Last week, 153 Gazans landed in South Africa under opaque circumstances. COGAT, the Israeli Defense Ministry agency that controls border crossings into the Gaza Strip, claimed it had allowed them to depart from an Israeli airport because “a third country” — without specifying which one — had agreed to receive them. But when the plane touched down in Johannesburg, South African authorities and the Palestinian Embassy expressed their bewilderment. They spent 10 hours on board, eventually receiving 90-day visas, due to the confusion surrounding the arrival of passengers without Israeli stamps in their passports.

The crisis brought to international attention a project that Palestinians have known about for six months. It was the latest operation by Al Majd Europe, a shadowy organization that claims to operate under humanitarian aims and has evacuated hundreds of people from the devastated Strip in three operations since May. They are sent on charter flights to Malaysia, Indonesia, Kenya, or South Africa.

“We just wanted to get out of that hellhole,” one of the passengers, who escaped to South Africa, told this newspaper. According to their accounts, which were made public after the controversy, the passengers paid between €1,000 and €3,000 ($1,157-$3,471) for their passage, didn’t know which country they would be arriving in — or were only told mid-flight — or landed in a completely different country than the one they expected.

The foreign ministries of South Africa and the Palestinian Authority (PA) have accused the entity of exploiting the desperation of Gazans to force their displacement and carry out ethnic cleansing through the back door. This is a not-so-secret dream of the Israeli government, particularly its more radical elements, who aspire to depopulate the Strip of Palestinians as much as possible and establish Jewish settlements there.

After devastating Gaza (more than 80% of buildings are damaged, according to the UN), Benjamin Netanyahu’s government has for months been sounding out dozens of countries to convince them to take in its inhabitants. The Ministry of Defense created a Voluntary Migration Office to prepare their “safe and voluntary passage to third countries” and, in February, made the port of Ashdod and Ramon Airport (both in Israel) available to those who “want to voluntarily leave” the Strip, where most people live in squalid conditions in tents. The UN has declared a famine around Gaza City, and 7% of children remain malnourished after the ceasefire agreed upon in October, according to data released last Friday by the World Health Organization’s representative in Palestine, Rik Peeperkorn.

Defense Minister Israel Katz made the announcement amid great enthusiasm for Donald Trump’s idea of depopulating Gaza and turning it into the Riviera of the Middle East. The current ceasefire agreement effectively buried that idea last month, at least on paper, by specifying that no one will be forced to leave or prevented from returning. Ramon Airport, designated for this plan, is precisely where the controversial flights have been departing from.

In conversations with EL PAÍS, families in Gaza who have begun the process of leaving through Al Majd Europe defend their decision. The accumulated horrors of two years of war and the number of times states have rejected their evacuation requests lead them to see it as their only chance to reach safety. “No one in the world welcomes Gazans,” says a Palestinian woman from the Strip, speaking anonymously. She is willing to pay the €2,350 ($2,720) per family member — the amount the company is currently demanding — to travel “anywhere.” “They use the excuse of stopping ethnic cleansing. What the hell! Do they expect us to stay here suffering without the means to survive?” she asks.

“I’ve tried everything possible to leave,” says another person on the Al Majd Europe waiting list. Israeli restrictions render a document signed by the World Health Organization certifying the family’s need to leave for medical reasons worthless. “I want to live and see my son grow up.”

In reality, the option of “escaping Gaza” in exchange for money already existed before the invasion. And it skyrocketed in the seven months between the start of the war, in October 2023, and the capture by Israeli troops of the Rafah border crossing with Egypt, which cut off that exit route. More than 100,000 Gazans left the Strip during that period, according to data that the official Palestinian statistics agency admits it has been unable to update for months. They paid between €5,000 and €10,000 ($5,800-$11,590) to a controversial Arab intermediary.

On its website, created in February, Al Majd Europe claims to assist Muslim communities in conflict zones and to have experience — of which it provides no proof — in Turkey and Syria. The Israeli newspaper Haaretz reported last Sunday that the Voluntary Migration Office “referred” Al Majd Europe to coordinate the departure of Palestinians with COGAT and identifies Tomer Janar Lind, an Israeli who has not denied organizing departures from Gaza, as its driving force. The organization maintains that its founders are not Israeli, but rather “refugees” and volunteers.

Muayad Saidum, the group’s operational leader in Gaza according to its website, told this newspaper that cooperation with Israel is limited to security checks “devoid of any political dimension.” “All Palestinians, including [PA] President Mahmoud Abbas, must coordinate their departure with Israel to travel from Gaza and the West Bank,” he explained. A former police officer for the Hamas government in Gaza and a Palestinian bodybuilding champion, Saidum described his work as “humanitarian.” “I can prove that every user asks us to travel,” he wrote, assuring that the departures will continue despite the controversy: “Some even beg us to rescue them.”

