Once upon a time, a Professor of European Institutions, at least if a lawyer by training, could simply assert that the European Communities are based on the rule of law, that they create institutions with autonomous powers, which are able to issue legislation binding as law throughout every member State of the Community, and that they create courts which have power to exercise judicial control over a complex network of relationships between the Community institutions, the member States and private citizens. While these statements are still true, however, they must now be laced in a rather more complex context. Furthermore, there is a contrast between on the one hand the intensification (to borrow a word from the Common Agricultural Policy) of certain fundamenta s of the EC legal order in the recent case law of the European Court, and on the other hand attempts by member States to escape this through non-EC forms of cooperation in the framework of the European Union, the development of the idea that not all the rules of the EC Treaty apply to all the member States, and the entry by the majority of the member States into a separate Treaty, the Schengen Agreement, dealing with matters which might be thought to fall under the EC Treaty or the Home Affairs and Justice pillar of the Treaty on European Union—all of which might generically be referred to as variable geometry. In the other direction, it may be observed that large amounts of substantive

I begin by confessing a general fascination with the concept of time. I puzzle endlessly over the relationship between time and matter, and the insistence of scientists that before the Big Bang time did not exist. I grapple with the relationship between time and speed, and the fact that if we could travel at the speed of light time would not move. I seek to grasp Stephen Hawking's recent conversion to the view that, in the physical world, time may yet run in reverse. I am intrigued that our concepts of time came to Australia only with the First Fleet, for aboriginal time was cyclical rather than linear. Events could recur, dead people could live again. I find exhilarating the idea that we see at this moment, through our telescopes, stars that no longer exist. I love the objective reality of the equator and the total artificiality of the meridian, and the intention that this felicitous fiction is the place for us to see in the “real beginning” of the next century.

It is the greatest honour for me to be invited to give the Wilberforce Lecture this year, on Lord Wilberforce's ninetieth birthday. In my generation, he has provided an inspiration for us all—an example which we may strive, but never succeed, to emulate. His brilliant intellect the modernity of his outlook, his capacity to look beyond the immediate problem to the more fundamental issues, his readiness to innovate—all coupled with a disarming informality of address—make him at the same time one of the most profound lawyers, and one of the most attractive men, of his generation. It is a privilege for me to have known him. I am his admiring, but still struggling, disciple.

The study of what has become known as transnational commercial law is fraught with hazards. What do we mean by transnational commercial law? Is it the same as the lex mercatoria or something broader? What are its sources? Can we identify general principles of commercial law and, separately, uncodified international trade usage? If so, what happens to these principles when they become embodied in convention or contractually incorporated uniform rules? Do they disappear, maintain a parallel existence in their original form or change their shape to match the convention or rules? And how far do conventions and rules either evidence pre-existing principles and usages or influence the creation of new ones?

On 21 July 1997 the Foreign and Commonwealth Secretary announced the United Kingdom's decision to accede to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (“the Convention”), a decision which was acted upon four days later in New York. The United Kingdom thus became the 119th State to establish its consent to be bound by the Convention and the 82nd party to the Agreement of July 1994 on the Implementation of its Part XI (“the Implementation Agreement”).

The entry into force of the 1982 United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (“UNCLOS”), on 16 November 1994, is probably the most important development in the settlement of international disputes since the adoption of the UN Charter and the Statute of the International Court of Justice. Not only does the Convention create a new international court, the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea (“ITLOS”), it also makes extensive provision for compulsory dispute-settlement procedures involving States, the International Seabed Authority (“ISBA”), seabed mining contractors and, potentially, a range of other entities. Implementation of the Convention has spawned a number of inter-State disputes to add to the cases already before the International Court. The initiation of the ITLOS not only opens up new possibilities for settling these disputes but it also has implications for the future role of the International Court and ad hoc arbitration in the law of the sea and more generally. It contributes to the proliferation of international tribunals and adds to the potential for fragmentation both of the substantive law and of the procedures available for settling disputes. Judges Oda and Guillaume have argued that the ITLOS is a futile institution, that the UNCLOS negotiators were misguided in depriving the International Court of its central role in ocean disputes and that creation of a specialised tribunal may destroy the unity of international law. The law of the sea, both judges argue, is an essential part of international law and any dispute concerning the application and interpretation of that law should be seen as subject to settlement by the International Court.

As a method for resolving commercial disputes which have connections with two or more countries, arbitration has been given a tremendous boost this century by two developments at the international level. The New York Convention of 1958—which was first implemented in England and Wales by the Arbitration Act 1975—introduced a regime which went a long way toward ensuring that arbitration agreements are respected and that arbitral awards are easily enforceable. The Convention has been hugely successful in that it has been ratified by upwards of 90 States, including all the countries of Western Europe (with the exception of Iceland) and nearly all countries which are significant commercial centres. More indirect has been the influence of the Model Law on International Commercial Arbitration, which was adopted by UNCITRAL in 1985. Although the Model Law, which seeks to encourage States to modernise their arbitration laws, has not been enacted by a very large number of countries, it has had a significant impact in that it has set an agenda for reform—even for those countries which have decided not to enact it. The Model Law has become “a yardstick by which to judge the quality of… existing arbitration legislation and to improve it”.

