Introduction
War brings chaos, fear and competing narratives. It also brings facts that can be proved. This guide sets out how journalists and lawyers, working together, can turn raw testimony, images and documents into findings that inform the public and can stand in court. Iain Overton and Marina Brilman draw on practice from Bosnia to Syria, Colombia and Ukraine to show what works, what fails, and how to avoid the common traps.
Reporters reach places and people that formal investigators often cannot, they capture the first draft of events and give victims a voice. Lawyers know how rules of evidence and substantive law convert those events into individual liability and state responsibility. Combined, the two professions can identify patterns, preserve material properly, and trace responsibility up the chain of command. They can also decide, wisely, what to publish now and what to hold for prosecutors or use by applicants in court.
This is a practical manual. It explains some of the law and evidentiary rules that matter for conflict reporting, the methods for interviewing survivors without causing fresh harm, and the habits that keep evidence admissible and useful. It covers open-source research, documents and leaks, as well as fieldwork at crime scenes. It weighs the ethics of naming suspects, the risks of premature disclosure, the need for security and self-care, and how international tribunals use evidence.
The aim is modest and urgent. Fewer atrocities should vanish into the fog of war. More records should endure. With clear roles, shared standards and the right tools, collaborations between newsrooms and legal teams can move the world from allegation to accountability.
Why collaboration matters
War crimes and gross and systematic human rights violations shock the conscience but proving them is a slow, laborious affair. Journalists tend to be first on the scene, documenting atrocities and giving victims a voice long before formal investigators arrive. Lawyers, meanwhile, possess the expertise required to evaluate whether that material meets evidentiary thresholds, fits within applicable legal frameworks and can support a coherent legal narrative capable of sustaining judicial findings. When the two collaborate, the result can be powerful.
History shows the value of hard reporting: Seymour Hersh’s exposure of the My Lai massacre in Vietnam or Reuters’ revelations of killings of Rohingya Muslims in Myanmar forced uncomfortable reckonings. Yet reporting alone rarely delivers justice. As one handbook for investigative reporters notes, robust journalism may be the first, and sometimes only, way that the international community becomes aware of war crimes and human rights violations. It can trigger inquiries and political pressure. But only courts can establish individual criminal or state responsibility.
This partnership is becoming more common as accountability mechanisms, in part due to budget constraints, rely on external sources to collect evidence to meet standards required for use in court. It is not without strain. Reporters are obliged to protect sources, maintain independence and publish in the public interest, even when their work could aid prosecutions. Lawyers must assess which material best serves the strategic aim with which litigation is being pursued, considering the rules on evidence and confidentiality requirements of victims. Conflicts can arise: a journalist may hold a crucial witness account that prosecutors covet but handing it over could imperil the source. Clear rules of engagement are essential.
Despite such tensions, collaboration has proved its worth. It can safeguard evidence, preserve testimony and build a chain of accountability. When states conceal or ignore atrocities, coalitions of reporters and lawyers have exposed the facts and sometimes achieved accountability for crimes and violations committed.
This guide outlines how such co-operation can be carried out effectively. It opens by setting out the legal framework, including the relevant areas of law and the role of international tribunals. It then identifies recent trends in litigation that shape how evidence is collected, assessed and used in international proceedings.
The guide goes on to examine core evidentiary principles, what different forms of evidence are intended to prove, and why those distinctions matter in practice. It subsequently turns to methods for gathering and preserving material, identifying perpetrators, and presenting findings in ways that inform the public without undermining judicial processes. Case studies are used throughout to illustrate both effective practice and common failures. The final section highlights practical tools and resources for practitioners.
Understanding the law
The terms “war crime”, “crime against humanity”, “genocide” and various acts that may also constitute human rights violations, such as “torture” have a precise legal meaning that is set out in treaties and sometimes in customary law, further defined through case law. Not every atrocity qualifies as an international crime or a violation. To report credibly, journalists must grasp some basic distinctions.
Four areas of law are most relevant.
International humanitarian law (IHL) —the laws of war—regulates conduct during armed conflict (ius in bello), including the principles of proportionality, distinction and precaution in military attacks. The Geneva Conventions and their protocols —forming the core of IHL—also protect civilians, the wounded and prisoners of war. Deliberately targeting civilians or torturing detainees is prohibited under this regime. These rules are distinct from the law governing the resort to force (ius ad bellum), which addresses when states may lawfully use armed force, including in self-defence.
International criminal law (ICL) establishes individual criminal responsibility for the most serious crimes, also known as “international crimes”: genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes and aggression. The Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (ICC) enshrines these categories. Violations of IHL may constitute an international crime. The ICC, based in The Hague in the Netherlands, can decide cases against individuals for the commission of international crimes when national justice systems fail. This reflects the principle of “subsidiarity” and of “complementarity”, meaning that the ICC does not replace national courts but acts only where domestic authorities are unwilling or genuinely unable to investigate or prosecute international crimes.
International human rights law binds states rather than individuals, although states may be held responsible for the actions of state agents and – in some circumstances – for failures to prevent, investigate, or punish abuses committed by private actors. This area of law regards state responsibility, rather than individual criminal responsibility. Human rights are established in treaties such as the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, which prohibits a broad range of violations —for example— torture and arbitrary detention, but also impermissible interference with the right to freedom of assembly. Specific treaties such as the Convention against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment establish the duty to prevent torture (and its definition) in more detail. Atrocities like mass rape or forced displacement may breach both ICL and international human rights law, so that individuals and states may be held accountable in proceedings before different tribunals.
Tribunals competent to rule on violations of international human rights law include regional human rights courts, most notably the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) and the Inter-American Court of Human Rights (IACtHR). In the Inter-American system, cases must first be brought before the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, a quasi-judicial body, before they may be referred to the Court.
The International Court of Justice (ICJ) may also adjudicate disputes involving alleged violations of human rights, where states have accepted its jurisdiction. This may occur, for example, through a human rights treaty containing a dispute-settlement clause referring cases to the Court, typically after diplomatic negotiations or arbitration have failed. The ICJ only rules on state responsibility.
Apart from the international tribunals ICC, ICJ, ECtHR, IACtHR —as well as specific criminal courts such as the Kosovo Specialist Chambers and the (former) International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) (now an International Residual Mechanism for Criminal Tribunals is carrying out residual work of the ICTY and the former International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda)—there are numerous quasi-judicial “treaty bodies” responsible for overseeing the interpretation and application of United Nations human rights treaties.
Most of these bodies also issue decisions in individual cases. While such decisions are not legally binding in the same manner as court judgments, they are widely regarded as authoritative. The same is true of the Working Group on Arbitrary Detention, a UN special procedure mandated to examine individual complaints of arbitrary detention.
