Turkey’s ICJ Move Between Principle and Hypocrisy

By: Dr. Öndercan Muti

When the Past Doesn’t Stay in the Past: Turkey’s ICJ Move Between Principle and Hypocrisy

Turkey’s intervention in South Africa’s genocide case against Israel at the International Court of Justice (ICJ) reflects a broader pattern of selective engagement with international law. While Ankara accuses Tel Aviv of committing genocide in Gaza, it continues to deny the Armenian Genocide and similar forms of evidence when applied to its own history and regional allies.

This inconsistency does not necessarily undermine the legal merits of the case against Israel. However, it raises important questions about credibility, the political impact of third-party interventions, and the broader integrity of genocide discourse in international law. This short article examines, first, Turkey’s contradictory positions on genocide recognition and situates its stance on Gaza within a longer pattern of selective recognition and denial. It then discusses the implications of this inconsistency for ICJ proceedings, Palestinian relief, and the normative force of international law.

Western exceptionalism and inconsistency

Turkey was one of the first countries to condemn Hamas’ brutal attack on civilians in Israel; however, unlike many European and North American countries, it framed it as a consequence of the ongoing conflict. After the heavy bombardment of Gaza and the massacre of Palestinians, carried out by the Israeli army in Gaza and by the Israeli army and settlers in the West Bank, Turkey shifted its rhetoric to openly side with Hamas, praising it as a resistance movement. Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdogan and ministers blamed Benjamin Netanyahu and his government for committing genocide in Gaza and the “West” for denying and even supporting it. Meanwhile, despite official claims that trade with Israel has ceased, serious journalistic reports suggest that Turkish goods are still shipped to Israel via third countries.1

In the midst of trade wars and a war of words, Turkey appealed to the ICJ in support of South Africa’s case against Israel and its accusations of committing genocide in Gaza. South Africa’s case was initially celebrated by many as a way to break the post-colonial hegemony of the West over the international justice system, where rules and norms are applied selectively according to geopolitical interests rather than universally — and perhaps as a legal tool to stop Palestinian suffering.2 Indeed, the Turkish president criticized the inconsistency of EU countries and Western powers for their selective application of international law.3

Some international observers and experts also celebrated Turkey’s appeal to the ICJ: as a regional power, its involvement could draw more attention to the case and increase pressure on the Court, countering pressure from Israel and the United States, while European countries refrained from showing support.4

But can Turkey’s involvement really bring positive results for Palestinians, international law, or the prevention of ongoing and future genocides?

In general, third-party interventions can raise the profile of a case, influence public opinion, and sometimes affect court deliberations. However, these effects are often indirect and depend on the legal arguments presented and the political context of the case. In theory, Turkey’s support may contribute to the international visibility and political momentum of South Africa’s case, although it is unlikely to affect the Court’s reasoning directly. The ICJ’s decisions are based on legal arguments and evidence presented by the parties rather than on external diplomatic pressure.

However, support from Turkey and other states may influence broader geopolitical dynamics, pressuring others to react or even intervene. It could attract more media attention and broader engagement with the case proceedings and force even mainstream media to reframe and balance their coverage. Ultimately, this may lend broader legitimacy to support for this case in Western public opinion despite the legal and political pressure on scholars and activists who challenge their governments’ positions.

In fact, the symbolic weight of such an act depends entirely on the actor making the gesture as well as the nature of the gesture itself. From supporters of Erdogan to his secular opponents, Turkish political and cultural elites have been vocal about the double standards of the “West” since October 7. The ICJ submission reflects many of their arguments, refined into a legal brief based on the Genocide Convention, citing obligations under Articles 1–3 and referencing ICJ jurisprudence such as the Bosnian Genocide Case. Turkey ratified the Convention in 1950 and is fully obligated to prevent and punish genocide, making it eligible to intervene in treaty cases. However, its history with the Convention has been markedly inconsistent.

The legacy and denial of the Armenian Genocide

The Convention was largely a response to WWII and the atrocities of the Holocaust, although it initially lacked precise definitions. Polish-Jewish lawyer Raphael Lemkin coined the term genocide in 1944 to describe Nazi Germany’s crimes and campaigned for its criminalization under international law. But Lemkin’s interest in the concept began earlier, as a young pre-law student in Berlin, with a focus on ending the impunity of states for crimes against their own citizens. He often highlighted the Armenian Genocide, committed by the Ottoman Empire during WWI, as a foundational example in his reasoning for the term and the 1948 Convention. The systematic policies and atrocities of Nazi Germany and the Ottoman Empire helped Lemkin define the crime and inspired generations of genocide scholars and human rights advocates to prevent and punish such acts.