To allow Court orders to be disobeyed would be to tread the road towards anarchy. If the orders of the Court can be treated with disrespect, the whole administration of justice is brought into scorn. Daily, thousands of Canadians resort to our Courts for relief against the wrongful acts of others. If the remedies that Courts grant to correct those wrongs can be ignored, then there will be nothing left but for each person to take the law into his own hands. Loss of respect for the Courts will quickly result in the destruction of our society. [O'Leary J, in Canada Metal Co. Ltd v. Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (1975) 48 DLR 3d 641, 669 (High Court of Ontario)]

The British press has lately been awash with stories of libel actions commenced by MPs against newspapers which have published critical accounts of their behaviour. Rupert Allason has been the most assiduous litigator,1 but he has not ploughed a lone furrow. David Ashby's ill-fated action against the Sunday Times and Neil Hamilton's aborted case against the Guardian are the most memorable cases,2 but others come quickly to mind. Jonathan Aitken is pursuing actions against the Guardian which led to his resignation from the Cabinet in 1994, while Peter Bottomley recovered some £40,000 against the Sunday Express for an article accusing him of “fraternising” with Sinn Fein.3 Paddy Ashdown acted promptly against a local paper which aired ludicrous allegations about his personal life.4 Labour's Keith Vaz announced he would sue both the Sun and the Guardian for alleging that he favoured segregationist housing policies, and his colleague George Howarth accepted damages from the Guardian over an article falsely accusing him of drunkenness.5

The aim of this article is to extend the critique of human rights law by feminist scholars to humanitarian law—or the law of armed conflict, as it is more traditionally known. When reflecting generally on the role that international law plays in providing protection for women from the effects of violence the obvious starting point is the regime of human rights. So much of human suffering in today's world occurs, however, in the context of armed conflict where to a large extent human rights are in abeyance and individuals must rely on the protections offered by the law of armed conflict.1 The debate that has been taking place for some years in the context of human rights as to the extent to which that system takes account of women&s lives needs to extend to the provisions of the law of armed conflict. Although commentators have convincingly demonstrated the limitations of the existing body of human rights law adequately to take account of the reality of women&s experience of the world,2 the law of armed conflict is even more deficient. Moreover, despite the recent focus on rape in armed conflict as a result of the international outrage at the sexual abuse of women in the armed conflict in the former Yugoslavia, these shortcomings remain largely unaddressed.3 At first glance this seems somewhat surprising until the special difficulties that flow from certain characteristics of the law of armed conflict are appreciated.

The end of the Cold War and the emergence of a one-superpower world have brought about what one may call the resurrection of the Security Council and a reactivation of Chapter VII of the Charter of the United Nations. Powers of a coercive nature vested by the Charter in the Security Council which for decades seemed like a dead letter have been rediscovered since the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait. The Security Council, which until then had been deadlocked through the threat or use of the veto, has now come alive. Up to the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in August 1990 the Security Council had passed 659 resolutions in its 45 years of existence. In the six years since then it has passed over 400 resolutions. What is more important, however, is that mandatory sanctions, which until 1990 had been ordered only twice—the comprehensive sanctions on Rhodesia and arms embargo on South Africa—have since been used by the Security Council in relation to at least eleven countries. This new and increased activity of the Security Council has provoked debate in recent years as to whether the Council is subject to any limitations when it is acting to maintain or restore international peace and security. The problem has shifted from one of trying to get the Council to work as it was intended, to one of trying to control the work of the Council. In particular there has been renewed interest in the question whether there is any room for judicial control, by the International Court of Justice, of decisions made by the political organs of the United Nations.

The law and legal system of Mauritius are an unusual hybrid and a remarkable instance of comparative law in action. As a consequence of its history, as an overseas possession of France from 1715 to 1810 and as a British colony from 1814 until it achieved independence within the Commonwealth in 1968, its law and legal system reflect the legal traditions of both its former colonial rulers. In general terms, Mauritian private law is based on the French Code Civil while public law and commercial law are based on English law: an example of what has recently been labelled a “bi-systemic legal system”. The Constitution, a version of the Westminster export model, was originally monarchical. It was amended in 1991 and Mauritius became a republic within the Commonwealth in 1992.