In addition, there are numerous UN Special Rapporteurs, who issue reports and conduct in situ visits relating either to specific country situations or to thematic human rights issues. Finally, the UN also establishes fact-finding missions, Commissions of Inquiry, and investigative mechanisms through resolutions of its political bodies. One example is the investigative mechanism for Syria, which compiles case files that can be used in national and international litigation, as well as by journalists.
Domestic law can also play a role. Many countries have codified international crimes in national legislation, such as war crimes or genocide in their penal codes. Domestic courts in some countries can exercise “universal jurisdiction” or otherwise decide cases about crimes that have not been committed on their territory or by —or against— their nationals. Trials of Syrian war criminals in European courts, for example in Germany and the Netherlands, illustrate this.
Understanding this legal framework helps reporters know what evidence to look for and how or where it may be used in a legal case. Killing civilians in wartime may be a war crime—but only if the required elements (such as intent) are established. A seemingly wanton strike may turn out to be lawful if it was proportionate, if the target was a military objective, and if precautions were taken. An individual can be prosecuted for torture in detention as a crime against humanity if, among others, the element of systematicity is met and a state can also be held responsible for torture as a (possibly gross and systematic) human rights violation.
Reporters should therefore consult legal experts or databases such as those maintained by the ICC or the ICRC. At a minimum, correct terminology prevents overstatement and builds credibility. It also reduces legal risk. Journalists should resist the temptation, in criminal cases, to label suspects “war criminals” unless they have been convicted. Courts, not newsrooms, pronounce guilt. As the Nuremberg Tribunal observed, “Crimes against international law are committed by men, not by abstract entities.” Journalists illuminate their deeds; the courts must decide their fate. Safer terms are “alleged” or “suspected” when referring both to those responsible and to the crimes or human rights violations concerned.
The shifting landscape of international litigation and accountability
To achieve accountability, it is sometimes necessary to institute proceedings before different tribunals or bodies that may address a similar situation and in which (partly) the same evidence is used. This is almost unavoidable in cases such as the war waged by Russia against Ukraine or other armed conflicts leading to crimes or violations committed at a considerable scale. At the same time, a case will not be admissible before a tribunal if another case regarding the same facts, and alleged violations, is already pending or has been decided by a different tribunal or body. This should always be checked by a lawyer to avoid unsuccessful submissions and unnecessary work. An individual can, of course, also not be prosecuted for the same crime twice.
Where a case is brought depends on whether a court can hear it (that is, whether it has “jurisdiction”, which depends on several factors that we will not go into here), but also on the aims of the proceedings and the prospect of a successful outcome. For example, the war waged by Russia against Ukraine has given rise to numerous proceedings before different courts. Ukraine is holding Russia responsible for violation of the Genocide Convention before the International Court of Justice and for violation of the European Convention on Human Rights before the European Court of Human Rights. At the same time, many individual applications have been filed by Ukrainian nationals against Russia before the ECtHR. Arrest warrants have also been issued by the ICC, including for the apprehension of Russia’s President, for alleged crimes committed in the context of the armed conflict taking place in Ukraine.
Criminal proceedings before the ICC and national courts have strengths, in a sense of holding individual perpetrators to account, and weaknesses (because not all perpetrators can be prosecuted and the possibilities for redress for victims is limited, as the focus is on the defendant). The ICC is currently also under considerable pressure, including the sanctioning by the US of six of its judges, the prosecutor and other staff. In recent years, more litigation has been brought before the ICJ and more inter-state cases have been submitted before the ECtHR. These cases are about state responsibility. The advantage of these cases over criminal proceedings is that more reparations may be claimed as a legal consequence of any violation. States have deeper pockets too. In addition, state structures or policies that enable crimes or violations to occur can be brought to light and – hopefully – undone or improved through reparations.
Especially inter-state public interest cases before the ICJ are a relatively new phenomenon. Examples include The Gambia v. Myanmar, concerning an alleged violation by the latter of the Genocide Convention in relation to the genocide perpetrated against the Rohingya, and the case brought by Canada and the Netherlands against Syria for violation of the Convention against Torture, with a focus on gross and systematic torture and ill treatment in detention centres under the Assad regime. These cases are cases “erga omnes partes”, a principle that allows states parties to a Convention to hold another state party responsible for breaching that same Convention. The applicant state brings a claim in its own interest as a state party, to ensure that other states parties uphold their obligations, and in the interest of the victims of breaches perpetrated by another state party.
As part of these proceedings, applicant states can request the ICJ to order provisional measures (if certain conditions – among which urgency – are met). The ICJ has, for example, ordered Syria to end and prevent torture practices and preserve related evidence. Such an order could not have been rendered by any other court. Especially in such public interest cases, close contact and consultation with victims are essential because proceedings are being undertaken to achieve accountability and justice for them. It may also be the advocacy of victims and NGOs that contribute to the start of such litigation by states. No such litigation will ever be started if there is no availability of ample and convincing evidence —evidence which journalists play a big part in collecting, preserving and sharing.
These proceedings ultimately depend on one decisive factor: whether the alleged facts can be established to a legal standard. Regardless of the court or mechanism involved, accountability depends not only on jurisdiction and admissibility, but also on whether violations can be proven through evidence that meets the relevant legal thresholds. Understanding how courts assess evidence is therefore essential to understanding how international litigation functions in practice.
Evidence in international proceedings: burden and standard of proof, and evidentiary value
A court will first establish the facts. If facts are not disputed, a court will generally accept them as established. If they are disputed, then a court will look at the evidence to see if those facts can be proven. Once the facts are established, the court will apply the relevant law and conclude whether that law has been violated or not. While journalists do not need to know evidentiary rules in detail, and such rules differ per tribunal (although main principles are usually similar), it is useful to be aware of some basics in gathering material that could later be used as evidence in court.
The burden of proof relates to who is required to prove something. The general rule is that the one who submits a case is required to prove it. But there are exceptions to that rule and the burden of proof may shift. Where the burden lies also depends on the nature of the obligation allegedly breached and the type of fact that needs to be established. In some cases only the respondent has access to certain documentation. In such a situation, the applicant still needs to put the case before a court (and at least try to make sure that it is admissible), but the respondent may need to provide certain evidence. This is usually the case, for example, if the respondent State occupies the territory and does not allow access, or because that State operates detention centres where certain records are held, or where the alleged breach consists of a failure to act by that State (such that an applicant would otherwise need to prove “negative facts”).
In some cases, a court will operate with a certain assumption based on the arguments and evidence submitted by the applicants. For example, the IACtHR assumes that direct family members of those who have been forcibly disappeared or have been extrajudicially executed have suffered harm. It is then for the respondent State to prove why a family member has not suffered such harm (for example, because there was no contact with the victim and no familial bond).
