Amid the ongoing churn of the on-again, off-again U.S. war with Iran last month, Secretary of State Marco Rubio announced a different—and surprising—foreign policy objective: dismantling the International Criminal Court (ICC). His initiative envisions a “whole of government” effort to “systematically disable the ICC’s ability to operate, target American servicemen or officials, or otherwise threaten American sovereignty,” the State Department officially announced on July 13.
The goal is undeniably ambitious. It’s also understandable, given the persistent concerns about the ICC. For years, U.S. policymakers on both sides of the political aisle have worried over the potential exposure of servicemen and officials to politicized prosecution—and the inevitable chilling effect this could have on American foreign policy.
Of course, the United States isn’t a signatory to the Rome Statute, the court’s foundational document, and so isn’t bound by its terms. But many of the countries where U.S. forces are deployed in significant numbers—including Japan, South Korea, and Italy—are signatories. The enduring concern has been that fast-moving politics and shifting international priorities could leave deployed American servicemen and servicewomen at the mercy of “transnational justice” meted out by the court.
All this had already made the court a significant priority for the Trump administration. In February 2025, President Donald Trump issued an executive order sanctioning the court over its politicized behavior, and over the past year the U.S. government has progressively sanctioned key personnel as well. Now it is trying something more ambitious: dismantling the ICC altogether.
The outcry has been predictable. Defenders of the ICC (and critics of the administration more broadly) argue that the court represents an indispensable mechanism for advancing international justice and ensuring accountability among global leaders. However, their case rests on the assumption that the ICC functions as an impartial arbiter, and the evidence suggests otherwise.
The problems start with the selective application of the court’s mandate. The ICC’s founding statute lays out that it is responsible for addressing "the most serious crimes of international concern," such as genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes, and the crime of aggression (that is, “the use of armed force by a State against the sovereignty, integrity or independence of another State”). In principle, egregious cases of state abuse—like China's extensive persecution of its Uyghur minority—fall squarely within this definition.
In practice, however, the court depends on state cooperation. Its mandate is therefore enforceable only against countries that are unable or unwilling to resist. So as a practical matter, the ICC has turned a blind eye to some of the world’s worst offenders in favor of other, easier targets. In the process, the ICC has become an institution of selective justice.
The court’s performance, moreover, doesn’t justify its far-reaching authority. After more than two decades in operation, the ICC has achieved fewer than 15 convictions, several of which were subsequently overturned or reduced on appeal. And throughout much of its history, the overwhelming majority of individuals indicted by the court were African, opening the court up to charges of neocolonialism from countries on the continent. For an institution designed to embody universal justice, that constitutes a deeply problematic record.
Those shortcomings have been compounded by the conduct of the court’s leadership. Most prominent, of course, is Karim Khan, the prosecutor who in November 2024 famously issued arrest warrants for Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and then-Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant over the Gaza war, thereby creating a false equivalence between Israel’s democratically elected government and the Hamas terrorist organization. Indeed, the Biden administration condemned the Israeli warrants at the time, and even threatened legislative retaliation in response. But the warrants remain in force, contributing mightily to the false narrative that Israel is perpetrating “genocide” against the Palestinians.
Nor is Khan an isolated case. His predecessor, Luis Moreno Ocampo, also attracted criticism during his tenure from 2003 to 2012, particularly over the ICC’s investigation into Kenya’s 2007-08 post-election violence. The charges against Uhuru Kenyatta were ultimately withdrawn, while those against William Ruto were vacated. A subsequent external review reportedly criticized aspects of Ocampo’s leadership and prosecutorial approach.
Ocampo has continued to court controversy since leaving the ICC. In August 2023, he published an expert opinion arguing that Azerbaijan’s blockade of the Lachin Corridor constituted an ongoing genocide against Armenians in Nagorno-Karabakh. That assessment was challenged by British lawyer and international law expert Rodney Dixon, who argued there was “no evidence” to support the claim. More recently, Azerbaijani media published recordings purportedly showing Ocampo and his son discussing a political influence campaign aimed at removing Armenian Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan from power.
Taken together, these deformities paint a troubling picture. The ICC has demonstrated selective enforcement, boasts a decidedly modest record of successful prosecutions, has repeatedly politicized its mandate, and raises persistent questions about the judgment of its leadership. That’s the backdrop against which the Trump administration’s new initiative should be understood.
Writing recently in The Wall Street Journal, Secretary Rubio argued that “the ICC and its allies seek a standing world tribunal with near-unlimited reach, empowered to override the courts and constitutions of the U.S. and other sovereign states.”
The court’s own track record helps explain why the White House has come to see it as a growing threat to American sovereignty and to the interests of democratic allies. The ICC, in other words, has done a great deal to undermine confidence in its own mission—and to make Rubio’s case far more persuasive than its detractors would care to admit.
Ilan Berman is senior vice president of the American Foreign Policy Council in Washington, DC.
