In a time when the global human rights landscape is increasingly fragmented and politicised, few voices speak with the clarity, conviction, and lived experience of James Joseph. Founder of The Duty Legacy, a survivor-led justice consultancy, Joseph’s path to human rights work has been anything but conventional. Having endured over 50 brain surgeries since birth and navigated hidden disabilities, his personal resilience forms the foundation of his professional commitment to empowering survivors of mass atrocities.
In this candid interview with Chris Blackburn, Joseph discusses the driving forces behind his activism, including his time in post-conflict zones such as Bosnia, Afghanistan, Tigray, and Syria. He critiques the shortcomings of international legal systems, the limitations of rigid multilateral institutions, and the ways in which modern identity politics can undermine the universality of human rights. Joseph also opens up about the motivations behind his provocative publication The Woke Agenda: Eroding Human Rights, and reflects on the tension between legacy human rights frameworks and contemporary activist movements.
What emerges is a compelling case for “grounded universalism”—a bottom-up, survivor-led approach to justice that honors identity while reaffirming universal principles. With projects spanning from local genocide recognition efforts to international atrocity prevention alliances, Joseph’s work is reshaping how we understand justice—not as a remote legal outcome, but as a deeply human, community-driven process.
This is more than a conversation about human rights—it’s a call to reimagine justice from the ground up.
- What first inspired you to pursue human rights work?
My path into human rights wasn’t straightforward. I began by doing extensive consultancy work with the United Nations and various NGOs. After countless internships, I found myself at conferences constantly asking, “Who am I?”—not in the philosophical sense, but in terms of identity and purpose. That internal questioning led to the founding of The Duty Legacy in 2023.
Academically and professionally, I noticed profound gaps in accountability mechanisms—both in domestic and international legal systems. These gaps often deny survivors and victims of serious crimes the ability to seek redress without being re-traumatised. I wanted to help return agency to them, allowing their experiences to drive justice.
Life experience also played a role. I’ve undergone over 50 brain surgeries since birth and have lived with hidden disabilities that are often misunderstood or dismissed. While my challenges are not comparable to those who’ve suffered war or conflict, they’ve shown me that inequality—whether visible or hidden—often prevents people from accessing justice equally.
So I took a different path, one rooted not just in academic study of human rights and international law, but in the practical, lived experiences of injustice. What drives me is the idea that justice doesn’t only live in courtrooms. It can be found in truth-telling, reparations, local tribunals—anywhere survivors are empowered to seek accountability.
Ultimately, what pushed me into this field was seeing how the duty we owe to survivors of mass atrocities is rarely fulfilled. We witness recurring cycles of war, conflict, and impunity because root causes are never addressed. International criminal law too often depends on state cooperation that vanishes at moments of real need—leaving the door open for dictators to act unchecked.
Two formative experiences shaped this perspective: my time in Bosnia during and after the war, and my involvement in evacuating 3,000 Afghans after the fall of Kabul. Both showed me how Western interventions frequently fail—and why people-centered justice is the only meaningful response.
- What has working directly with survivors taught you about justice?
Working with survivors has completely reshaped how I understand justice. The most important thing I’ve learned is that our current system of international justice simply doesn’t work—not for those it claims to serve. A trial that lasts 20 or 30 years and ends in someone being locked up may tick a box, but it’s not justice in any meaningful sense for the people who lived through the trauma.
Survivors have shown me that justice often lies elsewhere—in truth commissions, in public testimonies, in panel discussions, in simply having a platform to speak. These community-driven processes often do more to restore dignity and promote accountability than formal legal mechanisms ever could.
What survivors consistently tell me is that being heard matters. Engagement—genuine, sustained engagement—not only amplifies their voices but gives them back a sense of agency. Even the act of listening, especially when they’ve been forgotten by the world, can offer real hope.
That’s why I believe we have to move beyond rigid multilateral structures. They’re too often ineffective, especially in the aftermath of mass atrocities. Justice has to be brought back to local communities, where it can actually take root and make a difference.
- What motivated you to write The Woke Agenda: Eroding Human Rights?
I wrote The Woke Agenda because I’ve become increasingly alarmed at how progress—especially in areas like inclusivity—is being weaponised in ways that actually erode fundamental rights. We’ve seen modern activist movements—whether environmental, gender-critical, or feminist—start to clash and overlap in ways that distort their original purpose.
While I absolutely support the expansion of rights and protections, I’m concerned about how some interpretations—particularly in areas like transgender rights—are being positioned in a way that risks sidelining the rights of women and girls. This isn’t about opposing anyone’s rights; it’s about ensuring one group’s advancement doesn’t come at the cost of another’s ability to speak, participate, or feel safe.
There’s also a deeper issue: legacy human rights—the core universal principles that emerged post-WWII—are being made to feel obsolete in a world where mass atrocities are committed with impunity. Today, civilians, aid workers, and medical personnel are being targeted with little consequence. Meanwhile, some social justice movements are creating hierarchies of rights rather than defending universality.
I wrote the piece to challenge that drift—because human rights must remain universal. Once we start picking and choosing which rights matter most, or who gets to speak and who doesn’t, we risk losing the very foundations that protect everyone.