The standard of proof relates to the degree to which a violation must be proven. The party bearing the burden of proof needs to submit evidence to meet that standard. If it does not do so, the violation is not established and a court will not find it proven (nor any related legal consequences, such as reparations, which only follow once a violation has been established). The standard of proof differs according to the type of violation and is set by the court in its case law. For example, the ECtHR has used the standard of “beyond reasonable doubt” for certain violations (interpreted differently than the same standard in domestic criminal law: Ukraine v. Russia (re Crimea) (GC), Judgment (Merits), 25 June 2024, paras. 849 and 851).The ECtHR has also decided that the applicable standard of proof for admissibility may be that of “sufficiently substantiated prima facie evidence” (Ukraine v. Russia (re Crimea) (GC), Judgment (Merits), 25 June 2024, para. 850).
The ICJ has set an evidentiary standard of “fully conclusive” for “charges of exceptional gravity” including genocide (Bosnia and Herzegovina v. Serbia and Montenegro, Judgment of 26 February 2007, para. 209) and for prevention of genocide “at a high level of certainty appropriate to the seriousness of the allegation” (ibid., para. 210), and “convincing” for other human rights violations. Parties are of course free to submit more evidence than the standard requires, when in doubt or when strategically useful. However, some caution must be taken not to imply a higher standard of proof than is actually applicable.
The value of evidence is probably the aspect of evidentiary rules that will matter most to journalists. This concerns the value courts attribute to different types of evidence. For example, the ICJ generally attributes the greatest probative value – although this also depends on the issue to be proven – to the following types of evidence (in descending order): (1) reports by UN mandated bodies with an investigative function, such as fact-finding missions or commissions of Inquiry; (2) witness statements (including insider witnesses); (3) internal memos and other government documents, (4) NGO reports; and (5) media reports.
The ICJ “treat[s] with caution” evidence that is specifically prepared for a case, as well as materials emanating from a single source. It prefers contemporaneous evidence from persons with direct knowledge (Democratic Republic of the Congo v. Uganda, Judgment of 19 December 2005, para. 61). Government sources are also treated with caution, as they may reflect the interests of the State concerned. Particular consideration is therefore given to government sources that do not align with such interest. The ICJ also prefers witnesses who have been cross-examined by judges, especially during criminal trials held in domestic courts. It also wants witness statements to be signed and carrying an indication of which party took the statement, in order to assess impartiality. The ICJ prefers internal memos and documents that have “authenticating features” (ibid., para. 134). Videos should always be translated with subtitles.
The ECtHR uses similar criteria when assessing evidence. Probative value depends on the nature, source, and method of collection of the evidence. It treats with caution materials deriving from a single source and considers the independence, reliability, and objectivity of sources. It also considers:
“the presence and reporting capacities of the author in the country in question: it will not always be possible for investigations to be carried out in the immediate vicinity of a conflict and in such cases information provided by sources with first-hand knowledge of the situation may have to be relied upon. Consideration is given to the authority and reputation of the author, the seriousness of the investigations forming the basis for the report, and the consistency of the conclusions and their corroboration by other sources” (Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, Admissibility decision, 30 November 2022, para. 443).
The ECtHR also treats media reports with caution, since they do not —according to the ECtHR— constitute evidence for judicial purposes, but they may establish “public knowledge of a fact” and some probative value may be given to such public knowledge (Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, Admissibility decision, 30 November 2022, para. 444). Media articles may be taken into account as relevant elements to test other evidence against. The ECtHR singles investigative journalism out for particular attention, it being “based on first-hand research which is documented to a sufficient extent” (ibid., para. 481).
Where the ECtHR is “satisfied as to the experience and reputation of report authors and the credibility of the sources of the information in the reports”, it may accord substantial weight to NGO or journalistic reports. It is important therefore to include some background on authors and organisations, as well as on methodology in any report to be used as evidence. On this basis, in Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, the Court considered reports by the Atlantic Council, Bellingcat and InformNapalm to be “credible and serious” (Admissibility decision, 30 November 2022, para. 472) and rejected allegations that the reports “show any general tendency to manipulate evidence or any general flaws in the analysis or approach taken by the authors of the reports” in the absence of substantiation (Ibid., para. 473).
Irrespective of the evidentiary value of each individual item, all evidence submitted by a party forms part of the “body of evidence”. A court will usually assess the evidence as a whole and may deem a fact proven by reference to multiple pieces of evidence, one corroborating another and being “tested against” it. It is therefore advisable for applicants to present different types of evidence, such as a report by a UN-mandated body for the analysis of broader patterns, supported and illustrated by a witness statement (even more so where the witness has already testified in domestic criminal proceedings and been found credible), an authenticated internal memo supported by an insider’s account (to demonstrate the existence of a policy or practice), and a press article published by a reputable media outlet to provide context.
A court may also draw “inferences” where the respondent State alone has access to information capable of corroborating or refuting allegations and where that State fails to provide a convincing explanation of events that lie wholly or largely within the exclusive knowledge of its authorities. For example, the ECtHR has found a violation of the right to life by Russia based on the available evidence and by drawing an inference from Russia’s lack of cooperation and constructive engagement with the Court, which itself constitutes a violation of the ECHR (Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, Admissibility decision, 30 November 2022, para 459). The Court had requested Russia to provide certain information to which only it would have access, but did not receive it; moreover, Russia did not participate in the examination of outstanding admissibility issues or the merits of the case (Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, , para. 1639, 9 July 2025).
Courts find reports by UN-mandated bodies, such as investigative mechanisms or commissions of inquiry, valuable not only because they are regarded as independent and have mandates given by cross-regional groups of States, but also because such reports contain information from various sources that has been verified. This process of verification will often determine whether documentation can be relied upon as evidence, regardless of how “good” the material may otherwise be. Such reports also include a section on methodology, to which courts attach great importance.
If journalists wish for their material to be used in court, it is advisable to submit it to such a body. Agreement should be reached on the conditions for use, including consent for use in legal proceedings (ideally without specificity, so as not to limit future use unnecessarily). Otherwise, a UN-mandated body may hold a wealth of documentation that litigators are unable to use due to lack of consent. Where necessary, journalists should contact litigators directly (or, in some cases, through a coordinating NGO) to signal the existence of relevant material.
The role of evidence in establishing admissibility, iiolations and reparations
Admissibility
Evidence is used at various stages of judicial proceedings to establish different matters. First, a case must be shown to be admissible. If a court finds a case inadmissible – or inadmissible in respect of one of the alleged violations – it will not proceed to examine the substance of the allegations and will not issue a judgment on the merits (but only an inadmissibility decision). Focusing solely on evidence of a particular violation may therefore render substantial work ineffective if the case is ultimately declared inadmissible and is “thrown out” by a court.
