuständig. Zwar definieren die Unionsverträge den Begriff der Währungspolitik nicht weiter. Nach der Rechtsprechung des EuGH beschränkt sich die Währungspolitik jedoch

„nicht auf die operative Ausführung dieser Politik, […] sondern beinhaltet auch eine normative Dimension, die darauf abzielt, den Status des Euro als einheitliche Währung zu gewährleisten“ (EuGH, Rs. C-422/19 und C-423/19, Rn. 38).

Die Union ist also auch dazu verpflichtet, rechtlich für den Funktionserhalt des Euro zu sorgen. Aufgrund der ausschließlichen Zuständigkeit der EU sind die Mitgliedstaaten des Euroraums dabei nur in der von den Verträgen vorgesehenen Form zu beteiligen.

Das Primärrecht der EU ermächtigt die EZB nicht zur Ausgabe eines Digitalen Euro. Insbesondere Art. 128 AEUV, der die Emission von analogem Bargeld reguliert und damit zugleich seine Abschaffung verhindert, enthält für diese neuartige digitale Form des Geldes keine kompetenzrechtlichen Vorgaben. Die Rechtsgrundlage erfordert daher einen Sekundärrechtsakt. Die Europäische Kommission stützt ihren Verordnungsentwurf zum Digitalen Euro zu Recht auf Art. 133 AEUV. Danach erlassen – unbeschadet der Befugnisse der EZB – das Europäische Parlament und der Rat gemäß dem ordentlichen Gesetzgebungsverfahren die Maßnahmen, die für die Verwendung des Euro als einheitliche Währung erforderlich sind. Nach dem Verfahren des Art. 294 AEUV können die beiden Organe demnach die rechtliche Grundlage eines Digitalen Euro schaffen.

Fortschritt vertagt oder Fortschritt verweigert?

Bereits im Juni 2023 hatte die Europäische Kommission den Entwurf einer Verordnung zur Einführung des Digitalen Euro unterbreitet. Nach den Neuwahlen des Europäischen Parlaments im Juni 2024 sowie einer langen politischen Blockade durch die parlamentarischen Berichterstatter scheint sich im Gesetzgebungsprozess nun etwas zu bewegen. Der Rat hat seine Position im vergangenen Dezember in einem umfangreichen Mandat für Verhandlungen mit dem Europäischen Parlament festgelegt. Demnach stehen die Mitgliedstaaten politisch grundsätzlich hinter dem Projekt. Im Europäischen Parlament liegt die Situation komplizierter: In der Vergangenheit wurde insbesondere konservativen Kräften mit engen Verbindungen zur Finanzwirtschaft nachgesagt, den Gesetzgebungsprozess zu verschleppen (dazu im Juli 2024) – vordergründig wegen Sorgen vor dem „gläsernen Bürger“ sowie der Verdrängung vermeintlich bewährter Banken- und Zahlungssysteme. Es bleibt zu hoffen, dass die geplante Abstimmung im Ausschuss für Wirtschaft und Währung (ECON) am 23. Juni tatsächlich stattfindet. Erst nach der Abstimmung des Parlaments folgt die informelle Trilog-Verhandlung zwischen Parlament, Rat und Kommission, um sich vorläufig über den Verordnungsentwurf zu einigen. Trotz politischer Fortschritte droht das Gesetzgebungsverfahren damit noch immer zu einer Hängepartie über unzählige Detailfragen zu werden.

Innovatives Geld braucht innovatives Recht

Das laufende Gesetzgebungsverfahren zum Digitalen Euro unterscheidet ihn bereits von anderen digitalen Geldformen. So bestimmt nicht einseitig ein privates Unternehmen, sondern ein demokratischer Rechtssetzungsprozess über seine Gestalt und Funktion und bindet ihn unmittelbar im rechtsstaatlichen System der Währungsunion ein.

Die Gesetzgebungsorgane der EU sollten nun entschlossen wichtige politische Eckpunkte festsetzen. Dabei stehen sie an einem Scheideweg: Soll der Digitale Euro die bestehenden Machtstrukturen des Geldsystems nachhaltig transformieren, sind die privaten Akteure des Geldsystems notwendig zu entmachten. Wird der Digitale Euro dagegen so zahm ausgestaltet, dass er bloß kein privates Geschäftsmodell gefährdet, kann man sich seine Einführung auch direkt sparen. Um die Souveränität und Stabilität des Euro zu erhalten, muss ein Digitaler Euro den bestehenden privaten Bezahlsysteme mindestens ebenbürtig sein – und darüber hinaus die besonderen Merkmale eines öffentlichen Geldmediums ausweisen, mit denen er sich von privaten Geldmedien abgrenzt: als gesetzliches Zahlungsmittel mit Annahmezwang, mit hohen und bargeldäquivalenten Datenschutz- und Privatsphärenstandards, kostenlos nutzbar sowie ohne ein gesetzlich fixiertes Haltelimit. Die technischen Detailfragen kann der Unionsgesetzgeber einer Ausgestaltung der EZB überlassen. Nach Art. 127 Abs. 1 AEUV ist die EZB ohnehin dem vorrangigen geldpolitischen Ziel der Preisstabilität verpflichtet – wirtschaftsfeindliche Entscheidungen sind von ihr nicht zu erwarten.

Der Digitale Euro ist ein Projekt demokratischer Selbstbehauptung. Seine Rechtsgrundlage muss jeder Bürgerin und jedem Bürger eine freie, gleiche und rechtssichere Teilhabe am Zahlungsverkehr des Euroraums ermöglichen – unabhängig davon, welches Unternehmen gerade die technische Infrastruktur betreibt oder welche politischen Interessen dahinter stehen. Letztlich stellt der Digitale Euro eine politische Grundsatzfrage: Soll die Zahlungsinfrastruktur der Zukunft ein öffentliches Gut werden – oder der Macht privater Finanzinstitutionen überlassen bleiben?

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Schließlich erreichte der Fall auch das Verwaltungsgericht Schwerin – mit insgesamt 19 Eilanträgen. Dort ging es jedoch letztlich nicht um die Frage, ob Timmy hätte gerettet werden können, dürfen oder müssen. Die Verfahren scheiterten allesamt bereits an einer vorgelagerten Frage: Wer darf tierliche Interessen gerichtlich geltend machen?

Timmy als Angehöriger einer streng geschützten Art

Materiell-rechtlich genießt der Buckelwal im Vergleich zu anderen Tieren einen sehr hohen Schutzstatus – und das nach internationalem, unionsrechtlichem und nationalem Recht. Als Säugetierart der Ordnung Cetacea fällt der Buckelwal unter Anhang IV lit. a der europäischen FFH-Richtlinie (Fauna-Flora-Habitat-Richtlinie); Art. 12 FFH-RL verlangt für diese Arten die Einführung eines strengen Schutzsystems. Im nationalen Recht gestaltet das Bundesnaturschutzgesetz diesen Schutz aus: Arten des Anhangs IV der FFH-Richtlinie sind „streng geschützte Arten“ im Sinne von § 7 Abs. 2 Nr. 14 lit. b BNatSchG; für sie gelten damit insbesondere die Zugriffsverbote des § 44 Abs. 1 BNatSchG, d. h. etwa, dass Tiere dieser Arten nicht verletzt oder gar getötet werden dürfen (Nr. 1) – während besonders sensibler Lebensphasen wie etwa Wanderungszeiten dürfen Menschen sie darüber hinaus nicht (erheblich) stören (Nr. 2). Daneben gelten für sie die Besitzverbote des § 44 Abs. 2 Nr. 1 BNatSchG.

Somit berührten die im Fall Timmy diskutierten oder durchgeführten Maßnahmen dem Anschein nach mehrere artenschutzrechtliche Verbote des § 44 BNatSchG. Dies gilt insbesondere für körperliche Beeinträchtigungen, ein mögliches „In-Besitz-Nehmen“ sowie für Störungen während einer grundsätzlich sensiblen Lebensphase: Buckelwale wandern im Frühsommer typischerweise aus ihren warmen Fortpflanzungsgebieten in die nahrungsreichen Gewässer der Arktis. Unter eine Störung fallen Handlungen, die das psychische Wohlbefinden eines Tieres beeinträchtigen und etwa Angstreaktionen hervorrufen können – ob darüber hinaus negative Auswirkungen auf den Erhaltungszustand der lokalen Population einer Art erforderlich sind, ist umstritten.

Gerade im Fall eines gestrandeten Buckelwals ist jedoch zu beachten, dass die artenschutzrechtlichen Verbote schutzzweckbezogen auszulegen sind. Das Störungsverbot des § 44 Abs. 1 Nr. 2 BNatSchG soll streng geschützte Arten während sensibler Lebensphasen vor Beeinträchtigungen schützen, die ihre Fortpflanzung, Aufzucht, Mauser, Überwinterung oder Wanderung beeinträchtigen können. Timmy konnte seine Wanderung jedoch gerade nicht fortsetzen, weil er auf einer Sandbank festhing. Maßnahmen, die auf seine Befreiung und damit auf die Wiederherstellung der Möglichkeit zur Fortsetzung der Wanderung gerichtet waren, dürften daher jedenfalls nicht ohne Weiteres vom Schutzzweck des Störungsverbots erfasst sein. Andernfalls würde das Artenschutzrecht in sein Gegenteil verkehrt: Hilfe für ein streng geschütztes Tier würde gerade deshalb erschwert, weil dieses streng geschützt ist. Auch eine an § 44 BNatSchG anknüpfende Strafbarkeit nach § 71 Abs. 1 BNatSchG lag daher jedenfalls nicht nahe.

Soweit man einen Verstoß gegen § 44 BNatSchG annähme, käme der Ausnahmegrund aus § 45 Abs. 5 BNatSchG in Betracht. Danach ist es zulässig, verletzte, hilflose oder kranke Tiere aufzunehmen, um sie gesund zu pflegen. Doch bereits eine „Aufnahme“ im Sinne des § 45 Abs. 5 BNatSchG erscheint bei einem gestrandeten Buckelwal nicht ohne Weiteres einschlägig. Hinzu kommt, dass die fachlichen Einschätzungen zu seinem Gesundheitszustand nahelegten, dass der Wal kaum eine realistische Chance auf ein Überleben gehabt hätte (siehe etwa Einschätzungen der British Divers Marine Life Rescue, des International Whaling Commission Strandings Expert Panel, des Deutschen Meeresmuseums und des Instituts für Terrestrische und Aquatische Wildtierforschung). Die jeweiligen Gutachten bzw. Stellungnahmen legen den Schluss nahe, dass die Stimulations-, Bergungs- und Wiederaussetzungsbemühungen absehbar nur zu einer (erheblichen) zusätzlichen Belastung für den Wal führen und sein Leid verlängern würden.

Timmy als leidensfähiges Lebewesen

Gerade vor diesem Hintergrund ist auch an mögliche Verstöße gegen das Tierschutzgesetz zu denken. Dessen Schutzbereich erfasst grundsätzlich auch wildlebende Tiere, unabhängig von ihrer naturschutzrechtlichen Einordnung. Nach § 1 S. 2 TierSchG darf niemand einem Tier ohne vernünftigen Grund Schmerzen, Leiden oder Schäden zufügen. Materiell wäre dabei zu prüfen gewesen, ob die vorgenommenen oder unterlassenen Maßnahmen dem Wal Schmerzen, Leiden oder Schäden zufügten oder solche jedenfalls verlängerten. Schmerzen erfassen dabei unangenehme sensorische und gefühlsmäßige Erfahrungen, die mit einer tatsächlichen oder potenziellen Gewebeschädigung einhergehen oder einer solchen Erfahrung ähneln (s. Gerhold, in: Caspar/Gerhold, HK-TierSchG, § 1 Rn. 73). Leiden setzen Einwirkungen voraus, die der Wesensart des Tieres zuwiderlaufen, instinktwidrig sind und von dem Tier als lebensfeindlich empfunden werden, weil sie seinem Selbst- oder Arterhaltungstrieb entgegenstehen (s. Gerhold, in: Caspar/Gerhold, HK-TierSchG, § 1 Rn. 77). Auch Angst infolge ungewohnten und gegebenenfalls als lebensgefährdend wahrgenommenen Menschenkontakts kann Leiden begründen.

Strafrechtlich wird dieser Schutz durch § 17 TierSchG flankiert, der unter anderem das Zufügen länger anhaltender oder sich wiederholender erheblicher Schmerzen oder Leiden (Nr. 2 lit. b) unter Strafe stellt. Jedenfalls wären die Rettungsmaßnahmen nicht isoliert als belastende Einwirkungen zu betrachten. Wo ein Tier ohne Hilfe voraussichtlich über längere Zeit qualvoll verendet, kann die Chance, sein Leben zu erhalten oder sein Leiden zu verkürzen, vorübergehende Belastungen rechtfertigen. Strafrechtlich ließe sich dies über den rechtfertigenden Notstand nach § 34 StGB erfassen; zudem besteht grundsätzlich auch eine Pflicht zur Hilfeleistung nach § 323c StGB. Für die verwaltungsrechtliche Bewertung spricht derselbe Grundgedanke dafür, belastende Rettungsmaßnahmen nicht schon deshalb als tierschutzwidrig einzuordnen, weil sie kurzfristig Stress, Angst oder Schmerzen auslösen. Entscheidend wäre vielmehr eine fachlich fundierte Abwägung zwischen der Belastungsintensität der Maßnahme, der realistischen Überlebens- oder Befreiungschance und dem ohne Eingreifen zu erwartenden Leiden des Tieres.

Beschluss des VG Schwerin

Zu (derartigen) materiell-rechtlichen Überlegungen kam das VG Schwerin nicht, da die Anträge sämtlich bereits auf Ebene der Zulässigkeit scheiterten. Die Anträge richteten sich teils auf die Einleitung von Rettungsmaßnahmen, teils auf die Überprüfung der behördlichen Entscheidungen und teils auf das Unterlassen von Rettungsmaßnahmen. Sämtliche Anträge blieben jedoch mangels Antragsbefugnis erfolglos oder wurden zurückgenommen. Die Antragsteller konnten nach Auffassung des Gerichts nicht darlegen, warum sie durch die jeweiligen Maßnahmen oder deren Unterlassen in eigenen Rechten verletzt sein sollten. Die Normen des Tierschutzgesetzes seien nicht drittschützend; eine Tierschutzverbandsklage existiert in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern nicht. Auch die Normen des Bundesnaturschutzgesetzes seien nicht drittschützend.

Da die gerichtliche Argumentation in den 19 Verfahren im Wesentlichen gleich verlief, betrachten wir hier exemplarisch ein Verfahren näher (3 B 1168/26 SN).

Die Antragstellerin begehrte im Eilverfahren, das Land Mecklenburg-Vorpommern per einstweiliger Anordnung gemäß § 123 Abs. 1 VwGO zu verpflichten, sämtliche derzeit durchgeführten oder veranlassten Maßnahmen im Zusammenhang mit der Rettung bzw. Refloatierung (also dem Wiederaufschwimmen und Abschleppen des Körpers) des in der Kirchsee (Wismarer Bucht) befindlichen Buckelwals unverzüglich einzustellen, soweit diese mit erheblichem Stress, Schmerzen oder Leiden für das Tier verbunden sind. Hilfsweise sollte der Antragsgegner verpflichtet werden, die laufenden Maßnahmen bis zur Einholung eines unabhängigen, auf Meeressäuger spezialisierten tierschutzfachlichen Sachverständigengutachtens auszusetzen und nur solche Handlungen zuzulassen, die nachweislich auf die Reduktion von Schmerzen, Leiden und Stress des Tieres gerichtet sind.

Das VG Schwerin lehnte den Antrag unter Hinweis auf § 42 Abs. 2 VwGO analog als unzulässig ab: Auch im Verfahren nach § 123 Abs. 1 VwGO müsse der Antragsteller plausibel darlegen, dass ihm der geltend gemachte Anspruch zustehen könne. Daran fehle es.  Der Antragstellerin stehe offensichtlich kein Anspruch gegenüber dem Antragsgegner auf das begehrte Unterlassen oder Handeln zu.

Ein Anspruch der Antragstellerin könne sich dabei insbesondere nicht aus §§ 1, 2 oder 17 TierSchG ergeben. Die Normen des Tierschutzgesetzes seien nicht drittschützend – eine Beurteilung, die auch anders hätte ausfallen können. So entschied etwa das VG Freiburg, dass § 16a Abs. 1 S. 1, S. 2 Nr. 1 TierSchG in Verbindung mit § 2 Abs. 2 BadWürttPolG drittschützende Wirkung zu Gunsten der Antragsteller entfalten könne.

Weiter stellte das Gericht fest, dass in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern keine tierschutzrechtliche Verbandsklage vorgesehen sei. Ohnehin handle es sich bei der Antragstellerin um keinen anerkannten Tierschutzverband – eine Einordnung, die wohl auch für die Antragsteller in den 18 anderen Verfahren zutreffend ist. Die gegenwärtige Landesregierung beabsichtige nicht, eine tierschutzrechtliche Verbandsklage einzuführen (s. Landtags-Drucksache 8/3813, S. 6).

Auch die Normen des Bundesnaturschutzgesetzes seien nach Auffassung des Gerichts nicht dazu bestimmt, private Belange zu schützen.

Ebenso wenig ergebe sich ein Anspruch aus Vorschriften des Gefahrenabwehrrechts, wie etwa dem Sicherheits- und Ordnungsgesetz Mecklenburg-Vorpommern (SOG M-V), da auch insoweit ein individualschützender Anspruch auf ein bestimmtes behördliches Einschreiten nicht ersichtlich sei. Ein Anspruch ergebe sich auch nicht aus Art. 20a GG oder aus dem Unionsrecht. Weitere Anspruchsgrundlagen, aus denen sich ein gerichtlich durchsetzbares subjektives Recht der Antragstellerin herleiten ließe, seien nicht ersichtlich. Die Antragstellerin werde durch die vorgetragenen Zustände und den von ihr geschilderten Überlebenskampf des Wals nicht in erkennbarer Weise in ihren Rechten verletzt.

Verfassungsrechtlicher Tierschutz ohne prozessuale Übersetzung

Seit 2002 schützt Art. 20a GG ausdrücklich auch die Tiere. Der Tierschutz ist bei der Auslegung einfachen Rechts, bei Ermessensentscheidungen und in Abwägungssituationen zu berücksichtigen. Und doch: Obwohl der Tierschutz verfassungsrechtlich anerkannt ist, bleibt auf Bundesebene ungeklärt, wer diesen Schutz im Konfliktfall durchsetzen darf.

Besonders augenfällig wird dies an der fehlenden tierschutzrechtlichen Verbandsklage in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. Das führt zu einer schwer erklärbaren föderalen Zufälligkeit: Ob ein Tierinteresse gerichtlich vertreten werden kann, hängt insofern nicht von der Intensität des Leidens des Tieres ab, sondern vor allem davon, ob das jeweilige Bundesland ein Verbandsklagerecht geschaffen hat und wie weit dieses reicht. Wäre der Wal im benachbarten Schleswig-Holstein gestrandet (seine erste Strandung trug sich am Timmendorfer Strand in Schleswig-Holstein zu), hätte sich die prozessuale Ausgangslage anders dargestellt. Das schleswig-holsteinische Gesetz zum Tierschutz-Verbandsklagerecht eröffnet anerkannten Tierschutzvereinen Rechtsbehelfe, ohne dass sie eigene Rechte geltend machen müssen. Besonders relevant ist, dass das Gesetz auch Anordnungen oder die Unterlassung von Anordnungen nach § 16a TierSchG erfasst. Ein anerkannter Verband hätte daher etwa versuchen können, die unterbliebene tierschutzrechtliche Steuerung der Rettungsmaßnahmen als Unterlassen einer gebotenen § 16a-Anordnung gerichtlich überprüfen zu lassen. Wenn Art. 20a GG den Tierschutz als gesamtstaatliches Verfassungsziel anerkennt, erscheint es durchaus inkonsequent, seine gerichtliche Durchsetzung derart zu fragmentieren.

Naturschutz ist nicht gleich Tierschutz

Der Fall zeigt zudem, dass auch Ausweichüberlegungen oftmals nicht weiterführen: Wo ein tierschutzrechtlicher Zugang fehlt, liegt es nahe, tierliche Interessen naturschutzrechtlich zu rahmen. Zwar schützen auch die Zugriffsverbote des § 44 Abs. 1 BNatSchG den Buckelwal grundsätzlich als Individuum vor Beeinträchtigungen – seine Leidensfähigkeit und sein Schmerzempfinden spielen jedoch keine dem Tierschutzrecht vergleichbare Rolle. Das Naturschutzrecht versteht das Tier in erster Linie als Bestandteil von Ökosystemen, nicht als empfindungsfähiges Wesen. Das ist unbefriedigend. Der Schutz tierlicher Interessen darf nicht davon abhängen, ob diese in umweltrechtliche Interessen übersetzbar sind. Dies gilt umso mehr, da die betroffenen Umweltinteressen prozessual ebenfalls nicht durchsetzbar waren: Weder § 64 BNatSchG noch § 1 UmwRG begründeten ein Verbandsklagerecht, mit dem ein behördliches Einschreiten hätte geltend gemacht werden können. Beide Regelungsregime knüpfen beim Anwendungsbereich der Verbandsklage an einen abschließenden Katalog von Entscheidungen beziehungsweise deren Unterlassen an. Damit kann gerade nicht jede umweltrechtlich relevante behördliche Maßnahme oder deren Unterlassen gerichtlich geltend gemacht werden. Das ist auch mit Blick auf die Aarhus-Konvention problematisch. Die Konvention soll den Zugang zu Informationen, Öffentlichkeitsbeteiligung und gerichtlichem Rechtsschutz in Umweltangelegenheiten stärken. Art. 9 Abs. 3 verpflichtet die Vertragsstaaten, der Öffentlichkeit Zugang zu gerichtlichen oder verwaltungsbehördlichen Verfahren zu eröffnen, um umweltrechtswidrige Handlungen und Unterlassungen von Behörden oder Privaten überprüfen zu lassen.  Vor diesem Hintergrund wird zu Recht darauf hingewiesen, dass das UmwRG hinter den Anforderungen des Art. 9 Abs. 3 Aarhus-Konvention zurückbleibt, soweit es den Zugang zu Gericht auf einen abschließenden Katalog gesetzlich benannter Klagegegenstände beschränkt.

Der Fall Timmy macht einmal mehr deutlich, dass materieller Natur- und Tierschutz allein nicht genügen. Obwohl der Buckelwal artenschutzrechtlich streng geschützt ist und dem Schutz des Tierschutzgesetzes unterliegt, konnte dessen Einhaltung gerichtlich nicht überprüft werden. Denn es fehlt weiterhin an bundesweit verankerten Instrumenten, um tierliche Interessen im Einzelfall gerichtlich geltend zu machen. Solange dies so bleibt, bleibt der Rechtsschutz für Tiere fragmentiert: Er hängt vom jeweiligen Landesrecht und von naturschutzrechtlichen „Übersetzungen“ tierlichen Leidens ab. Warum gerade ausgewählte einzelne Tiere öffentliche Empathie und private Hilfsbereitschaft in besonderem Maße mobilisieren, während das Leiden unzähliger anderer Tiere weitgehend unsichtbar bleibt, ist wiederum eine eigene soziologische und ethische Frage.

The post Der Buckelwal Timmy vor dem Verwaltungsgericht Schwerin appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

     Here, a relatively efficient structure allowing timely resolution of disputes on their merits has given way to one that tends to keep the judiciary on the sidelines.  Judicial restraint, of course, is a long-honored value in our system.  Much of its rationale, however, has been that the “political branches” can take care of themselves.  That is an awkward fit for disputes in which the President is depriving Congress of perhaps its most important means of protecting its prerogatives:  the Power of the Purse.    

     For decades prior to this Administration, the federal courts had a fairly stable division of labor on spending matters.  Questions of general law – the interpretation and constitutionality of spending statutes and regulations – were addressed by federal district courts.  Where officials applied policies improperly denying individuals or organizations the benefits they were entitled to receive, the district courts struck down those policies, with the Supreme Court’s blessing.  District courts could act quickly to respond to recipients’ urgent need and had sufficient powers to adapt remedial orders to whatever violations they found.

     Disputes over payments allegedly due under the terms of individual federal contracts went to the Court of Federal Claims.  These cases typically focused on the terms of the given contract and factual issues about whether the contractor had met those terms rather than broader questions of federal law.  The Court of Federal Claims has far narrower remedial powers, but with the narrow disputes before it these were adequate.  If the federal government refused to pay for goods that in fact met contractual specifications, a simple money judgment was all that was needed.  The Court of Federal Claims was slow, which was a genuine problem, but at least it could eventually make financially strong contractors whole by awarding interest penalties under the Prompt Payment Act.

     Now, the federal government is systematically refusing to make payments not because of good-faith disputes about contractual terms or vendors’ compliance but because the Administration is asserting an aggressive new theory about the Separation of Powers.  Specifically, it is arguing that the President is free at any time to reformulate the interests of the United States notwithstanding contractual terms or duly enacted statutes. 

     Whatever one thinks of the merits of this theory, it is very much the kind of dispute that district courts commonly hear and worlds apart from those in the Court of Federal Claims.  To the extent that the Administration’s theory is incorrect, overall or in particular cases, a court adjudicating its actions obviously may need to issue extensive remedial orders, which the Court of Federal Claims lacks the power to do.  That is particularly true given this Administration’s penchant for disregarding court orders.  Because spending programs often target people and small entities in great financial need, payments years late, even with interest, often cannot undo the damage of withheld funds:  agencies that close often lose the capacity to resume their prior work. 

     Treating the Administration’s unilateral terminations or restructurings of federal spending programs as a payments problem fundamentally misconstrues what is at stake and Congress’s purposes in providing for that spending.  Although litigation is often brought, and standing established, by the entities that had been direct recipients of funds, programs’ purposes rarely are just to spend money:  Congress sought to assist a particular set of individuals it deemed in need or a designed set of entities to meet some social purpose.  The harms from ignoring those human needs and social problems often will be irreparable. 

     Moreover, judges on the Court of Federal Claims lack life tenure and other guarantees of independence afforded judges on district courts and other Article III tribunals.  President Trump has aggressively assaulted the independence of other bodies long recognized as independent.  Should the Court of Federal Claims ever seriously impede his agenda, one might expect he would use his considerable statutory powers to direct sensitive cases to judges of his choosing.  That would be much harder with life-tenured district judges. 

     The Supreme Court has acknowledged this reality only in part.  It has allowed district courts to continue to hear challenges to unlawful policies but prevented those courts from ordering payment of improperly withheld funds.  It also specifically warned district courts against granting interim relief against the government in those cases:

And while the loss of money is not typically considered irreparable harm, that changes if the funds “cannot be recouped” and are thus “irrevocably expended.” Philip Morris USA Inc. v. Scott, 561 U. S. 1301, 1304 (2010) (Scalia, J., in chambers). The Government faces such harm here. The plaintiffs do not state that they will repay grant money if the Government ultimately prevails. Moreover, the plaintiffs’ contention that they lack the resources to continue their research projects without federal funding is inconsistent with the proposition that they have the resources to make the Government whole for money already spent.

Of course, if any entity challenging the Administration’s illegal withdrawals of funding did assert that it could pay back the funds if it lost its case, the Supreme Court has indicated that entity would itself lack the irreparable injury required to obtain an injunction.    

     This effectively grants the Administration a two-year runway to eliminate congressionally mandated programs no matter how absurd its rationale may be.  Perhaps some money might eventually be disbursed, but by then the mechanism for achieving Congress’s purposes often will be damaged or gone altogether.    

     A similar picture seems to be coming into view with respect to one of the Administration’s other assaults on Congress’s Power of the Purse:  the tariffs it unilaterally imposed and collected for the better part of a year.  At this writing, it seems likely that many of those that paid this presidential levy will not receive refunds; those to whom the cost of the tariffs was passed along through price increases almost certainly will not.   

     This is far from inevitable.  Having acknowledged that district courts can hear challenges to unlawful policies obstructing the release of funds Congress has directed to a particular problem, the Supreme Court could certainly allow district courts to grant relief sufficient to meet to the problem the Administration’s actions present.  This would ensure that, as the Supreme Court proclaimed two years ago, “[i]f the President claims authority to act but in fact exercises mere ‘individual will’ and ‘authority without law,’ the courts may say so.”  As it did in granting President Trump sweeping immunity from prosecution in the absence of any textual authority for doing so, the Court might “focus on the enduring consequences upon the balanced power structure of our Republic.”  The Court demonstrated in 2024 that it observes an emergency exception to the usual rules of decision for grave threats to the separation of powers.  Few such threats are potentially more far-reaching than depriving Congress of its Power of the Purse. 

     The Court certainly could draw guidance from Contract Law, which is capable of distinguishing between the vast majority of cases involving routine, one-off disputes and a few exceptional instances of systemic bad faith.  Insurance companies contract with vast numbers of people, who assume they will pay in good faith if the insured suffers a covered casualty.  Resisting payment of lawful claims can enhance an insurance company’s margin, but it also undermines the whole concept of insurance.  Accordingly, courts have recognized that insurance companies denying claims in bad faith should not benefit from Contract’s usual rule disallowing punitive damages.  The federal government, too, assumes financial obligations to vast numbers of people, who trust it to pay in good faith.  If this Administration is effectively free to refuse to do so, the federal government’s ability to contract to meet the country’s needs will be damaged for decades to come. 

     It also should be noted that the other two types of presidential intrusions on the Power of the Purse – spending money without a valid appropriation and declining to collect taxes Congress has legislated – are unlikely to be vulnerable to judicial challenge because of the Court’s interpretation of the “cases and controversies” requirement of Article III.  If the Administration is free to impose taxes and to withhold appropriated funds for a year or two no matter how unsustainable its legal theory might be, Congress’s Power of the Purse is well and truly gone as anything more than a ministerial function. 

     @DavidASuper.bsky.social @DavidASuper1

Am Anfang war kein Wort – sondern nur ein weißes Blatt. Auch bei diesem Editorial. Und jetzt stehen hier schon drei Sätze! Als Leser:innen sind Sie meistens nur mit dem Endprodukt konfrontiert – unsere Autor:innen und wir beim Verfassungsblog hingegen mit diesem weißen Blatt. Doch was passiert eigentlich, bevor die Texte bei uns veröffentlicht werden? Die Frage beschäftigt uns intensiver, seit wir das Gefühl haben, dass KI das weiße Blatt für uns füllt. Wir wollen es uns deshalb zur Aufgabe machen, den bedrohten kreativen Prozess zu schützen. Unsere Strategie ist dieselbe wie beim Artenschutz: Sichtbarmachung! Statt Ihnen Fotos von süßen Orang-Utans zu präsentieren, werden wir dazu kurze Texte aus unserer Redaktion und von unseren Autor:innen teilen, die den kreativen Prozess beschreiben: Wie kommen wir auf Ideen? Wo sind wir, wenn uns Ideen kommen? Wie säen und gießen wir Ideen und wann merken wir, dass sie reif sind? Ich darf heute den Anfang machen.

Kreativität also. Ich bin in dem Glauben aufgewachsen, dass es kreative und unkreative Menschen gibt. Was für eine trostlose Welt das wäre! Inzwischen bin ich überzeugt, dass Kreativität unser Naturzustand ist: Wir lauern einander nicht als hungrige Wölfe auf, sondern schmieren lustige Figuren an Höhlenwände, machen aus Stöckchen Feuer und tanzen dann drum herum.

Das Wort „Einfall“ enthält im Grunde schon alles: Die Idee fällt mir plötzlich in den Kopf hinein. Früher dachte ich, ich müsse mehr machen: mehr lesen, mehr wissen, mehr schreiben, mehr mehr mehr (es war keine einfache Promotionsphase). Und bloß alles richtig machen. Dabei habe ich gelernt: Die Angst sucht das Richtige, die Freude findet das Wahre. Ich muss gar nicht so viel machen, sondern nur im richtigen Moment da sein und die Idee fröhlich auffangen. Kreativität ist a way of being, wie Rick Rubin es in meiner kreativen Bibel zusammenfasst. In betörend simplen Worten erinnert er uns daran, wie wir die Welt als Kinder wahrgenommen haben, verspielt und neugierig. Ach stimmt, so war das – damals, im Naturzustand.

Im Grunde fing mein kreativer Prozess also schon mit Beginn meiner inneren Aufzeichnungen an. Draußen ist das Material: Waldlandschaften, Abenteuerromane, Gesprächsfetzen, Farben, Formen, Fachliteratur. Mein Körper speichert davon eine Auswahl ab – nach einem mir undurchschaubaren Zettelkastensystem. Aber es funktioniert. Es beeindruckt mich immer wieder, was ich alles in den Archiven meines Unterbewusstseins finde und was ungefragt mit dem Aktenaufzug nach oben geschickt wird (etwa Werbejingles aus den 2000ern während meines Staatsexamens). Aktenaufzug heißt im Englischen Dumbwaiter, und so fühlt sich der kreative Prozess auch manchmal an: just waiting like an idiot. Irgendwas passiert da unten im Archiv, und wenn ich lang genug warte, wird ein hübsches und überraschendes Aktenpaket ausgespuckt.

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Das Timing ist außerhalb meiner Kontrolle. Wann kommt eine Idee? Elisabeth Gilbert stellt sich Ideen in ihrem Buch Big Magic als eigenständige Wesen vor, die ständig um uns herumschwirren und nach einem willigen menschlichen Partner suchen. Haben sie jemanden gefunden, versuchen sie, auf sich aufmerksam zu machen. Ich mag das: Ideen als eigenwillige flatterige Wesen, der kreative Prozess als Teamwork zwischen innen und außen. Vielleicht gehorcht mein Archivpersonal nur dem Ruf dieser Fledermäuse, den ich selbst nicht hören kann. So ist jedenfalls meine Erfahrung: Manchmal ist die Zeit für eine Idee einfach reif, und wenn ich mich nicht mit ihr verbinden will, kann es gut sein, dass sie sich ein paar Monate später woanders materialisiert – als genau der Text, der bei mir als ungeschriebener Entwurf wieder im Archivkeller verschwand.

Stephen King rät, selbst in den Keller hinabzusteigen. Dort wohnt seine Muse, wie er in On Writing beschreibt: „There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish the apartment for him to live in.“

Auch das stimmt: Man muss es der Muse schon gemütlich machen. Mir hilft dabei eine schöne Umgebung. Gerade sitze ich zum Beispiel in meinem Lieblingscafé, hier läuft leise souliger Jazz, nebenan wird getöpfert, und es riecht nach einer Mischung aus nassem Ton und Pistazienkuchen.

Mein Archivpersonal scheint außerdem nicht gut zu arbeiten, wenn ich ihm dabei streng über die Schulter gucke, die Stoppuhr in der Hand. Setze ich mich unter Druck, streiken die Beamten. Stattdessen hilft es, so zu tun, als sei ich mit was anderem beschäftigt: die kreative Aufgabe sanft präsent zu halten, während ich anspruchslosen anderen Dingen nachgehe.

Im Grunde bin ich ein bisschen wie Claude – eine Blackbox mit wahnsinniger Rechenleistung, nicht mehr nachvollziehbaren Assoziationsketten und reichlich Halluzinationen. Nicht jedes Aktenpaket bearbeite ich. Und hier unterscheide ich mich dann (zum Glück!) von Claude: Ich habe einen Körper. Mein Bauch muss kribbeln und meine Finger jucken – die Idee muss mich bewegen, sonst bringt es nichts. Deswegen fällt mir Gutes oft auch in Bewegung ein, beim Spazieren, Abwaschen, Wäsche aufhängen. Lässt mich die Idee dann nicht mehr los, muss ich ihr Raum geben: das weiße Blatt.

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Näheres und Bewerbung hier.

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KI nutze ich trotzdem, aber nur als Dienstleisterin meines eigenen Archivs. Sie kann die geschwärzten Stellen für mich nachschauen, die Erinnerungslücken in meinen Akten (sehr praktisch!), und auch sonst prüfen, ob das Quatsch ist. Sollten sowohl meine natürliche als auch die künstliche Intelligenz dabei halluzinieren, zähle ich darauf, dass Sie es mir sagen.

Mit dem weißen Blatt wird der Prozess aktiver, doch die Führung übernehme ich auch hier nie ganz. Es ist wie beim Paartanz: Während ich den Rahmen halte, tanzt die Idee von allein. Jeder Tanz ist anders, der eine leichtfüßig, der andere schwerfälliger – aber immer kommt man woanders raus, als man am Anfang dachte, leicht geschwitzt und beseelt. Wenn Sie mich jetzt für eine Romantikerin halten, liegen Sie richtig. Deshalb ist es mir auch ein Rätsel, warum man lieber KI nutzt als zu tanzen.

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Editor’s Pick

von JAKOB GAŠPERIN WISCHHOFF

Ece Temelkuran’s „Nation of Strangers“ ist eine zutiefst persönliche, melancholisch-poetische Reise der Heimatlosen (unhomed). In Briefform – geschrieben über die letzten drei Jahre, an uns alle, die Entfremdeten – sucht Temelkuran nach ihrer neuen Zugehörigkeit und erschafft sie zugleich. Sie findet sie in all jenen, die Odysseus sind: unhomed, auf der Suche nach dem Weg (zurück) nach Hause. Ob auf der Flucht vor dem Faschismus, nach dem Verlust eines Zuhauses oder einfach davongelaufen – die Suche hinterlässt dieselben bohrenden Fragen: Warum bin ich gegangen? Wie werde ich überleben? Werde ich je heimkehren?

Ihre aufrichtig ehrliche Reflexion hat vielen meiner eigenen Gefühle die richtigen Worte gegeben. Vielleicht hat sie recht: Es gibt ein Band zwischen uns, den entwurzelten Fremden. Ich hoffe, wir alle finden am Ende unsere Ithaka.

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Die Woche auf dem Verfassungsblog

zusammengefasst von EVA MARIA BREDLER

Recht ist auch ein kreativer – kollektiver! – Prozess. Besonders schön ließ sich das kürzlich im ecuadorianischen Amazonasgebiet beobachten: Am 28. Mai sprach ein ecuadorianisches Gericht der indigenen A’i-Cofán-Sinangoe-Gemeinschaft ihr Land zu. Vorausgegangen war eine interkulturelle Anhörung mitten im Regenwald: Los ging es um 4 Uhr morgens mit einem Aufguss der Pflanze yoco, am Ende zeigten Kinder handgemalte Karten der Flüsse, in denen sie schwimmen, und der Pfade, die ihre Großeltern gegangen sind. WIDER GUARAMAG UMENDA, ALEXANDRA NARVÁEZ UMENDA und JENNY GARCÍA RUALES (EN) berichten aus erster Hand.

Wie könnte kreative Klimapolitik in Deutschland aussehen? Eher nicht wie das Heizungsgesetz. Doch es ist besser als keins. Das scheint der Gesetzgeber anders zu sehen und es so weit aushöhlen, dass eher heiße Luft als heißes Wasser übrig bleibt. Darf er das? Welche Grenzen die Verfassung für die Klimapolitik setzt und wann der Gesetzgeber Klima- und Umweltschutz abschwächen darf, erklärt CHRISTIAN CALLIESS (DE).

Dabei hat sich die verfassungsrechtliche Beurteilung der Klimapolitik bisher an Obergrenzen der atmosphärischen Erwärmung orientiert. Was passiert, wenn diese Grenzen überschritten werden? Diese Frage stellt sich derzeit in mehreren anhängigen Verfahren. GERD WINTER (DE) macht einen Vorschlag, der den Fokus vom Kalkulieren und Zuteilen von Emissionsbudgets hin zum technisch, ökonomisch und sozial Machbaren verschiebt.

Auch das BVerfG stand zwischen der Zuteilung von Budgets und dem sozial Machbaren. In seiner jüngsten Entscheidung zum Asylbewerberleistungsgesetz hat es niedrigere Sozialleistungen für Asylsuchende nun weitestgehend gebilligt. Damit relativiere das Gericht das Existenzminimum aus migrationspolitischen Gründen, so LUISE FREITAG (DE).

Während auf dem Feld des Migrationssozialrechts also gerungen wird – insbesondere um Gemeinschaft, Zugehörigkeit und Ausgrenzung – fordern neue Arbeitsformen das Arbeitssozialrecht heraus: Ohne Betrieb auch kein Betriebsrat. Für Lieferpersonal in der Plattformwirtschaft führt das zu Schutzlücken – und stellt den Betriebsbegriff des Betriebsverfassungsgesetzes insgesamt in Frage. FELIX HARTMANN (DE) plädiert daher für eine modulare Alternative.

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Stellenausschreibung

An der Professur für Bürgerliches Recht, Handels-, Gesellschaftsrecht, Compliance und Nachhaltigkeit (Prof. Jan-Erik Schirmer) ist eine Qualifikationsstelle mit dem Ziel der Promotion als Akademische*r Mitarbeiter*in (Kenn-Nummer 1104-26-02) zu besetzen.

Bewerbungsschluss ist der 14.06.2026.

Unser ausführliches Stellenangebot: www.europa-uni.de/stellenangebote

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Wie sich Mitbestimmung organisieren lässt, beschäftigte auch den indischen Supreme Court: Vergangene Woche entschied er über die Befugnisse der Election Commission of India bei der Special Intensive Revision, einer großangelegten Bereinigung der Wählerverzeichnisse. ANMOL JAIN (EN) zeigt, was sich daraus rechtsvergleichend für fourth branch institutions und Wahlbehörden lernen lässt.

Kreativ sind auch die Mitgliedstaaten des Europarats geworden: Mit der Erklärung von Chișinău wollen sie die Gehalte der EMRK-Garantien mitgestalten. LINA SOPHIE MÖLLER (EN) argumentiert, dass sie damit eine Linie überschritten haben, die sich auch mit diplomatischer Mäßigung nicht mehr retten lässt.

Noch kreativer ist die Idee, die Europäische Verteidigungsgemeinschaft von 1952 wiederzubeleben. In seiner Erwiderung auf Federico Fabbrini und Franz C. Mayer findet ROBERT SCHÜTZE (EN) klare Worte: „Again, the European Defence Community Is Dead, Let It Rest in Peace.“

Populärer ist die Idee einer neuen EU-Organisationsform: Die Debatte um die vorgeschlagene EU Inc. ist zu einer der lebhaftesten im europäischen Gesellschaftsrecht geworden. Doch der Verordnungsentwurf zur EU Inc. sieht sich scharfer Kritik an seiner Rechtsgrundlage – Art. 114 AEUV – ausgesetzt. WOLF-GEORG RINGE (EN) zeigt, dass die verfassungsrechtliche Debatte am Kern vorbeigeht: Wo politischer Wille ist, hat die europäische Integration immer einen rechtlichen Weg gefunden.

Politischer Wille kann den Werten der europäischen Integration allerdings auch schaden: Europäische Justiz- und Berufsnetzwerke behalten Polens von der PiS gekaperte  „Gerichte“ weiterhin als Mitglieder. LAURENT PECH und OLIVER MADER (EN) argumentieren, dass dies Rechtlosigkeit normalisiert – und dass die Europäische Kommission handeln sollte.

Es gibt auch gute Nachrichten aus Polen: Nach der EuGH-Entscheidung in Trojan transkribieren polnische Gerichte nun im Ausland geschlossene gleichgeschlechtliche Ehen. MATEUSZ WĄSIK (EN) zeigt, wie sie außerdem „Wochenend-Ehen“ anerkennen – gestützt auf verfassungsrechtliche und EGMR-Argumente, die über die unionsrechtliche Freizügigkeit noch hinausgehen.

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Währenddessen braucht Ungarn Geld für den Wiederaufbau seiner Rechtsstaatlichkeit. Eine Option: das Einfrieren der EU-Mittel aufzuheben. John Morijn und Kim Lane Scheppele forderten dafür kürzlich striktere Verfahrensdisziplin. JOANNA DEMOPOULOU (EN) argumentiert, die eigentliche Frage sei nicht, wie sich dieser Mechanismus entpolitisieren lasse – sondern wer das Ermessen ausüben soll.

Ungarns Neuanfang birgt leider auch das Risiko, die Fehler von 1989 zu wiederholen. GÁBOR HALMAI (EN) erklärt, warum die Begeisterung der Bevölkerung in diesen constitutional moment kanalisiert werden muss.

Unser Symposium „On Law and Politics in the Hungarian Transition“ (EN) reflektiert genau diesen Moment. LÁSZLÓ DETRE beobachtet, dass das ungarische Verfassungsgericht den Rechtsstaatsabbau nicht verhindert hat, und plädiert dafür, seine Besetzung zu erneuern – aber nur durch parteiübergreifende Nominierung.

Und schließlich erzählt MUSKAN KAKKAR (EN) für unser Outstanding-Women-Porträt im Juni die Geschichte von Shirin Ebadi – der ersten muslimischen Frau und ersten Iranerin, die 2003 den Friedensnobelpreis erhielt. Ihr Leben ist ein Zeugnis dafür, wie sich eine juristische Ausbildung in ein Mittel des Widerstands verwandeln lässt – und wie ein Mensch, selbst wenn ihm jede institutionelle Macht entzogen wurde, das Recht weiter als Werkzeug der Gerechtigkeit nutzen kann. Wie sie selbst sagte: „I have a tongue in my mouth, and I will not keep quiet until the day I die.“ Auch bei ihr scheint der kreative Prozess also ein körperlicher zu sein.

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Das war’s für diese Woche.

The post Was uns einfällt appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

In the beginning, there was no Word – only a blank page. This editorial was no exception. And look, three sentences already! As readers, you usually encounter only the finished product, while our authors, and we at Verfassungsblog, have to face that blank page. So what actually happens before a text is published here? This question has been on our minds all the more since AI seems to be filling the blank page for us. We’ve therefore made it our job to protect this endangered creative process. Our strategy is the same as in conservation biology: visibility. Instead of cute photos of orang-utans, we’ll be sharing short pieces from our editorial team and from our authors describing the creative process: how do we come up with ideas? Where are we when ideas come to us? How do we sow and water them, and how do we know when they’re ripe? I have the honour of making the beginning today.

Creativity, then. I grew up believing that there are people who are creative and people who are not. What a dreary world that would be! By now, I’m convinced that creativity is our state of nature: we don’t lie in wait for each other like hungry wolves – we scrawl funny figures on cave walls, rub twigs against each other until they burn, and then dance around it.

The German word for idea – Einfall, literally an “in-falling” – captures it nicely: an idea suddenly falls into my head. I used to think I had to do more: read more, know more, write more, more more more (it was a tough PhD phase). And please get everything right. But here’s what I’ve learned: fear chases what’s right; joy finds what’s true. I don’t really have to do all that much – I just have to be there at the right moment and joyfully catch the idea as it falls. Creativity is a way of being, as Rick Rubin sums it up in my creative bible. In beguilingly simple words, he reminds us how we perceived the world as children: playful and curious. Oh, right, that’s how it was – back then, in our state of nature.

And indeed, my creative process begins with the very first of my inner recordings. The material is out there: forest landscapes, adventure novels, snatches of conversation, colours, shapes, scholarship. My body files away a selection – obeying an inscrutable Zettelkasten system I’ll never fully understand. But it works. Time and again, I’m struck by what I find in the archives of my subconscious – and by what gets sent up the dumbwaiter unwanted (2000s ad jingles during my law exams, for instance). The name says it all: just waiting like an idiot. Something is happening down there in the archive, and if I wait long enough, a tidy and surprising file package comes up.

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Am Lehrstuhl steht das Verfassungsrecht im Mittelpunkt. Sie unterstützen den Lehrstuhlinhaber in Forschung und Lehre und führen Arbeitsgemeinschaften durch. Die Möglichkeit zur Promotion ist gegeben.

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The timing is out of my control. When does an idea come? In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert imagines ideas as autonomous beings whirring about us, looking for a willing human partner. Once they’ve found someone, they try to make themselves noticed. I like that: ideas as wilful, flighty creatures, the creative process as teamwork between inside and out. Perhaps my archive staff are simply responding to the call of these bats – a call I can’t hear myself. That is my experience: sometimes an idea is just ripe, and if I don’t want to connect with it, it’s not unusual that it’ll materialise somewhere else a few months later – exactly the text I’ve sent back down into my archive basement, as an unwritten draft.

Stephen King advises descending into the basement yourself. That’s where his muse lives, as he writes in On Writing: “There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish the apartment for him to live in.”

And it’s true, we have to make it cosy for the muse. A nice environment helps me. Right now, for instance, I’m sitting in my favourite coffeeshop; soulful jazz is playing softly, there’s pottery being thrown next door, and the air smells of wet clay and pistachio cake.

My archive staff also don’t seem to work well when I’m watching them too closely over the shoulder, stopwatch in hand. The moment I put myself under pressure, they go on strike. What helps instead is pretending I’m busy with something else: keeping the creative task gently present while I get on with undemanding things.

In a way, I’m a bit like Claude – a black box with insane computing power, untraceable chains of associations, and plenty of hallucinations. I don’t process every file package that arrives. And here I differ (thankfully!) from Claude: I have a body. My stomach has to tingle, my fingers have to itch – the idea has to move me, or nothing comes of it. That’s why good things often come to me in motion: walking, washing up, hanging out the laundry. And if the idea then won’t let me go, I have to make space for it: the blank page.

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Das Fachgebiet Just Transitions beforscht Fragestellungen einer möglichst gerechten sozial-ökologischen Transformation in transnationalen Kontexten. Themenschwerpunkte sind dabei unter anderem die Ökologisierung des Rechts und Resilienz von Demokratie und Rechtsstaats. Zur Verstärkung unseres Teams suchen wir zum 1.9. zwei Wissenschaftliche Mitarbeiter*innen.

Näheres und Bewerbung hier.

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I do use AI, but only as an additional service to my own archive. It can look up the redacted passages for me, the memory gaps in my files (very handy!), and otherwise check whether what I’ve written is nonsense. Should both my natural and my artificial intelligence end up hallucinating, I’m counting on you to tell me.

With the blank page, the process becomes more active – but even here, I never quite take the lead. It’s like partner dancing: I hold the frame while the idea dances on its own. Every dance is different – one light-footed, the next more ponderous – but you always end up somewhere other than where you started, a little sweaty, with a full heart. If you take me for a romantic now, you’re absolutely right. Which is also why it remains a mystery to me why anyone would rather use AI than dance.

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Editor’s Pick

by JAKOB GAŠPERIN WISCHHOFF

Ece Temelkuran’s Nation of Strangers is a deeply personal, melancholically poetic journey of the unhomed. Written as letters over the last three years – to all of us, estranged – Temelkuran searches for and creates her new belonging. She finds it in a collective bound by being Odysseus: displaced, still searching for the way (back) home. Whether escaping fascism, losing a house, or simply running away, the quest leaves the same haunting questions: Why did I leave? How will I survive? Will I ever go home?

Her profoundly honest account put the right words to so many feelings I recognised as my own. So perhaps she is right: there is a bond among us, the unhomed strangers. I hope we all find our Ithaca in the end.

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The Week on Verfassungsblog

summarised by EVA MARIA BREDLER

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Stellenausschreibung

An der Professur für Bürgerliches Recht, Handels-, Gesellschaftsrecht, Compliance und Nachhaltigkeit (Prof. Jan-Erik Schirmer) ist eine Qualifikationsstelle mit dem Ziel der Promotion als Akademische*r Mitarbeiter*in (Kenn-Nummer 1104-26-02) zu besetzen.

Bewerbungsschluss ist der 14.06.2026.

Unser ausführliches Stellenangebot: www.europa-uni.de/stellenangebote

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Subscribe now for free: https://verfassungsblog.de/newsletter-mpi/ (available in German only)

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Meanwhile, Hungary needs money to rebuild the rule of law. Unfreezing EU funds is one option, and John Morijn and Kim Lane Scheppele recently called for stricter procedural discipline in pursuing it. JOANNA DEMOPOULOU (ENG) argues that the real question is not how to depoliticise this mechanism, but who should exercise its discretion.

Hungary’s fresh start risks unwittingly repeating the mistakes of 1989. GÁBOR HALMAI (ENG) explains why popular enthusiasm must be channelled into this constitutional moment.

Our symposium “On Law and Politics in the Hungarian Transition” (ENG) keeps turning over exactly this question. LÁSZLÓ DETRE observes that Hungary’s Constitutional Court failed to prevent rule-of-law backsliding and argues for replacing its composition – but only through cross-partisan nomination, not by reproducing the very logic one seeks to undo.

And finally, for our June Outstanding Women portrait, MUSKAN KAKKAR (ENG) tells the story of Shirin Ebadi – the first Muslim woman and the first Iranian to win the Nobel Peace Prize, in 2003. Her life shows how legal training can become a form of resistance, and how a person stripped of all institutional power can still use the law as a tool for justice. As she put it: “I have a tongue in my mouth, and I will not keep quiet until the day I die.” For her, too, the creative process seems to be a bodily one.

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That’s it for this week. Take care and all the best!

Yours,

the Verfassungsblog Team

If you would like to receive the weekly editorial as an e-mail, you can subscribe here.

The post What Comes to Mind appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

     Front-line departments and agencies historically have been the Administration’s envoys to congressional authorizing and appropriations committees with jurisdiction over their activities.  To be sure, the President appoints cabinet, subcabinet, and other top officials and may direct their actions.  Nonetheless, these officials have had a compelling reason to play a moderating role within any administration:  they are the officials most responsible for accommodating the views of Members of Congress of both parties to avoid political explosions.  When the White House directs them to do something that will anger Congress, the agencies push back, with subcabinet officials reaching out to the major organs within the White House or cabinet members engaging the President or Chief of Staff.  This was often a messy process, but it also tempered the natural partisanship of the Executive Branch with the bipartisan perspectives of Congress. 

     Beginning with the Reagan Administration, executive power has become increasingly concentrated in the White House.  Then-Professor Elena Kagan celebrated this process in her famous article on Presidential Administration.  It has rapidly accelerated under the second Trump Administration. 

     Some of the accelerating concentration of power is the simple result of personnel.  Even compared with his first Administration, President Trump has filled many senior positions with lightweights having minimal qualifications and little independent stature.  Former Fox News commentators outnumber former governors.  By contrast, OMB Director Russell Vought is reprising his role in the first Trump Administration; he is highly competent and determined to achieve particular ends.  Any cabinet secretary tempted to challenge his decisions likely would be badly outmatched.  Nor are agencies fully free to strategize internally with representatives of the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) (political commissars?) embedded within management structures. 

     More broadly, President Trump’s seizure of much of Congress’s Power of the Purse has dramatically reduced Congress’s importance and hence the importance of agencies’ liaison roles.  Russell Vought has made clear to agencies that money comes from OMB and that it is OMB, not Congress, that agencies must appease. 

     OMB has repurposed the obscure “apportionment” process to impose restrictions on funds that depart dramatically from the terms of congressional appropriations.  Indeed, OMB has ordered agencies to disregard Congress’s decisions about how much should be spent on a particular activity and obey the President’s budget proposal that Congress rejected.  Congress required apportionment decades ago to prevent rogue agencies from spending their appropriations at an unsustainable rate, not to empower OMB to override Congress’s policy decisions.

     President Trump used the apportionment process during his first term to block release of aid for Ukraine while he was trying to pressure President Zelenskyy to investigate the Bidens.  In addition to his first impeachment, this also led to bipartisan legislation requiring that all apportionments be made public.  After openly defying this requirement for months (declaring the apportionment website down for repairs), OMB then began issuing apportionments prohibiting agencies from spending moneys Congress had appropriated until they obtained OMB approval for a “spending plan”.  This effectively moved the substance of apportionments offline again.  (Prior administrations had required spending plans only in rare instances of agencies that had proven persistently fiscally irresponsible – and then only to ensure compliance with appropriations acts.)  Litigation eventually forced OMB to publish the final spending plans but leaves opaque what other OMB demands the agency had to accept to win approval.  Other apportionments require that OMB receive advance notice, and implicitly an opportunity to forbid, expenditures over a low threshold. 

     The mechanisms evolve, but the essence is clear:  meaningful policy control is centralized within OMB.  As congressional appropriations become less important, agencies’ soft power relationships of mutual accommodation with Congress become unnecessary and increasingly cut off. 

     As Congress’s current views have become less important, so have the views of past Congresses encoded in statutes.  Prior to this Administration, a consistent theme in fiscal policymaking was the need to avoid violating the Anti-Deficiency Act.  This could be done by committing or spending money in excess of available appropriations, by spending appropriated funds for purposes beyond those Congress specified or contrary to statutory limits, by transferring funds without statutory authority, or by spending funds without or contrary to an apportionment.  Violations of these requirements carry criminal penalties. 

     Political officials, even presidents, generally accepted that they had no right to ask their subordinates to take fiscal actions that government lawyers said contravened one or another statute and hence were crimes.  Presidents Obama and Biden reached disastrous fiscal deals with congressional Republicans because their lawyers rejected numerous plausible legal theories about how they could not continue operating the federal government after it hit the debt limit.  “The lawyers won’t allow it” became an effective all-purpose brush-off officials could use on Members of Congress, political allies, and others pressing for policy changes. 

     This Administration, seeking to “move fast and break things”, has largely removed agencies counsel from making key fiscal decisions.  And because those lawyers’ input largely springs from interpreting the collective, and often bipartisan, wisdom of Congress expressed through statutes, this move has further narrowed the inputs into fiscal decision-making. 

     As President Trump repeatedly orders federal employees to spend money without valid appropriations, he has had little trouble securing the cooperation of numerous federal employees despite the Anti-Deficiency Act violations entailed.  The Treasury Department’s General Counsel did resign rather than implement President Trump’s “weaponization” compensation plan with money from the Judgment Fund; perhaps he preferred not to commit a felony.  Others presumably are counting on the Trump Justice Department to ignore blatant violations of the Anti-Deficiency Act, which seems likely, but also that President Trump will pardon them before leaving office to prevent the next administration from pardoning them.  They also surely are recognizing that this Administration has largely gutted civil service protections:  the price of adhering to the law is likely losing their jobs.

     It is difficult to convey how much of what this Administration has done that violates one or another provision of appropriations or permanent law, and hence the Anti-Deficiency Act.  Much of what DOGE has done, and certainly the demolition of the U.S. Agency for International Development, the Department of Education, the Consumer Financial Protection Board, and other agencies, would appear to violate section 739 of Division E of this year’s Consolidated Appropriations Act and its predecessors in prior appropriations acts:

None of the funds made available in this or any other appropriations Act may be used to increase, eliminate, or reduce funding for a program, project, or activity as proposed in the President’s budget request for a fiscal year until such proposed change is subsequently enacted in an appropriation Act, or unless such change is made pursuant to the reprogramming or transfer provisions of this or any other appropriations Act.

But with agencies’ counsel thoroughly marginalized, nobody seems to care. 

     Many liberals vastly underestimated the institutionally transformative accomplishments of Ronald Reagan, a president whose intellect they disrespected.  Today, many do not appreciate the depth and likely persistence of President Trump’s restructuring of our public institutions. 

     Our next president may be one who seeks to rationalize and regularize the MAGA regime, as George H.W. Bush did for the Reagan Revolution.  Alternatively, our next president may be one determined to reverse much of what President Trump has done.  In either case, the institutions of the ancien règime simply are not there anymore.  A simple restoration is impossible just as we can never bring back the Grand Army of the Republic or the New Deal.  Those interested in rebalancing our major institutions should be thinking about how those institutions’ internal structures might be adjusted to support the desired alignment.  This is a deceptively difficult challenge. 

     @DavidASuper.bsky.social @DavidASuper1

One underappreciated reason this matters is that most of the Big Tech companies that dominate the AI industry – like Microsoft, Amazon, Meta and Google – are also consumer-facing companies. Misleading practices related to consumer transactions are illegal under EU law, and the 2024 Directive on Empowering Consumers for the Green Transition has just introduced stricter rules on greenwashing. This blog post argues that some widespread practices in the AI industry – like making vague and unsubstantiated claims about sustainability, claiming carbon neutrality targets while increasing emissions, and developing AI for use in fossil fuel production – could in some circumstances give claimants a strong case for violations of EU consumer protection law.

Corporate “sustainable AI” messaging

The AI boom has brought newfound public attention to the environmental impacts of digital infrastructure. Data centres’ energy and water use have attracted particular attention, due to the scale and speed of construction, which is impacting local communities’ access to water and electricity, as well as aggregate emissions. But data centres are just the tip of the iceberg. Researchers have mapped diverse environmental harms throughout global AI value chains. These include emissions, water use and pollution from semiconductor manufacturing; consumption of minerals like copper and rare earths (which doesn’t just cause direct environmental harms through mining, but also diverts scarce resources away from decarbonisation); increased e-waste; and the use of AI to facilitate harmful activities, like fossil fuel production.

Big Tech companies have worked hard to allay such concerns. Amazon, Apple, Google, Microsoft and Meta all have longstanding sustainability policies and carbon neutrality targets, and are major purchasers of carbon offsets and renewable power purchase agreements (though some have recently watered down these commitments). They also systematically conceal key information about environmental impacts, while promoting the narrative that AI will enable long-term, economy-wide sustainability improvements which outweigh its immediate environmental costs. Critics have shown that such purported benefits remain largely speculative, and these companies’ sustainability initiatives are far from sufficient to counter their rapidly-growing fossil fuel consumption. This raises the question: what does EU law say about these kinds of claims?

How does EU law define greenwashing?

High-profile greenwashing cases have previously been brought under the 2005 Unfair Commercial Practices Directive (UCPD), which bans misleading acts (Article 6) or omissions (Article 7) likely to affect the transactional decisions of an average consumer. However, the 2024 Directive on Empowering Consumers for the Green Transition has just introduced more specific rules on greenwashing. It adds three additional categories to Annex I UCPD, which lists “commercial practices which are in all circumstances considered unfair”:

• making “generic environmental claims” (e.g. “environmentally friendly”, “eco-friendly” or “green”) without being “able to demonstrate recognised excellent environmental performance relevant to the claim”
• making environmental claims about an entire product or business which actually concern only part of the product or the business’ activities
• claiming a product is carbon neutral, or has reduced emissions or positive environmental impacts, based on offsets

Many such claims could already have been challenged as misleading commercial practices. However, this requires showing that they would affect the decisions of an average consumer. Where the new rules apply, this is no longer necessary: practices listed in Annex I are always banned. This should also lead to a more consistent EU-wide approach. Member states were required to transpose the 2024 Directive by March 2026 and it should become fully applicable by September 2026, but it is already being invoked in litigation. Interestingly, it has been used not just to challenge the specific practices that are now banned, but also to support the general principle that consumer interests encompass environmental concerns and greenwashing should be penalised, informing the interpretation of the more general ban on misleading practices.

The Commission also proposed a second Green Claims Directive in 2023, which would require all environmental claims to be scientifically substantiated and independently verified. Whether and in what form this proposal will ultimately be passed remains uncertain, so below we focus on the existing UCPD rules, as amended by the 2024 Directive.

When are sustainability claims consumer-facing practices?

A key precondition for any of these rules to apply is that the UCPD only regulates “business-to-consumer commercial practices” which are “directly connected with the promotion, sale or supply of a product to consumers”. Clearly, this could only apply to consumer-facing tech companies – but as noted above, that includes most of the Big Tech companies which dominate the AI industry. “Products” in the UCPD also include digital services and content.

However, it is not enough that a company is generally bound by the UCPD: the greenwashing rules only apply where the specific practice at issue is “directly connected” to the promotion, sale or supply of consumer products. Under what circumstances would that apply to AI companies’ claims about sustainability?

The UCPD does not apply to investor-facing communications or mandatory regulatory disclosures, like corporate sustainability reports. Other corporate communications, like blog posts and sustainability policies, are a grey area: they are publicly available, but generally target expert audiences more than consumers. Recital 7 UCPD states that it excludes “commercial practices carried out primarily for other purposes” than influencing consumer transactions, like “annual reports and corporate promotional literature”. However, Anna Beckers argues that sustainability policies and other “promotional literature” often do aim to influence consumer behaviour, by shaping public perceptions of a company, so they should be included unless they are not addressed to consumers at all.

This interpretation is broadly supported by a recent French ruling that TotalEnergies’ claims about its net zero “ambitions” were misleading consumers (because it was continuing to pursue new oil and gas developments, which the IPCC has established is incompatible with the Paris targets). The court held that press statements and posts on Total’s general corporate social media channels were not related to consumer transactions, but claims on its website were adjacent to information about consumer-facing products and aimed to influence consumer decisions. Similarly, where Big Tech companies promote claims about AI and sustainability through public-facing channels like mass advertising or consumer-facing websites, it is strongly arguable that these claims are intended to influence consumers’ decisions to use their products, and are therefore subject to the UCPD

What does this mean for “sustainable AI” claims?

Determining whether specific claims are unfair or misleading would, again, be quite fact-specific (and we hope to explore this further in future research). However, a brief survey of some existing research on Big Tech companies’ marketing and PR messaging around sustainability points to some widespread practices which could fall foul of these rules, and warrant further investigation.

Clean energy & carbon neutrality

Big Tech companies widely promote and publicly advertise their net zero/carbon neutrality targets. Given their substantial (and growing) fossil fuel consumption and direct emissions, these claims rely on carbon offsets and renewable power purchasing agreements. Importantly, the 2024 Directive’s per se prohibition of claiming carbon neutrality based on offsets only applies to claims about specific products – not claims about a business as a whole. However, as the Commission’s guidance emphasises, claims that a business is carbon neutral are still subject to the generally-applicable ban on misleading practices likely to affect the decisions of an average consumer.

Research on corporate offsetting schemes generally, and Big Tech specifically, has called into question these schemes’ integrity (e.g. the extent to which they actually make additional offsetting or renewables projects happen, or merely take credit for existing projects). More fundamentally, the idea that corporate emissions can be “offset” is questionable, since the Paris targets require ‘every feasible emission cut that can be achieved anywhere’. In practice, adding renewable capacity has historically covered increasing aggregate energy use, rather than decreasing fossil fuel consumption.

In light of this research, companies relying on renewable power investments and offsetting schemes to support “net zero” claims already appear vulnerable to allegations of misleading practices. Here, such allegations would be bolstered by the fact that Big Tech companies’ emissions are not just substantial but dramatically increasing, due to their vast investments into highly computing-intensive approaches to AI development. An average consumer would probably assume that a company claiming to be committed to net zero is “heading towards the goal, not away from it”.

Importantly, the UCPD bans misleading omissions as well as explicit statements – including where “omitted” information is technically available, but not clearly brought to consumers’ attention (for example, where it is not in the same advert as the potentially-misleading communication). Thus, where companies selectively present accurate information (e.g. that they are investing in renewable energy) but omit other relevant information (e.g. that they are also sharply increasing their fossil fuel consumption) this could also be regarded as misleading consumers, by falsely suggesting that they are shifting away from fossil fuels and towards clean energy.

Vague “AI for sustainability” claims

Energy and AI researcher Ketan Joshi recently compiled a database of claims about how AI could promote sustainability (mostly from independent sources, but often based on company blogs or corporate research). He found that most were unsubstantiated, overtly misleading and/or excessively vague: for example, conflating relatively small-scale and efficient “AI for sustainability” tools with resource-intensive generative AI tools which have little to no environmental benefit.

If such claims are made in a context with a direct connection to the sale or promotion of consumer products, there is a strong case that they are misleading under the UCPD. Relevantly, a recent Dutch case against airline KLM held that claims could be misleading because they were vague and unsubstantiated, even though not strictly untrue. Vague claims that AI is good for sustainability or has a “positive impact on the planet” could also violate the per se bans on unsubstantiated generic environmental claims and on broad claims which are only true of part of a company’s activities.

AI for unsustainability?

Something else Big Tech companies tend to omit from their public-facing messaging about “AI for sustainability” is that AI is also widely used to optimise and scale up environmentally harmful activities. In the most notable example of what may be called “AI for unsustainability”, Microsoft, Google and Amazon all do significant business with fossil fuel companies and develop specialised AI services for oil and gas production. As the Enabled Emissions campaign has highlighted, these projects’ climate impacts could dwarf companies’ offsetting and renewables initiatives – not only by increasing production from existing reserves, but also by helping locate new ones, and enabling efficiencies which make more projects economically viable.

Business-to-business transactions and marketing are not directly regulated by the UCPD. However, these activities could be relevant in establishing that Big Tech companies’ consumer-facing sustainability claims are misleading – for example, that they are omitting key information when they claim that AI is being used to accelerate the green transition, or that their net zero targets are misleading. The Total case set a particularly important precedent by holding that it is misleading for a company to claim to be committed to net zero while pursuing new oil and gas projects.

Enforcement & future outlook

Greenwashing has historically been one of the most common legal bases for corporate climate litigation. This brief analysis suggests that leveraging EU consumer protection law could also be a promising legal route to challenge unsustainable practices in the AI industry. At a time when governments in Europe and elsewhere are generally committed to promoting AI development, deployment and infrastructure construction, and sometimes actively undermining accountability for environmental impacts, greenwashing lawsuits offer a route to contest companies’ environmental impacts which is not dependent on regulatory action.