It is now a decade since the United Kingdom, along with Germany and Belgium, followed the policy of traditional countries of immigration, such as the United States, Canada and Australia, and introduced legislation which provides for the imposition of fines on carriers for bringing in passengers with incorrect papers.1 The Immigration (Carriers' Liability) Act 1987 (“the Act”)2 imposed fines on carriers of £1,000 for each illegal entrant brought to the United Kingdom. This fine was doubled in August 1991 and two years later extended to cover passengers without transit visas where these were required.3

Of all the rights of indigenous people, none is more central to the survival of their culture than the claim to their ancestral lands. The resolution of their claims to ancestral lands is one of the fundamental issues of our time—indeed of all time. Often called a human rights issue—a description apt to reinforce the strong moral foundations of the claims of the indigenous peoples—it is an issue which we cannot ignore. Throughout the world people of all races and all colours have a powerful emotional attachment to their ancestral lands. That attachment is the very core of a people's culture and is vital to the survival of the culture. As the UN Human Rights Committee has recognised, in the context of the exercise of cultural rights protected by Article 27 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, “culture manifests itself in many forms, including a particular way of life associated with the use of land resources”.

Lord Casey's sad testament to an organisation which was perceived as “on the way to becoming not much more than a paper connection” is hardly encouraging to someone intent on studying the institution. It would appear that the Commonwealth of Nations as a contemporary discussion point is even less fashionable today than it was 30 years ago. It has recently been written that in our generation those few individuals with an opinion about the Commonwealth view it as an “anachronistic organization whose retirement to the pages of history is long overdue”. The situation of an Australian attempting to write about the Commonwealth is confused by the need to distinguish it from the “Commonwealth of Australia” by such adjectives as the “British” Commonwealth or the “Commonwealth of Nations”.

An area which has received little attention in the academic literature of foreign State immunity to date is that concerning immunity in employment matters.1 This omission can probably be explained by the scant case law which has hitherto existed on the subject. However, in recent years the number of decisions has increased due to the fact that employment by States of foreign nationals has become far more common. Developing countries in particular, as they seek to create new industries, have become increasingly reliant on advisers and technicians from the developed world.

An overall penetration rate of 1.4 main telephone lines per 100 inhabitants,1 a waiting period of 14 years for new connections, closure of the waiting list because the number of applicants was too great, a telephone call completion rate of less than 30 per cent,2 obsolete equipment, chronic breakdown problems combined with a substandard fault clearance rate; these were some of the features of the “delinquent service” provided by Zimbabwe's State-owned telecommunications monopoly, the Posts and Telecommunications Corporation (PTC). In Retrofit (Pvt) Ltd v. Posts and Telecommunications Corporation (Attorney-General intervening)3 the question which faced the Supreme Court of Zimbabwe was whether the PTC's statutory monopoly, seen in the context of a system which the PTC itself had conceded was “markedly inadequate to meet the present communication needs of the population”,4 was an unjustifiable hindrance on the right to free expression.

This note addresses the possible correlation between “democracy” and “development”, and the implications, if any, of such a correlation for the World Bank. This calls, first, for providing a definition of the two concepts as they are used here. To clarify the matter further, a distinction is made from the beginning between “development” in the broad sense and the concept of “economic growth” in the strict sense.

In looking at the role and influence of the International Court as it advances on towards and beyond the millenium, one is struck by the variety of perspectives from which one may view that institution. These include those adopted by the Court itself, academic theorists, practitioners both private and governmental, states more generally, international organisations and individuals. Each of these manifests its own methodology, needs and interests. Academics, for example, are keen to examine the intellectual basis and consistency of decisions and to infer, analyse and criticise the existence and nature of rules and institutions. Practitioners seek to equip themselves with the knowledge and tools necessary in order to enable their clients to win before the Court. States cautiously seek to uphold the dispute resolution role of the Court in general terms without losing any cases or putting themselves in a position where this is a possibility. International organisations and individuals look at the Court with keen and hopeful eyes.

The history of clashes over extraterritorial jurisdiction between the United States of America and other States in the Americas, Europe and elsewhere is a long one. That history is commonly traced back to the antitrust claims arising from the Alcoa case in 1945, in which the “effects” doctrine was advanced in the peculiar and objectionable form in which it is applied, not simply to acts which constitute elements of a single offence but which occur in different jurisdictions but, rather, to the economic repercussions of acts in one State which are felt in another. The conflict persisted into the 1950s, with the clashes over US regulation of the international shipping and paper industries. In the 1960s and 1970s there were further clashes in relation to the extraterritorial application of US competition laws, notably in disputes over shipping regulation and the notorious Uranium Antitrust litigation, in which US laws were applied to penalise the extraterritorial conduct of non-US companies, conducted with the approval of their national governments, at a time when those companies were barred by US law from trading in the United States. It was that litigation which was in large measure responsible for the adoption in the United Kingdom of the Protection of Trading Interests Act 1980, which significantly extended the powers which the British government had asserted in the 1952 Shipping Contracts and Commercial Documents Act to defend British interests against US extraterritorial claims.