An example is the following. The ECtHR found alleged violations of the right to life inadmissible in a case brought by Georgia against Russia because it could not establish that Russia had “jurisdiction” (here understood as “control”) over a certain militarily contested area and thus could not be held responsible for violations committed there. The ECtHR held that: “[t]he very reality of armed confrontation and fighting between enemy military forces seeking to establish control over an area in a context of chaos means that there is no control over an area” (Georgia v. Russia (II), Judgment (Merits), 21 January 2021, para. 126).
For the same reason relating to a “context of chaos”, the ECtHR found an alleged violation of the right to life of a Dutch journalist and cameraman, Stan Storimans, to be inadmissible. Storimans was killed in a missile strike on the town of Gori in 2008, which also seriously injured his two reporter colleagues. The ECtHR noted that “all three were carrying out their professional duties in covering the armed conflict” (although the ECtHR did find a violation on account of Russia’s failure to investigate effectively and awarded compensation to the family and fellow reporter) (Storimans-Verhulst and Others v. Russia, Judgment, 7 October 2025, paras. 5-36). It may therefore be important to have access to evidence demonstrating that no “context of chaos” existed in a particular armed conflict, to avoid a case being declared inadmissible.
In Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, the ECtHR found allegations of violations, including of the right to life, admissible because – on the basis of the evidence – there was no situation of chaos, even though, as in Georgia v. Russia, the case concerned an international armed conflict and military attacks in the form of bombing and shelling. The ECtHR held that the situation instead involved “extensive, strategically planned military attacks perpetrated by Russian forces across Ukrainian sovereign territory between 2014 and 2022, carried out with the deliberate intention and indisputable effect” of assuming control over areas of Ukraine (Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, ECtHR Legal Summary, 9 July 2025). Any evidence therefore that goes towards proving, for example, such strategic planning and deliberate intention may make the difference between admissibility and inadmissibility.
The ECtHR had already established that evidence — in the form of intercepted communications between separatists and Russian State agents, inter-governmental reports, and similar material — demonstrated beyond reasonable doubt that areas under separatist control in eastern Ukraine were in fact under the effective control of Russia (and therefore under its jurisdiction, rendering the case admissible). This was due to Russia’s military presence and its “decisive degree of influence and control” over the separatists, resulting from its military, political, and economic support (Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, Admissibility decision, 30 November 2022, para. 695).
In other words, material showing influence over separatists and various forms of support to themmay, depending on the circumstances, contribute to establishing admissibility. Such evidence can therefore be decisive in enabling justice to be pursued.
Violations
Once a case is found to be admissible, a court will go on to consider the merits, that is, the substance of the case: what was done (commission or omission), by whom (attribution), and whether it constitutes a violation of a right established in the relevant treaty or otherwise (violation).
Evidence must show that a certain act was committed and, in the context of State responsibility, that it was committed by State agents or by persons or entities acting under the State’s control. A State may also, in some circumstances, be held responsible for acts committed by third (private) parties (see below on awareness of risk).
A “straightforward” violation is one where the act “matches” the right violated. Limitations of some rights are permissible, but only when such limitations are in accordance with the law, pursue a legitimate aim and are necessary or proportionate. A court will check if these requirements are met. If not, a limitation of a right may constitute a violation of that right.
There are, however, violations that require distinct types of evidence. For example, Ukraine successfully argued before the ECtHR that Russia had engaged in “administrative practices” — including torture, enforced disappearance and other serious violations — in areas of Ukraine under the control of Russia-backed separatists from 2014 onwards, and in territories brought under Russian control after the large-scale invasion beginning in 2022. To establish the existence of such an administrative practice, the ECtHR requires proof — beyond reasonable doubt — of both the repetition of the acts in question and official tolerance. By repetition, the ECtHR means: “an accumulation of identical or analogous breaches which are sufficiently numerous and inter-connected to amount not merely to isolated incidents or exceptions but to a pattern or system” (Ireland v. the United Kingdom, Judgment, 18 January 1978, para. 159). This is comparable to the systematicity element in a crime against humanity. Evidence therefore must show a pattern of acts. As for official tolerance, what is meant is that “illegal acts are tolerated in that the superiors of those immediately responsible, though cognisant of such acts, take no action to punish them or to prevent their repetition” (Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, Admissibility decision, 30 November 2022, para. 826). Evidence must therefore demonstrate both a pattern of acts and tolerance by those in a position of authority.
An administrative practice is thus about demonstrating a systematic pattern of violations, where not every individual incident needs to be proven and where the primary aim is to show — and possibly stop — the existence of the system itself. This differs from cases involving individual violations, where the broader context may help the court understand the situation but does not replace the need to prove the specific violation and the harm suffered.
A state can also be held responsible for acts or omissions of third parties. The IACtHR, for example, established this in cases of massacres committed by paramilitary groups in Colombia during the internal armed conflict there. The state was held responsible for violations of the right to life and prohibition of torture because it had been aware of a “situation of real and imminent danger for a specific […] group of individuals”. Colombia had encouraged the creation of “self-defense groups” and had “objectively created a dangerous situation for its inhabitants” (Pueblo Bello Massacre v. Colombia, Judgment of 31 January 2006 (Merits, Reparations and Costs), para. 126), and it did not adopt the necessary measures to protect the civilian population (ibid., para. 140).
Although the existence of a broader context cannot prove a violation on its own, it may assist the court in assessing the case. A context is the background against which a particular violation takes place; the specific violation must still be proven, and damages may be sought to repair it.
For example, the IACtHR established such a context in a case of an extrajudicial execution of a journalist in Colombia. The journalist had been murdered to silence his reporting on alleged irregularities in the management of public funds, alleged acts of corruption, and the laundering of proceeds from drug trafficking. The IACtHR referred to evidence that the Committee to Protect Journalists had reported (a year before the journalist was killed) that Colombia was “the most deadly place for the press in the world” (Carvajal Carvajal et al. v. Colombia, Judgment of 13 March 2018, para. 26). The IACtHR accepted as established that the victim was a journalist, that his murder took place due to his professional practice, and that his murder took place in a context of homicides of journalists marked by high rates of impunity.
The IACtHR established that: “it is of special note that the combination of violence against journalists and impunity has a highly negative impact, first, for the journalists themselves and their families, and second, because it has prevented communities in Colombia from receiving information on issues of importance to them, such as the armed conflict, organized crime, the drug trade and political corruption”.(Carvajal Carvajal et al. v. Colombia, Judgment of 13 March 2018, para. 177). Consequently, among other reparation measures, the IACtHR ordered Colombia to submit regular reports on the measures implemented to prevent attacks on and protect journalists. Evidence of the broader context of violence against journalists played a significant role in supporting both this reparation measure and the Court’s finding of a violation.