Expectations should be realistic, however. The UCPD only applies to consumer-facing statements. That excludes more subtle and pervasive ways that Big Tech companies shape public debates around AI and sustainability, like lobbying and research funding. The ease of enforcement will also depend significantly on national procedural frameworks. Most importantly, the remedies available are limited. Even successful greenwashing claims cannot restrict companies’ actual unsustainable business practices, but only their consumer-facing communications – typically leading to relatively small damages and/or orders to withdraw misleading claims.

Nonetheless, litigation can have impacts beyond these immediate legal consequences: for example, attracting media coverage and damaging companies’ reputations (one recent study found that media accusations of greenwashing measurably affect companies’ stock prices). It could help publicise and politicise the environmental harms of AI, including underappreciated issues like “enabled emissions”. The strenuous efforts Big Tech companies make to present themselves and their AI tools as sustainable suggest that they would see this as a meaningful cost.

The post Contesting Big Tech’s AI Greenwashing appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Das AsylbLG als Sonderleistungsrecht

Das AsylbLG ist ein kurzes Gesetz, hat jedoch große Relevanz: Das Gesetz regelt den Anwendungsbereich, Umfang und Modus der Sozialleistungsgewährung für Asylsuchende und andere Personengruppen mit prekärem Rechtsstatus aus „Drittstaaten“. Trotz seiner Kürze ist das AsylbLG recht kompliziert – dies ergibt sich vor allem aus der verzweigten Verweisstruktur und der im Migrationsrecht weit verbreiteten Änderungsfrequenz. Die Systematik des AsylbLG teilt sich einerseits in Grundleistungen (der Anwendungsbereich ergibt sich aus § 1 AsylbLG) und anderseits in sogenannte Analogleistungen auf: Während die Analogleistungen (§ 2 AsylbLG), die AsylbLG-Berechtigte, die sich seit 36 Monaten im Bundesgebiet aufhalten, erhalten, das Leistungsniveau des Sozialgesetzbuchs (SGB) XII erreichen, liegen die Grundleistungen (§§ 3, 3a AsylbLG) weit unter den Sätzen der SGBs. Dass die Grundsicherung in diese verschiedenen Zweige aufgeteilt ist, ist Ergebnis des „Asylkompromisses“ von 1993. Mit dieser Reform wurde auch das Grundrecht auf Asyl gemäß Art. 16a GG faktisch abgeschafft – ein Wendepunkt der deutschen Migrationspolitik.

Während die Sozialgesetzbücher das menschenwürdige Existenzminimum, das sich nach dem BVerfG „nur auf diejenigen Mittel […], die zur Aufrechterhaltung eines menschenwürdigen Daseins unbedingt erforderlich sind“ erstreckt, für erwerbsfähige und nicht erwerbsfähige Personen mit deutschem Pass oder gesichertem Aufenthaltstitel gewährleisten sollen, ist das AsylbLG das entsprechende Pendant für Drittstaatsangehörige mit unsicherem Aufenthaltstitel (wie einer Duldung). Die einfachgesetzliche Ausgestaltung des Existenzminimums im Sozialrecht ist Ausfluss des entsprechenden Grundrechtes auf Gewährleistung eines menschenwürdigen Existenzminimums aus Art. 1 Abs. 1 i.V.m. Art. 20 Abs. 1 GG. Dieses steht, nach der BVerfG-Entscheidung von 2012, „deutschen und ausländischen Staatsangehörigen, die sich in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland aufhalten, gleichermaßen zu“.

Bereits während des ursprünglichen AsylbLG-Gesetzgebungsprozesses im Jahr 1993 wurde die differenzielle Gewährleistung von Sozialleistungen nach Staatsangehörigkeit und dem rechtlich zugewiesenen Status kritisiert: Denn, wieso sollte ein geflüchteter Mensch weniger zum existenziellen Überleben benötigen als eine Person mit deutschem Pass? Mittlerweile ist das Gesetz über 30 Jahre alt und steht nach wie vor in der Kritik: Die Bedarfsstufenhöhe der Grundleistungen liegt knapp 20 % unter den Sätzen der Sozialgesetzbücher. Zudem ist der Zugang zu Gesundheitsleistungen auf akute Erkrankungen und Schmerzzustände beschränkt und wird nicht durch die Krankenkassen gedeckt, sondern durch die zuständige Behörde „sichergestellt“ (§ 4 Abs. 3 AsylbLG). Seit 2023 dürfen Kommunen bundesweit Bezahlkarten einführen, die die autonome Lebensführung von AsylbLG-Berechtigten sowie den Zugang zum Arbeitsmarkt weiter einschränken. Die vorgebrachte Zielsetzung, „den Verwaltungsaufwand bei den Kommunen zu minimieren“, ist gescheitert. Die Bezahlkarte steht damit exemplarisch vor allem für die zunehmende Kontrolle, Repression und Disziplinierung von Schutzsuchenden.

Existenzminimum „nur teilweise“ verletzt

In dem neuen Beschluss stellte das BVerfG nunmehr fest, dass die Leistungen für geduldete Personen in Bedarfsstufe 1 (alleinstehende Erwachsene) bzw. 5 (Kinder vom Beginn des siebten bis zur Vollendung des 14. Lebensjahres) im Ausgangspunkt mit den verfassungsrechtlichen Vorgaben vereinbar waren. Auch die Berechnungsmethode beanstandete das Gericht nicht – einen Verstoß gegen Art. 1 Abs. 1 GG i.V.m. Art. 20 Abs. 1 GG erkannte es dennoch: Die Berechnungsgrundlage von 2008 war nicht aktuell genug. Das Verfahren wurde ursprünglich von zwei eritreischen Staatsangehörigen vor den Sozialgerichten geführt und bezog sich auf Leistungen im Zeitraum vom 1. September 2018 bis zum 20. August 2019. Das Landessozialgericht Niedersachsen-Bremen (LSG) setzte das Verfahren aus und legte es dem BVerfG im Rahmen einer konkreten Normenkontrolle vor – das LSG war also von der Verfassungswidrigkeit der Geldbeträge gem. § 3 Abs. 2 S. 5 i.V.m. § 3 Abs. 1 S. 8 Nr. 1 und 5 AsylbLG (jeweils a.F.) überzeugt (vgl. Art. 100 Abs. 1 GG).

Hiergegen entschied das BVerfG, dass die entsprechenden Grundleistungen nicht evident unzureichend waren. Verfassungswidrig wären die Leistungen nur dann, wenn sie „die physische Existenz des Menschen, die Möglichkeit zur Pflege zwischenmenschlicher Beziehungen und ein Mindestmaß an Teilhabe am gesellschaftlichen, kulturellen und politischen Leben (…) keinesfalls mehr sicherstellen konnten“ (Rn. 134). Diese Schwelle sah das Gericht, anders als in der Entscheidung von 2012, nicht als unterschritten an.

Das BVerfG hielt das Existenzminimum dennoch für „teilweise verletzt“ (Rn. 114). Grund hierfür ist die mangelnde Aktualisierung der Leistungshöhe. Die Gesetzgeberin müsse „die Bedarfe Hilfebedürftiger zeitgerecht erfassen“ (Rn. 199). Die Leistungshöhe der AsylbLG-Sätze wird, wie die der SGBs, auf Grundlage der Einkommens- und Verbrauchsstichprobe (EVS) festgesetzt. Die Leistungen, die den Kläger*innen im September 2018 gewährt wurden, basierten allerdings auf der EVS 2008 und waren daher veraltet. Weil die Erhebung der EVS „bereits rund zehn Jahre“ zurücklag, würden die Leistungen gegen das Verfassungsgebot verstoßen, den Bedarf stets auf aktueller Grundlage zu ermitteln (Rn. 200). Eine Nachzahlung aufgrund dieses Verfassungsverstoßes ordnete das BVerfG allerdings nicht an (Rn. 224).

Ungesicherte Bleibeperspektive als Ausgangspunkt

Was das BVerfG zudem nicht beanstandete, waren die Berechnung und Höhe der Leistungen. Dass die Gesetzgeberin entsprechende EVS-Daten heranzieht und damit auch den Konsum von Personen in ganz anderen Lebenslagen zugrunde legt, hält das Gericht für „tragfähig begründbar“ (Rn. 136). Auch eine andere Regelung, die in den Stellungnahmen (vgl. bspw. hier) vielfach kritisiert wurde, hielt das Gericht für „hinreichend nachvollziehbar“ (Rn. 137 ff.): Der Gesetzgeber klammerte bestimmte Bedarfe spezifisch für AsylbLG-Berechtigte mit Blick auf die ungesicherte Aufenthaltsperspektive dieser Personengruppe aus. Unter die Bedarfe, die die Gesetzgeberin als für Asylsuchende nicht existenznotwendig ansieht, fallen etwa Kultur- und Sportausrüstung (Rn. 150) oder außerschulischer Unterricht für Erwachsene (Rn. 152). Das BVerfG argumentiert, dass diese Entscheidungen in den legislativen Gestaltungsspielraum fielen, der mit normativen Wertungen gefüllt werden dürfe. Und obwohl das BVerfG betont, es dürfe „nicht pauschal nach dem Aufenthaltsstatus“ differenziert werden (Rn. 121), lässt es eine Differenzierung nach der Bleibeperspektive (vgl. z.B. Rn. 135) – die sich allein aus dem Aufenthaltsstatus ergibt – zu. Das erscheint höchst widersprüchlich: Wenn es der Gesetzgeberin nicht erlaubt ist, direkt an den Aufenthaltsstatus anzuknüpfen, sie jedoch Bezug auf die begrenzte Bleibeperspektive (die faktisch nur bei Personen in prekären Migrationsrechtsstatus eine Rolle spielen dürfte) nimmt – wird dann nicht sehr wohl an den Aufenthaltsstatus angeknüpft?

Der mit Gegenstimmen (ein Sondervotum wurde jedoch nicht veröffentlicht) ergangene Beschluss bezieht sich auf einen spezifischen Zeitraum. Dennoch hat er grundsätzliche Bedeutung – auch für die heutigen AsylbLG-Leistungen. 2012 entschied das BVerfG noch, dass das Grundrecht auf Gewährleistung eines menschenwürdigen Existenzminimums allen Personen, ganz unabhängig von der Staatsbürger*innenschaft, gleichermaßen zustehe (Ls. 2). In der aktuellen Entscheidung hat der Erste Senat zwar formal an seinen Leitlinien von 2012 festgehalten (vgl. bspw. Rn. 121), materiell aber eine andere Richtung eingeschlagen: Für Personen mit einem entsprechend prekarisierten Rechtsstatus könne ein anderes Existenzminimum gelten als für solche mit gesichertem Aufenthaltsstatus – angeknüpft an und gerechtfertigt durch ihre, auch rechtlich bedingte (begrenzte) Bleibeperspektive in Deutschland. Insbesondere bei der „sozio-kulturellen“ Seite, also der Komponente des Existenzminimums, die über das rein physische Überleben hinausgeht und die sozialen Bezüge der menschlichen Existenz sicherstellen soll, kommt der Gesetzgeberin ein weiter(er) Gestaltungsspielraum zu, so das BVerfG (Rn. 119). Daher sei es dem Gesetzgeber auch möglich, das SGB-Niveau zu unterbieten. Die soziokulturelle Entbehrung verfestigt aber gerade die Prekarisierung, erschwert systematisch die gesellschaftliche Teilhabe und lässt potenzielle Bleibeperspektiven in die Ferne rücken.

Wer bietet weniger?

Das AsylbLG hat sich in den letzten Jahren als Teil eines Unterbietungswettbewerbs verschiedener Regierungskoalitionen zudem weiter verschärft: Beispielsweise ist der Zeitraum, in dem Personen im gegenüber dem SGB-Niveau limitierten Existenzminimum ausharren müssen, von 15 Monaten erst auf 18 und nunmehr auf 36 Monate erhöht worden. Ob die reduzierten Leistungssätze in diesem extensivierten Zeitraum noch verfassungsgemäß wären, bleibt höchst fragwürdig. Auch die Leistungsausschlüsse, insbesondere für sog. Dublin-Geflüchtete, hat der Gesetzgeber erweitert und werden nun von verschiedenen Gerichten überprüft. Vor dem UN-Sozialausschuss ist ein entsprechendes Individualbeschwerdeverfahren anhängig, das zu einer Rüge (sog. interim measures) gegenüber Deutschland geführt hat. Dies hat die Bundesregierung bisher unbeeindruckt hingenommen. Parallel hat der Europäische Gerichtshof (EuGH) über die mittlerweile festgezurrte Regelung zur Leistungskürzung für „Dublin-Geflüchtete“ entschieden und, in Übereinstimmung mit den Schlussanträgen des Generalanwalts, klargestellt: § 1a Abs. 7 AsylbLG a.F.ist mit dem nach der EU-Aufnahmerichtlinie zu gewährleistenden Recht auf einen „angemessenen Lebensstandard“ (Art. 17 Abs. 2) nicht vereinbar – und damit europarechtswidrig. Für die 2024 eingefügte und noch verschärfte Parallelregelung des § 1 Abs. 4 S. 1 Nr. 2 AsylbLG dürfte dies erst recht gelten.

Insgesamt legitimiert die neue BVerfG-Entscheidung eine politische Entwicklung der letzten Jahre: Die Politik nutzt das Sozialrecht, um bestimmte Personen(-gruppen) auszugrenzen – und „internalisiert“ damit zunehmend europäische Grenzlogiken. Innerstaatliche Migrationskontrolle nimmt zwar tendenziell subtilere Repressionsformen an als etwa Pushbacks an den EU-Außengrenzen, weniger gewaltvoll sind sie deshalb nicht. Unmittelbar verhandelt wird die Frage: Wer gehört zur imaginierten (und vermeintlich homogenen) „Gemeinschaft“? Und wer wird, basierend auf Staatsbürger*innenschaft, (fehlender) „Integrationstiefe“ und Rechtsstatus, als „nicht zugehörig“ markiert?

Die Grenzen im Sozialstaat

Auf dem Feld des Migrations„sozial“rechts wird also gerungen – insbesondere um Gemeinschaft, Zugehörigkeit und Ausgrenzung. Dies gilt nicht nur in Deutschland, sondern kann als europäischer Trend gesehen werden (siehe hierzu ein kürzlich ergangenes EuGH-Urteil gegen Italien), in dem das Sozialrecht zunehmend für soziale Ausgrenzung genutzt wird. Mit der neuesten Entscheidung zementiert das BVerfG die Möglichkeit der Gesetzgeberin, Sozialleistungen für manche Gruppen auf ein minimiertes Minimum zurückzuschrauben, und legitimiert damit Grenzlogiken im Landesinneren. Die Frage ist insofern nicht mehr, ob das Existenzminimum migrationspolitisch relativiert wird – sondern wie weit diese Relativierung noch gehen wird.

The post Die Minimierung des Minimums appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Journalistic commentary anticipated the political problem. Walters argued in March 2025 that the United States should be stripped of hosting rights on climate grounds. The doctrinal question is different: what exactly do FIFA’s climate criteria oblige, against whom, and through what mechanism? The answer, on close reading, is that they oblige very little.

What the Bid Promised

FIFA’s bidding requirements for the 2026 tournament direct hosting associations, in substance, to show leadership on climate, to engage with the UN Sports for Climate Action Framework, and to maintain emissions reduction plans aligned with the Paris Agreement or with national climate policy. Fossil Free Football, summarising the latest bid requirements, records FIFA’s expectation that prospective hosts “show leadership in climate action”, seek to join the UN Sports for Climate Action net-zero pledge, and maintain emissions reduction plans “in line with the Paris Agreement”. The substantive criteria mirror the broader FIFA Climate Strategy commitments adopted at COP26.

The United Bid Book, submitted in March 2018 by the football associations of the United States, Canada and Mexico, represented compliance unequivocally. The bid affirmed that, in its language as reported by Walters, “the United States remains committed to being a leader in environmental protection”, and pledged to “establish new standards for environmental sustainability in sport”. FIFA’s Bid Evaluation Report recorded that the United bid had been “assessed for sustainability, its adherence to human rights and labour standards, and its plans for environmental protection”.

Both representations are now factually defunct. The Paris Agreement no longer binds the United States. The UNFCCC will no longer bind it once the one-year notice period under Article 25(2) elapses. The country’s nationally determined contribution, the formal climate action plan to which FIFA’s emissions criterion alternatively refers, has been formally rescinded and not replaced. The bid book promise of environmental leadership has been overtaken by executive orders declaring a national energy emergency and directing maximum fossil-fuel extraction. Independent analysis projects the 2026 tournament’s emissions at approximately 9 million tonnes of CO2-equivalent, roughly double the historical average.

A reasonable observer would expect this to engage some mechanism within FIFA’s regulatory framework. It engages none.

The Borrowed Benchmark Problem

The drafting of the climate criterion deserves close reading. It references the Paris Agreement as a benchmark for the host’s plan, not as an obligation incorporated into FIFA’s own rules. The duty is to have a plan of action aligned with the Agreement. Three structural weaknesses follow.

First, the obligation runs to the existence of a plan at the bidding stage, not to its continuing operation. A bidder satisfies the clause by submitting a document. FIFA has no post-award review keyed to whether that document remains in force. Second, the disjunctive coupling of the Paris benchmark with “the country’s climate action plans” makes the international standard substitutable with whatever domestic policy the host happens to maintain. When the host’s domestic plan is itself rescinded, the clause loses both limbs at once, but produces no event of default. Third, “in line with” is a benchmark formulation. It is not an incorporation by reference of the underlying Treaty’s substantive standards. It is therefore not justiciable on its own terms.

The contrast with how lex sportiva incorporates other public-law standards is instructive. Article 3 of the FIFA Statutes provides that “FIFA is committed to respecting all internationally recognised human rights and shall strive to promote the protection of these rights”. This is an internal obligation binding FIFA bodies and officials. Its incorporation triggered the development of a Human Rights Policy, a human rights advisory board, and an evolving practice of pre-award and post-award due diligence which CAS panels have begun to engage. The climate criteria have no Statute counterpart, no policy elaboration of comparable depth, and no equivalent migration into the post-award supervisory architecture.

The Architecture of Non-Enforcement

Recent doctrinal work makes the structural gap visible. In a comparative study of the 2026 FIFA Host City Agreement, the contract concluded between FIFA and each host city, and the 2028 Los Angeles Olympic Host City Contract, Erard demonstrates that the FIFA agreement operates as a one-way option agreement. FIFA may “make specifications, modifications, reductions and/or enhancements” of the contract and may revoke Host City status for non-compliance “regardless of reason”. The asymmetry is striking. FIFA has reserved sweeping unilateral powers in matters that affect its commercial interests, including tax exemptions, intellectual-property protections and visa facilitation. It has reserved none in matters that affect the climate representations underpinning the award.

The Court of Arbitration for Sport is the natural forum for any dispute arising under FIFA’s regulatory instruments. But CAS adjudication of a climate-conditionality claim would presuppose three things FIFA has not provided: an obligation drafted as such rather than as a representation, a claimant with standing under the relevant arbitration clause, and a defined remedy keyed to the breach. As Duval has observed in the human rights context, the introduction of substantive standards into FIFA’s regulatory architecture creates the conditions for CAS engagement only when those standards are drafted to be engaged. The climate criteria are not.

Swiss contract law, FIFA’s lex contractus, provides a thin alternative route. The United Bid Book contains representations on which the award decision was at least partly premised. Misrepresentation by the bidder, where material to the contract’s formation, can in principle vitiate consent under Articles 23 and following of the Swiss Code of Obligations. The argument is theoretically available but practically dormant: FIFA is the party that would have to bring it, and FIFA has shown no appetite for doing so. The route exists but it is not used.

The result is what one might call a representational obligation. The host represents at the bidding stage that its climate trajectory will align with international standards. If that representation later turns false, the falsity does not constitute a breach because the clause was never structured to be breached. It was structured to be cited.

Beyond the United States

The 2026 case is starker than what follows, but the architectural defect persists. The 2030 World Cup will be co-hosted by Morocco, Portugal and Spain, with single matches in Argentina, Paraguay and Uruguay. The 2034 tournament has been awarded to Saudi Arabia, a state whose climate policy is structurally tied to its position as the world’s largest fossil-fuel exporter. The same bidding framework applied to both selections. FIFA’s 2030 and 2034 Bid Evaluation Reports, as Carbon Market Watch and Fossil Free Football have observed, characterised the sustainability dimensions of both bids in the same representational register, with the same absence of post-award triggers, and assigned a “low risk” rating despite the multi-continental travel footprint of 2030 and the structural fossil-fuel dependence of 2034. The 2026 case is not an outlier within FIFA’s framework. It is the framework working as designed.

A defender of the current approach might respond that climate is a state-level concern beyond a private federation’s competence, and that asking FIFA to police treaty compliance overstates its institutional reach. The objection misunderstands what the clauses purport to do. FIFA itself elevated climate to a bidding criterion. Having done so, the federation cannot consistently disclaim responsibility for whether the criterion has any operative content. The choice is between conditionality and decoration; the present framework chose decoration while keeping the appearance of conditionality.

What Real Conditionality Would Require

Three minimum design features would make FIFA’s climate criteria operative. First, treaty status would have to function as a continuing eligibility condition, not as a one-time bidding representation. Withdrawal from the UNFCCC or Paris Agreement after award would constitute a defined material breach. Second, the Host City Agreement would have to incorporate climate compliance into its termination and relocation triggers on the same footing as the existing commercial triggers, so that the contractual machinery responds when the substantive obligation fails. Third, an independent compliance mechanism, with standing for member associations and a defined CAS pathway, would have to permit post-award review of whether the host’s climate trajectory remains aligned with the stated benchmark.

None of this is exotic. The IOC has gestured toward operationalising sustainability through Olympic Agenda 2020+5, though with parallel enforcement gaps. What the 2026 World Cup provides is a uniquely clean test instance: a host country exits the very treaty regime its bid invoked, before the tournament has kicked off, and the regulatory framework registers no consequence. If that fact pattern does not provoke reform of lex sportiva’s climate architecture, the climate clauses in FIFA’s bidding rules will continue to function as they were drafted to function, which is to say not at all.

The post Decorative by Design appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

The official view of the Roberts Court is now as follows.  If every single Black person votes one way, and every single white person votes the opposite way, in every single election, forever, that is not even relevant to the question of whether voting is “racially polarized,” so long as this enduring disagreement crystallizes into political parties, meaning that the two groups populate two different parties.

And that is exactly what strong and enduring political disagreements tend to do.  I mean, where do you think political parties come from?  Sometimes a political disagreement is so deep, so durable, so all-encompassing, that it becomes the politics-structuring disagreement around which all other questions orbit. Then the political parties are going to try to organize themselves around that disagreement because that is what political parties are for.

The polarization between Black voters and white voters in Alabama is so extreme and so durable, from the Civil War all the way through the present, that it has outlasted a complete flip in the party labels.  Like strong magnets that flip all the way around instead of getting smushed together the wrong way, racial polarization in Alabama is so powerful that after Black Republicans became Democrats, white Democrats eventually had to become Republicans. Functional political parties reflect the most important political disagreements or cleavages in their polity. That’s their job.  In Alabama, the most important political cleavage in the state is clearly racial polarization.  Alabama is the second most racially polarized state in the nation.*

The Supreme Court has a different defniton of racial polarization—one that seems to suggest Alabama may not be racially polarized at all.  In Callais, a month ago, Justice Alito said Voting Rights Act (VRA) plaintiffs must show “racial bloc voting that cannot be explained by partisan affiliation.”  Last night’s order in Allen v. Milligan sharpened the point: “The mere fact that voters of different races vote for different parties is not relevant to proving racially polarized voting patterns.” (emphasis added).

Not even relevant?  That’s bold.

Suppose there’s an election where the two candidates on the ballot are A and B.  How else are voters going to act racially polarized, other than one race of voters going overwhelmingly for A while the other race goes overwhelmingly for B?  But, Justice Alito says, if A and B are of different political parties, then it’s not racial polarization.

Why?  Well, first, he points out, it is also partisan polarization.  (Ok, we’re all with him so far.)  Second, he asserts an odd fiction, that racial and partisan polarization are completely distinct phenomena, as though parties have nothing to do with race—and that therefore, we can define racially polarized voting by a process of subtraction.  Whenever you have partisan polarization, we’re going to define that, ipse dixit, as not racial polarization.  (That sound you hear is the entire political science profession getting off the train at that point, shaking their heads in disbelief.)   And so it follows, on Alito’s view, that there may not be any racial polarization in Alabama at all: it’s all partisan polarization. It’s all politics.

Supreme Court justices can make up their own doctrine (and they certainly did here!); that’s part of their job. But their creative redefinition of racially polarized voting doesn’t change the political science any more than their law office history changes actual history.  Racially polarized voting is a political science concept.  It means what it sounds like.  It means that people of one race tend to vote one way and people of another race tend to vote another way.  The stronger that pattern, the more racially polarized the voting.  That’s all.  You can have racially polarized voting with no parties, one party, two parties, many parties, it doesn’t matter the number of parties.  Parties reflect politically important divisions in society because that’s their job.  The question of racially polarized voting is about the extent to which voters of different races disagree in how they vote—not whether that disagreement happens to be so exceptionally powerful that a party system gets built around it, as it has been in Alabama.

In concept, racially polarized voting is not very complicated. There are interesting and somewhat tricky issues of data and statistical inference involved in measuring it, since we use a secret ballot and you can’t generally directly observe the race of each voter.  Political scientists have strategies for dealing with those data limitations and coming up with estimates of racially polarized voting.  It turns out to be empirically highly varied from place to place in the United States.  Political scientists’ estimates of racially polarized voting have found their way into generations of judicial opinions because judges find them useful.  Why?  The most important reason is that racially polarized voting helps judges decide when a racial group will need protection to avoid having its voting strength diluted in violation of American law.  

There are always winners and losers in politics.  No group, racial or otherwise, is guaranteed to be in the majority all the time.  Sometimes you’re going to be stuck in the minority.  In normal politics, you win some, you lose some.  If voting is not racially polarized, plenty of people of all races will be among the winners and the losers and that’s fine.

However, Americans collectively decided that we would not allow a dominant racial majority (specifically, the Southern white elites of places like Alabama) to design voting rules and maps that meant Black people persistently and systematically lose, over and over, so that they have no representation in government, when their views are strongly at odds with the views of the white majority.  Abstracting out from the paradigm case of Black people in states like Alabama, Americans decided to ensure through constitutional amendment and statutory enactment that no racial group is durably locked out of political power.  To achieve this, we ratified the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments.  When the Supreme Court failed to enforce those Amendments, leading to most of a century of Jim Crow, we followed up with the Voting Rights Act.  Both required considerable struggle and sacrifice.  People died for the Voting Rights Act, and many of their relatives are still around to talk about it.  The Reconstruction Amendments and later the VRA were needed because without them, the white power structure of the states in the former Confederacy such as Alabama was obviously going to come up with ways to lock Black people out of electing any of their preferred candidates to office.  We know they would do this because they did it.  And also because they are now trying to do it again.

In politics, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.  But if voting is racially polarized, such that white voters persistently vote “as a bloc” to stop the candidates Black voters prefer, the Fifteenth Amendment and the Voting Rights Act say you have to structure your elections in a different way, so that despite this polarization, there’s some sharing of power with Black people.  The white majority gets most of the seats but not all.  This is the basis on which federal courts ordered Alabama to draw a second congressional district where Black voters might elect a candidate they actually chose.  Alabama blatantly defied that order, and now the Supreme Court has rewarded the state for that defiance.

Louisiana v. Callais was the final act in a bleak Roberts Court trilogy that eviscerated the Voting Rights Act.  The trilogy began with Shelby County v. Holder in 2013 (nullifying Section 5 of the VRA).  Just like the lesser-known middle episode in the trilogy, Brnovich v. DNC (2021), Callais was an Alito opinion that legislated an elaborate new statutory scheme for proving voting discrimination claims.  But it’s an odd, crabbed kind of statutory scheme, one that no Congress would have legislated in real life.  Instead of laying out in the statute what actually counts as discrimination, Alito’s rewritten legislative framework is entirely devoted to creating new defenses that shield jurisdictions from VRA liability—many of them written in vague enough terms to give creative judges plenty of tools for making sure VRA plaintiffs lose. One of those new defenses is the “it was party, so it was not race” defense that is the subject of this post.  Section 2 of the VRA once covered discrimination in both voting procedures (“vote denial”) and districting (“vote dilution”).  Alito rewrote the VRA’s legal requirements for the former in Brnovich and the latter in Callais—all with the blessing, the opinion assignment, and the vote of Chief Justice John Roberts (whose opposition to the VRA was known at the time of his confirmation hearings, if Congress had listened to John Lewis).  This trilogy of cases is one of the most important elements of the historic, ignominious legacy of the Roberts Court.

And yet that somehow understates it.  The Supreme Court is going further than merely (merely!) eviscerating the Voting Rights Act.  It is also taking a pickax to underlying constitutional protections in voting, as yesterday’s order in Allen v. Milligan makes especially clear.  Instead of engaging in statutory interpretation, the Court in Callais and Milligan is lunging straight for the conceptual underpinnings of the law of vote dilution, and in particular, racially polarized voting.  This is not statutory interpretation or constitutional interpretation, but a radical conceptual redefinition of an important element in the underlying architecture of how we think about what vote dilution is.  That’s going to have a large blast radius.

* * *

So how could one test the Supreme Court’s seriousness regarding its redefinition of racially polarized voting, where we define it by subtraction, excluding any partisan polarization?  A really astute law student or lawyer might wonder: ok, SCOTUS, suppose we go down to Alabama and find a nonpartisan election for some office.  What if there’s racially polarized voting in that election? 

(There will be. As noted above, voting in Alabama is extremely racially polarized.  That’s going to hold true whether you offer voters zero, one, two, or many parties.)

If you take Justice Alito at his word, you might think he would react to racially polarized voting in a nonpartisan election with an “oh my, it turns out I was wrong, voting is racially polarized after all!”  Perhaps he might then take a fresh look at the extensive record that led the federal district court in Alabama to conclude that the state had intentionally and unconstitutionally diluted Black voters’ voting power.)  Reader, please know, this is not how it’s going to go.  Even with no party labels, Justice Alito will say, how can you tell whether it’s partisan polarization or racial polarization?  There aren’t any racial labels on the ballots either, but sometimes people know.  At the end of the day, Alito and other Republican justices simply hold to a strong intuition that party matters more than race.  This makes sense; after all, they believe party matters more than race to them.  It just stands to reason, they will feel intuitively, that any apparent case of racial polarization is actually a case of covert partisan polarization.

In any event, you actually aren’t going to find a whole lot of nonpartisan elections in Alabama to test SCOTUS with. That's because Alabama is one of a handful of states with partisan elections all the way down to the school board level. And why is that? 

It’s because of race.

If I may be permitted to get on a soapbox for a moment, the point here, loudly for those in the back, is that a state’s political system is not some kind of a natural phenomenon like its weather or its soil, but rather, a product of politics in that state (and of course, spilling over from other states as well).  Alabama’s political system was built—as in other states of the former Confederacy, with various different variations—a bit more than a century ago, by white elites, to disenfranchise Black voters.  At the time the Black voters were Republicans and the white voters were Democrats.  Later they switched party labels.  Either way, using party labels helps keep everyone on side.  Reinforcing racial lines with partisan lines helps make sure Black people lose a little more consistently than they would absent the party labels, where they might have more of a shot at alliance-making across racial lines.  Using party labels down to the school board level is one small tactic that serves that goal.

* * *

In the view of the Republican justices of SCOTUS, whenever race and party run together, any observed polarization is party, not race. This is a very convenient conclusion. It means that any time you wish to destroy the political power of a racial minority, all you have to do is define them as a different party.

When I was a law student 20 years ago, Pam Karlan taught me this point with an example I will never forget.  Suppose you have two parties, she said.  The Problack party and the Antiblack party.  Suppose their platforms reflect their names.

Are we going to see racially polarized voting?  Partisan polarization?  Yes and yes. And it’s going to be impossible to separate the two.  Indeed, I would add that if these are the parties, you can work backwards and see that race must really be the central axis of politics.  In that way, Karlan might as well have been talking about Alabama.

The Supreme Court has now more or less grabbed hold of this example and turned it upside down.  According to Justice Alito and the other Republican justices, there is not actually any racial polarization in that example.  It’s all partisan polarization.  If a state just happened to elect all its members of Congress from the Antiblack party, and Black voters were aggrieved about being locked out, they are now obligated propose an alternative less-discriminatory map that “performs equally well” in electing members of the Antiblack party. 

That is actually where we are now.  

The deeper the racial polarization, the more difficult it is to disentangle from partisan polarization, because the more closely the parties will align with the racial divide.  That is why—ironically, tragically, inevitably, intentionally—the greatest effect of Callais/Milligan is going to be in the former Confederacy, more or less the set of jurisdictions once covered by Section 5 of the VRA.

Why? Because those are still, today, more or less the places where voting is the most racially polarized.  In their 2024 APSR article, The Geography of Racially Polarized Voting, Kuriwaki, Ansolabehere, Dagonel, & Yamauchi have a helpful map, which shows considerable overlap with the old Section 5 coverage map: 

The Republican majority on the Supreme Court is responsible for this.    It is important for all of us to let Americans know that.  It will be one of the foundations for an important argument to come, about the necessity of using political power in the elected branches to do two essential things: change the way we draw congressional districts across the United States, and reform the Supreme Court.

Cross-posted on the Election Law Blog.  This post began as a thread on Bluesky.

*As in so many things, Alabama is saved from being the most extreme state in the nation only by the fact that there’s always Mississippi.

     My previous post showed how President Trump has wrested increasing parts of the Power of the Purse from Congress.  I promised a follow-up post considering how that transformation is rewiring each of the three branches of the federal government and federal-state interactions.  These are complex issues, and in the interests of readability, I am dividing this discussion into four distinct posts, beginning today with Congress. 

     Congress is the biggest loser in the current realignment.  President Trump’s approach here differs fundamentally from those of his predecessors.  President Ronald Reagan never had formal control over the House of Representatives, but during his first two years in office he leveraged his immense personal popularity with voters to dominate the House and guard against any open defiance in the Republican-led Senate.  He therefore did not so much seize Congress’s prerogatives as he bent Congress to his will while preserving its structure.  He wisely looked the other way when Members of Congress quietly jettisoned his most radical proposals while remaining true to his broad vision.  Republican Senator Bob Dole’s rebellion to save the Food Stamp Program is perhaps the most remarkable example of this.

     Republicans controlled Congress for most of George W. Bush’s presidency, allowing him to achieve his policy goals within the existing structure as well.  Like President Reagan, he set broad policy ends but generally respected Congress’s prerogative to craft the means.  During his first term, President Trump followed this model only for his 2017 tax cut legislation – which also proved to be one of his few legislative accomplishments. 

     Presidents Bill Clinton and Joe Biden tried to micro-manage Congress during their first two years, failed on many of their most important fiscal priorities, and lost control of Congress for the remainder of their presidencies.  President Barack Obama proved far more successful adhering to the Reagan-Bush model of broad goal-setting with deference to Congress on the details. 

     Republican control of Congress, and the relatively pliant Republican leaders of both chambers, likely would have allowed President Trump to achieve sweeping conservative policy successes through conventional means.  And, to be sure, his One Big Beautiful Bill Act made radical changes to a degree that his predecessors of both parties could only dream about. 

     But President Trump has been less interested in persuading Congress to enact his program than he has in stripping Congress of its powers.  This likely reflects in part his dislike for the cajoling and negotiating that prior presidents accepted as a part of the job.  (Perhaps he ought to read The Art of the Deal?)  At least as important, Russell Vought, his Director of the Office Management and Budget (OMB), brought a strong desire to expand executive power and allied with other exponents of executive unilateralism such as Elon Musk.  In less than a year and a half, President Trump and Director Vought have already arrogated much of Congress’s traditional power and driven structural transformations within Congress. 

     The biggest internal change Congress has experienced is the marginalization of the Appropriations Committees.  This change may sound technical, but it is profound.  Historically, the division within Congress between authorizers (those sitting on substantive committees other than Appropriations) and appropriators has been arguably as sharp as that between the two parties or between the House and the Senate. 

     As a lobbyist, I worked comfortably with both Democrats and Republicans, establishing numerous trusting relationships on both sides of the aisle and in both chambers.  But these relationships were all with authorizers, Members and staff from committees such as Ways and Means, Energy and Commerce, Finance, Agriculture, Education and Labor, and Health, Education, Labor and Pensions.  I went to the Appropriations Committees because my work required it, but I never felt comfortable there.  I never had any confidence that Members or staff of either party were being candid with me.  They had their own retinue of repeat-player lobbyists.  As was I most definitely not among them I was kept at arm’s length by Democrats as much as by Republicans. 

     Appropriators differ from their colleagues in several key ways.  Because they alone have to produce at least twelve pieces of legislation every year, and because the filibuster effectively requires that legislation to be bipartisan, appropriators are Congress’s most instinctive and experienced negotiators.  Extreme Members of each party serve on the Appropriations Committees, but they have to temper their ideologies to get anything done.  In addition, because appropriators are commonly trying to bring projects back to their states, they are quite vulnerable to retaliation.  They thus have strong incentives not to infuriate Members of the opposing party – an impulse that can infuriate Members of their own party.  Thus, in an increasingly ugly political system, appropriators’ institutional roles compel them to preserve civility, cooperation, and a focus on making government work.  Say what you will about “the Swamp”, but swamps are ecosystems.  We can fantasize about how a lovely temperate forest might be, but until that appears appropriators keep the swamp functioning and carry away toxins that could lead the whole system to crash. 

     Appropriators’ jurisdiction has eroded somewhat over the years.  Converting programs from discretionary to entitlement funding transfers most control from appropriators to authorizers.  The Affordable Care Act included large amounts for program administration so that Republicans could not strangle the program in its infancy if they took control of Congress.  Traditionally funding the federal government’s operations is a central function of appropriations. 

     President Trump, however, has shredded appropriators’ powers.  In March 2025 he signed a full-year appropriations bill written by Republican appropriators and then promptly impounded large amounts for programs he disliked. 

     President Trump also rejected the appropriators’ designation of much of that spending as meeting emergencies, which had the effect of erasing that funding.  This was perfectly legal but deeply humiliating for Republican appropriators as it abrogated a bipartisan deal going back several years. 

     A time-honored political script calls for a menacing outsider to threaten a beloved local program only to back down when the state’s valiant appropriator rides to the rescue.  Rural Republican appropriators thought they were being given such an opportunity to prove their worth to hometown voters when President Trump proposed rescinding the appropriations that sustain their local public broadcasters.  Under the illusion that they still mattered, the appropriators denounced the cuts, expecting that the President would play his designated role in the skit.  Instead, the President stood firm and humiliated the appropriators by forcing them to vote for the cuts that they had just said would be ruinous for their states. 

     President Trump’s One Big Beautiful Bill Act, enacted through reconciliation procedures that eliminate the need for bipartisanship, included operating funds for federal immigration agencies and aid for state and local governments that cooperate with these agencies – all traditional appropriations functions.  The new reconciliation bill pending in the Senate would further displace the Appropriations Committees’ jurisdiction, cutting them out of funding the operating costs of large, important federal agencies for years to come.  Few obvious limits prevent this mechanism from gobbling up vast swaths of the Appropriations Committees’ jurisdictions.

     Had any Members been foolish enough to attempt something like this under virtually any prior Appropriations Chair, appropriators on a bipartisan, bicameral basis would have devastated funding for activities in the offending Members’ districts.  Were Administration officials implicated, they could expect a $1 appropriation for their salaries the next year. 

     Today, however, Republican appropriators have sat by meekly as the institution they have worked so hard to lead is humbled.  Senate Appropriations Chair Susan Collins is facing a difficult re-election fight in which she dares not offend the President lest she dampen MAGA true believers’ enthusiasm.  No doubt she is concerned.  And Representative Tom Cole became a long-time member of House Republican leadership, and then House Appropriations Chair, by demonstrating loyalty to his party not by defending any committee’s prerogatives.  Democratic appropriators remain more committed to the institution – to the occasional irritation of their party leadership – but one can readily imagine Democrats using budget reconciliation to lock in funding for numerous liberal priorities next time they control the White House and both chambers of Congress. 

     A country whose electorate is split almost precisely down the middle has a dire need for bipartisan negotiation and compromise.  Negotiations are already extremely difficult with ignorant but loud voices in each party’s base screaming “betrayal” at even the most inevitable concessions.  Gutting the Appropriations Committees’ roles will only make that worse.  Reconciliation bills can establish programs with opulent funding when one party holds a federal trifecta (control of the House, the Senate, and the White House) only to be destroyed – before the programs have an opportunity to show their worth – as soon as the other party seizes control.  And all the while, the anger mounts.  Democratic governance will not be sustainable if this persists.

     @DavidASuper1 @DavidASuper.bsky.social

Budgets und ihre Grenzen

Rechtsprechung und Literatur, die sich verfassungsrechtlich mit Klagen auf mehr Klimaschutz befassen, arbeiten meist mit CO2eq-Emissionsbudgets. Diese werden aus Grenzwerten für die durchschnittliche Erderwärmung abgeleitet. Sie werden zunächst global berechnet und dann nach bestimmten – sehr umstrittenen – Kriterien den einzelnen Staaten zugeordnet. Manche Gerichte, etwa das BVerfG im Klimabeschluss von 2021 (Rn. 225) oder der EGMR im KlimaSeniorinnen-Urteil von 2024 (Rn. 569), halten dabei eine gleiche Verteilung pro Kopf der Bevölkerung für verfassungsrechtlich vertretbar.

Als Aufwärmungsgrenze haben der EGMR (Rnr. 569-571) und der IGH 1,5 °C, das BVerfG (Rnr. 231) 1,75 °C als rechtlich geboten angesehen. Das Pariser Abkommen nennt 1,5 °C zwar nur als erstrebenswerte Obergrenze. Faktisch entspricht dieser Wert jedoch annähernd der 2°C-Grenze, wenn das daraus abgeleitete Budget mit sehr hoher Wahrscheinlichkeit eingehalten werden soll, etwa mit den in Risikobewertungen üblichen 95%. Zudem hat Decision 1/CMA 3 No. 22 des sog. Glasgow Climate Pact der Vertragsstaaten der Klimarahmenkonvention von 2021 1,5 °C als Grenze anerkannt, was als „spätere Übereinkunft“ im Sinne des Art. 31 Abs. 3 lit a der Wiener Vertragsrechtskonvention angesehen werden kann.

Im Grunde aber ist maßgeblich, dass bereits heute erhebliche Schäden eingetreten sind und Kipppunkte überschritten wurden. Diese unbestreitbare Tatsache wird im Streit über den Maßstab 1,5° C verdrängt.

Was tun, wenn kein Budget mehr verfügbar ist?

Die Obergrenze von 1,5° wurde im Jahre 2024 überschritten und wird vermutlich auch im Durchschnitt der darauffolgenden Jahre erreicht. Damit ist klar, dass das dafür vorgesehene Budget verbraucht ist. Was also tun, wenn kein Budget mehr verfügbar ist?

Man kann den Budgetansatz retten, wenn man Überschreitungen der Aufwärmungsgrenze (sogenannte Overshoots) zulässt – verbunden mit dem Versprechen, das überschießende CO2 später wieder aus der Atmosphäre zu entfernen. Dieser reale Ausgleich ist jedoch eine Spekulation auf die Zukunft. Zudem führen auch temporäre Überschreitungen zu zusätzlicher Erwärmung und verursachen entsprechende Schäden.

Ein anderer Ausweg besteht darin, Emissionsreduktionen im Ausland zu ermöglichen und die eingesparte Menge auf die inländische Reduktion anzurechnen. Doch die Erfahrungen mit solchen Offsets im Clean Development Mechanism (CDM) des Kyoto-Protokolls zeigen erhebliche Probleme. Häufig fehlt es an der sogenannten Zusätzlichkeit („additionality“), weil der betreffende Staat die Reduktionen ohnehin hätte erreichen können oder völker- und verfassungsrechtlich dazu verpflichtet war. Aus diesen und weiteren Gründen¹⁾ hat das European Scientific Advisory Board on Climate Change (ESABCC) in seinem Gutachten von 2025 von solchen Offsets abgeraten. Die EU hält dennoch daran fest (Art. 4 Abs. 5 lit. a) VO (EU) 2021/1119 in der Fassung der VO (EU) 2026/1119).

Angesichts dieser Schwierigkeit ist zu erwarten, dass Politik und Recht sich auf die Obergrenze von 2° C einstellen werden und damit die Budgets einfach vergrößern. Doch auch diese Grenze wird in absehbarer Zeit erreicht sein – und das Spiel würde von vorne beginnen.

Es spricht daher viel dafür, die Orientierung an zukünftigen Temperaturgrenzen und den ihnen entsprechenden Budgets grundsätzlich in Frage zu stellen. Die Vorstellung, die Menschheit habe ein Budget zur Verfügung, das erst bei bestimmten Schwellen erschöpft sei, führt in die Irre: There ain’t such thing as a free lunch – dieser ökonomische Grundsatz gilt auch für die Ökologie. Die Schäden sind bereits eingetreten, sie treffen nur noch nicht alle gleichermaßen. Wir befinden uns in einer Notlage, in der andere Maßstäbe gesucht werden müssen. Ein Ausweg liegt auf der Hand, nämlich schlicht das zu fordern, was zur Emissionsvermeidung tatsächlich machbar ist – jetzt und in jedem kommenden Jahr.

Vom Budget zur Machbarkeit

Eine Verpflichtung, das Machbare zu tun, ist nach dem Gutachten des IGH von 2025 völkerrechtlich abgestützt (Nr. 237-254, 280-292): Nach dem Pariser Übereinkommen solle jeder Vertragsstaat den Anstieg der Temperatur nach seinen jeweiligen Fähigkeiten („respective capabilities“) bremsen und bei Nachschärfung der national erklärten Beiträge („national determined contributions“) die höchstmögliche Zielsetzung verwirklichen („reflect the highest possible ambition“). Völkergewohnheitsrechtlich sei jeder Staat zudem verpflichtet, Schädigungen so weit wie möglich zu vermeiden („due diligence“). Auch verfassungsrechtlich ist Machbarkeit geboten. Belastungen für Gesundheit, Beruf und Eigentum der vom Klimawandel Betroffenen sind nur hinzunehmen, wenn alle Möglichkeiten der Emissionsreduktion ausgeschöpft sind.²⁾

Schaut man noch einmal genauer hin, so wird deutlich, dass bereits im Budgetansatz in Teilen auf Machbarkeit abgestellt wird. Neu ist der Gedanke also nicht. Dies gilt insbesondere für die gesetzgeberische Festlegung von Reduktionszielen. So wurde das neue Reduktionsziel der EU für 2040 auf ein Gutachten des ESABCC gestützt, das eine Vielzahl von Szenarien auswertete und seinerseits auf Auswertungen des IPCC aufbaute. Ähnlich verfährt auch der Climate Action Tracker (CAT), wenn er neben der fairen Budgetverteilung „modelled domestic pathways“ entwirft. Zu nennen ist schließlich die noch junge Scenario Compass Initiative (SCI), die ebenfalls Szenarien sortiert und über ihre Datenbank zugänglich macht. Die Szenarien selbst – von ihnen gibt es Tausende – haben eine enorme Variationsbreite; auch die Sortierkriterien unterscheiden sich. Die zugrundeliegende Methodologie, ausführlich dargestellt in IPCC AR6 WG III Annex III, kann hier nicht im Einzelnen gewürdigt werden. Aus rechtlicher Perspektive besteht der Eindruck, dass das Potential rechtlicher Gestaltung eher unterschätzt wird und die Annahmen über Emissionsreduktionsmöglichkeiten oft hoch aggregiert und empirisch wenig gesättigt sind.

Ein konkreter Ansatz würde demgegenüber minutiös für jeden Staat die einzelnen Emissionsquellen durchgehen, geeignete Maßnahmen identifizieren, kontraproduktive Seiteneffekte ausschließen und die einzelnen Einsparpotenziale addieren. Beispiele liegen auf der Hand: Tempobegrenzungen auf Autobahnen, Ausbau des öffentlichen Verkehrs, Ausstieg aus Verbrennermotoren und aus besonders emissionsintensiven Fahrzeugen, Wärmepumpen und Geothermie in Gebäuden, Bauen mit Holz statt Beton, Verringerung des Fleischkonsums, eine stärker ökologisch ausgerichtete Landwirtschaft, Begrenzung von Ferienreisen per Flugzeug, Abschaffung privater Flugzeuge und Großjachten, elektronische statt präsente Konferenzen, Zubau von Wind- und Sonnenenergieanlagen, Umverteilung von Wohnraum, Durchsetzung der Kreislaufwirtschaft, etc. Die Liste ließe sich fortsetzen.

Kriterien der Machbarkeit

Selbstverständlich meldet sich bei einer solchen Aufzählung sofort die Verbotskritik. Ihr ist zunächst entgegenzuhalten, dass Verbote keineswegs nur hemmen, sondern – dialektisch – auch Innovationspotential freisetzen. Aber Verbote müssen sich selbstverständlich grundrechtlicher Prüfung stellen. Emissionsreduktionen schützen zwar Grundrechte der von Klimaschäden Betroffenen, greifen aber zugleich in Rechte von Energienutzern ein. Wir haben es also mit einer Dreierkonstellation, einem „mehrpoligen Verfassungsrechtsverhältnis“ (C. Calliess), zu tun. Dem regelnden Staat stehen Träger von („Freiheits“-)Rechten auf Energienutzung und Träger von („materiellen“) Rechten auf Gesundheit und Eigentum gegenüber. Diese Positionen müssen zum Ausgleich gebracht werden.

In diesem rechtlichen Spannungsfeld sind Kriterien der Machbarkeit zu suchen. Dabei ist Machbarkeit nicht von vornherein als Grenze des Möglichen zu verstehen, sondern als Aufforderung zur Ermöglichung – ähnlich wie im Umweltrecht der „Stand der Technik“ und der „Stand von Wissenschaft und Technik“ im Vergleich zu den „allgemein anerkannten Regeln der Technik“ Anschubcharakter haben (BVerfGE 49, 89, 135-137). Drei Dimensionen solcher Kriterien bieten sich an: Machbar ist, was technisch möglich, ökonomisch erschwinglich und sozial gerecht ist. Selbstverständlich muss das als machbar Vorgestellte auch politisch durchsetzbar sein. Doch betrifft dies die Ebene der Umsetzung und nicht die der Lösungen selbst. Wer von vornherein nur an Akzeptanz denkt, verkennt die Überzeugungskraft von Ideen und die Normativität verfassungsrechtlicher Gebote.

Technische Machbarkeit orientiert sich nicht nur am gegenwärtigen Stand, sondern an der Innovationskraft der Technik. Sie begnügt sich nicht mit nachgelagerten („end of pipe“) Lösungen, sondern arbeitet an den Ursachen, das heißt insbesondere an der Vermeidung von Emissionen statt an deren Abscheidung und Einlagerung („carbon capture and storage“). Zur technischen Machbarkeit zählt auch die geographische Verfügbarkeit erneuerbarer Energiequellen wie Sonne und Wind.

Ökonomische Machbarkeit verweist auf eine Kosten-Nutzen-Betrachtung. Oft werden nur die Investitionskosten für Emissionsvermeidung vorgerechnet. Dem sind der Nutzen eines stabilen Klimas und die immer gravierenderen Klimaschäden gegenüberzustellen. Für die Wahl der Instrumente setzt die Ökonomie meist auf die Bepreisung von Umwelt- beziehungsweise Klimanutzung. Das ist nur akzeptabel, wenn vorher ordnungsrechtlich Grenzwerte festgelegt werden, weil die Bepreisung sonst zielblind ist. Skeptisch stimmt auch das Effizienzkriterium, nach dem derjenige Sektor investieren soll, der die Emissionen zu geringsten Preisen senken kann. Jeder Sektor muss alles ihm Machbare verwirklichen. Zum Beispiel sollten die zusätzlichen Emissionen unbegrenzter Fahrzeuggeschwindigkeit nicht mit Aufforstungen verrechnet werden; denn eine Tempobegrenzung ist als solche machbar, und desgleichen auch die Aufforstung. Die Verrechnung beider geht von einem freien Budget aus, das aber nicht mehr existiert.

Soziale Machbarkeit erfordert schließlich, dass die Kosten nicht einseitig zu Lasten der Ärmeren gehen. Wenn etwa Gebäude gedämmt und mit Photovoltaik bestückt werden sollen, sollte die Regulierung mit sozial gestaffelter Förderung verbunden werden. Bei einer Bepreisung sollte vermieden werden, dass diejenigen, die sich den Preis nicht leisten können, benachteiligt werden. Soziale Machbarkeit impliziert aber vor allem, dass die Reicheren ihre Emissionen drastisch verringern müssen. Sie verursachen den relativ höchsten Anteil. Dass sie bei einer Bepreisung für Emissionen zahlen, genügt nicht. Denn die Zahlung ermöglicht reale Emissionen, sie verhindert diese nicht.

Die Auswahl der machbaren Maßnahmen steht sicherlich im gesetzgeberischen Ermessen. Dieses wird aber durch die objektiven Prinzipien des Art. 20a GG, des Art. 37 GRCh und der Art. 3-5 FCCC eingeengt, weil die Klimakrise das Überleben weiter Teile der Menschheit bedroht. Zu zurückhaltend ist deshalb die Vorgabe des EGMR im Klimaseniorinnen-Urteil (Rn. 543), die Staaten seien zwar verpflichtet, ein Budget festzulegen, hätten aber weites Ermessen bei der Maßnahmenwahl. Sie folgt im Grunde dem Budgetansatz und seiner Illusion freier Aufwärmungsspannen.

Notbudgets

Es gibt allerdings einen Weg zurück vom Machbarkeits- zum Budgetansatz. Das Ergebnis ist dann aber kein frei verfügbares, sondern ein Notbudget. Es ergibt sich aus den Emissionen, die sich zu einem bestimmten Zeitpunkt technisch, ökonomisch oder sozial nicht vermeiden lassen. Dieses Budget muss bewirtschaftet werden. Emissionen wären dann nur noch denjenigen zuzuweisen, die alle ihnen möglichen Reduktionsmaßnahmen umgesetzt haben und als prioritär geltende Zwecke verfolgen. Verfassungsrechtlich kommt dann vor allem das Gleichbehandlungsgebot zum Zuge.

Schluss

Was kommt nach dem Overshoot? Was ist zu tun, wenn der Schaden bereits eingetreten ist? Die Antwort dieses Beitrags lautet: Es sind keine Emissionsberechtigungen mehr zu verteilen. Verfassungsrechtlich sind Regelungen zulässig und geboten, die von jeder Person verlangen, Emissionen zu vermeiden, wo und wann immer dies machbar ist.

The post Nach dem Overshoot appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

These developments, taken together, mark more than the implementation of the CJEU’s judgment in Trojan. They indicate a broader shift in the logic of recognition: from a model strictly tied to free movement towards a more autonomous, status-based approach. While the CJEU in Trojan articulated a minimum standard required under EU law, Polish courts appear to have moved beyond that baseline by expanding the rationale for recognition, grounding it in constitutional and human rights reasoning rather than in free movement considerations.

Post-Trojan, national courts have not simply applied the CJEU’s case law on same-sex marriage recognition. While formally operating within the EU framework, they have developed its implications further, gradually moving from a mobility-based logic toward a more status-oriented model of recognition grounded in constitutional and ECHR considerations.

From Coman to Trojan: The Limits of Free Movement

The trajectory of EU law on same-sex marriage recognition has long been defined by a cautious logic: recognition is derivative, functional, and tied to free movement. In Coman (C‑673/16), the Court established that the term “spouse” in Directive 2004/38 includes same-sex spouses, but only for the purposes of residence rights. The ruling deliberately stopped short of requiring full recognition of marital status.

This logic was preserved, albeit significantly stretched, in Trojan (C‑713/23). The CJEU held that Member States must recognise same-sex marriages concluded in other Member States when necessary to ensure the effective exercise of EU free movement rights, read in the light of Articles 7 and 21 of the EU Charter (family life and non-discrimination).

Yet even as the Court emphasised the right to “lead a normal family life” within the Union, it remained formally anchored in mobility. The core trigger remained the cross-border element: the couple must have exercised free movement and “created or strengthened a family life” abroad. Thus, Trojan reflects a constitutional compromise: recognition as a corollary of movement, not as an autonomous status right.

The Polish Turn: From Implementation to Expansion

The decisive doctrinal development did not occur in Luxembourg, but in Warsaw.

In its judgment of 20 March 2026 (II OSK 216/21), the Polish Supreme Administrative Court implemented Trojan by ordering the transcription of a same-sex marriage concluded abroad and explicitly recognising the primacy of EU law in this field.

At first sight, the judgment appears as a faithful application of EU law: refusal to transcribe a marriage certificate constitutes an unjustified restriction of free movement and family life.

However, a closer reading reveals a more far-reaching move. The Supreme Administrative Court rejected the argument that Article 18 of the Polish Constitution (defining marriage as a union of a man and a woman) constitutes an absolute barrier to transcription. Moreover, it reframed an obligation to transcribe not merely as a technical EU requirement but as compatible with the domestic constitutional order, and crucially treated recognition as a necessary condition for ensuring the continuity of legal status.

The Supreme Administrative Court explicitly said:

“Article 18 of the Constitution of the Republic of Poland provides that marriage, understood as a union between a man and a woman, as well as the family, motherhood, and parenthood, shall be placed under the protection and care of the Republic of Poland. This provision cannot be interpreted as establishing an absolute obstacle to the recognition of a same-sex marriage concluded in another Member State of the European Union in accordance with the law of that State, including the transcription of such a marriage certificate into the Polish civil status register. Article 18 of the Constitution, by assigning a particular position within the legal system to marriage understood as a union between a man and a woman, is intended to emphasise that this specific institution of marriage enjoys special protection (care and safeguarding) by the Republic of Poland, similarly to the family, motherhood, and parenthood. However, this provision cannot be construed as implying, first, a prohibition on the recognition of other types of relationships between two persons regardless of their sex, nor, second, that such relationships are not entitled to any level of protection and care”.

While presented as implementation, the judgment effectively redefines the relationship between constitutional constraints and recognition obligations. Recognition and domestic marriage law are no longer seen as mutually exclusive but as capable of coexistence within a single legal order.

Selective Reception: The Marginalisation of “Family Life Abroad”

Paradoxically, while expanding the scope of recognition, the further judgments of 7 May 2026 appear to downplay a key element of the CJEU’s reasoning: the requirement that family life be “created or strengthened” in another Member State.

In the CJEU’s framework, this requirement functions as an obvious jurisdictional gatekeeper. Recognition is triggered not by the existence of a marriage as such, but by the exercise of free movement.

Yet Polish jurisprudence increasingly marginalises this condition. The Polish judgments do not meaningfully examine whether the couples established a genuine life abroad or resided there for a significant period. Although the factual circumstances remain only partially clear, the reasoning suggests that the nature and duration of residence abroad are no longer decisive.

This ambiguity is significant. It indicates that recognition may extend beyond situations of genuine free movement to cases that could be described as “marriage tourism”, where couples travel abroad specifically to conclude a marriage and subsequently return to Poland.

In fact, the cases decided by the Supreme Administrative Court concerned what have been described in public debate as “weekend marriages” – a term used by the Polish Minister of Justice. The couples in question were Polish nationals being residents in Poland and did not relocate abroad; instead, they travelled to Germany and to Madeira (Portugal) specifically for the purpose of concluding a marriage, before returning to Poland.

From the Court’s perspective, however, the question of whether the couples had established or pursued family life abroad did not appear to be determinative. Notably, in one of the judgments delivered jointly in three separate cases, judge Zbigniew Kostka did not rely on Trojan – as had been the case in earlier administrative court decisions – but instead grounded the reasoning in the case law of the ECHR. This reflects a further shift in emphasis, aligning the Court’s approach with the Strasbourg line of jurisprudence, which already in 2023 found that the absence of any legal framework for same-sex couples in Poland violates Article 8 ECHR.

Recognition Without Residence? The Emergence of “Marriage Tourism” Cases

Once recognition is accepted for couples who exercised free movement and lived in another Member State, it becomes increasingly difficult to justify denying recognition to couples who travelled abroad solely to conclude a marriage while otherwise remaining resident in Poland.

In such cases, the cross-border element is formally present, but the CJEU’s emphasis on “creating or strengthening family life abroad” becomes less central. Marriage itself can be understood as an act that creates family life, regardless of the duration of residence abroad.

In this context, the legal problem gradually shifts. It is no longer confined to EU free movement law but begins to raise questions of equality and non-discrimination under domestic constitutional law. If recognition is granted in one category of cases, denying it in another may lead to unequal treatment that is increasingly difficult to justify.

The ECHR Turn: Reframing Recognition Beyond EU Law

Another striking feature of post-Trojan Polish jurisprudence is its increasing reliance on the ECHR.

While the CJEU refers to the right to family life under Article 7 of the EU Charter, its reasoning remains tied to cross-border movement. By contrast, the Strasbourg framework imposes a structural obligation to ensure legal recognition, irrespective of mobility.

Polish courts explicitly draw on ECtHR case law (such as Przybyszewska a.o. v Poland , Formela a.o. v Poland and Andersen v Poland), which found that the absence of any legal framework for same-sex couples violates Article 8 ECHR. This shift detaches recognition from EU citizenship and reorients it toward fundamental rights protection.

The result is a hybrid model: EU law provides the trigger, but ECtHR reasoning drives the expansion. Recognition is no longer merely instrumental but increasingly grounded in the protection of personal status and family life.

From Functional Recognition to Status Continuity

Taken together, these developments point toward a broader conceptual shift: the emergence of a principle of status continuity.

Under the classical EU approach, recognition is instrumental – it facilitates mobility. Under the emerging national approach, recognition is intrinsic – it protects the integrity of personal status across borders. The CJEU in Trojan already hinted at this shift by emphasising the “serious inconvenience” caused by non-recognition. Polish courts develop this insight further: the central problem is not only barriers to movement, but the fragmentation of legal identity. Recognition thus becomes a matter of legal certainty, equality before the law, and coherence of personal status.

Conclusion: A New Phase of Euromarital Constitutionalism

Post-Trojan developments signal a transition from mobility-based recognition to status-based recognition. Polish courts are not only implementing EU law – they are actively shaping its practical and conceptual reach.

By downplaying the cross-border element, integrating ECtHR reasoning, and emphasising the continuity of personal status, they contribute to a broader transformation: from integration through movement toward integration through rights. In this emerging landscape, recognition is no longer merely a by-product of mobility but an increasingly autonomous claim of legal status – one that national courts and public authorities are progressively willing to uphold, even beyond the minimum required by EU law.

Post Scriptum

What began as a functional requirement of EU law has thus evolved into a broader legal reality – one in which the continuity of personal status prevails over formal barriers, and where judicial dialogue is gradually translated into systemic change.

This development is further reinforced at the domestic level: following the line adopted by the Supreme Administrative Court, regional administrative Courts, acting as courts of first instance, have likewise ordered the transcription of foreign marriage certificates, thereby confirming the emergence of a consolidated line of case law.

Yet, this is not the end of the process. With the gradual incorporation of these developments into the Polish legal order, a new phase is emerging in which their implications are being tested in the fields of private law and tax law. In theory, transcription remains merely a literal reproduction of a foreign marriage certificate within the Polish civil status registry. However, the practical implications of such registration remain uncertain and raise fundamental questions: whether couples whose marriages have been transcribed will be able to derive further legal effects under Polish law, such as access to social security benefits, the possibility of submitting joint income tax returns, or the right to obtain medical information about their partner. The initial response should be: possibly. But for Polish legal practitioners, this marks the beginning of a new stage – one of litigation and strategic testing of the system.

The post Rewriting Marriage After Trojan appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Recently, however, attention has shifted to a different question. In a thoughtful contribution, members of the European Company Law Experts (ECLE) group argue that the proposal rests on shaky constitutional foundations. Other commentators have made a similar point. Their concern is not primarily with the policy merits of EU Inc. but with its legal basis, particularly the Commission’s reliance on Article 114 TFEU. According to the authors, the proposal walks a narrow constitutional ridge between Article 50 TFEU, which concerns the coordination of company law, and Article 352 TFEU, the traditional basis for supranational corporate forms such as the SE and SCE.

These concerns deserve serious consideration. Yet they also risk obscuring a more fundamental reality: the success or failure of EU Inc. will ultimately depend far less on the precise legal basis than on whether there is sufficient political determination to create it. The history of European integration suggests that constitutional questions matter greatly – but rarely in a way legal scholars imagine. When political consensus exists, institutional and legal solutions usually follow. When political consensus is absent, even the most perfect legal basis proves insufficient.

The constitutional debate therefore risks putting the cart before the horse.

Political Will Has Always Driven European Integration

European lawyers often speak as though Treaty provisions mechanically determine the trajectory of integration. The historical record suggests the opposite. Many of the European Union’s most consequential innovations emerged in situations where legal authority was contested, uncertain, or even apparently absent.

The Economic and Monetary Union provides perhaps the clearest example. The introduction of the Euro represented one of the most ambitious transfers of sovereignty in modern history. Throughout the Maastricht negotiations, scholars debated whether monetary union was economically sustainable, constitutionally coherent, or institutionally complete. Yet, political leaders concluded that monetary integration was necessary for the future of European integration and proceeded despite unresolved constitutional and economic concerns.

The same pattern emerged during the eurozone crisis. Faced with existential threats to the single currency, EU institutions repeatedly adopted innovative legal arrangements whose compatibility with existing Treaty structures was hotly contested. The European Stability Mechanism, the Fiscal Compact, and the ECB’s unconventional interventions all generated intense constitutional debate. Yet the overriding political objective – preserving the euro – ensured that legal solutions were found. In the face of a financial crisis, regulators and supervisors have always put economic necessities over formal legal problems. As The Economist put it in 2016, “Given a choice between financial stability and the rule book, ditch the rule book”.

The Court of Justice has played its part. In cases such as Pringle, Gauweiler, and Weiss, the Court demonstrated considerable sensitivity to the broader political and systemic stakes involved. It did not abandon legal reasoning. But neither did it approach the Treaties as a rigid framework incapable of accommodating new political realities. It frequently barked, but never bit – setting limits, but ultimately providing lawmakers with the necessary flexibility of pursuing even unusual and innovative legal projects.

The lesson is not that law does not matter. Rather, it is that constitutional interpretation in the EU has always occurred within a broader political context. Major integration projects succeed when they are perceived as necessary for the functioning of the Union.

EU Inc. increasingly belongs in that category.

The Strategic Context Has Changed

Much of the constitutional discussion treats EU Inc. as a relatively normal company-law initiative. That characterization may have been plausible several years ago. It is increasingly implausible today.

The proposal arrives at a moment when European policymakers are deeply concerned about the continent’s declining competitiveness, chronic under-scaling of innovative firms, fragmented capital markets, and dependence on non-European technology ecosystems.

The 2024 reports produced by Mario Draghi and Enrico Letta have fundamentally altered the policy landscape. Both reports identify regulatory fragmentation as a major obstacle to European competitiveness. Both call for more ambitious integration measures capable of allowing innovative firms to grow within Europe rather than relocating abroad.

Against that background, EU Inc. is not simply another optional company form. It has become part of a much larger project: preserving Europe’s capacity to compete in an increasingly geopolitical global economy.

This broader context matters because constitutional questions are rarely assessed in isolation. Courts, legislators, and governments do not evaluate legal instruments in a vacuum. They evaluate them against the practical problems those instruments seek to solve.

If European policymakers become convinced that a genuinely European start-up vehicle is essential to strengthening innovation, venture capital markets, and technological sovereignty, it is difficult to imagine the project being abandoned solely because legal scholars disagree about the optimal Treaty provision.

Article 114 Is Probably Good Enough

Even on its own terms, the legal-basis debate may be less dramatic than some commentators suggest.

It is true the Court’s decision concerning the SCE Regulation casts a shadow over the proposal. Yet constitutional precedents operate within specific factual and regulatory contexts. The European Union of 2026 is not the European Union of 2006.

Over the last two decades, the Court’s interpretation of Article 114 TFEU has become remarkably expansive. The jurisprudence on internal-market harmonization has consistently emphasised practical effects, market integration, and the prevention of regulatory fragmentation. The Court has repeatedly accepted broad understandings of what constitutes an internal-market measure. And EU Inc. can plausibly be viewed through precisely that lens.

Its purpose is not merely to create a symbolic European corporate form. It seeks to reduce barriers arising from divergent national incorporation procedures, financing rules, governance structures, and legal infrastructures. Whether one labels that process “approximation” or “creation” may be less significant than it initially appears. In functional terms, the proposal addresses obstacles generated by the coexistence of twenty-seven different corporate-law regimes.

The Court has often favoured substance over formal categorisation in internal-market cases. It would therefore be surprising if the constitutional fate of a major competitiveness initiative turned entirely on whether EU Inc. is characterised as an optional company form or as a harmonisation measure.

Moreover, even if aspects of the proposal require adjustment, that does not imply that the project itself is constitutionally doomed. Legislative compromises are routine. Individual provisions may be revised. Certain matters may be relocated to parallel instruments. The legal architecture can evolve without abandoning the underlying objective.