In a statement posted on its Facebook profile, it further argues that the entity does not announce the destination to users “for security reasons,” so that neither Hamas nor the Palestinian Authority can try to stop them, and that they can “return whenever they want,” although in reality it is Israel (which controls the Palestinian borders) that will accept that eventuality or not.

For those seeking to escape Gaza, contacting Saidum is a victory. “He writes to those whom Israel approves to travel,” says one user. Before that, applicants contact another agent. An automated response requests passport photos for security checks and states that the price covers “all expenses to the destination country.”

Once payment is made, the user remains vigilant. A message from Saidum, sent just hours in advance to a specially created WhatsApp group, summons the travelers to a point in the Gaza Strip, which they must reach by any means necessary, regardless of the circumstances on the ground. They are instructed to reply that they are participating in an evacuation organized by France if anyone asks where they are going.

With the curtains drawn, the buses proceed to Kerem Shalom, a border crossing point between Israel and Rafah. Some passengers recall finding the Palestinian side of the crossing deserted. They are forced to leave their luggage and are then transported over 120 miles to Ramon Airport, near the city of Eilat, in southern Israel.

Gazans who were previously hesitant to pay for the ticket now want to do so. “We know Israel is behind this and will prevent our return, but we deserve the chance to escape from here,” says one woman.

Al Majd Europe’s first operation, in May, was free of charge and repatriated 57 passengers, including Saidum, according to the group. The plane landed in Budapest, and some people continued on to Indonesia or Malaysia. A second operation, on October 27, transported 150 Palestinians. They stopped in Kenya, and most continued on to South Africa, where they entered without incident.

The airlines involved in the flights deny having contacted Al Majd Europe or engaging in any dubious practices. On board, however, unusual scenes unfolded. Passengers on the second flight discovered they were headed to Nairobi when the captain announced it over the public address system.

The third operation — the one that sparked the crisis — ended with 130 Palestinians in South Africa, dozens more turned away to other countries, and the displeasure of the authorities. Government sources quoted by the local press explained the 10-hour wait as necessary to ensure that no Hamas leaders were on board. The border control authority publicly stated that the delay was due to the requirement for health and immigration checks. In the latter case, standard requirements were not being met. But they ultimately decided to let them through out of “empathy and compassion,” according to the country’s president, Cyril Ramaphosa.

Foreign Minister Ronald Lamola has made it clear that he will not tolerate similar incidents. “We do not want any more flights of this kind to our territory, because this is a clear plan aimed at expelling Palestinians from Gaza,” he declared last Monday during a press briefing ahead of the G-20 summit scheduled for this weekend in Johannesburg. “This appears to be part of a broader plan to expel Palestinians from Palestine to different regions of the world. This is a clearly orchestrated operation.”

The South African government has maintained a leading role in criticizing Israel’s military operations in Gaza, filing the complaint for alleged genocide against Israel that has been under review by the International Court of Justice in The Hague since the end of 2023. Due to its history, it is also a global symbol of the fight against colonization processes.

Sign up for our weekly newsletter to get more English-language news coverage from EL PAÍS USA Edition

Courtroom 600 of the monumental Nuremberg Palace of Justice is disconcerting at first glance. It is smaller than the visitor imagines upon opening the door. The furnishings are different from those that existed during the trial of the Nazi leadership at the end of World War II, 80 years ago.

Ordinary trials continued to be held here until five years ago, and the room retains the bland, functional air of a German regional court. It feels like a place that’s still under construction, much like the idea that was born in this very room between November 20, 1945, and October 1, 1946.

In an era of wars and massacres with impunity, from Ukraine to the Middle East, passing through Sudan and other parts of the planet, the edifice of international justice that was born in Nuremberg is showing severe cracks.

“If the people who have suffered horror in Ukraine, in Sudan, in Israel on October 7, and in Gaza, in Palestine, ask themselves what international law has done for them, they will answer that it hasn’t done much,” says jurist and writer Philippe Sands by telephone. Nuremberg and what followed from that trial “has not been able to prevent horrors in our time,” he adds.

But Sands cautions that the idea of international criminal justice is, from a historical perspective, very recent: “It’s a system that’s still in its infancy.” It has a long way to go.