Reparations
Once a violation has been established, a court can go on to consider a request for reparation. Reparation can take the form of financial compensation, but also – depending on the relevant court – “satisfaction” measures such as acts of commemoration of the victims and public recognition of responsibility, cessation (stopping and preventing further violations), and “guarantees of non-repetition” (such as amendment of legislation and training of officials).
In this phase, the evidence must establish the existence of harm, the causal link between the violation and that harm, and the extent of the harm for valuation purposes. Useful evidence includes witness statements and, for example, psychological reports. Regarding valuation, in case of mass injuries, it will be impossible to gather information on each victim killed or injured and property destroyed. In that case, the ICJ for example bases its assessment of the existence and extent of the damage on reasonable estimates, taking into account whether a particular conclusion is supported by more than one source of evidence (“a number of concordant indications”) (Democratic Republic of the Congo v. Uganda, Reparations Judgment, 9 February 2022, para. 126). The ICJ has previously awarded a lump sum (in DRC v. Uganda US$225,000,000) for loss of life and other damage to persons, recruitment of child soldiers, displacement, rape and sexual violence (Ibid., para. 226).
For justice to be delivered to victims in terms of reparations, evidence of the harm sustained and evidence that can support a reasonable estimate for valuation are crucial.
Field investigations: gathering evidence on the ground
Reporting from war zones is gruelling and dangerous. Yet what is gathered in the field—testimony, photographs, fragments of munitions—often forms the backbone of both journalistic exposés and subsequent court cases. The challenge is to gather it in ways that are safe, ethical and legally useful.
Talking to victims and witnesses
First-hand testimony is powerful. Survivors, local officials and sometimes perpetrators will talk, but they may be traumatised or fearful. Sensitivity matters. Informed consent is not just an ethical nicety. Attribution of responsibility by courts is difficult or impossible based on anonymous statements only, although redactions may be necessary to prevent reprisals against witnesses and their family members. Explaining who you are, how material will be used, and what risks may follow is vital. A signed consent form or a filmed statement of agreement can make the difference between a moving news story and evidence that is legally useful.
The questions matter too. Open-ended prompts—what happened, when, where, who was present—elicit usable detail. Dates, insignia, orders shouted, dialects spoken: such particulars can establish responsibility later. Leading questions, by contrast, risk polluting the record. Recording interviews, with permission, is ideal; if not, meticulous notes will suffice. Trauma can distort memory. Showing empathy, pausing interviews, or stopping altogether if a witness struggles is better than pressing on. Some reporters now train in psychological first aid or adopt the Murad Code, a survivor-centred framework for documenting sexual violence. Ukrainian journalists, for instance, have stressed the importance of techniques that do not re-traumatise interviewees but still produce accounts that stand scrutiny.
Collaboration with lawyers can help because they know what courts require: how a witness knows what they claim, whether they saw it themselves or heard it second-hand. But the witness’s well-being comes first. It is wise to be frank with interviewees about the possibility that they may later be asked to testify. Any consent requested should ideally include permission for use in legal proceedings. This prevents having to go back to victims multiple times for consent at every stage. It is still prudent to inform victims when their statement will be used. NGOs can occasionally help relocate or shield key witnesses where necessary. International tribunals generally do not require consent forms to be submitted with witness statements, although written testimony before the Inter-American Court of Human Rights needs to be certified, either through a notary or a signed declaration of truthfulness of the witness.
Documenting crime scenes
A bombed hospital, a charred village, a mass grave: journalists often arrive before investigators. What they do in those first hours matters. Treat the site like a crime scene. Begin with wide shots to fix the location—landmarks, street signs, building facades—then close-ups of relevant details: shell fragments, bullet casings, damaged equipment. Photographs should carry metadata or be logged with time, date and precise place. If possible, capture a witness describing what they saw.
Physical evidence is trickier. Journalists should avoid touching or removing items, which risks contaminating or breaking the chain of custody. Photograph objects in situ. If documents or personal effects might otherwise be destroyed, take them but record everything: where and when they were found, by whom, how they were stored. Defence lawyers will one day ask how a shell casing or notebook was preserved. A careful log answers that. In the case of Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia before the ECtHR (about Russia’s shooting down of Flight MH17, killing all those onboard), journalists not only reported on – and thereby provided useful evidence – how DPR separatists treated the human remains of the victims, but a reporter also held up a bone of one of those killed before the camera (the bone was later identified as belonging to a particular victim). This caused significant distress to the family, as the ECtHR recognized that “The next of kin were not able to escape the widespread news reports and images portraying the lack of dignity shown to the bodies of their relatives” (Ukraine and the Netherlands v. Russia, Admissibility decision, 30 November 2022, para. 547). Sensitivity is therefore required, not only to safeguard evidence, but also not to cause additional harm.
Sometimes, reporters work alongside trained investigators. In Ukraine, for instance, journalists cooperating with initiatives such as The Reckoning Project gather material under legal guidance, ensuring that what is published can also be used in court. Where such help is absent, thorough documentation and basic discipline are crucial. Ron Haviv’s photographs of executions in Bosnia in 1992, preserved with captions and negatives intact, later helped convict perpetrators at the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia in The Hague, the Netherlands. A picture that is authenticated can be more than journalism; it can be a piece of evidence.
Staying safe and staying ethical
The risks are obvious. Armed groups have targeted journalists for exposing atrocities—an act that itself may be a war crime or a human rights violation. Sensible precautions are mandatory: trusted fixers, clear itineraries, discreet methods of recording. In hostile territory, a notebook may be safer than a broadcast camera.
Ethical lapses can endanger both the reporter and the evidence. Paying for testimony invites fabrication. Coercing witnesses corrodes trust. Reporters are not prosecutors; maintaining independence is both ethical and protective. International law recognises journalists as civilians so long as they do not aid one side militarily. Staying in the role of observer is thus prudent as well as principled.
The dilemmas are real. Should a journalist put down the camera to help? Conscience may dictate action in moments of imminent danger. But the broader duty is to bear witness. Exposing an atrocity to the world may ultimately save more lives than intervening in a single incident.
Finally, there is the toll on the journalists themselves. Bearing witness to massacres and mass rape scars the observer. Without support, trauma accumulates and mistakes follow. Debriefing with colleagues, seeking counselling or simply taking time away from the front line is not indulgence but professionalism. As one guide notes, self-care is part of the job, no less than taking notes or charging the batteries.