The Real Constraint Is Political, Not Constitutional

Perhaps the most important weakness in the legal-basis critique is that it assumes constitutional law is the primary constraint on European action. In reality, the primary constraint is almost always political agreement.

The history of the Single Market offers countless examples. The question is rarely whether lawyers can identify a plausible legal basis. The question is whether Member States can agree on the substance of the proposal.

If 27 governments support EU Inc., the Commission supports it, the European Parliament supports it, and Europe’s innovation ecosystem supports it, the probability that the project ultimately collapses because of a disagreement over TFEU Articles 50, 114, or 352 appears relatively small. Conversely, if political support disappears, the most perfect legal basis will not save the initiative.

This is why the constitutional discussion risks misidentifying the central challenge. The decisive question is not whether Article 114 represents the theoretically optimal legal basis. The decisive question is whether European governments believe that Europe needs a common corporate vehicle capable of competing with Delaware, Singapore, and other globally attractive jurisdictions. That is ultimately a political judgment.

The Cost of Failure Has Increased

Another reason why the constitutional debate may be overstated is that the cost of failure has changed dramatically.

The EU has long struggled to create legal frameworks capable of supporting high-growth firms. European entrepreneurs continue to face fragmented legal systems, fragmented capital markets, and fragmented regulatory environments. Many of the continent’s most successful firms either relocate abroad, seek foreign capital, or structure themselves through non-European legal vehicles.

For decades, these shortcomings were viewed as unfortunate but manageable. Today they increasingly appear strategic.

The global competition for innovative firms, talent, investment, and technological leadership has intensified. European policymakers increasingly frame economic competitiveness as a matter of security and geopolitical resilience. The language of “strategic autonomy” and “technological sovereignty” reflects precisely this shift. Within that context, EU Inc. is no longer merely a company law project. It is becoming an instrument of industrial policy, capital-markets integration, and geopolitical strategy.

Projects that occupy such a position tend to acquire remarkable political momentum. Once policymakers conclude that an initiative is strategically necessary, institutional energy typically shifts toward making it work rather than identifying reasons why it cannot.

Constitutional Perfection Should Not Become the Enemy of Reform

None of this implies that constitutional questions should be ignored. They should not.

The ECLE contribution performs a valuable service by highlighting genuine legal uncertainties. Clarification of Article 4 may certainly be desirable. Certain provisions may indeed require refinement. The relationship between Union law, articles of association, and national law deserves careful attention.

But constitutional analysis should remain proportionate to the practical stakes involved. There is a danger that European company lawyers view EU Inc. through the lens of past debates over the SE, SCE, and other supranational forms. Those projects emerged in a different era, pursued different objectives, and occupied a different position within the broader integration agenda.

EU Inc. belongs to a new generation of European initiatives. Its primary purpose is not symbolic Europeanisation. It is functional competitiveness.

That distinction matters. The question facing policymakers is ultimately straightforward: does Europe need a genuinely European corporate vehicle for innovative firms? If the answer is yes, the legal system possesses ample resources to accommodate that objective. The Treaties are not a suicide pact. Nor are they designed to prevent the Union from responding to pressing economic challenges.

The history of European integration offers a consistent lesson. Constitutional objections rarely defeat projects that enjoy strong political support and respond to widely recognized structural problems. More often, they shape the form those projects ultimately take.

EU Inc. is likely to follow the same path. The decisive battle therefore concerns political ambition, not constitutional theory. If Europe truly wants an EU Inc., it will almost certainly find a way to create one. Where there is a will, there is a way.

The post EU Inc. and the Myth of the Perfect Legal Basis appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

This post will look at the negative spillover effects created by these networks’ membership (in)action and the different justifications they offered to rationalise their (in)action. It will further query whether their failure to play their part in preserving the EU’s rule of law ecosystem by removing or keeping at bay those directly engaged in the systemic undermining of judicial independence should not lead to practical consequences. In the case of the CECC and NPSJC, their status as privileged stakeholders for the purposes of the EU’s annual rule of law report may be questioned. In the case of the ELI, its eligibility for EU funding may be jeopardised.

Poland’s Captured “Courts” and Irregularly Appointed “Judges”: State of Play

To date, Poland’s “Constitutional Tribunal” continues to be a full member of the CECC notwithstanding the CJEU judgment of 18 December 2025. In this ruling, the CJEU found this body to no longer satisfy the requirements of an independent tribunal previously established by law as a result of serious irregularities in the procedures for the appointment of three of its members and its President in December 2015 and 2016 respectively. Prior to this CJEU ruling, the ECtHR had repeatedly held, starting with a judgment of 7 May 2021, that the mere presence of any of the irregularly appointed “judges” is “by itself capable of vitiating the legal force” to be attached to any “judgment” issued by the Constitutional Tribunal.

With respect to Poland’s Supreme Court (SC), multiple CJEU and ECtHR judgments have established multiple violations of EU and ECHR rule of law requirements over many years during the period of 2015-2023. Without being exhaustive, both the CJEU and ECtHR have found the two new chambers created during Poland’s rule of law crisis (the Extraordinary Review and Public Affairs Chamber and the Disciplinary Chamber) not to be lawful courts. The ECtHR has simultaneously held that every person appointed to Poland’s SC post-2018 cannot lawfully adjudicate. In the words of the ECtHR,

all the judges appointed to two entire chambers of the Supreme Court – the Disciplinary Chamber and the CERPA, as well as judges appointed to the Civil Chamber on the reformed NCJ’s recommendation – do not meet the requirements of an “independent and tribunal established by law” […] By implication, the same applies to other Supreme Court judges so appointed. This situation raises grave concerns as to the continued functioning of the Supreme Court […] as a court which is “lawful” under the Convention.

In the case of the former “President” of Poland’s SC, whose term came to an end in May 2026, the ECtHR found this person in February 2022 to have been appointed in manifest breach of domestic law. Following two CJEU judgments in 2024 and 2025, the former and recently appointed new SC president – also an illegal judge – cannot lawfully adjudicate cases as a matter of EU law as well. More generally speaking, the mere presence of a single “neo-judge” is enough to deprive any adjudicating formation of its status as a lawful court, on account of the fundamental irregularities which characterise their defective appointments.

Finally, as regards Poland’s Supreme Administrative Court (SAC), a number of pending applications have been communicated by the ECtHR starting in 2022 in relation to the neo-judges defectively appointed to it (see e.g. application no. 29320/22). While there is no judgment on the merits yet, the Strasbourg Court’s approach in respect of Poland’s SC is applicable to the neo-judges sitting on SAC benches. In short, their appointment suffers from the same systemic problem repeatedly identified by the ECtHR, i.e., the defective procedure for judicial appointments involving Poland’s National Council of the Judiciary (NCJ) as established in 2017. Notwithstanding the absence of any CJEU judgment directly addressing the presence of “neo-judges” on the SAC, its ruling of 24 March 2026 also makes clear that they belong to the group of 3,000 “persons irregularly appointed to judicial posts” in Poland.

European Judicial and Professional Networks’ (In)Action

Notwithstanding the above, the dominant reaction has been to ignore the problem or hide behind arguably spurious justifications regardless of the networks’ professed commitment to the rule of law.

The Conference of European Constitutional Courts

To begin with the CECC, its statute provides that it “shall take steps to enhance the independence of constitutional courts as an essential factor in guaranteeing and implementing […] the rule of law”. In addition, the status of a full member is subject, inter alia, to judicial activities being conducted “in accordance with the principle of judicial independence”.

In response to a query from the present authors regarding how the CECC intends to comply with relevant ECtHR judgments and most recently, the CJEU judgment of 18 December 2025, we were merely told “that issues relating to membership are within the competence of the responsible bodies provided by the Statute, namely the Congress of the CECC and, where applicable, the Circle of Presidents”.

The CECC’s inaction may be contrasted with the prompt suspension of Poland’s NCJ by the European Network of Councils for the Judiciary (ENCJ) in September 2018. This was done within a few months following the entry into force of the law re-establishing a wholly captured NCJ. Prior to this, the ENCJ had publicly and repeatedly voiced its grave concerns about the relevant Polish draft law.

The Network of the Presidents of the Supreme Judicial Courts of the EU (NPSJC)

Similarly, the response of the Network of the Presidents of the Supreme Judicial Courts of the EU (NPSJC) to Poland’s rule of law crisis was initially strong. For instance, the Network published in 2017 a statement denouncing “a threat to the independence of the Supreme Court”. In 2019, the NPSJC President co-authored a letter to Ms. von der Leyen which decried how “the separation of powers between the executive branch and the judicial branch” was “being dismantled” in several EU countries. Following the capture of Poland’s Supreme Court, however, the NPSJC has failed to take any action regarding its member concerned by the ECtHR’s judgment of 3 February 2022. In this judgment, the ECtHR established that the NPSJC Polish member was appointed in a defective procedure characterised by manifest irregularities in breach of domestic law.

In reply to our memorandum outlining how NPSJC was disregarding CJEU and ECtHR rulings, the NPSJC informed us on 5 May 2026 that in the absence of an internal suspension procedure, “the Board has decided to put a proposal before the General Assembly of the Network in June to consider these matters further and, if agreed, to make amendments to the Articles of Association of the Network”. In other words, the lack of allegedly adequate internal rules is used to justify further delay action regarding their Polish member (or their Hungarian member) – an excuse reminiscent of the Venice Commission’s rationale. The problem, however, is not going to go away as yet another illegal judge – elected only with the votes of other irregularly appointed “judges” – has just been appointed the new First President of Poland’s Supreme “Court”.

The European Law Institute (ELI)

By contrast to the previous two judicial networks, the ELI consciously decided to welcome Poland’s SC and SAC as institutional members. In other words, a network dedicated to European Law has welcomed two courts being compromised by individuals who cannot lawfully adjudicate as a matter of European Law, most of whom are due to be removed.

This decision was justified on two main grounds: (i) “the decision concerned the institutions as such, rather than their current composition or individual officeholders”; (ii) “these courts remained recognised within the European legal framework and had not been excluded from comparable international networks”. The first ground not only ignores the reality of court capture; it hollows out the concept of court and disregards European case law regarding the requirements national courts must comply with in terms of composition and individual judicial appointments. The second ground embodies an abdication of leadership – one that results in an organisation with sufficient expertise to adopt and promote standards on judicial independence but unwilling to apply them just because others have failed to do so.

This development was all the more surprising as it happened at a time when a Forum on the Resilience of Legal Systems and the Rule of Law was in preparation, with this network’s annual conference being furthermore dedicated to “Europe and the Rule of Law: Cultural Engagement and Legal Resilience”.

Negative Spillover Effects of Membership (In)Action

Beyond the direct reputational damage, the presence of compromised (or bogus) courts and illegal judges in judicial or professional legal networks raises the issue of these networks’ compliance with their own constitutional documents and the genuine nature of their professed attachment to the rule of law.

As far as judicial networks are concerned, a failure to police membership is also bound to indirectly and more broadly undermine the reputation of all the national judiciaries represented in these networks. Another indirect effect follows from the inclusion of illegal judges: By legitimising them at a supranational level, judicial and professional networks not only hinder rule of law restoration efforts within the relevant Member State, they also undermine efforts to uphold the rule of law in all EU Member States, by sending the message that leisurely, if not à la carte, compliance with CJEU and ECtHR rulings is acceptable.

Failure to control membership furthermore entails a precedential effect for other judicial or professional networks, who could be tempted to align themselves with a negligent example. Indeed, in the case of the ELI, inaction from other networks was used as cover to embrace the membership applications of Poland’s SC and SAC. This is why proper enforcement by the relevant networks of their own membership standards is important, as it would facilitate rule of law restoration efforts in Poland and elsewhere by making clear that lawlessness – and those benefiting from it – will not be tolerated both legally and professionally.

Temporary suspensions or the outright rejection of membership applications ought to be the default setting for bodies/individuals whose situation has already been addressed by the ECtHR and/or the CJEU. Conversely, a failure to suspend/expel bodies and individuals masquerading as courts and judges respectively – or worse, welcoming them – could have consequences for the relevant networks.

In the short term, the European Commission should consider removing the NPSJC and the CECC from its list of key stakeholders to be consulted prior to the publication of its annual rule of law report, until they take due account of relevant judgments of the CJEU and the ECtHR in respect of their membership. A financial conditionality type approach should also be considered. EU funding schemes typically require adherence to Article 2 TEU values. Where, for instance, a network seeks EU funding to undertake rule of law-related activities, while simultaneously disregarding European case law, eligibility for EU funding may be doubtful.

The European judicial and professional networks mentioned in this post have played a key role in promoting the rule of law, an aspect they are keen to emphasise. The time has come for them to also walk the walk when it comes to their own membership.

The post Normalising Lawlessness via Membership appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Demokratie und Änderung der Klimapolitik

Dass neue Mehrheiten Gesetze ändern können, gehört zum Kern der Demokratie. Der Klimabeschluss des Bundesverfassungsgerichts (BVerfG) betont dies ausdrücklich – knüpft daran aber prozedurale Bedingungen. Wer das Klimaschutzgesetz ändern will, das Art. 20a GG konkretisiert, trägt eine besondere Begründungspflicht. Insoweit heißt es im Klimabeschluss des BVerfG:

„Wegen der nach heutigem Stand weitestgehenden Unumkehrbarkeit des Klimawandels wäre eine Überschreitung der zum Schutz des Klimas einzuhaltenden Temperaturschwelle jedoch nur unter engen Voraussetzungen – etwa zum Schutz von Grundrechten – zu rechtfertigen. Zudem nimmt das relative Gewicht des Klimaschutzgebots in der Abwägung bei fortschreitendem Klimawandel weiter zu. […] Wollte der Gesetzgeber dem Klimaschutzrecht eine grundlegende Neuausrichtung geben, müsste diese als solche erkennbar und damit auch für die politische Öffentlichkeit diskutierbar sein. Hintergrund der ausdrücklichen Hervorhebung der Gesetzgebung in Art. 20a GG und der Anerkennung einer Konkretisierungsprärogative des Gesetzgebers ist gerade, dass die besondere Bedeutung der Schutzgüter des Art. 20a GG und deren Spannungsverhältnis zu etwaigen gegenläufigen Belangen in demokratischer Verantwortung zu einem Ausgleich gebracht werden müssen und die Gesetzgebung hierfür den geeigneten Rahmen bietet.” BVerfGE 157, 30 (Rn. 198, 213).

Rechtsstaatliche Grenzen einer Änderung der Klimapolitik

Die demokratische Gestaltungsfreiheit wird im Rechtsstaat aber auch durch materielle Vorgaben der Verfassung eingeschränkt. Die Verfassung ist als Rahmenordnung, die der Politik Grenzen setzt, anerkannt. Das gilt auch für die Klimapolitik.

Was das Recht im Klimaschutz mindestens verlangt, ergibt sich aus weitgehend parallelen Vorgaben: dem Grundgesetz, der Europäischen Menschenrechtskonvention (EMRK), dem Unionsrecht und dem Völkerrecht einschließlich des Pariser Klimaabkommens. Gefordert ist hiernach ein rechtsverbindliches, geeignetes, wirksames und angemessenes sowie integriertes und kohärentes Schutzkonzept, das nicht nur auf Gefahrenabwehr, sondern auch auf Risiko- und Ressourcenvorsorge ausgerichtet ist. Dieses Konzept lässt sich in acht Bausteinen konkretisieren (teilweise in Anlehnung an Calliess/G. Kirchhof, Rote Linien des Rechts im Klimaschutz, Gutachten im Auftrag der Klimaunion, März 2025, S. 77 ff. mit weiteren Nachweisen):

(1) Selbst wenn Deutschland aus dem Pariser Klimaabkommen  austreten würde, wäre es noch immer aus dem Völkergewohnheitsrecht verpflichtet, das Temperaturziel von 1,5 Grad zu erreichen (IGH, im Ergebnis auch EGMR, BVerfG) und würde insoweit haften.

(2) Die völkerrechtlichen Vorgaben konkretisierend, verpflichtet das Europäische Klimagesetz Deutschland, bis spätestens 2050 Treibhausgasneutralität zu erreichen. Überdies muss Deutschland die Maßnahmen des Green Deals – darunter „Fit for 55“ – und den Emissionshandel in allen Sektoren umsetzen. Nur der Gesetzgeber der EU kann diese mit den entsprechenden Mehrheiten ändern. Dabei ist aber auch er rechtlich an das Völkerrecht gebunden.

(3) Das Schutzkonzept hat die menschliche Gesundheit (Art. 2 Abs. 2 GG) und die Umwelt samt Klima (Art. 20a GG) in geeigneter, wirksamer und kohärenter Weise zu schützen und zu erhalten (BVerfG, analog EGMR, EuGH). Die Belange des Klimaschutzes müssen im Rahmen der gebotenen Politikintegration nach Art. 11 AEUV mit den umweltexternen Politiken (Verkehr, Gebäude, Landwirtschaft etc.) kohärent verzahnt werden und ihr sichtbarer Bestandteil sein (vgl. IGH, EuGH).

(4) Da das Grundgesetz im Sinne der internationalen Klimaziele völker- und europarechtsfreundlich auszulegen ist, spielt es aus rechtlicher Sicht keine Rolle, dass Deutschland nur einen geringen Teil der weltweiten Treibhausgase emittiert (BVerfG, EGMR, IGH).

(5) Die mit dem Schutzkonzept notwendig verbundenen Freiheitseingriffe sind „gerecht“ über die Zeit bis 2050 zu verteilen. Eine späte „Vollbremsung“ im Zuge verschobener Klimaschutzmaßnahmen muss vermieden werden (BVerfG, ähnlich EGMR).

(6) Daher muss im Schutzkonzept ein konkreter Pfad mit Zeitplan samt Zwischenzielen für die Reduzierung der Treibhausgasemissionen festgelegt werden, der vorhersehbar und verlässlich sicherstellt, dass die Reduktionsziele bis spätestens 2050 erreicht werden (BVerfG, EGMR).

(7) Überdies sind im Kontext der klimaschützenden Maßnahmen hinreichende Informations- und Beteiligungspflichten zu regeln; ein wirksamer Zugang zu den Gerichten bis hin zu einer Verbandsklage ist zu gewährleisten (EGMR).

(8) Änderungen zu Lasten des Klimaschutzes lösen erhebliche Begründungs- und Darlegungspflichten aus. Zudem gewinnen Klimabelange im Zuge der fortschreitenden Erderwärmung über die Zeit bis 2050 ein immer stärkeres rechtliches Gewicht in der Abwägung mit gegenläufigen Interessen (BVerfG, EGMR, IGH).

Das Erfordernis eines solchen Schutzkonzepts ist eine rechtliche Mindestvorgabe, die sich mit den Vorgaben der Rechtsprechung deckt (BVerfG, EGMR, IGH) und daher gerichtlich durchsetzbar ist. Dieser rechtlich gebotene Mindestschutz korrespondiert in Deutschland mit dem Maßstab des Untermaßverbots als gerichtlicher Kontrollnorm. Das erforderliche Schutzkonzept kann deshalb nicht einfach aufgegeben werden, ohne dass ein gleichwertiges alternatives Konzept erlassen wird, das im Hinblick auf das Ziel der Treibhausgasneutralität bis spätestens 2050 vergleichbar geeignet und wirksam ist und die genannten rechtlichen Mindestanforderungen erfüllt. „Ob“ ein solches Schutzkonzept besteht, unterliegt somit keinem politischen Ermessen des Gesetzgebers.

Politischer Gestaltungsspielraum hinsichtlich des „Wie“ und Verschlechterungsverbot

Ein politischer Gestaltungsspielraum besteht allerdings hinsichtlich der Frage des „Wie“. In diesem Kontext wird ein sog. „Verschlechterungsverbot“ oder auch „Rückschrittsverbot“ diskutiert, das möglicherweise einer Abschwächung von einzelnen Gesetzen, die dem Klimaschutz dienen, wie z.B. dem Heizungsgesetz, entgegensteht.

Der Begriff des Verschlechterungsverbots findet sich explizit bislang weder in der Rechtsprechung des BVerfG noch in derjenigen des EGMR. In der Rechtsprechung des EuGH hat das Verschlechterungsverbot bislang nur im Wasserrecht Bedeutung erlangt, da der Unionsgesetzgeber den Begriff hier eingeführt hatte, ihn nun aber auch im Naturschutzrecht und Gebäudeenergierecht einsetzt. Über die Umsetzung des einschlägigen Unionsrechts hat der Rechtsbegriff auch in das deutsche Umwelt- und Energierecht Eingang gefunden. Im Wege der Auslegung lässt sich überdies das Progressionsgebot in § 3 Abs. 4 S. 2 KSG als Regressionsverbot und damit als Verschlechterungsverbot interpretieren. Der einfache Gesetzgeber kann diese Norm jedoch jederzeit ändern – es sei denn, das Verschlechterungsverbot findet eine Verankerung im höherrangigen Recht.

Genau das bejahen viele Stimmen im Schrifttum: Sie leiten ein Verschlechterungsverbot aus Art. 20a GG und Art. 191 Abs. 1 AEUV ab. Inhalt und Reichweite sind allerdings umstritten. Einige Stimmen sind mit Blick auf den Staatszielcharakter des Art. 20a GG zurückhaltend und halten eine gesetzgeberische Absenkung des normativen Schutzniveaus für möglich, wenn die Gefährdung eines konfligierenden Verfassungsguts nicht anders abgewendet werden kann, dem Gesetzgeber also andere, die bestehenden Umweltstandards weniger beeinträchtigende, Alternativen nicht zur Verfügung stehen. Von anderen Stimmen wird das in Art. 20a GG verankerte Verschlechterungsverbot demgegenüber als striktes Rückschrittsverbot verstanden, wonach jede oder zumindest jede spürbare Abschwächung des rechtlichen Schutzniveaus gegen Art. 20a GG verstoßen soll. Darüber hinaus nehmen einige Stimmen ein allgemeines Verschlechterungsverbot an, das nicht auf einzelne Schutzgüter, sondern auf die faktische Umweltsituation insgesamt zielt. Eingriffe in ein Umweltgut bleiben somit möglich, bedürfen jedoch eines adäquaten Ausgleichs. Im Vergleich weniger ausdifferenziert ist die Diskussion mit Blick auf Art. 191 Abs. 1 AEUV. Hier wird die Vorgabe, die Umwelt zu erhalten, als grundsätzliches Verschlechterungsverbot, das im Sinne eines ökologischen Bestandsschutzes wirkt, interpretiert.

Normatives Verschlechterungsverbot und Kompensationspflicht

Wortlaut und Zweck von Art. 20a GG bzw. Art. 191 Abs. 1 AEUV sprechen dafür, dass die beiden Normen ein verfassungsrechtliches Verschlechterungsverbot enthalten. Da der Zustand der Umwelt als Ganzes schwer messbar ist und eine Absenkung des gesetzlichen Schutzniveaus faktische Verschlechterungen vermuten lässt, genügt es, auf ihre Wirkung als normatives Verschlechterungsverbot abzustellen. Dieses steht jedoch in einem Spannungsverhältnis zum Demokratieprinzip – namentlich zu den ihm immanenten Grundsätzen der Revisibilität und Reversibilität. Der demokratische Gestaltungsraum des Gesetzgebers verlangt daher, dass eine partielle Rücknahme umweltrechtlicher Normen zugunsten anderer gewichtiger Verfassungsgüter möglich bleibt; vor allem dann, wenn dem Gesetzgeber keine weniger einschneidenden Alternativen zur Verfügung stehen. Ein Abbau umweltschützender Vorschriften muss im Lichte des Demokratieprinzips insbesondere dann zulässig sein, wenn eine normative Kompensation erfolgt, die im Ergebnis ein vergleichbares faktisches Schutzniveau sichert.

Aspekte eines verfassungsrechtlichen Verschlechterungsverbots klingen auch im Klimabeschluss des BVerfG an, wenn darauf hingewiesen wird, dass sich eine

„Neuausrichtung an schwächeren Klimaschutzzielen wegen des damit verbundenen ökologischen Rückschritts vor Art. 20a GG rechtfertigen lassen [müsste], sofern nicht neuere hinreichend gesicherte Erkenntnisse in der Klimaforschung ergeben, dass die Erderwärmung geringeres Schädigungspotenzial hat, als dies derzeit zu befürchten ist.“ BVerfGE 157, 30 (Rn. 212).

Somit sind mit Blick auf das gesetzgeberische Schutzkonzept neue wissenschaftliche Erkenntnisse und der technische Fortschritt immer wieder zu berücksichtigen. Insoweit gilt aber mit Blick auf den noch zulässigen deutschen Anteil an den globalen CO2-Emissionen eine Grenze:

„Die Größe der zur Wahrung der Temperaturschwelle verbleibenden Emissionsmenge lässt sich derzeit nicht so exakt ermitteln, dass die … Budgetgröße ein zahlengenaues Maß für die verfassungsgerichtliche Kontrolle bieten könnte. Jedoch darf der Gesetzgeber Wertungsspielräume nicht nach politischem Belieben ausfüllen. Besteht wissenschaftliche Ungewissheit über umweltrelevante Ursachenzusammenhänge, setzt Art. 20a GG den Entscheidungen des Gesetzgebers – zumal solchen mit unumkehrbaren Folgen für die Umwelt – vielmehr Grenzen und erlegt ihm, auch in Verantwortung für die künftigen Generationen, eine besondere Sorgfaltspflicht auf. Ausdruck dieser besonderen Sorgfaltspflicht ist jedenfalls, dass der Gesetzgeber bereits belastbare Hinweise auf die Möglichkeit gravierender oder irreversibler Beeinträchtigungen – jeweils in Ansehung ihrer Belastbarkeit – berücksichtigen muss.“ BVerfGE 157, 30 (Rn. 229).

Schlussfolgerungen

Eine vollständige und ersatzlose Aufhebung des Schutzkonzepts – wie es etwa im europäischen oder deutschen Klimaschutzgesetz zum Ausdruck kommt – würde gegen den europarechtlich (Art. 11, 191 AEUV) bzw. verfassungsrechtlich gebotenen Mindestschutz (Art. 20a GG; Schutzpflichten) verstoßen. Das Untermaßverbot wirkt insoweit als absolutes Verschlechterungsverbot, das diesen Mindestschutz absichert. Es betrifft allerdings „nur” das (durch internationales und europäisches Recht konkretisierte) „Ob” des Klimaschutzes. In diesem Rahmen ist der Gestaltungsraum des demokratischen Gesetzgebers beschränkt. Da die Änderung des Heizungsgesetzes das Schutzkonzept, wie es insbesondere das KSG festschreibt, nicht so grundlegend verändert, dass dies seiner Aufhebung gleichkäme, kann der Gesetzgeber hier nicht gegen das  absolute Verschlechterungsverbot verstoßen.

Bei der Änderung des Heizungsgesetzes geht es vielmehr um das „Wie“ des Klimaschutzes. Im Rahmen des Schutzkonzepts (also jenseits des Mindestschutzes) entfaltet sich der demokratische Gestaltungsraum des Gesetzgebers. Er kann mit Blick auf überragend wichtige gegenläufige Verfassungsgüter Änderungen an der inhaltlichen Konkretisierung des Schutzkonzepts vornehmen. Insoweit ist auch eine partielle Abschwächung umweltrechtlicher Normen zugunsten anderer überragend wichtiger Verfassungsgüter möglich. In diesem Fall verlangt allerdings das normative Verschlechterungsverbot, dass das faktische Schutzniveau im Ergebnis beibehalten werden muss. Die Abschwächung muss also normativ kompensiert werden. Wie diese Kompensation aussieht, entscheidet der Gesetzgeber mit einer gewissen Flexibilität. Er muss mit Blick auf die Bausteine des Schutzkonzepts lediglich transparent begründen und nachweisen, dass der alternative Pfad zur Treibhausgasneutralität im Rahmen des inhaltlich angepassten Schutzes gleich geeignet, wirksam und kohärent ist und zugleich eine klimapolitische „Vollbremsung“ vermeidet, so dass die Freiheit über die Zeit bis 2050 generationengerecht verteilt wird. Einzelne Maßnahmen des Schutzkonzepts dürfen abgeschwächt werden, nicht aber das Schutzkonzept als Ganzes.

In diesem Rahmen sind verschiedene Aspekte zu gewichten: Zum einen ist fraglich, ob der Entwurf zur Änderung des Heizungsgesetzes überhaupt dem Bürokratieabbau dient. So erwartet der Normenkontrollrat durch die Neuregelung hohen bürokratischen Kontrollaufwand, massive Vollzugsdefizite und Rechtsunsicherheit für Bürger durch neue Berichtspflichten. Zum anderen  wirft die normative Konzeption Fragen auf. Die „Bio-Treppe” ist noch nicht Gesetz, sondern erst politisch vereinbart. Überdies könnte man meinen, die Abschwächung im Gebäudesektor werde durch marktwirtschaftliche Instrumente kompensiert – doch auch der CO2-Emissionshandel für Gebäude steht wegen gestiegener Energiepreise unter Druck.  Seine Einführung auf EU-Ebene wurde bis 2028 verschoben; die Bepreisung im deutschen System dürfte bis dahin eingefroren werden oder gar durch einen politischen „Heizrabatt” gänzlich entfallen.  Hinzu kommt, dass auch der aktuelle Bericht des vom KSG eingesetzten Expertenrats für Klimafragen vom 18. Mai 2026 mit Blick auf das Emissionsbudget bis 2030 von einer Zielverfehlung ausgeht, da insbesondere die Sektoren Verkehr und Gebäude ihre Vorgaben verfehlen. Insoweit müsste das Klimaschutzprogramm der Bundesregierung eigentlich nachsteuern. Dies gilt umso mehr, wenn die Vorgaben im Gebäudesektor durch das geänderte Heizungsgesetz abgeschwächt werden.

Wenn nun die vorstehend  skizzierten rechtlichen Rahmenvorgaben im Schrifttum (u.a. von dem Erlanger Umweltrechtler Bernhard W. Wegener) als demokratie- und parlamentsfeindliche „Totalkonstitutionalisierung“ kritisiert werden, hilft eine Testfrage: Wollte der Gesetzgeber in der Wohnungspolitik neue Akzente setzen und im Rahmen einer staatlichen Bewirtschaftung des Wohnungsmarktes in den Großstädten Wohnungsunternehmen enteignen, wären ihm dabei durch Grundrechte Grenzen gesetzt. Diese Beschränkung gilt allgemein als Ausdruck der rechtsstaatlichen Rahmung der parlamentarischen Demokratie, wie sie das Grundgesetz vorsieht. Warum sollte das in der Klima- und Umweltpolitik anders sein?

The post Das Heizungsgesetz, die Demokratie und der Rechtsstaat appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Taking stock of the constitutional and legislative structures, the Court upheld the exercise. It noted that Article 324 of the Constitution, which constitutes the Election Commission of India with the obligation of “superintendence, direction, and control of elections,” confers plenary powers upon the ECI over the preparation of electoral rolls and the conduct of elections, and that Section 21(3) of the Representation of the People Act 1950 provides an enabling provision permitting a special intensive revision “at any time, for reasons to be recorded, and in such manner as [the Commission] may think fit.” The Court also examined the SIR guidelines through a four-limb proportionality analysis: whether the exercise pursued a legitimate purpose; whether there was a rational nexus between the measures adopted and that purpose; whether the means were the least restrictive available; and whether there was a fair balance between the objective and the limitation placed upon the right to vote. On each count, the Court found in favour of the ECI.

The judgment is significant in its own right, and commentaries have been written discussing the misapplication of the proportionality analysis by the Court (see here and here). But beyond the specifics of the case, the legal backdrop in which it was delivered offers important insights for comparative constitutional law scholars, particularly those studying fourth branch institutions, electoral management bodies, and constitutional design.

Fourth Branch Institutions Are Not a Silver Bullet

The creation of independent electoral management bodies, anti-corruption watchdogs, auditors general, and human rights commissions – what scholars have come to call “fourth branch” or “guarantor” institutions – has become a feature of constitutional design, particularly in newer democracies. The logic is to take certain crucial functions out of the hands of politically interested actors and vest them in institutions insulated from the partisan calculus. Elections are an obvious candidate for this kind of protection.

But this logic, while compelling, is incomplete. As Tarunabh Khaitan argues, guarantor institutions are not self-executing solutions. Simply removing power from political institutions and vesting it in a fourth branch body does not, by itself, guarantee good outcomes. The transfer of functions away from elected branches to insulated institutions reduces the domain of political play and democratic contestation in ways that carry their own risks. Badly designed guarantor institutions can themselves become instruments of the very pathologies they were created to prevent.

For guarantor institutions to function effectively, Khaitan identifies three indispensable design requirements: sufficient competence and expertise to perform their functions; sufficient independence from actors with an interest in frustrating the relevant constitutional norm; and sufficient accountability to actors with an interest in upholding it. These factors constitute the difference between a guarantor institution that credibly secures a constitutional commitment and one that becomes an additional vector of risk. The Indian Election Commission is a vivid case study in what happens when these requirements are not given equal weight.

Independence: The Unresolved Problem

The ECI’s independence has been the subject of long-running discussion, including on this blog (see here and here). The appointment of Election Commissioners, including the Chief Election Commissioner, has historically been at the discretion of the ruling executive, with no requirement for consultative or multi-partisan processes. As M. Mohsin Alam Bhat has shown in his detailed study of the ECI’s structural accountability, the precariousness of the ECI’s personnel arrangements has a long and troubling history: from the Congress government’s last-minute appointment and subsequent rescission of additional election commissioners in 1989–90 for what were widely perceived to be partisan reasons to the later creation of additional commissioners expressly to dilute the authority of an activist Chief Election Commissioner in 1993. In both episodes, the Supreme Court’s interventions compounded rather than resolved the structural problem. As Bhat observes, what was “missing in Seshan was the appreciation – and crucially, a theory – of institutional independence.”

The Indian Supreme Court eventually attempted a belated structural correction. In 2023, the Court in Anoop Baranwal v Union of India ordered that Election Commissioners be appointed by a panel including the Chief Justice of India and the Leader of the Opposition, thereby introducing a measure of multi-institutional oversight. Parliament responded with remarkable speed, enacting new legislation that effectively restored executive dominance over appointments by replacing the Court-mandated balanced panel with one that retains the ruling government’s decisive influence. An appeal against this legislation remains pending. The episode illustrates precisely how a ruling party used its legislative majority to undo judicial corrections of institutional design, exploiting the absence of constitutional entrenchment.

Accountability: The Greater Lacuna

If the independence problem is serious, the accountability problem is arguably more severe. As Bhat has shown, the ECI has gradually assumed vast regulatory power through what he characterises as extra-legal modalities: architectural regulation of the electoral environment, nudge-based enforcement of the Model Code of Conduct, and notice-based disclosure requirements. These forms of governance are pervasive and consequential, but they are also, by their very nature, resistant to conventional accountability mechanisms. They operate subtly, they are difficult to subject to legal scrutiny, and they leave wide discretion to the institution. Courts cannot easily assess whether a particular polling station placement, election schedule, or enforcement decision was appropriate. The result is regulatory power that escapes public scrutiny, almost as a structural feature of how it works.

The Indian Supreme Court has been an active architect of this dynamic. Bhat shows that the Court developed an expansive “plenary powers” jurisprudence, confirming that the ECI can regulate all areas “left unoccupied by legislation.” In a series of electoral reform cases in the 1990s and 2000s, the Court used the ECI as its ally – channelling transparency requirements through the Commission while simultaneously applying a “framework of trust” that insulated the institution from accountability. The framework of trust, based on the ECI’s perceived competence, political independence, and ideological neutrality, generated judicial deference rather than scrutiny. While the Court applied demanding transparency standards to political actors under a “framework of democracy,” it treated the ECI’s exercise of power as deserving deference. The consequence, as Bhat argues, is an institution that has accumulated enormous powers without a commensurate framework of operational accountability.

The SIR Judgment: Plenary Powers, Absent Accountability

The SIR judgment is a case in point. The Court has painstakingly demonstrated how the Constitution envisages plenary powers for the ECI over the entire electoral process, and how Section 21(3) of the Representation of the People Act authorises the ECI to conduct a special intensive revision “at any time” and “in such manner as it may think fit” when reasons are recorded. The upholding of the SIR exercise within this framework may seem legally coherent.

But the very coherence of this legal analysis exposes the accountability gap. When the Court affirms that the ECI has plenary powers in unlegislated areas, and when Parliament is either unwilling or unable, given the current configuration of political power, to legislate meaningful constraints and accountability mechanisms, the result is an institution exercising enormous constitutional authority with very limited oversight. In this environment, the accountability of the Commission becomes a central constitutional question. As things stand, there are serious live questions about the ECI’s independence from the ruling party, Parliament is not functioning as a meaningful check, and the courts are largely confined to reviewing the legality and proportionality of specific exercises rather than addressing the structural conditions that generate accountability deficits. A similar framework is evident in the Court’s jurisprudence on the Office of the Speaker, as I discuss here.

Admittedly, the Court could not have resolved the structural problem through this litigation alone. The Court could have intervened more forcefully in how the SIR was conducted, mandating more inclusive procedures from the outset. But the deeper issue is one of institutional design. It can only be resolved through constitutional amendment or legislative reform, requiring a change in the political conditions that produced the present arrangements.

Timing, Irreversibility, and the Limits of Post-Facto Remedies

There is a further dimension that the SIR episode brings into focus: the timing of both the exercise and the judicial response. Conducting an intensive voter roll revision involving individual-level verification, name deletions, and, in some cases, challenges to citizenship status in the compressed window before a state election dramatically increases the risk of errors, and means that those errors are likely to materialise as substantive electoral consequences before they can be corrected.

This is precisely what happened in Bihar. The SIR exercise was conducted ahead of the November 2025 elections. The Supreme Court’s judgment came on 27 May 2026, six months after the elections had concluded and a new government had been formed. Some of the Court’s directions are valuable. Notably, the direction that in cases where the ECI is not satisfied that a person meets the conditions for inclusion on grounds of citizenship, the case must be referred to the competent authority under the Citizenship Act, and that “the competent authority must decide such questions within a reasonable timeframe, and in any event, before the next Parliamentary, Legislative Assembly or Local Body election in the concerned State or constituency, so as to ensure that the individual’s electoral rights are not left in a state of prolonged uncertainty.”

But this very reasoning – that prolonged uncertainty about electoral rights causes serious harm that must be resolved promptly – should equally have supported pausing the exercise before the election. Those whose names were deleted before the Bihar vote have already lost the opportunity to participate in forming the government. And the consequences of disenfranchisement ripple well beyond the ballot box. Reports have emerged that the incoming state government in West Bengal announced it would not extend the benefits of welfare schemes to persons whose names did not appear on the electoral rolls.

The Court is, in part, itself responsible for this timing problem. The litigation was live during the exercise, and the Court did not stay it. It is also worth noting that regular electoral roll revisions occur before every election as a matter of routine. The intensive SIR exercise, given its scope, the attendant risk of errors, and the citizenship questions it raised, could have been timed to a period well clear of the electoral cycle. The logic that animates the observation — that citizenship determinations require careful process and timely resolution — applies with equal force to the decision of when to conduct an exercise that triggers them at scale.

What This Tells Us About Fourth Branch Design

Taken together, the SIR episode and the broader legal landscape of the ECI offer a valuable case study for the understanding of fourth branch institutions.

The first lesson is that competence alone is not enough. The ECI is, by most accounts, a technically capable institution. It has administered the world’s largest democratic exercise with considerable logistical sophistication. But, as Khaitan observes, a guarantor institution with strong expertise can still fail if it lacks adequate independence or accountability. Conversely, as Bhat shows, technical capacity does not substitute for institutional integrity. An institution that is perceived as insufficiently independent and that operates without robust accountability mechanisms will find its competence contested and its legitimacy eroded, particularly in periods of single-party dominance when the political environment is least hospitable to the constraints that guarantor institutions are meant to impose.

The second lesson is that independence and accountability are not in tension. They rather point in different directions. There is a tendency in constitutional design to treat these values as necessarily trading off. The more independent an institution, the less accountable it can be, and vice versa. Khaitan’s framework and Bhat’s application of it to the ECI both challenge this. Independence and accountability address different relationships: a guarantor institution needs independence from those who would capture or frustrate it, and accountability to those who have an interest in the norms it is meant to uphold. These are different groups, and a well-designed institution can achieve both. The ECI’s problem is not that it is too independent. If anything, its independence has proven insecure. The problem is that independence and accountability have each been under-designed, while power has been over-delegated.

The third lesson concerns the compounding role of courts. As Bhat’s analysis demonstrates, the Indian Supreme Court has been a significant actor in shaping the ECI’s constitutional status, including expanding its powers through the jurisprudence of deference while failing to develop corresponding accountability norms. The SIR judgment continues this pattern. Its proportionality analysis is methodologically sound. But it resolves the legality of a completed exercise without addressing the structural conditions, including the appointment regime, the parliamentary oversight deficit, and the absence of operational accountability frameworks, that made the exercise politically contestable in the first place. When courts defer to institutional expertise without requiring transparency or reason-giving, they become part of the accountability problem rather than part of the solution.

The SIR judgment, read alongside the scholarship on fourth branch institutions, is a reminder that the work around the development of sound fourth branch institutions remains very much unfinished in India. The costs of that incompleteness are now being borne by millions of voters.

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The Political System: Electoral Autocracy

Since 2010 Hungary has received international attention for being the first fully consolidated democracy to turn into an autocracy. Both Freedom House and the Varieties of Democracy Project have tracked Hungary as it has passed from a “consolidated” democracy (Freedom House in 2010) through the “partially consolidated” category (Freedom House in 2015) into the status of a “hybrid regime” (Freedom House) or “electoral autocracy” (V-Dem). Even the competitive character of the free and fair election system was called into question from the 2014 parliamentary elections onwards by International Election Observation Missions of OSCE/ODIHR, including the 2026 election lost by Fidesz, where “there was no level playing field, with the ruling party benefitting from systemic advantages that blurred the line between state and party”.

After Orbán immediately conceded his electoral defeat, some scholars who had even contested the non-democratic character of the regime started to see their view vindicated by the victory of the opposition. So did those, who from the very beginning threated the system as a “plebiscitary leader democracy”, where after the democratic elections the electorate entrusts governance to the charismatic leader, and this system will continue with Péter Magyar. It is not hard to see that loss of the election and the leader’s concession do not make the system retroactively democratic, just as the Communist regime did not become a democracy after the 1990 democratic elections in Hungary and elsewhere. With a landslide victory of 53 %, Tisza secured a two-thirds majority of the seats in a system that strongly favoured the expected winner, Fidesz, for whom 45% would have been enough to obtain the same qualified majority. All in all, the political system of the Orbán regime can be characterized as an electoral autocracy, which even fails to fulfil all the requirements of a competitive authoritarian hybrid regime.

The Socio-Economic Relations: Mafia State or Family Corruption Business

Besides the descriptions of political scientists and constitutional law scholars, sociologists and economists emphasize the special role of corruption, which positioned Viktor Orbán, the charismatic political leader of the political system, as the head of a mafia state or family corruption business. The sociologist Bálint Magyar, in his seminal book on the Hungarian mafia state, asserts that not only the governing party Fidesz and the state of Hungary was placed under the control of a single individual, but the entire economy as well. Viktor Orbán and his political family, Fidesz, employed mafia methods and concentrated wealth in the hands of a small group of insiders. While the traditional mafia usually channels wealth and economic players into its spheres of influence by means of direct coercion, Orbán’s mafia state did the same by means of parliamentary legislation, legal prosecution, tax authority, police forces and the secret service.

David Jancsics, a corruption researcher, also describes the system of National Cooperation in which political power, the distribution of state resources, and economic accumulation are not separate spheres but are closely intertwined along a stable organizing principle: family relations. Here, Orbán’s extended family, including his children and their families, but also his childhood friend and later gas-fitter, who, as his Stroman, has become nominally the richest person in the country, are not merely the beneficiaries of power. Rather, political power itself is systematically transformed into their intergenerational private property. This distinguishes the phenomenon from simple corruption.

Reasons for Orbán Regime’s Fall

As a constitutional scholar, I would love to say that the current defeat of Fidesz was exclusively caused by the dismantlement of liberal democracy, but unfortunately, I cannot. The truth is that more than half of the Hungarian voters have tolerated that or have been nonchalant for fifteen years till the living conditions started to deteriorate, and the extreme corruption of the mentioned mafia state with the enrichment and hubris of Orbán’s larger “dynasty” and oligarchy has become impossible to ignore for all. In addition, a new voting generation has grown up for whom living without autonomy is not an option, and their voice proved decisive.

The economic hardship is due not only to bad economic policies but also to the suspended – and therefore missing – financial resources from the European Union, as a result of the long-awaited change in the European Union’s attitude towards a Member State consequently defying the main European values: democracy, the rule of law, and protection of fundamental rights. After a decade of complicity, the EU using a value conditionality mechanism has frozen some 20 billion Euros in funds earmarked for Hungary over the government’s democratic backsliding and corruption. The idea was that in this way Hungarian people, 70% of whom support the EU, would realize that the autocratic regime was contributing to the deterioration of their living standards. Hence, one can argue that this was a suitable policy decision by the EU, and note that indirectly the election result can also be considered as a rejection of Orbán’s fight against the EU, especially among younger voters. Both young and old voters were supposed to be impressed by Trump’s support and Vice President J. D. Vance’s last-minute visit to Budapest right before election day – but rather than helping Fidesz, it appears to have hindered their electoral chances: the current autocratic and oligarchic tendencies in the US are clearly in parallel with the disliked tendencies in Hungary.

Fidesz’s fall is also due to the unprecedented rise of Péter Magyar, who owes his rapidly growing popularity primarily to his focus on the unsuccessful economic policies and corruption of his former party, Fidesz. By contrast, values such as democracy, rule of law, and fundamental rights received little attention. The same is true of issues like migration, national sovereignty, and LGBTQ-rights (for instance, he did not appear with the 300.000 people on the streets of Budapest protesting against the government’s ban of the Pride last June). On key foreign policy questions, he remained silent, and on Ukraine’s EU membership he took position close to Orbán’s.

In the Hungarian Parliament, Magyar refused any collaboration with the “old” opposition parties, distancing himself from any left/liberal ideas based on the conviction that his party can only beat Orbán on its own. His implicit promise to his voters was roughly this: first we get rid of Orbán, and then we can restore pluralism again. As a result of the current elections, besides the centrer-right Tisza Party, the far-right Fidesz, and the neo-Nazi Mi Hazánk (Our Homeland), there are neither leftist nor liberal voices represented in the Parliament. His calculation to beat Fidesz turned out to be correct, but one of first issues to be solved by the new legislature should be to restore political pluralism by changing the disproportional election system constructed by Fidesz.

Thanks to the exceptionally large popular support, the new Prime Minister has realized the importance of the pluralist composition of his government and has selected politicians with a variety of political and ideological backgrounds. Many of the new policy measures are also supportive of Ukraine and LGBTQ people. From the very beginning, Magyar is seriously committed to complying with the European Union liberal democratic values in order to receive the suspended funds back, which amounts to 4-5% of the Hungarian GDP. Therefore, already in his victory speech, he has pledged to change the illiberal constitution to comply with the EU’s rule of law requests. He has called on the heads of key state institutions – the President of the Republic, the Constitutional Court, the Supreme Court, the State Audit Office, the National Competition Authority and the Chief State Prosecutor – to step down voluntarily.

As none of those officials has yet indicated any willingness to step down, the government will need to elaborate its short-term plans for the restoration of liberal democratic constitutionalism. On 1 June, after a short visit to the President, Prime Minister Magyar announced that within one month the government will submit an amendment to the Fundamental Law replacing him and the other “authoritarian enclaves.” There seems to be a consensus among constitutional scholars who support the renewal that the restoration must follow a two-tier process: starting with the necessary and quick amendments to the “illiberal” Fundamental Law, followed by a longer process of a new constitution-making.

Restoring Constitutional Democracy in the Short Run

In my view, even the first leg of the two-tier amendment process can have two phases: the adoption of the most urgent changes to the Fundamental Law, and a more systemic repeal of all its ideologically loaded provisions, found mostly in the National Avowal.

Among the urgent changes, on 20 May 2026, the Magyar government submitted the first amendment to the Parliament. One of the proposed changes is necessary to unfreeze Hungary’s €10.4 billion share of the EU Recovery and Resilience Facility, withheld over the violation of academic freedom through the “privatization” of public universities by the Orbán government. To this end, the proposed amendment aims to reclassify the controversial new forms of the 21 transformed public universities – called “public interest asset management foundations” (known as KEKVAs in Hungarian) – as part of “national wealth”, transferring them back to the state and allowing the government to dissolve the foundations altogether.

The other amendment can be considered rather symbolic. It limits the prime minister’s tenure to a maximum of eight years in office, in effect barring Viktor Orbán from returning to the role. Contrary to some scholarly criticism, the change does not represent retroactive legislation, as it concerns future conditions of holding the office of prime minister, but indeed its aim is plainly ad hominem – keeping Orbán out of public office, although it will prevent Magyar to serve more than one additional term after the current one. That said, it is true that in parliamentary systems it is far less crucial to limit the terms of the executive power than in presidential ones.

The most urgent issue in avoiding a blocking of the democratic transition is to remove the authoritarian enclaves. The achieved two-thirds majority enables Magyar’s party to change the Fundamental Law and the other cardinal laws requiring the qualified majority. However, it is disputed whether the mandate of incumbent high public officials can be terminated with retroactive effect. To be frank, the Orbán government did exactly the same in 2010, when it expelled the President of the Supreme Court and the members of the National Election Commission (including the author of this piece) by simply changing the names of their institutions – renaming them to Kúria and Hungarian Election Commission respectively – and appointing loyal replacements. While Orbán’s illiberal autocratic legalism violated the rule of law and served an arbitrary exercise of power, the new government aims to restore it. If this is to happen with deviations from the principle of the rule of law – such as the prohibition of retroactive legislation – these must be exceptional, temporary, serving a legitimate aim of reinstating constitutional democracy, proportional, and backed by broad public support.

Exploiting a Constitutional Moment

The societal support for the values of constitutionalism is equally important when replacing the illiberal Fundamental Law with a new liberal democratic constitution. One of the negative experiences of both the revolutionary 1989 and the counter-revolutionary 2011 constitution-making processes is that they were elitist acts, lacking any participatory elements – a factor that may have contributed to the subsequent fall of liberal democracy. Therefore, to achieve long-term democratic consolidation, the new government should start a cooperative effort by creating a diverse constituent power to draft a new constitution that emphasizes inclusivity over reliance on a mere two-thirds majority. This deliberative constitution-making process could help channel the current euphoria in the country into “constitutional enthusiasm”. As we know from Bruce Ackerman, this is needed for a constitutional moment – a juncture in history when constitutional change is driven by a particular mobilization and engagement of the demos, representing a transformative expression of popular sovereignty and a self-conscious act of consent by a majority of ordinary citizens. As András Sajó has argued, after 1989 there has not been such moment in Hungary, because there was no “constitutional enthusiasm” by the people, who first and foremost expected the transition to deliver a speedy increase in living standards. Orbán’s counter-revolution in 2010 was made easier by the fact that those expectations had been disappointed. However, the people have spoken, and Hungary has another chance to seize that moment.

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More International (and National) Law: The EDC Is Dead

Are the Benelux countries as well as Germany still bound by their EDC ratifications from over 70 years ago? My main objection to ALCIDE’s core idea was that it unjustifiably omits the 1954 Western European Union (WEU) in combination with Article 59 of the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties (VCLT).

This objection is countered by Fabbrini and Mayer repeating that States must always explicitly revoke their consent. As an example of how this should be done, they point to the 2007 European Council “abandoning” the 2004 Treaty establishing a European Constitution (TEC) that had, as is known, failed to get ratified by France and the Netherlands. Yet can the European Council, which forms part of an autonomous legal organization independent of the Member States, withdraw the consent of Italy (and of all those other Member States that had already ratified the TEC)? Under international law, hardly so. But if Italy’s ratification legislation for the 2004 TEC is still “easily accessible in the online law books” and continues to be unrepealed, does this mean that Italy is still bound by the 2004 TEC; or has the 2007 Lisbon Treaty here taken over – in the same way as the 1952 EDC was taken over by the 1954 WEU?

In this context, Article 59 VCLT offers – I think – a powerful “smoking gun” in the form of an a fortiori argument. Because as regards international treaties not yet ratified by all parties, Article 18 VCLT leaves an element of doubt when merely obliging a signatory state, pending the entry into force of the treaty, “to refrain from acts which would defeat the object and purpose of a treaty … provided that such entry into force is not unduly delayed”. For even if one overcame the doubt that the provision applied to “normative” treaties, what is “unduly delayed”? Is 10 years enough, or 70 or 200 years? Luckily, Article 59(1) VCLT puts an end to that debate as regards the 1952 EDC, because “in any case” the 1954 WEU replaced the earlier organization since all the parties to the older treaty considered the matter of European defence, the “German question” as well as NATO collaboration to be now governed by the newer treaty and a simultaneous application of both treaties was legally impossible.

Has the death-through-EU-integration of the WEU in 2011 made a revival of the 1952 EDC possible? Fabbrini and Mayer seem to think so; and they now employ a bootstrapping argument in that context. Fresh talk about the EDC in Italy has itself revived it, as States “are the relevant interpreters of whether a treaty is dead or alive”. Yet can the “recent political developments” in Italy revive the EDC Treaty despite, or even against, the – present day – wishes of the other signatory states? For Germany, the authors indeed appear to see this as an advantage: “The fact that nothing depends on Germany for the time being … would also have the advantage that the usual German constitutional objections … would be irrelevant for the time being.” But alas, these objections would undoubtedly be there. The German Constitutional Court has, especially in its 2009 Lisbon judgment, insisted on strict limits to EU defence integration (ibid., esp. paras. 249, 254, 316, 384), as “military sovereignty”, regained after the 1955 Paris Treaties and fortified in a 1956 constitutional amendment (Article 87a GC), is today seen as a fundamental aspect of German “statehood”.

One can disagree with this sovereigntist stance (as I do), but the EDC’s general prohibition of national armies (Article 9 EDC) may raise similar constitutionality questions in the Benelux countries too (de Waele, 9). ALCIDE’s rather limited comparative constitutional focus on the potential validity of the “late” EDC ratifications by Italy and France, therefore, skips over an important legal problem that was already alluded to in my earlier post. Indeed: even if one were to believe that Germany and the Benelux countries were still bound by their respective ratifications under international law, their original consent might have become illegal – in the last 70 years – under their respective national constitutional laws (with the consequence that their governments would be under a domestic obligation to un-ratify). In the German case, for example, the 1954 amendment that had made EDC accession constitutionally possible via a newly inserted Article 142a GC was itself repealed in 1968. And quare: did the national ratification laws for the 1954 WEU Treaty and the 2007 Lisbon Treaty not already implicitly repeal, under national law, the earlier 1952 EDC ratifications?

More European Law: The EDC Violates Primary and Secondary Law

Is the EDC incompatible with EU law today? My original post here concentrated on the institutional aspects of this question – mainly arguing that the supranational character of the EDC could not be inserted into the Union’s intergovernmental Common Foreign and Security Policy (CFSP).

In response, Fabbrini and Mayer point to several CFSP-related inter-se agreements (Aachen, Lancaster, Strasbourg). But none of these treaties establishes a “supranational” authority or employs the European Court of Justice! The Aachen Treaty, for example, allows France and Germany to “hold regular consultations at all levels prior to major European meetings” (Article 2) and has the aim to “increasingly converge their security and defence objectives and strategies” (Article 4(1)). Yet the “Franco-German Defence and Security Council”, created for that purpose, is a purely intergovernmental body (Article 4(4)); and the same purely intergovernmental features characterise the other two CFSP-related agreements mentioned by the authors. The example of the ESM Treaty – concluded within the scope of the supranational TFEU – is, in this context, highly misplaced because the “borrowing” of supranational institutions can constitutionally be done, once the Pringle criteria are fulfilled, in those parts of the EU Treaties that are themselves supranational. Yet, unlike what especially Fabbrini claims, this logic cannot “a fortiori” be extended to the CFSP, where Article 24 TEU expressly limits the role of the supranational institutions.

But let us also look more closely at the substantive incompatibilities of the EDC Treaty with EU law. On the level of EU primary law, the Union’s Common Security and Defence Policy (CSDP) is today based on the assumption that national armies survive. For example: Articles 42 and 46 TEU as well as the Protocol on Permanent Structured Cooperation essentially ask each Member State “to develop its defence capacities through the development of its national contributions and participation” (ibid., Article 1(a), emphasis added); and a revived EDC that generally abolished national armies would surely not be compatible with that CSDP feature.  This does not necessarily mean that there cannot be a proper European standing army under the current CSDP. While controversial (von Achenbach, 240), Article 42(1) TEU might here offer a textual base that could, despite a later qualification, be used to justify the creation of such a supranational force. Yet to comply with the present CSDP arrangements, as well as Article 4(2) TEU, this European army could never be an “exclusive” EDC-like army; it would have to be a “complementary” Union force in the way it has been suggested by some.

On the level of EU secondary law, finally, a revived EDC would also cause major substantive incompatibilities. For in the last decade in particular, the Union has found the courage to increasingly use its supranational competences (internal market, industrial policy, technology development) to enter into defence territory; and because inter-se agreements between the Member States are – just like national law – subject to the primacy of all EU law, including secondary law, these Union legislative acts would have to be repealed before the EDC could come into force. Take, for example, Directive 2009/81 on the coordination of procedures for the award of certain works contracts, supply contracts and service contracts by contracting authorities or entities in the fields of defence and security; or, the more recent Regulation 2023/2418 on establishing an instrument for the reinforcement of the European defence industry through common procurement (EDIRPA). Both Union laws seem clearly incompatible with Article 101-111 EDC, which are based on a completely different – centralised – procurement approach.

More European Politics: Autonomy and Democracy as a Minimum

For those favouring (external) strategic autonomy for the Union and (internal) democratic control of the Union, the two cardinal sins of the 1952 EDC were its NATO-dependency and its supranational-executive character. As regards the former, Article 2 EDC firmly committed it to operate “within the framework of the North Atlantic Treaty” with Article 18 EDC subjecting it, especially in wartime, to NATO control. As regards democracy (or lack thereof), the EDC had, by contrast, adopted the European Coal and Steel Community’s technocratic format, with both Communities giving virtually no significant role to the European Parliament (Scheffel, 79). That striking lack of democratic legitimacy was immediately perceived as a major flaw to be addressed in the future (Article 38 EDC).

Should today’s European defence integration not do better than that? In the last decade, the Union has been pushing hard – very hard – to regain some external autonomy from third States, especially under the TFEU. Within the intergovernmental CSDP, matters have been less successful, with three institutional ideas currently being discussed. The first idea, championed by EU Commissioner Kubilius under the banner of “a genuine European Defence Union”, appears to favour a “Western European Union 2.0” based on an intergovernmental treaty and centred around a “European Security Council”. The second idea proposes a “PESCO 2.0” that reactivates a Permanent Structured Cooperation with much fewer Member States participating than those that currently do (26 out of 27). Finally, there is the idea of a “real” supranational European Defence Union, proposed by the European Parliament and already analysed here.

Each of these three options tries to develop and enhance today’s CSDP organically. Yet only the second option allows for its activation through a qualified majority decision by the Council (Article 46 (2) TEU), whilst it returns to unanimity voting for all participating Member States subsequently (Article 46 (6) TEU). Unanimity among the participating states would, presumably, also apply to Kubilius’ intergovernmental proposal – though clear institutional contours have yet to emerge out of his 2026 publicity blitz. The European Parliament’s proposal alone would solve that decision-making problem, albeit it would require prior EU Treaty amendment. The Parliament has, therefore, suggested the following amendment to Article 42 TEU (with the suggested textual changes in bold):

“3. The Union shall establish a Defence Union with civilian and military capabilities for the implementation of the common security and defence policy. That Defence Union shall include military units, including a permanent rapid deployment capacity, under the operational command of the Union. Member States may provide additional capabilities. (…)

4. Decisions relating to the common security and defence policy shall be adopted by the Council acting by a qualified majority on a proposal from the Union Secretary for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy or an initiative from a Member State, and after obtaining the consent of the European Parliament. The Union Secretary for Foreign Affairs and Security Policy may propose the use of both national resources and Union instruments, together with the Commission where appropriate.”

Like the EDC, the EDU would have clear supranational advantages over WEU 1.0 and WEU 2.0. But unlike the EDC, it would be under the operational command of the Union – not NATO; with majority decisions being taken by the two chambers of the EU legislature instead of a supranational executive (the “Commissariat”). The proposed EDU also acknowledges the continued ability of the Member States to have national armies; and the sharing of military “sovereignty”, an anomaly in the Weberian nation state, would here be another expression of the cooperative federalism that is already a constitutional hallmark of the Union. In contrast to the radical federalism of the EDC, the EDU thus adopts a much more “pragmatic” approach that is – nonetheless – not unprincipled in its choice in favour of a “parliamentary” Union force that is also strategically autonomous from the United States.

Parliament’s EDU will, however, unlike the WEU 2.0 or PESCO 2.0 proposals, require Treaty amendment; and differentiated defence integration may, thus, ultimately still represent the Union’s immediate future. But does this make the EDU a red herring when compared to the idea of reviving the 1952 EDC? No. The EDC is dead; and even if it were not dead, it would be illegal under the existing EU Treaties (and thus require their amendment to become legal); and even if it were not illegal under the EU Treaties, it would be unsuitable in light of what European defence integration should strive for in 2026, namely: external autonomy and internal democracy.

Why should the Member States agree to a supranational EDU? Because they should remember, as after the Second World War (or after the fall of Eastern European communism), that the best way to “rescue” themselves is within a stronger European Union. Indeed, the insight of a great French comparativist still holds true today: “[i]f a republic is small, it is destroyed by a foreign force; if it is large, it is destroyed by an internal vice” (Montesquieu, 131); and to overcome this geopolitical dilemma, smaller states should form a “federal republic” in which internal virtue is combined with external force. That external force needs, today, no longer be an exclusive Union force to protect Europe from a remilitarised Germany. Yet the Union of 2026 must learn to stand on its own feet; and it must stand on them in the present – not the past. For the past is a time that cannot be revived outside one’s imagination – even if one searched very hard.

The post Again, the European Defence Community Is Dead, Let It Rest in Peace appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

After I read the book, I remarked to my fellow bloggers that I could hardly disagree with this diagnosis, at least in its outlines, because it resembles in broad outline the kind of argument I’ve been making off and on since my 1996 book American Constitutionalism: From Theory to Politics.  I’ll note the similarities.  In retrospect, in my 1996 book I was probably arguing two distinct theses at the same time.  One was a “mismatch” theory – the idea that the activist state represented by the New Deal was in considerable tension with the unamended Constitution.  The other was a “democratization” theory (although I did not use that term) – that our experience since the 1960s shows there is a problem operating the Constitution amid a democratic politics unknown to prior American history.  The latter thesis is of course closer to Skowronek’s argument.

I treated these theses as showing the constitutional system in a continual crisis since the 1960s.  The idea that you could have a crisis that, in effect, never ends has been questioned by some scholars and I probably should have found another way to describe what I was observing.  But I viewed the lack of Article V amendment as imposing a hard limit on just how far the Constitution could adapt.  In other words, adaptation through “informal” means has never struck me as a fully effective substitute for formal change.  This is also what Skowronek seems to believe.

The particular spin I put on the democratization thesis was that the full implications of democratization were concealed by the political consensus behind the Cold War even through the 1960s.  I put the theses together as follows: “In the 1960s the politicization of civil society increased rapidly, the legal restrictions on the electorate were for the most part abolished, and the United States experienced a full-fledged national democratic politics for the first time in its history. . . .The politicization of civil society and the democratization of the state had enormously expanded the scope of the national policy agenda.  The range of interests the national state now had to take into account approximated much more closely the range of interests in society.  But there had been no fundamental change in the ability of the national state (read: Constitution) to wield public authority and govern these contending interests.”

In my 2015 book Broken Trust I used studies by John Hibbing and Elizabeth Theiss-Morse to extend the argument that the democratization of American government led to constitutional problems.  Specifically, democratization produced a roiling, contentious and conflictual politics that was deeply at odds with how Americans think politics and government should work.  Accordingly, I argued, trust in government was permanently dented.

Compared to the accounts I offered in my prior work, Skowronek is far more acute and detailed on the impacts of democratization on Congress, the Supreme Court, and the presidency.  As one might expect, his account of the disastrous consequences for our constitutional order of the unitary executive theory is particularly well done and should be required reading in the nation’s law schools.

A’i Cofán Sinangoe Community, 20th of February of 2026, intercultural legal hearing. Credits: Nixon Andy

The scent of palo santo (Bursera graveolens) still lingered in the air on February 20, 2026, in the A’i Cofán community of Sinangoe, in the Ecuadorian Amazon. That day, three judges from the Provincial Court of Sucumbíos arrived in the territory to hold an intercultural dialogue hearing as part of a protective action filed by the community to demand respect for their ancestral property rights and the allocation of 63,755 hectares of ancestral land.

It was not only about the physical territory, but also about memories, ancestral practices, the transmission of ancestral knowledge, and A’i Cofán ways of “heartfelt thinking” the world that sustain the territory and collective life.

This hearing reveals something deeper than a mere legal proceeding: when the courts move into Indigenous territory, the law shifts its setting and its conditions of production. In this space, not only judges and lawyers are involved, but also community authorities, ritual practices, and plants like the yoco (Paullinia yoco).

Applying Law from a Different Perspective

Intercultural hearings held on-site allow the courts to be “selvadas,” or forested, that is, to open the judicial process to the material realities, textualities, relationships, and authorities that co-produce and co-compose law in Amazonian Indigenous contexts. In other words, the act of “selvar” involves applying the law from the perspective of the forest itself, with the participation of all the entities that comprise it and their own legal systems. Only in this on-site encounter can the tensions and the possibilities for dialogue between state law and Indigenous legal systems become more clearly visible.

In Ecuador, this possibility has a constitutional basis. The 2008 Constitution recognizes the country as a plurinational and intercultural state (art. 1). However, in judicial practice, tensions persist between state law and the legal systems of Indigenous Peoples and Nations.

The hearing in Sinangoe offers a window into how these systems can engage in dialogue when justice is transferred to the territory. On February 20, the day began at 4:00 a.m. with the taking of the yoco plant, a practice that connects with the forest, the spirits, and the memory of the elders. The yoco is not just a plant, but a plant authority that participates in co-governance.

During the hearing, the A’i Cofán traditional authorities performed a harmonization ceremony with ritual elements and the participation of the community, including children, integrating their own practices into the judicial process. Woven baskets filled with chonta palm (Bactris gasipaes) and achiote (Bixa orellana) were placed in the center of the hearing. We shared stinging nettles (Urtica dioica), and burned palo santo to harmonize the spirit. Then Chipiri Tsampi’ma kuirasunde’khu (a group of children, young guardians of the forest) entered, dressed in traditional A’i Cofán clothing, singing to the rhythm of the drums: Who are we? What do we defend? Strength, strength. Guard, guard. The cry of the forest, uuuu.

A Community That Has Already Changed the Jurisprudence

The A’i Cofán community of Sinangoe belongs to an Amazonian Nation whose ancestral territory was declared part of the Cayambe-Coca National Park in 1970 without prior consultation. In 2018, the community achieved a historic victory by successfully annulling mining concessions granted without their consent. Subsequently, the Constitutional Court of Ecuador consolidated this case in ruling 273-19-JP/22, establishing important standards regarding prior consultation, territory, and the Rights of Nature. The Court determined that prior, free, and informed consent is mandatory even when extractive activities are located outside the communities’ territory but may affect them.

In November 2021, judges of the Constitutional Court held an intercultural Amazonian hearing on the community’s territory. More than 300 leaders of Indigenous Peoples and Nations participated in a process that sought a national precedent on free, prior, and informed consent linked to self-determination and the Rights of Nature. It was a true legal minga, an act of listening that opened a historic opportunity to interpret rights on-site.

Despite these precedents, formal recognition of the ancestral territory remains pending. For this reason, the community filed a new constitutional action to demand the adjudication of its territory.

The Territorial Map as a Source of Own Indigenous Law

One of the fundamental issues discussed at the hearing on February 20, 2026, was who has the authority to determine the dimensions of the community’s territory and under what conditions.

Between 2018 and 2021, Kuirasunde’khu (Indigenous guard) carried out a territorial mapping process. They walked through the rainforest to record rivers, sacred sites, and memories passed down by elders. The result was a map with nearly 5,000 points documenting the ancestral territory.

But for the community, this map is not simply a technical instrument: it is a collective legal act. The rivers, the sites of yagé (Banisteriopsis caapi) ceremonies, the stories of grandparents, and the places inhabited by spiritual beings are all part of this map: slopes, mountains, sacred places, and beings like Atiambi a’i, Kukuya, Vajos, and Kuankuas.

In this sense, mapping is not merely describing the territory, but rather creating legal rights. In the Amazon, borders have historically been fluid, and the movement of rivers and wildlife is an integral part of this living territory. Consequently, territorial mapping must be understood from an ecosystemic and intercultural perspective, as part of the communities’ own legal rights and Law, and fundamental for the formalization and granting of property titles.

