Lawsuit in Lithuania (Universal Jurisdiction)

Illustrative photo

Legal qualification:

Article 7(1)(f) of the Rome Statute: Torture (underlying crime).Principle of universal jurisdiction (based on the 1984 UN Convention Against Torture).Article 5 (Stage 2) of the analysis: “Using existing mechanisms”.

A.N. was 32 years old. He was a captain of justice, a senior investigator of the Investigative Committee in one of the regional centers. He believed in law and order. He handled complex economic cases, domestic murders, fraud. He saw his job as difficult but necessary.

On August 9, 2020, his world, built on codes and statutes, collapsed.

He and other investigators were de facto placed under a barracks regime. Their job became the “legal legalization” of thousands of detentions. People were brought into their offices from police departments and detention centers. People who could not stand. People with purple backs, broken arms, damaged kidneys.

“I looked at a 19-year-old student,” A.N. later told the Lithuanian prosecutor, “whose protocol stated: ‘used foul language, waved his arms’. And in front of me sat a person who couldn’t even sit down because his buttocks had turned into one solid hematoma.”

A.N. tried to act by the law. He documented injuries, issued forensic examination orders, and registered torture complaints.

Three days later, his superior summoned him. “Whose side are you on? This is war, captain,” he hissed. “Law now is the order. Stop your ‘expertises’ or leave the system.”

That evening, A.N. wrote his resignation. He could not sign false protocols or ignore the screams from the next room.

The system retaliated. A week later, three plainclothes officers — the same operatives from GUBOPiK — were waiting outside his home.

“So, ‘law man’, let’s talk law,” said one, striking his stomach.

He was tortured in the same police department he had once entered as an investigator. They beat him, knowing he was a former colleague. “You betrayed us,” they shouted. He was beaten, threatened with sexual violence, and recognized one of his torturers — a major he knew from work.

After two days, they dumped him in an alley. He knew this was just the beginning. A fabricated criminal case would be next — bribery, treason, anything.

He didn't go to a Belarusian hospital. He knew his documents would “disappear”. He packed his backpack and crossed the border into Lithuania — through forests and rivers, on foot.

In Vilnius, he applied for asylum and contacted Belarusian human rights defenders.

“I want them in court,” he told the lawyer. “I know their names, ranks. I know the system from inside.”

The lawyer explained universal jurisdiction. “In Belarus, your complaint is already in a trash bin. But Lithuania, as a party to the UN Convention Against Torture, must prosecute torture regardless of where it was committed.”

A.N. was not just a victim — he was the perfect witness. He drew from memory the layout of the police department, identified rooms, named the major in charge.

His testimony, supported by Lithuanian medical documentation and other victims’ accounts, formed the basis for a criminal case. The Lithuanian Prosecutor General’s Office opened proceedings under Article 100 of Lithuania’s Criminal Code — “Treatment of persons prohibited by international law”.

“This day — November 12, 2021 — is a turning point,” A.N. said. “My torturer is now officially a suspect in an international crime. His name will go to Interpol. He is ‘non-travelable’.”

A.N. became not just a refugee, but a plaintiff and key witness. A case that slowly but steadily built the very “legal noose” described by Pieter Klein.

“It’s a marathon, not a sprint,” he said. “But we will run it. And we will win.”

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