Desk work: mining the digital and the bureaucratic
Not all investigations are conducted in trenches or bombed-out towns. Much can be unearthed from behind a desk, where open-source intelligence, leaked files and freedom-of-information requests provide grist for both journalists and lawyers. For conflicts too dangerous or inaccessible, desk work often keeps accountability alive.
The open-source revolution
The glut of digital data has transformed how war crimes and human rights violations are tracked. A few clicks can reveal whether a video of an airstrike is genuine, or if a village visible on satellite imagery was torched last week. Amateur footage, flight trackers, shipping manifests and social-media posts have become evidence as potent as any bloodied shell casing.
Specialised databases help trace the networks behind atrocities. Corporate registries, offshore leaks and investigative repositories such as Aleph or Sayari can expose the companies supplying weapons or laundering proceeds. Geospatial tools, from Google Earth to NASA’s fire-tracking system, allow investigators to show how destruction unfolded over time. Artificial intelligence now lends a hand: Google’s Pinpoint, for instance, sorts mountains of documents and highlights names or places that matter.
Verification, though, is the heart of open-source work. A video without provenance is worthless in court. Investigators must check the source, the timing and the location. Metadata helps, as do shadows, landmarks and dialects. The Berkeley Protocol, developed with UN backing, lays down how to preserve and catalogue such material so that it can be admissible and useful. Properly stored, digital evidence can be as robust as any eyewitness testimony.
Open sources have already unmasked perpetrators. Russian soldiers posting selfies in Bucha, or shells daubed with commanders’ names, have offered leads. Investigative outfits such as Bellingcat have pioneered methods of tying online braggadocio to battlefield atrocities. But the flood of data brings risk: deepfakes and propaganda abound. Anything that seems too incriminating, or too convenient, should be double-checked.
Cross-referencing with witnesses or forensic experts is essential.
Archiving is as important as collecting. Social-media platforms purge videos; perpetrators erase traces. Saving originals on encrypted drives or uploading them to secure repositories such as the eyeWitness to Atrocities project creates a chain of custody that may later stand up in court. Journalism breaks the story; justice may revisit the raw material years later.
Documents, leaks and disclosure
Posts on social media such as Twitter or TikTok can be revealing, but also memos, cables and court records. Freedom-of-information laws in many democracies give reporters a lever to prise loose official documents. The process is slow and heavily redacted, but sometimes it produces gems: a military log noting civilians in the target zone, or a diplomatic cable acknowledging abuses by an ally. Lawyers can help draft requests in legally precise language and appeal refusals. Persistence matters. The same source of information can obviously not be used in countries with dictatorships. In those situations, insider witnesses or defectors are especially useful to obtain information, such as internal memos, that can shed a light on knowledge and decision-making by state agents. An example is the wealth of photographic evidence smuggled out of Syria by the military defector known as “Caesar”, showing the scale of torture and death in detention under the Assad regime.
Leaks and whistle-blowers have long been a mainstay. America’s files on Iraq’s prisons, the “Syria Files” of government correspondence, or the Chinese police documents on Uyghur detention camps all came to light this way. Safe channels—encrypted messaging, secure drop boxes—are essential to protect sources. Once a trove arrives, lawyers can assess the legal usefulness of the material and journalists can mine it for stories. Consortia such as the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists have shown how to handle millions of files systematically; the same methods can be applied to evidence of war crimes and human rights violations.
Court records in criminal cases themselves are treasure troves for journalists. Indictments, judgments and transcripts from past tribunals name units, commanders and chains of command. Journalists scanning the archives of the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, for instance, later tracked down suspects living quietly abroad. The International Criminal Court publishes filings and decisions online. National war crimes units in Europe often announce indictments that outline both atrocities and alleged perpetrators. Monitoring such material allows reporters to stay ahead of developments—or to build on them.
Nor should investigators neglect the work of NGOs and UN bodies. Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International and UN commissions of inquiry regularly publish detailed reports, often blending victim interviews with legal analysis. They are not court decisions, but they can set the investigative agenda and offer leads for journalists.
Desk research is less dramatic than dodging mortars, but no less important. Conflicts today generate a paper and digital trail that is often as revealing as any battlefield photograph. The challenge is to sift, corroborate and preserve it—so that when an opportunity of accountability comes knocking, the evidence is ready.
Collaboration in research and analysis
Desk investigations thrive on teamwork. Journalists adept at parsing spreadsheets or mapping databases can show, for instance, that attacks on hospitals are not random but part of a pattern. Lawyers can then assess whether —say, evidence of repeated village raids is sufficient to demonstrate that the systematic element of the legal definition of a crime against humanity has been met. Together, they can turn numbers into narratives and narratives into evidence.
The International Commission on Missing Persons, which used DNA to identify the dead in Bosnia, shows how such work can serve both journalism and justice. Reporters drew on its data to reveal the scale of atrocities; prosecutors used it to prove international crimes. Similar techniques now apply more widely. Network-analysis software such as Maltego can chart the links between commanders and units accused of abuses. Qualitative tools such as ATLAS.ti can code hundreds of testimonies, exposing common methods of torture or consistent chains of events. As one archivist notes, proving war crimes or gross and systematic human rights violations often requires “hundreds of consistent pieces of evidence” to show the actions were methodical and part of a government instruction or policy rather than an isolated incident.
Organisation is key. Every file, screenshot and PDF should be saved in a secure, searchable archive. URLs vanish; governments cry “fake news”. Reporters who can produce the raw material behind their claims—whether leaked cables, satellite images or spreadsheets—are harder to dismiss. Confidentiality can still be maintained, but the ability to show provenance when challenged gives journalism legal bite.
Preserving evidence
Evidence is only as useful as its preservation. Courts will scrutinise every image, log or recording for authenticity. Journalists who want their work to stand in court must act as if preparing for trial. When it comes to submission, journalists should seek advice from lawyers experienced in litigating before the relevant court or tribunal (or involved in a particular case) because they can assess the usefulness of the material —and when and how to submit it— to a court.
The basics are simple. Keep originals safe, whether digital files with intact metadata or physical documents sealed and logged. Record context—date, place, source—at the moment of collection. Alter nothing: if a photo must be cropped or a name redacted for publication, retain an untouched copy. Document every transfer of evidence, even if only by email receipt. Defence lawyers in criminal trials will exploit gaps in the “chain of custody” to cast doubt.
Trusted repositories exist. The eyeWitness to Atrocities app embeds metadata and uploads images to a secure server. Projects such as the Syrian Archive or Yemen Archive preserve social-media evidence before it disappears. News organisations increasingly set up their own encrypted archives in partnership with universities or NGOs. Holding material back can sometimes be wise: publishing a document may tip off perpetrators to destroy other evidence. In such cases, sharing discreetly with trusted investigators can achieve more than splashing it online.