A’i Cofán Community of Sinangoe, February 20, 2026, Holger Quenamá Coordinator Kuirasunde’khu explaining the territorial mapping. Credits: Nixon Andy

The jurisprudence of the Inter-American Court has recognized that the ancestral possession of Indigenous Peoples, who existed before the creation of nation-states, constitutes a title of full ownership, and what corresponds to the States is its formalization and registration.

From an anthropological perspective, mapping allows us to show how Indigenous Peoples conceptualize territory within their cosmologies. In Sinangoe, mapping expresses a relational understanding where humans, animals, plants, rivers, mountains, and spirits are all part of a living territory. After all, “there are no straight lines in nature.” The territory is also recognized through sounds: bird songs, the buzzing of insects, the flow of rivers, and even the presence of spirits. It is a sensory and relational mapping that cannot be interpreted using the same parameters as conventional state cartography.

As Australian Indigenous jurist Christine Black has pointed out, Indigenous law is a living jurisprudence expressed through song, ceremony, storytelling, dance, and the relationship with the land. The law emerges from the territory. Within this framework, the taking of yoco, nettle, face painting, and the voice of Kuirasunde’khu (Indigenous guard), along with territorial mapping, constitute the expression of this living jurisprudence.

Setting Jurisprudence from the Heart A’I Cofán

In the Amazonian intercultural hearing, listening to and “heartfelt thinking”, the law continues to establish living jurisprudence, grounded in what some have called a “constituent power of nature.” The very performance of the hearing transforms what counts as evidence and who can speak. In this space, entities from the plant world also participate. The evidence was not limited to the materiality of the paper: the map was accompanied by plants present, by lines drawn on bodies, and by an illustration of a tree and fish that embodies the creation myth of the Amazon basin.

When intercultural hearings take place in a specific territory, another form of horizontality emerges. What is often questioned in other courts – who has expertise or what evidence is valid – takes on a different dimension here.

Children also participated (Chipiri Tsampima Kuirasundekhu). They not only spoke, but also sang about the ancestral territory their grandparents had walked. Then they presented the judges with a map they had painted themselves: the rivers where they bathe and play, the paths they have traveled, and the stories they have heard from their elders.

Amazonian Indigenous Peoples and Nations such as the Siekopai, Waorani, and Shipibo-Conibo of Peru, along with various amici curiae, supported the case through interventions and expert opinions. However, representatives from the Ministry of Environment and Energy participated virtually, refusing to hold an intercultural dialogue on-site. As one community member pointed out, this decision was perceived as disrespectful: “When you talk about the territory, you have to come to the territory, walk through the forest, listen to the river, and look the community in the eye.” As another community member expressed, “Are they afraid of the yoco or the nettle?” In this sense, they refused to “selvar” the law, failing to uphold the constitutional obligation of intercultural dialogue.

What is at stake is not just a territorial delimitation, but self-determination, the legal security of ancestral territory and the exercise of one’s own rights in the face of extractive threats.

While awaiting the court’s decision, the A’i Cofán community of Sinangoe continued to walk their territory, listened to the voices of the rivers and teaching children to care for the rainforest. Because there is something that cannot be learned in a courtroom: the land is not a piece of paper; the land is spirit, it is home, and it is life. And as long as the forest lives, the A’i Cofán community of Sinangoe will stand firm, caring for and defending life and territory. May more legal professionals be inspired to bring the forest into the courts.

The Provincial Court of Sucumbíos ruled on the 28th of May in favour of the A’i Cofán community of Sinangoe to get their land titles in 30 days. The act of mapping was mentioned as one of the key elements in favour of a positive ruling as an “ethnographic tool capable of showing how Indigenous Peoples conceptualize the place inside of their cultural systems and cosmologies”.

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Trotz dieser Schwierigkeiten tendiert die Diskussion bisher dazu, den grundlegenden Betriebsbegriff unangetastet zu lassen und auf punktuelle Veränderungen in dessen Umfeld zu setzen. Dies ist verständlich, weil die Praxis auf rasche Abhilfe drängt. Auf Dauer wird das aber nicht reichen. Die aktuellen Probleme legen nämlich Strukturdefizite offen, die bis an die Anfänge der Betriebsverfassung zurückreichen. Deshalb sollte neben die kurzfristige Reformperspektive bereits jetzt eine langfristige treten. Auf den Prüfstand gehört dabei auch die bisherige Struktur, in der sämtliche Mitbestimmungsrechte ungeachtet ihrer Vielgestaltigkeit auf den Betrieb als einheitliche Repräsentationseinheit bezogen sind. Die Frage nach den richtigen Repräsentationseinheiten betrifft nicht nur die Gesetzestechnik, sondern sie berührt die elementarsten Grundlagen der Betriebsverfassung: ihren Zweck und die Legitimation der Betriebsparteien.

Betriebe und Betriebsteile in der plattformbasierten Lieferwirtschaft

Ein anschauliches Beispiel für die aktuellen Schwierigkeiten mit dem Betriebsbegriff bieten die drei Beschlüsse des BAG vom 28. Januar 2026, zu denen bislang nur eine Pressemitteilung vorliegt. Gegenstand war der Streit um die Wirksamkeit von Betriebsratswahlen an mehreren Standorten eines bekannten Unternehmens der plattformbasierten Essenslieferbranche. Konkret ging es um „Remote Cities“, in denen lediglich Lieferpersonal tätig ist, wo aber vor Ort keinerlei Leitungsfunktionen ausgeübt werden. Die Arbeitgeberin hat die Wahlen angefochten, und zwar mit dem Argument, dass in den „Remote Cities“ weder Betriebe noch selbständige Betriebsteile bestünden und die Arbeitnehmer deshalb auch keinen eigenen Betriebsrat wählen könnten.

Was ein Betrieb ist, definiert das BetrVG nicht. Nach gefestigter Rechtsprechung kommt es im Kern darauf an, wo die Arbeitgeberin ihre wesentlichen Leitungsfunktionen – insbesondere bei personellen und sozialen Fragen – tatsächlich ausübt. Das war in den „Remote Cities“ nicht der Fall. Die Arbeitnehmer können nach § 4 Abs. 1 S. 1 Nr. 1 BetrVG auch in Betriebsteilen einen Betriebsrat wählen, wenn die Betriebsteile räumlich weit vom Hauptbetrieb entfernt sind. Die Rechtsprechung verlangt allerdings auch insoweit ein „Mindestmaß an organisatorischer Selbstständigkeit“ dieser Betriebsteile. Für die „Remote Cities“ hat der Siebte Senat des BAG dies abgelehnt: Die Zusammenfassung zu einem Liefergebiet mit eigenem Dienstplan genüge nicht, ebenso wenig die „Interessengemeinschaft“ der an einem Standort beschäftigten Auslieferungsfahrer.

Selbstverständlich ist dieses Ergebnis allerdings nicht. Für einiges Aufsehen hat eine erstinstanzliche Entscheidung des ArbG Aachen gesorgt, in der es die Betriebswahl in einem der Liefergebiete für wirksam erklärt hat. Zwar bestehe in den Remote Cities kein Betrieb im Sinne des § 1 BetrVG, wohl aber ein qualifizierter Betriebsteil nach § 4 Abs. 1 S. 1 BetrVG. Was das erforderliche Mindestmaß an organisatorischer Selbständigkeit betrifft, müsse es in der digitalisierten Arbeitswelt ausreichen, wenn die Personalsteuerung von irgendeinem Ort aus per App stattfindet. Selbst wenn man am leitungsfixierten Betriebsbegriff festhält, hat das ArbG Aachen eine berechtigte Frage gestellt: Ist es wirklich zwingend, bei einer derart ortlosen Unternehmensorganisation auf den Sitz der Entscheidungsträger abzustellen?

Diese Frage ist von großer Bedeutung für Initiativen zur Gründung eines Betriebsrats. Für deren Effektivität ist es keineswegs gleichgültig, in welchen Einheiten gewählt werden kann. Unternehmensstrukturen können sich, wie etwa die Situation im Einzelhandel zeigt, als Hemmnis für die Bildung von Betriebsräten erweisen. Dort sorgt die Parzellierung in kleine Filialen mit eigener Leitung für weiße Flecken auf der Landkarte der Mitbestimmung. Aber auch die standortübergreifende Mobilisierung kann schwierig sein, wie gerade die Plattformwirtschaft zeigt. Hier liegt eine generelle Herausforderung darin, dass die Beschäftigten, im Wesentlichen gesteuert durch Smartphone-Apps, unabhängig voneinander tätig sind. Die Probleme reichen aber darüber hinaus: Die betriebliche Mitbestimmung hat in den letzten Jahren dramatisch an Boden verloren, vor allem in kleinen und mittleren Unternehmen.

Punktuelle Anpassungen im Umfeld des Betriebsbegriffs…

In der bisherigen Diskussion dominieren Vorschläge, die im Regelungsumfeld des Betriebsbegriffs ansetzen. Dieser Linie folgt auch Claudia Schubert in ihrem kürzlich veröffentlichten DJT-Gutachten (S. B33 f.): Für die Betriebsratsfähigkeit eines selbstständigen Betriebsteils (§ 4 Abs. 1 S. 1 BetrVG) soll die örtliche Organisation von Leitungsmacht nicht mehr maßgeblich sein. Vielmehr soll es auf eine „wertende Entscheidung“ ankommen, wie unabhängig der Betriebsteil vom Hauptbetrieb ist. Aber warum soll gerade die Unabhängigkeit das entscheidende Kriterium sein? Und woran misst man sie? Die so entstehende Rechtsunsicherheit lässt sich auch nicht allein dadurch ausgleichen, dass man, wie Schubert vorschlägt, die Belegschaft des selbstständigen Betriebsteils beim Hauptbetrieb mitwählen lässt, solange sie für ihren Betriebsteil keine eigene Wahl organisiert.

Bei Schwierigkeiten mit der Bildung passender Repräsentationseinheiten empfiehlt die Praxisliteratur bereits jetzt häufig eine kollektivvertragliche Anpassung der Vertretungsstrukturen nach § 3 BetrVG. Nachvollziehbar sind Forderungen, diese Möglichkeiten zu erweitern, etwa für Unternehmen mit Matrixorganisation (Schubert, DJT-Gutachten, S. B70 ff.). Solche Unternehmen weisen keine linearen Leitungsstrukturen auf, sondern verteilen die Führungsaufgaben auf zwei gleichrangige Dimensionen, die sich typischerweise an Zentralfunktionen (z.B. IT, Personal) und Geschäftsbereichen (z.B. Produkte, Absatzgebiete) orientieren. In solchen Fällen können maßgeschneiderte Vertretungsstrukturen hilfreich sein.

Eine Ausdehnung des § 3 BetrVG hilft gegen die Hemmnisse, einen Betriebsrat zu gründen, aber schon deshalb wenig, weil bei kollektivvertraglichen Anpassungen die Arbeitgeberseite mitwirken muss. Zudem ist ein solches Vorgehen mit rechtlichen Unsicherheiten behaftet. Denn die Rechtsprechung überprüft immer häufiger Strukturtarifverträge und -betriebsvereinbarungen anhand der in § 3 Abs. 1 BetrVG enthaltenen unbestimmten Rechtsbegriffe. Das belegt anschaulich der jahrelange Streit bei einer großen Kfz-Werkstattkette über die Bildung eines unternehmenseinheitlichen Betriebsrats. Geplant war, dass freigestellte Betriebsratsmitglieder von einem zentralen Sitz aus Belegschaften an sämtlichen Standorten im ganzen Bundesgebiet betreuen. Jedoch lehnte das LAG Nürnberg zuletzt im Oktober 2024 die Sachdienlichkeit einer solchen Gestaltung ab und erklärte die Wahl, die auf einer Gesamtbetriebsvereinbarung beruhte, für unwirksam. Das LAG verwies die Akteure im Interesse der Ortsnähe auf die Bildung einer Regionalstruktur.

…oder doch eine grundlegende Reform der Repräsentationseinheiten?

Hier zeigt sich im Einzelfall, was die bisherige Diskussion über die betriebsverfassungsrechtlichen Repräsentationseinheiten auch insgesamt prägt: Sie ist in einem lähmenden Gegensatz zwischen Arbeitnehmer- und Entscheidungsnähe gefangen. Einerseits will man die Mitbestimmung möglichst lokal ansiedeln, um einen engen Kontakt zwischen Betriebsrat und Belegschaft zu ermöglichen. Andererseits erscheint es effektiv, die Mitbestimmung dort zu verorten, wo die Entscheidungen fallen, also häufig auf Unternehmens- oder sogar auf Konzernebene. Arbeitnehmer- und Entscheidungsnähe stehen dann in einem Gegensatz, heben sich aber eben auch gegenseitig auf, was zu einer gewissen Beliebigkeit der Ergebnisse beiträgt.

Unabhängig davon greift es zu kurz, ein bisschen mehr Entscheidungsnähe hier und ein wenig mehr Arbeitnehmernähe dort zu fordern. Immerhin hat sich inzwischen eine teleologische Betrachtungsweise etabliert. Darauf verzichtete Erwin Jacobi, der vor fast genau hundert Jahren den historischen Ursprung des heutigen Betriebsbegriffs legte, noch vollständig. Aber auch heute erschöpfen sich diese Erwägungen in einer Art Mikro-Teleologie, die in den Repräsentationseinheiten der Betriebsverfassung kaum mehr als eine technische Fragestellung sieht. Man fragt, welche Repräsentationseinheit am besten „passt“, aber nicht, wofür sie passen soll. Nötig wäre eine Makro-Teleologie, die den Betriebsbegriff mit den Grundfragen der Betriebsverfassung verknüpft: Was kann und soll die betriebliche Mitbestimmung insgesamt leisten? Wessen Interessen schützt sie in welchen Situationen? Erst wenn das geklärt ist, kann eine sinnvolle Diskussion über Repräsentationseinheiten beginnen. Analysiert man die einzelnen Mitbestimmungsrechte, fangen die Probleme freilich erst richtig an: Mal stärkt der Betriebsrat die Rechtsposition einzelner Beschäftigter, mal vertritt er die Belange der Belegschaft als Ganzes, mal nimmt er die Interessen einer abgrenzbaren Gruppe wahr. Dass diese Mitbestimmungsrechte allesamt auf eine einheitliche Repräsentationseinheit bezogen werden, erscheint nicht zwingend. Näher liegen vielmehr Lösungen, die sich an der materiellen Rechtsträgerschaft für die einzelnen Mitbestimmungsrechte orientieren.

Ein weiterer Gesichtspunkt verdient mehr Aufmerksamkeit: Die Betriebsverfassung ist Fremdbestimmung und damit ein Stück Zwangskorporatismus. Die Belegschaftsangehörigen werden vom Betriebsrat vertreten, ob sie das wollen oder nicht. Das unterscheidet die Betriebsautonomie grundlegend von der Tarifautonomie, die auf privatrechtlicher Grundlage rekonstruierbar ist. Der Zuschnitt der Repräsentationseinheiten ist deshalb nicht nur eine Frage der Organisation, sondern auch eine Frage der Legitimation. Die Betriebsverfassung ist mit Rücksicht auf die Privatautonomie und Arbeitsvertragsfreiheit so zu gestalten, dass der Grad an Fremdbestimmung das erforderliche Maß nicht überschreitet.

Plädoyer für eine modulare Struktur der Betriebsverfassung

Wie könnte nun eine Betriebsverfassung aussehen, die bei ihren Repräsentationseinheiten nach Mitbestimmungsgegenständen, Rechtsträgerschaften und Betroffenheiten differenziert und dabei den Grad an Fremdbestimmung auf das notwendige Maß reduziert? An die Stelle eines einheitlichen Betriebsbegriffs als dem universalen Anknüpfungspunkt könnte eine modulare Zuordnung der Mitbestimmungsrechte je nach Schutzrichtung und konkreter Betroffenheit treten. Individualschützende Rechte wären im Sinne einer effektiven Interessenverfolgung wohl am besten auf Unternehmensebene angesiedelt. Kollektive Rechte sollten hingegen dort wahrgenommen werden, wo die konkreten Belegschaftsinteressen liegen. Eine notwendige Vorbedingung für eine entsprechende Umgestaltung der Betriebsverfassung liegt allerdings in der gründlichen Revision und Neustrukturierung der Mitbestimmungsrechte. Denn im geltenden BetrVG sind die einzelnen Tatbestände nach anderen Kriterien geordnet.

Eine Modulstruktur ermöglicht zugleich eine Überwindung des bisherigen Alles-oder-Nichts-Prinzips der Betriebsverfassung. Derzeit sind Betriebsräte in kleinen Einheiten mit dem vollständigen Arsenal der Mitbestimmungsrechte erkennbar überfordert. Anhand von Schwellenwerten ließen sich z.B. nach Unternehmensgröße Module aktivieren oder deaktivieren. Zudem ist innerhalb eines festen Rahmens auch eine flexiblere Reaktion auf Veränderungen der Unternehmensstruktur möglich.

Unverkennbar bedarf es aber zugleich einer institutionellen Kontinuität. Als Grundgerüst könnte ein auf Unternehmensebene gewähltes Gremium dienen, von dem sich Subgremien ableiten. Willensbildung und Ausübung der Mitbestimmungsrechte sollten dabei nicht getrennt werden. Zuständigkeitskonflikte zwischen den Gremien ließen sich verfahrensrechtlich einhegen: etwa durch ein Anfrageverfahren, mit dem der Arbeitgeber vorab Klarheit über die Zuständigkeit erhält, kombiniert mit strengen Präklusionsregeln.

Welche Folgen hätte ein modulares Modell für die betriebliche Interessenvertretung in den „Remote Cities“ des Essenslieferservices? Anders als im bisherigen System müssten die Gerichte keine generelle Entscheidung über die „Unabhängigkeit“ der reinen Liefergebiete treffen. Ebenso wenig müsste man überlegen, ob die dortige Belegschaft aus bestimmten Gründen, etwa wegen eines gemeinsamen Dienstplans, eine „Interessengemeinschaft“ bildet. Denn gemeinsame Interessen auf bestimmten Feldern bedingen es nicht, dass die gesamte Mitbestimmung auf dieser Ebene anzusiedeln wäre. Es käme vielmehr auf das konkrete Mitbestimmungsthema an. Sofern es gerade und nur um die Interessen der Beschäftigten an einem bestimmten Standort geht (wie z.B. bei der Urlaubsplanung), sollte ein Subgremium zuständig sein, das mit Beschäftigten aus dem betroffenen Belegschaftsteil besetzt ist.

Fazit

Mit dem „Betrieb“ ist einer der zentralen Grundbegriffe des Betriebsverfassungsrechts unter Druck geraten, weil er immer weniger mit der Unternehmenswirklichkeit in Einklang zu bringen ist. Dies zeigen beispielhaft die Fälle aus der plattformbasierten Lieferwirtschaft, bei denen die Ortlosigkeit der Führungsorganisation den herkömmlichen leitungsfixierten Betriebsbegriff an seine Grenzen stoßen lässt. Diese strukturellen Probleme tragen zur Erosion der betrieblichen Mitbestimmung bei.

Die bisher diskutierten Reformansätze zielen überwiegend darauf ab, den Betriebsbegriff unangetastet zu lassen und dafür das Regelungsumfeld punktuell anzupassen. Vor allem zur Reform des § 3 BetrVG (kollektivvertragliche Anpassungen) und des § 4 BetrVG (Betriebsteile) liegen interessante Vorschläge vor, die rasch umsetzbar wären. Unabhängig davon sollte der Gesetzgeber aber auch eine längerfristige Reformperspektive in den Blick nehmen. Die Arbeitsrechtswissenschaft sollte sich der Frage stellen, ob die Anknüpfung der betrieblichen Mitbestimmung an eine zentrale Repräsentationseinheit überhaupt sinnvoll ist.

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“Human rights is a universal standard. It is a component of every religion and every civilization.”

Like many Iranians in 1979, Shirin Ebadi had hoped the revolution would bring something better. The regime that emerged gave her a lifetime’s work proving it had not. Ebadi is an Iranian lawyer, jurist, and human rights activist who became the first Muslim woman and the first Iranian to receive the Nobel Peace Prize in 2003. Her life is a testament to how legal training can be transformed into a means of resistance and how an individual, despite being stripped of institutional power, can still use the law as a tool for justice. As she put it: “I have a tongue in my mouth, and I will not keep quiet until the day I die.”

© Javaid Montazari

Before the Revolution

Shirin Ebadi was born on 21 June 1947 in Hamadan, a city in northwestern Iran. Her father, Mohammad Ali Ebadi, was a distinguished jurist, a professor of commercial law, and a man she has consistently described as the defining influence on her understanding of justice. The family moved to Tehran when Shirin was an infant, and she grew up in a household where education was expected and intellectual engagement was ordinary. In 1965, she was admitted to the Faculty of Law at the University of Tehran. She followed this with a doctorate in private law, also from Tehran, awarded in 1971 with honours.

What might have seemed like a straightforward path towards a traditional legal career was, from the beginning, defined by a determination to go beyond its boundaries. In 1969, after passing the qualifying examinations for the Department of Justice, Ebadi was appointed as a judge – one of the first women in the history of the Iranian judiciary to hold this office. By 1975, she had risen to become the head of Branch 26 of the Tehran City Court, again the first woman to hold such a position and one of the youngest individuals ever to do so.

Dismissed, Demoted, Determined

The Islamic Revolution of 1979 ended all this overnight. The new theocratic leadership declared that Islam forbade women from serving as judges, so Ebadi along with all other female judges were removed from their post and reassigned to clerical duties. She found herself working as a secretary in the very courtroom over which she had previously presided.

The humiliation of this reversal was not lost on her. Ebadi and her colleagues protested, and were subsequently elevated, nominally, to the position of “legal expert” within the Justice Department. Unable to practise her profession in any meaningful way, she applied for early retirement. When she then applied for a licence to practise as a lawyer, the Bar Association, which was under the management of the Judiciary at the time, refused her application for years. During the 1980s, she wrote books about children’s rights and published articles analysing the legal framework of the Islamic Republic. It was not until 1992, after more than a decade of exclusion, that she was finally permitted to practise law.

Law as Resistance

“If you can’t eliminate injustice, at least tell everyone about it.”

From the outset, Ebadi’s legal practice was an act of deliberate opposition. She took on cases that few others would touch, representing political dissidents, victims of state violence and religious minorities like the Baha’i. One of her most significant cases was representing the family of Dariush Foruhar, an intellectual who was murdered alongside his wife in 1998 in a series of killings of Iranian writers and intellectuals known as the “Chain Murders”, which were attributed to elements within the state’s intelligence services. While researching the cases in the Tehran courthouse, she came across a transcript of a conversation between a government minister and a hired assassin. Her own name was on the list:

Her institutional work ran alongside her casework. In 1994, she co-founded the Society for Protecting the Rights of the Child, one of the first NGOs of its kind in Iran, which sought to improve the legal framework governing children’s welfare in accordance with the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child. In 2001, she co-founded the Defenders of Human Rights Center, offering pro bono legal representation to political prisoners and their families and raising public awareness of human rights abuses. She also participated in the Million Signatures Campaign, a grassroots movement demanding an end to legal discrimination against women in Iranian law.

Denied a courtroom, Ebadi created one on the page. During this period, she wrote several books, including The Rights of the Child (1994), History and Documentation of Human Rights in Iran (2000) and The Rights of Women (2002), as well as more than a dozen others. Each one was a legal argument in book form, documenting specific violations and proposing specific reforms, written by someone who had been barred from making those arguments anywhere else.

A Nobel Prize in a Country That Despised It

On 10 October 2003, the Norwegian Nobel Committee awarded Shirin Ebadi the Nobel Peace Prize for her efforts for democracy and human rights, with particular recognition of her work on behalf of women and children. She was the first Iranian and the first Muslim woman to receive the award.

The Iranian government’s response was revealing. President Khatami, himself considered a reformist, dismissed the prize as “not very important”. Conservative newspapers described it as an attack on Islam by the West. The authorities did not organise a public celebration. During the Oslo ceremony and at the press conference abroad, Ebadi appeared without a headscarf as a deliberate statement that, in Iran, her headscarf was imposed by law rather than a personal choice, before wearing one again on her return to Tehran, where the law required it.  In Tehran, she received a warm welcome from crowds who understood the significance of the prize.

Her legal and political philosophy was based on the idea that the fight for women’s rights in Iran was not against Islam itself, but rather against a specific interpretation of it. As she has put it in many interviews: “I am against patriarchy, not Islam”.

Confiscation and Exile

The years following the Nobel Prize brought escalating pressure. In 2008, the Iranian authorities forcibly closed the Defenders of Human Rights Center, citing “propaganda against the state”. Law offices were raided, and her personal property was confiscated. While attending a conference in Spain in January 2009, Ebadi assessed the accelerating persecution of human rights activists and made the decision not to return. She has remained in exile in the United Kingdom ever since.

The Iranian government’s retaliation did not stop with her departure. Her husband was beaten and arrested. Her sister was detained. Her bank accounts were frozen due to fabricated tax charges. While Ebadi was abroad, the regime set a honey trap for her husband and forced him to make a televised statement denouncing his wife. The marriage, subjected to relentless state pressure, eventually ended in divorce. Then, in November 2009, Iranian authorities raided a bank vault and confiscated Ebadi’s Nobel Peace Prize medal and diploma, the physical embodiment of the world’s recognition of her work, in an act without precedent in the history of the Nobel Prize. The authorities also brought charges against her in the Revolutionary Court, a proceeding she refused to recognise.

From London, Ebadi rebuilt what had been destroyed. In 2012, she established the Centre for Defenders of Human Rights in London, thereby continuing the work of the Tehran organisation from exile. She has published monthly bilingual reports on human rights violations in Iran, delivered lectures at universities across the world, and maintained a consistent public presence on Iranian affairs. From her exile, Ebadi also watched successive waves of protest wash over Iran since 2009, including the Green Movement, the 2019 uprising – and then, Zan, Zendegi, Azadi in 2022, the slogan that turned four decades of her legal arguments into a street chant.

“Woman, Life, Freedom”

In September 2022, the young Iranian woman Mahsa Amini died in police custody, her alleged crime being the improper wearing of the hijab. The protests that swept Iran following her death gave Ebadi’s decades of work a new context and a new urgency. The movement’s slogan, Zan, Zendegi, Azadi – Woman, Life, Freedom, resonated directly with the issues she had been raising since the 1980s.

Ebadi expressed her unequivocal support for the protesters and provided a legal analysis of the challenges they faced. In November 2022, she addressed the UN Security Council, urging the international community to hold the Iranian government accountable for gender apartheid, a system in which a woman’s life is legally worth half that of a man, and two women’s testimony is equivalent to one man’s. Describing the movement as both cultural and political, she argued that it marks a generational shift in how Iranians understand the relationship between gender, religion and the state. The new protest slogan was, she argued, a demand for life made by the woman who sustain it.

That the generational shift comes at a cost, is visible through the fate if Narges Mohammadi, the imprisoned activist and 2023 Nobel Peace Prize laureate, with whom Ebadi co-founded the Defenders of Human Rights Centre.

The View from Exile

At the end of 2025, another eruption occurred. The December 2025 protests began in Tehran’s bazaar, triggered by an acute currency collapse and the spectre of renewed inflation. However, they quickly shed their economic framing and once again became a demand for an end to the Islamic Republic. Security forces responded with lethal force. This was followed by a nationwide internet blackout, which Ebadi publicly described not as a technical failure, but as a deliberate tactic of concealment, warning that killing, detention, and organised concealment were taking place on a scale that the outside world could not yet measure.

Her legal and political analysis of Iran’s current situation is more definitive than ever before. In January 2026, she described the protests as revealing a decisive shift in which many Iranians had concluded that the establishment must end and that repression no longer achieved its purpose precisely because people had nothing left to lose. She added that there was no hope left for the Islamic Republic. She called for its overthrow and specified the legal form it should be a referendum conducted under UN supervision, in which Iranians would determine their own political future. That demand is now taking an institutional form after she accepted the chairmanship of a transitional justice committee established by exiled Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi in March 2026.

Sharp Legal Critique

What distinguishes Ebadi’s position from simple opposition politics is its legal precision. Ebadi does not call for foreign military intervention, a position she has held consistently since before the Iraq War, when she stated that democracy cannot be imported through cluster bombs. Instead, she calls for the international legal framework, including the UN, to serve its proper function as a guarantee through which people can exercise self-determination. The mechanism she demands is a legal one, even if the path to it runs through popular uprising.

Equally central to her current analysis is a sharp critique not only of Tehran alone, but also of Western governments. For decades, she has argued, the international community has treated Iran’s nuclear programme as the primary problem and human rights as a secondary concern. Her formulation is unambiguous stating that any government that chooses to negotiate with the Islamic Republic bears a legal and moral obligation to place human rights violations at the top of that agenda, not as a footnote. The deaths of protesters, the execution of juvenile offenders, documented in a June 2025 letter she addressed directly to the head of UNICEF, condemning that organisation’s silence in the face of ongoing child rights violations are, in her view, partly enabled by a world order that has repeatedly decided they are acceptable costs. This is the work of both a jurist and an activist through which she identifies legal obligations, documents their breach and insists on accountability.

The Longest Case

What Shirin Ebadi’s career demonstrates, above all, is that legal training is not merely a professional credential. It is a way of seeing the world and one that does not switch off when the courtroom is closed, the licence revoked or the border crossed. Stripped of her judgeship, she found a wider reach. Driven into exile, she continued the work from London with the same methodical insistence she had brought to the Tehran courts.

What distinguishes her contribution to international human rights law is the intellectual framework she advanced: that universal human rights standards are compatible with and indeed demanded by a properly understood Islam, and that discriminatory laws derive their authority not from religion but from political power masquerading as religious necessity. This has shaped how reformers within Iran and across the Muslim world have engaged with questions of women’s rights and legal equality.

Shirin Ebadi has spent more than four decades insisting that a different Iran is legally possible, morally necessary, and historically inevitable. A generation has grown up inside Iran that no longer needs to be convinced. She says she will go home. The question for her is no longer whether, but when.

Further Sources:

• Shirin Ebadi, Iran Awakening: A Memoir of Revolution and Hope (2006, with Azadeh Moaveni)
• Shirin Ebadi, Until We Are Free: My Fight for Human Rights in Iran (2016)
• Shirin Ebadi, The Rights of the Child: A Study of Legal Aspects of Children’s Rights in Iran (1994)
• WDR 5, Das Feature, “Niemals aufgeben.” Friedensnobelpreisträgerin Shirin Ebadi, 1 January 2023
• Tomorrow, Today, Inside Iran: Shirin Ebadi Explains Politics, War and Women’s Rights, 5 June 2026
• Sina Ataeian Dena, Seven Winters in Tehran (documentary film, Germany/France 2023)

The post Shirin Ebadi appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

From the “Letter of the Nine” to a Political Declaration

In May 2025, nine governments – led by the Denmark and Italy – published an open letter claiming that the Court had overreached in its interpretation of the Convention’s guarantees. The signatories called for an “open-minded” debate about how the ECHR should be interpreted, ostensibly to restore a balance they claimed had been lost. Many, among them also the Secretary General of the CoE, Alain Berset, read the letter as a frontal challenge to the Court’s authority (for a detailed analysis see here).

The CoE channelled the controversy into a formalised process. An informal ministerial meeting in December tasked the Human Rights Steering Committee (CDDH) with drafting a political declaration. In the margins of that same meeting, a sharper and more alarming joint statement of 27 states reignited the narrative that the Court’s case law was hampering them in their migration policies and called for a more restrictive application of Articles 3 and 8 of the Convention (for a critical analysis see here).

The final Declaration, building on the Steering Committee’s work, was adopted on May 15. Much anticipatory commentary had warned that the final text might formally undercut the Court’s authority (see here, and for an analysis of the author herself here). So, what does it actually say?

A Harder Draft, A Softer Outcome

The good news is that several of the most troubling elements present in the CDDH’s final draft did not survive in the adopted text. This is most likely the price of unanimity: in order to secure the agreement of all member states, some of the more radical demands had to be diluted or dropped. We should not, however, assume that the 27 states behind December’s hardline statement have abandoned those positions. But it is worth noting that they failed to organise a blocking majority for them (the parallels with the draft Copenhagen Declaration of 2018 are worth recalling).

The final Declaration explicitly affirms the independence of the Court – a commitment placed pointedly at the beginning of the document (preamble para. 3). The version adopted no longer includes the provision that would have subjected the Court’s development of Convention guarantees to political dialogue between states and the Court (CDDH Draft para. 11); only their respective roles in applying the Convention remain the subject of that conversation (para. 48).

Equally notable is what else disappeared: the explicit references to the instrumentalisation cases currently pending before the Court (CDDH Draft para. 55; as opposed to para. 37-40 of the final Declaration). In these cases, the Court is called to assess pushbacks of migrants at the Belarusian border carried out against the backdrop of state-facilitated migration flows designed to put pressure on the EU. Framing the passage on instrumentalisation in general terms rather than commenting directly on the pending cases (particularly para. 39) is welcome, though it likely reflects a desire to extend the Declaration’s longevity rather than any principled restraint.

Throughout the text, the Declaration does not explicitly criticise any existing case law. Thus, it abstains from reproducing the prior narrative that the Court hampers effective migration management. Even more laudable, near the end, the Declaration calls on member states to prevent the spread of misinformation about its case law (para. 58). That passage reads at least as a tacit acknowledgement of how states have weaponised that narrative to criticise Court.

The Remaining Problem

These edits matter, but they should not distract from what the Declaration still does: it asserts that the states themselves can pronounce on the substantive content and right interpretation of Convention rights. Such substantial remarks are entirely novel to the established instrument of a political Declaration.

Take the entire subsection on Article 3. The Declaration states that the threshold for inhuman or degrading treatment – a guarantee that is, it bears repeating, absolute and non-derogable (as also acknowledged in para. 22) – should be met only in “very exceptional circumstances” (para. 25).

The Declaration continues to express that deficient healthcare (para. 25), socio-economic hardships (para. 26), poor detention conditions (para. 27) and a generally poor human rights record of the receiving state (para. 28) should not suffice on their own to establish a risk that prevents states from returning migrants under non-refoulement, at least not automatically. Effectively, this can be read as an implicit call upon the Court to narrow the scope of Article 3 in the migration context.

On expulsion and deportation of foreign nationals who have committed criminal offences, the Declaration insists that only national law should govern the decision (para. 21), and that “unnecessary constraints” by the Court should be avoided (para. 23). The principle of subsidiarity is invoked throughout (paras. 1, 4, 5, 6, 32, 52, 55).

The Declaration also fails to engage properly with the Court’s case law. It underlines that the states enjoy a particularly wide margin of appreciation in matters of national security (para. 32). The CDDH Draft, from which this formulation was taken, supported the claim with references to the Court’s case law (Fn. 16). It cited Gaspar v. Russia as a source for the wide margin (para. 43). Yet, this reference is misleading: In that case, the Court immediately qualified its statement (para. 44) and eventually found a violation. The Draft passes over this qualification in silence. Although the final Declaration omits the footnotes, its assertion of a wide margin still relies on this non-differentiated reading of the Court’s case law.

Similarly, the Declaration asserts that a diplomatic assurance can “obviate” an Article 3 risk (para. 30) without engaging with the Court’s demanding requirements for when such assurances are actually sufficient to rebut that risk (cf. particularly Othman (Abu Qatada) v. the United Kingdom).

Throughout the Declaration, sweeping state powers are qualified by the reminder that they must of course be exercised in conformity with the Convention (para. 24, 35). In practice, however, these compatibility clauses carry little independent weight. They do not define, limit, or condition the powers in question and remind a lot of the hollow human rights compatibility clauses in the EU’s New Pact on Migration and Asylum.

Finally, the Declaration emphasises the need to respect the circumstances of a case and adapt a “context-specific” application of Convention rights. This echoes the context-driven interpretations the responding Governments have advanced in the oral hearings of the instrumentalisation cases (see above). This risks the gradual creation of a Convention underclass: groups whose rights are formally guaranteed but contextually diluted wherever states deem the circumstances sufficiently exceptional (see here). The AGORA group, in an immediate response, raised the same concern, warning that differentiated standards would create a hierarchy of rights-holders and risk eroding protection for other groups in the future.

Why This All Matters

What makes the Chișinău Declaration different from prior political declarations and particularly troubling is its substantive content and the ambition behind it. Previous declarations had sought to influence how the Court operates – its procedures, its docket management, its relationship with domestic courts (for an overview see here). This Declaration goes further: it purports to shape what the Convention guarantees mean. This qualitative shift is why the Declaration’s diplomatic tone cannot be mistaken for relief.

The entire process was driven by states whose primary interest is in narrowing the Convention’s reach in migration matters and to place national security interests above the individual rights of migrants. That the final text is more measured and softened than prior Drafts is likely thanks to the influence of the states that already declined to join the December statement (notably the states receiving the most migrants, Germany, France, and Turkey were among them). But their moderating influence should not be mistaken for resolution of the underlying and ongoing conflict.

What Comes Next

The Declaration does not formally bind the Court, but it shapes the interpretive environment in which it operates. It signals to domestic courts, state agents, and the public what member states collectively believe the Convention means. The Court itself is not immune to such signals. If the Declaration’s practical effect is limited to prompting more detailed reasoning in migration judgments, that would be the best outcome one could hope for.

But the deeper problem is structural. A political declaration that claims interpretive authority over the Convention, however diplomatically worded, normalises that claim. The line crossed at Chișinău is not defined by the harshness of the text, but by the fact that it contains substantive demands at all. Whether the states’ promised respect for the Court’s independence amounts to more than lip service remains to be seen.

The post Crossing a Line in Plain Sight appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Im Mai 2026 schloss der Internationale Strafgerichtshof (IStGH) das Verfahren zur Bestätigung der Anklagepunkte gegen Khaled El Hishri ab, einen ehemaligen hochrangigen Offizier der libyschen Special Deterrence Force (SDF/RADA). Fünfzehn Jahre nach der Überweisung der Situation in Libyen an den Gerichtshof durch den UN-Sicherheitsrat muss sich damit erstmals ein Verdächtiger in Den Haag verantworten. Dass das so lange dauerte, sagt ebenso viel über Libyen und die europäische  Migrationspolitik wie über den IStGH aus: ein Land, in dem Zuständigkeiten verschwimmen und sich die Frage nach individueller Verantwortung kaum von der Frage trennen lässt, wer überhaupt den „Staat“ verkörpert und welche Rolle europäische Akteure spielen.

Deutsche Behörden nahmen El Hishri im Juli 2025 am Flughafen Berlin-Brandenburg fest und überstellten ihn im Dezember desselben Jahres an den IStGH. Die Anklage richtet sich zwar gegen El Hishri persönlich und betrifft Taten, die zwischen 2014 und 2020 im Mitiga-Gefängnis in Tripolis begangen worden sein sollen. Gleichzeitig macht die Anklageschrift ein System sichtbar, dessen Strukturen weit schwerer zu durchdringen sind. Mitiga war formal Teil des libyschen Haftsystems, stand faktisch aber unter der Kontrolle einer bewaffneten Gruppe mit eigener Befehlskette und eigenen wirtschaftlichen Interessen.

Gerade deshalb ist Mitiga ein besonders aufschlussreiches Beispiel dafür, wie Macht seit 2011 in Libyen ausgeübt wird. Der Fall El Hishri wirft letztlich eine noch unangenehmere Frage auf als die nach der Möglichkeit von strafrechtlicher Verantwortung: Für welche Muster der Ausbeutung soll überhaupt Verantwortung übernommen werden – und wer entzieht sich ihr vollständig? Wir haben mit Allison West, Senior Legal Advisor beim European Center for Constitutional and Human Rights (ECCHR), über die Komplexität des Verfahrens gesprochen und darüber, wie es sich in den größeren Kampf um Gerechtigkeit in Libyen einfügt.

1. Der Fall El Hishri ist der erste Fall der Libyen-Situation, der seit der Überweisung von 2011 den IStGH erreicht hat – und er bewegt sich genau an der Schnittstelle zwischen staatlicher Autorität und bewaffneter Gruppe, die das Mitiga-Gefängnis bis heute prägt. Können Sie unseren Leserinnen erläutern, worum es in dem Verfahren geht, was El Hishri vorgeworfen wird und warum der Fall weit über diesen einzelnen Angeklagten hinausreicht?

Eines seiner Opfer bezeichnete El Hishri als „Todesengel“. Ihm werden 17 Fälle von Verbrechen gegen die Menschlichkeit und Kriegsverbrechen vorgeworfen, die sich vor allem gegen Gefangene im Mitiga-Gefängnis in Tripolis richteten. Nach Darstellung der Anklage gehörte er zur Führung der mächtigen, in Tripolis ansässigen Miliz SDF/RADA, die dem libyschen Präsidialrat nahesteht, und war zugleich einer der leitenden Verantwortlichen des Gefängnisses. Besonders bemerkenswert ist, dass die Anklage ihm nicht nur vorwirft, in seiner Führungsrolle schwere Misshandlungen von Männern, Frauen, Jungen und Mädchen – Libyern ebenso wie Nicht-Libyern – angeordnet, überwacht oder geduldet zu haben. Vielmehr soll er sämtliche 17 angeklagten Taten auch selbst begangen haben, darunter Folter, Mord, Vergewaltigung und andere Formen sexualisierter Gewalt, Versklavung und Verfolgung. Anders gesagt: Er führte durch eigenes Vorbild.

Der Fall ist deshalb bedeutsam, weil erstmals seit fünfzehn Jahren Ermittlungen des IStGH zu Libyen ein Verdächtiger an den Gerichtshof überstellt und mit konkreten Vorwürfen konfrontiert wurde. Für Überlebende, betroffene Gemeinschaften und zivilgesellschaftliche Organisationen, die seit Jahren Verbrechen in Mitiga und anderen Haftanstalten in Libyen dokumentieren, eröffnet sich damit erstmals die reale Möglichkeit, diese Taten von einem internationalen Gericht rechtlich eingeordnet und aufgearbeitet zu bekommen. Zugleich erhalten Überlebende die Chance, gehört zu werden und am Verfahren teilzunehmen. Gerade diese partizipative und wahrheitsstiftende Dimension internationaler Strafjustiz ist von enormer Bedeutung.

Die Tragweite des Falls reicht allerdings weit über einen einzelnen Angeklagten und ein einzelnes Gefängnis hinaus. Mitiga steht exemplarisch für breitere Muster innerhalb des libyschen Haftsystems, in dem Gefangenschaft zu einer Quelle von Macht und Profit geworden ist, insbesondere für schwarze afrikanische Migrantinnen und Migranten sowie Geflüchtete, die versklavt werden und besonders schwerer systematischer Ausbeutung und Gewalt ausgesetzt sind. Hervorzuheben ist auch der intersektionale Ansatz der Anklage: Sie erkennt an, dass die Verbrechen in Mitiga durch Faktoren wie Hautfarbe, Nationalität, ethnische Zugehörigkeit, Geschlecht, Alter oder Migrationsstatus geprägt und verschärft wurden – unabhängig davon, ob diese Merkmale tatsächlich vorlagen oder den Betroffenen lediglich zugeschrieben wurden.

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2. Der Fall El Hishri rückt Libyen wieder in den Fokus des IStGH. Gleichzeitig wirkt die internationale Aufmerksamkeit für Libyen oft episodisch: Sie flammt in Krisenmomenten auf und ebbt dann schnell wieder ab. Welche strukturellen Dynamiken erschweren aus Ihrer Sicht eine konsequente strafrechtliche Aufarbeitung so nachhaltig – selbst dann, wenn die Beweise für schwerste Verbrechen überwältigend sind?

Beweise für internationale Verbrechen in Libyen – und häufig auch für die Verantwortlichen dahinter – liegen seit Jahren vor. Überlebende, libysche und internationale zivilgesellschaftliche Organisationen, Journalistinnen und Journalisten, UN-Gremien und Menschenrechtsorganisationen haben sie umfassend dokumentiert. Das Problem ist also kein Mangel an Wissen. Rechenschaft scheitert vielmehr daran, dass mächtige Akteure politisch und wirtschaftlich weiterhin von diesen Verbrechen profitieren.

Das Haftsystem ist in Libyen zu einer Industrie geworden und bildet einen zentralen Bestandteil der Konfliktökonomie nach 2011. Menschen, denen die Freiheit entzogen wurde, werden zur Ware: durch Erpressung, Zwangsarbeit, Lösegeldforderungen, Menschenhandel oder als Mittel, Ressourcen im Namen der Migrationskontrolle zu sichern. Viele Akteure im Haftsystem profitieren zugleich von staatsnahen Funktionen und offen kriminellen Aktivitäten. Besonders deutlich zeigt sich das bei der Inhaftierung von Migrantinnen, Migranten und Geflüchteten, betrifft aber auch Libyerinnen und Libyer.

Hinzu kommt, dass mutmaßliche Täter häufig Milizen oder bewaffneten Gruppen angehören, die durch staatliche Institutionen, neben ihnen oder an ihrer Stelle agieren. Selbst wenn Opfer Misshandlungen melden – oft unter erheblichem Risiko für die eigene Sicherheit –, bleibt die Justiz zersplittert, unter Druck und kaum in der Lage, glaubwürdige Strafverfolgung sicherzustellen. Gerade deshalb ist der Rückgriff auf den IStGH als letztes Mittel so wichtig.

Allerdings kann auch der IStGH nur funktionieren, wenn Staaten kooperieren. El Hishri befindet sich in Den Haag, weil Deutschland ihn festgenommen und überstellt hat. Italien dagegen nahm 2025 mit Osama Elmasry Njeem einen weiteren vom IStGH gesuchten Verdächtigen fest, gegen den ebenfalls wegen mutmaßlicher Verbrechen in Mitiga ermittelt wird, ließ ihn jedoch wieder frei und brachte ihn nach Libyen zurück. Der IStGH stellte inzwischen fest, dass Italien damit gegen seine Kooperationspflichten verstoßen hat. Das ECCHR unterstützt nun eine anhängige Beschwerde vor dem Europäischen Gerichtshof für Menschenrechte, mit der ein Überlebender der Folter durch Elmasry gegen Italiens mangelnde Zusammenarbeit vorgeht. All das zeigt, warum sich strafrechtliche Verantwortung trotz erdrückender Beweislage so schwer durchsetzen lässt.

3. In internationalen rechtlichen und politischen Debatten wird Libyen oft auf Schlagworte reduziert: „Staatszerfall“, „Milizen“, „Haftlager“, „Migration“. Welche dieser dominanten Erzählungen verzerrt Ihrer Meinung nach die Realität vor Ort am stärksten – und was übersehen Beobachter von außen dadurch systematisch?

Am irreführendsten ist die Erzählung vom „Zusammenbruch“, weil sie nahelegt, die Gewalt in Libyen sei chaotisch und unsystematisch. Tatsächlich sind die Machtstrukturen seit 2011 tief fragmentiert. Was externe Beobachter aber häufig übersehen: Selbst in diesem zersplitterten Kontext eines andauernden bewaffneten Konflikts und ständig wechselnder Machtzentren existieren organisierte Systeme der Gewalt. Dazu gehört insbesondere die libysche Haftindustrie, über die unterschiedliche Akteure Einfluss sichern, Gewinne erzielen und Macht konsolidieren. Das Mitiga-Gefängnis unter Kontrolle der SDF/RADA ist dafür ein prägnantes Beispiel. Die Erzählung vom „Zusammenbruch“ verdeckt außerdem die Rolle internationaler Akteure, deren Zusammenarbeit mit libyschen Behörden diese Strukturen häufig eher stabilisiert als infrage stellt.

4. Internationale Akteure, insbesondere in Europa, haben libysche Akteure im Namen der Migrationskontrolle finanziert, ausgebildet oder anderweitig unterstützt – obwohl die Misshandlungen in den Haftanstalten seit Langem dokumentiert sind. In welchem Ausmaß haben diese Politiken zu genau jenen Gewaltstrukturen beigetragen, die nun in Verfahren wie dem gegen El Hishri untersucht werden?

Europäische Migrations- und Grenzschutzpolitik ist zentral, um zu verstehen, warum so viele Migrantinnen, Migranten und Geflüchtete in Mitiga und anderen Haftanstalten in Libyen landeten und anschließend misshandelt wurden.

Seit Jahren tragen EU-Mitgliedstaaten, europäische Institutionen und Behörden wie Frontex dazu bei, ein System der Rückführungen nach Libyen aufzubauen und aufrechtzuerhalten. Dahinter steht ein umfassenderes Ziel: Überfahrten nach Europa bereits in Libyen zu unterbinden. Seit 2016 haben sie die sogenannte libysche Küstenwache verstärkt unterstützt – durch finanzielle Mittel, Patrouillenboote, Ausrüstung, Ausbildung, Überwachung und die Weitergabe der Koordinaten von Booten in Seenot. Dadurch konnten libysche Akteure Menschen auf See aufgreifen und zwangsweise in genau jenes Haftsystem zurückbringen und ausbeuten, das nun im Fall El Hishri im Fokus steht.

In einer umfassenden Eingabe an den IStGH argumentierte das ECCHR 2022, dass solche Abfangaktionen und erzwungenen Rückführungen den Tatbestand des Verbrechens gegen die Menschlichkeit der schweren Freiheitsberaubung erfüllen. Für diese Taten trügen hochrangige Vertreter der EU und ihrer Mitgliedstaaten Mitverantwortung. Für viele der am Verfahren beteiligten migrantischen und geflüchteten Opfer ist es entscheidend, dass der Prozess auch sichtbar macht, wie europäische Politik zu den Misshandlungen beitrug, die sie in Mitiga erlitten haben. Das zeigte sich deutlich während und im Umfeld des Verfahrens zur Bestätigung der Anklage: Viele Betroffene machten darauf aufmerksam, dass europäisch unterstützte Abfangaktionen sie und andere direkt in genau jenes Haftzentrum zurückgebracht hatten, das nun vor dem Gericht verhandelt wird.

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5. Über den Tellerrand des Gerichtssaals hinaus gedacht: Wie würde echte Rechenschaft in Libyen aussehen und gibt es unter den aktuellen politischen Bedingungen überhaupt einen realistischen Weg dorthin?

Sinnvolle Strafverfolgung setzt immer voraus, dass Überlebende und Opfer wirksam beteiligt werden und die nötige Unterstützung erhalten, um solche Prozesse mitzugestalten. Ein Gerichtsverfahren kann individuelle Verantwortung feststellen. Gerechtigkeit verlangt aber mehr: Wahrheit, Anerkennung, Entschädigung, Schutz und politische Veränderungen, die verhindern, dass dasselbe System fortlaufend neue Opfer hervorbringt. Bis heute kontrolliert RADA weiterhin das Mitiga-Gefängnis. Es bleibt also noch viel zu tun.

Gleichzeitig berichteten Überlebende, die die Anhörung gegen El Hishri verfolgt oder besucht hatten, dass sie ihnen neue Hoffnung gegeben habe, dass Gerechtigkeit möglich ist. Dieser Hoffnung müssen nun weitere Schritte folgen: fortgesetzte Ermittlungen der Anklagebehörde des IStGH – auch zu Verbrechen in Ostlibyen sowie zur Verantwortung von EU- und Mitgliedstaatenvertreter*innen für Verbrechen gegen Migrantinnen, Migranten und Geflüchtete, insbesondere für jene schwere Freiheitsberaubung, die bereits mit dem Abfangen auf See und der Rückführung nach Libyen beginnt. Ebenso braucht es die vollständige Zusammenarbeit Libyens und der Vertragsstaaten des IStGH bei der Vollstreckung von Haftbefehlen und der Überstellung von Verdächtigen nach Den Haag, tatsächliche politische Veränderungen in Libyen und Europa sowie anhaltende Unterstützung für zivilgesellschaftliche Initiativen, insbesondere von den Überlebenden selbst geführte, die diesen Schritt überhaupt erst möglich gemacht haben.

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Editor’s Pick

von MAXIM BÖNNEMANN

Was heißt es, unter der Diktatur der Hamas aufzuwachsen? Hamza Abu Howidy ist 1997 in Gaza geboren und dort zur Schule gegangen. Die Ideologie und Gewalt des Regimes durchziehen alle Bereiche der Gesellschaft – von den Straßen der Nachbarschaft über Klassenzimmer und Hörsäle. Kritische Fragen werden geahndet und wer sich dennoch traut, gegen das islamistische Regime auf die Straße zu gehen, wird aufgegriffen und inhaftiert. Auch Hamza Abu Howidy landet in den Gefängniszellen der Hamas, nachdem er an einer Demonstration teilgenommen hat. Nach wiederholter Inhaftierung und Folter gelingt Abu Howidy die Flucht nach Europa, die ihn schließlich nach Deutschland führt. In diesem Buch erzählt er vom Alltag in der Hamas-Diktatur, von Liebe, Mut und Widerstand, und von seiner Einsamkeit als palästinensischer Dissident, der sich nicht nur gegen die Hamas stellt, sondern auch die Kriegsverbrechen der israelischen Regierung kritisiert. „Muscheln am Strand von Gaza“ ist vieles zugleich: Augenzeugenbericht, Kindheitserzählung, vor allem aber ein fantastisch erzähltes Buch über den unstillbaren Drang nach Freiheit.

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Die Woche auf dem Verfassungsblog

zusammengefasst von EVA MARIA BREDLER

Manche Gesetze sind Untote – ihr Anwendungsbereich ist längst weggefallen, aber tot sind sie doch nicht. Frankreich hat erst gestern einem solchen Untoten die letzte Ruhe verpasst: Ganze 178 Jahre nachdem Frankreich die Sklaverei abgeschafft hatte, hob die Nationalversammlung den Code Noir einstimmig auf. Dieses untote Gesetz verwandelte Menschen in Unmenschliches: in Eigentum. Unglaublich, dass erst jetzt der Spuk vorbei ist.

Im indonesischen Strafrecht spukt es zum Glück weniger, aber dennoch ein bisschen. Zwei Jahrzehnte lang baute das Verfassungsgericht Normen ab, die willkürliche Strafverfolgung ermöglichten. Seit Januar 2026 gelten neue Straf- und Strafprozessgesetze. Damit dehnt der Gesetzgeber die Staatsmacht aus und belebt einst begrabene Verfassungskonflikte wieder, kritisiert SIMON BUTT (EN).

Auch in Peru greift das Parlament nach der Macht. Die Stichwahl am 7. Juni entscheidet zwischen Keiko Fujimori und Roberto Sánchez. Doch das Amt hat an Macht verloren: Das Parlament hat seit 2020 vier Präsidenten abgesetzt und die Verfassung umgeschrieben, um einen mächtigen neuen Senat einzuführen, der am 28. Juli seine Arbeit aufnimmt. RODRIGO MARUY (EN) beschreibt diesen Senat als „constitutionally anti-constitutional“: Seine Befugnisse untergruben systematisch genau jene Gewaltenteilung, die der liberale Konstitutionalismus schützen soll.

In Deutschland streitet man währenddessen über die Macht der Exekutive – genauer: über die des Verfassungsschutzes. Laut VG Berlin durfte der Verfassungsschutz die „Jüdische Stimme für gerechten Frieden in Nahost” in seinem Bericht nicht als extremistisch bezeichnen. Für MALTE STEMKOWITZ (DE) zeigt der Fall: Der Verfassungsschutz bewegt sich auf einem schmalen Grat – dem zwischen noch Worten und schon Taten – und das Verwaltungsgericht Berlin beweise hier Sensibilität statt Nervosität.

Nervosität beherrschte dagegen zwei Richter:innenwahlen: Das Scheitern von Frauke Brosius-Gersdorfs Kandidatur für das Bundesverfassungsgericht und die historische Ablehnung von Jorge Messias für den brasilianischen Obersten Gerichtshof. DIEGO PLATZ PEREIRA (DE) sieht das Problem nicht in der Politisierung der Wahl als solcher, sondern in dem, was Brasilianer:innen politicagem nennen – die Unterordnung der Richterauswahl unter kurzfristige Wahlkampflogik.

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Was auf eine langfristige Wahlniederlage folgt, beobachtet Europa gerade gespannt in Ungarn. Nach der Abwahl von Fidesz will die neue Führung nun die Demokratie wiederherstellen. Eines der größten Hindernisse sind dabei die verfassungsrechtlichen Befugnisse von Präsident Tamás Sulyok. Je nach deren Einsatz drohe eine Verfassungskrise, warnt GÁBOR MÉSZÁROS (EN).

Eine weitere Herausforderung, vor der Ungarn steht, ist finanzieller Natur: Ungarns neue Regierung braucht Milliarden an eingefrorenen EU-Mitteln – und zwar schnell. JOHN MORIJN und KIM LANE SCHEPPELE kartieren die rechtlichen und politischen Hindernisse: Lässt sich das Geld auftauen, ohne den Rechtsstaat dabei abzuschmelzen?

Während Ungarn den Weg zurück in die rechtsstaatlichen Bahnen der Europäischen Union sucht, bleibt offen, wie seine Nachbarin, die Ukraine, dieser Ordnung beitreten kann. Friedrich Merz schlug nun eine „assoziierte Mitgliedschaft“ für die Ukraine vor – einen Zwischenschritt auf dem Weg zur Vollmitgliedschaft. Doch das Modell wirft einige rechtliche Bedenken auf, so PETER VAN ELSUWEGE und ROMAN PETROV (EN) – allen voran die Annahme, dass sich ein solcher Status ohne Ratifizierung eines Beitrittsvertrags oder Änderung der EU-Verträge gewähren ließe.

In letzter Zeit häufen sich die Berichte über Drohnenschwärme, die über Bundeswehrgelände und kritische Infrastruktur hinwegziehen. Darf die Bundeswehr solche Spähdrohnen über ziviler Infrastruktur abwehren? Nein, sagt FELIX LANGE (DE) – dafür sei nach dem Grundgesetz die Polizei zuständig.

Der Digital Fairness Act, den die Kommission Ende 2026 vorlegen will, wird in der Sprache des Verbraucherschutzes verfasst. Für Erwachsene trägt diese Sprache – doch für Kinder nicht, wie CHAYMA DRIRA (EN) argumentiert: Das Gesetz brauche eine vierte Schutzebene persönlicher Integrität für Minderjährige.

Kinder gehen auch im derzeitigen Schulsystem unter, vor allem Kinder mit Förderbedarf. Das Bundesministerium will die Eingliederungshilfe grundlegend reformieren – und legt einen Entwurf vor, der den bisherigen individuellen Rechtsanspruch auf Schulbegleitung weitgehend abschafft. MICHAEL WRASE (DE) erklärt, warum der Entwurf die UN-BRK und das Recht auf schulische Bildung verletzt – und schlägt eine Alternativformulierung vor.

Die Schule ist der Ort, an dem wir zuerst staatliche Kontrolle erfahren – und an dem soziale Ungleichheit besonders sichtbar wird: Wer hat Zugang zu welcher Schule, welcher Bildung, welcher Zukunft? Für SUSANNE BECK (DE) wirft der Streit um das Schwarzfahren ganz ähnliche Fragen auf: § 265a StGB stabilisiere eine soziale Zugangsordnung – mit weitreichenden Folgen für Sichtbarkeit, Zugehörigkeit und die Erfahrung staatlicher Kontrolle.

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The 2024 ICJ Advisory Opinion on the Occupied Palestinian Territory

Edited by Kai Ambos

“This volume includes a wealth of expert analyses of this historic ICJ opinion. Readers will be struck equally by the range of perspectives, by the nuance and insightfulness of the contributors’ reflections, and by the speed with which this book has been put together. It is a timely and important contribution.”

– Tom Dannenbaum, Stanford Law School

Get your copy here – as always, Open Access!

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Diese Woche haben wir außerdem unser Symposium „On Law and Politics in the Hungarian Transition“ (EN) fortgesetzt. Nach sechs Jahren staatlich gesteuerten Rundfunks muss Ungarns Medienregulierung von vorn beginnen – BERNÁT TÖRÖK argumentiert, dass dafür nicht nur neue Regeln nötig seien, sondern auch ein echter Wandel der institutionellen Kultur. Und weil Ungarns Gerichte noch immer mit Orbáns Richter:innen besetzt sind, rät DAVID KOSAŘ Magyar dazu, neue Wege zu gehen: Ernennungsverfahren umstrukturieren, die Macht der Gerichtspräsident:innen begrenzen, eine Justiz aufbauen, die Vertrauen verdient.

Kosařs Untertitel möchte ich Ihnen gerne ins Wochenende mitgeben, denn er gilt nicht nur für ungarische Präsidenten, sondern auch für Grillrezepte und das Sonntagsoutfit: Don’t Imitate – Innovate!

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Das war’s für diese Woche.

The post „Das Haftsystem ist in Libyen zu einer Industrie geworden“ appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

In May 2026, the International Criminal Court concluded its confirmation of charges hearing against Khaled El Hishri, a former senior officer of Libya’s Special Deterrence Force (SDF/RADA). Fifteen years after the UN Security Council referred the situation in Libya to the Court, he is the first suspect to appear in The Hague. That gap says as much about Libya and EU migration policies as it does about the ICC: a landscape where lines of authority are perpetually blurred, and where the question of who can be held responsible is often inseparable from the question of who constitutes “the state” and what role European actors play.

German authorities arrested El Hishri in July 2025 and transferred him to the ICC in December of that year. While the charges are directed at an individual for acts committed at Tripoli’s Mitiga prison between 2014 and 2020, they emerge from a system that is much harder to disentangle. Mitiga was formally recognized as part of Libya’s detention system while effectively controlled by an armed group with its own chain of command and economic interests.

From that perspective, Mitiga offers a particularly revealing example of how power has operated in Libya since 2011. If anything, the El Hishri case forces a more uncomfortable question than whether accountability is possible: accountability for what kind of order and who evades accountability entirely? We asked Allison West, Senior Legal Advisor at European Center for Constitutional and Human Rights, ECCHR, to unpack the complexities of this case and situate it within the broader struggle for justice in Libya.

1. The El Hishri case is the first from the Libya situation to reach the ICC since the 2011 referral – and it sits at the very intersection of state authority and armed group that defines Mitiga prison. Could you walk our readers through the case: what is alleged and why does it matter beyond this one defendant?

El Hishri, referred to by one of his victims as the “angel of death”, is accused of 17 counts of crimes against humanity and war crimes, carried out principally against detainees at Mitiga Prison in Tripoli. He is alleged to have been a senior figure in the powerful Tripoli-based militia SDF/RADA, affiliated with the Libyan Presidential Council, and a top prison commander at Mitiga. Notably, the ICC Prosecution alleges that he not only ordered, oversaw or allowed harrowing abuses against men, women, boys and girls – Libyan and non-Libyan – in his leadership role at the prison, but that he also directly perpetrated all 17 counts of the crimes alleged, including torture, murder, rape and other sexual violence, enslavement and persecution. In other words, he led by example.

The case matters because, for the first time in 15 years of ICC investigation into Libya, a suspect has been surrendered to the Court and confronted with charges. For survivors, affected communities, and civil society organizations that have worked for years to expose atrocities at Mitiga and other detention sites across Libya, this is the first real opportunity to have such crimes legally characterized and adjudicated before an international court and to enable survivors to be heard and participate. Beyond punishment, this participatory and truth-establishing dimension of international justice is incredibly meaningful.

The case also matters beyond one defendant and one prison because Mitiga reflects broader patterns across Libya’s detention system, where captivity has become a source of power and profit, especially with respect to Black African migrants and refugees who are enslaved and subjected to particularly severe forms of systematic exploitation and abuse. The Prosecution’s intersectional approach in its charging is noteworthy in that it recognizes how crimes at Mitiga were shaped and compounded by factors such as race, nationality, ethnicity, gender, age, migration status, and other vectors of identity, whether actual or perceived.

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2. The El Hishri case puts Libya back on the ICC’s radar, but international attention to Libya often feels episodic, spiking with crises and fading just as quickly. From your perspective, what structural dynamics make accountability so persistently elusive, even when the evidence of atrocity is overwhelming? 

Evidence of international crimes in Libya, and often of the perpetrators behind them, has been well documented for years by survivors, Libyan and non-Libyan civil society, journalists, UN bodies, and human rights organizations. Knowledge is not the problem. Accountability remains elusive because powerful actors continue to profit, politically and economically, from these crimes.

Detention itself has become an industry in Libya and a key part of the country’s post-2011 conflict economy. People deprived of liberty are commodified through extortion, forced labor, ransom, trafficking, or as a means of securing resources in the name of migration control. Many detention actors profit from both state-linked roles and overtly criminal activity. This is especially true of migrant and refugee detention, but it also affects Libyans.

Domestic accountability is complicated by the fact that alleged perpetrators are often part of militias or armed groups that operate through, alongside, or in place of state institutions. Even when victims report abuses, often at great security risk, the judiciary remains fragmented, frequently threatened, and largely unable to secure credible accountability. This makes recourse to the ICC crucial as a court of last resort.

Yet the ICC can only function if states cooperate. El Hishri is in The Hague because Germany arrested and surrendered him. By contrast, also in 2025, Italy arrested Osama Elmasry Njeem, another ICC suspect wanted for alleged crimes at Mitiga, but released and returned him to Libya. The ICC has since found that Italy breached its cooperation obligations, and ECCHR is now supporting a pending case before the European Court of Human Rights by a survivor of Elmasry’s torture to challenge Italy’s failure to cooperate. For all of these reasons, accountability remains difficult, despite overwhelming evidence.

3. When Libya is discussed in international legal and political debates, it is often reduced to shorthand: “collapse,” “militias,” “detention,” “migration.” Which of these dominant narratives do you think most distorts the picture of what is actually happening on the ground and what do outside observers systematically miss as a result? 

The most distorting shorthand is “collapse”, because it suggests that the widespread violence in Libya is chaotic or disorganized. Of course, Libya’s authority structures have been profoundly fragmented since 2011. What outside observers often miss, however, is that, even in this fragmented context of ongoing armed conflict and multiple, shifting centers of power, there are structured systems of organized violence, including Libya’s detention industry, through which different actors compete for influence, seek profit, and consolidate power. Mitiga Prison under SDF/RADA is a prime example of this. The “collapse” narrative also obscures the role of international actors whose cooperation with Libyan authorities often sustains these structures rather than challenging them.

4. International actors, particularly in Europe, have helped fund, train, or otherwise support Libyan actors in the name of migration control – even as abuses in detention have been widely documented. To what extent have these policies contributed to the very structures of violence now coming under scrutiny in cases like El Hishri? 

European migration management and border control policies are key to understanding how many migrants and refugees came to be detained and abused in Mitiga and other detention sites across Libya.

For years, EU Member States, institutions and agencies such as Frontex have helped build and sustain a system of pullbacks to Libya, as part of a broader plan to prevent crossings to Europe through containment in Libya. Since 2016, they have increased support for the so-called Libyan Coast Guard, including through funding, patrol boats, equipment, training, surveillance, and the sharing of coordinates of boats in distress. This has enabled Libyan actors to capture people at sea and forcibly return them to the same detention industry now under scrutiny in the El Hishri case.

In a comprehensive submission to the ICC in 2022, ECCHR argued that such interceptions and forced returns constitute the crime against humanity of severe deprivation of physical liberty, for which high-ranking EU and Member State officials bear responsibility as co-perpetrators. For many participating migrant and refugee victims in the El Hishri case, it is crucial that this trial also helps expose how European policies fed into the abuses they suffered at Mitiga. This was clear during and around the confirmation of charges hearing, where they drew attention to how European-supported interceptions returned them and others directly into the very detention center we now see before the Court.

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5. Looking beyond the courtroom, what would meaningful accountability in Libya actually look like and is there any realistic path toward that in the current political climate? 

Meaningful accountability will always hinge on the effective participation of survivors and victims, who should be supported to drive such accountability processes. And while a trial can establish individual responsibility, justice also requires attending to more complex aspects, like truth, recognition, reparations, protection, and political change to guarantee the same system will not simply continue to produce new victims. To this day, RADA continues to control Mitiga Prison, meaning there is still much work to do.

However, survivors who attended or followed the confirmation of charges hearing against El Hishri expressed that it gave them renewed hope that justice is possible. That hope must now be matched by continued investigations by the ICC Office of the Prosecutor, including into crimes in Eastern Libya and into the responsibility of EU and Member State officials for crimes against migrants and refugees, including the severe deprivation of liberty that begins when they are intercepted at sea and pulled back to Libya. It must be matched by Libya and ICC States Parties’ full cooperation in executing ICC arrest warrants and surrendering suspects to The Hague; by real policy change in Libya and Europe; and by sustained support for the survivor-led and civil society efforts that made this step possible.

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Editor’s Pick

by MAXIM BÖNNEMANN

What does it mean to grow up under Hamas’s dictatorship? Hamza Abu Howidy was born in Gaza in 1997 and went to school there. The regime’s ideology and violence run through every part of society — from neighborhood streets to classrooms and lecture halls. Critical questions are punished, and those who nonetheless dare to take to the streets against the Islamist regime are picked up and imprisoned. Abu Howidy himself ends up in Hamas detention cells after taking part in a demonstration. Following repeated imprisonment and torture, he manages to flee to Europe, eventually making his way to Germany. In this book, he recounts everyday life under Hamas’s dictatorship, stories of love, courage, and resistance — and the loneliness of a Palestinian dissident who not only stands against Hamas but also criticizes the war crimes of the Israeli government. “Muscheln am Strand von Gaza” (“Shells on the Shore of Gaza”) is many things at once: an eyewitness account, a childhood memoir, and above all a fantastically told book about the insatiable hunger for freedom.