- What, in your view, is the key difference between legacy human rights and what you call the “woke agenda”?
The fundamental difference is this: legacy human rights are rooted in universality, while the “woke agenda” often creates hierarchies.
The post-World War II human rights framework was built on the principle that rights apply equally to all people, regardless of background. It was a response to systematic persecution and genocide, grounded in the promise of “never again.” These rights were designed to be indivisible and interdependent—no one group’s rights were meant to override another’s.
What we’re seeing now is a shift. The “woke agenda” tends to elevate certain identities in ways that can suppress others. It often redistributes rights as if they’re a finite resource—where gains for one group must mean losses for another. That creates new forms of marginalisation, rather than expanding protections for everyone.
A clear example is the tension between women’s and girls’ rights and how they intersect with certain interpretations of LGBTQIA+ rights. Rather than finding shared ground, we’ve seen rights movements placed in conflict. That’s not progress—that’s fragmentation.
Legacy human rights prioritised the individual, grounded in shared human dignity. The modern shift toward group identity often undermines that universality and weakens the very principles that held the post-war rights framework together.
- Free speech and due process are central to your work. Have you faced any pressure or censorship because of your views?
Yes—raising concerns about how some modern movements might undermine established rights often comes with a cost. The moment you question whether progress is being pursued in a way that harms other communities, you’re at risk of being labelled regressive or anti-progress entirely.
There’s a shrinking space for honest dialogue. It’s become increasingly difficult to have nuanced conversations about protecting all communities without being mischaracterised. That makes it harder to defend universal rights—because people start self-censoring out of fear of backlash.
But we have to hold the line. Free speech and due process aren’t optional; they’re the foundation of all other rights. If we can’t critically examine new approaches to justice, then we risk reinforcing the very hierarchies and exclusions we claim to oppose.
For me, the goal has always been to expand human rights protections for everyone—not to redistribute them in a way that creates new forms of silence or marginalisation. We must remain committed to that principle, even when it’s unpopular.
- You’ve worked in post-conflict zones around the world—do you think Western societies are losing sight of the rights others are still fighting to achieve?
Absolutely. From my work in places like Afghanistan, Tigray, the DRC, and Syria, I’ve seen people risk everything for rights that many in the West now take for granted. And what worries me most is the growing sense of detachment in Western societies—from both global struggles and the fragility of our own democratic foundations.
There’s a troubling shift toward insularity. As I’ve said before, even under Labour, our outlook on international order has become narrower. Conflicts in places like Ethiopia or the DRC are often dismissed as “unfixable” or “too far away to matter.” That kind of thinking is not only dangerous—it’s dehumanising.
Look at the contrast: when Russia invaded Ukraine, we suddenly embraced Ukraine as “our ally,” despite having written it off as a “post-Soviet state” not long before. It exposed how politicised our attention to human rights has become. We rally when it suits our interests but ignore ongoing atrocities elsewhere.
Meanwhile, people on the ground are facing extraordinary hardship. A colleague of mine in Tigray once said mid-call, just as the power cut out, “this is literally what happens… but no one seems to care.” Afghan women are teaching girls in underground schools—risking imprisonment or death—for rights we see as basic.
What we’re losing isn’t just awareness of others’ struggles—we’re losing sight of why these rights matter at all. That’s why The Duty Legacy focuses on grassroots, survivor-led justice. Because real change doesn’t start in conference rooms with lavish receptions—it starts with people who know what it means to be left behind.
- Your consultancy, The Duty Legacy, takes a survivor-led approach. How do you balance individual justice with broader institutional reform or reconciliation?
That tension—between individual justice and systemic reform—is at the heart of everything we do at The Duty Legacy. What I’ve learned, especially in post-conflict zones, is that you can’t have one without the other. But the starting point always has to be the survivors themselves.
When I helped evacuate around 3,000 people after the fall of Kabul, I saw just how broken the traditional, top-down models are. While diplomats debated policy, people were dying at airport gates. That moment made something clear: we had to flip the model entirely.
We began centring our work on what survivors actually want—not what we assume they need. A great example is our work with the Hazara community, which led to the first local authority in the UK recognising the Hazara genocide. That wasn’t some grand tribunal—it was a cold night in a council building, but it meant everything to the community. I told my team afterwards, “That’s justice for us.”
And those small victories ripple outward. That local declaration has sparked similar conversations in Germany, the Netherlands, the US, and Canada. One survivor-led win can inspire international momentum.
At the same time, we recognise that structural reform is essential. In Ukraine, for example, we’re documenting personal stories—lost relatives, destroyed homes—for the crime of aggression archive. But we’re also working with the Ukrainian Bar Association to reform the justice system. Individual stories feed institutional change, and reformed institutions can better protect future victims.
Reconciliation without personal acknowledgment is hollow. And personal justice without systemic change is short-lived. Survivors aren’t just beneficiaries of justice—they’re its architects. That’s the core belief behind everything we do.
- Who are your personal heroes or role models in human rights—and why?
That’s a deeply personal question, and I have to say—my heroes aren’t always the obvious names.