Ethics matter too. Paying for testimony or hacking for documents may render the material useless in court. Documentation obtained lawfully and ethically will withstand greater scrutiny. Reporters and lawyers should agree protocols early: how to store originals, how to share copies, and how to protect sensitive evidence —including those who are willing to provide it at their own peril— without losing integrity. The Reckoning Project in Ukraine shows how this can work: its journalists and archivists train together to collect testimony in formats admissible in court, while publishing other material for public awareness. As its director puts it, the aim is to “harness the power of storytelling with legal accountability.”
Imagine yourself in the witness box, two years after publication, asked to explain a photograph. If you can say when and where you took it, how it was stored, and that it was never altered, your work is more likely to make the leap from newsprint to evidence.
Tracing perpetrators
Documenting atrocities is not enough. Someone, or a State (if it regards a government structure that relies on atrocities to cling to power) must be held responsible. Journalists, working with lawyers, can lay the groundwork by identifying not just the people with bloodied hands but those who gave the orders or knowingly permitted atrocities to occur.
Command responsibility is a well-worn doctrine in international criminal law: superiors who knew, or should have known, of crimes and failed to act can themselves be guilty. Similarly, an awareness of state agents of human rights violations being committed – or even an existing risk thereof – without taking adequate measures to prevent it can lead to state responsibility. For reporters, that means piecing together hierarchies as well as horrors. Ranks on uniforms, insignia spotted in videos, or references in intercepted documents can tie crimes or violations to specific units. Mapping who commanded those units at the time turns a massacre into a possible court case.
Open-source sleuths have already exposed perpetrators in this way, using everything from soldiers’ social-media boasts to procurement records. Court filings and past tribunal transcripts can also reveal names and chains of command. Lawyers then assess whether the evidence is strong enough to show the existence of an international crime or human rights violation, for example due to the systematic nature of the abuse or the knowledge and involvement of state agents.
This kind of work is painstaking, but it turns journalism into something more enduring. Witnesses recount the terror; reporters capture the scene; analysts trace the links. When combined, the result is not just a headline but evidence for a first draft of an indictment or application to an international tribunal.
Following the trail to the how and the who
In the aftermath of an atrocity the facts are usually simple and bleak: a village burned, civilians killed. The harder questions follow: how was it done, and by whom. Was it a rogue ambush or a planned operation. Which unit was present. Who commanded it. The answers lie in stitching together field interviews with open sources and documents.
On the ground, details matter. Survivors recall uniforms, insignia, accents, call-signs overheard on radios, or nicknames shouted in the chaos. Shell fragments and munition types can point to particular brigades. Even partial identifiers—a red beret, a vehicle plate, the letters on a shoulder patch—become clues once cross-referenced. Online traces do the rest. Boastful posts, Telegram clips of convoys, local news of troop movements, and geotagged images can place specific units in specific places at specific times. Naming a unit and its commander, not just “soldiers”, is transformative: it sharpens public pressure, directs human-rights advocates, and gives lawyers useful information to help build a case.
Officialdom can be made to help. Orders of battle, promotion notices, defence gazettes and archived web pages often reveal who commanded what. Constitutions and defence laws show the civilian chain above the generals. Duty rosters, radio logs or leaked orders are a goldmine if obtained: “take no prisoners” needs little gloss. Now and then there is direct perpetrator testimony, as when soldiers describe a massacre and hand over photos. Such evidence ties low-level killers to their superiors and exposes the cover-up that often follows.
Patterns are powerful. If a division burns village after village in similar fashion over months, it stretches belief that the commander was unaware. Public statements can betray policy: praise for “harsh” operations, silence in the face of repeated allegations, or propaganda that dehumanises a group. All can help show knowledge, approval and instruction or orders.
Opaque hierarchies and verbal orders make this difficult. The task is to map the structure anyway, using open sources, military enthusiasts’ archives, local reporters and NGO networks. With names in hand, search sanctions lists, leaked databases and social media profiles. Then proceed with care. Wrongly accusing an individual is both unethical and risky. Corroborate, seek comment and weigh security before publication. Naming names increases danger for reporters and victims in hostile environments; safety planning is part of the craft.
Evidence that pins down responsibility
To move from strong suspicion to chargeable criminal cases, evidence must place a suspect in a position of authority and link that authority to crimes. Useful material includes explicit orders, briefings that reveal intent, radio traffic, chat logs, and standard operating procedures that normalise abuse. Witnesses should be asked how they know what they claim: did they hear an order, see insignia, or recognise a voice. Career records matter. Was the commander present in theatre. Did reports flow up to them. Did they reward or discipline subordinates afterwards. The more granular the picture of role and knowledge, the harder it is to wriggle free from individual criminal responsibility.
Landmark cases remind us what works: painstaking accumulation of victim statements, secret-police files, and internal communications that show a leader’s awareness and approval. Modern conflicts generate similar trails. Databases listing officers, unit rotations and deployments are already being built. Each verifiable name, date and place is a tile in a mosaic that lawyers can one day assemble to present to a court.
Presenting findings without hobbling justice
After months of work comes the question of how to publish. Journalism aims to inform and provoke action; law demands due process and often restraint. Good investigations do both. Write precisely. Avoid purple prose. Attribute allegations, explain methods and show the reader how you reached your conclusions. Where gaps remain, say so. Use careful formulations: “evidence suggests” and “if proven, could constitute”. Check a possible legal qualification with a lawyer or leave it out. A court will make its own assessment about the value of evidence submitted to it and which legal qualification to attach to an occurrence.
Think hard before naming suspects. Seek legal advice on libel or related risks. Consider timing. Publishing too soon can alert perpetrators or endanger witnesses; publishing too late can allow a cover-up to harden. Phased releases can balance urgency and safety: an initial overview, followed by specifics once people and evidence are secure.
Package the underlying material for legal use. A concise dossier—methodology, witness list, exhibits, timelines, maps, command charts—helps overstretched prosecutors and litigators. Dumping raw files rarely does and their evidential value may be limited. Decide in advance what you will share and under what conditions. Be ready, if necessary, to authenticate your work in formal settings, and be alive to the implications for source protection and your own safety.
Visuals help audiences, including judges. The aim should be to provide specific information or context, without sensationalising; the latter can be counterproductive. A dated map of attack sites shows location, pattern and scale. A chain-of-command graphic makes responsibility legible at a glance. Multimedia can force institutions to act, as some high-profile investigations have shown —for example, Bellingcat’s open-source reconstruction of the MH17 shootdown helped turn scattered photos, videos, and intercepts into a coherent evidentiary narrative later taken up by official investigators and prosecutors. Forensic Architecture’s Grenfell Tower reconstruction translated survivor testimony, emergency-call audio, and building data into a model used in legal and accountability processes around the disaster.