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The Week on Verfassungsblog

summarised by EVA MARIA BREDLER

Some laws are undead – their practical force long gone, but never quite laid to rest. France put one such creature to rest only yesterday: a full 178 years after abolishing slavery, the National Assembly unanimously repealed the Code Noir. This undead law turned human beings into non-humans: into property. Unbelievable that the haunting lasted this long.

Indonesia’s criminal law has its own ghosts, if rather less dramatic ones. For two decades, the Constitutional Court dismantled provisions that enabled arbitrary prosecution. Since January 2026, new criminal and criminal procedure codes are in force. The legislature has used them to expand state power and revive constitutional conflicts once thought buried, argues SIMON BUTT (ENG).

In Peru, parliament has been reaching for power too. The presidential runoff on 7 June will decide between Keiko Fujimori and Roberto Sánchez – but the office itself has been hollowed out. Parliament has impeached four presidents since 2020 and rewritten the constitution to introduce a powerful new Senate, set to begin functioning on 28 July. RODRIGO MARUY (ENG) describes this Senate as “constitutionally anti-constitutional”: its powers systematically undermine the very checks and balances that liberal constitutionalism exists to protect.

In Germany, the dispute is over executive power: The Berlin Administrative Court has ruled that the domestic intelligence agency, the Verfassungsschutz, was not permitted to describe the Jüdische Stimme für gerechten Frieden in Nahost as extremist in its annual report. For MALTE STEMKOWITZ (GER), the case illustrates the narrow line the Verfassungsschutz must walk – between words and deeds – and demonstrates judicial sensitivity rather than nerves.

Nerves dominated two judicial nominations – and brought them down. The collapse of Frauke Brosius-Gersdorf’s candidacy for the Federal Constitutional Court and the historic rejection of Jorge Messias for Brazil’s Supreme Court. DIEGO PLATZ PEREIRA (ENG) sees the problem not in the politicisation of judicial selection as such, but in what Brazilians call politicagem – the subordination of judicial appointments to short-term electoral logic.

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An der Professur für Öffentliches Recht mit dem Schwerpunkt Völkerrecht (Prof. Dr. Thomas Kleinlein) an der Goethe-Universität Frankfurt am Main sind 2 Stellen als Wiss. Mitarbeiter*in (m/w/d) (halbtags) zunächst befristet auf 3 Jahre zu besetzen. Schwerpunkte der Professur sind das Allgemeine Völkerrecht und die Grundlagen, Menschenrechte, das Recht der Verträge, die Friedenssicherung, das EU-Verfassungsrecht und das Außenverfassungsrecht.

Die Bewerbungsfrist endet am 10.6.2026. Weitere Informationen finden Sie hier.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

What follows long-term electoral defeat is precisely what Europe is watching in Hungary. Following Fidesz’s loss, the country’s new political leadership has pledged to dismantle the structures that enabled sixteen years of democratic backsliding. Yet one of the most powerful obstacles may be the constitutional powers of President Tamás Sulyok. If he chooses to deploy them aggressively, Hungary could face an unprecedented constitutional crisis, warns GÁBOR MÉSZÁROS (ENG).

Rebuilding also costs money. Hungary’s new government needs billions in frozen EU funds – fast. JOHN MORIJN and KIM LANE SCHEPPELE map the legal and political obstacles to unfreezing them without melting the rule of law in the process.

As Hungary slowly finds its way back towards the European rule of law, the question of how its neighbour Ukraine might join that order remains unresolved. Friedrich Merz recently proposed a status of “associate membership” for Ukraine – an intermediate step towards full accession. The political inspiration is clear. The legal translation, as PETER VAN ELSUWEGE and ROMAN PETROV (ENG) show, is anything but: the proposal assumes that such status could be granted without ratifying an Accession Treaty or amending the EU Treaties.

In Germany, reports of drone swarms over Bundeswehr sites and critical infrastructure have been mounting. May the Bundeswehr intercept surveillance drones flying over civilian infrastructure? No, says FELIX LANGE (GER) – under the Basic Law, that is a matter for the police. This need not, however, amount to a gap in protection, nor does it require amending the constitution.

The European Digital Fairness Act, which the Commission will table at the end of 2026, is being drafted in the grammar of consumer protection. For adults, that grammar holds – for children, it does not, argues CHAYMA DRIRA (ENG) and demands a fourth layer of personal integrity for minors.

Children are also being failed by the school system, especially those with special needs. The government now wants to reform the Eingliederungshilfe – Germany’s statutory system of individual entitlements to support services for people with disabilities – and has tabled a draft that would largely abolish the existing individual right to school accompaniment. MICHAEL WRASE (GER) explains why the draft violates both international and constitutional law, and proposes alternative wording.

School is where we first encounter state authority – and where social inequality becomes most visible. SUSANNE BECK (GER) finds similar questions lurking in the debate over Schwarzfahren (using public transport without a ticket): its criminalisation does not merely protect property interests but stabilises a social order of access, with far-reaching consequences for belonging and the experience of state control.

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The 2024 ICJ Advisory Opinion on the Occupied Palestinian Territory

Edited by Kai Ambos

“This volume includes a wealth of expert analyses of this historic ICJ opinion. Readers will be struck equally by the range of perspectives, by the nuance and insightfulness of the contributors’ reflections, and by the speed with which this book has been put together. It is a timely and important contribution.”

– Tom Dannenbaum, Stanford Law School

Get your copy here – as always, Open Access!

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This week, we also continued our symposium “On Law and Politics in the Hungarian Transition” (ENG). After six years of captured public broadcasting and silenced journalism, BERNÁT TÖRÖK argues that rebuilding media regulation requires not just new rules but a genuine shift in institutional culture. And since Hungary’s courts remain packed with Orbán’s judges, DAVID KOSAŘ urges Magyar not to play tit-for-tat but to innovate: restructure appointments, limit the chief justice’s powers, and build a judiciary that earns public trust.

The subheading of Kosař’s piece makes for a nice send-off into the weekend: Don’t Imitate – Innovate. Good advice for Hungarian presidents, Sunday outfits, and barbecue recipes alike.

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That’s it for this week. Take care and all the best!

Yours,

the Verfassungsblog Team

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The distinctive feature of the Hungarian legal system of the last 16 years is that it has kept the façade of a liberal democratic constitutional order. That said, laws and institutions have functioned to varying degrees depending on the issue at stake. The formal elements of liberal democratic constitutionalism remain in place, but they operate differently from how they would under normal circumstances, thereby creating a “Frankenstate”. Indeed, the explanation lies in the fact that informal practices constitute the root of the “suffocating” nature of such regimes. Still, laws matter. For this reason, considering the broader picture outlined above, it is necessary to address an institution that – although it possessed the legal means from the perspective of formal law, except for the competence constrains in relation to budgetary laws and substantive review of constitutional amendments – failed to prevent rule-of-law backsliding from happening: the Constitutional Court of Hungary (CCoH).

About the CCoH in a Nutshell

Right after the former constitutional majority came to power in 2010, it began reshaping the CCoH. As for its composition, the number of members was raised from 11 to 15; the nomination procedure was altered from parity to majority (but members have always been elected by the two-thirds majority of the National Assembly); the 70 years old retirement age was abolished; the term of office was raised from 9 to 12 years but without the possibility of re-election and the President is now elected by the National Assembly by two-thirds majority.  In short: altering the framework by the former constitutional majority hollowed out the guarantees. As a result, 11 of the current members have been nominated and elected by the former ruling constitutional majority alone. During a brief period in which the constitutional majority was lacking, four judges were elected in 2016 with the support of a former opposition party. Now, three judges, including the President, would remain in office until 2037.

Considering these changes, one may already – and rightly – ask whether the CCoH is an independent and impartial institution that provides constitutional justice in all cases. Unfortunately, the answer is negative. At the same time, however, as is often the case in hybrid regimes, the picture is not entirely black and white. In fact, determining whether (constitutional) judicial review has become abusive is a rather complex task. Nevertheless, certain factors may be indicative, such as court packing, procedural irregularities in case handling, or abusive judicial reasoning. Regardless, similarly to the phenomenon of abusive constitutionalism, what ultimately matters is that at the end of the day, the state of constitutionalism worsens.  Several authors (for example, here, here, or here) have evaluated the case law of the CCoH from various perspectives and reached similar conclusions: it has failed in its mission.

The CCoH’s jurisprudence, however, cannot be evaluated without considering the situation in Hungary, as outlined above. Nor can it be assessed without regard to the legal changes affecting its structure. Thus, following the contextual assessment already applied by the ECJ, reasonable doubt may arise in the minds of individuals concerning the independence and impartiality of the CCoH in politically relevant matters (as regards reviewing the merits of final rulings of ordinary courts in politically sensitive cases, see the 2024 or the 2025 Rule of Law Report).

Restoring Constitutional Justice

Addressing hybrid regimes through law is challenging, but not impossible. First, in the EU context, there is Article 2 TEU, alongside Article 7 TEU and the procedures of the ECJ. Second, the constituent power may pass a judgment on its predecessor if it has earned the right to do so. However, at least in Europe, its actions are framed. Considering the principle of non-regression, and the idea that “[r]estoring the rule of law means rejecting the root of its backsliding: the idea that the winner takes all, that the majority may rule disregarding the rights and legitimate aspirations of the minority” suggest that not every direction is permissible, and certainly not every means are acceptable. These principles are also applicable to the future of the CCoH. In Hungary today, the constituent power shall aim at restoring liberal democratic constitutionalism to which Hungary has freely and voluntarily committed itself within the EU framework, and, more narrowly, at restoring independent, impartial, and effective constitutional justice capable of constraining public power. The problematic question, however, is how this can be achieved.

Options without Intervening with the CCoH’s Composition

A spectrum ranging from softer to harsher measures may be outlined. Importantly, the mentioned limits concerning the CCoH’s competences must be lifted in every scenario. Measures that do not affect the current composition of the CCoH – but aim at enhancing the effectiveness of constitutional justice in all cases – could include the following ones (which could also be combined).

The new constitutional majority could seek the opinion of the Venice Commission concerning draft laws that do have structural significance for (restoring) liberal democratic constitutionalism or impact on the protection of fundamental rights. Thus, if the CCoH was to operate afterwards in a manner serving certain identifiable political interests contrary to the European consensus, it would have to bear the political cost of doing so.

The new constitutional majority could prescribe that the CCoH must follow the case law of the ECtHR when interpreting the Fundamental Law and, at the same time, Hungary could ratify Protocol No. 16 to the ECHR.

The new constituent power might overrule the decisions of the CCoH that are at odds with European law. However, such a move is only acceptable – and this would be the major difference compared to the previous regime – if such a breach can be established without a reasonable doubt. Also, this cannot be exercised on a regular basis.

Options that Intervene with the CCoH’s Composition

Normally, the irremovability of judges is a cornerstone of the rule of law. Under EU law, it stems from Article 19(1) TEU and in the view of the ECJ, “[w]hile it is not wholly absolute, there can be no exceptions to that principle unless they are warranted by legitimate and compelling grounds, subject to the principle of proportionality.” The ECtHR, following the lead of the ECJ, has taken basically the same stance. It is also clear that Article 19(1) TEU applies to the CCoH. Moreover, should any measures affect the retirement age, anti-discrimination law would also become relevant.

Second, Articles 6, 8 and 10 of the ECHR may be considered. In relation to employment disputes concerning civil servants, the Vilho Eskelinen test should be recalled as it determines when Article 6 may not be applicable. Inapplicability only stands if national law expressly excludes access to a court, and that exclusion is justified on objective grounds in the State’s interest. In connection with Article 8 and 10 ECHR, the tests of lawfulness, legitimate aim, and necessity must be met to find an interference acceptable. The ECtHR, concerning the dismissal of constitutional judges from office noted that “utmost caution and detailed reasons are particularly crucial with regard to the dismissal of Constitutional Court judges and in circumstances where the decision to dismiss them is taken by Parliament.” It should also be recalled that the Venice Commission, in connection with the restoration of the rule of law, emphasises: in such situations a holistic approach must be followed, especially when changes concern the composition of the courts; reforms should address systemic flaws; and they should not re-create the previous system, but establish a better one.

In view of these, there are basically four options as regards intervening with the current composition of the CCoH but only the last two ones might be in line with the European standards.

First, the new constitutional majority could simply replace one or more members. However, this move would not improve the situation; rather, it would apply the same winner-takes-all approach that characterized the previous hybrid regime.

Second, the new constitutional majority might reintroduce 70 years retirement age and as such, create vacancies. While this would mean returning to the pre-2013 regime, this option is not problem-free either. Lowering the retirement age may be justified, for example, by social policy considerations, implemented gradually. However, it has not been tested under European standards whether it is acceptable – proportionate – if it serves to counter previous manipulations with the composition of the court.

Third, the CCoH could be abolished altogether claiming that this model simply did not work in Hungary. Instead, the judiciary, or a chamber within the Kúria, could provide constitutional justice. While this option could be – in principle – justifiable on part of the constituent power, it must not be implemented without thorough evaluation and perhaps even a complete constitutional reset. Also, ineffectiveness stems from the attitude of the CCoH not from its competences, except for the mentioned limits. In any case, abolishing the CCoH and transferring the power of constitutional review to the Kúria within a relatively short time would most probably eliminate constitutional adjudication as we know it for the foreseeable future. As such, this seems to be a high price for the change in the composition of the CCoH.

Lastly, the constituent power may declare – considering the outlined contextual factors – that the CCoH, in its current composition, has failed in its task of providing constitutional justice in all cases and counterbalancing public power. As such, the composition shall be changed. In this scenario, the compliance with European standards depends on the how. To begin with, the modus operandi must not follow a winner-takes-all approach. The new composition would have to be structured with the involvement of the political opposition, perhaps through a parity-based nomination system or by electing members with a four-fifths majority in the National Assembly. As the opposition could refuse to cooperate, a carefully designed anti-deadlock mechanism should be introduced. For example, after two rounds, the threshold could be lowered to a two-thirds majority. Also, the nomination process could be diverse. Namely, some of the members could be nominated by a consortium of law faculties and the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, some by the judiciary, and some by the National Assembly (in a way mentioned before). It may make this option even more justifiable if the four current members of the CCoH who were elected on a by-partisan compromise would not be removed. A staggering mechanism – most probably by a lot – should be added to not have vacancies of the whole institution at the same time. Moreover, the current members of the CCoH shall have the opportunity to get nominated. Also, the current members should keep their benefits for a sufficiently lengthy transitory period.

Lastly, it should be mentioned that under the CCoH Act the plenary session decides on the exclusion of a member of the CCoH without the possibility of judicial remedy. This factor, in combination with the already elaborated justification, suggests that the Vilho Eskelinen test regarding the inapplicability of Article 6 ECHR might be met.

Takeaways

Restoring liberal democratic constitutionalism, and more narrowly constitutional justice in Hungary, is complex and challenging. Also, in a transition process after hybrid regimes trade-offs are inevitable. That said, it must be done but in line with European constitutionalism. Options can be put on a scale but one shall remember: the honest narrative is that the root of the problem is the current composition of the CCoH stemming from the winner-takes-all approach of the previous regime. The constituent power has the mandate to change the system but only for the better and only in certain ways. Taking everything into consideration, the lastly sketched possibility might be the way to go. Such a move has not happened in Europe but on the other hand, such a scenario has not occurred either. Under normal circumstances it would not be acceptable and again, the compliance with European standards ultimately depends on the how: the reform can only enhance the independence and impartiality of the CCoH and, as such, restore constitutional justice in Hungary.

The post Restoring Constitutional Justice in Hungary appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

The remaining choice is not between political and depoliticised enforcement. It is between different forms of politicisation – the Commission’s de facto exercise of discretion under political conditions, or the Parliament’s and Court’s ex post correction of that exercise through legal duties read into the procedural form. That choice is now being made slowly, and through litigation, in favour of the procedural-judicial pole – a settlement that would establish the Court as the principal agent once it issues its final decision in late 2026. Whether that answer is right is contestable. That it is an answer to the question – not the restoration of a prior settlement – is not.

The Background

On 13 December 2023, the European Commission announced that it would release €10.2 billion in cohesion funds to Hungary that had been frozen since late 2022. The justification was technical: Hungary had passed judicial reforms in May 2023 addressing concerns about political interference in the courts, and the Commission concluded that the four super milestones related to judicial independence – four of the twenty-seven such milestones agreed in Hungary’s Recovery and Resilience Plan – had been substantively met.

The timing was less technical. The announcement came on the eve of a European Council summit at which Hungary was expected to block the opening of accession negotiations with Ukraine and a €50 billion financial support package for Kyiv. Viktor Orbán left the room to allow the accession decision to pass. He vetoed the financial package the following night. Six weeks later, he withdrew the veto. German Chancellor Olaf Scholz publicly denied any linkage between the funds release and Hungary’s eventual consent. Commission officials maintained the assessment had been driven by the legal merits of the judicial reforms.

The European Parliament did not accept this account. On 18 January 2024 it adopted a resolution condemning the release as premature and politically motivated. On 25 March 2024 it filed suit before the Court of Justice in Case C-225/24, seeking annulment of Commission Implementing Decision C(2023)9014 on three grounds: manifest errors of assessment, breach of the duty to state reasons, and misuse of powers.

The Opinion

On 12 February 2026, Advocate General Tamara Ćapeta delivered an Opinion proposing annulment. The Commission, she found, had authorised disbursement before the required Hungarian reforms had entered into force or were being effectively applied. Moreover, the Commission failed to address subsequent legislative developments weakening the judicial protections being credited. Finally, it had provided no public explanation for how it concluded that each condition it had set had been met. The duty to state reasons under Article 296 TFEU, she emphasised, exists not only to enable judicial review but to inform “not only the Member State concerned but all EU citizens” why public funds are being released.

The Opinion is non-binding. The Court will rule later in 2026. But the configuration the dispute has produced is already analytically significant: three EU institutions have articulated three incompatible interpretations of the same administrative act. The Commission treats it as technical assessment. The Parliament treats it as political bargaining. The Advocate General reframes the dispute in terms of legal justification and institutional reasoning rather than political intent.

These positions do not disagree about the facts. They disagree about what kind of act the Commission performed, and therefore about what standards properly govern it. The Commission’s discretion under the Common Provisions Regulation, on its own account, allowed it to judge sufficient what its technical services assessed as sufficient. The Parliament’s position is that this discretion has limits the Commission cannot define for itself. The Advocate General’s position is that the limits exist as legal duties – entry into force, demonstrated application, public reasoning – regardless of whether political bargaining occurred.

The Dominant Reading

It is the assumption that repays scrutiny: what would a release the critics could accept as non-political actually have looked like? The Parliament’s accusation of disguised bargaining, the Advocate General’s demand for fuller reasoning, and Morijn and Scheppele’s call for stricter procedural integrity share a premise: that conditionality enforcement can be insulated from political discretion through stricter procedural discipline. That premise deserves more scrutiny than it has received. The December 2023 case may not reveal a Commission that strayed from the mechanism’s proper functioning. It may reveal that discretionary flexibility was always integral to how the mechanism was expected to function under real political conditions.

Discretion as a Constitutive Feature

The 2020 Conditionality Regulation reached the statute book through Qualified Majority Voting precisely because it offered something Article 7 could not: enforcement that did not depend on unanimous political will. What it offered instead was the Commission’s discretion – authority to determine whether risks to the Union’s financial interests warranted suspension, and whether subsequent reforms warranted release. The structure of the mechanism presupposed continued political judgement by the Commission rather than mechanically determinable review against fixed criteria. This discretion was not a procedural defect tolerated for political reasons. It was the institutional form that made the Regulation enforceable at all.

The December 2023 decision sits inside this design, not outside it. The Commission faced a borderline case: legislative reforms passed but unevenly implemented; an institutional context in which Hungary’s continued blocking of major Union decisions had operational consequences for Ukraine policy; assessment criteria the Commission had itself set. It exercised the discretion the Regulation grants it – discretion the Advocate General now reads as bounded by procedural duties the Commission did not satisfy. Whether the exercise was wise is contestable. Whether it was structurally anomalous is not.

The Commission’s decision itself, C(2023)9014, was not published as a reasoned act – a fact that illustrates the tension between the discretion the Regulation allows and the public justification later demanded of it. The procedural critique points to the absence of fuller public reasoning, to the timing, to the substantive gaps between paper reforms and implementation. Each of these observations is correct. But each presupposes that the Commission, exercising its discretion responsibly, would have produced a different result – a result that the critics could recognise as non-political. No outcome available to the Commission could plausibly escape political interpretation. Every disbursement decision under the Regulation involves judgement about the sufficiency of national reform, and every such judgement is made in a political environment that the Commission cannot pretend not to inhabit. The choice was not between political and technical assessment. It was between a politically defensible technical assessment and a politically defensible decision to continue freezing. The Commission chose the former. The procedural critics would have preferred the latter. Neither choice is procedurally pure.

What the Advocate General Changes

Ćapeta does not demand the eradication of discretion. She demands its public exercise – reasoning capable of withstanding external scrutiny. The distinction matters. The Opinion does not return the mechanism to a depoliticised baseline; it requires that the political judgement embedded in every disbursement be made transparent. If the Court follows her, the mechanism will not simply become more procedurally disciplined. It will become institutionally different: more judicialised, more review-oriented, more dependent on litigation as a routine constraint on executive discretion. The Commission will be obliged to publish reasoned decisions capable of withstanding judicial scrutiny. Disbursement timelines will accommodate the possibility that any release may be challenged. The Court itself, through Article 263 actions, will become a recurrent participant in the application of conditionality rather than a residual reviewer of contested cases.

Whether this constitutes an improvement depends partly on what one believes conditionality enforcement is meant to achieve. A mechanism that requires Commission decisions to survive litigation by the Parliament will be slower, more cautious, and more procedurally defensible. It will also be less able to respond to the variable political conditions under which Member States actually reform – or fail to reform. The discretion that procedural critics treat as the mechanism’s vulnerability is also what allows it to function in cases that resist categorical resolution. Constraining the former constrains the latter.

This is not an argument against the Ćapeta Opinion. It is an argument against the assumption that the Opinion, if adopted, will restore a mechanism to its proper functioning. There is no prior state of proper functioning to restore. The mechanism’s procedural form has always rested on political discretion. The Opinion, if it becomes law, will produce a different mechanism – one with different strengths and different vulnerabilities.

The Tisza Test

This matters now because the question is no longer hypothetical. The April 2026 Hungarian elections have produced a government that has campaigned on accelerated unfreezing of remaining frozen funds. The Commission faces, again, a borderline case: a government substantively committed to reform, but operating against still-captured institutional veto points, under a deadline that makes full demonstration of compliance practically impossible. The procedural integrity that Morijn, Scheppele, the Parliament, and the Advocate General have insisted upon would require the Commission to withhold release until reforms are not merely legislated but applied – by institutions that the new government does not fully control.

This is the precise dilemma the December 2023 decision tried to resolve, in the opposite political direction. The procedural critique that condemned the earlier release may now require the Commission to delay a release the same critics support on substantive grounds. The mechanism’s stability under either outcome is unclear. What is clear is that the procedural form alone will not generate the answer. Some judgement about the political conditions of Hungarian reform will be made. The only question is whether the Commission makes it visibly, or whether it is made implicitly through litigation timelines and dotted-line institutional pressures.

Coda

Rule-of-law conditionality has not collapsed. It is functioning. What Case C-225/24 has clarified is a tension the architects of the 2020 Regulation either did not anticipate or chose to leave unaddressed: a single mechanism cannot indefinitely sustain both a politically responsive instrument of executive judgement and a procedurally disciplined object of judicial review. The fracture the case exposes is the moment at which the Union’s institutions began choosing which of the two will prevail.

Neither pole is the apolitical one. They distribute political authority differently – the Commission deciding under live conditions, the Parliament and Court correcting after the fact through duties read into the procedural form.

Procedural critics may be right about the mechanism’s instability and still mistaken about its nature – about what, exactly, they are trying to stabilise. The December 2023 case did not reveal a system deviating from its design. It revealed a design that always carried an unresolved question: in genuinely borderline cases, whom does the Union trust to exercise discretion? That question is now being settled, slowly and through litigation, in favour of the procedural-judicial pole. The case did not restore an old equilibrium. It forced the Union to answer one it had left open.

The post Three Readings of One Decision appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

The two cases differ in their details. Brosius-Gersdorf was reduced to her academic position on abortion, while Messias fell victim to a right-wing-dominated Congress unwilling to confirm another president ally in a court already under fire, given recent controversies about the ethical conduct of several of its members and its political influence.

Yet both cases have something important in common. Both elections failed after politicization dynamics destabilized long-standing informal political institutions which have historically enabled the justices’ successful election. The problem, however, was not politicization as such – court nominations have always required political compromise. The problem rather lies in the Brazilian intuition of “politicagem”: the political subordination of judicial selection to predatory forms of overpromoting public performance.

Politicized Parliamentary Conventions

Gretchen Helmke and Steven Levitsky define informal institutions as “socially shared rules, usually unwritten, that are created, communicated, and enforced outside officially sanctioned channels” (p. 5). In constitutional contexts, they may take the form of conventions: practices that generate normative expectations, bind in distinctive ways, and may nonetheless be crucial for sustaining democratic structures.

But the existence of such conventions does not imply de-politicization. Parliamentary practices – such as the election of judges to the highest courts – are structured by politicized frameworks. Norms themselves have, as Neil MacCormick put it, an “arguable character”: they are open to contestation in their interpretation and application. More importantly, parliamentary constitutional conventions often provide only a broad framework that requires further political operationalization. Their functioning depends on organization, compromise, and negotiation. This has been the case in both Brazil and the Federal Republic of Germany. The expectation that judicial nominees would ultimately be approved has always presupposed the political viabilization of candidacies – with significant differences during authoritarian periods in Brazil.

Indeed, high-stakes political compromise has long been part of the ordinary functioning of judicial nominations in both countries. In Germany, the election of constitutional judges depends on a two-thirds majority in the Bundestag or the Bundesrat, making cross-party agreement indispensable. In Brazil, although the Constitution requires only an absolute majority in the Senate, 22 out of the 28 approved nominations for the STF under the current constitution passed with a majority of more than three-fifths of senators – the same threshold required for constitutional amendments (Art. 60, par. 2 of the Brazilian Constitution).

Such politicized parliamentary conventions have endured largely due to persistent majoritarian preferences. They may partly be framed as expressions of constitutional culture, but this alone does not catch the full picture. There are at least two further explanations for this. First, there have long been compelling institutional and political reasons to avoid transporting political turmoil into judicial selection. Not only the pursuit of publicly esteemed and independent judiciaries may have played a role in this. The strategic politicization of other institutions or actors – rather than judges – may have been of more advantageous political use. Second, the maintenance of these models has presupposed a certain degree of adaptability over time in order to secure viable majorities. The German model, for example, eventually incorporated nominations from the Alliance90/The Greens after the party became an established political force.

Politicization Gone Wrong?

These, however, were not the kinds of politicization that came to jeopardize the candidacies of Brosius-Gersdorf and Messias.

In the case of Brosius-Gersdorf, politicization both stemmed from and contributed to reductionism. Her candidacy came to be largely reframed as a public dispute over her stance on abortion. What are often rather discreet processes of judicial selection for the FCC became unprecedentedly mediatic, and, often based on excerpts of Brosius-Gersdorf’s academic account of abortion, public discussion gravitated toward a black-and-white assessment of her suitability. Still, the failure of political organization of the CDU in the parliamentary process proved ultimately decisive for the gradual burial of her candidacy. It was the combination of reductive mediatic politicization and shortcomings in parliamentary coordination that led to the collapse of the candidacy. Before a second attempt at voting took place, Brosius-Gersdorf withdrew.

The Messias’ case, in turn, reveals more ambivalent forms of politicization. On the one hand, the Senate can be seen as declining to continue a pattern consolidated under Bolsonaro and Lula. It primarily set a stop on electing allies of the current president. On the other hand, the predominantly right-leaning Senate also signaled how it plans to play the election game this year by making it clear whom one should please to elect a judge for the STF. The politicization of the judiciary became an electoral matter for all political actors. The Senate’s problem with Messias was not really that he lacked “notable legal knowledge and unblemished reputation” (Art. 101 of the Brazilian Constitution). The problem was that he was Lula’s candidate. Messias’ performance during the Senate hearings – including the emphasis on his evangelical convictions – can be read as an attempt to engage with the recent increased politicization of religion, though ultimately without success. His rejection sustains, and perhaps reinforces, broader instrumental narratives about a politically exposed STF, which has recently been in the spotlight regarding the conduct of its members and has been discussing the adoption of a code of ethics.

These episodes might seem to invite a straightforward conclusion: that judicial nominations need de-politicizing. The German experience, in particular, has often been praised as a role model of cross-party agreement that enhances both judicial independence and social perceptions of legitimacy of the Court. The Brosius-Gersdorf episode put pressure on exactly that model by creating uncertainties over how future selections of FCC judges will be conducted – and which candidates will be willing to subject themselves to potentially intense mediatic exposure. Yet the problem in neither case was politicization as such. Rather, specific pathologies of politicization shaped their problematic outcomes. In important respects, both cases fall under the Brazilian intuition of politicagem.

Politicization Meets Politicagem

The Brazilian term politicagem (similar to “politicking”) refers, in a pejorative sense, to forms of self-serving confusion between electoral politics and public policies (EIRÓ, 2017, p. 140). The term is not without conceptual difficulty, as the strong division it presupposes is rarely clear-cut in political practice. Political actors will often pursue public policies with an eye to their broader political positioning, which is ultimately decisive for electoral achievements. Political competition, after all, is essential to democratic life and cannot be wiped away from the reality of political action.

Still, politicagem captures an important intuition: that certain domains of political decision-making may call for intensive political engagement while remaining relatively preserved from predatory forms of overpromoting their own public performance. Judicial nominations seem to belong to this category insofar as they build one of the most central instances for the constitution of judicial independence and public trust in the judiciary.

The failed judicial selections of Brosius-Gersdorf and Messias became victims of politicagem in diverse senses. In Germany, far-right political actors consciously contributed to delegitimizing perceptions of the FCC by seeking political credit through a highly aggressive campaign. A campaign against both a candidacy and a judiciary that was feared to become unusually vulnerable to politicization. Individual CDU parliamentarians also opted to score points in public positioning by going public and surfing the electioneering wave of framing Brosius-Gersdorf’s selection as a vote (of conscience) for or against abortion. In Brazil, politicagem surrounds a broader and more multipolar politicization of the judiciary for electoral purposes. This phenomenon is certainly multifactorial – and also connected to the questionable public political positioning of some STF justices themselves. In some ways, court packing increasingly risks becoming part of the ordinary political – and electoral – agenda. In this sense, politicagem may already have had a weighty milestone in the presidential pattern (under Bolsonaro and Lula) of nominating persons publicly perceived as close political allies. Politicagem then kept going with the Senate’s dramatic break with a centenary Brazilian practice.

In both cases, truth be told, political conventions ultimately failed because of failures in political coordination – failures co-conditioned by politicagem. The primary loser is the judiciary; further losers are yet to be determined in the course of political developments. The virulent character of politicagem, already captured in Rubem Braga’s criticism of Getúlio Vargas in 1952, seems simply to have found new forms of survival:

“Is politicagem such a strong and terrible vice that wears down this sensitivity, destroys that minimum of prudishness, and reduces the honor of others – and ultimately one’s own – to a mere card in the deck of maneuvers and conveniences?” (translated by me).

Conclusion

Court nominations will therefore continue to highly depend on politicization. They will further require cross-party compromise, negotiated support, and plural conceptions of the kind of judges a court – be it the STF or the FCC – ought to have. Electing judges is a political task, and the existence of courts that combine public legitimacy, high legal qualification, and judicial independence is itself a political achievement. At the same time, judicial nominations may benefit from less politicagem. The selection of judges should not become an arena for the pursuit of cheap political credit. Courts depend on public trust – and that trust risks being eroded when the political practices surrounding their composition become primarily instruments of short-term electoral advantage.

The post The Problem Is Not Politicization appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

     How remarkable it would be if the contemporary U.S. Constitution gave the President more financial autonomy than an English constitution resting on a far more absolutist, and overtly royalist, ideology.  This would be all the more remarkable in an era where Originalism is ascendant:  very few of the Framers were royalists, and even fewer allowed royalism to slip into their public communications.  President Trump has not yet reached the point where his powers clearly exceed those of Charles I, but the degree to which he has wrested the Power of the Purse away from Congress, and the scale of the changes within each branch of government in how fiscal prerogatives are exercised, are quite remarkable.  As someone once said in a somewhat different context, if we wish to understand true power in Washington, we must follow the money.  This post discusses how the President has wrested the Power of the Purse away from Congress.  Tomorrow I will analyze how changes within each branch have facilitated these changes. 

     Logically, the Power of the Purse has four components:  the power to say what revenues will be collected, the power to say what revenues will not be collected, the power to say what funds will be spent, and the power to say what funds will not be spent.  President Trump has significantly expanded presidential power in all four areas. 

     His most conspicuous revenue expansion has been his unilateral tariffs.  The Supreme Court struck down his sweeping “Liberation Day” tariffs on much of the world after they had been collected for ten months.  After defiantly blasting the Court, including his own appointees, President Trump then imposed another sweeping set of tariffs under a different legal rationale.  These, too, have been held unlawful in a lower court, but the President seems intent on imposing a new set of tariffs whenever he is prevented from imposing an old one. 

     Beyond this, the President has obtained ostensibly “voluntary” contributions from numerous entities outside of the federal government to fund his agenda.  Companies seeking regulatory concessions from the Administration, for example, have contributed heavily to building the President’s desired grand ballroom.  When state or local governments leverage regulatory approvals to obtain costly concessions from private businesses, the Supreme Court has called them “exactions” and struck them down as unconstitutional takings of private property without just compensation.  These are revenues.  And under the Miscellaneous Receipts Act, they must be – but apparently have not been – deposited in the Treasury and made subject to congressional appropriation.  The Act specifically prohibits depositing such funds in a bank. 

     President Trump also used the taxpayer-funded U.S. armed forces to replace Venezuela’s president with one who allows him to take a large share of the country’s oil revenues and place them in an account controlled only by the President.  Again, the Miscellaneous Receipts Act applies.

     Charles I had little desire to forego revenues, but President Trump inherited a government with a much stronger fisc – and seems quite indifferent to the fiscal position he leaves to his successor.  He therefore has sought to reduce taxes on his affluent allies.  Congressional Republicans shared this agenda and enacted the One Big Beautiful Bill Act last summer.  Although profoundly unwise, the Act raises no sweeping challenges to the constitutional order.  But President Trump has gone farther by preventing the Internal Revenue Service from enforcing revenue laws still on the books.  Part of has come through slashing IRS’s enforcement staff, leaving the agency hopelessly outmatched against wealthy individuals and corporations with complex tax situations.  This operates not very differently from the repeal of many Code provisions designed to curb upper-income tax abuse.  Although the Code prohibits the President and his entourage from influencing tax enforcement actions, news reports suggest that the Administration may be contemplating the grant of audit exemptions under the guise of settling litigation.   

     Quite apart from the public funds he has kept outside the Treasury, President Trump has repeatedly spent large sums from the Treasury contrary to law.  No apparent principle limits his willingness to disregard limitations on appropriations. 

     His cases against the federal government, which a federal judge flagged as potentially collusive, provide another means of accessing large amounts of Treasury dollars without going through Congress.  As I explained earlier, the “settlement agreement” negotiated between Trump-controlled plaintiffs’ lawyers and Trump-controlled defendants’ lawyers holds the distinction of disregarding parts of each of the first three articles of the Constitution (the Appropriations Clause, the Take Care Clause, and the Case and Controversy Requirement) as well as one of the amendments (section 4 of the Fourteenth).  The Justice Department’s press release says Acting Attorney General Todd Blanche has chosen to provide $1.776 billion to this fund for paying the President’s political allies without their proving any of the facts that Congress has required for claims against the federal government.  But nothing stops the President from directing Mr. Blanche to provide more funds without congressional appropriation or to expand the purposes for which they may be spent.

     Although the decisions to go to war with Iran and to take military action against Venezuela, Cuba, and others are commonly discussed in terms of international relations, they are also huge fiscal decisions.  By giving Congress exclusive authority to declare war, the Constitution ensures its comprehensive control over the nation’s finances.  President Trump’s disregard of this power further arrogates the Power of the Purse.  At some point, Congress will have little practical choice but to pay for the wars that were started without its authority.  The cost likely would be sufficient to reverse the devastating cuts to Medicaid and food assistance in last summer’s One Big Beautiful Bill Act, to establish a national child care subsidy program, or to make meaningful progress in shifting our energy infrastructure away from carbon. 

     The final component of President Trump’s claiming Congress’s Power of the Purse, impounding funds appropriated by Congress.  This may be best-known but least-understood of the Administration’s fiscal efforts.  OMB Director Russell Vought returned to office asserting presidential powers unheard of since the Supreme Court unanimously rejected President Nixon’s impoundments.  He followed that up by freezing funding for many domestic programs.  This global freeze was enjoin, withdrawn, and replaced by numerous more targeted, if no more justified or lawful, freezes on particular programs. 

     The picture at this writing is complex and confused.  A few programs did indeed suffer devastating unilateral, lawless impoundments, notably the U.S. Agency for International Development and the Minority Business Development Agency.  Others suffered narrower but still significant impoundments.  For still others, the Administration reported funds obligated but found a wide variety of gimmicks to keep the money from reaching its intended beneficiaries.  Some programs have seen their funds have been diverted to the Administration’s priorities.  For others, OMB has imposed practically unmeetable conditions that must be met before the funds are spent.  For still others, OMB has delayed spending without clearly stating that it intends the delay to be permanent.  And in a wide range of programs, the Administration has leveraged the threat of impoundments to coerce state and local governments and private grantees in ways not authorized by law. 

     Litigation’s results have been mixed.  The Supreme Court has sharply curtailed the ability to bring effective litigation but has not completely shut down potential recipients’ ability to sue.  The procedural obstacles it has placed in the way of litigants, and its resistance to allowing preliminary relief in funding cases, has left the Administration a relatively free hand for now.  But the Court has not clearly repudiated its prior decisions limiting presidents’ ability to arrogate spending powers to themselves.   

     The Power of the Purse has by no means fully passed from Congress to the President.  But the President’s actions suggest few obvious limits to his seizures of prerogatives the Constitution assigns to Congress.  It is difficult to identify a significant fiscal policy that the Administration has desired that it has been prevented from implementing.  So far, at least, Charles I would be most envious.

     @DavidASuper.bsky.social @DavidASuper1

Ronald C. Den Otter

My new book, Education in Democracy:The Importance of Free Speech in American Public Schools, is about the value of student speech and the dangers of censorship. Coupled with distrust of government, where school authorities cannot be trusted to police student speech competently or fairly, I make an autonomy-enhancing argument, contending that the exercise of free speech rights by students is constitutionally required in the name of respecting their autonomy, both as speakers (or writers) and listeners (or readers). I also explain why this practice over time is conducive to the development of the autonomous capacities that they will need as they approach adulthood and democratic citizenship. Ultimately, I defend the perhaps counterintuitive conclusion that constitutional protection for student speech is more imperative when students are young and impressionable. Not in spite of their age, but because of their age, there ought to be few limits regarding what they can say or write outside the classroom, when they are on campus or off campus using social media. 

In Bethel School District v. Fraser, the Court allowed school officials to censor student speech that was lewd and plainly offensive. This exception to Tinker implies that a school could ban sexually explicit speech even when that speech is somewhat political, which outside the context of public schools, would be presumptively constitutionally protected unless it were, legally speaking, obscene. On top of that, this decision could be read more broadly to authorize school officials to censor student speech that they deem inappropriate or offensive even if it lacks sexual innuendo. Hazelwood School District v. Kuhlmeier empowers school officials to prohibit speech in school-sponsored activities that bear the imprimatur of the school, like the school newspaper, plays, dances, and sporting events. This ruling would mean that a school might be able to ban football players, who represent the school, from taking a knee during the playing of the national anthem to protest police brutality, as long as the sporting event qualifies as a school-sponsored event and the school can show that the restriction on the player’s speech is reasonably related to a legitimate educational interest, such as teaching respect for the flag or the police. Likewise, school officials, with different political views, probably could ban the football team from wearing armbands that read “Blue Lives Matter.” In Morse, the “Bong Hits for Jesus” case, the Court made another exception to Tinker, ruling that schools could ban speech that advocates illegal drug use, prompting Justice Thomas in his concurrence to propose that Tinker should be explicitly overruled. As Justice John Paul Stevens implies in his dissent, this decision could be read more broadly as permitting some viewpoint discrimination, which normally would be, without question, constitutionally impermissible elsewhere. Mahanoy, which the Court decided several years ago, may seem like a long overdue victory for student speech, but eight of the justices ended up protecting a student’s crude speech (and gesture) on social media when she was off campus, in a parking garage at a mall on the weekend.

My objective is not only to go much farther than the Court did in Tinker by spelling out why almost all student speech should be constitutionally protected but to clarify what the law should be. The clearer the legal rule or standard is, the harder it will be for school officials to restrict student speech without adequate justification and the harder it will be for judges to permit such restrictions when they are litigated. That is not to say that a clearer precedent itself could prevent school officials from restricting student speech that is unequivocally constitutionally protected, yet it is to say that as much as possible, the Court should make it more difficult for them to do so if they are so inclined. For now, due to this lack of clarity in this area of First Amendment law, those who have little sympathy for student speech can construe the relevant precedents broadly and can emphasize some decisions over others, allowing their own political preferences to determine whether the student speech in question can be banned. In other words, a lack of clarity facilitates viewpoint discrimination. After all, for many school officials and teachers, their primary concern will be the enforcement of school discipline so that understandably, it will be easier for them to do their jobs, including avoiding controversy. However, that tendency is troubling when this discretion would enable a school official to censor student speech that either is, or at least should be, constitutionally protected, and most likely would be protected if the speaker were an ordinary adult or a student off campus.

In making the case that student speech should receive considerably more constitutional protection than it has received in the past, I know that I will not come close to persuading everyone, such as school officials and teachers who are on the front lines, so to speak, and have a very difficult job to do. Nevertheless, I hope that what I have to say will resonate with many of those who are on both the left and the right of the American political spectrum. What I mean by that is despite deep partisan differences, it may be possible to convince those who are on different ideological teams that they have good reasons not to give school officials the authority to censor so much student speech. Because school officials at a particular school could be progressive or conservative, an individual has no way of knowing in advance whether the political views that she favors --or those of her children-- will be at risk of being censored if she were thinking about the situation from an impartial standpoint. Each person should assume that in the absence of constitutionally protecting almost all student speech, her worst political “enemy” will be deciding which student speech can be silenced. The best rule, then, would be to not empower school officials to censor student speech.

One might believe that Americans can learn about the importance of free speech in other places, outside of school, when they are young, and to some degree that is true. But it strikes me that a public school is an ideal place for such learning to take place. First, about 90% of Americans still attend public schools, even when home-schooling and private schools remain an option for some of them. Second, students spend a considerable amount of their time in school during the academic year where they must interact with others, some or many of whom may be different than they are. Third, many of them will not attend college. Thus, junior high and high school will be their only opportunity to be exposed to the various dimensions of free speech in an educational environment. Fourth, when it comes to free speech, there really is no substitute for learn by doing. Although it is imperative that students learn about famous free speech cases in their high school government course and discuss freedom of expression in the abstract, I doubt that an experience in the classroom would substitute for the actual experience of either expressing a political view about, say, healthcare, the war on drugs, mass incarceration, or police brutality, or having to deal with speech that one really disagrees with in face-to-face interactions. Fifth, there are almost always non-censorious alternatives.

The most serious difficulty with not protecting enough student speech is that it is terribly inconsistent with the most appropriate understanding of modern free speech doctrine and its underlying principles. That is an unjustifiable double standard where restrictions on speech that ordinarily are not permissible are allowed in an educational setting (where they would be on a college campus, for instance) when at least arguably, free speech rights are even more important. Once one can show that a public school is, for the most part, best thought of as a kind of public forum for students, who have a constitutional right to express themselves and others have a right to hear them, then it becomes much more difficult to defend restrictions on student speech. When school officials censor such speech, whether they realize it, they are indoctrinating them instead of appealing to their rational faculties. At the end of the day, school authorities must start acting within the limits of the First Amendment.

Ronald C. Den Otter, is Professor of Political Science, California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo. You can reach him by e-mail at denotter@calpoly.edu.

The new codes are a particularly useful site for examining how the Indonesian legislature treats Constitutional Court decisions, a question I have considered in earlier writing. The codes’ treatment of the court’s jurisprudence falls into three patterns. Sometimes the Codes comply, codifying a decision. However, sometimes they override it by re-enacting a provision the Court struck down, thereby reopening constitutional conflicts that had already seemed settled. And sometimes they comply only in form, while other provisions of the same code hollow out the decision’s substance. Overall, the pattern is one of cherry-picking. The result is less a coherent reform project than a legislative reassertion of state authority.

Both codes now face a barrage of constitutional challenges, many coordinated by pro-reform civil society organisations.

Compliance

The new codes do codify some Constitutional Court decisions that struck down provisions of the old. One example is Decision 130/PUU-XIII/2015. Article 109(1) of the old KUHAP required police investigators to notify the public prosecutor when an investigation into a suspect began (via a Surat Pemberitahuan Dimulainya Penyidikan, or SPDP), but set no time limit for that notification. In practice, investigators often delayed sending the SPDP, leaving suspects with a police investigation hanging over them, without knowing whether they would ever be prosecuted. The Court held that the absence of a fixed period violated various constitutional protections, including legal certainty (Article 28D(1)), read a seven-day time limit into the provision, and required that the suspect and the alleged victim be notified. Article 60(1) of the new KUHAP codifies that limit, though it omits the decision’s expansion of recipients to the suspect and alleged victim.

A second is Decision 1/PUU-XI/2013, on the “unpleasant act” provision. Article 335(1)(1) of the old KUHP criminalised the use of violence, threats of violence, or “unpleasant treatment” (perbuatan tidak menyenangkan) to compel another person to do, not do, or endure something. The phrase was vague and had been used to criminalise everyday disputes, debt-collection conduct, and petty interpersonal grievances. The Court excised it for failure of “legal certainty”, a requirement under Article 28D(1) of the Constitution. Article 448 of the new KUHP omits the phrase, retaining only use-of-force.

My final example of compliance is Decision 3/PUU-XI/2013, which concerned the meaning of “promptly” in the old KUHAP’s arrest provisions. Article 18(3) required police, after arresting a suspect, to deliver a copy of the arrest warrant to the suspect’s family “promptly”, but did not define what “promptly” meant. In practice, families were sometimes left without notice of the arrest for weeks. The Court read “promptly” as meaning no more than seven days, holding that the absence of a defined period exposed families and suspects to arbitrary state action and obstructed the suspect’s access to assistance, including legal. Article 95(3) of the new KUHAP codifies the rule and in fact goes further than the Court required, reducing the period to no more than one day. This responds to civil-society criticism that “no more than seven days” was itself too generous.

Override

There are many examples of the new codes reinstating provisions that the Court struck from the old codes. I discuss three here.

First, in Decision 013-022/PUU-IV/2006, the Constitutional Court struck down Articles 134, 136 bis and 137 of the old KUHP, which criminalised insulting the President and Vice-President (often referred to as the lèse-majesté provisions). The Court reasoned in part that these provisions had been introduced during the colonial period to pursue Indonesian nationalist leaders who criticised the Dutch monarchy and colonial government. The Court also explained that “Indonesia, as a democratic state based on law … can no longer appropriately retain in its Criminal Code articles … which negate the principle of equality before the law, reduce the freedom to express thought and opinion, the freedom of information, and the principle of legal certainty”.

Articles 218 and 219 of the new KUHP reinstate the substance of the invalidated provisions, with several adjustments. Article 218(2) introduces a new exception for criticism made “in the public interest or in self-defence”, but the exception does not extend to Article 219, which covers public publication and electronic dissemination and carries a higher maximum penalty. Petitioners challenged these new provisions (275/PUU-XXIII/2025, currently pending) on grounds materially similar to those the Court accepted in 2006, describing Article 218 as a revival of a norm previously declared unconstitutional.

Second, Articles 263 and 264 of the new KUHP substantially reproduce the false-news offences in Articles 14–15 of UU 1/1946 (which criminalised spreading false or uncertain news likely to cause public disturbance). The Court invalidated those provisions in Decision 78/PUU-XXI/2023, as pasal karet (rubber articles) too vague to satisfy legal certainty, with effects on freedom of expression. The Court reasoned that elements in these provisions – “false news or announcement”, “uncertain or excessive reports”, and the open-textured term “public disturbance” – left citizens unable to predict when criticism of government would attract criminal liability. The drafters of the new KUHP have introduced adjustments – for example, Article 263 requires the disseminator to know the news is false. But the new provisions ignore the Court’s objection to the criminalisation of false-news distribution itself, on terms that allow public criticism of government to be caught. Articles 263 and 264 are also under constitutional review.

Third is Decision 98/PUU-X/2012, which concerned standing in praperadilan – the pretrial mechanism the old KUHAP introduced, allowing courts to review the lawfulness of arrests, detentions, and the cessation of investigation or prosecution. Cessation has been a sensitive issue, particularly in corruption cases, where civil society has long documented investigations being terminated despite available evidence and pressure to drop cases involving senior officials or political-business elites. Article 80 set the standing rules for cessation challenges, permitting applications by investigators, prosecutors, or “interested third parties”. The Court read “interested third parties” to include NGOs and other civil-society organisations in cases involving crimes against the public interest.

The new KUHAP achieves the same kind of override, but by a different route. Where Articles 218–219 and 263–264 of the new KUHP re-enact provisions the Court struck down, Article 161 of the new KUHAP deletes the statutory category the Court was interpreting. It removes the “interested third parties” category entirely and restricts standing for cessation challenges to the victim, the reporter, or their legal counsel. NGOs – the precise class of applicants the Court said had to be included to satisfy the Constitution – are no longer eligible to bring praperadilan against the cessation of investigation or prosecution.

In each of these cases, the Court’s reasoning was framed in democratic terms. Each invalidated provision was treated as incompatible with the kind of state – democratic, rights-respecting, governed by law – that the Constitution establishes.

Compliance Thwarted in Substance

The new codes also include provisions that, on their face, comply with Constitutional Court decisions but, read together with other provisions of the same code, undo the protective effect the Court had sought to achieve. These are formal acts of compliance that nonetheless thwart the substance of the rulings they purport to follow.

One example concerns the amount of evidence required to proceed against a suspect at the various stages of the criminal process. In Decision 21/PUU-XII/2014, the Constitutional Court read the old KUHAP as requiring at least two pieces of valid evidence before suspect designation, arrest or detention. That decision imposed the two-evidence rule and expanded the scope of praperadilan to cover suspect designation (in addition to arrest, detention and the cessation of investigation or prosecution). This is important because naming a suspect is a procedural prerequisite to taking further action against them, including moving to a full investigation (penyidikan) and prosecution (penuntutan).

The new KUHAP codifies both aspects of the decision. Articles 90(1) and 94 require a minimum of two pieces of valid evidence for suspect designation and arrest; Article 100(5) applies the same threshold to detention, along with other requirements. Article 158 codifies the expanded scope of praperadilan.

However, other provisions of the Code undo any protective force of the two-evidence rule. Under the old Code, evidence was restricted to a closed list of five categories: witness testimony, expert testimony, documents, indications, and the defendant’s statement. Article 235 of the new KUHAP added new categories – including a catch-all admitting “anything that can be used for the purposes of proof… provided it is obtained lawfully”. The two-piece requirement is trivial to satisfy when almost anything counts as one piece. Combined with the limited scope of praperadilan review – which checks whether the two-piece threshold is formally met but not the probative value of the evidence – the protective effect of the codification is almost entirely undone.

Constitutional Disobedience

Statutory revival of provisions the Constitutional Court has struck down is not new in Indonesia. A 2021 amendment to the 2004 Public Prosecution Law, for example, granted prosecutors a power to seek final review (peninjauan kembali, or PK) of criminal judgments that the Court had reserved to defendants alone – and in Decision 20/PUU-XXI/2023 the Court invalidated the amendment, observing that “lawmakers should have understood that adding to the jurisdiction of prosecutors to lodge PKs would violate justice and legal certainty”.

The Court itself calls this “constitutional disobedience” (pembangkangan konstitusi): in Decision 98/PUU-XVI/2018 it held that continuing to treat an invalidated provision as valid “is illegal and violates the Constitution”, and in Decision 32/PUU-XVIII/2020 that it is “tantamount to ignoring the Constitution”, since Article 1(3) defines Indonesia as a negara hukum (a state governed by law) bound by the Court’s constitutional jurisprudence.

Whether re-enacting a struck-down norm in a new statute is itself such disobedience is, however, contested: on one view, a new code is a new statute that does not automatically inherit the Court’s prior interpretations. The Court has taken a middle path. In Decision 105/PUU-XIV/2016 it held that a prior invalidation will be used as “irrefutable evidence” against a re-enacted norm – the approach it applied in Decision 20/PUU-XXI/2023 to strike down the prosecutorial PK revival.

Even so, this does not solve a fundamental problem: a revived norm remains in force until a sufficiently motivated applicant brings a fresh challenge, satisfies standing, and persuades the Court to invalidate it. That sequence may take years; it may never run at all. In the meantime, criminal provisions that reproduce those the Court has already declared unconstitutional are in force, and the constitutional rights the Court identified are disregarded. The irrefutable-evidence approach may lead the Court to a particular conclusion when a revived norm is finally tested. But it does nothing to ensure that revived norms are tested.

Conclusion

When the Court invalidates a criminal provision for violating citizens’ constitutional rights, the legislature’s re-enactment of it “suggests blatant disregard for those rights”. The KUHP revivals discussed here all concern freedom of expression and the democratic accountability of government and state institutions – lèse-majesté, criticism of government, and false news. The KUHAP examples concern the procedural protections that mediate the relationship between citizens and the state in criminal matters – civil-society standing to scrutinise prosecutorial decisions, and the structural force of the two-evidence rule. A procedural code that makes it easier to investigate, designate as a suspect, arrest, detain and convict, applied to a substantive code that recriminalises the kinds of speech most likely to attract the attention of state actors, is precisely the legal infrastructure that an executive intent on narrowing democratic space would prefer. The new codes belong to the broader pattern of democratic decline documented elsewhere.

The post Constitutional Disobedience by Statute appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

What Orbán Did to the Supreme Court?

Packing the Hungarian Supreme Court took a different twist than at the Constitutional Court. This time Orbán’s regime chose a swapping strategy. His 2012 reform reduced the mandatory retirement age (MRA) of Hungarian judges from 70 to 62 years. This step allowed Orbán to free 274 judicial positions, mostly at higher courts. The Supreme Court was hit particularly hard as the most senior judges sit there. This allowed Orbán to replace many of the suddenly retired judges with his own candidates. The Court of Justice of the European Union eventually found this reform in violation of EU law, but its judgment arrived too late. Some of the forcibly retired judges were allowed to return to their positions, but the harm was already done. Later, the MRA for judges was set at the age of 65.

In addition to court packing, Orbán also tinkered with the tail end of the career of Hungarian judges, as Hungary’s 14^th Constitutional Amendment permits judges, on an individual basis, to remain on the bench until age 70, instead of facing the MRA at 65. This discretionary extension of tenure can easily be abused and qualifies as court-hoarding. Moreover, Chief Justices Peter Darák and András Varga filled many vacancies at the Supreme Court not through public calls and ordinary appointment processes, but by seconding judges from lower courts to do service at the top court. Chief Justice András Varga was also accused of rigging permanent appointments to the Supreme Court.

Finally, Orbán also ensured that leadership of the Supreme Court would be loyal to his regime. He changed the eligibility rules for the chief justice of the Supreme Court to make sure that his candidate, András Varga, was elected in 2020. Once Varga became a Chief Justice, Orbán’s regime increased his powers. As a result, Chief Justice Varga has a major say on key issues such as selecting judges as well as the vice-presidents of the Supreme Court, and can influence the interpretation of law by assigning judges to the grand panels and through a new unification complaint procedure. To further cement the role of Chief Justice Varga, Orbán ensured that the MRA is not applicable to the chief justice. Earlier on, Orbán also prolonged the term of a chief justice from 6 to 9 years. As a result of these measures, taken cumulatively, the current Chief Justice Varga can remain in position with full powers for an indefinite period by relying on a one-third parliamentary minority. The rationale of these reforms was clear – to provide insurance for Orbán against a future electoral loss and to rob a new electoral winner of a legitimate appointment opportunity. Orbán adopted similar tailored laws to pave the way of András Patyi to the position of Vice President of Administrative Affairs of the Kúria and then expand his powers.

What Should Be Done Now?

Now we can move to the potential solutions. Prime Minister Péter Magyar called on Chief Justice András Varga to resign. The proposal to remove him is also backed by scholars who argue that Magyar can remove the central perpetrators from the Hungarian judiciary and criminally punish those Hungarian judges who “seriously and intentionally” violate EU values. Some scholars disagree with Magyar though and suggest that the proper way to remove them is to implement ECtHR’s Baka judgment and give an independent judicial body the right to review the political decision on the removal of a chief justice. Kim Scheppele suggested that Baka himself should be reinstated to the office of the chief justice.

Some of those solutions are very sweeping and go well beyond reactive court-packing. Magyar and many scholars view the 2026 parliamentary elections as a regime change that gives them carte blanche to reshape the judiciary. To be sure, it is an important constitutional moment for Hungary. However, in my opinion, the defeat of Orbán’s regime is nowhere close to democratic transitions from totalitarian (such as post-communist Europe after 1989) and authoritarian (such as post-Salazar Portugal) regimes where judicial purges were limited anyways. Most CEE countries have witnessed democratic careening rather than a straightforward path since 1989. The danger of cyclical court-packing and tit-for-tat judicial reforms are thus high. Other solutions run into practical problems as András Baka’s age is beyond the current MRA and his reinstatement would require adopting an ad hominem law.

Hence, I believe that the discussion on responding to court-packing should begin by determining the paired effect – that is, numerically counterbalancing out the results of the past illegitimate court-packing. Regarding the leadership of the Supreme Court, the actions and speeches of Chief Justice Varga provide potentially good grounds for removing him, as suggested by Erika Farkas. However, the Strasbourg Court’s Baka judgment, paradoxically, complicates this move as it requires judicial review of a political decision to remove a chief justice by an independent judicial body. Such independent judicial body is difficult to find in Hungary now though. But recall that Orbán’s regime also prolonged the term of a chief justice from 6 to 9 years and ensured that the MRA is not applicable to a chief justice. Undoing these ad hominem laws would do the job! If Magyar restores the original 6-year term, which applied when chief justice Baka was removed, and abolishes the ad hominem law which allows the chief justice to stay on the bench indefinitely (as the only judge in the Hungarian judicial system), Varga’s term would finish in October 2026. And it would be in line with the Baka judgment that chastised personalized legislation. The impeachment or disciplinary trial can take place afterwards, if necessary. Similar actions could be taken against Vice President of the Supreme Court András Patyi.

The situation regarding other judges on the Supreme Court is more difficult. There is no clear smoking gun such as the participation of Polish judges in the brand new Disciplinary Chamber and the Extraordinary Chamber at the Polish Supreme Court (I propose to label this group as “black” judges even though the Venice Commission itself does not use this label, since the Venice Commission agrees that they can be removed from the judicial office immediately due to gravity of the violations of the independence of the judiciary – see §§ 58-60 of the Venice Commission’s Opinion). Moreover, many Supreme Court judges forced to retire in the early 2010s due to a sudden lowering of MRA cannot be restored to the judicial office due to their age. Bringing them back would require selective judicial overstay beyond the MRA for a transitional period, which raises serious rule of law concerns and only provides a short-term solution anyways. Moreover, it would replicate Orbán’s strategy mentioned above – in fact, the discretionary extension of tenure that permits judges, on an individual basis, to remain on the bench until age 70 should be abolished quickly.

Then there is an issue with problematic external appointments and promotions to the Supreme Court made under chief justice Varga’s leadership. The most reasonable solution is to transplant the Venice Commission’s opinion on the so-called “yellow” and “red” judges in Poland and adjust it to the Hungarian specifics. “Yellow” judges in the Hungarian context would concern judges promoted between 2010 and 2026, while “red” judges would be persons who entered the judiciary from other legal professions between 2010 and 2026. Regarding both groups, the Venice Commission held that they should remain in office until the new competition is announced, in which they can take part. If they do not succeed in the new competition, “yellow” judges return to their previous positions within the judiciary, while “red” judges can be removed. Given the long 16-year rule of Orbán’s regime, this solution will be difficult to implement across the whole Hungarian judiciary. But it makes sense to conduct such analysis at the Supreme Court. If Magyar’s government wants to reinforce the legitimacy of such vetting, it can also involve foreign judges in this exercise, because they are the “impartial thirds” and citizens in polarized societies tend to trust them more. Finally, it is up to Hungarian scholars to identify “black judges” at the Supreme Court (beyond its leadership) that did the “dirty job” and committed such grave violations of judicial independence as to justify their immediate removal.

That said, court-packing, even if legitimate, entails opportunity costs (at 9:40 min) as other reforms might be more important. Even FDR learned this lesson the hard way.

Don’t Imitate – Innovate!

However, a careful restoring the status quo is not the only possible solution. Magyar’s government should not only imitate Orbán’s reforms in reverse order, but also innovate and think outside the box. It should ensure transparency in judicial appointments and promotion and introduce random case allocation. It can revise the powers of the chief justice of the Supreme Court to make this position less interesting for politicians’ attention and less powerful vis-à-vis rank-and-file judges, as some scholars proposed a long time ago. It may introduce a rotation system of selecting a chief justice or entrench a seniority convention to ensure predictability and transparency in selecting leaders of the Supreme Court. It should get rid of the existing patronage system and abolish the informal carrots and sticks that allows politicians to “manage” courts. Instead of merely restoring the judge-dominated National Judicial Council, it should consider reconceptualizing it as a fourth-branch institution and balance judicial independence with other values such as accountability, efficiency and democratic legitimacy. It can also create public integrity councils and involve civil society in selecting and promoting judges. The momentum is there. To paraphrase Havel, this would give “power to the powerless” – to the people and the civil society. Magyar can even go ahead with the judicial reform that Orbán did not implement in the end – creating a Supreme Administrative Court and a new system of administrative courts. While Orbán’s (unimplemented) 2018 reform establishing a new separate system of administrative courts, headed by a new Supreme Administrative Court, was rightly criticized by Hungarian and foreign scholars, as well as the Venice Commission, the situation nowadays is different in many ways.

In sum, Magyar should think beyond punishing Orbán’s allies on the bench and beyond replacing “Fidesz” judges with “Tisza” judges (or just restoring pre-Fidesz judges). Returning to the status quo before court-packing works only if the judiciary before the initial illegitimate court-packing worked well. That was not the case in Hungary.²⁾ Therefore, it is necessary to foster mental judicial independence and reorganize the judicial system to regain public trust. This might require innovative solutions that go beyond undoing Orbán’s judicial reforms. Only then will Magyar be able to transform the Hungarian courts into a judiciary that will perform better, become more resilient and enjoy high public trust. In the end only the people can save the courts.

The stakes are high. Magyar might need to play constitutional hardball, but he should play it wisely and assess it against the anti-hardball measures. If he fails, cyclical court-packing and tit-for-tat reforms might ensue.

The research leading to this blog post has received funding from the European Research Council (ERC) under the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation program (grant no. 101002660-INFINITY-ERC-2020-COG).

The post Fixing the Hungarian Bench appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Damit greift das Ministerium zwar ein reales Problem auf. Doch die vorgeschlagene Lösung dürfte den Druck in den Schulen weiter erhöhen und würde die betroffenen Kinder deutlich schlechterstellen. Der Entwurf genügt weder verfassungs- noch völkerrechtlichen Vorgaben. Ich entwickle daher einen konkreten Änderungsvorschlag.

Ein nicht-inklusives Schulsystem unter Stress

Eine Studie der UNICEF sorgte jüngst für Schlagzeilen: Danach schneidet Deutschland mit Blick auf das Wohlergehen von Kindern international weit unterdurchschnittlich ab. Dies wird vor allem mit der zunehmenden Kinderarmut und den schwachen Bildungsergebnissen gerade von Kindern aus benachteiligten Familien begründet. Bei der Inklusion –  also der von Artikel 24 UN-Behindertenrechtskonvention geforderten gemeinsamen Beschulung von Kindern mit und ohne Behinderungen – liegen fast alle deutschen Bundesländer deutlich hinter den internationalen Anforderungen zurück (Steinmetz et al.). Entsprechend klar stellte der zuständige UN-Fachausschuss in seinen Abschließenden Bemerkungen im letzten Staatenberichtsverfahren 2023 fest: Deutschland müsse sein exkludierendes Schulsystem umbauen und die für Kinder mit Behinderungen notwendigen Unterstützungssysteme an den Regelschulen aufbauen (ausführlich Bliecke).

Dabei steigt an deutschen Regelschulen die Zahl von Kindern mit festgestelltem sonderpädagogischem Förderbedarf seit Jahren kontinuierlich an – trotz gleichbleibend hohem Anteil an Kindern in Förderschulen und häufig mit einer klaren Korrelation zu sozialem Status bzw. Migrationsgeschichte der Familien. Gleichzeitig verschärft sich der Mangel an Lehrkräften und qualifiziertem pädagogischem Personal. Hinzu kommt der geradezu explosionsartige Anstieg von Schulbegleitungen. Nach einer bundesweiten Auswertung des Statistischen Bundesamtes aus dem Jahr 2021 stiegen Leistungen für die Eingliederungshilfen für Kinder und Jugendliche mit einer seelischen Behinderung von 2009 bis 2019 bereits um 156 Prozent, ein Großteil davon Schulbegleitungen und Integrationshilfen. In der laufenden Dekade hat sich dieser Trend nochmals verschärft, wie viele Städte und Landkreise als Träger der öffentlichen Jugendhilfe vermelden (siehe etwa Niedersachsen, Bayern und Sachsen-Anhalt). Es geht dabei einerseits um den Mangel an personellen und fachlichen Ressourcen, den die Schulbegleiter:innen in einem kriselnden Schulsystem abfedern, und andererseits um einen erheblichen finanziellen Druck, der auf den Städten und Kommunen lastet.

Wissenschaftliche Befunde zur Schulbegleitung

Der Entwurf will dieses System von individueller Begleitung einzelner Kinder nun auf Assistenzen umstellen, die personell an den Schulen verankert sind, und kann sich dabei durchaus auf wissenschaftliche Befunde stützen. Dabei muss man wissen, dass Eltern die Schulbegleitungen als Leistungen der Eingliederungshilfe bisher entweder beim Jugendamt (bei Kindern mit seelischer Behinderung, § 35a SGB VIII) oder beim Sozialamt (bei Kindern mit körperlichen oder geistigen Behinderungen, § 90 SGB IX) als Individualleistungen beantragen müssen. Das Sozialamt bewilligt diese dann in der Regel als Begleitung für das jeweilige Kind (nach § 112 Abs. 4 SGB IX sind mittlerweile allerdings auch sog. Pool-Leistungen möglich).

Gerade in den letzten zehn Jahren ist eine Reihe von wissenschaftlichen Studien zur Schulbegleitung entstanden, die zu weitgehend einhelligen Ergebnissen gelangen. Schulbegleitungen fehlt eine klare Definition ihrer Aufgaben und Rolle (Heinrich/Lübeck); sie sind häufig nicht ausreichend in die Prozesse und Organisation der Schulen und die pädagogische Arbeit mit den Lehrkräften eingebunden (etwa Almrandseder et al.). Problematisch sind häufige Wechsel zwischen den als Schulbegleitung tätigen Personen und die Fixierung auf das einzelne Kind anstelle der gesamten Lerngruppe, was Lernprozesse und die soziale Integration erheblich beeinträchtigen kann (statt vieler Rief, S. 213 ff.). Als besonders problematisch gilt die mangelnde pädagogische Qualifikation vieler Schulbegleitungen (siehe etwa Dworschak/Markowetz). Anforderungen oder Standards – wie das Fachkräftegebot gem. § 72 SGB VIII – gibt es für sie nicht; ihre Beschäftigungsverhältnisse sind zudem oft befristet und schlecht vergütet (Lübeck/Heinrich). Vor diesem Hintergrund haben Martin Heinrich und Anika Lübcke von „hilflos häkelnden Helfern“ gesprochen: Sie interviewten eine Schulbegleiterin, die ihre oft passive Situation in der Klasse mit Häkeln verbringt.