First and foremost, I draw inspiration from the survivors I work with. The Afghan women who continue teaching girls in underground schools despite the risk of imprisonment or worse. The Tigrayan women who, after enduring genocidal rape, still come forward to testify. The Mothers of Srebrenica who refuse to let the memories of their loved ones fade. These are the people who define what human rights work really means—quiet, relentless courage in the face of unimaginable odds.
I’m also inspired by those who use their limited platforms to empower others in their communities. It’s not about fame—it’s about integrity, commitment, and standing up when it’s hardest to do so.
On a professional level, I’ve learned a great deal from the various UN Special Rapporteurs I’ve worked with. I admire how they try to make international law meaningful to ordinary people—not just legal experts in New York or Geneva.
But perhaps the most unexpected influence is my own lived experience. I’ve had over 50 brain surgeries since birth. I live with hidden disabilities—from epilepsy to nystagmus—and have faced memory loss, partial blindness, and constant misunderstanding. That struggle has shaped how I view justice—not just as legal redress, but as being heard, believed, and given access in ways others often take for granted.
The people who inspire me are the ones who refuse to accept that suffering is inevitable. Whether it’s a Rohingya advocate building networks from a refugee camp, or a local councillor willing to hold a meeting to recognise a genocide—like what happened for the Hazaras in the Midlands—these are my heroes.
The Duty Legacy exists to amplify those voices. To give unsung heroes the tools to create the change they’re already fighting for.
- Do you see hope for bridging the divide between universal rights and identity-based movements? What might that look like in practice?
Yes, I do—but only if we change the way we approach the conversation.
In my experience, identity-based movements often emerge because universal frameworks have failed certain communities. When I worked with the Rohingya, for instance, they weren’t rejecting universal human rights—they were demanding that those rights finally apply to them as Rohingya. Their struggle wasn’t against universality—it was against exclusion.
What I’ve come to believe is that universal rights and identity-based movements aren’t at odds—they can be complementary. Universal rights provide the foundation, but identity movements bring the lived experience and cultural context that make those rights meaningful.
We saw this clearly in our work with the Hazara community. We used universal principles on genocide prevention, but let the Hazara community lead the advocacy. That local genocide recognition wasn’t just symbolic—it was both a validation of their identity and a reaffirmation of universal justice.
This is what I call “grounded universalism”: starting with people’s real experiences, then building outward toward universal principles. It’s a bottom-up model, rather than imposing abstract rights from the top down.
We do this in the Alliance for the Prevention of Atrocity Crimes, where we bring together Kurdish, Tigrayan, Hazara, Afghan, and other survivor-led groups. Each holds onto their specific identity and history—but they’re united by a shared commitment to dignity, justice, and prevention.
The real challenge lies within the human rights field itself. It’s become exclusive, and if your views don’t fit a narrow set of progressive norms, you’re pushed to the margins. That has to change. We need to open up space for different approaches that still pursue the same fundamental goals.
At The Duty Legacy, we don’t tell communities what justice should look like. We help them define it for themselves, and then connect their vision to broader systems of accountability.
Ultimately, every identity-based movement is asking for the same thing: to be seen, heard, and treated with dignity. That’s what universal human rights were always meant to deliver.
- What’s next for you and The Duty Legacy? Are there any upcoming projects or campaigns we should watch for?
Our main focus right now is The Alliance for the Prevention of Atrocity Crimes—a growing coalition of civil society groups working in ongoing and post-conflict environments around the world. We’re always looking for more partners, more voices, and more communities to join this work.
We have active projects addressing peace and justice in the DRC, including the recent agreement with Rwanda, which we see as a positive step in the right direction. We’re also engaged in advocacy around the persecution of Hazaras in Afghanistan, transitional justice in Tigray, justice for Rohingyas in Myanmar, and long-term accountability efforts in South Sudan.
This work never really ends. But beyond our fieldwork, we’re also looking at the academic and policy gaps around atrocity prevention, transitional justice, and human rights practice. Expect new publications soon that challenge how justice is conceptualised—especially in terms of survivor-led responses.
We also have some exciting announcements coming up around justice initiatives in the DRC and other regions. The goal is always the same: amplify survivor voices, support local leadership, and transform how we think about post-conflict justice—not as a bureaucratic process, but as a human one.
James Joseph’s insights offer a sobering yet deeply hopeful vision for the future of human rights. Grounded in personal adversity and shaped by frontline experiences, his work through The Duty Legacy is redefining what justice can and should look like—centered on survivors, rooted in dignity, and driven by communities themselves.
In an era where human rights discourse is increasingly polarised and institutional mechanisms often fail those most in need, Joseph reminds us that real accountability doesn’t begin in courtrooms—it begins with listening, truth-telling, and local action. His commitment to grounded universalism challenges us to bridge the gap between principle and practice, between identity and universality.
As conflicts rage on in forgotten corners of the world and political agendas threaten the integrity of long-standing rights frameworks, voices like James Joseph’s are not only necessary—they are urgent. His work is a powerful testament to the belief that justice, though complex, is always possible when it starts with those who have lived through its absence.