The goal is both simple and difficult: to ensure that the story does not end with horror described but with responsibility traced and accountability achieved.
The ethics of publication
War crimes and human rights investigations by journalists pose a perennial dilemma: how much to reveal publicly, and how much to keep for use in legal proceedings. Publishing everything risks compromising such proceedings or even triggering reprisals against journalists, victims and witnesses. Keeping too much hidden blunts journalism’s impact. The balance is delicate.
Lists of low-level perpetrators illustrate the problem. Printing every soldier’s name may endanger due process or incite revenge. Quietly handing the names to prosecutors or other litigators while reporting the broader pattern of abuse may serve justice better. Sexual-violence cases are even starker. Survivors may consent to anonymous publication but allow detailed testimony to be shared confidentially with investigators and courts. Here the journalist’s duty is not only to inform, but to protect. However, some international tribunals – such as the International Court of Justice – attribute more value to information that was published prior to, and separate from, a case brought before it. This is because the case, and the aims it pursues, did not “taint” or influence the information already published (and such information is therefore regarded as more reliable).
Not every piece of evidence belongs in the public domain. Sometimes the mere fact that evidence exists is enough. A line in an article noting that “investigators have obtained hundreds of pages of internal communications, now under review” signals to perpetrators that their secrets are out and to readers that scrutiny is real. The papers themselves remain in safer hands.
Collaboration makes these choices trickier. A lawyer may insist that publication could tip off suspects, while a journalist sees the same detail as vital for a story. The solution is to agree ground rules in advance: what to publish, what to hold back, and when to share with courts.
The aim is to maximise impact in both arenas: the court of public opinion and the court of law. The ideal outcome is dual: an article that provokes outrage and pressure, and a dossier that lands on a judge’s desk. Justice is slow—legal proceedings may take a long time—but journalism can start the clock ticking. Even if prosecutions fail or a court does not establish a human rights violation, the record created cannot easily be denied. For victims, that recognition — and knowing that a judge has heard their case — matters, often more than financial compensation or any other form of reparation.
Expert commentary: legal perspectives
Journalists and lawyers often work at different speeds, to different standards, and with different goals. Yet in war crimes and human rights investigations their paths converge. Two legal practitioners—an evidence archivist in Ukraine and a former prosecutor at an international tribunal—explain how to make the partnership work in criminal cases.
Raji Abdul Salam, chief legal archivist at The Reckoning Project in Ukraine, stresses discipline. “Our role is not to judge but to prepare evidence that will stand in court,” he says. That means verifying every photo, video and testimony, and documenting its journey from collection to storage: the chain of custody. A reporter may bring 200 incidents; software such as ATLAS.ti or even Excel helps show that 150 all involved the same unit’s checkpoints. Such pattern analysis can turn disparate stories into proof of systematic crimes.
Prosecutors, he notes, are overworked. “If you hand them 100 unsorted files, they may never look at them. If you deliver a clear dossier—testimonies, corroborating photos, patterns, and legal framing—they will.” Building trust matters: once prosecutors see a journalist’s work as reliable, they may even tip them off about what evidence would be most useful. Trials may still fail for political or technical reasons, he adds, “but the archive itself combats denial. Years later, it stands as a record.”
Patricia V., a former war crimes prosecutor, highlights both the benefits and the hazards. Reporters can gather evidence that prosecutors cannot, as in Darfur where early testimony came from the press. But nothing can be admitted without verification. Original files are essential: compressed video may lose metadata and be useless in court. “If a journalist can show the footage was kept securely, that is gold,” she says.
She warns against becoming too close to law enforcement. “If journalists are seen as an arm of prosecutors, they risk both their ethics and their safety.” Survivors’ consent is also crucial. One rape victim confided to a reporter, only to be horrified when later asked to testify. Journalists must explain from the outset that stories may end up in court and reach agreement with witnesses about what may be used and possible anonymity.
Prosecutors value context and humanity in reporting. “Our indictments are dry. A journalist’s story can move hearts—but we still need the dates, names and facts.” One team gave her a spreadsheet cataloguing hundreds of torture cases, complete with sources. “It was a roadmap for us.”
Her verdict: “Media and legal accountability are two paths to the same goal. When they run parallel and occasionally intersect, results are better. My conviction rates improved because journalists had laid the groundwork.”
The lesson is clear. Lawyers respect journalists’ initiative and access; journalists can benefit from lawyers’ rigour and ability to bring a case that may succeed. Both agree that whether through the pen or the gavel, the end is the same: accountability.
Conclusion
Investigating war crimes and human rights violations is hard, often dangerous and rarely swift. Yet collaboration between journalists and lawyers gives such work greater force. Reporters bring access, persistence and the ability to make the world pay attention. Lawyers bring rigour, due process and the means to turn facts into attribution of responsibility. Together, they stand a better chance of piercing impunity and achieving accountability, and redress for the victims.
From Bosnia and Rwanda to Colombia, Syria and Ukraine, this partnership has produced records that are both public and legal: stories that inform, and dossiers that allow for litigation and prosecution. It rests on a simple idea—that even in war, law does not vanish. To uphold that principle, those who document atrocities must be as careful as they are courageous.
The task is not to romanticise the work. Trials drag on; evidence is challenged; politics intrudes. Many crimes and violations go unpunished. But the archive remains: testimonies, photographs, case files. These records matter. They deny perpetrators the comfort of denial and give victims the recognition of truth. They allow societies to move forward after decades of atrocities in recognition of a shared past.
This guide has aimed to show how such collaborations can be built—by respecting professional roles, adhering to standards, and using the best tools available. If more reporters and lawyers learn to work in tandem, fewer atrocities will disappear into the fog of war unmarked. That may not be justice in full, but it is justice enough to begin with.
Iain Overton is a journalist and author whose work has focused on investigative reporting, conflict, and the human cost of violence. He has led investigative journalism teams and written widely on subjects including suicide bombings and the global arms trade, notably in The Price of Paradise and Gun Baby Gun.
Marina Brilman is a legal counsel and Co-Agent specialising in inter-state litigation before the International Court of Justice and the European Court of Human Rights. She previously served as a staff attorney and expert witness at the Inter-American Court of Human Rights, and has published on human rights and armed conflict in leading legal journals. Together, they bring to this guide a rare combination of frontline reporting, legal practice and experience in the pursuit of accountability for grave crimes and human-rights violations.
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