Ein offensichtlicher Widerspruch

Mitunter kommt es sogar dazu, dass in einer Klasse „fünf Schulbegleitungen“ für unterschiedliche Schüler:innen sitzen, die, wie es Bundesministerin Karin Prien in einem Interview auf den Punkt bringt, „nicht miteinander arbeiten, die nicht mit der Lehrkraft arbeiten, die nicht mit der Schulleitung arbeiten“, wobei sie anfügt: „Diese Praxis müssen wir beenden“. Auch wenn ihr klar zu sein scheint, dass der vorliegende Gesetzesentwurf das System nicht verbessern wird, will sie durch die Abschaffung des Individualanspruchs „am Ende zumindest Kostensteigerungen dämpfen“.

Es mag auf den ersten Blick plausibel erscheinen, ein teures System mit nachgewiesenen Mängeln abzuschaffen oder deutlich zurückzubauen. Es kann an der dringenden Reformbedürftigkeit der Schulassistenz auch überhaupt kein Zweifel bestehen. Dennoch ist es kurzsichtig, die erheblichen Folgen zu übersehen, die mit einer weitgehenden Einschränkung des Individualanspruchs auf Schulbegleitung verbunden sind.

Zunächst zeigen fast alle Studien, dass die Schulbegleitung Kindern mit Förderbedarf in vielen Fällen überhaupt erst die Teilnahme am regulären Schulunterricht ermöglicht – gerade angesichts der gegenwärtig mangelnden Unterstützungsressourcen und fehlenden Fachkräfte im System. Es ist jemand da, der sich individuell um das Kind kümmern kann – selbst wenn dieses „Kümmern“ derzeit in vielen Fällen nicht pädagogisch optimal ausfällt. Dennoch sind die Begleitungen gegenwärtig für viele Kinder mit Unterstützungsbedarfen unverzichtbar, um ihre Bildungsteilhabe zu ermöglichen (zusammenfassend Kuhn).

Schulbegleitungen entlasten zudem die Lehrkräfte und nehmen Druck aus einem ohnehin stark belasteten System. Wir können uns einmal vorstellen, wie die Situation in der von Ministerin Prien beschriebenen Klasse aussähe, wenn eine Lehrkraft neben der Arbeit mit der gesamten Klasse allein die fünf Kinder mit besonderen Unterstützungsbedarfen betreuen müsste.

Dazu soll es natürlich nicht kommen. So sieht der neue § 80a SGB VIII-Entwurf vor, dass öffentliche Jugendhilfeträger zusammen mit den Schulen Bildungsassistenzen als Infrastrukturleistungen planen. Doch dieser Planungsauftrag, den die Länder landesrechtlich konkretisieren müssen, wird nicht mehr durch einen Individualanspruch unterlegt. Ein solcher soll nach § 35d Abs. 4 Satz 2 SGB VIII-Entwurf nur noch dann bestehen, wenn „den Besonderheiten des Einzelfalles ausschließlich“ durch eine individuelle Anleitung und Begleitung des Kindes entsprochen werden kann. Ob die jeweilige Schule tatsächlich ein quantitativ und qualitativ ausreichendes Angebot für die Unterstützung zur Verfügung stellen kann, soll nicht (mehr) entscheidend sein; ein Anspruch auf die Einrichtung infrastruktureller Leistungen i.S.d. § 80a SGB VIII-Entwurf besteht nicht.

Nach allem, was wir über Implementationsprozesse rein objektivrechtlicher und planerischer Infrastrukturleistungen in der Kinder- und Jugendhilfe wissen (dazu Scheiwe/Schröer/Wapler/Wrase), würde es nach dem vorliegenden Entwurf zu einem erheblichen Abbau von Schulassistenzen kommen, statt hochwertige Unterstützungsangebote – die es sicher in einzelnen Modellkreisen bzw. -schulen geben wird – aufzubauen. Davon geht offensichtlich auch das Ministerium aus. Ansonsten ließe sich kaum erklären, wie man auf Einsparung von hunderten Millionen, ja über 2 Milliarden Euro pro Jahr in zehn Jahren kommen will. Jan-Martin Wiarda fasst diesen offensichtlichen Widerspruch gegenüber der Ministerin in eine simple, aber treffende Frage: „Wie soll das gehen? Geld sparen und zugleich ein besseres System schaffen?“

Verstoß gegen die UN-Behindertenrechtskonvention

Die Reform hätte weitreichende Folgen: Der Druck auf die Lehrkräfte, vor allem in sozial belasteten Schulen, würde sich weiter erhöhen. Ein System unter Stress dürfte unter noch mehr Stress geraten. Für etliche Kinder mit Unterstützungsbedarf würde es noch schwieriger bis unmöglich werden, eine Regelschule zu besuchen, sodass sich noch mehr Eltern am Ende für eine Förderschule entscheiden (müssten). Deutschland fiele bei der Inklusion noch weiter zurück. Auch die Anzahl der Rechtsstreitigkeiten von Eltern, die vor den Gerichten um eine Individualbegleitung für ihr Kind nach § 35d Abs. 4 Satz 2 SGB VIII-Entwurf kämpfen, dürfte deutlich zunehmen. Ein mahnendes Beispiel dafür ist die Entwicklung in England und Wales. Dort ist die Zahl von Rechtsverfahren zu Schulassistenzen mit der Einschränkung von Leistungen für SEN (Special Educational Needs) an den Schulen massiv angestiegen. Das stünde auch in Deutschland zu befürchten.

Bliebe es bei der vorgeschlagenen Regelung, müssten Gerichte entscheiden, ob die „Besonderheiten des Einzelfalls“ auch dann vorliegen, wenn ein für das jeweilige Kind bedarfsgerechtes Angebot an der jeweiligen Schule nicht zur Verfügung steht – was oft der Fall sein wird. Eine solche Auslegung wäre im Lichte der Verpflichtungen des internationalen und des Verfassungsrechts zwar geboten, würde aber den Wortlaut und den klar erkennbaren Willen des Gesetzgebers überschreiten.

Art. 24 Abs. 2 lit. c und d UN-BRK garantiert ausdrücklich das Recht von Menschen mit Behinderungen auf „angemessene Vorkehrungen“ sowie die „notwendige Unterstützung, um ihre erfolgreiche Bildung“ zu ermöglichen. Auch aus der EMRK lassen sich entsprechende Pflichten ableiten: In der Rechtssache G. L. gegen Italien stellte der Europäische Gerichtshof für Menschenrechte 2020 fest, dass das Diskriminierungsverbot des Art. 14 EMRK im Lichte der genannten Vorgaben aus der UN-BRK auszulegen ist. Die Verweigerung einer notwendigen Assistenz für ein junges Mädchen mit nicht-verbalem Autismus unter Berufung auf fehlende schulische Ressourcen hat der Gerichtshof als eine entsprechende Konventionsverletzung angesehen und dazu ausgeführt:

„dass es die Behörden versäumt haben, die tatsächlichen Bedürfnisse der Beschwerdeführerin zu ermitteln und Lösungen zu suchen, um ihr den Besuch der Grundschule im Rahmen des Möglichen zu gleichen Bedingungen zu ermöglichen.“ (EGMR, Urteil vom 10.9.2020 – 59751/15 – G. L. gegen Italien, Rn. 70)

Diese Rechtsprechung wäre auch verfassungsrechtlich beim Recht auf schulische Bildung zu berücksichtigen, das das Bundesverfassungsgericht aus Art. 2 Abs. 1 i.V.m. Art. 7 Abs. 1 GG herleitet, verstärkt durch Art. 3 Abs. 3 Satz 2 GG. Das Bundesverfassungsgericht hat in seiner grundlegenden Bundesnotbremse II-Entscheidung deutlich gemacht, das Recht auf schulische Bildung sei „in Einklang mit der völkerrechtlichen Gewährleistung eines ‚Rechts auf Bildung‘ und Unionsrecht“ auszulegen (BVerfG, Beschluss des Ersten Senats vom 19. November 2021 – 1 BvR 971/21, 1069/21, Rn. 66; dazu Wrase).

Vorschlag für eine völker- und verfassungskonforme Regelung

Sowohl aus bildungswissenschaftlicher als auch völker- und verfassungsrechtlicher Sicht sollte § 35d Abs. 4 Satz 2 SGB VIII-Entwurf daher unbedingt überarbeitet werden. Der individuelle Rechtsanspruch auf Bildungsassistenz darf nur dann entfallen, wenn an der jeweiligen Schule ein ausreichendes, dem Bedarf des Kindes entsprechendes Unterstützungsangebot tatsächlich sichergestellt ist.

Ein geänderter § 35d Abs. 4 SGB VIII-Entwurf, der den Vorgaben des Art. 24 Abs. 2 lit c und d UN-BRK sowie Art. 2 ZP EMRK i.V.m. Art. 14 EMRK genügt, könnte danach wie folgt lauten:

„Die in der Schule oder Hochschule wegen der Behinderung erforderliche Anleitung und Begleitung werden als infrastrukturelle Angebote nach § 80a gewährt, soweit hierdurch den Bedarfen des jungen Menschen nach dem Ergebnis der Prüfung gemäß § 27 Absatz 4 entsprochen werden kann“ (vorgeschlagene Änderung kursiv). Der Satz 2 könnte entfallen.

Diese Regelung würde sicherstellen, dass der individuelle Unterstützungsanspruch nur dann und insoweit entfällt, als an der jeweiligen Schule ein ausreichendes Angebot an infrastrukturellen Unterstützungsleistungen tatsächlich besteht. Nur wenn der Individualanspruch bei Nichterfüllung erhalten bleibt, werden die Träger der öffentlichen Jugendhilfe dazu angehalten, ausreichende infrastrukturelle Unterstützungsleistungen nach § 80a SGB VIII-Entwurf an den Schulen aufzubauen (zum Ganzen Meysen). Das haben nicht zuletzt auch die Erfahrungen beim Aufbau von Kita-Plätzen gezeigt (BMWE).

Bleiben entsprechende Änderungen aus, steht nicht nur die Teilhabe von Kindern mit Unterstützungsbedarfen auf dem Spiel. Vielmehr droht die Überlastung eines Schulsystems, das bereits vielerorts an seine Grenzen stößt. Eine weitergehende Reform der Schulassistenz, die der Gesetzentwurf einleitet, bleibt dringend notwendig und ist mit wissenschaftlich-fachlicher Begleitung anzugehen.

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The German proposal is not the first and most likely not the last of this kind. It echoes earlier suggestions about “reverse enlargement”, proposed by Commission President Ursula von der Leyen, and ideas about “staged integration” floated in academic circles. The main objective of all those proposals is to ensure continuous support for Ukraine’s reform efforts in the understanding that obtaining full membership is a long and cumbersome process. Providing an “intermediate” and “tailor-made” status for Ukraine aims to overcome a tension between the political imperatives of enlargement as “a geopolitical necessity” on the one hand, and fulfilment of the formal requirements for membership on the basis of an objective and merit-based process, on the other hand. Moreover, it comes at a time when the EU envisages a more prominent role in any future peace negotiations between Russia and Ukraine.

Whereas the political inspiration of Merz’s proposal is clear, its translation into practice raises significant questions. The letter proceeds from the assumption that the granting of an “associated membership” status for Ukraine is possible on the basis of “a strong political agreement” and without a ratification of an Accession Treaty or any EU Treaty changes. This assumption is, arguably, the weakest part of the entire document.

An Ambiguous Legal Status

A status of “associate membership” without a clear legal basis may be perceived as a form of “window-dressing” offering a symbolic type of second-rate or fake membership without real, substantive rights. Ukrainian President Zelensky already hinted at this risk when he stated that “Ukraine does not defend Europe partially, therefore it deserves full membership”. He also emphasised that “without Ukraine there can be no real European project, thus the presence of Ukraine in the EU must be real too”. Vice-Prime Minister for European integration of Ukraine, Taras Kachka, further commented that the proposal of German Chancellor Merz can only be considered as complimentary to achieve the objective of full EU membership but not as an alternative format even though he acknowledged that different mechanisms can play a role in the EU accession process. One aspect of the proposal received a more positive reaction among Ukrainian political and expert communities. This is the suggestion to allow Ukrainian representatives to work in EU institutions either on an informal or formal basis. It is believed that the sooner Ukraine embarks upon this process and develops domestic political and legal mechanisms for a transparent selection of candidates, the better. For instance, it took many years for Ukraine to set up a transparent and well-functioning system for the selection of candidates for the office of judge at the European Court on Human Rights in Strasbourg. Further, Ukrainian civil servants and experts with experience of working and dealing with EU institutions could considerably enhance the quality of the EU accession process of Ukraine.

The key question, however, is how the envisaged status of “associated membership” can work in practice, The concept of “associated membership” has no legal basis in the EU Treaties and ambiguously combines the notions of “association” as foreseen under Article 217 TFEU and “membership” under Article 49 TEU.

The legal concept of association is very flexible and typically provides for various forms of integration without formal membership. A clear dividing line between the status of “association” and “membership” precisely concerns the participation in EU decision-making and full representation in the EU institutions. The latter is reserved for Member States only, in order to preserve the Union’s decision-making autonomy. Even participation without voting rights is, in principle, excluded for non-members, because their mere presence may already affect the deliberations. Accordingly, third-country representatives cannot be given a formal participatory role on the basis of an Association Agreement. There can only be an ad hoc participation, upon invitation and for a specific item on the agenda. In recent years, Ukrainian President Zelensky has been invited on several occasions to update the members of the European Council on the situation in Ukraine. This is, however, not to be seen as a formal participation in the European Council meeting. An invited third-country representative can only enter the room for a specific item and is not allowed to intervene or even be present during the deliberations. As observed by the Council’s legal service some time ago, this strict arrangement applies to all third countries irrespective of how closely their legal relations with the Union are and irrespective of their participation in the EU enlargement process. The only exception concerns the situation of acceding countries, which can act as observers in the interim period between the signature of the Treaty of Accession and its entry into force.

Hence, introducing a kind of “associated membership” which envisages participatory rights in EU institutions is legally impossible under Article 217 TFEU. A “strong political agreement”, as suggested in Merz’s letter, is arguably also not an option. As can be derived from the case law of the Court of Justice, non-binding arrangements must also respect the EU’s institutional balance and decision-making autonomy. The only feasible option is, therefore, to proceed on the basis of a Treaty on Accession, i.e. an agreement between the Member States and the applicant state as foreseen under Article 49 (2) TEU. Such an agreement includes “the conditions of admission and the adjustments of the Treaties on which the Union is founded”. Arguably, this provision gives the contracting parties a broad margin of discretion to define the precise terms of admission and required EU Treaty amendments, as long as there is a link with the actual enlargement of the Union. Granting new Member States a transitionary status without full voting rights in the EU institutions could perhaps be part of such an arrangement. As mentioned, previous enlargement rounds envisaged such an observer status for the period between the signature and actual entry into force of the Treaty on Accession. The main difference and challenge of the Merz proposal is related to the undefined period of the associated membership status. A long-term exclusion of new Member States from the EU’s decision-making procedures seems difficult to reconcile with the principle of equality between the Member States, as enshrined in Article 4(2) TEU. At the very least, a clear procedure and perspective towards full participation is warranted.

A Security Guarantee for Ukraine

The most substantive aspect of the German proposal concerns the possibility for Ukraine to request aid from other Member States under the mutual assistance clause of Article 42(7) TEU. This provision, introduced with the Treaty of Lisbon, has remained largely unexploited. It was triggered once, after terrorist attacks in France. Since the US attempts to acquire Greenland from Denmark and an Iranian drone attack on a British military base in Cyprus, the High Representative and the European External Action Service (EEAS) are working on the operationalisation of the clause.

The inclusion of Ukraine within the geographical scope of application of Article 42 (7) TEU would be a significant development. Again, the proposal of Chancellor Merz is very ambiguous in the sense that it envisages “a political commitment by the Member States to apply Article 42 (7) TEU”. The question here is how such a political commitment can be reconciled with the text and spirit of the EU Treaties. Article 42 (7) TEU explicitly refers to the situation where “a Member State is the victim of an armed aggression on its territory.” The mutual assistance commitment is an expression of the special bond between the Member States in a common legal order. It seems that an extension of this commitment cannot easily be done on the basis of a political commitment, particularly if this is deemed to create “a substantial security guarantee.” Arguably, such a guarantee requires the formal granting of an EU Member State status to Ukraine on the basis of a Treaty of Accession or, alternatively, the inclusion of a similarly worded provision in the EU-Ukraine Association Agreement.

Extending the “mutual assistance” clause to Ukraine is in any event a sensitive issue for the existing Member States. It is almost impossible to imagine such an extension at a time of active warfare between Russia and Ukraine because this would immediately involve all EU Member States in the conflict. A more plausible scenario is to offer this prospect as part of a future peace deal between Russia and Ukraine. In such a scenario, Article 42 (7) TEU could serve as the EU’s security guarantee for Ukraine against Russian military aggression in the future. This largely corresponds to some ideas that were included in a US-based draft peace proposal that was presented at the end of 2025. The offer of an accelerated Ukrainian EU membership was seen as an integral part of the envisaged compromise, but it quickly turned out that such a commitment cannot be upheld in view of a merit-based enlargement process and the procedural requirements of Article 49 TEU. An intermediate status of “associated membership” focussing on the inclusion of Ukraine in the EU’s mutual assistance clause aims to overcome this issue. Whether this can be done on the basis of a “strong political commitment” is, however, doubtful.

A ‘Snap-Back Mechanism’ as a Safeguard Against Backsliding

The idea of a “snap-back mechanism” in case of backsliding in respect for the EU’s fundamental values, most notably the rule of law, is the least controversial aspect of the proposal. In fact, this replicates the EU’s pre- and post-accession conditionality as gradually developed in the EU’s enlargement policy. The recent generation of EU negotiating frameworks with candidate countries, including Ukraine, already envisage a special procedure to counter backsliding in reform implementation. This implies that the Commission, either on its own initiative or at the duly motivated request of a Member State, can propose a suspension of the accession negotiations; withhold its recommendation to open or close other negotiating clusters and chapters; or recommend the re-opening of chapters that had been provisionally closed. The Commission’s proposal is deemed to be adopted by the Council unless it is rejected by a qualified majority within 90 days.

With respect to post-accession conditionality, the introduction of safeguard clauses in a Treaty of Accession can address concerns of potential backsliding after accession (in addition to the potential use of Article 7 TEU). As announced by Commissioner for enlargement, Marta Kos, the next Accession Treaty with Montenegro will contain even stronger safeguards than before. Hence, the inclusion of a mechanism countering potential backsliding in the proposal for “associated membership” hardly comes as a surprise. It is all but new and a confirmation of existing practice.

Conclusion

The proposal by German Chancellor Merz for “associated membership” is part of the ongoing debate over further EU enlargement and the EU’s role in providing security guarantees for Ukraine. It aims to reconcile the geopolitical necessity to do something for Ukraine without undermining the formal enlargement procedure. Whereas certain aspects of the proposal may sound attractive at first sight, the absence of a strong legal foundation or even an in-depth reflection about the legal translation of this political initiative undermines its credibility. The lukewarm response from Kyiv should not come as a surprise when there is a constant flow of general ideas and offers of symbolic membership.

A key concern is also that the envisaged “associated membership” is specifically designed for the situation of Ukraine. For the Western Balkan countries and Moldova, Chancellor Merz proposes “to look into innovative solutions also for those candidate countries”. This may introduce a new cleavage in the EU’s enlargement process, with a special arrangement for Ukraine, on the one hand, and the other candidate countries, on the other hand. Even though the situation of Ukraine as a country at war is indeed particular, the introduction of such a division entails the risk that Ukraine is left behind in its progress towards full membership.

Given the geopolitical significance of further enlargement, as emphasised time and again in official EU documents, it is striking that the discussion on how to proceed is still largely based on rather vague proposals. Whereas Ukraine and other candidate countries proceed with their reform process, the Union fails to properly do its own homework. Already in 2024, the European Commission announced a thorough assessment of required internal pre-enlargement reforms and policy reviews. The outcome of this exercise still needs to be communicated. When the EU is serious about enlargement, a substantive and comprehensive vision is required instead of a constant flow of political ideas.

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A phased constitutional process

The Fundamental Law of Hungary has become an instrument for dismantling the rule of law, while the institutions originally designed to protect constitutional democracy have, through the systematic appointment of political loyalists, ceased to serve as its guardians and instead have become emblematic of its erosion. There is broad agreement among constitutional lawyers in Hungary that adopting a new constitution requires two stages. This concept is based on an article by Gábor Attila Tóth published in 2022, which distinguishes the “restorative constitution-making” from the so-called classical constitution-making. The first phase is the so-called negative constitution-making, which aims to temporarily restore the minimum requirements of constitutional democracy by invalidating the rules that underpin the autocratic legal order. The second step concerns the adoption of a new constitution, and can be described as positive constitution-making. It is beyond dispute that we are in a phase of negative constitution-making development. Yet even with a two-thirds majority in the Parliament, the Tisza government must remain bound by constitutional principles. Otherwise, the very logic that enabled Fidesz to dismantle the constitutional order through politically motivated amendments would persist. The challenge is also compounded by the fact that key public institutions entrenched by Fidesz make the restoration of constitutionalism extraordinarily difficult.

The President as a Constitutional Veto Player

As Kim Lane Scheppele has recently observed, even a parliamentary supermajority must contend with entrenched institutional “veto players.” Péter Magyar appeared to recognize this on election night, identifying the President of the Republic and the packed Constitutional Court as the principal obstacles to both democratic reconstruction and the constitutional reforms necessary to unlock EU funding. This explains his repeated calls for President Tamás Sulyok to resign voluntarily and his decision to set a public deadline for doing so. There is, however, little indication that the President intends to step aside. On the contrary, Sulyok has already signaled that any legislation or constitutional amendment must be adopted “in accordance with the rule of law and respect for European values” and that, under European and international constitutional standards, even the appearance that a legislative process is aimed at removing an elected public official should be avoided. These statements are striking coming from a president whose tenure has been marked by near-complete deference to a government that spent sixteen years weakening constitutional checks and balances. Concerns about the rule of law, European constitutional standards, or the protection of minorities did not appear to weigh heavily when legislation expanding decree-based governance, authorizing the suspension of citizenship for certain dual nationals, or targeting sexual minorities was enacted. More importantly, the President now appears poised to assume a far more activist role than at any previous point in his presidency. A head of state who has largely functioned as a reliable signatory of government legislation may seek to reinvent himself as an active wielder of both political and constitutional veto powers. If so, it is difficult to imagine that he would facilitate constitutional amendments—or accompanying legislation—whose explicit purpose is the premature termination of his own mandate.

If the President chooses to assume a more activist role, the obvious question is what constitutional tools are actually available to him. Under Article 6 of the Fundamental Law, every law adopted by Parliament must be signed by both the Speaker of the National Assembly and the President of the Republic before it can be promulgated and enter into force. As a general rule, the President is therefore obliged to sign legislation within five days of receiving it. There are, however, two important exceptions. First, if the President considers a law unconstitutional, he may refer it to the Constitutional Court for a preliminary review of its conformity with the Fundamental Law. Second, if he objects to the legislation on policy or other grounds, he may return it to Parliament for reconsideration. Of these two powers, the constitutional veto is by far the more significant. Not only does it delay the law’s entry into force, but it also triggers a preliminary review by the Constitutional Court, which must rule on the legislation’s constitutionality within thirty days. Should the Court identify a constitutional defect, Parliament must revisit the law before it can be promulgated. By contrast, a political veto merely requires Parliament to reconsider the bill; once it has done so, the President is obliged to sign it regardless of whether his objections have been addressed. The rules governing amendments to the Fundamental Law, however, are significantly different – and considerably more restrictive.

Constitutional Amendments: A Different Set of Rules

The rules are considerably narrower when it comes to amendments to the Fundamental Law. Unlike ordinary legislation, constitutional amendments are not subject to substantive constitutional review before promulgation. Under Articles 9 and 24 of the Fundamental Law, the President may refer an adopted constitutional amendment to the Constitutional Court only if he believes that the procedural requirements governing its adoption were violated. In principle, therefore, neither the President nor the Court may assess the substance of a constitutional amendment at this stage. There is, however, an important difference between ordinary legislation and constitutional amendments. In the case of an unpromulgated law, only the President may initiate a preliminary constitutional review. By contrast, once a constitutional amendment has been promulgated, the procedure may also be initiated by one-quarter of the Members of Parliament, the President of the Curia, the Prosecutor General, or the Ombudsman. Given the current composition of these offices—and the fact that Fidesz-KDNP still holds 52 seats in the 199-member Parliament—most of the key institutional actors involved in the process remain closely associated with the previous regime.

Formally, the President’s powers are therefore limited to procedural objections. In practice, however, President Sulyok’s recent statements suggest that he may be willing to push those limits. If Parliament were to adopt a constitutional amendment aimed at removing either the President himself or another Fidesz-appointed officeholder before the expiry of their mandate, he could attempt to frame the measure as incompatible with constitutional principles or European standards or because it violates the prohibition on retroactive legislation. Such objections would be substantive rather than procedural and would therefore sit uneasily with the constitutional framework itself. Yet they could still provide the basis for a constitutional confrontation—and potentially trigger the impeachment scenario discussed below.

Impeachment

The Fundamental Law itself provides a potential response to presidential obstruction. Under Article 13, the President of the Republic may be removed from office if he intentionally violates the Fundamental Law or any other law in connection with the exercise of his duties, or commits an intentional criminal offense. The procedure may be initiated by one-fifth of the Members of Parliament and requires the support of a two-thirds majority of all MPs. In theory, this mechanism could become relevant if the President were to exceed the constitutional limits of his office. For example, a refusal to sign a duly adopted constitutional amendment within the constitutionally prescribed deadline, or an attempt to subject such an amendment to a form of substantive constitutional review that the Fundamental Law does not permit, could arguably amount to a violation of the President’s constitutional obligations. In such circumstances, the parliamentary majority could initiate impeachment proceedings. Yet here another institutional obstacle emerges. While the National Assembly is responsible for initiating the procedure, it is not Parliament that ultimately decides the case. Under the current constitutional framework, the Constitutional Court acts as the adjudicating body in impeachment proceedings. Given the Court’s present composition, there is little reason to expect that it would readily remove a President closely associated with the political forces that appointed its members. At first glance, therefore, Hungary appears trapped in a constitutional circle: a President capable of obstructing constitutional change can only be removed through a procedure that ultimately depends on another institution widely perceived as politically aligned with the previous regime.

This, however, is not the end of the story.

Paradoxically, the Fundamental Law itself contains a mechanism that may substantially reduce the President’s ability to interfere with the legislative process once impeachment proceedings have begun. Article 13(4) provides that from the moment the National Assembly adopts the resolution initiating impeachment proceedings until those proceedings are concluded, the President may no longer exercise his powers. Since, in the context of impeachment proceedings against the President of the Republic, the Fundamental Law merely stipulates that the President “may not exercise his or her powers,” yet the President plays a crucial role in the legislative process, it is necessary to provide for some form of replacement even for this extended period. The provision on “incapacity” contained in Article 14 of the Fundamental Law could serve as a supplementary provision, as this is ultimately what it addresses. Under these rules, the fact of temporary incapacity is established by the National Assembly, acting on the initiative of the President, the Government, or any Member of Parliament. Once such incapacity has been declared, the President’s powers are exercised by the Speaker of the National Assembly. The implications are significant. If impeachment proceedings were initiated against the President and Parliament simultaneously declared his temporary incapacity, presidential powers would pass to the Speaker. Although the Speaker, acting as interim President, may not exercise the rights of a Member of Parliament and therefore loses his or her vote, the governing majority would nevertheless retain the two-thirds majority necessary to adopt the constitutional amendments required for democratic reconstruction. Ironically, then, one of the most effective tools for neutralizing the presidential veto may be found not outside the Fundamental Law, but within it. The constitutional architecture that was designed to entrench political power may also contain the means to overcome one of its most formidable obstacles.

A Constitutional Reckoning

What Hungary is confronting is no longer a routine political transition, but a far more profound reckoning with the foundations of constitutional government itself. When institutions created to safeguard democracy become instruments of its erosion, the challenge ceases to be one of personnel and becomes one of constitutional principle. The presidential veto may be one of the most formidable obstacles to democratic reconstruction. Yet it is not necessarily an insurmountable one. Indeed, the very constitutional framework designed to entrench Fidesz’s power may also contain the means to overcome its most significant public law obstacles. The real question, therefore, is not whether constitutional tools exist to navigate these veto points, but whether there will be sufficient political will – and democratic restraint – to employ them. Ultimately, the issue extends far beyond the fate of a single president or a handful of political appointees. It is about whether Hungary can move from a constitutional order designed to preserve power to one capable of limiting it. The success of constitutional reconstruction will depend not on the existence of institutional roadblocks, but on whether those entrusted with power can restore constitutional democracy without reproducing the logic of constitutional abuse. The challenge is formidable – but so too is the opportunity.

Research for this post was supported by a Grant from the German-Israeli Foundation for Scientific Research and Development (GIF, Grant number 1557).

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Es liegt in der Natur des Instituts „Verfassungsschutz“, extremistische Gruppierungen bereits dann in den Blick zu nehmen, wenn sich deren politische Haltung noch gar nicht zu einer Gefahr verdichtet hat. Der verfassungsschutzrechtliche Aufgaben- und Befugnisbereich des Bundesamts für Verfassungsschutz (BfV) beginnt damit erheblich früher als der klassischer Gefahrenabwehrbehörden. Zugleich ist allgemein anerkannt, dass staatliche Eingriffe – gleich welcher Art – nicht an die Gesinnung allein angeknüpft werden dürfen. Ein Verbot „gefährlicher Geisteshaltung“ kann es nicht geben. Das Problem verschärft sich, wenn das Bundesministerium des Innern (BMI) diese Gruppierungen – so wie im eingangs erwähnten Fall – danach auch im Verfassungsschutzbericht als „extremistisch“ erwähnt.

Dass derlei Verfahren zuletzt auch prominent zugunsten der Antragsteller ausgingen, weist auf Schwierigkeiten in der Beurteilung dieser Fälle hin. Allzu schnell droht ein falsches Verständnis von Wehrhaftigkeit in Angst vor der Freiheitsausübung von (Grund-)Rechtsträgern und schließlich einen reflexiven Selbstschutz umzuschlagen. Dies gilt gerade für Staatskritik. (insgesamt dazu Barczak, JZ 2024, 419 [419 ff.]). Dabei sollten vermeidbare Niederlagen vor Gericht vor allem im Sinne der grundrechtlichen Freiheiten, unbedingt aber auch aus Eigennutz vermieden werden. Wann also wird eine Meinungsäußerung zum tauglichen Anknüpfungspunkt dieser besonderen Form der staatlichen Öffentlichkeitsarbeit? Sensibilität statt Nervosität beweist das Verwaltungsgericht Berlin.

Beschluss des Verwaltungsgerichts Berlin

Konkret hatten das BfV bzw. BMI die „Jüdische Stimme“ im Kapitel „Linksextremismus“ als extremistische Bestrebung genannt (vgl. Verfassungsschutzbericht 2024, S. 168) und im Kapitel „Auslandsbezogener Extremismus“ schließlich als „gesichert extremistisch“ eingestuft (S. 280) und sich dazu auf § 3 Abs. 1 Nr. 3 und 4 BVerfSchG gestützt. Der Verein leugne das Existenzrecht Israels und rechtfertige und billige Terror gegen die israelische Bevölkerung. Im Beschluss stellt das Verwaltungsgericht klar, dass eine Meinungsäußerung allein kein ausreichender Anknüpfungspunkt für eine „Bestrebung“ (§ 4 Abs. 1 BVerfSchG) sein kann. Über die bloße Meinungsäußerung hinaus sei ein aktives, nicht notwendig kämpferisch-aggressives Vorgehen zur Realisierung eines bestimmten Ziels erforderlich und es müsse die Absicht erkennbar sein, gesellschaftliche Machtanteile zu erringen bzw. die staatliche Ordnung zumindest in Teilen verändern zu wollen (Rn. 48).

Anschließend stellt das Gericht auf die spezifischen Tatbestandmerkmale der §§ 3 Abs. 1 Nr. 3 und 4 BVerfSchG ab, geht auf den Bestrebungsbegriff als allgemeinen Anknüpfungspunkt für eine Nennung im Verfassungsschutzbericht (und nachrichtendienstliche Maßnahmen generell) aber nur implizit ein (etwa Rn. 52 und 60). Weil § 3 Abs. 1 Nr. 3 BVerfSchG jedenfalls ein Verhalten zur konkreten Förderung von Gewalt erfordert und das Gericht den Tatbestand des § 3 Abs. 1 Nr. 4 BVerfSchG vergleichbar auslegt (Rn. 70 ff.), folgen schwerpunktmäßig spezifische Überlegungen zur Förderung von Gewalt, insbesondere durch Gutheißen des Terrors der Hamas. Diese erkannte das Gericht trotz diverser Verdachtsmomente nicht in hinreichender Deutlichkeit. Nur auf den ersten Blick kurios ist, dass das Verwaltungsgericht Köln am 20. Mai die Einstufung durch das BfV als solche für rechtmäßig erachtete. Hintergrund des Beschlusses ist aber die Einbeziehung späterer – den Hamas-Terror explizit befürwortender – Äußerungen.

Abseits des spezifischen Gewaltförderungsmerkmals weisen die Beschlüsse damit auf die eingangs aufgeworfene und im Begriff der Bestrebung verankerte Grundsatzfrage zurück: Wann sind Worte verfassungsschutzrelevante Taten?

Der Verfassungsschutzbericht als Dilemma

Einmal pro Jahr informiert das BMI die Öffentlichkeit über Bestrebungen und Tätigkeiten i.S.d. § 3 Abs. 1 BVerfSchG gemäß § 16 Abs. 2 BVerfSchG. Werden Gruppierungen oder Parteien in der Publikation genannt, ist dies ein – durchaus intensiver – staatlicher Eingriff (regelmäßig in Art. 5 Abs. 1 S. 1 Alt. 1, Art. 9 Abs. 1 oder Art. 21 Abs. 1 GG). Deshalb und wegen des politischen Kapitals, das in der öffentlichkeitswirksamen gerichtlichen Auseinandersetzung liegt, kann es nicht überraschen, dass die Genannten regelmäßig gegen ihre Erwähnung vorgehen (vgl. zuletzt VG Köln, Beschl. v. 26.02.2026 – 13 L 1109/25).

Den Begriff der „Bestrebung“ i.S.d. § 3 Abs. 1 Nr. 1, 3 und 4 BVerfSchG definiert § 4 Abs. 1 S. 1 BVerfSchG als politisch bestimmte, ziel- und zweckgerichtete Verhaltensweise in einem oder für einen Personenzusammenschluss, der auf die Beseitigung oder Beeinträchtigung des jeweils in § 3 Abs. 1 und § 4 Abs. 1 BVerfSchG aufgeführten Schutzguts gerichtet ist – kurz: extremistisch oder verfassungsfeindlich (Ullrich, JZ 2016, 169 [171 f.]). „Bestrebung“ muss also ein aktives Handeln sein, das dabei nicht zwingend kämpferisch-aggressiv oder strafbar sein muss (s. BVerfGE 162, 1 [88 f. Rn. 185]; BVerwGE 171, 59 [Rn. 20]). Zwar kann der Inhalt einer Meinung damit isoliert betrachtet noch kein tauglicher Anknüpfungspunkt sein (vgl. Rn. 48 des Beschlusses sowie auch Ogorek, JZ 2025, 285 [286]). Ist die Meinungsäußerung aber „Ausdruck eines Bestrebens“ (BVerfGE 113, 63 [82 Rn. 72]) und geht insoweit „über das bloße Vorhandensein einer politischen Meinung hinaus […]“ (BVerfGE 162, 1 [88 Rn. 185]), kann sie es mittelbar doch.

Unter diesen Umständen ermöglicht § 16 Abs. 2 BVerfSchG dem BMI, sich mit politischen Meinungen von Grundrechtsträgern auseinanderzusetzen, mehr noch: Grundrechtsträger wortwörtlich zum (Verfassungs-)Feind zu erklären und so auf die politische Willensbildung einzuwirken. Der Verfassungsschutzbericht steht also potenziell in einem so offenen wie starken Spannungsverhältnis diverser, vielzitierter Grund- und Glaubenssätze der Demokratie des Grundgesetzes. Sei es das Leitbild demokratischer Willensbildung i.S.d. Art. 20 Abs. 2 GG, die sich „vom Volk zu den Staatsorganen“, also von unten nach oben, vollziehen soll, sei es Habermas‘ Konzept der deliberativen Demokratie und des herrschaftsfreien Diskurses, seien es die Voraussetzungen des freiheitlichen, säkularisierten Staates, die er selbst nicht garantieren kann.

Es drängen sich also mindestens zwei wesentliche Fragen auf: Warum sollte eine Demokratie sich dieses Instrument leisten und durch welche Kriterien kommen die verschiedenen Rechtsgüter zu einem angemessenen Interessenausgleich?

Grund und Funktion des Verfassungsschutzberichts

Die Verfassungsschutzberichterstattung durch das BMI ist ein spezieller und im Übrigen auch einer der wenigen einfachgesetzlich geregelten Fälle staatlicher Öffentlichkeitsarbeit. Im Allgemeinen entfalten die Erwägungen des Bundesverfassungsgerichts zur allgemeinen staatlichen Öffentlichkeitsarbeit ihre Wirkung auch hier:

„Öffentlichkeitsarbeit […] ist in Grenzen nicht nur verfassungsrechtlich zulässig, sondern auch notwendig. Die Demokratie des Grundgesetzes bedarf […] eines weitgehenden Einverständnisses der Bürger mit der vom Grundgesetz geschaffenen Staatsordnung. […] Diesen Grundkonsens lebendig zu erhalten, ist Aufgabe staatlicher Öffentlichkeitsarbeit.“ (BVerfGE 44, 125 [147]).

Staatliche Öffentlichkeitsarbeit soll gesamtgesellschaftlich also integrativ wirken. Der Staat kann die ihn tragenden Voraussetzungen zwar nicht garantieren oder erzwingen; er kann sie aber zumindest fördern. Der Grundkonsens besteht jedoch insbesondere darin, dass das Grundgesetz in Reaktion und Abkehr vom totalitären Staat eine Staatsordnung schafft, die die – grundrechtlich abgesicherte – Freiheit seiner Bürgerinnen und Bürger in den Mittelpunkt stellt. Wenn der Staat durch die Publikation von Verfassungsschutzberichten aber in eben diese Freiheit eingreift, kann der Zweck „Grundkonsens“ allein die Spannung nicht auflösen und muss zusätzlich begründet werden.

Diese Begründung liegt im Konzept der wehrhaften Demokratie. Dessen Ausdruck sind die Existenz der Verfassungsschutzbehörde im Allgemeinen (Art. 73 Abs. 1 Nr. 10 lit. a GG, Art. 87 Abs. 1 S. 2 GG) sowie der Verfassungsschutzberichte im Besonderen (Gusy, NVwZ 1986, 6 [6]; Krüper, in: Dietrich/Eiffler, HdNDR, 3. Teil § 1 Rn. 24 ff. 57 ff.). Versteht man „Wehrhaftigkeit“ aber als mehr als die rechtlichen Instrumente des Staates und soll sie – ebenfalls im Sinne des Grundkonsenses – mit Leben gefüllt sein, ist sie nicht ausschließlich Aufgabe des Staates oder einer Regierung. Vielmehr kommt es auf die Bürgerinnen und Bürger an. Im Ergebnis sind sie es, die sich mit extremistischen Bestrebungen kritisch auseinanderzusetzen haben. Die Voraussetzungen dieser Auseinandersetzung sind vielfältig. Wie für jede andere freie Willensbildung auch braucht es zwingend Presse-, Meinungs- und Versammlungsfreiheit. Deshalb sind diese Grundrechte demokratiekonstituierend. Für eine solche Auseinandersetzung braucht es aber auch eine ausreichende Informationsgrundlage über die Bewegungen. Der Verfassungsgeber hat mit dem Verfassungsschutz eine nachrichtendienstliche Informationssammlung eingerichtet; der einfache Gesetzgeber hat entschieden, diese Erkenntnisse der Öffentlichkeit eingeschränkt zugänglich zu machen. Das Grundgesetz steht dem auch unstrittig nicht grundsätzlich entgegen.

Diese Form der Informierung verfolgt dabei einen inhärent politischen Zweck: Die Bevölkerung soll vor dem erkannten und markierten „Feind“ gewarnt werden. Dass damit gleich ein Quasi-Verbot einhergeht, wie es einst Dieter Murswiek nahelegte („Man braucht eine Partei nicht zu verbieten, um ihr die Chance auf Verwirklichung ihrer politischen Ideen zu nehmen“, Murswiek, NVwZ 2004, 769 [769]), darf zwar mehr als bezweifelt werden. Der Verfassungsschutzbericht ist aber zweifelsohne auch „kein beliebiges Erzeugnis staatlicher Öffentlichkeitsarbeit“ (BVerfGE 113, 63 [77 Rn. 54]). Er ist durchaus Mittel des politischen Meinungskampfes und will den „Feind“ politisch-gesellschaftlich isolieren. Dass die Verfassungsordnung diese Einwirkung auf die politische Willensbildung in Kauf nimmt, erklärt sich vor dem Hintergrund der deutschen Geschichte der NS-Diktatur. Denn die Wehrlosigkeit Weimars war in erster Linie keine rechtliche, sondern eine geistige. Bevölkerung wie Beamtentum waren demokratisch nur unzureichend verwurzelt. Ein Verfassungsschutzbericht als Instrument der präventiven Gefahrenabwehr kann und soll zwar nicht politisch-inhaltlich überzeugen. Er kann aber demokratiezersetzende Strömungen und Strategien aufzeigen sowie deren Urheber benennen. Damit legt er vor allem die Grundlage einer politischen Diskussion in Presse und Bevölkerung. Letztere ist in ihrer Willensbildung weiter frei, sie soll aber – so der Gedanke – zumindest wissen, für was sie sich entscheidet. Das angesprochene Spannungsverhältnis löst sich also nicht auf. Unter der bewussten Entscheidung, die Freiheit um der Freiheit willen einzuschränken, bleibt es bestehen.

Meinungsäußerungen als Indiz extremistischer Verhaltensweisen

Schon die mittelbare Anknüpfung an Meinungsäußerungen verlangt Zurückhaltung – seitens des Gesetzgebers ebenso wie, in gesteigertem Maß, seitens der Exekutive. Um Meinungsäußerungen im Verfassungsschutzbericht aufführen und als Tatsachengrundlage für eine Einstufung heranziehen zu können, muss das BMI ebenso wie bei Tätigkeiten nachweisen können, dass die Äußerung Ausdruck einer extremistischen Bestrebung ist. Dieser Nachweis ist schwerer zu erbringen als bei Tätigkeiten und muss deshalb umso verdichteter sein.

Jedenfalls nicht ausreichend, um im Verfassungsschutzbericht genannt zu werden, ist die – auch – radikale Kritik an einzelnen Elementen der Verfassungsordnung oder ihre Ablehnung als solche (BVerfGE 113, 63 [82 Rn. 72]). Positiv gewendet werden Meinungsäußerungen hingegen dann zum Ausdruck eines zielgerichteten Bestrebens, wenn sie den Aufruf oder Appell enthalten, die formulierte Kritik mit Gewalt umzusetzen oder das adressierte Publikum gezielt dazu provoziert werden soll. Für eine Bestrebung nach § 3 Abs. 1 Nr. 3 BVerfSchG ist der Gewaltbezug zwingend (vgl. auch Rn. 49 ff. im Beschluss). Niedrigschwelliger – aber subsumtiv noch schwieriger einzuordnen sind Bestrebungen gegen die freiheitlich-demokratische Grundordnung nach § 3 Abs. 1 Nr. 1 BVerfSchG, weil die Äußerungen dort potenziell auch ohne Gewaltbezug Ausdruck der Zielgerichtetheit sein können. Beim Ausloten der Grenzfälle müssen BfV und BMI sich nicht künstlich naiv stellen. Im Gegenteil: Die Äußerungen sind in beide Richtungen, d.h. entlastend und belastend, zu kontextualisieren. So berücksichtigte auch das Verwaltungsgericht, dass sich Äußerungen des Vereinsvorsitzenden auffinden ließen, in denen er die Gräueltaten der Hamas am 7. Oktober als Massaker bezeichnete, was es als entlastend für die Relativierung und Rechtfertigung eben dieses Massakers empfand (Rn. 62, 79). Meinungsäußerungen sind in Wechselwirkung zur Art, Form oder dem Forum einschließlich dessen kalkulierbarer Dynamiken zu sehen. So wird es nicht ausreichen, das Existenzrecht eines Staates zu leugnen, um als extremistisch klassifiziert zu werden. Wird daraus aber der Schluss gezogen, dass die Bewohner des Staates legitime Ziele von Gewalt sein sollen oder (Kriegs-)Verbrechen an ihnen gerechtfertigt seien, liegt die Sache schnell (aber wie der Beschluss zeigt, nicht zwingend) anders.

Die faktischen Beschränkungen des Instruments sind dabei offenkundig. Gruppierungen und Parteien können sich mit einem Mindestmaß an Disziplin Kommunikationsstrategien aufgeben, die explizite Gewaltaufrufe ausschließen und dabei trotzdem Menschen herabwürdigen und verhetzen. Im Zweifel ist eine diskursverschiebende Salamitaktik sogar effektiver, weil Gruppierungen und Parteien so nicht nur bereits radikalisierte Menschen erreichen, sondern auch weitere Personengruppen radikalisieren können.

Exekutive Bewusstseinsschärfung

Die Beschränktheit muss dabei aber keine Schwäche sein, vielmehr schärft sie das Bewusstsein in mehrfacher Hinsicht. Zunächst einmal sind die verfassungs- und einfachrechtlichen Grenzen der Nennung einer Gruppierung in einem Verfassungsschutzbericht eng gezogen. Die Entscheidung für das Konzept der wehrhaften Demokratie ermöglicht zwar eine im internationalen Vergleich ungewöhnliche Form nachrichtendienstlicher Öffentlichkeitsarbeit. Auch – oder gerade – eine wehrhafte Verfassungsordnung schließt jedoch staatliche Eingriffe allein wegen des „Habens“ einer gleich wie schwer erträglichen Meinung aus. Eine liberale Verfassungsordnung kann und muss den faktischen und rechtlichen Rahmen schützen, in dem die Bürgerinnen und Bürger diese Konflikte austragen können.

Die rechtliche Seite der Beschränktheit spiegelt sich auch tatsächlich wider. Ist sich eine Gruppierung oder Partei der eigenen Radikalität bewusst, lässt sich das Risiko der Aufklärung und Warnung durch BfV und BMI relativ einfach reduzieren. Dies gilt umso mehr, als sich Kommunikationsformen und -foren derart schnell verändern, dass es auch für die darauf spezialisierten Behörden schwer sein kann, die Entwicklungen rechtzeitig zu verstehen. Dies ist in doppelter Hinsicht problematisch. Einerseits können tatsächliche Gewaltverherrlichungen oder -aufrufe missverstanden und unterschätzt werden (etwa wenn sie durch unverfängliche Emojis erfolgen oder Akteure bewusst ins Ungefähre flüchten). Andersherum kann das Bewusstsein über diese Limitierung auch zu Überambitionen und Übergriffigkeiten führen. Dies wiederum führt mittelfristig zum Verlust der Glaubwürdigkeit des BfV und des BMI, nicht nur bei zur Radikalität neigenden Gruppen, sondern auch bei der restlichen Bevölkerung (insgesamt dazu auch Mannewitz, GSZ 2024, 266 [266 ff.]). Der Eindruck, der Staat schütze nicht die Verfassung, sondern sich selbst oder politische Ziele, ist dann schnell bei der Hand. Unterliegen BfV oder BMI vor Gericht, weil sie zu früh zu weit gegriffen haben, konterkarieren sie schlimmstenfalls ihren eigenen Zweck: Auf der kommunikativen Ebene schützen sie damit nicht die Verfassung, sondern stärken die Opfererzählung derer, die sie bekämpfen.

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The Problems Lie in the Law

The 2026 election campaign brought a range of major problem areas in this field into sharp relief. These include the public media, which had become a primary vehicle for disinformation; a nationwide media network disseminating literally identical content; inadequate protection and support of journalists in high-stakes situations (for example, against spyware or the withholding of public-interest information); and political campaigns financed with public funds, amongst others. Many of these problems can directly be traced back to regulatory causes (ie they are not simply the result of deficient institutional culture or abusive political practices). This makes the need for new Hungarian media regulation evident.

The 2010 reforms either eliminated the guarantee of pluralism from the institutional framework (as in the case of the media authority) or hollowed it out of any real meaning (as in the case of the public service media). Moreover, the legislation of that period established media governance bodies which lacked safeguards for diversity, while operating within an extremely centralised structure. The media authority was granted, under a so-called convergent model – that is, through the centralisation of state supervision of the media and telecommunications sectors – all existing powers relating to traditional media. At the same time, public service media channels produced their programme under a single company (Duna Zrt.) and a single centralised content producer (MTVA). Significant state spending distorted the media market in the absence of adequate regulation, paying little heed to transparency and pluralism. Regulatory deficiencies also made the work of journalists more difficult. For example, the inadequacy of ministerial oversight over secret surveillance has been condemned in Szabó and Vissy v. Hungary in 2016, and in the field of freedom of information requests, an increasingly restrictive legal environment and Constitutional Court jurisprudence reinforced the authorities’ tendency toward non-disclosure.

The Role of Institutional Culture

From a constitutional perspective, there can be no doubt that these regulatory deficiencies must now be remedied. In doing so, however, it is necessary to come to terms not only with the legacy of the past decade, but also with thirty years of negative experience. Although the 1996 Media Act made a genuine and fair effort to institutionalize balanced political representation and civil participation, in practice political parity led to unacceptable and corrupt bargains (symbolically, the closing act of the earlier system was the resignation of László Majtényi, chairman of the media council, following the partisan allocation of national radio frequencies), and what had begun as a sincere attempt to involve civil society ultimately degenerated into an undisguised puppet show orchestrated by political parties. The usual rule on importing foreign theoretical models also applies here though: we should be aware that in a different cultural environment they might work differently. Or not at all. Unfortunately, given the deeply rooted public and social reflexes surrounding media governance, there is a grave danger of relapsing into what has been dubbed “institutional alcoholism”.

However, certain significant developments provide some grounds for hope. First, the painful experience collectively endured by a large part of the society may have a sobering effect and lead to a renewed commitment to a stable institutional culture. Public trust in the news services of Hungarian public media has fallen to an unprecedented low in recent years. The deep mistrust of the media among four-fifths of the population is alarming in international comparison and may itself become the foundation for a genuine public demand for a well-functioning public service media system.

Second, owing to the legislative developments of recent years, the European Union’s current legal framework establishes firmer guardrails than previously. The European Media Freedom Act requires institutional guarantees ensuring pluralism and functional independence – beyond merely formal criteria – both for public service media and for media authorities, while also seeking to curb governmental abuses in the allocation of state funds, and to strengthen the protection of journalists. The infringement procedure launched against Hungary covers all of these legislative developments.

Third, the media environment has been radically transformed by the internet and social media, rendering the current media regulation anachronistic. Arguably, adapting the regulatory framework to these changed circumstances calls for a liberating form of deregulation in the field of media oversight. The two-thirds parliamentary majority of the new government enables it to make constitutionally significant changes affecting media regulation not only in a formal but also in a substantive sense, since its political intention to pursue such reforms was articulated expressis verbis during the election campaign.

Preliminary regulatory questions may include whether, in a digitised public sphere dominated by social media, media regulation still warrants special legislative attention at all, and whether there will continue to be a need for public service media in the future. These dilemmas – along with many other important details – require intensive public discussion. My hope is that the final answer to both questions will ultimately be affirmative: the recent experience of the Hungarian public sphere demonstrates precisely the kinds of distortions that can arise from anomalies in the legal environment governing the traditional media system and journalism. It also reaffirms the role that a public service media provider, committed to constitutional principles and regarded as credible by a significant portion of society, can play in public discourse. Media regulation therefore remains a matter of outstanding constitutional importance, requiring the adoption of approaches suited to the twenty-first century. What guiding principles might shape such approaches in Hungarian regulation?

Narrowly Tailored Media Oversight With Institutional Guarantees of Pluralism

Media regulation should be narrowly tailored, and the competences of the media authority should be even more narrowly defined and decentralised. Although I myself was once an enthusiastic supporter of broader media law regulation, in today’s media environment – where the social influence of traditional media has become increasingly relativised – the maintenance of special content regulation and extensive regulatory powers is no longer justified in many respects. Media oversight should therefore be limited to a carefully circumscribed set of functions that can be justified either by the constitutional requirement of pluralism or by obligations under EU law, while structurally excluding the possibility of regulatory overreach from the outset. Such functions could include frequency-allocation procedures, control of media market concentrations, a normative funding system for quality journalism, regulations protecting minors, and the enforcement of narrowly defined impartiality requirements. Beyond these specific details, the decentralisation of media oversight should begin with two decisive reforms. First, the telecommunications sector – which properly belongs within the sphere of ordinary governmental competence – should be separated from media supervision. Second, the media authority’s institutional powers over public service media (appointment and dismissal competences) should be abolished.

Institutional guarantees of pluralism must once again be integral to the operation of the media authority. If the authority continues to function in a collegial form – which I consider reasonable in order to ensure broad-based access to information concerning the functioning of the media system – then pluralism must be reflected in the composition of the body itself. At the same time, consideration should be given to extending this pluralism beyond the parliamentary parties alone (as was the case under the 1996 Media Act) to ensure proper representation of the journalistic profession.

The limitation of the media authority’s powers should be accompanied by an increased role for “softer” oversight mechanisms tasked with monitoring and credibly assessing developments within the public sphere. An independent and respected body, detached from all relevant actors (for example, a media ombudsman), could perform an invaluable function in identifying troubling, undemocratic tendencies within the media system and public discourse.

Pluralistic and Decentralised Public Service Media

The institutional reorganisation of the public service media should likewise be guided by the principles of decentralisation and guarantees of diversity. In this area, the need for social representation extending beyond political parties is beyond question: alongside political actors, civil society organisations and representatives of the journalistic profession must also be given meaningful roles in the governing structure. Experiences prior to 2010 demonstrated that designing such a system in a creative and workable manner is a considerable challenge.

Decentralisation is another key issue for public service media. As with the media authority, the lessons of the past thirty years do not suggest that it is safe to establish strongly centralised decision-making structures, even with appropriate organisational safeguards. Decentralisation may take many forms – ranging from multiple media service providers enjoying substantial autonomy to genuinely independent regional editorial offices – and the most suitable model should be identified through professional consultation. At the same time, a solid starting point would be the restoration of a separate and independent national news agency, upon which the entire media market could rely as a credible source of information.

Protecting and Supporting Journalism

The regulatory environment supporting journalistic work should be strengthened. Subjecting covert surveillance measures to judicial oversight, and introducing additional safeguards into the system governing access to information of public interest, would protect not only journalists but the fundamental rights of all affected individuals. At the same time, recognition of the special role and status of journalists may justify additional guarantees even alongside strengthened general protections. Drawing inspiration from the recommendations of the Council of Europe, a comprehensive framework for the support and protection of quality journalism should also be established.

Two-Step Approach

All this will require complex legislative work that cannot be accomplished through a single act of immediate intervention; accordingly, progress in this field must proceed in two stages. In order to secure sufficient support for institutional arrangements capable of functioning effectively in the long term, certain issues – such as the twenty-first-century portfolio of public service media, or the framework for supporting journalism – require broad professional and public consultation, while others – such as the final competences of the media authority, or the establishment of a media ombudsman – necessitate carefully developed legislative work.

At the same time, with regard to immediate intervention, media legislation has an even clearer legal basis than many other fields: in addition to constitutional requirements, urgent action is also compelled by the European Union’s ongoing infringement procedure. Since the concerns identified by the European Commission coincide with the tasks that must be carried out under Hungarian constitutional law, they should be carefully taken into account when adopting the first measures. From the list of tasks outlined above, this certainly includes the establishment of institutional structures guaranteeing pluralism in the operation of both public service media and the media authority. The authority’s appointment and dismissal competences over public service media must be abolished, and the decentralisation of the convergent regulatory model through the separation of telecommunications might feasibly be included among the first legislative steps. The newly pluralistic media authority should be enabled to conduct substantive examinations of emerging media concentration cases. The restoration of a separate and independent national news agency is likewise a task that cannot be postponed. The first round of legislation should also establish the fundamental rules governing state media expenditure and put in place the most urgent safeguards for the protection of journalists (and indeed all citizens). Crucially, covert surveillance measures must be subjected to judicial oversight, and the effective enforcement of freedom of information must be guaranteed against abusive administrative practices.

While these initial measures should clearly be adopted as soon as possible, all the other tasks outlined above should likewise be pursued without delay in order to ensure that the Hungarian media system and journalism can begin operating within a renewed regulatory framework in the near future. Once the legislator has completed this monumental task, the harder part will begin: ensuring that the system of media governance operates in accordance with an institutional culture committed to pluralism, dialogue, constitutional values, and sound public policy.

The post On the Renewal of Media Regulation appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Even though Peru is formally a presidential system, Parliament has effectively ruled the country during the last decade. It has impeached four presidents since 2020, and substantially altered the 1993 Fujimori Constitution by reintroducing bicameralism. The new bicameral system is endowed with a very powerful Senate that will start functioning on July 28. I argue that, in essence, this Senate is constitutionally anti-constitutional. For its constitutional competences undermine the most basic principle of liberal constitutionalism, namely establishing checks and balances on the exercise of state power.

The Rise of Parliament

During the 50 years between 1965 and 2015, Peruvian politics was largely defined by presidentialism. As head of state, the president usually played a decisive role in determining the country’s political course. Yet this tendency began to change drastically in 2016. Although Keiko Fujimori lost the presidential runoff to Pedro Pablo Kuczynski, her party Fuerza Popular won an absolute majority in Parliament. It has arguably ruled the country ever since.

While Article 113 of the Constitution allows Parliament to impeach the president on grounds of “permanent moral incapacity”, Article 134 entitles the president to dissolve Parliament if it denies the motion of confidence to two Councils of Ministers. This dynamic played out fully between 2017 and 2020. After two impeachment motions and a vote-buying scandal, Pedro Pablo Kuczynski resigned in March 2018. His Vice-President Martín Vizcarra took charge. Faced with systematic parliamentary obstruction, Vizcarra dissolved Parliament in September 2019 with large popular support. The newly elected Parliament, however, returned the favour: It impeached Vizcarra in November 2020 on grounds of “permanent moral incapacity”. Public opinion treated this as a parliamentary coup, and massive protests erupted. Manuel Merino, the parliamentarian who succeeded Vizcarra, resigned on his fifth day. Parliamentarian Francisco Sagasti then led a transition government until the 2021 elections.

The pattern entrenched itself. Pedro Castillo, who won those elections against Keiko Fujimori, survived two impeachment motions. Yet on 7 December 2022, instead of defending himself against a third one, he attempted to dissolve Parliament. In turn, Parliament called for an “immediate vote” and impeached him – although it actually lacked the 104 votes required for such an immediate process. His Vice-President Dina Boluarte took charge and, between January 2023 and September 2025, faced seven impeachment motions on grounds of “permanent moral incapacity”. All failed, thanks to a mainly right-wing coalition aptly described as a “mafia pact” with which she cooperated. When her approval ratings and Parliament’s fell below 5%, Parliament finally unseated her in October 2025 – six months before the elections. Parliamentarian José Jerí, who had been accused of rape, took over, but he too was impeached in February 2026 over corruption scandals. Parliamentarian José María Balcázar then became Peru’s ninth president in ten years. Like Boluarte and Jerí, he cooperated with Parliament’s mafia pact. However, when he tried to oppose Parliament over the purchase of F-16 fighter jets through the U.S. Foreign Military Sales Program for over 3.5 billion dollars, the threat of an impeachment motion was raised, though it did not prosper. In fact, the Air Force and the Ministry of Economy had already signed the purchase contract and paid. The presidency, once again, proved effectively irrelevant.

Neither a Parliamentary Dictatorship nor Autocratic Legalism

At least since Boluarte’s impeachment, the idea of a “parliamentary dictatorship” has gained traction in the public debate. Indeed, Parliament not only dominates the Executive, but has systematically captured the state. It has imposed itself on the National Board of Justice (NBJ), which is in charge of appointing judges and prosecutors, by impeaching two of its members. In this way, Parliament became capable of exerting control over the Judiciary. Furthermore, after the NBJ dismissed Delia Espinoza as General Prosecutor and appointed Tomás Gálvez instead, Parliament has managed to seize control of the Public Ministry as well. Moreover, Parliament’s mafia pact has elected the heads of the Constitutional Court, the Ombudsman’s Office, the Office of the Comptroller General of the Republic and the Superintendency of Banks, Insurance and Private Pension Fund Administrators. As if all of this weren’t enough, since Keiko Fujimori’s 2021 electoral fraud claim, Parliament has also tried to subdue the institutions overseeing electoral processes, such as the National Jury of Elections. Now, due to the irregularities of the last election, Tomás Gálvez has requested the detainment of Piero Corvetto, head of the National Office of Electoral Processes. Astonishingly, Corvetto resigned and, even though he is not legally entitled to do that during an ongoing electoral process, the NBJ accepted his resignation. The NBJ has also initiated a disciplinary process against him for “serious misconduct”.

Yet is all of this accurately described as a parliamentary dictatorship? The figure of the dictator is usually associated with a single person disposing of absolute executive power. Moreover, in Latin American history, dictatorships have often been the result of a military coup led by a strong “caudillo”. In this sense, the concept of a parliamentary dictatorship is misleading. For it risks personalizing a structural development, i.e. the democratic erosion that has resulted from Parliament’s takeover of the state apparatus.

Similarly, the analytical framework of autocratic legalism does not seem to do justice to the Peruvian conjuncture. It is indeed true that Parliament – while preserving the appearance of democracy and the rule of law – has used sophisticated legal methods to remove liberal safeguards from within the constitutional order. Nevertheless, in Peru, no single actor controls the Executive. On the contrary, Parliament’s mafia pact consists mainly of a coalition of parties that, despite losing the presidential election, have managed to capture the state. Moreover, by focussing too much on formal strategies of legal change, an autocratic legalist framework might disregard the “parallel powers” that materially undergird Parliament’s rule – such as criminal organizations, national consortia, transnational corporations and illegal economies.

Against this background, I have argued elsewhere that, by systematically undermining the rule of law and the division of powers, Parliament is not only establishing the grounds for an authoritarian state. Rather, its onslaught against Peru’s constitutional order might be more accurately described as a tendency toward lawlessness. This is particularly clear in the way Parliament fosters impunity – either through amnesty lawsand highly controversial impunity-and-amnesty bills, or by selectively shielding state actors, such as high-ranking police officers or former presidents like Merino, Boluarte and Jerí. Parliament also bypasses constitutional norms, such as in Castillo’s impeachment, or selectively intervenes in ongoing legal procedures by means of the Constitutional Court. Indeed, the Court unconstitutionally dismissed Keiko Fujimori’s corruption case and, on top of that, argued that this ruling is not a binding precedent for similar cases involving left-wing politicians. These tendencies toward lawlessness would amount, in essence, to an unsettling sign of “fascisation”, whereby the law loses its buffering role against politics. In any case, these are tendencies which the Senate now threatens to aggravate.

The Contradictory Constitution of Parliamentarism

As already mentioned, Parliament has massively altered the 1993 Fujimori Constitution in these last years. One of the most substantial changes was the reintroduction of bicameralism, which implied modifying more than 50 constitutional articles. Now, it is clear that the Senate will play a decisive role in Peruvian politics. According to Article 7 of its Standing Rules, although the Senate does not have a right of initiative to propose laws, it enjoys a veto power over the proposals of the House of Representatives. Remarkably, it can also modify these proposals and enact them as laws without any further revision by the lower house. This means the Senate will be able to actively determine the content of the law. According to Article 10, the Senate will also control a series of institutions that, constitutionally, are supposed to be autonomous: Besides having the power to choose and dismiss the members of the Constitutional Court as well as the Ombudsman, the Comptroller General and the Superintendent of Banks, the Senate can choose three directors of the Central Reserve Bank and ratify – or veto – its president. Unsurprisingly, the Senate is also entitled to dismiss members of the NBJ and, together with the House of Representatives, to impeach the president on grounds of “permanent moral incapacity”.

The main thrust of my argument is that this Senate is simultaneously constitutional and anti-constitutional. It is constitutional insofar as Parliament has managed to craft such an almighty Senate by means of constitutional reform. At the same time, the Senate contradicts the principle of establishing checks and balances on the exercise of state power and, with it, the most basic tenets of liberal constitutionalism. In this sense, the Senate is fundamentally anti-constitutional. What is truly remarkable here is that, even though Peru still formally upholds presidentialism, in reality it has become more of a parliamentary system – at least with regard to the effective power relations within the state. This is no minor issue. If the historical purpose of parliamentarism was to defend a constitutional order from the threat of an almighty Executive, then Peruvian parliamentarism embodies a living contradiction. It is an alleged cure that has become worse than the disease.

Yet there is more. If the left-wing candidate Roberto Sánchez wins the runoff, he will most likely confront a dilemma: either bow to Parliament or face impeachment. From experience, we know that the former does not exclude the latter. What happens, however, if Keiko Fujimori wins? With Fuerza Popular having more than one-third of the Senate’s seats, there would not be enough votes to impeach her. And if she once again bands together with Rafael López Aliaga’s right-wing party, the resulting coalition would need to co-opt only one more vote in order to enjoy an absolute majority in the Senate. The threat, then, is that the living contradiction of parliamentarism paves the way for the return of a president who rules beyond the law. Under the aegis of the Senate, such a regressive dialectic might seal the fate of what is left of our democracy.

The post Constitutionally Anti-constitutional appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Wer ohne Fahrschein in Bahn oder Bus sitzt, verschafft sich keinen Gegenstand, er täuscht in vielen Fällen nicht aktiv über Tatsachen und er entzieht dem Anbieter auch kein Gut im klassischen Sinne – das Verkehrsmittel fährt ja ohnehin. Was die Person aber sehr wohl tut: Sie nutzt eine öffentliche Infrastruktur, ohne dafür zu bezahlen. Damit entgehen dem Anbieter Einnahmen, was möglicherweise steigende Preise für andere Fahrgäste zur Folge hat und damit einen kollektiven Kollateralschaden darstellt. Dabei handelt es sich aber um einen mittelbaren Schaden. Aus dieser zweifellos banalen Beobachtung folgt, dass § 265a StGB nicht primär eine Eigentumsordnung schützt, sondern eine Zugangsordnung stabilisiert. Der Straftatbestand reagiert damit nicht auf die Verletzung eines originären Vermögensinteresses, sondern auf die Inanspruchnahme einer gesellschaftlich bereitgestellten Struktur ohne formale Legitimation.

Damit verschiebt sich der Gegenstand der Analyse. Im Zentrum stehen jedenfalls nicht mehr allein Fragen der Täuschung oder Bereicherung (auch wenn diese damit nicht irrelevant sind), sondern die Art und Weise, wie moderne Gesellschaften den Zugang zu ihren Infrastrukturen organisieren und welche Rolle das Strafrecht in dieser Organisation spielt.

Infrastruktur und gesellschaftliche Teilhabe

Der Begriff der Infrastruktur bezeichnet hier mehr als eine technische Einrichtung. Gemeint sind jene institutionellen Arrangements, die gesellschaftliche Teilnahme ermöglichen oder zumindest erleichtern: Straßen, Schienen, Strom, Telefon, Internet. Mobilität gehört zweifellos dazu. Sie ermöglicht nicht nur wirtschaftliche Aktivitäten, sondern strukturiert auch soziale Beziehungen, politische Partizipation und den Zugang zu staatlichen Leistungen. Wer sich nicht fortbewegen kann, ist in seiner gesellschaftlichen Existenz partiell suspendiert.

Das Recht trägt dieser Funktion von Infrastruktur nur selektiv Rechnung; der öffentliche Nahverkehr ist nicht bundesweit als Voraussetzung von Teilhabe anerkannt. Ob ein Sozialticket existiert, ist eine lokale Entscheidung. Damit bleibt der öffentliche Nahverkehr Marktgut: eine Leistung, die wie andere Leistungen auch gegen Entgelt angeboten wird und deren Nutzung damit an individuelle Zahlungsfähigkeit gebunden ist. Eine Täuschung darüber, das Entgelt geleistet zu haben, ist somit ein Erschleichen dieser Leistung. Diese Perspektive ist dogmatisch konsistent. Die vorgelagerte politische Entscheidung, Mobilität als Frage der persönlichen Ressourcen statt als Bedingung von Zugehörigkeit zu organisieren, gerät dabei leicht aus dem Blick.

Vor diesem Hintergrund erhält § 265a StGB eine spezifische Funktion. Die Norm sichert die Verbindlichkeit dieser Ordnung und markiert mit Sanktionen bis hin zur Ersatzfreiheitsstrafe, unter welchen Bedingungen gesellschaftliche Teilnahme erlaubt ist – und wann sie zum Normverstoß wird. Damit ist das Strafrecht hier im Besonderen Teil einer Architektur, die reale gesellschaftliche Teilhabe begrenzt.