Eight decades ago, in Nuremberg, for the first time, the highest-ranking officials of a state sat in the dock of an international tribunal, 21 men associated with the most horrific crimes of the 20th century. Among them were the highest-ranking living Nazi leader, Hermann Göring (Hitler, Goebbels, and Himmler had already died by suicide); the minister and architect Albert Speer; the Nazi chief Rudolf Hess; the diplomat Joachim von Ribbentrop; Hans Frank, jurist, governor of Poland, and perpetrator of the Holocaust; ideologues such as Alfred Rosenberg and Julius Streicher; and military officers such as General Keitel and Admiral Dönitz.

The United States, the Soviet Union, the United Kingdom, and France organized the tribunal to judge crimes “so calculated, so malignant, and so devastating, that civilization cannot tolerate their being ignored, because it cannot survive if they are repeated.” These are the words, in his opening statement, of the U.S. chief prosecutor, Robert H. Jackson, who added: “That four great nations, flushed with victory and stung with injury stay the hand of vengeance and voluntarily submit their captive enemies to the judgment of the law is one of the most significant tributes that Power has ever paid to Reason.”

Nuremberg was to try three types of crimes: crimes against peace, war crimes, and crimes against humanity. It ended with three acquittals, seven sentences of life imprisonment or long prison terms, and 13 death sentences.

Thus was born what Gurgen Petrossian, a jurist at the International Academy of Nuremberg Principles, calls the Nuremberg Idea, which is as follows: “When a person commits an international crime — whether it be genocide, crimes against humanity, war crimes, or crimes of aggression — that person must be held accountable. And this means that, regardless of who committed the crime, when, or where, the fate of these individuals is sealed: it is only a matter of time before they appear before a tribunal.”

After the convictions of the Nazi leaders, 12 more trials were held in Nuremberg, until 1949. A year earlier, the U.N. had adopted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the Convention for the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide.

Then, beginning in the late 1950s, national trials took place in Germany, helping the country — without being forced by the victors — to confront its responsibility for the murder of six million Jews. Trials such as those of Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem in 1961 and Klaus Barbie in Lyon in 1987 were held. But the idea of international justice went into hibernation. It wasn’t until the 1990s, with the massacres in the Balkans and Rwanda, that the International Criminal Tribunals in The Hague and Arusha were established.

It was the golden age of the Nuremberg Idea. “We were very optimistic,” notes French historian Annette Wieviorka, author of The Nuremberg Trials, referring to “this brief historical moment between the fall of the Berlin Wall and the attack on the Twin Towers.” That is why, she adds, “the lessons of Nuremberg are difficult to apply today.”

Philippe Sands sees the spirit of Nuremberg in the current International Criminal Court, in whose creation he participated, and in the arrest of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet in London in 1998, the subject of his latest book, 38 Londres Street: On Impunity, Pinochet in England and a Nazi in Patagonia. He also sees it in the nascent Special Tribunal for the Crime of Aggression against Ukraine, which is reviving the main accusation against Nazi leaders. “Without Nuremberg, everything would have been very different,” says the Franco-British jurist.

Some current dysfunctions of international justice can be traced back to the original sins of Nuremberg. It was a trial, for example, organized by the powers that won the war and their leaders (and one of them, Stalin, had already perpetrated some of his greatest crimes). This “imbalance” persists.

Sands cites the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq at the beginning of this century and the roles of the United States and the United Kingdom. He also mentions the indictment of former Philippine president Rodrigo Duterte last March by the International Criminal Court (ICC) for crimes against humanity in his war on drugs. This prompts him to reflect: “What is happening in the Caribbean and the Pacific, with 76 alleged drug traffickers summarily executed [by the U.S.], is it compatible with international law? Is it a crime against humanity?”

More imbalances. There are world leaders wanted by the International Criminal Court, such as Russia’s Vladimir Putin and Israel’s Benjamin Netanyahu. But it seems unlikely they will ever face trial.

“Pinochet traveled to London in October 1998 thinking he was completely safe, so you never know,” Sands notes. “It’s unlikely, but what we do know is that they receive advice on this matter and they don’t ignore it. It’s better than nothing.”

Faced with the temptation of cynicism, of thinking that what began in Nuremberg is just empty words, he recalls the case of Judge Thomas Buergenthal, a survivor of Auschwitz, who told him a few years ago that he wished there had been a Genocide Convention and an ICC in 1943. It probably wouldn’t have stopped the crimes, Buergenthal maintained. “But it would have told us that we weren’t alone and that it was known that crimes were being committed,” he added. “And it would have given us hope. This is more important than anything.”

In courtroom 600, they avoid discussing specific cases, but Petrossian is also clear: “International law has always been in crisis.” “That the political situation is difficult,” he adds, “doesn’t mean that it has ceased to exist legally, or that the Nuremberg Idea has disappeared.”

Sign up for our weekly newsletter to get more English-language news coverage from EL PAÍS USA Edition