Exceptionalism and inconsistency a la Turca

Here lies the core of the inconsistency: successive Turkish governments and elites have consistently denied the Armenian Genocide, even while accusing Israel in ways that mirror accusations made against the Ottoman Empire. Turkey’s ICJ submission emphasizes the duty to prevent genocide, citing siege warfare, displacement, and blockades as genocidal methods. Yet it has long claimed that the deportation of Armenians during the First World War was a wartime necessity, rejecting responsibility for mass starvation and massacres during the death marches, and denying any intent to destroy. The appeal accepts that genocide can occur in both war and peace and that wartime conditions cannot justify exceptional measures — a standard it does not apply to Turkey’s own history.

The same inconsistency appears in Turkey’s use of evidence. Its ICJ brief relies heavily on UN reports and resolutions, but Turkish officials have a long record of rejecting third-party evidence on the Armenian Genocide: accounts, including those from diplomats of the Ottoman Empire’s ally, the German Empires, describing how Armenian children were removed from their families during WWI and how entire Armenian communities in different parts of the empire were destroyed have been dismissed as biased or politically motivated.

A similar pattern has emerged in more recent conflicts. Turkey dismissed UN findings on Azerbaijan’s blockade of Nagorno-Karabakh, which cut off essential goods to over 120,000 Armenians for nine months, causing starvation5 — even as it embraces UN evidence on Gaza. It also rejected UN reports about Syrian mercenaries fighting alongside Azerbaijan with Turkish support.6 Domestically, the government condemns restrictions on pro-Palestinian academics abroad7 while simultaneously prosecuting and silencing scholars in Turkey for criticizing its military operations and human rights violations against its Kurdish population. Many of these scholars were stripped of their positions and passports, or forced into exile.

If a country’s intervention is to carry symbolic weight, credibility matters. Media reach also plays a role: pro-government outlets and the public broadcaster TRT World amplify the genocide accusation against Israel with quotes from international law experts, genocide scholars, and humanitarian officials. Independent media often echo similar expert statements.8 Yet many of these same experts, such as Omer Bartov, have also written about the Armenian Genocide or referred to the Ottoman crimes against Armenians and other Christian subjects as genocide. However, the same scholarly work and expert opinion can be dismissed or even discredited as “funded by anti-Turkish lobbies and sometimes backed by various governments and legislative bodies as means to pressure and blackmail Turkish authorities”9 when discussing the Armenian Genocide.

This selective embrace and rejection of evidence undermines Turkey’s ability to present itself as a consistent defender of international law.

What is at stake? 

If Turkey’s gesture is symbolically weakened, what does that mean for ICJ momentum, Palestinian relief, and the legitimacy of international law? Can a claim ultimately hold truth, even if advanced inconsistently?

Selective use of genocide discourse does not only reflect political inconsistency; it risks weakening the very universality that gives the concept its force.

Turkey’s selective legal arguments might not directly weaken the ICJ case against Israel. Even if its motives are political and its record hypocritical, the truth or falsity of Israel’s actions must be judged on their own merits. The pressure on Israel and ICJ signatory countries is mounting, while more and more scholars of genocide, intellectuals, and artists are demanding an end to Israel’s atrocities and the suffering of Palestinians.

However, it is hard to imagine that Turkey’s role will significantly amplify attention to Gaza and the West Bank beyond its existing audiences. In fact, interventions by actors with inconsistent records risk undermining the credibility of the broader advocacy they seek to support. For example, when genocide scholars such as Omer Bartov speak in independent media in the United States or Germany, their arguments often carry greater political and ethical weight, precisely because they are able to critically engage their own governments and seek accountability for the actions of decision makers not only in Tel Aviv but also in Berlin, London, Paris and Washington. By contrast, similar statements on Turkish state media reach more limited audiences and may be perceived as politically instrumental. In this sense, Turkey’s inconsistency risks not only limiting its ability to mobilize broader advocacy for Palestinian rights, but also weakening the perceived legitimacy of the claims it seeks to advance.

But allowing genocide discourse to be shaped by political convenience risks eroding its universal purpose: the protection of vulnerable populations. Having grown up in Turkey, I have seen how silence and selective memory shape public understanding. Like many others, I read Ottoman and early Republican literature as part of my high school education. During these classes, when I asked about the vanished Christian minorities, the Greek names of my childhood neighborhoods, and the Ottoman Turkish expressions in those texts, the conversation quickly moved on. We never discussed what was lost or why. In that silence, we not only overlooked the past, but also lost the ability to engage it critically — and, perhaps, to advocate more credibly for accountability in the present.