Übersetzung sozialer Wirklichkeit in strafrechtliche Kategorien

Dass die Frage nach Strafbarkeiten auch Bezug zu gesellschaftlicher Teilhabe aufweisen kann, bleibt im Strafrecht häufig unsichtbar, da sie sich nicht in Tatbestandsmerkmalen niederschlägt, sondern in impliziten Voraussetzungen. Dazu gehört etwa, dass das Strafrecht grundsätzlich die Zumutbarkeit des Anders-Handeln-Könnens unterstellt.

Strafrechtliche Normen enthalten, ohne dies explizit zu formulieren, Annahmen darüber, welche Handlungsoptionen Individuen offenstehen. Sie unterstellen, dass Normbefolgung grundsätzlich möglich ist und Abweichungen als individuelle Entscheidungen gegen das Recht zugeschrieben werden können. Diese Unterstellung ist notwendig, um Verantwortung zuzuschreiben. Sie ist aber nicht voraussetzungslos. Im Kontext des § 265a StGB bedeutet das: Allen wird zugemutet, ein Ticket zu kaufen oder auf die Fahrt zu verzichten. Diese Zumutbarkeit scheint formal gleich verteilt. Sie gilt unabhängig von sozialer Lage oder individuellen Lebensbedingungen. Doch gerade darin liegt das Problem. Denn die Gleichförmigkeit der Norm verdeckt die ungleichen Voraussetzungen. Für einen Teil der Bevölkerung ist der Erwerb eines Fahrscheins eine marginale Ausgabe, für einen anderen Teil eine Entscheidung mit spürbaren Konsequenzen für den Alltag, zumal wenn sie täglich erfolgen muss, um etwa einer Erwerbsarbeit nachkommen zu können. § 265a StGB behandelt diesen Unterschied nicht als rechtlich relevant. Die Vorschrift transformiert ihn in eine einheitliche Kategorie: die Verletzung einer Zugangsregel. Ungleichheit entsteht nicht erst als Folge der Sanktion, sondern bereits auf der Ebene der Verantwortungszuschreibung – im stillen Vorverständnis dessen, was als zumutbar gilt.

Das Strafrecht operiert mit impliziten Annahmen über die Lebensrealität seiner Adressaten. Wo diese Annahmen systematisch an bestimmten Gruppen vorbeigehen, entsteht eine Form struktureller Verzerrung, die sich der klassischen Strafbarkeitsprüfung nur schwer erschließt. Dabei ist auch zu beachten, dass es für Menschen, deren Muttersprache nicht Deutsch ist, neben möglichen finanziellen Hindernissen nicht selten schwierig ist, die Anforderungen beim Fahrscheinerwerb oder im Kontext einer Fahrscheinkontrolle zu verstehen und dass sie im Anschluss gelegentlich ebenfalls Hürden im Rechtssystem bewältigen müssen. Zugleich zahlt diese Gruppe oft einen besonders hohen Preis für einen Normbruch: Schon ein Ermittlungsverfahren, erst recht aber ein Urteil, kann einer weiteren Duldung entgegenstehen. Im Wahlkampf vor der letzten Bundestagswahl forderten Teile der Union eine Abschiebung nach zwei Straftaten – ausdrücklich auch für das „Schwarzfahren“. Ein Delikt, das seinem Inhalt nach Teilhabe betrifft, kann so in einer nicht intendierten Nebenfolge Teilhabe massiv beschränken, bis hin zur Pflicht, das Land zu verlassen.

Strafrecht übersetzt soziale Wirklichkeit also in rechtliche Kategorien, die Zuschreibung von Verantwortung ermöglichen. Darin liegt seine produktive Kraft, denn es entscheidet, welche Aspekte eines Sachverhalts relevant werden und welche aus dem Blick geraten. Beim Fahren ohne Fahrschein etwa verwandelt es ein komplexes Geflecht sozialer Bedingungen – Einkommensverhältnisse, Wohnsituation, Arbeitswege, institutionelle Zugänglichkeit von Unterstützung, Verständlichkeit der Erwartungen – in die Bewertung einer individuellen Handlung: das Erschleichen einer Leistung. Erst diese Übersetzung macht den Sachverhalt justiziabel. Sie hat aber ihren Preis: Sie reduziert ein strukturelles Problem auf eine individuelle Normabweichung.

Damit verschiebt sich die Perspektive auf die aktuelle Debatte. Was auch als Ausdruck ungleicher Teilhabe verstanden werden könnte, erscheint vor allem anderen als Regelbruch. Was als Frage der Infrastrukturpolitik diskutiert werden könnte, wird zum Gegenstand strafrechtlicher Sanktion. Das Strafrecht überlagert die zugrunde liegenden sozialen Konflikte mit seiner eigenen Logik, ausgerichtet auf Zurechnung, Verantwortung und Sanktion. Sie ist nicht darauf angelegt, Verteilungsfragen zu lösen oder Zugangsbedingungen zu verändern. Indem das Strafrecht soziale Probleme in seine eigenen Kategorien übersetzt, macht es sie für die Justiz handhabbar, entzieht ihnen aber zugleich teilweise ihre politische Dimension.

Selektivität der Sichtbarkeit

Zu dieser strukturellen Transformation tritt eine zweite Ebene, die die Wirkung des Strafrechts maßgeblich prägt: die der Sichtbarkeit. Strafrechtliche Normen entfalten ihre Bedeutung nicht allein durch ihren Inhalt, sondern vor allem durch die Bedingungen ihrer Durchsetzung.

Fahren ohne Fahrschein wird nicht deshalb häufig verfolgt, weil es besonders schwer wiegt, sondern weil es leicht kontrollierbar und einfach nachzuweisen ist. Aufwendige Ermittlungen oder komplexe Beweisführung braucht es dafür nicht, in den meisten Fällen genügt eine Fahrkartenkontrolle. In dieser Hinsicht unterscheidet sich das Delikt grundlegend von anderen Formen normabweichenden Verhaltens, die sich räumlich, sozial oder technisch schwerer erfassen lassen, insbesondere von der Makrokriminalität¹⁾ bzw. Kriminalität der Mächtigen²⁾.

Die Folge ist asymmetrische Sichtbarkeit. Manche Normverletzungen treten regelmäßig in Erscheinung, andere bleiben weitgehend latent. Diese Asymmetrie ist kein Zufall, sondern eine strukturelle Eigenschaft strafrechtlicher Praxis. Sie beeinflusst, welche Verhaltensweisen als gesellschaftlich relevant wahrgenommen werden und welche nicht.

Das Strafrecht und die Strafverfolgung reagieren vor allem auf sichtbar gemachtes Unrecht. Die Auswahl dessen, was sichtbar wird, folgt wiederum organisatorischen, ökonomischen und sozialen Logiken. In diesem Sinne ist die Durchsetzung des Strafrechts immer auch ein Akt der Selektion.

Teilhabe und Zugehörigkeit

Die beschriebenen Mechanismen – die Regulierung von Infrastruktur, implizite Zumutbarkeitsannahmen, die Übersetzung sozialer Probleme in strafrechtliche Kategorien und die selektive Sichtbarkeit bestimmter Delikte – verdichten sich zu einer spezifischen staatlichen Praxis. Diese wirkt auf das Verhältnis zwischen Individuum und politischer Gemeinschaft. Strafrecht ist dabei die intensivste Form staatlicher Normdurchsetzung.

Erfahrungen mit der staatlichen Autorität des Strafrechts sind nicht für alle gleich. Entscheidend ist, wie häufig und in welcher Form Einzelne mit strafrechtlicher Kontrolle und Sanktionierung konfrontiert sind. Wenn sich diese Konfrontationen entlang sozialer Linien häufen, entstehen unterschiedliche Wahrnehmungen staatlicher Institutionen.

Für einen Teil der Bevölkerung bleibt das Strafrecht weitgehend abstrakt, vermittelt über Medienberichte und juristische Diskurse, meist in politischen Debatten. Für diese Menschen wirkt es zumindest gelegentlich als Schutz, als Normdurchsetzung, als durch Entscheidungen kommunizierte Gerechtigkeit. Für den anderen Teil der Bevölkerung wird das Strafrecht mittels Kontrolle, Rechtfertigungszwang und Sanktion zur Alltagserfahrung.

Damit berührt das Strafrecht den Kern demokratischer Ordnung. Demokratie setzt zwar nicht voraus, dass alle Bürgerinnen und Bürger identische Lebensverhältnisse haben. Sie setzt aber sehr wohl voraus, dass sie sich als gleichberechtigte Mitglieder derselben politischen Gemeinschaft verstehen können. Dieses Verständnis wird nicht allein durch formale Rechte vermittelt, sondern auch durch die Art und Weise, in der staatliche Macht praktisch erfahren wird.

Ein Strafrecht, das für verschiedene soziale Gruppen systematisch unterschiedliche Erfahrungswirklichkeiten erzeugt, stellt diese Voraussetzung infrage. Es verschiebt die Wahrnehmung von Staatlichkeit von einer gemeinsamen Ordnung hin zu einem diskriminierenden System von Schutz und Kontrolle.

Konsequenzen für die Debatte

Vielleicht erklärt gerade das die Schärfe, mit der über die Entkriminalisierung des § 265a StGB diskutiert wird. Die Debatte dreht sich nicht mehr nur um kriminalpolitische Zweckmäßigkeit. Zur Diskussion steht nicht nur das Verhältnis dieses Verhaltens zu anderen Ordnungswidrigkeiten wie Falschparken oder Geschwindigkeitsüberschreitungen. Stattdessen wird hier verhandelt, wann der Staat soziale Konflikte mit den Mitteln des Strafrechts beantwortet – und bei welchen gesellschaftlichen Gruppen er besonders schnell darauf zurückgreift.

Die Entkriminalisierung würde das zugrunde liegende Problem nicht umfassend lösen. Sie würde weder soziale Ungleichheiten beseitigen noch zur Finanzierung des öffentlichen Nahverkehrs beitragen. Sie könnte aber deutlich machen, dass das Strafrecht hier eine Funktion übernommen hat, die über seine klassische Rolle hinausgeht, und dass dies nicht angemessen ist. Deshalb reicht es nicht, allein nach der Strafwürdigkeit des Verhaltens zu fragen. Ebenso wichtig ist die Frage, warum der Zugang zu einer zentralen gesellschaftlichen Infrastruktur überhaupt strafrechtlich abgesichert wird – und was das über gesellschaftliche Teilhabe und Zugehörigkeit aussagt, insbesondere für materiell benachteiligte Menschen.

Fazit

Das Delikt des Fahrens ohne Fahrschein wirkt auf den ersten Blick wie ein unspektakuläres Alltagsdelikt. Zugleich lässt sich an ihm besonders deutlich zeigen, wie das Strafrecht über seine dogmatischen Kategorien hinaus wirkt: Strafrecht reguliert Infrastrukturzugänge, trägt und kommuniziert implizite Zumutbarkeitsannahmen, übersetzt soziale Probleme in individuelle Normverstöße und wirkt als Mechanismus selektiver Sichtbarmachung.

Aus dieser Perspektive verliert die Frage nach der Strafbarkeit ihren scheinbar selbstverständlichen Charakter. Sie wird Teil einer umfassenderen Überlegung darüber, wie eine Gesellschaft ihre Ressourcen verteilt und welche Rolle das Strafrecht in dieser Verteilung spielen sollte. Diese Entscheidung lässt sich nicht allein mittels Strafrecht treffen. Ob eine Gesellschaft Teilhabe möglichst offen organisiert oder soziale Grenzen mit den schärfsten Mitteln des Rechts absichert, betrifft ihr demokratisches Selbstverständnis.

The post Endstation Strafjustiz appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

The argument proceeds in five movements. The first sets out the European method of specification – what it is, why it matters, and why specifying an existing right is doctrinally different from inventing a new one. The second names the three layers of integrity that European law has already specified, distinguishing them from the three legal traditions that have practised the method. The third locates the gap that attentional architectures open in the existing matrix, and argues, by structural analogy with the nineteenth-century prohibition of child labour, that the gap cannot be closed by improving the consent regime. The fourth proposes the fourth specification and shows why consent cannot serve as its frame. The fifth identifies the legislative window in which the specification can be inscribed.

Specification, Not Invention

European law has not built its doctrine of personal integrity by invention. It has built it by specification – the articulation of a new protective layer of an existing right of personality whenever a new form of power touches a dimension of the person the existing layers no longer reach. The distinction between invention and specification is not stylistic. It is doctrinal, and it bears the entire weight of what follows.

An invented right would be a right introduced into the legal order without textual anchor in existing constitutional instruments, defended on the strength of moral argument or political necessity alone. Such rights are doctrinally vulnerable. Their constitutional traceability is contested at every turn, and their content depends on the political coalition that produced them. A specified right is something else entirely. It is a right already named in the existing constitutional instruments, whose protective contents are made operative for a configuration the drafters could not have anticipated. The textual anchor is not in question. The doctrinal work consists in showing that the new configuration falls within the protective ambit of what the text already protects. The first method requires political construction; the second requires juridical articulation. The second is the method Europe has practised since 1971, and it is the method the fourth layer requires.

The German Federal Constitutional Court has been doctrinally explicit on this point: the protective contents of the personality right are not a closed list but specifications to be worked out, case by case, in light of the concrete protection gaps the new harms reveal. The French Conseil constitutionnel has proceeded by the same logic since 1994. The European Court of Human Rights has done so since at least Botta v. Italy. The fourth specification proposes nothing other than the continuation of this method.

The Three Layers of Integrity, and the Three Traditions That Specified Them

European law currently recognises three layers of personal integrity, and these layers must be distinguished from the three legal traditions that have practised the method of specifying them. The confusion between the two is easy to make but doctrinally costly, because the layers operate at one conceptual level (what is being protected) and the traditions at another (who has articulated the protection). I take the layers first, then the traditions.

The three existing layers are these. The first is physical integrity, protected by Article 3 of the European Convention on Human Rights of 1950 on the prohibition of torture and inhuman or degrading treatment, and reaffirmed in Article 3(1) of the EU Charter. The second is moral integrity, foundational to the dignity protected by Article 1 of the German Basic Law of 1949 and by Article 1 of the EU Charter of 2000. The third is psychological integrity, recognised by the European Court of Human Rights in Bensaid v. United Kingdom of 6 February 2001, where the Court held at §47 that “mental health must also be regarded as a crucial part of private life associated with the aspect of moral integrity”, and articulated as an Article 8 ECHR protection extending to states of mental health threatened by State action. Each of these layers was specified at a moment when a previous configuration of the personality right proved insufficient to capture what a new form of harm was producing. None of them was invented.

The three traditions that have practised the specification operate at a different level. They are not themselves layers; they are the doctrinal lines through which the layers have been named. Each tradition has contributed to all three layers, in its own idiom and through its own jurisprudential operators.

The German line is the most explicit. Mephisto (BVerfGE 30, 173, 24 February 1971) installed the allgemeines Persönlichkeitsrecht as an autonomous guarantee derived from Article 2(1) read with Article 1(1) of the Basic Law. Volkszählung (BVerfGE 65, 1, 15 December 1983) specified the Recht auf informationelle Selbstbestimmung, the individual’s right of self-determination over personal data. Online-Durchsuchung (BVerfGE 120, 274, 27 February 2008) specified the Grundrecht auf Gewährleistung der Vertraulichkeit und Integrität informationstechnischer Systeme, the basic right to the confidentiality and integrity of information-technology systems. These three judgments are not three layers of integrity. They are three doctrinal moves within the German tradition, each of which has refined the operative scope of the personality right in light of a new form of power.

The French line is contemporaneous and structurally cognate. On 29 July 1994 the legislator inserted articles 16 to 16-9 into the Civil Code, articulating the primacy of the person, the inviolability of the human body, and the strict conditions under which any breach of bodily integrity may be authorised. The same week, the Conseil constitutionnel, in its decision n° 94-343/344 DC of 27 July 1994 on the bioethics laws, recognised the safeguard of human dignity as a constitutional principle and made integrity the operative concept through which that principle becomes justiciable. Stéphanie Hennette-Vauchez, in her sustained work on the law of dignity in France and in Europe, has documented the contingency of this construction and criticised the essentialising uses of dignity, orienting French doctrine toward the same logic of specification that Karlsruhe has practised since 1971. The 1994 moment did not invent integrity. It named what French law had been protecting in fragments and gave the named protection a constitutional anchor.

The Strasbourg line consolidates the convergence. Botta v. Italy (no. 21439/93, 24 February 1998) established that private life within the meaning of Article 8 of the Convention encompasses the physical, moral and psychological integrity of the person. Bensaid v. United Kingdom (no. 44599/98, 6 February 2001, §47) refined the reading by recognising mental health as a crucial part of private life associated with the aspect of moral integrity. Three traditions, three idioms, one constitutional grammar. The three layers of integrity – physical, moral, psychological – are layered. Each was added by specification when a new form of power reached a dimension of the person the existing layers no longer covered. The fourth specification I propose follows the same architecture.

The Architecture That Forms, and the Limit That Consent Cannot Bear

The three existing layers do not capture what attentional architectures do to subjects in formation. Bensaid protects mental health as a state to be preserved. The architectures of variable-reward loops, infinite scroll, autoplay and unsolicited notifications do not threaten a state. They shape a process. The faculty of attention in a fourteen-year-old is not a stable possession the regulator must shield from interference. It is a developmental construction the architecture is in the act of forming. Volkszählung and Online-Durchsuchung protect data and systems. The harm at stake here is in neither. A platform can comply with the General Data Protection Regulation, the Digital Services Act and the Artificial Intelligence Act, and still deploy on a thirteen-year-old an architecture optimised to capture her attention beyond her capacity to disengage. The locus of the harm is the interface itself – the architectural surface that paces, schedules and rewards the user’s attention.

The empirical record is established. The report submitted to the President of the French Republic on 30 April 2024 by the commission co-chaired by Amine Benyamina and Servane Mouton synthesised two years of scientific literature in twenty-nine recommendations and treated screen capture as a public-health concern in its own right. The OECD report of May 2025 documented a clear socio-economic gradient: children from lower-income families are significantly more exposed to retention architectures, with less mediation and fewer alternatives.

Three jurisdictions have begun, in different idioms, to recognise design itself as the locus of harm. The United Kingdom moved first, with the Age Appropriate Design Code adopted under section 123 of the Data Protection Act 2018 and enforceable since September 2021. In Florida, on 20 May 2025, U.S. District Judge Anne C. Conway in Garcia v. Character Technologies refused First Amendment protection to the outputs of a large language model and allowed product liability claims to proceed, writing that she was “not prepared to hold that Character A.I.’s output is speech.” In London, on 30 September 2022, Senior Coroner Andrew Walker concluded in the inquest into the death of Molly Russell that the algorithmic content selection of Meta and Pinterest contributed in a more than minimal way to her death, a fourteen-year-old whose case has reshaped British policy. The protection gap is not speculative. It is socially graded, developmentally specific, and named in fragments by three legal orders. It is precisely the kind of Schutzlücke the European method of specification was built to fill.

Here we must arrest the argument to register a structural point that the consent regime cannot answer, because the rest of the argument depends on it. The objection most readily raised against any extension of children’s protection in the digital domain is that better consent would solve the problem – clearer notices for the parent, more granular choices for the adolescent, easier withdrawal. This objection fails for a reason that is doctrinal before it is empirical. Consent presupposes the constituted competence to consent. When the object of regulation is precisely the architectural shaping of the faculties on which consent depends, the consent regime cannot reach the harm. The instrument and the object of protection collapse into one another.

The structural analogy is not with previous digital regulations. It is with the nineteenth-century prohibition of child labour. The prohibition of child labour did not improve the contractual conditions under which children worked. It did not require clearer information, shorter shifts, or better redress. It removed the child from the contractual frame altogether, on the reasoning that the harms inflicted on the working child could not be repaired by the future consent of the adult she would become. The same reasoning, with greater force, applies to the architectural formation of cognitive faculties. The harm reaches the very capacity by which any future redress would be claimed. No subsequent improvement of the consent regime – clearer notice for the fourteen-year-old, easier withdrawal, smarter parental controls – can reach a harm that operates on the faculties through which consent itself is exercised.

This is the doctrinal force that the fourth specification carries. It is not the introduction of a new paternalism. It is the recognition that one class of harm – the architectural formation of the subject in formation – cannot be answered by consent and must be answered by the structural and ex ante protection that European regulation already practises in other domains where consent is doctrinally inadequate. The body, in French civil law, is the closest analogue. Article 16-1 of the Civil Code makes the human body inviolable and provides that its elements and products may not be the object of a patrimonial right. Consent, even informed and adult, does not redeem certain transactions. The reasoning is structural, not moral. Some configurations of harm cannot be reached by the consent regime, and the legal order names them through categorical limits rather than through procedural improvements.

The Fourth Specification

The fourth specification can now be formulated. Attentional integrity is the guarantee, for the subject in formation, that the faculties of attention, judgement and deliberation through which she will become capable of adult consent are not surrendered to the optimisation of operators whose interests diverge from hers. As specification of the right of personality, articulated in the EU Charter under Article 1 (dignity), Article 3(1) (right to integrity of the person, expressly including mental integrity), Article 24 (rights of the child) and Article 38 (consumer protection as outer limit, not as frame), it is doctrinally available without invention. The textual base in the EU Charter is, in fact, more explicit than what Karlsruhe inferred from Article 2(1) of the Basic Law in 1983 and 2008.

Three objections will be raised against this specification. Each can be answered briefly, in the same doctrinal register the argument has used throughout.

That this creates a right ex nihilo. It does not. The European matrix of personal integrity has been built, in at least three traditions, by specification rather than invention. The fourth layer operates by exactly the method that produced the three previous layers – physical integrity in 1950, moral integrity through the 1970s and 1980s, psychological integrity in 2001. The textual anchor is not constructed; it is articulated. Article 24 of the EU Charter on the rights of the child, read with Articles 1 and 3(1), provides a constitutional base that is, if anything, more explicit than the base Karlsruhe inferred for the previous specifications of the personality right.

That parental consent should suffice. It cannot. Parental consent can authorise an act but not the architectural formatting of the very faculties through which the future adult would, in her own name, have consented. The limit is identical to the one French civil law places on the body, which no consent makes alienable. The objection sometimes raised in this register – that many parental decisions shape children irreversibly, such as the schools they attend or the environments in which they grow up – does not reach the doctrinal point. Those decisions operate within a democratically deliberated frame (compulsory schooling laws, national curricula, public supervision of education) and they are oriented, by construction, toward the future autonomy of the adult the child will become. The architectures at stake here operate outside any democratically deliberated frame, are deployed by private operators whose economic interests are structurally divergent from the future autonomy of the child, and are optimised, by construction, for retention rather than for the development of any transferable faculty. The asymmetry is not between two intervening forces of equal nature. It is between intervention within a democratic frame oriented toward autonomy and intervention outside that frame oriented toward capture.

That this over-juridifies a parental matter. The object of regulation is not parental conduct but industrial architecture, deployed by corporate operators, with harms that are measurable and socially graded. The fourth specification requires no censorship of content and no expansion of state authority over expression. It requires only that the architecture itself be made answerable to the right of personality, in the structural and ex ante mode of European regulation that the Digital Markets Act has rendered familiar.

Why the Moment Is Available Now

The specifications of the European matrix of integrity have never taken place in a vacuum. They have taken place at moments when three conditions converged: a mature scientific articulation of the nature of the harm, a political mobilisation producing a demand for legal qualification, and a legislative or jurisprudential window in which the qualification could be inscribed. Volkszählung took place in the moment of citizen resistance to the 1983 census. The French construction of 1994 took place in the moment of bioethics laws made necessary by the advances of medically assisted reproduction. Online-Durchsuchung took place in the moment when the German State was experimenting with online searches against terrorism.

The moment of 2026 reunites the three conditions. The science of attention in subjects in formation has reached maturity: the Benyamina-Mouton commission, the OECD report of May 2025, and the work of paediatric and neuroscience consortia across Europe form a convergent corpus. The political mobilisation exists: the European Parliament’s resolution on the protection of minors online, adopted on 26 November 2025 by 483 votes under the rapporteurship of Christel Schaldemose, fixed the political horizon, and several Member States have begun to legislate within their national competences. And the legislative window is open: Commission tabling at the end of 2026, parliamentary phase through 2027, trilogue conclusion in late 2027 or early 2028. What is positioning itself in Paris and elsewhere in Europe today is not a national claim. It is the convergence of the three historical conditions of a European specification of integrity, at the precise moment when the window is open.

The architecture of the European digital order will be set for the decade. The Commission will table the Digital Fairness Act at the end of 2026. The parliamentary phase will run through 2027. After that, the constitutional grammar of the European internet may be fixed for several years. The fourth integrity will either be specified now – in the recitals and in the legal basis read with Article 24 of the EU Charter – or it may be foreclosed for a generation. The doctrinal conditions to formulate it are, at this particular moment, available. The question is no longer whether the matrix can extend. It is whether anyone will write the words.

The post Specifying a Fourth Integrity appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Dieser Beitrag entwickelt mit Blick auf die Genese der Notstandsverfassung eine Mittelposition: Für die Abwehr von Aufklärungsdrohnen zur Sicherung von militärischen Anlagen ist die Bundeswehr zuständig; für den Schutz ziviler Objekte die Landespolizei, die gegebenenfalls durch die Bundespolizei unterstützt werden kann. Durch diese Zuständigkeitsverteilung eröffnet das Grundgesetz den Rahmen, auf dessen Grundlage Landespolizeien, Bundespolizei und Bundeswehr eine effektive Abwehr gegen Spähdrohnen organisieren können.

Grenzen des Einsatzes der Bundeswehr im Inneren auch nach der Reform des Luftsicherheitsgesetzes

Während für die Abwehr von bewaffneten Kampfdrohnen die Bundeswehr nach Art. 87a Abs. 2 GG zuständig ist, ist die Zuständigkeitsverteilung bei der Abwehr von unbewaffneten Späh- bzw. Aufklärungsdrohnen rechtlich schwieriger zu beurteilen. Die Bestimmungen zum Einsatz der Bundeswehr im Inneren ermächtigen die Bundeswehr in der Regel nicht zur Abwehr von Spähdrohnen (siehe hier). Der „innere Notstand“ nach Art. 87a Abs. 4 und Art. 91 GG bezieht sich auf Bedrohungen aus dem Inneren, die einem Staatsstreich ähneln. Davon ist bei von dem Ausland aus gesteuerten Spähdrohnen in aller Regel nicht auszugehen. Alternativ könnte der Spannungsfall nach Art. 87a Abs. 3 GG auf Grund „äußeren Notstands“ ausgerufen werden, der zivilen Objektschutz durch die Bundeswehr ermöglicht. Dies wird als Reaktion auf die von Russland gesteuerte hybride Kriegsführung auch teils verlangt. Dafür müsste jedoch der Bundestag den Spannungsfall mit Zwei-Drittel-Mehrheit feststellen (vgl. Art. 80a Abs. 1 S. 2 GG).

Letztlich kann auch auf Grund von „Katastrophennotstand“ nach Art. 35 Abs. 2 S. 2 und Abs. 3 GG im Regelfall nicht gegen Spähdrohnen vorgegangen werden. Nach den Bestimmungen kann die Polizei die Streitkräfte zwar „bei einem besonders schweren Unglücksfall“ anfordern. Auch ermächtigt die im März diesen Jahres in Kraft getretene Neuregelung des Luftsicherheitsgesetzes die Streitkräfte explizit dazu, „auch Waffengewalt oder sonstige Wirkmittel gegen unbemannte Luftfahrzeuge [einzusetzen]“, um einen besonders schweren Unglücksfall zu verhindern (§ 15a Abs. 2 Luftsicherheitsgesetz). Allerdings wird man wohl schwerlich davon ausgehen können, dass ein bloßer Drohnenüberflug über militärischem Gelände oder ziviler Infrastruktur ein unmittelbar bevorstehender besonders schwerer Unglücksfall ist. Denn von einer Ausnahmesituation katastrophischen Ausmaßes, wie es das BVerfG verlangt, ist bei der Datensammlung durch Spähdrohnen ohne weitere Erkenntnisse nicht auszugehen.

Schutz militärischer Anlagen als Verteidigung

Aber könnten die Schutzmaßnahmen gegen Spähdrohnen als Verteidigung iSd. Art. 87a Abs. 2 GG verstanden werden? Kann der Verteidigungsbegriff gegen Spähdrohnen aktiviert werden? In jüngsten Äußerungen zum rechtlichen Rahmen der Drohnenabwehr wird häufig davon ausgegangen, dass die Streitkräfte jedenfalls über militärischem Gelände gegen Spähdrohnen vorgehen können. Begründet wird dies oftmals mit § 9 des Gesetzes über die Anwendung unmittelbaren Zwanges der Bundeswehr (UZwGBw): Danach darf die Bundeswehr „rechtswidrige Störungen der dienstlichen Tätigkeit der Bundeswehr“ beseitigen, wenn sie die „Einsatzbereitschaft, Schlagkraft oder Sicherheit der Truppe gefährden“.

Auch wenn es im Ergebnis zutrifft, dass die Bundeswehr für die Eigensicherung gegenüber Drohnen zuständig ist, entbindet der Verweis auf das einfache Recht nicht von der Suche nach einer tragfähigen verfassungsrechtlichen Grundlage. Die Genese der Notstandsverfassung führt insofern zu Art. 87 Abs. 2 GG. Ein Bericht des Rechtsausschusses, der die Grundgesetzänderung von Juni 1968 maßgeblich prägte, hob als „Hauptunterschied zur Regierungsvorlage“ hervor, dass mit der angepassten parlamentarischen Fassung „die Schwelle für den Einsatz der Streitkräfte als bewaffnete Macht“ angehoben werde. In diesem Kontext wurde auch der Art. 87a Abs. 2 GG eingeführt, den die Regierungsvorlage noch nicht vorgesehen hatte. Der Rechtsausschuss begründete die Einführung der Bestimmung damit, dass Einsätze der Bundeswehr „außer zur Verteidigung“ einer „ausdrücklichen Regelung im Grundgesetz“ bedürfen, um „Zuständigkeit aus der Natur der Sache“ auszuschließen. Dem Einsatz der Streitkräfte im Inneren sollten klare Grenzen gesetzt werden.

Trotz dieser Betonung der Grenzen des Streitkräfteeinsatzes ging der Rechtsausschuss von weitreichenden Zuständigkeiten der Bundeswehr zur Eigensicherung von militärischen Anlagen aus. So hatte der Rechtsausschuss klare Vorstellungen davon, wie die Zuständigkeiten zwischen Polizei und Militär voneinander abzugrenzen seien: „Der Schutz militärischer Objekte gegen Angriffe Dritter, gleichgültig, ob diese Angehörige der gegnerischen Streitkräfte oder sonstige Störer sind, gehört zum Verteidigungsauftrag der Streitkräfte.“ Der verfassungsändernde Gesetzgeber sah die Bundeswehr demnach als für die militärische Eigensicherung zuständig an – unabhängig davon, von wem der Angriff ausgeht. Dabei fällt auf, dass der Rechtsausschuss dabei den polizeirechtlich konnotierten Begriff der „sonstigen Störer“ verwandte. Daraus kann abgeleitet werden, dass die Bundeswehr ihre eigenen militärischen Anlagen gerade auch unterhalb der Schwelle eines militärischen bewaffneten Angriffs durch fremde Streitkräfte – also nach den Maßstäben des klassischen Polizeirechts – verteidigen darf.

Diese klare Zuordnung gilt auch für die Abwehr von Spähdrohnen. Die Bundeswehr ist befugt, im Rahmen der Eigensicherung Drohnen als Störer abzuwehren, unabhängig davon, ob die Drohnen einem Staat klar zugerechnet werden können. Dafür lässt sich insbesondere anführen, dass bei der Drohnenabwehr über Militärgelände ein besonders enger Konnex zur Aufrechterhaltung der Verteidigungsbereitschaft der Bundeswehr besteht. Dabei ist auch zu berücksichtigen, dass diese Zuständigkeitszuschreibung nicht Tür und Tor öffnet für eine rechtlich ungebundene Bundeswehr, die nach Belieben Drohnen mit schwerem Gerät vom Himmel holen darf. Nach dem UZwGBw hat sie jederzeit den Grundsatz der Verhältnismäßigkeit zu wahren.

Ziviler Objektschutz und die Grenzen des Verteidigungsbegriffs

Lassen sich diese Überlegungen auf den zivilen Objektschutz übertragen? Darf die Bundeswehr auf Grundlage des Verteidigungsbegriffs auch kritische Infrastruktur schützen? Teilweise wird aus Art. 87 Abs. 2 GG abgeleitet, dass die Bundeswehr auch für den zivilen Objektschutz zuständig sei. Schließlich würden Spähdrohnen in aller Regel aus dem Ausland gesteuert (Heinemann; Preiss/Hempel).

Ein solches Verständnis überdehnt jedoch den Verteidigungsbegriff des Art. 87 Abs. 2 GG. Der verfassungsändernde Gesetzgeber verstand diesen Begriff eng. So betonte der Rechtsausschuss 1968, dass der Verteidigungsbegriff nur die „militärische Verteidigung (einschließlich der Ausbildung dafür)“ einschließe. Für zivilen Objektschutz sei die Bundeswehr im Rahmen ihres Verteidigungsauftrags nur im Falle von „Angriffe[n] der Angehörigen fremder Streitkräfte“ zuständig. Im Gegensatz zu Angriffen auf militärische Anlagen genügte nach dem Rechtsausschuss eine „Störung“ für die Zuständigkeit der Bundeswehr gerade nicht. Darüber hinaus wurden mit den Art. 87a Abs. 3 GG und Art. 87a Abs. 4 GG Sonderregelungen erlassen, die sich explizit auf den zivilen Objektschutz beziehen. Die strengen Voraussetzungen dieser Bestimmungen zu ignorieren, indem man von einem sehr weiten Verständnis des Verteidigungsbegriffs ausgeht, überzeugt vor dem Hintergrund der Entstehungsgeschichte dieser Norm nicht.

Folgt man dem historisch angelegten Verständnis des Verteidigungsbegriffs, ist die Bundeswehr nicht generell für den Schutz von ziviler Infrastruktur gegen Spähdrohnen zuständig. Denn das Ausspähen durch Drohnen ist in der Regel noch kein klassischer militärischer Angriff. Vielmehr handelt es sich um Spionagetätigkeit, ohne dass Waffengewalt ausgeübt wird. Dies lässt sich mit der Zuständigkeitsverteilung bei der klassischen Spionage durch ausländische Agenten vergleichen: In solchen Fällen sind die Polizeibehörden zuständig. So ist das Bundeskriminalamt befugt, ausländische Agenten nach § 127 StPO festzunehmen, wenn der Verdacht einer gegen die Bundesrepublik gerichteten geheimdienstlichen Tätigkeit besteht (vgl. § 4 Abs. 1 BKAG). Entsprechend verfehlt wäre es, die Bundeswehr zur allein zuständigen Drohnenabwehrbehörde für sämtliche zivilen Einrichtungen zu erklären. Dabei kann insbesondere der Schluss vom faktischen Können der Bundeswehr auf ein rechtliches Dürfen nicht überzeugen – nur weil die Bundeswehr (angeblich) allein über die Mittel zur Abwehr verfügt, heißt das nicht, dass sie dazu auch ermächtigt ist. Denn so würden die Grenzen der Notstandsverfassung umgangen, die „die Schwelle für den Einsatz der Streitkräfte als bewaffnete Macht“ gerade anheben sollte. Die Bundeswehr kann nach geltendem Verfassungsrecht im Kontext des zivilen Objektschutzes somit nur dann gegen Spähdrohnen hinzugezogen werden, wenn ein besonders schwerer Unglücksfall im Sinne des Art. 35 GG unmittelbar bevorsteht.

Droht nun eine Schutzlücke?

Aber entsteht dadurch nicht eine Schutzlücke? Fehlen der Polizei die Mittel, um sich gegen Spähangriffe gegenüber zivilen Objekten zur Wehr zu setzen? Zunächst ist zu betonen, dass es in der Diskussion nicht um das „Ob“ der Abwehr, sondern um das „Wie“ bzw. das „Wer“ der Abwehr geht. In der Regel besitzen die Landespolizeibehörden die Kompetenz, um zivile Objekte vor Drohnen zu schützen. Die meisten der in Deutschland am Himmel befindlichen Drohnen sind sogenannte „Hobbydrohnen“, die für private Zwecke genutzt werden. In solchen Fällen ist zunächst die Landespolizei zuständig, die auf Grundlage klassischen Gefahrenabwehrrechts tätig werden kann. Dabei ist es zu begrüßen, dass die Länder ihre Polizeigesetze teilweise mit expliziten gesetzlichen Vorgaben zur Drohnenabwehr ausgestattet bzw. diese nachgeschärft haben. Sollten keine spezielleren Bestimmungen existieren, kann auf die allgemeine Gefahrenabwehrklausel zurückgegriffen werden.

Zudem verfügt die Bundespolizei in diesem Bereich über gewichtige Zuständigkeiten. Gem. §§ 3, 4 und 5 BPolG ist die Bundeswehr für den Schutz der Eisenbahnen, des Luftverkehrs und der Bundesorgane zuständig. In diesem Rahmen darf sie auch gegen Spähdrohnen vorgehen. Darüber hinaus kann die Bundespolizei die Landespolizei bei einer besonderen Gefahrenlage nach Art. 35 Abs. 2 S. 1 GG unterstützen, „wenn die Polizei ohne diese Unterstützung eine Aufgabe nicht oder nur unter erheblichen Schwierigkeiten erfüllen könnte“ (vgl. auch § 11 BPolG). Dabei muss es sich um einen Fall von besonderer Bedeutung handeln, der über den „Normalfall“ hinausgeht. Ein solch besonderer Fall könnte etwa ein Drohnenschwarm über kritischer Infrastruktur sein. Den Landesorganen, die um Amtshilfe ersuchen, steht jedenfalls ein gewisser Beurteilungsspielraum zu, den die Gerichte nur begrenzt überprüfen können. Die Bundespolizei können andere Behörden damit leichter als die Bundeswehr zur Amtshilfe hinzuziehen – dafür verlangt Art. 35 Abs. 2 S. 2 GG wie oben gesehen einen besonders schweren Unglücksfall.

Zudem lassen sich Landes- und Bundespolizei grundsätzlich so ausrüsten, dass sie Drohnen effektiv abwehren können. Diesbezüglich wurden in den vergangenen Jahren bereits einige Anstrengungen unternommen. So ist die Bundespolizei mit Netzabfangdrohnen ausgestattet worden, mit denen sie Flughäfen besser schützen soll. Auch hat das Bundesinnenministerium eine 130 Mann starke Drohnenabwehreinheit der Bundespolizei eingerichtet, um zielgerichtet und schnell auf Gefahren reagieren zu können. Zudem ist zu beachten, dass die Polizei für die Abwehr von Spähdrohnen in aller Regel nicht auf klassisch militärische Mittel angewiesen ist, die nur der Bundeswehr zugänglich sind. Auch die Polizei kann Elektrojamming-Geräte, Netzabfangdrohnen und Schusswaffen nutzen, um gegen Drohnen vorzugehen.

Es bleibt viel zu tun

Kommen wir zurück zur Ausgangsfrage: Ist das Grundgesetz ein Hindernis für die effektive Drohnenabwehr? Die Genese des Verteidigungsbegriffs zeigt, dass die Bundeswehr für die Abwehr von Aufklärungsdrohnen über militärischen Anlagen zuständig ist. Damit hat die Bundeswehr die Kompetenz, in einem Bereich tätig zu werden, in dem die Herausforderungen der hybriden Kriegsführung besonders dringlich sind. Beim zivilen Objektschutz sind hingegen die Landes- und ggf. die Bundespolizei zuständig. Aber auch dadurch entsteht keine dramatische Schutzlücke, weil die Behörden besser ausgestattet werden und grundsätzlich über Mittel verfügen, die zur Drohnenabwehr eingesetzt werden können.

Freilich heißt das nicht, dass in der Praxis die Drohnenbedrohung keine politischen und faktischen Herausforderungen hervorrufen. So kann die Abwehr von Spähdrohnen an technische Grenzen stoßen, selbst wenn die Bundeswehr zuständig und vor Ort ist. Zudem darf die Politik nicht aufhören, die Polizei und Streitkräfte besser auszustatten. Auch ist ein enger Informationsaustausch zwischen den verschiedenen Akteuren für eine effektive Drohnenabwehr unerlässlich. Denn bei der Drohnenabwehr sind prognostische Entscheidungen zu treffen, was Herkunft, Ziel und Ausstattung der Drohnen angeht. Die Einrichtung des Gemeinsamen Drohnenabwehrzentrums als Koordinierungsstelle der Polizeien von Bund und Ländern, des Bundeskriminalamts, der Bundespolizei sowie der Bundeswehr Ende 2025 ist deswegen ein wichtiger Schritt in die richtige Richtung. Diese Einrichtung gilt es nun, mit Leben zu füllen. Das Grundgesetz jedenfalls hindert die Politik nicht daran, Drohnen wirksam abzuwehren.

Dieser Blogpost nutzt Ausschnitte eines Beitrags, der im Sammelband „Organisationsverfassung der Verteidigung“, herausgegeben von Patrick Hilbert, Julian Krüper und Arne Pilniok, erscheinen soll.

The post Kein Hindernis für die Drohnenabwehr appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

While an election can be a celebratory occasion to revisit frozen funds, the Commission acted too speedily to unfreeze funds when Poland’s 2023 election brought a pro-democratic government into power, thus losing any leverage the EU may have had to overcome roadblocks to reform within Poland which had powerful veto players left in place from the prior government. Re-democratisation does not instantly occur with a hopeful election. We cannot unscramble rule of law eggs, nor abandon the rule of law while restoring it. Recovering a democratic, rule of law state is a contentious but largely uncharted exercise, as we have each explained in respective critiques of the Venice Commission’s wrong-headed approach to Poland (here and here). Re-democratisation and restoring the rule of law requires striking the right balance between legal, policy and political considerations, using strategic savvy as well as tactical sequencing.

Already with the new Hungarian transition, it is clear that actors, aims, interests and options diverge at EU-level and national level. At the EU-level the focus should be on safeguarding the integrity of the rule of law conditionality procedure (although the existing EU-record is decidedly mixed), not least because the Commission has announced it wants to keep and even extend it further in the next multi-annual budget. At the Hungarian national level, quick unfreezing is urgent, given the budget mess that the new Magyar government has inherited. In addition, Tisza’s electoral promises centred on this, making swift delivery domestically desirable. But implementing and sustaining rule of law reforms is crucial there too. Meeting the conditions that the EU should require with a new government that is still finding its sea legs is not easy given the looming 31 August 2026 deadline for complying with substantive requirements under the Recovery and Resilience Funds (RRF) from which all final payments must be made by 31 December 2026 (Reg. 2021/141, art. 20(5)(d) and art. 24(1)).

So how can conditionality and the rule of law be now run in reverse? Once conditions have been laid down to receive EU money, what conditions have to be met in order for those EU funds to be released? In this essay, we lay out the ice cold and red hot complex legal and policy contours and state of play. We then describe the different interests and options available to national and EU actors, along with the best tactics to move forward if the strategy is unfreezing funds without melting the rule of law.

Frozen funds, high stakes, little time

Around €36 billion worth of EU funds earmarked for Hungary were frozen because of rule of law problems caused by the Orbán government. This freezing was legally arranged in surprisingly complex fashion, through the parallel invocation of no less than three different EU legal instruments. First, the Rule of Law Conditionality Regulation (CR) was triggered, due to the lack of anti-corruption measures combined with the creation of unaccountable so-called public interest trusts that converted public and publicly accountable institutions like universities and hospitals into unaccountable private foundations.   Second, the Recovery and Resilience Facility (RRF)-conditionality contains 27 so-called super-milestones that must be met before funds would flow (for details, see here and here). Those milestones require restoring judicial independence and installing anti-corruption measures (overlapping with CR requirement), among other things. Finally, the Common Provisions Regulation (CPR)’s Charter-conditionality was put in play because Hungary had infringed Charter rights in the course of spending EU money, principally with regard to the right to a fair trial (overlapping the judicial independence requirements flagged in the RRF freezes).   CFR freezes also added in other concerns, such as academic freedom and the right to asylum. In other words, some issues were covered in two or three different ways, from different angles, on different legal bases. The image of frozen spaghetti comes to mind.

Given the enormity of the mess left behind by Orbán and the complex way that the EU singled out elements of that mess, it will inevitably take time to put repair measures in place. This will require withdrawing some laws while adopting new ones – and then demonstrating improvements in practice through a track record of application proving reforms are real. All this must be accomplished before Hungary can ensure that EU funds are released into a safe space. The new Hungarian prime minister, Péter Magyar, campaigned on a promise to get funds released as soon as possible, and needs to deliver on this to maintain credibility. The EU, too, has signalled that time is of the essence and has started a series of rapid-fire meetings to meet the end-of-summer deadline for compliance with RRF milestones.

That said, ensuring actual change on the ground in a short space of time is practically impossible, and yet the money will be lost unless the Commission authorizes its release in just a few months. Faced with the dilemma of big ask/short time, a classic trade-off between political expediency and a principled stance beckons. If only it were that simple. In fact, there are at least four reasons why this will be difficult to achieve.

Hot legal mess (largely of the EU’s own making)

First, the current unfreezing effort starts against a background in which €10 billion of the cohesion funds initially frozen under the CPR were then partly unfrozen in December 2023, when the Commission proclaimed that some inadequate, paper-only reforms met the conditions. (At that time, the other freezes were maintained.) Handing over the money was clearly a political ploy at European Council level to get Orbán to lift his veto for support to Ukraine. While politically understandable, it dramatically complicates the current legal picture and possibilities.

First, if the Commission considered judicial independence issues solved under the CPR in December 2023 (which they were not), is it now still of that same view vis-à-vis the Recovery Funds, whose freeze contains the same precise conditions? The changes that allowed the Commission to claim that Hungary complied with the CPR in December 2023 were paper reforms not put into practice and worse things have happened since.

Even more importantly, in the interim, the European Parliament sued the Commission for this partial unfreezing under the CPR (Case C-225/24), on the argument that unfreezing was untimely and not substantively justified. The Advocate-General issued an Opinion in February 2026, siding with the Parliament in arguing that the Commission’s discretion was quite limited (see here for insightful analysis by Veraldi). The Court’s judgment is awaited any day now and could well occur before the 31 August 2026 deadline. Might any outcome in this case also affect what the Commission could justifiably release from the Recovery Funds, since precisely the same judicial independence issues are in play there?

Second, although surprisingly under-reported, six (!) captured Hungarian universities privatized as “public interest trusts” brought cases in Luxembourg after their funds were frozen under the Conditionality Regulation (See T-115/23, T-132/23, T-133/23, T-138/23, T-139/23 and T-140/23). The triggering decision (particularly Article 2(2)) suspended 100% of the funding to such entities. The captured universities have argued that blocking 55% of some of the cohesion funds (see Article 2(1)), but at the same time blocking 100% of the funds to public interest trusts violated the proportionality principle in the CR (Article 5(3)). At the very least, they say it was unevenly applied. (As it happens, this was precisely the reason why we, together with R. Daniel Kelemen, argued in a 2022 study that an across-the-board 100% freeze for all programs would be easier to defend.) The outcome of these far-from-frivolous cases, heard as long ago as September 2025, is uncertain. If the Court finds in favour of the captured universities, it creates a mess out of the first application of the Conditionality Regulation and calls into question the viability of the remaining anti-corruption conditions – which, in turn, again also reappear in the RRF super-milestones which need to be complied with by 31 August 2026.

Third, of a totally different legal nature, the new Hungarian government does not have power over every part of the Hungarian constitutional system that is to deliver the required rule of law reform, as one of us recently argued. Even if it won a supermajority in parliament and can therefore formally propose to change the constitution, the new government does not control all levers needed. This is because the still captured presidency, two highest courts and the prosecution service, among others, still constitute potential veto points. The president has already made clear he is in no mood to cooperate, instead gearing up for lawfare couched in lofty rule of law language. Can the rule of law be guaranteed in Hungary if the government cannot follow through with actual on-the-ground reforms before the funds are released, though no fault of its own? This is hardly a detail if you are unfreezing €26 billion.

Fourth, we should consider what happened when the Commission unfroze €137 billion in EU funds for Poland in February 2024, funds that had been frozen under both the CPR and Recovery Fund because of damage to judicial independence. The release of funds was based on a certain eu-phoria at the Polish election results, but the judicial reforms were based only on a promise. After all, the Polish government then – like the Hungarian government now – could not easily follow through with legal change. The Polish presidency has been held ever since by someone from the pro-autocratic party who blocks all legislation reforming the judiciary so very little change has happened on the ground since. As a result, the EU gave up its €137 billion leverage with nothing to show for it, making it subject to credible accusations of having acted politically with little regard for law.

The Polish experience will be invoked by all sides for different purposes. Clearly, Magyar will refer to this and expect to rely on similar (party-political) favours. After all, like Tusk in Poland, and von der Leyen at the Commission, his Tisza party belongs to the European People’s Party. But will the Commission have learned a different lesson, namely that it should be much more careful in cases where pro-autocratic veto players can still block reforms?

The Commission might be more cautious in releasing funds at the present moment because four judges’ associations have sued for untimely release of RRF funds to Poland (see Case C-555/24 P), challenging the amount of discretion an EU institution has to move away from legal benchmarks it has itself proposed. This case, like the pending CPR case dealing with the release of funds to Hungary, argues that judicial independence was never really restored. The Advocate-General has issued her Opinion in this case in April 2026 (for analysis, see here), so a judgment of the Court could again be imminent, perhaps by 31 August 2026. It is possible that the first decision in this case will only address the issue of standing of the judges’ associations and the case may be remanded to the General Court to deal with the substance.   But as long as that case is pending, the Commission may be cautious about releasing funds without change in the precise conditions that led to the freezing.

Clearly, unfreezing funds without melting the rule of law is going to be extremely complex, much more so than has so far been acknowledged. As a starting point, this requires mapping relevant national and EU actors, their interests and options. It should take into account timing issues given the first deadline of 31 August 2026, and given the fact that no less than three sets of Court cases are pending that will bear on the lawful discretion the Commission has to release funds already frozen. These cases can be decided before the deadline, while the outcome in each can affect the whole chess board in an instant. So, who should do what, when?

Navigating conditionality confusion: who should do what, when?

In Poland, little progress was achieved after the funds were released because the EU lost its potential leverage over veto players. Knowing that, paradoxically, the Hungarian government might actually strengthen its position vis-a-vis the EU by being open about its limited control over the actors needed to get onside to deliver rule of law reforms. If the funds cannot be released until the Hungarian president signs the relevant legislation and the Constitutional Court upholds it, then the delay in the release of EU funds will be their fault. Withholding EU funds until the veto players sign on will empower the Magyar government, make the EU co-responsible for solving the issue, and keep Hungarian veto players under permanent pressure of the Hungarian electorate that gave Tisza a landslide.

EU institutions seem keen to help the Hungarian government deliver quickly, but they need to consider more than Hungary. They should take into account the integrity of rule of law conditionality at EU level, which would be in mortal danger if it were overtly politicised and deprived of substantive credibility by releasing funds without real reform.

Both the EU and the Magyar government should start from a clear-eyed analysis that it is in everyone’s interests, including Hungary’s, that conditionality mechanisms are applied in accordance with what the law requires: sound financial management (CR) and rights-based legality (CPR Charter-conditionality). All sides would also do well to await at least the judgment in C-225/24 (about the partial CPR-unfreezing to Hungary) so as to make sure that the Commission does not now release funds to Hungary, only to find out after the fact that the Court demands strict(er) insistence on delivering on rule of law progress. Imagine the even greater mess if unfrozen funds need to be refrozen.

Laying out the story since we published our analysis in Frozen, we hope we have provided a sense for how complicated the matter has become and also laid out a clearer picture of how tactics and timing of the release of funds could support the longer-term strategy of restoring Hungarian democracy. The EU should fully and openly support the new Hungarian government’s ambition to restore the rule of law, while insisting that EU law must be respected so that EU monies will only be released if and when laws are on the books that are actually being applied. The EU should facilitate this by postponing the unrealistic deadline of 31 August 2026 for Hungary (while perhaps also delicately asking in return from the Hungarian government that the six captured universities withdraw their cases so that we do not end up with another Orbán hangover damaging the CR). This approach will have the additional advantage that any Luxembourg rulings can be incorporated in working methods before funds are released in cases where full compliance is in doubt.

Unfreezing funds, saving rule of law conditionality

The new Hungarian government has won an overwhelming mandate with huge public support for unfreezing EU funds. Every sign so far is that the Magyar team aims to work as fast as possible to meet the conditions necessary for the funds to be unfrozen, not least because the budget that the government has inherited is even worse than publicly advertised before the election.   The EU institutions’ aim should be to ensure that Hungarians have the benefit of EU funds that have remained reserved for them as soon as feasible.

But there is also a decisive Europe-wide interest in preserving credibility of EU rule of law conditionality that proved so influential in both the Polish and Hungarian elections. The EU must take its role in re-democratisation seriously in a strategic way and avoid throwing out a healthy new baby with newly unfrozen water. The EU must protect one of its most powerful tools on behalf of all. After all, non-Hungarian EU citizens might one day also need to benefit from their power. For that to be possible, these instruments need to be saved, not turned into political bargaining chips.

The post Unfreezing EU Funds Without Melting the Rule of Law appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

     The epidemic of violence by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), Customs and Boarder Protection (CBP), and cooperating agencies led Democrats to demand restrictions on those agencies’ actions in the Homeland Security Appropriations bill.  The White House rejected even fairly basic limits, shutting down negotiations between the two parties’ appropriators.  This led to a partial government shutdown when Democrats effectively filibustered that bill.  Democrats repeatedly offered, and forced Senate Republicans to vote down, bills appropriating funds to the rest of the Department of Homeland Security (DHS), apart from ICE and CBP. 

     The One Big Beautiful Bill Act last summer fully funded ICE for this fiscal year and beyond.  CBP was a bit less flush but also in no immediate distress.  Essential workers in other DHS agencies, however, were getting increasingly restless as they were not getting paid.  The Administration illegally paid those workers once, defying the Constitution’s Appropriations Clause, but got cold feet about doing so again. 

     With polling showing that the electorate was modestly more inclined to blame Republicans for the shutdown, Senate Republicans tired of having to vote down funding for the Coast Guard, the Transportation Security Administration, and other popular agencies.  They agreed to the Democrats’ proposal to fund the rest of DHS without ICE and CBP.  They justified this capitulation by announcing that they would fund those two agencies through a reconciliation bill that Democrats could not filibuster.  House Democrats had no comparable means of forcing awkward votes so the House Republicans were feeling less pressure.  House immigration hawks initially condemned the Senate Republicans’ capitulation but ultimately passed the Senate’s all-but-ICE/CBP appropriations bill. 

     Because they are exempt from filibusters, reconciliation bills often become “Christmas trees”, with everyone in the majority party trying to attach their own contentious items.  This bill was no exception:  the White House apparently insisted on adding $1 billion for the President’s grand ceremonial ballroom.  The President had previously promised that no public funds would go into his ballroom – and secured large donations from companies seeking favors from the Administration – Republicans argued that these funds would go entirely for security improvements adjacent to the ballroom.  Given the ballroom’s unpopularity, this raised the political cost of the bill considerably.  And the ballroom’s inclusion turned out to be a procedural disaster. 

     Because reconciliation bills are extraordinary in that they may pass on a simple majority vote, the procedures for their consideration are more formal than usual.  Before bringing a reconciliation bill to the floor, the majority must first pass a “budget resolution” through both chambers that assigns budgetary limits to each committee intended to contribute material to the final bill.  Reconciliation procedures also allow the minority to force votes that the majority could dodge on other legislation. 

     The Republicans’ budget resolution gave budgets only to the Homeland Security and Judiciary Committees, which divide jurisdiction over immigration.  They likely could have given ICE and CBP all the money they desired through the Homeland Security Committee alone.  The Judiciary Committee, however, has jurisdiction over the Secret Service, and to keep up the pretense that the ballroom funding was only for security improvements, Republicans decided to channel it through the Secret Service.  To give Judiciary Committee members political cover, Republicans had that committee create some of the ICE/CBP funds as well. 

     This all blew apart when the bill reached the floor.  First, Democrats persuaded the Parliamentarian that the White House complex well within the jurisdiction of the Environment and Public Works or Energy and Natural Resources Committees, neither of which was given any money to spend in the budget resolution.  Senate rules attribute spending to the committee with jurisdiction even if it springs from legislation reported out by another committee.  Therefore, the ballroom funding was subject to a point of order for increasing those other committees’ contribution to the deficit without permission in the budget resolution.  If Republicans did not strip the ballroom from the bill themselves, Democrats could raise a point of order that would require sixty votes for Republicans to waive. 

     The problems did not end there.  Although the White House complex is not within the Judiciary Committee’s jurisdiction, the Justice Department is.  Amendments to reconciliation bills that reduce the deficit within the jurisdiction of one of the participating committees are generally in order.  Therefore, by trying to fund the ballroom, Senate Republicans likely allowed Democrats to offer an amendment to the bill that would explicitly forbid the President’s already unlawful $1.776 billion “weaponization” compensation fund.  With half of the Republican caucus reportedly up in arms over the morality and wisdom of that fund, such an amendment would easily pass. 

     To be sure, House Republicans could add back the ballroom and delete any restrictions on the “weaponization” fund.  But with Rep. Massey and all Democrats surely opposed, that could mean that every other Republican, would have to vote for this politically toxic bill – including those facing difficult re-election battles.  By tradition, Democrats can force one floor vote, on a motion to recommit the bill to committee.  Democrats would surely force Republicans to vote on removing the ballroom, barring the “weaponization fund”, or both (by reverting to the Senate version of the bill). 

     And even if the House changed the bill to the President’s liking, that would probably force the convening of a House-Senate conference committee.  At a minimum, this would entail further delay.  And the prospects on the Senate floor of a conference bill that either funded the ballroom or allowed the “weaponization fund” would be dubious at best:  in addition to Sen. Lisa Murkowski (R-AK), who likely opposes it on substance (and who years ago showed she could survive a primary challenge), leadership would have to worry about Sen. Susan Collins (D-Me.), who is in a difficult re-election battle, as well as Sen. Cassidy, whom the President just defeated for re-nomination, Sen. John Cornyn (R-Tex.), whom the President is trying to defeat next week, and two senators forced into retirement with threats of primary challenges (Sens. Thom Tillis of North Carolina and Mitch McConnell of Kentucky).  Overzealous efforts to enforce party discipline can quickly backfire. 

     The Senate Republicans’ impasse over the ICE/CBP reconciliation bill also imperils other parts of the President’s agenda.  Democrats are unlikely to support full funding for the war in Iran that the President launched without consulting Congress – at least not unless it imposes new limits on presidential war-making powers.  Republicans had increasingly been discussing yet another reconciliation bill to fund the war and avoid a filibuster.  These discussions have stalled as Republicans may not have fifty votes for such a bill.  But if they cannot pass the comparatively easy ICE/CBP reconciliation bill, the odds of twisting enough arms to move a much more contentious war reconciliation bill seem even more remote.  Again, the President’s choice to end the careers of four Republican senators for perceived disloyalty considerably weakens his leverage. 

     This also further undermines the President’s demands that Senate Republicans abolish the filibuster to enact the voter-suppressing “SAVE Act”.  Senate Majority Leader John Thune had reported that he lacked the votes to do so even before the latest meltdowns.  Now that the President has personally alienated more senators, and forced the Republican Senate to become accustomed to resisting his agenda, the SAVE Act’s prospects have dimmed even further. 

     House rules give the Speaker near-absolute procedural control of what comes to the floor and how.  One of the few powers the minority does have, however, is the ability to advance a resolution disapproving of a President’s military engagement.  House Democrats sought to do so this past week, with Republican leadership expecting to defeat the resolution on a party lines’ vote.  They had to adjourn hurriedly, however, when they discovered that they did not have sufficient Republican votes to prevail.  This vote now awaits them upon their return.  The President can and surely would veto any anti-war resolution that actually passes, but the prospect of House Republicans in difficult districts having to choose between the President and their anti-war constituents likely is haunting many Members’ recesses.  This could be why the President suddenly seems in a hurry to announce a deal despite the Iranians apparently having capitulated on nothing. 

     Progressives commonly demand that Democrats enforce tighter party discipline and eliminate the filibuster.  It is instructive to see how fierce party discipline and the filibuster have been pummeling Republicans this year. 

     @DavidASuper1 @DavidASuper.bsky.social

Taiwan’s situation is getting more precarious. During Trump’s China visit, he publicly described approved arms sales to Taiwan as a “bargaining chip” with Beijing, while Xi Jinping warned Trump of “clashes and even conflicts” if the Taiwan issue were not handled properly. But also internally, Taiwan is facing conflict: on Wednesday, Taiwan’s Legislative Yuan voted on a motion to impeach President Lai Ching-te. The KMT and TPP, which lead the opposition in parliament, accused Lai of undermining the constitutional order. The motion fell short of the required two-thirds majority, as expected, but it is symptomatic of a deeper crisis: a protracted conflict between the executive and the legislature, a deadlocked Constitutional Court, and a polarised society. We asked Ming-Sung Kuo, a Reader in Law at Warwick Law School, how Taiwan is navigating this moment.

1. After Trump’s summit with Xi in Beijing last week, the US President declared he was “not looking to have somebody go independent” on Taiwan and left a pending $14 billion arms package in open-ended uncertainty. What is the public mood in Taiwan after the Trump-Xi meeting right now?

Generally speaking, the public mood in Taiwan is gloomy and mixed with feelings of anger and disappointment. A distinction can be further drawn between politicians and the public, though. It is also worth noting that President Trump’s remarks concerned two related but distinct issues: the US position on Taiwan’s political status and the US continuing support of Taiwan in the face of China’s military threat through arms sales. His suggestion that the pending $14 billion arms deal is now “a very good negotiating chip” in his dealings with China is an obvious deviation from one of the Six Assurances Ronald Reagan communicated, via his envoy in Taipei, to the Taiwanese government in 1982 after the signing of the August 17 US-China Communiqué. Despite the 1982 Communiqué’s reference to the United States intending gradually to reduce its sale of arms to Taiwan, Taiwan was assured that the United States had not agreed to consult with China on US arms sales to Taiwan under the Six Assurances. Trump’s further denigration of the 1982 Six Assurances as something in “a big, far distance” is even more alarming and damaging, although the government put up a “keep calm and carry on” front, maintaining that it had been kept posted on the US-China negotiations.  I should also note that the public mood uplifted a bit at Trump’s suggestion that he would soon speak to President Lai Ching-te on the arms deal but is again dampened by a US official’s confirmation before a Senate hearing that the US is now ‘doing a pause’ on the pending $14 billion arms package.

With respect to Trump’s remarks that “I’m not looking to have somebody go independent”, the reaction has been different. It divides along the party line, reflecting Taiwan’s societal polarization. Supporters of the ruling party, the independence-leaning Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), are disappointed, although the government has strenuously insisted that it has been assured that the US policy on Taiwan remains unchanged, and that its policy of defiance against China was only to maintain the status quo of the Republic of China – Taiwan’s official name – on Taiwan as a sovereign independent nation, instead of seeking Taiwan’s de jure independence. In contrast, the pro-unification opposition and its supporters have cheerfully received Trump’s stern message and interpreted it as a blunt warning against President Lai and the DPP government. It is worth noting that the DPP and the opposition have long traded accusations that the other side has tried to change Taiwan’s status quo as a self-governing constitutional democracy without amending the Constitution, which is officially dubbed Constitution of the Republic of China. This legacy legal instrument was adopted amidst the Chinese civil war and still equivocates on the legal relationship between Taiwan and China, even after it has been amended by some Additional Articles since 1991. Thanks to such constitutional equivocation, both the DPP and the opposition have been able to frame their opposite positions around the Constitution and align themselves with Trump’s newfound conciliatory attitude towards China emerging from his meeting with Xi.

2. Taiwan produces more than 90 per cent of the world’s most advanced semiconductors – a concentration that has long been treated as a strategic shield against Chinese aggression. Will this “Silicon Shield” still hold when the United States is simultaneously relocating TSMC production to its own soil?

I’m not quite sure how effective the Silicon Shield will be in deterring Chinese aggression or, to put it bluntly, I’m never convinced by the very idea of Silicon Shield. As the US-Israel war on Iran continues to play out, the economic fallout of such military action does play a role in decision-making, but only to a certain degree. What determines China’s decision on a forceful takeover of Taiwan, in my view, is its political calculation of whether it will prevail over its rival in such eventualities, not whether the United States and its allies will intervene to protect the semiconductor foundries in Taiwan or how much it has to pay economically to win the war. That said, the TSMC’s decision to move part of its chip production to the United States will undoubtedly have long-term implications to Taiwan. It will eventually weaken Taiwan’s geoeconomic posture. The silver lining is that it will be a protracted process fraught with technical hurdles and other less tangible challenges if the story of Taiwan’s chip miracle can teach us anything. Even if nothing precipitous is coming out of the erosion of the so-called Silicon Shield, it nevertheless makes the Taiwanese society feel less secure and more distrustful of the United States.

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3. Europe is notably absent. Why should this conflict matter more to Europeans than it currently seems to, and what would a credible European Taiwan policy look like?

Apart from the geoeconomic reasons I’ve already mentioned, Europe cannot afford to see the island democracy of Taiwan succumb to China’s increasingly coercive measures when Europe strives to establish itself as a value-based, credible global geopolitical player of strategic autonomy amidst uncertainties of great power competition. Given the geographical distance and Europe’s strategic posture in the Indo-Pacific region, it would be a big ask for European countries to intervene in conflicts across the Taiwan Strait militarily. Still, a credible European Taiwan policy should include more coordinated robust efforts among European countries to counter China’s lawfare aimed at turning the Taiwan question into a Chinese domestic affair. More diplomatic engagement will be welcomed, including the institutionalization of dialogues with Taiwanese government officials on individual policy areas such as mutual legal assistance and cooperation on development issues concerning the Global South. And, of course, the existing trade relations and cooperation in science, education, and other areas between Europe and Taiwan should continue, and need be deepened and broadened at both the European Union and the national level.

4. Let’s turn to domestic politics. This week, Taiwan’s legislature held the first presidential impeachment vote in the island’s history. And since late 2024, the Taiwan Constitutional Court (TCC) has been left with only eight of its fifteen justices – falling below the quorum required to issue binding decisions – after the opposition-controlled legislature blocked President Lai’s nominations to fill the vacancies and raised the quorum. Three of the remaining eight justices have since accused the court itself of acting unlawfully. Can you walk us through the constitutional conflict that led to this point?

It’s a winding path to the perfect constitutional storm that is still very much engulfing the Taiwan Constitutional Court. Under the Constitution, the TCC shall have 15 justices of staggered terms; all of them are nominated and then appointed by the president once a majority of MPs agree. Before seven justices left the court at the end of their eight-year term on 31 October 2024, all the 15 justices were appointed by the then president TSAI Ing-wen of DPP, who stepped down on 20 May of the same year. During her two-term presidency from 2016 to 2024, the TCC rendered several landmark decisions, including the Same-Sex Marriage Case, while upholding a series of reform legislation pushed by the DPP but strongly contested by the opposition.

Against this backdrop, the TCC was portrayed as a partisan player. So, after winning a majority of seats in the parliament in the 2024 general elections, the opposition further rode on the popular reaction against the TCC’s restrictive judgment on the death penalty and passed a bill to amend the Constitutional Court Procedure Act on 20 December. Four days later, the parliament rejected all seven justice nominations by the current president, Lai Ching-te. Before the amendment, the quorum for the TCC was two-thirds of all sitting justices, and the TCC would still be able to function with the presence of six justices, even if it was left with only eight justices. Yet, under the new procedural rule, the quorum for a merits-based decision was fixed at 10, regardless of the number of sitting justices. The TCC was thus virtually brought to a halt under the new quorum requirement. It’s also worth noting that the parliament rejected another seven justice nominations by the president in July 2025, amidst a heated political campaign aimed at recalling all constituency-elected opposition MPs.

The TCC’s interregnum only ended on 19 December 2025 with a landmark decision of five justices that struck down the amendment, while three justices, for some unknown reasons, boycotted the proceedings. In this way, the TCC eventually brought itself back to normal operation. The trouble is that under the pre-amended procedural rule, at least six justices must be present to satisfy the quorum. Thus, the three dissident justices have since continued to boycott the TCC proceedings and denounced all the TCC judgements (including the 2025 landmark decision) rendered by five justices as null and void in a series of extrajudicial statements. The legitimacy of the TCC is thrown into doubt by justices themselves. As far as I can see, there is no end in sight to this judicial palace tragedy before the current vacancies are duly filled but the zero-sum struggle between President Lai of DPP and the opposition-controlled parliament seems set to continue into the 2028 general elections. Before then, an even larger cloud is gathering around the TCC: four of the eight sitting justices are due to step down at the end of September 2027. It’s hard to see how a TCC of four justices could live up to the constitutional expectation.

Editor’s Pick

by JANA TRAPP

Is there an age when we finally feel like we have it all together? Isabel Klee’s memoir, “Dogs, Boys and Other Things I’ve Cried About”, might not provide definitive answers, but it offers a pretty good clue: probably not. A wonderfully charming journey through the emotional chaos of your twenties, caught somewhere between New York dating disasters and gently rebuilding broken canine souls.

Reading it brought me immense relief. When Klee describes celebrating the tiniest milestones of her rescue dogs with infinite patience, she holds up a healing mirror to us all: those who carry scars from life are allowed the time it takes to heal them. The book is a beautiful reminder that, amidst the constant ups and downs of life, there is one thing we must learn above all else: how to forgive ourselves. A deeply touching, sweet comfort for the soul in these heavy times.

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The Week on Verfassungsblog

summarised by EVA MARIA BREDLER

Perhaps Trump played too much Monopoly as a child. It would certainly explain why everything looks like a bargaining chip to him. Ming-Sung Kuo describes above, in our interview, what that means for Taiwan. The same logic is at work in the Strait of Hormuz: depending on how Iran behaves, Trump moves his military pieces around the board – and destabilises the international order in the process. CÉCILE TOURNAYE (ENG) sketches what a post-war freedom of navigation regime in the Persian Gulf could look like across four scenarios, showing that the Gulf’s riparian states share the same risks and cannot act in isolation.

The member states of the Council of Europe appear to have reached the same conclusion with the opposite result when it comes to migration: they share the same risks, but prefer to tackle them alone. With the new Chișinău Declaration, they are pushing for a reinterpretation of the European Convention on Human Rights – and pressing the European Court of Human Rights to adopt a stricter approach to migration law. VERONIKA FIKFAK and MIKAEL RASK MADSEN (ENG) read the Chișinău Declaration as a stepping stone towards hardening domestic stances on migration and forging a common political cover for doing so.

Last month, Irish farmers demonstrated what a common political position can look like: they blocked roads, ports and refineries across the country with their tractors to protest fossil fuel prices. Suryapratim Roy characterised the protests as “a marriage of fossil capital and racial capital”. In his reply, PATRICK O’BRIEN (ENG) argues it is rather more complicated: the far right hijacked a real national archetype – “Men with Tractors”.

The far right, as we know, not only hijacks national archetypes but also national institutions. Yet the danger may arise even before they resort to that less-than-subtle strategy. Strategic parliamentary inquiries, politically charged demands for neutrality, and the deliberate delegitimisation of state bodies and civil society organisations place authorities under pressure. The executive thus becomes a site of political capture well before any authoritarian takeover, warn DANIELA HOMBACH, RAINER MÜHLHOFF, and JUSTUS DUHNKRACK (GER).

Culture, too, is coming under increasing pressure, as the German Haber proceedings illustrate. The Haber procedure allows German federal ministries to request information from the domestic intelligence service about organisations applying for public funding or awards. The service responds only with a yes or no as to whether it holds relevant intelligence; a positive answer is routinely treated as grounds to withhold funding. Culture Minister Weimer had invoked the procedure to justify his decision not to award prizes to bookshops he deemed far-left, calling their owners “political extremists”. The Berlin Administrative Court has now ruled that Weimer may not label bookshops as “extremists”. FELIX THRUN (GER) explains why information obtained through this procedure cannot justify an interference with fundamental rights.

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Meanwhile, the European Union continues to wrestle with its own values – and the CJEU has injected some much-needed caffeine into a rather sluggish debate with Commission v Hungary. JULIAN SCHOLTES (ENG) pursues a question not yet addressed on our blog: what does it mean when Article 2 TEU becomes part of “the very identity of the Union as a common legal order”? He warns that identity claims may justify expanding the CJEU’s jurisdiction beyond its existing limits.

“The lies that bind” – that is how Kwame Anthony Appiah described identity in his widely read book. How far those ties extend can always be debated with reference to one particular piece of cloth: the headscarf. The Federal Labour Court has now ruled on a headscarf ban imposed on an airport security officer. SHINO IBOLD (GER) shows why the standards set by the court reach beyond the airport – and why the effective functioning of the police speaks against blanket bans.

Blanket solutions are rarely a good idea – though, on occasion, too much differentiation is not the answer either. The legislature sought to strengthen the rights of biological fathers through a reform of paternity contestation, implementing a Federal Constitutional Court ruling. Biological fathers who unsuccessfully contested another man’s legal paternity may now seek reopening of proceedings once the social and family relationship between the child and the legal father has ended. No comparable right exists for biological fathers who did not previously contest paternity. CHRISTIAN RÜSING (GER) identifies an incoherence in this that violates both the principle of equality and the constitutional right to parenthood.

A constitutional incoherence may also be creeping into customs law. The state wants to crack down on suspicious assets and build the customs authority into a powerful instrument against financial crime – but in attempting to straddle the line between preventive policing and criminal law, it risks contradictions that would largely neutralise its own efforts, argue MOHAMAD EL-GHAZI, KILIAN WEGNER, and TILL ZIMMERMANN (GER).

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Indian Constitutionalism at Crossroads: 2014-2024

Anmol Jain & Tanja Herklotz (eds.)

Over a decade now, academics, politicians, judges, and members of civil society have been articulating concerns for the state of India’s Constitution. Given the absence of any significant formal amendments to undermine it, how could the Constitution be said to be under threat? A litany of excellent scholars grapple with different dimensions of this challenge in this rigorous, thought-provoking, and insightful collection. A must-read not only for anyone interested in Indian constitutionalism, but also for scholars of constitutional democracy generally.

– Tarunabh Khaitan, London School of Economics and Political Science

 Get your copy here – as always, Open Access!

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This week, we also continued our symposium “On Law and Politics in the Hungarian Transition” (ENG). KIM LANE SCHEPPELE argues that EU law’s primacy gives Magyar a lawful path to sideline every veto player Orbán left behind. KATI CSERES explains that restoring democracy is not enough, calling for the dismantling of politically captured markets and the rebuilding of open market governance. In a similar vein, MACIEJ BERNATT advocates for restoring the independence of competition institutions and eliminating political interference. MARCIN BARAŃSKI warns how quickly new governments abandon the reforms they promised, using Poland’s media reform as a case in point. More contributions are coming next week. Stay tuned.

By the way, the literary world was also talking about Taiwan this week. Yáng Shuāng-zǐ’s Taiwan Travelogue has won the Booker Prize. The historical novel poses as a fictional translation of a rediscovered text and follows a Japanese writer travelling through Taiwan in 1938 – then under Japanese rule – who falls in love with her Taiwanese interpreter. It is, at its heart, a story about power in all its forms: colonial, professional, romantic, intimate. One wonders what the world might look like if Trump had spent less time on Monopoly and more time with Yáng Shuāng-zǐ.

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The post “A Perfect Constitutional Storm” appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Taiwans Lage spitzt sich zu. Bei seinem China-Besuch bezeichnete US-Präsident Trump die genehmigten Waffenverkäufe an Taiwan als „negotiating chip“ gegenüber Peking. Xi Jinping wiederum warnte Trump vor „Zusammenstößen und sogar Konflikten“, sollte man die Taiwan-Frage nicht richtig handhaben. Doch auch innenpolitisch ist die Lage in Taiwan angespannt: Am Mittwoch stimmte der Legislativrat über einen Amtsenthebungsantrag gegen Präsident Lai Ching-te ab. Die Oppositionsparteien KMT und die TPP warfen Lai vor, die Verfassungsordnung zu untergraben. Der Antrag verfehlte zwar erwartungsgemäß die erforderliche Zwei-Drittel-Mehrheit – steht aber symptomatisch für eine tiefere Krise: ein langwieriger Konflikt zwischen Exekutive und Legislative, ein blockiertes Verfassungsgericht und eine polarisierte Gesellschaft. Wir haben Ming-Sung Kuo, Reader in Law an der Warwick Law School, gefragt, wie Taiwan diesen Moment navigiert.

1. Nach Trumps Gipfeltreffen mit Xi in Peking letzte Woche erklärte der US-Präsident, er wolle nicht, dass „jemand die Unabhängigkeit anstrebt“, und ließ ein ausstehendes Waffenpaket im Wert von 14 Milliarden Dollar in der Luft hängen. Wie ist die Stimmung in Taiwan?

Düster – gemischt mit Gefühlen von Wut und Enttäuschung. Wir müssen allerdings zwischen der Politik und der breiten Bevölkerung unterscheiden. Trumps Äußerungen betrafen außerdem zwei eng verwandte, aber unterschiedliche Probleme: die Haltung der USA zum politischen Status Taiwans einerseits und die Rüstungsverkäufe zur Abschreckung Chinas andererseits. Seine Andeutung, das ausstehende Waffengeschäft sei nun eine „sehr gute Verhandlungsmasse“ bei seinen Verhandlungen mit China, ist eine klare Abkehr von den „Sechs Zusicherungen“ (Six Assurances), die Ronald Reagan 1982 – über seinen Gesandten in Taipeh – der taiwanesischen Regierung nach Unterzeichnung des US-chinesischen Kommuniqués vom 17. August übermittelt hatte. Das Kommuniqué von 1982 sah zwar vor, dass die USA ihre Waffenverkäufe an Taiwan schrittweise reduzieren würden – gleichzeitig versicherten sie Taipeh aber, China in dieser Frage nicht konsultieren zu müssen. Noch beunruhigender ist aber, dass Trump diese Zusicherungen als etwas „aus ferner Vergangenheit“ abtut – auch wenn die Regierung in Taipeh nach außen hin Fassung bewahrt und beteuert, man sei über die US-chinesischen Verhandlungen laufend informiert worden. Aufatmen ließ immerhin Trumps Andeutung, er werde bald direkt mit Präsident Lai über das Waffengeschäft sprechen. Die Stimmung verschlechterte sich dann schnell wieder, als ein US-Regierungsbeamter vor dem Senat bestätigte, dass die USA das ausstehende 14-Milliarden-Dollar-Paket vorerst auf Eis legten.

Was Trumps Bemerkung zur Unabhängigkeit angeht, fällt die Reaktion anders aus – und spiegelt die gesellschaftliche Spaltung wider. Anhänger:innen der regierenden, unabhängigkeitsorientierten DPP sind enttäuscht, obwohl die Regierung darauf besteht, man habe die Zusicherung erhalten, die US-Politik gegenüber Taiwan bleibe unverändert – und ihre eigene Haltung gegenüber China ziele nur darauf ab, den Status quo der Republik China (Taiwans offiziellem Namen) als souveräne, unabhängige Nation zu wahren, nicht auf eine formelle Unabhängigkeitserklärung. Die pro-chinesische Opposition hingegen hat sich über Trumps deutliche Botschaft gefreut und sie als klare Warnung an Lai und die DPP gedeutet. Bemerkenswert ist, dass die DPP und Opposition sich seit langem gegenseitig vorwerfen, den Status quo Taiwans als selbstverwaltende Verfassungsdemokratie zu verändern – ohne die Verfassung formell zu ändern. Diese Verfassung (offiziell „Verfassung der Republik China“) wurde inmitten des chinesischen Bürgerkriegs verabschiedet. Sie lässt die rechtliche Beziehung zwischen Taiwan und China bis heute bewusst vage, trotz der seit 1991 ergänzten Zusatzartikel. Dank dieser verfassungsrechtlichen Mehrdeutigkeit konnten sowohl die DPP als auch die Opposition ihre gegensätzlichen Positionen auf die Verfassung stützen – und sich gleichermaßen mit Trumps neuer Konzilianz gegenüber China in Einklang bringen.

2. Taiwan produziert mehr als 90 Prozent der weltweit fortschrittlichsten Halbleiter – eine Marktmacht, die lange als strategischer Schutzschild gegen chinesische Aggression galt. Hält dieser „Silicon Shield“ noch, wenn die USA gleichzeitig TSMC-Produktion ins eigene Land verlagern?

Ich bin nicht sicher, wie wirksam der Silicon Shield als Abschreckung gegen chinesische Aggression wirklich ist. Ich war ehrlich gesagt nie überzeugt von der Grundidee dahinter. Wie der US-israelische Krieg gegen den Iran zeigt, spielen wirtschaftliche Folgen militärischer Aktionen zwar eine Rolle in der Entscheidungsfindung – aber nur bis zu einem gewissen Grad. Was Chinas Entscheidung über eine gewaltsame Übernahme Taiwans bestimmt, ist meines Erachtens das politische Kalkül, ob es einen solchen Konflikt gewinnen kann – nicht, ob die USA eingreifen würden oder wie hoch der wirtschaftliche Preis wäre. Gleichwohl wird es langfristige Folgen für Taiwan haben, dass TSMC einen Teil der Produktion in die USA verlagert, denn dies schwächt Taiwans geoökonomische Stellung. Immerhin gibt es einen schwachen Trost: Das wird ein langwieriger Prozess, voller technischer Hürden. Doch selbst wenn daraus keine unmittelbare Eskalation folgt – die taiwanesische Gesellschaft wird unsicherer und misstrauischer gegenüber den Vereinigten Staaten, wenn das Silicon Shield erodiert.

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Tagung Namensverfassungsrecht – 19. Juni 2026 – Heinrich-Heine-Universität Düsseldorf

Jeder hat einen Namen. Dieser ist von Anbeginn „Ausdruck der Identität und Individualität“ (BVerfG). Dennoch ist das Namensverfassungsrecht ein unterreflektiertes Gebiet. Vor diesem Hintergrund widmet sich die von Prof. Dr. Katharina Lugani und Prof. Dr. Johann Justus Vasel ausgerichtete Tagung in rechtsvergleichender Perspektive den verfassungsrechtlichen Vorgaben, die vom allgemeinen Persönlichkeitsrecht über Gleichheitsaspekte bis hin zum grundrechtlichen Schutz von Ehe und Familie reichen und bezieht europa- und völkerrechtliche Aspekte mit ein.

Anmeldung und Informationen unter: https://www.jura.hhu.de/dozenten/lugani/tagung-namensverfassungsrecht

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3. Europa glänzt durch Abwesenheit. Warum sollte dieser Konflikt Europäer:innen mehr angehen – und wie sähe eine glaubwürdige europäische Taiwan-Politik aus?

Abgesehen von den bereits erwähnten geoökonomischen Gründen kann Europa es sich nicht leisten, zuzusehen, wie Taiwan Chinas Druck erliegt – zumal Europa selbst beansprucht, ein wertebasierter, glaubwürdiger geopolitischer Akteur mit strategischer Autonomie zu werden, während die Welt im Konflikt der Großmächte immer instabiler wird. Angesichts der geografischen Distanz und Europas strategischer Stellung im Indo-Pazifik wäre ein direktes militärisches Eingreifen in einem Taiwan-Konflikt zu viel verlangt. Dennoch sollte eine glaubwürdige europäische Taiwan-Politik koordinierte, entschlossene Schritte umfassen, um Chinas Lawfare entgegenzutreten – jene Strategie, die die Taiwan-Frage zur chinesischen Angelegenheit erklären will. Mehr diplomatisches Engagement wäre willkommen: institutionalisierte Gespräche mit taiwanesischen Regierungsvertreter:innen in Bereichen wie gegenseitiger Rechtshilfe und Zusammenarbeit bei Entwicklungsfragen des Globalen Südens. Die bestehenden Handelsbeziehungen sowie die Zusammenarbeit in Wissenschaft, Bildung und anderen Bereichen sollten fortgeführt und, wo nötig, auf EU-Ebene wie auch auf nationaler Ebene vertieft und ausgebaut werden.

4. Kommen wir zur Innenpolitik. Diese Woche hat Taiwans Parlament zum ersten Mal in seiner Geschichte über die Amtsenthebung eines Präsidenten abgestimmt. Und seit Ende 2024 sind am Taiwanischen Verfassungsgericht (TCC) nur noch acht der fünfzehn Richterstellen besetzt – zu wenig für das nötige Beschlussfähigkeitsquorum –, nachdem das oppositionskontrollierte Parlament Präsident Lais Nominierungen blockiert und das Quorum angehoben hatte.  Drei der verbliebenen acht Richter:innen werfen dem Gericht seither vor, unrechtmäßig zu entscheiden. Wie kam es zu diesem Verfassungskonflikt?

Das Verfassungsgericht steckt mitten in einem perfekten Verfassungssturm, der sich lange zusammengebraut hat. Nach der Verfassung besteht das TCC aus 15 Richter:innen mit versetzten Amtszeiten. Alle werden vom Präsidenten nominiert und ernannt, sobald eine Parlamentsmehrheit zustimmt. Bevor sieben Richter:innen am 31. Oktober 2024 nach acht Jahren aus dem Amt schieden, waren alle 15 Richter von der damaligen DPP-Präsidentin Tsai Ing-wen ernannt worden, die am 20. Mai desselben Jahres zurückgetreten war. Während ihrer zwei Amtszeiten von 2016 bis 2024 fällte das TCC mehrere wegweisende Entscheidungen, darunter das Urteil zur gleichgeschlechtlichen Ehe, und bestätigte eine Reihe von Reformgesetzen der DPP, die die Opposition heftig bekämpft hatte.

Vor diesem Hintergrund galt das TCC als parteiisches Gremium. Nachdem die Opposition bei den Wahlen 2024 eine Parlamentsmehrheit erlangt hatte, nutzte sie die Stimmung gegen ein umstrittenes, restriktives TCC-Urteil zur Todesstrafe und verabschiedete am 20. Dezember ein Gesetz zur Änderung des Verfahrensgesetzes des Verfassungsgerichts. Vier Tage später lehnte das Parlament alle sieben Richter:innennominierungen von Präsident Lai ab. Vor der Gesetzesänderung lag das Quorum bei zwei Dritteln aller amtierenden Richter:innen. Selbst mit nur noch acht Richter:innen wäre das Gericht mit sechs anwesenden Richter:innen noch handlungsfähig gewesen. Die neue Verfahrensregel aber setzte das Quorum für Entscheidungen in der Sache auf 10 Richter:innen, unabhängig von der tatsächlichen Besetzung.  Mit nur acht Richter:innen war das TCC damit de facto lahmgelegt.

Das Handlungsunfähigkeit des Gerichts endete erst am 19. Dezember 2025, als fünf Richter:innen die Gesetzesänderung für verfassungswidrig erklärten – während drei Kolleg:innen das Verfahren aus bis heute ungeklärten Gründen boykottierten. So brachte das TCC sich letztlich selbst wieder in Gang. Das Problem: Nach der alten Verfahrensregel braucht das Gericht mindestens sechs anwesende Richter:innen, um beschlussfähig zu sein. Die drei abtrünnigen Richter:innen haben seither sämtliche Urteile des Fünferkollegiums in außergerichtlichen Stellungnahmen für nichtig erklärt. Die Legitimität des Gerichts wird also von seinen eigenen Richter:innen in Zweifel gezogen. Solange die offenen Richter:innenposten nicht ordnungsgemäß besetzt werden und der Machtkampf zwischen Präsident Lais DPP und dem oppositionskontrollierten Parlament anhält (was wohl bis zu den Wahlen 2028 der Fall sein dürfte), ist kein Ende dieser Justizpalasttragödie in Sicht. Schon davor zieht eine noch größere Wolke über das TCC auf: Die Hälfte der amtierenden Richter:innen scheidet Ende September 2027 aus. Wie ein TCC mit vier Richter:innen seiner verfassungsrechtlichen Aufgabe gerecht werden soll, ist kaum vorstellbar.

Editor’s Pick

von JANA TRAPP

Copyright: Jana Trapp

Gibt es ein Alter, in dem sich endlich das Gefühl einstellt, alles im Griff zu haben? Isabel Klees Memoir „Dogs, Boys and Other Things I’ve Cried About“ liefert zwar keine endgültigen Antworten, aber eine vorläufige: vermutlich nicht. Ein herrlich charmanter Streifzug durch das Gefühlschaos einer Mittzwanzigerin – irgendwo zwischen New Yorker Dating-Katastrophen und dem sanften Wiederaufbau gebrochener Hundeseelen.

Beim Lesen fühle ich eine enorme Erleichterung. Wenn Klee beschreibt, mit wie viel Geduld sie die winzigen Fortschritte ihrer traumatisierten Hunde feiert, hält sie einen heilsamen Spiegel vor: Wer Kratzer auf der Seele hat, darf Zeit brauchen, um sie zu verarzten. Das Buch erinnert mich daran, dass wir im ständigen Auf und Ab des Lebens vor allem eines lernen dürfen: uns selbst zu verzeihen. Ein zutiefst berührender, süßer Trost in diesen schweren Zeiten.

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Die Woche auf dem Verfassungsblog

zusammengefasst von EVA MARIA BREDLER

Vielleicht hat Trump als Kind zu viel Monopoly gespielt. Das würde jedenfalls erklären, warum er überall nichts weiter als „negotiating chips“ sieht. Welche gravierenden Auswirkungen das für Taiwan hat, hat Ming-Sung Kuo oben im Interview beschrieben. In der Straße von Hormuz zeigt sich dieselbe Logik: Je nachdem, wie der Iran sich verhält, schiebt Trump seine militärischen Schiffchen hin und her – und destabilisiert nebenbei die gesamte internationale Ordnung. Wie eine Nachkriegsordnung für die Durchfahrtsfreiheit im Persischen Golf aussehen könnte, skizziert CÉCILE TOURNAYE (EN) anhand von vier Szenarien – und zeigt, dass die Anrainerstaaten die gleichen Risiken tragen und ihnen nicht im Alleingang begegnen können.

Die Mitgliedstaaten des Europarats scheinen zu einer ähnlichen Erkenntnis gekommen zu sein – mit umgekehrtem Vorzeichen: Auch sie stehen vor gemeinsamen Risiken, wollen ihnen aber lieber im Alleingang begegnen. Mit der neuen Chișinău-Erklärung möchten sie eine andere Interpretation der Europäischen Menschenrechtskonvention vorantreiben und den Europäischen Gerichtshof für Menschenrechte zu einer strikteren Rechtsprechung im Migrationsrecht bewegen.  Für VERONIKA FIKFAK und MIKAEL RASK MADSEN (EN) bereitet das den Weg für härtere nationale Migrationspolitiken – und deren gemeinsame politische Deckung.

In Irland gab es letzten Monat alles andere als Alleingänge: Irische Landwirt:innen blockierten mit ihren Traktoren Straßen, Häfen und Raffinerien im ganzen Land, um gegen Treibstoffpreise zu protestieren. Suryapratim Roy hatte die Proteste als „marriage of fossil capital and racial capital“ charakterisiert. PATRICK O’BRIEN (EN) hält die Lage für komplizierter – die Rechte habe einen nationalen Archetyp gekapert: Männer mit Traktoren.

Die Rechte kapert bekanntlich nicht nur nationale Archetypen, sondern auch nationale Institutionen. Doch die Exekutive werde so schon vor einer möglichen Machtübernahme autoritärer Parteien zum Schauplatz politischer Vereinnahmung, warnen DANIELA HOMBACH, RAINER MÜHLHOFF und JUSTUS DUHNKRACK (DE): durch strategische parlamentarische Anfragen, politisch aufgeladene Neutralitätsforderungen und die gezielte Delegitimierung staatlicher Institutionen.

Auch die Kultur gerät zunehmend unter Druck, wie das Haber-Verfahren zeigt: Kulturstaatsminister Weimer hatte damit seine Entscheidung gerechtfertigt, vermeintlich linksextreme Buchhandlungen nicht auszuzeichnen – und deren Betreiberinnen als „politische Extremisten“ bezeichnet. Das Verwaltungsgericht Berlin hat nun entschieden, dass er das nicht darf. FELIX THRUN (DE) zeigt, warum eine Auskunft nach diesem Verfahren keinen Grundrechtseingriff rechtfertigen kann.

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Währenddessen ringt auch die Europäische Union um ihre Werte, und der EuGH hat der eher trägen Debatte mit Commission v Hungary ein bisschen Koffein verabreicht. JULIAN SCHOLTES (EN) geht einer Frage nach, die hier bislang noch nicht besprochen wurde: Was bedeutet es, wenn Art. 2 EUV Teil „der Identität der Union als gemeinsame Rechtsordnung” wird? Er warnt, dass Identitätsansprüche eine Erweiterung der EuGH-Zuständigkeit über ihre bestehenden Grenzen hinaus rechtfertigen könnten.

„The lies that bind“ – so hat Kwame Anthony Appiah „Identität” in seinem lesenswerten Buch mit dem gleichlautenden Titel beschrieben. Wie weit diese Bindung reicht, lässt sich immer wieder an einem besonderen Stück Stoff diskutieren: am Kopftuch. Das BAG hat nun zum Kopftuchverbot einer Luftsicherheitsassistentin entschieden. SHINO IBOLD (DE) zeigt, warum die Maßstäbe über den Flughafen hinausreichen – und die Funktionsfähigkeit der Polizei gegen pauschale Verbote spricht.

Pauschallösungen sind selten eine gute Idee, aber manchmal ist zu viel Differenzierung auch nicht die Lösung. Der Gesetzgeber wollte mit einer Reform der Vaterschaftsanfechtung ein BVerfG-Urteil umsetzen und die Rechte leiblicher Väter stärken. Nun können leibliche Väter, die die rechtliche Vaterschaft eines anderen Mannes erfolglos angefochten haben, ein Wiederaufnahmeverfahren anstrengen, wenn die sozial-familiäre Beziehung zwischen Kind und rechtlichem Vater endet. Wer zuvor nie angefochten hat, geht leer aus. CHRISTIAN RÜSING (DE) sieht darin eine Inkohärenz, die sowohl das Gleichheitsgebot als auch das Elterngrundrecht verletzt.

Eine verfassungsrechtliche Inkohärenz könnte sich auch im Zollrecht einschleichen: Der Staat will härter gegen verdächtige Vermögen vorgehen und den Zoll zu einer schlagkräftigen Behörde gegen Finanzkriminalität ausbauen. Doch zwischen Gefahrenabwehr und Strafrecht verstricke er sich in Widersprüche, die seine Wirkung weitgehend neutralisieren, kritisieren MOHAMAD EL-GHAZI, KILIAN WEGNER und TILL ZIMMERMANN (DE).

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Indian Constitutionalism at Crossroads: 2014-2024

Anmol Jain & Tanja Herklotz (eds.)

Over a decade now, academics, politicians, judges, and members of civil society have been articulating concerns for the state of India’s Constitution. Given the absence of any significant formal amendments to undermine it, how could the Constitution be said to be under threat? A litany of excellent scholars grapple with different dimensions of this challenge in this rigorous, thought-provoking, and insightful collection. A must-read not only for anyone interested in Indian constitutionalism, but also for scholars of constitutional democracy generally.

– Tarunabh Khaitan, London School of Economics and Political Science

 Get your copy here – as always, Open Access!

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Diese Woche haben wir außerdem unser Symposium „On Law and Politics in the Hungarian Transition“ (EN) fortgesetzt. KIM LANE SCHEPPELE argumentiert, dass der Vorrang des EU-Rechts Magyar einen legalen Weg bietet, jeden Vetospieler, den Orbán hinterlassen hat, zu umgehen. KATI CSERES hält Demokratierestaurierung für nicht ausreichend und fordert, politisch gekaperte Märkte aufzubrechen und eine offene Marktordnung wiederaufzubauen. In diesem Sinne plädiert auch MACIEJ BERNATT für die Wiederherstellung unabhängiger Wettbewerbsbehörden und das Ende politischer Einflussnahme. MARCIN BARAŃSKI warnt am Beispiel der polnischen Medienreform, wie schnell neue Regierungen ihre eigenen Versprechen vergessen. Nächste Woche geht es weiter, und Sie können sich auf viele weitere Beiträge freuen.

Übrigens diskutierte diese Woche auch die Literaturwelt über Taiwan: Yáng Shuāng-zǐs „Taiwan Travelogue“ hat den Booker Prize gewonnen. Der historische Roman gibt sich als fiktive Übersetzung eines wiederentdeckten Textes aus und handelt von einer japanischen Schriftstellerin, die 1938 das damals japanisch regierte Taiwan bereist – und sich in ihre Dolmetscherin verliebt. Es geht um Macht in all ihren Erscheinungsformen: kolonial, beruflich, romantisch, intim. Wie die Welt wohl aussehen würde, wenn Trump weniger Monopoly gespielt und mehr Yáng Shuāng-zǐ gelesen hätte?

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Das war’s für diese Woche.

The post „Ein perfekter Verfassungssturm” appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Ran Hirschl was a pathbreaking scholar, an even better human being, and an even better friend.  Words cannot capture his impact on scholarship and on the lives of the numerous scholars he touched.  The excerpts from a letter on his behalf are a weak attempt to do justice to him and his legacy.  They remain in the present tense because through his works, example, and encouragement, Ran will always be with us.

Hirschl is the leading thinker on comparative constitutionalism in the world.   No political scientist in the public law field, no political scientist in the comparative government field, no law professor, and no member of any other discipline has come close to his achievements.  Each of Professor Hirschl’s books is acknowledged as path-breaking.  No one knows more about constitutional developments in different parts of the world.  No one has done more to inspire the contemporary renaissance in comparative constitutionalism.  No one has played a greater leadership role in this comparative constitutionalism revival.  You could divide Hirschl’s resume in half and probably thirds and each piece would have a powerful case for a lifetime achievement award in numerous disciplines and in numerous fields within those disciplines.

Hirschl has a stunning range of expertise, a range that dwarfs any other scholar that I know of in political science or law.  One finds in his publications a sophisticated understanding of political theory, all aspects of public law, and comparative politics.  He has clearly mastered the literature on democratic theory, on constitutional interpretation, on law and society, and on judicial politics.  He seems to have mastered the general literature on comparative constitutional law, and the specific constitutional politics of almost every country with constitutional politics.  His chapter on case studies in Comparative Matters is an extraordinary methodological piece, one I regular insist my students examine.   I have always been particularly impressed with Professor Hirschl’s capacity to both know the details of what almost every constitutional court in the world is doing and to organize those details into theoretically rich arguments.  Maybe somewhere in an obscure province in India, a constitutional development exists that Hirschl does not know about.  But neither I nor any of the numerous reviewers of his works have been able to identify this omission.  I am confident Vulcan of Star Trek fame is fiction, because Professor Hirschl has never discussed the Constitution of Vulcan.

This erudition extends far beyond law and political science.  Consider the first chapter of City, State: The Constitutionalism and the Megacity.  The chapter begins with an extensive discussion of what almost every social science field has said about cities for the past fifty years.  Hirschl seems to have a fluency in subjects ranging from sociology to architecture that would do experts in those field proud.  Perhaps I need to get out more, but I cannot think of a scholar in any field whose expertise ranges over so much political science, so much law and so much scholarship as Professor Hirschl.  The other books are similar.  Hirschl does not simply master law and political science.  He masters whatever disciplines are necessary to cast light on his subject matters.

Professor Hirschl’s forthcoming book, Constitutionalism 2050 points out that the traditional nation-state no longer serves to manage central problems.  The problems regimes face, from climate change to globalization to pandemics are now international.  Local national governance, he observes, weakens human capacity to respond to these problems.  Constitutionalism must go global for the human race to survive.  Putting aside jealously, I had two thoughts when he was presented.  Sandy Levinson accurately describes this work as the most important book on constitutionalism published in the twenty-first century.  As always the erudition is remarkable; the thesis strikingly original, and the importance speaks for itself.

Professor Hirschl is a fellow of the Royal Society of Canada, which is the equivalent of being a member of the American Academic for the Arts and Sciences in the United States (both are academic halls of fame).  He has held distinguished chairs at the University of Toronto, the University of Texas, and the Max Planck Institute in Germany, as well as holding distinguished visitor chairs at the National University of Singapore, New York University and Harvard Law School.  He has won national and global awards for scholarship and delivered addresses, often named, at almost every major university in the world.  He is a former Co-President of the International Society of Public Law and one of the founders of that organization.  He has published many edited collections and nearly one-hundred essays, many of which have been republished and translated elsewhere.  The evidence clearly indicates, I should add, that none of his works seem to have been written by Christopher Marlowe.

 Professor Hirschl excels at all facets of the academy.  He was an award-winning teacher at Toronto.  When I wrote his recommendation for the Canada Research Chair, the University of Toronto presented me with as strong a set of teaching evaluations, both for graduate students and undergraduates, as I recall seeing.  He has helped mentor the younger generation of comparativists.  You see Professor Hirschl’s name in manuscripts by junior scholars warmly thanking him for the time and energy he gave to reviewing junior manuscripts.  He has been a leader in comparative constitutionalism, not just as a scholar, but as a founder and leader of the International Society of Public Law.  Thanks in significant part to his efforts, ICON-S is probably the most important site in the world for comparative constitutionalism.  Finally, on a personal note he is a warm and trusted friend to many of us in the academy.

Professor Hirschl has a global reputation for excellence and as fine a global reputation for decency.  He is an outstanding teacher, mentor, colleague, and friend.

There will be a program at APSA honored his memory and achievements.  Others are in the works.  All we can do for the present is miss terribly this amazing scholar, human being and friend. 

The case of Hungary illustrates that the ways in which markets functioned were among the reasons behind Fidesz’s success in 2010, and the subsequent reorganisation of the economy through law served to reinforce the party’s grip on power. It was also, in the end, disillusionment with Fidesz’s economic agenda and the capture of public resources by private individuals that contributed to its electoral defeat. The restoration of constitutional democracy in Hungary, which will inevitably involve the re-organisation of the economy, should therefore prompt reflection in public law discourse on the ways in which markets ought to be structured in democratic societies.

Markets Fidesz’s Rise and Consolidation of Power

One of the reasons Fidesz came to power was economy. Its 2010 electoral victory took place during a period of acute economic crisis. OECD data show that in the years preceding that election, prices, unemployment, poverty levels, and social inequality were all rising. On a broader level, the implementation of a neoliberal agenda across Central-Eastern Europe, including Hungary, had produced serious social externalities. Unemployment, particularly in regions affected by de-industrialisation, was high (27.84% among young people in Hungary in 2010), while wages remained low. A sense of having been left behind by the transformation processes persisted.

Once in power, Fidesz did not shy away from intervening in the economy. While some reforms aimed at addressing genuine economic distress within Hungarian society, family bonuses being one example, others were designed to reorganise the economy so that political and economic power became concentrated in the ruling party. Several markets that had previously been subject to competition were monopolised, with exclusive rights granted to state public authorities or state-owned enterprises (SOEs). Under the 2011 Act on National Assets monopolised markets came to include passenger and freight rail transportation; passenger transportation by road; the construction and operation of the international commercial airport; and the construction and operation of national roads and core network railways. Separate laws provided for the monopolisation of the energy retail market, the education textbook market, the waste management market, and the national road mobile payment market. Risks of corruption and bid-rigging in public procurement increased markedly, and the allocation of state resources became increasingly opaque.

The role of independent economic regulators was also affected. Among others, a previous in-depth study has revealed that it became increasingly difficult for the Hungarian Competition Authority (GVH) to pursue its mission of protecting open and competitive markets effectively. Two related phenomena arguably materialised: selective enforcement of competition law, and selective non-enforcement. Legislative carve-outs further limited the GVH’s power to fight against cartels in sectors crucial to the public: agriculture and waste management. Furthermore, under Article 24/A of Hungarian Competition Act, the GVH was barred from reviewing mergers that the government deemed to be in the public interest. Article 24/A was applied often (between 2014 to 2017 21 times) and was used, for example, to exempt from GVH’s control of concentration a transfer of 476 media outlets to KESMA Foundation.

These processes were not merely damaging to markets. They reinforced, at least indirectly, the decline of constitutional democracy in Hungary. KESMA exemption enabled the government to bypass GVH scrutiny and allowed for the creation of a dominant, pro-government media group. The severe limitation of media freedom and pluralism, prerequisites for democracy and the rule of law guaranteed by Article 2 TEU, was thereby consolidated due to lack of application of a competition law mechanism.

Rebuilding Constitutional Democracy: The Case for Competition Law Reform

Taking these developments into account, any serious attempt to rebuild constitutional democracy in Hungary must learn the lessons of the Fidesz period. While the problems described above require the attention of economists and private lawyers, they cannot be treated as falling outside the domain of public law. In the following sections the article proposes several reforms. The focus is on competition law. Other possible reforms, such as the amendment to 2011 Act on National Assets are not analysed.

Strengthening the Independence of the Hungarian Competition Authority

The weakening of independence of GVH was not accidental – it was implemented through politically driven appointment mechanisms of the GVH leadership and internal governance practices that lowered the autonomy of the GVH decision-making body, i.e. the Competition Council. Reversing this requires changes at both levels.

First, the appointment of the GVH president and two vice-presidents should be depoliticised. Currently, these positions are filled through a process that gives the Prime Minister a decisive influence over who leads the authority. A credible legal reform would require that candidates be nominated by an independent panel – composed, for example, of representatives of the legal profession, academic experts, and civil society – with parliamentary confirmation. Fixed terms with dismissal only for cause would further insulate leadership from short term political pressure. At the same time, rules strengthening the GVH accountability before the parliament and civil society should be developed.

It is important in this context that members of the GVH Competition Council are protected under EU law (Article 4 of ECN+ Directive) against undue dismissals, so any changes of the national law in this respect and any personal decisions envisaged shall ensure that the EU law standards allowing dismissals only in rare circumstances linked to criminal prosecutions or serious misconduct are adhered to. Conversely, Article 4 of ECN+ Directive does not seem to protect the GVH President against the dismissal without cause since the GVH President does not adopt infringement, commitment, interim measures and fines decisions (in Hungary this is the task of the Council). Therefore, the changes of Hungarian Competition Act which now provides for the six-year term of the GVH President could arguably be considered.

Second, the internal decision-making structure of the GVH requires reform. At present, the Council – the body that decides the cases on merits – is headed by a GVH vice-president with other members nominated by the GVH President. This means the GVH President effectively shapes the composition of the body. This creates conditions for internal pressure on outcomes. The Council should be restructured as a genuinely independent body: its members should be appointed through a separate procedure, serve fixed terms, and its chair should not simultaneously hold an executive position within the GVH unless the appointment of GVH leadership will be depoliticised.

Abolishing the Fidesz-Era Legislative Carve-Outs

The scope of GVH jurisdiction was deliberately narrowed during the Fidesz years through legislative carve-outs. They should be either repealed in full or significantly modified. Importantly, the Hungarian approach with respect to agricultural markets deviates from the EU Common Agriculture Policy: EU law does not generally permit broad horizontal price coordination exemptions of the type enabled under Hungarian law. When it comes to merger review, there is a need for accommodating non-competition related public interest values, but, as approaches adopted in many countries suggest, this should not exclude a competition authority’s review as to negative effects of a merger on competition and should not eliminate judicial review of governmental decision to exempt the merger. The amendment of Article 24/A of Hungarian Competition Act is therefore necessary.

Importantly, the public interest merger exemption is not merely a competition law problem – it is a constitutional one. When a government can bypass an independent agency process so as to authorise a merger, not only competition is affected but also a direct risk to democracy may arise on the grounds that it represents the exercise of an unchecked power over a sine qua non for democratic discourse (for example, the KESMA merger affecting media pluralism).

Bringing Civil Society into GVH Decision-Making

Democratic legitimacy in competition enforcement requires not only independence from government but also an agency’s accountability and openness to a broad range of voices. Therefore, the reforms should introduce structured mechanisms for civil society participation. Proposals could include formal consultation procedures before the adoption of enforcement priorities by the agency or the creation of an advisory panel including civil society and consumer associations, trade unions, and business representatives.

From Selective Enforcement to Public Interest Prioritisation

One of the patterns that was observable during the Fidesz period is what appears to have been a tendency toward selectivity: an inclination to pursue cases with respect to some sectors of economy while showing reluctance to enforce the law in sectors characterized by high presence of firms with government connections. The clear evidence for this pattern is difficult to be established. This is also not meant to say that enforcement actions actually taken were illegitimate. Nevertheless, the picture is sufficiently concerning to warrant a response. The GVH should adopt and publish a transparent enforcement priority framework, developed with public input, that focuses resources on conduct causing the greatest harm to ordinary Hungarian consumers and citizens – and that is applied regardless of the political affiliations of the firms involved. In this sense, enforcement of competition law should be seen through transformative lenses: transitioning back to democracy and addressing some of the economic reasons lying behind the success of authoritarian-leaning politicians.

There is also a need for rules strengthening transparency and providing reasons why certain proceedings are not initiated. While the capability of competition agencies to prioritise is an asset, it needs to be performed in a way that prevents abuse. Therefore, improvements to the existing legal framework in Hungary is necessary. For example, transparent and publicly available information on what cases are not opened by the GVH would inform the public about which actions have not been undertaken by the agency.

Addressing Past Mergers: The Possibility of Ex-Post Review

One of the most difficult challenges concerns what to do about concentrations that were immunised from GVH review. Two legal avenues require examination.

Where a merger led to a creation of dominant position of the acquiring entity or strengthened an already existing one, the GVH could consider opening abuse of dominance proceedings. The CJEU judgment in Towercast (C-449/21) is relevant here: the CJEU confirmed that competition authorities may apply Article 102 TFEU to assess the effects of a concentration that was not subject to merger review. This opens a potential pathway for the GVH to examine the competitive effects of politically immunised mergers – though careful legal assessment of each case would be required. Importantly, the threshold is a demanding one: it must be shown that competition has been substantially impeded to the point where only undertakings whose behaviour depends on the dominant firm remain in the market (Towercast, para. 52).

The second possible approach could consist of a review of the past governmental decrees exempting certain mergers from GVH scrutiny under Article 24/A of the Hungarian Competition Act, conducted by a dedicated group of experts. If irregularities were to be identified, the government could consider amending or revoking those decrees – on condition that national law permits such a step and rule of law safeguards are put in place. Specific expertise in Hungarian law is required before any concrete recommendations can be made in this regard.

Recovery of Unlawfully Granted State Aid

The concentration of economic power in the hands of Fidesz-aligned private actors was not coincidental. State resources were channelled to politically connected firms in ways that may constitute unlawful state aid under EU law. The scope of potential recovery is broad: any state aid illegally granted to private actors and not notified to the European Commission could in principle be challenged. Where such aid was granted without prior notification to the Commission, or was approved on the basis of misrepresented facts, recovery is legally possible under Article 16 of Regulation 2015/1589.

The new Hungarian authorities should therefore cooperate proactively with the Commission to identify aid measures that meet the recovery threshold, and conduct audits covering the potential aid instruments used during the Fidesz period that may have distorted competition in favour of politically connected firms. State aid must be understood broadly in this context. It encompasses not only direct grants, subsidies, or tax relief, but any advantage conferred by state-controlled entity on terms more favourable than the market would offer. While the Commission retains ultimate authority over enforcement, the Hungarian government can strengthen its position by notifying the Commission of measures that were not previously disclosed and by exploring whether domestic court proceedings to unwind those contracts or recover the value of the aid are available under Hungarian law.

Conclusion

The repair of constitutional democracy in Hungary cannot be reduced to restoring judicial independence, re-establishing effective review by Constitutional Court or reforming electoral rules. The Fidesz period demonstrated with clarity that markets and democratic governance are deeply interconnected: the reorganisation of the economy was both a tool for consolidating political power and a consequence of the erosion of constitutional checks. Public law scholars must engage seriously with this dimension of democratic backsliding – and with the role that competition law reform can play in the democratic reconstruction that Hungary now faces.

The proposals set out above are not technical matters to be left to competition lawyers alone. They are, at their core, questions of constitutional design. Whether and how Hungary addresses them will shape not only its markets but also its democracy. The reforms proposed here should be understood as part of Hungary’s substantive reintegration into the EU legal and economic order.

The post The Missing Dimension appeared first on Verfassungsblog.

Hier soll es um ein Problem gehen, das bislang wenig Aufmerksamkeit erfahren hat: Der Gesetzgeber ermöglicht leiblichen Vätern, die die rechtliche Vaterschaft eines anderen Mannes erfolglos angefochten haben, ein Wiederaufnahmeverfahren, wenn die sozial-familiäre Beziehung zwischen dem Kind und dem rechtlichen Vater endet (§ 185a FamFG n.F. i.V.m. § 1600 Abs. 4 BGB n.F.). Ein vergleichbares Recht steht leiblichen Vätern, die innerhalb der Frist von zwei Jahren ab Kenntnis der relevanten Umstände auf eine Anfechtung verzichtet haben, nicht zu. Das hat gravierende Konsequenzen: Der Gesetzgeber fordert leibliche Väter geradezu heraus, auch offensichtlich aussichtslose Anfechtungsverfahren einzuleiten, um sich die Möglichkeit der Wiederaufnahme zu sichern. Verzichten sie darauf – z.B. um das Kind bzw. die Beziehung des Kindes zum rechtlichen Vater nicht zu belasten –, können sie auch später nicht mehr anfechten. Darin liegt eine Inkohärenz, die sowohl das Gleichheitsgebot als auch das Elterngrundrecht verletzt.

Unklare Vorgaben des BVerfG

Dass der Gesetzgeber die zweite Chance nur nach einem erfolglosen Anfechtungsverfahren gewährt, beruht auf Unklarheiten im Urteil vom 9. April 2024. Das BVerfG hat die Unangemessenheit der bisherigen Regelungen im Kern auf zwei Gründe gestützt (vgl. Rn. 89):

Zum einen schloss eine sozial-familiäre Beziehung des rechtlichen Vaters zum Schluss der letzten Tatsacheninstanz die Anfechtung durch den leiblichen Vater stets aus – unabhängig von einer Beziehung des leiblichen Vaters zum Kind oder seinem frühzeitigen und konstanten Bemühen um die rechtliche Vaterschaft. Dem trägt nun § 1600 Abs. 3 BGB n.F.Rechnung. In den in Satz 2 genannten Konstellationen ist eine Anfechtung durch den leiblichen Vater nur noch ausgeschlossen, wenn der Fortbestand der rechtlichen Vaterschaft für das Wohl des Kindes erforderlich ist.

Zum anderen – und das ist hier entscheidend – waren leibliche Väter früher durchgängig mit der Anfechtung ausgeschlossen, sobald eine sozial-familiäre Beziehung zwischen dem rechtlichen Vater und dem Kind bestand. Nach Ablauf der Zweijahresfrist oder nach einem erfolglosen Anfechtungsverfahren blieben sie „selbst dann ausgeschlossen […], wenn eine sperrende sozial-familiäre Beziehung des Kindes zum rechtlichen Vater mittlerweile nicht mehr vorliegt“ (Rn. 89).

In manchen Passagen der Entscheidung scheint das BVerfG dabei nur an Konstellationen zu denken, in denen die Beziehung zum rechtlichen Vater „nach erfolgloser erster Anfechtung“ wegfällt (Rn. 78; ähnlich Rn. 84). Man könnte deswegen meinen, dass das Gericht nur für diesen Fall eine zweite Chance verlangt.

In anderen Passagen bezieht es sich jedoch generell auf den Wegfall der sozial-familiären Beziehung – unabhängig davon, ob der leibliche Vater zunächst erfolglos fristgerecht ein Anfechtungsverfahren eingeleitet hat (etwa Rn. 81, 89). Vor allem in den Randnummern 96 ff. stützt das BVerfG die Unverhältnismäßigkeit darauf, dass dem leiblichen Vater „die Vaterschaftsanfechtung“ selbst dann verwehrt bleibt, wenn die sperrende Beziehung des Kindes zum rechtlichen Vater weggefallen ist. Mit dem Ziel, Rechtssicherheit und Statusbeständigkeit bzw. -klarheit zu gewährleisten, könne man das nicht rechtfertigen. Denn es bestünden in einer solchen Konstellation keine hinreichenden verfassungsrechtlichen Gegenpositionen: Der Wechsel in der abstammungsrechtlichen Zuordnung berühre das Kindeswohl „regelmäßig nicht wesentlich“, weil zum rechtlichen Vater keine aktuelle Beziehung mehr bestehe (Rn. 96). Umgekehrt erhalte „das Kind bei einer (erneuten) Vaterschaftsanfechtung durch den leiblichen Vater“ eine rechtliche Zuordnung, die „die rechtliche Vaterschaft nunmehr mit seiner Abstammung in Deckung bringen würde“ (Rn. 96).

Was das BVerfG hier mit dem Klammerzusatz („erneuten“) meint, ist unklar. Einerseits könnte man ihn als Klarstellung ansehen, dass sich das Gericht nur auf eine zweite Anfechtung bezieht. Andererseits könnte das BVerfG auch lediglich darauf hinweisen wollen, dass es in der Praxis zwar meist um eine erneute Anfechtung gehen wird, die Überlegungen aber auch bei einer erstmaligen Anfechtung wegen Wegfalls der sozial-familiären Beziehung greifen sollen. Für Letzteres spricht jedenfalls der weit gefasste Leitsatz 5, wonach generell ein solcher Wegfall berücksichtigt werden können muss. Die enge Lesart des Gesetzgebers widerspricht dieser Vorgabe.

Lösungsvorschlag im Referentenentwurf

Der Referentenentwurf sah dementsprechend eine „zweite Chance“ nicht nur in § 185a FamFG‑E vor, sondern auch in Form einer Hemmung der Anfechtungsfrist (§ 1600b Abs. 4 S. 3–5 BGB-E). Solange eine sozial-familiäre Beziehung zum rechtlichen Vater besteht, sollte die Frist gehemmt sein. Die Hemmung sollte spätestens zwei Jahre nach dem Wegfall der sozial-familiären Beziehung enden (§ 1600b Abs. 4 S. 5 BGB-E).

Mehrere Verbände haben dies kritisiert (etwa das DIJuF auf S. 5 f. und generell zur zweiten Chance der djb auf S. 8): Es sei schwer zu ermitteln, wann eine sozial-familiäre Beziehung „wegfalle“. Bei jeder Krise zwischen rechtlichem Vater und der Mutter drohe eine Anfechtung durch den leiblichen Vater. Damit fehle Rechtssicherheit für alle Beteiligten. Leibliche Väter könnten zudem pauschal behaupten, dass sie nur aus Rücksicht auf ihre Kinder zunächst nicht angefochten hätten, und dann den bestmöglichen Zeitpunkt für eine Anfechtung abwarten (so der Kinderschutzbund auf S. 5).

Schon der Regierungsentwurf hat die geplante Hemmung daher gestrichen. § 1600b Abs. 1 S. 2 Hs. 2 BGB n.F. stellt klar, dass das Vorliegen einer sozial-familiären Beziehung den Lauf der Anfechtungsfrist nicht hindert.

Verfassungswidrige Inkohärenz

Damit hat der Gesetzgeber eine Inkohärenz geschaffen, die gegen Art. 3 Abs. 1 und Art. 6 Abs. 2 S. 1 GG verstößt. Leibliche Väter, die zunächst auf eine Anfechtung verzichten, generell schlechter zu stellen als solche, die erfolglos angefochten haben, lässt sich nicht rechtfertigen.

Zuzugeben ist der Kritik an der zunächst geplanten Hemmung, dass diese zu Rechtsunsicherheit geführt hätte. Das betrifft allerdings jede Form der zweiten Chance. Eben eine solche fordert das BVerfG jedoch. Dessen Argumentation kann man durchaus kritisieren. Die Annahme, nach dem Wegfall einer sozial-familiären Beziehung sprächen keine erheblichen Interessen des Kindes gegen einen Wechsel des rechtlichen Vaters, erscheint zu pauschal. Zu denken ist nur an Auswirkungen auf das Sorgerecht, den Unterhalt und das Erbrecht (dazu auch schon hier). Bedenklich ist deswegen auch die Reichweite, mit der § 185a FamFG eine „zweite“ Chance zulässt. Bis zu fünf Wiederaufnahmeverfahren sind trotz der Fristen in § 185a Abs. 2 FamFG möglich (Oldenburger, NJW 2026, 1177, 1181). Dass das BVerfG eine derart weitreichende Regelung verlangt, lässt sich seinem Urteil nicht entnehmen.

Zumindest die mit der zweiten Chance generell verbundenen Unsicherheiten und die Statusbeständigkeit wiegen aus Sicht des BVerfG jedoch nicht schwer genug, um leiblichen Vätern eine Anfechtung bei Wegfall der sozial-familiären Beziehung ganz zu verwehren. Dass das BVerfG seine Auffassung grundlegend ändern wird, ist unwahrscheinlich. Legt man sie zugrunde, macht es aber keinen Unterschied, ob der leibliche Vater zunächst erfolglos angefochten hat oder nicht.

Vor diesem Hintergrund lässt sich die Ungleichbehandlung – in Form der Bevorzugung von Männern, die bereits einmal erfolglos angefochten haben – nicht rechtfertigen. Man könnte zwar argumentieren, dass leibliche Väter, die innerhalb der Anfechtungsfrist kein Interesse an der rechtlichen Vaterschaft zeigen, keinen Schutz verdienen. Der Verzicht auf eine Anfechtung muss aber nicht auf Desinteresse beruhen. Wie einleitend schon bemerkt, kommen dafür anerkennenswerte Gründe in Betracht. Zumindest für solche Fälle müsste der Gesetzgeber einen Schutz bieten, der dem des § 185a FamFG vergleichbar ist. Um festzustellen, ob die Inaktivität auf Desinteresse beruhte, könnte man z.B. fordern, dass leibliche Väter innerhalb der Zweijahresfrist erklären, ob sie sich eine spätere Anfechtung bei Wegfall der sozial-familiären Beziehung vorbehalten möchten. Alternativ wurde eine konsensuale notarielle Erklärung der Beteiligten vorgeschlagen (Oldenburger, NJW 2026, 1177, 1180 Fn. 22).

Leiblichen Vätern, die Verantwortung für das Kind übernehmen und primär aus Rücksicht auf die übrigen Beteiligten zunächst von einer Anfechtung absehen möchten, diese Möglichkeit zu nehmen, greift in unverhältnismäßiger Weise in Art. 6 Abs. 2 S. 1 GG ein. Dies dürfte sich schon aus den oben dargestellten Erwägungen des BVerfG (Rn. 96 ff.) ergeben. Selbst wenn man das aus dem Urteil nicht herauslesen wollte, würde sich die Unverhältnismäßigkeit jedenfalls aus der Inkohärenz der Neuregelung ergeben. Über Bedeutung und Reichweite des „Kohärenzgebots“ besteht zwar bekanntlich seit Jahrzehnten Streit. Der Rechtsprechung des BVerfG lässt sich aber nicht erst seit der Nichtraucherschutzentscheidung entnehmen, dass Inkohärenzen zur Unverhältnismäßigkeit führen können. Wenn der Gesetzgeber legitime Ziele durch Ausnahmen relativiert, können die Ziele nur in eingeschränktem Maße gefördert werden. Dadurch „sinkt das Ausmaß des angestrebten Nutzens“, was im Rahmen der Angemessenheitsprüfung zu berücksichtigen ist (Payandeh, AöR 136 [2011], 578, 607).

Eben das zeigt sich hier sehr deutlich: Die jetzige Regelung ist nur in geringem Maße geeignet, Rechtssicherheit zu schaffen, weil leibliche Väter sich die zweite Chance des § 185a FamFG auch mit offensichtlich aussichtslosen Anfechtungsverfahren offenhalten können. Mit den Wiederaufnahmeverfahren können sie dann sogar mehrfach versuchen, trotz einer bereits rechtskräftigen Entscheidung die Vaterschaft eines anderen Mannes erneut anzufechten. Die Neuregelung fordert leibliche Väter sogar noch heraus, frühzeitig Anfechtungsverfahren einzuleiten. Das kann die Beteiligten mehrfach mit derartigen Verfahren belasten. Der Gesetzgeber nimmt leiblichen Vätern so die Möglichkeit, im Einvernehmen mit der Mutter und dem rechtlichen Vater zunächst von einer Anfechtung abzusehen.

Ausblick

Es bedarf nach alledem einer Neuregelung, die leiblichen Vätern eine zweite Chance grundsätzlich unabhängig davon einräumt, ob sie zuvor schon einmal erfolglos angefochten haben. Den Bedenken hinsichtlich Rechtssicherheit und Statusbeständigkeit könnte der Gesetzgeber auf anderem Wege begegnen. Zunächst könnte er die Kriterien für den Wegfall einer sozial-familiären Beziehung – auch in der Gesetzesbegründung – konkreter und kindeswohlorientiert beschreiben (zu möglichen Umständen siehe die Stellungnahmen des Caritasverbandes und des DIJuF). Darüber hinaus sollte man die Möglichkeiten einer mehrmaligen „zweiten“ Chance stärker begrenzen. Schließlich sollte der Gesetzgeber darüber nachdenken, ob die Anfechtung wirklich ausnahmslos ex tunc wirken sollte oder ob nicht auch eine sukzessive Vaterschaft in Betracht kommt (zuletzt dafür auch Franck, FamRZ 2025, 1340, 1343; Gössl, ZRP 2025, 248, 250; von Scheliha, S. 5). Diese und weitere offene Fragen – etwa die Co-Mutterschaft – müssen umfassend geregelt werden, um Familien nicht unter rechtlichen Damoklesschwertern allein zu lassen. Eine grundlegende Abstammungsreform duldet deswegen keinen weiteren Aufschub.

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The President of Hungary must sign all laws and constitutional amendments for them to enter into force. And President Tamás Sulyok has indicated that he believes “the rule of law” (something he was not too picky about before now) means that the formal rules must be followed. Nothing becomes law without his signature – including constitutional amendments – and, as a Fidesz ally, he has suddenly become a convert to the principle of checks and balances. Amendments to the law on the presidency made in December 2025 made it nearly impossible for the Parliament to impeach the president so the obvious lawful route to removing him has been put out of reach.

Other veto points lurk beyond that. The Constitutional Court has been packed with Fidesz loyalists and they stand ready to declare unconstitutional any change to the current order. While the power to veto the substance of constitutional amendments was removed from the Constitutional Court in 2013 (though it may still review amendments for procedural flaws in their enactment), the power to declare laws unconstitutional remains in the hands of this Court. The Supreme Court (Kúria) is led by a president with extraordinary powers who has deployed them in the service of the Orbán government.

Joint control over the presidency and the peak courts therefore establishes a Fidesz wall of resistance to the dismantling of the NER, the System of National Cooperation entrenched under Orbán. And that doesn’t yet take into account Orbán’s minions who still control virtually all key government offices that would be necessary to enforce a radically new government program.

Péter Magyar understands the challenges of removing state officials with long terms of office who are supposed to be independent of government. He has therefore called for the national president, the presidents of the Supreme Court and Constitutional Court, the Prosecutor General, chief media regulator and others to step down, urging them to recognize the democratic will of the new government. So far none have resigned. It appears that Magyar will be in the unenviable position of either having to govern alongside those determined to block his electoral mandate or finding a way to remove them with a legal workaround.

What can a leader in such a position do? Magyar could prematurely fire the occupants of these veto points with statutory (and sometimes even constitutional) terms of office, claiming that their initial appointment violated the rule of law because the appointments were made in violation of Article C(2) of the Basic Law that bars anyone from acting “with the aim of . . . exclusively possessing [power].” (Of course, these Fidesz loyalists actually did dismantle constitutional government in Hungary so there is ample evidence of motive.) Alternatively, Magyar could also simply ignore the presidential signature requirement or adverse Constitutional Court decisions and declare that laws and constitutional amendments passed with his constitutional supermajority are valid anyway. Both strategies have their problems, not least with the Venice Commission which has taken a highly formalist stance on other political transitions. In a more legal route, Magyar could convene a constituent assembly outside the existing constitutional order to rewrite the constitution on a clean slate and put it to public referendum, bypassing the veto players. Time, however, is of the essence.

Rumors are swirling around Budapest about what all sides might do in this conflict. Some say that the Magyar government is planning to amend the Constitution to remove the president without his signature while rumors are that Sulyok will refer any such amendment to the Constitutional Court which will then (against its own jurisdictional limitations) declare such an amendment unconstitutional. If either event happens, Hungary would be plunged into the middle of a constitutional crisis.

The Hungarian government, however, has another speedier more lawful option to realize its democratic mandate without lurching into one of these extreme scenarios: Using European law as an interim constitution to evade the roadblocks left in place by the Orbán government.

European Law Over All: An Option for Evading National Veto Players

In its long-standing insistence that EU law has primacy over national law – even national constitutional law – the Court of Justice has created a number of tools that pro-democratic reformers could use to eliminate the veto points within their national legal orders in order to comply with EU law.

First, the ECJ has dealt with obstructionist national courts before. In its Grand Chamber decision in Eurobox Promotion, the ECJ held that decisions of the Romanian Constitutional Court must be disapplied by national authorities when those decisions violate EU law. A direct application of Eurobox to cases in Hungary where the high courts block the enforcement of EU law would allow – and, in fact, require – the new government to set aside obstructive court judgments without waiting for the court to change its mind. For example, the IS case, finding that national judges in Hungary may not be disciplined for referring cases to the ECJ, resulted in the Commission’s insistence that Hungary remove the legal barriers that stood in the way of reference cases. While Orbán government passed the relevant statute to appease the Commission, the case law of the Supreme Court (Kúria) discouraging reference cases persists. Under the Eurobox decision, these cases could and should be disapplied without first requiring the national court to overturn them. Future decisions of the packed Hungarian Constitutional Court that block the implementation of EU law can be similarly disapplied. To reinforce the point, the new government could issue an order stipulating that this is the case to put everyone on notice.

In addition, the ECJ has also addressed the problem of national officials and agencies that refuse to enforce EU law. Their decisions, too, should not have legal effect given their conflicts with EU law. As the ECJ noted in the Garda Síochána case, the obligation to disapply contrary national law applies not only to courts but also to all state officials and it applies to decisions made by bodies other than courts:

38 As the Court has repeatedly held, that duty to disapply national legislation that is contrary to EU law is owed not only by national courts, but also by all organs of the State – including administrative authorities – called upon, within the exercise of their respective powers, to apply EU law . . .

50 It follows from the principle of primacy of EU law, as interpreted by the Court . . . that bodies called upon, within the exercise of their respective powers, to apply EU law are obliged to adopt all the measures necessary to ensure that EU law is fully effective, disapplying if need be any national provisions or national case-law that are contrary to EU law. This means that those bodies, in order to ensure that EU law is fully effective, must neither request nor await the prior setting aside of such a provision or such case-law by legislative or other constitutional means.

 If the new Hungarian government now adopts measures to bring national law into alignment with EU law and the national president vetoes this law, leaving in place legal rules that violate EU law, then all other state bodies should set aside not only the offending law, but also the veto that blocks the enforcement of EU law. They should then proceed as if the new law were valid. A presidential veto that stands of the way of enforcing EU law should not have legal force.

And then of course there is the pathbreaking decision of the ECJ in the recent Commission v. Hungary case, finding among other things that Article 2 TEU may operate as a free-standing and legally enforceable principle of EU law. Though (as stated in para. 551),

. . . only manifest and particularly serious breaches of one or more values common to the Member States may give rise to a finding, in the context of an action for failure to fulfil obligations, that there has been a failure by a Member State to fulfil legally binding obligations under Article 2 TEU, . . .

Hungary under sixteen long years of the Orbán government has certainly challenged many of the Article 2 TEU principles – democracy, rule of law and rights. The new government may therefore find appeals to Article 2 TEU helpful as a framework for constitutional change that would bring the country closer to those values. And it would be a framework in which the government could disapply the vetoes that would otherwise block them.

Given this authority in EU law, it may not be necessary to unpack the Constitutional Court, remove the heads of other courts or even remove the national president immediately in order to make substantial changes in Hungary’s legal system. If the holdover loyalists of the Orbán regime persist in obstructing the alignment of Hungarian law with EU law, their vetoes can simply be ignored. Of course, this doesn’t help when it comes to vetoes of laws and constitutional amendments that are not under the European legal umbrella, which is why European law can only provide an interim constitution.

European Law as Interim Constitution

Between decisions of the European Court of Justice and the European Court of Human Rights, in addition to conditions set by the European institutions that must be met for Hungary’s EU funding to be restored, Hungary already has a long to-do list that it must tackle. If Péter Magyar were to prioritize those items, he could rely on the primacy of EU law and the binding effect of ECtHR judgments to accomplish a rewrite-in-practice of some of the worst elements of the Orbán constitutional regime.

First, fighting corruption is one of the highest priorities of the Magyar government, not least because the unfreezing of EU funds depends on establishing a credible anti-corruption framework. Magyar has indicated that Hungary will join the European Public Prosecutor’s Office and has already issued an executive order to this effect. Joining the EPPO would give the Hungarian government a spare set of prosecutors to probe the substantial corruption of the Orbán regime so that Magyar would not have to engage in immediate reform of the national prosecution service, which has persistently avoided investigating Orbán and his inner circle of increasingly wealthy friends. In fact, the EPPO might also investigate the Hungarian prosecution service.

Hungary is also in violation of EU-mandated changes to the judiciary established as part of the freezing of funds under various conditionality regimes. If the EU-mandated changes were actually enforced with regard to judicial independence, they could greatly improve the Supreme Court. For example, the EU had demanded that the Supreme Court regularize a system for the randomized assignment of cases to avoid having politically sensitive cases deliberately assigned to politically friendly judges. The Orbán government passed the relevant law but the Supreme Court has not complied with it. In addition, as mentioned above, the Supreme Court has not abolished the case law binding on the lower courts that discourage them from sending reference cases to the ECJ. The new government should insist that the Court follow the law that was already put in place to respond to EU legal requirements and disapply the cases that don’t. The new government could even announce to the bar, the NGOs and pro-democratic Hungarian judges that it welcomes reference cases.

Could Hungary use European court judgments to replace some of the key players now blocking change? Hungary remains in non-compliance with the Baka judgment of the European Court of Human Rights which found the dismissal of the then-president of the Hungarian Supreme Court to be a violation of his free speech rights since he was fired for criticizing the judicial reforms. If Baka were unlawfully fired in the first place, could he now be reinstated as the president of the Court, requiring the current president to stand aside? (He remains a judge on that court, even if not its president.) If so, he could speed enforcement of reforms at the Supreme Court.

In addition, the ECJ judgment finding that the data protection supervisor had been unlawfully fired early in Orbán’s term might be enforced by reinstating András Jóri, removing the Orbán loyalist who replaced him and who has held the office ever since. A new data protection supervisor could begin to issue opinions, backed by the ECtHR judgment in the Szabó and Vissy case which is also not enforced, dismantling Orbán’s surveillance state.

Putting good people into those offices as a result of enforcing the European courts’ decisions could begin to roll back the changes that the European courts already said were unlawful. If the people whose jobs were unlawfully terminated could not be restored, then perhaps the illegality of their ouster could justify the replacement of those who had unlawfully taken their places with someone lawfully appointed. A new president of the Supreme Court and a new data protection supervisor could both be elected by Magyar’s two-thirds parliament.

The Magyar government may well look to European law to assist it in removing other legal effects of Orbán’s democracy-destroying laws. Hungary could informally ask the Commission to bring infringement actions against Hungary covering violations that the Hungarian government would want to remedy in order for the ECJ to establish that the reforms would be required by EU law. If that fails, Article 259 TFEU allows a member state of the EU to bring another member state to the Court of Justice to enforce EU law. The Article 259 TFEU route would allow the case to proceed if the Commission fails to see the point.

As one example of how infringement actions might be used, Péter Magyar has put freeing the competition authority from political control high on his list. If the Commission (or a friendly state) brought an infringement action against Hungary complaining about the independence of its competition authority, could the Magyar government be justified in firing the current occupants and installing new ones – or perhaps establishing a parallel institution with stronger guarantees of independence – if the ECJ were to find that the present competition authority were not independent?

A European Constitutional Court for Hungary

When the last rendszerváltás (regime change) occurred in Hungary in 1989, the Constitutional Court was the most significant new institution created to guide Hungary’s transition into a new democratic order. That new court sat on top of the existing legal system to weed out old statutes not compliant with the new legal order and to ensure that all constitutional actors honored the new constitution. That Constitutional Court in Hungary has now been captured, but perhaps the new rendszerváltás could proceed in a similar way, by establishing a new court on the top of the existing legal system – including on top of the existing Constitutional Court – to bring the Hungarian legal system into compliance with both EU and ECHR law.

This new European Constitutional Court, the Európai Alkotmánybíróság, could complete the task of nullifying and removing from the books statutes, cases and decisions that fail to comply with European law. It could even restore the actio popularis jurisdiction that once allowed the original Constitutional Court to speedily review laws for compliance with the then-new constitution and that could now be used to reviews laws for compliance with European law. Of course, establishing such a national court would normally require a constitutional amendment that could be blocked by presidential veto. But if the veto stood in the way of enforcing EU law in Hungary, it could be set aside. The added value of a new court is that it could apply clear European Union and European human rights law without the long detours to Luxembourg and Strasbourg.

The details of all of these proposals would have to be worked out, as there are complicated technical questions to be considered about just how European law overrides national law and what its detailed effects are. But in attempting to comply with European law by setting aside conflicting national law, the new Magyar government would be honoring its commitments to the “rule of law writ large”, a conception of the rule of law that extends to harmonizing national law with its transnational commitments.

European law in its various forms could therefore be a useful crutch for the Magyar government to lean on as Hungary recovers from its bout of autocratic capture. It could assist in avoiding constitutional crises as the Fidesz forces dig in to thwart the Magyar government’s democratic mandate. European law could act as an immediate interim constitution, providing guidance for a new Hungarian transition until such time as the new Hungarian government can replace the Orbán constitution with one more fitting its proud place in Europe.

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