“If you don’t like doors, you can’t work here,” says one of the guards at the detention center of the International Criminal Court (ICC), after a good number of them have been opened and closed. Like his colleagues, he carries no firearm or taser. Not even a baton. Only a portable device to call for backup if there’s a problem.
The high-security complex, located in Scheveningen, the coastal district of The Hague, Netherlands, just under two kilometers from the beach, is not a conventional prison for inmates serving final sentences. Six of the seven residents, all men, are either awaiting trial, in active legal proceedings or are on appeal. Hence the custodians’ respect for the presumption of innocence. Only one inmate has completed all proceedings and is now waiting for the ICC to designate a country to enforce his sentence.
The International Criminal Court, created in 2002, prosecutes only the people responsible for the gravest crimes: genocide, war crimes, crimes against humanity and aggression (understood as war). In its history it has filed 34 cases, some involving more than one suspect, and has issued 61 arrest warrants, 13 convictions and four acquittals, according to the court’s website.
All the defendants who have passed through the detention center since it opened in 2006 — 22 men — were African, except for the last arrival: Rodrigo Duterte, the former president of the Philippines. Duterte, who arrived at the center in March 2025 after being arrested in Manila, is to be tried for crimes against humanity for the anti-drug campaigns carried out in his country between 2013 and 2018, which claimed thousands of lives.
Also subject to ICC arrest warrants, and susceptible to being transferred here if captured, are Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and Russian President Vladimir Putin. The first is accused of crimes committed in the Gaza Strip; the second of the illegal deportation of Ukrainian children. If convicted, inmates are sent to serve their sentences in a country that accepts them under an agreement with the court.
Located adjacent to the Dutch prison in Scheveningen, visitors need a special permit to gain access. That is how, this past May, a group of foreign journalists — including the correspondent for EL PAÍS — were able to visit. After passing a thorough security screening, where any beep requires walking through the metal detector as many times as necessary, the first interior door is closed. In an empty waiting room, notices for two law firms stand out on the white walls. From there, after a meeting room, several flights of stairs and two courtyards, you reach the detainees’ area.
Off the corridor is a small visiting room with toys for children. Nearby, two cells with folding beds are reserved for intimate visits, which require authorization. Detainees have 200 free minutes a month to call their families, but in-person visits are allowed only once a year for 10 days. As Belgian director Marc Dubuisson explains, those visits “involve conversation and tensions at the same time.” “Here everyone is among equals. They are no longer in charge, as they were in the territory they occupied before being transferred here,” he says.
Dubuisson stresses “the major crimes covered by the ICC” while reminding that “this is not a traditional prison.” The detainees have not yet been tried. It is a place where people are not punished.
The visit continues, focusing on the well-equipped kitchen used by the inmates themselves. There is also a gym and a hall for basketball, badminton or futsal. They are not allowed to have mobile phones, but they can use a computer — without internet access — to consult documents related to their case. In a small library the travel books stand out, along with many novels and works of philosophy, the Bible and the Qur’an, and numerous films on DVD. They can take language, painting, cooking or computer courses, and there are three showers, a washing machine and a dryer. They must wash their own clothes.
The inventory of amenities has an obvious flip side: the rules of conduct, which must be followed or risk disciplinary sanctions; bars on the windows; and the cell, with a bed, sink, toilet, table and shelf, similar to those in other prisons.
The same goes for daily schedules. The door is locked between 8.30 p.m. and 7.00 a.m. They are also confined in their cell between 12 and 1 p.m., and between 5 and 6 p.m. They have one hour of outdoor time a day; and although there are three doctors and nurses, emergencies are handled at the hospital.
So far, the biggest complaints concern the food, because the European diet differs from African and Asian diets. “It happens in all detention centers, and we try to accommodate these kinds of requests,” the director says. He adds: “It’s a good sign when they complain about the food, because it means there are no protests about more serious matters.”
In boxes in the kitchen there are garlic and onions, potatoes and bananas. On the counter a bag of salmon is defrosting next to an air fryer. They have €25 a week for additional purchases, and “there can be friction,” the director admits, “but nothing that would require calling the police.”
Although there is a protocol to prevent suicide, if someone went on a hunger strike they would not be forced to eat. “We would not force them, because it would go against their human rights,” the director asserts. And if a judge ordered it? “We would tell them that it cannot be done here,” he says.
Among the other inmates, alongside Duterte, is Khaled Mohamed Ali El Hishri, a former senior official of the Libyan militia Special Deterrent Force. The Prosecutor accuses him of war crimes and crimes against humanity committed at Mitiga prison, where women and children were held.
Also held on charges of war crimes and crimes against humanity is Mahamat Said Abdel Kani, a former general of the Popular Front for the Renaissance of the Central African Republic and a commander of Seleka, an alliance of predominantly Muslim rebel militias. He is awaiting his sentence. Already convicted and awaiting appeal are Alfred Yekatom and Patrice Edouard Ngaïssona, two former armed leaders of the Anti-Balaka Christian militias from the Central African Republic: in 2025 they were sentenced to 15 and 12 years in prison, respectively, for crimes against the Muslim population. They are awaiting the outcome of their appeals.
The sixth inmate is the Malian jihadist Al Hassan Ag Abdoul Aziz, sentenced in 2024 to 10 years in prison but who remains in The Hague until a country is designated to enforce the remainder of his sentence. The last inmate is Alí Abd-Al-Rahman, also known as Alí Kushaib. He is a former leader of the Janjaweed, an Arab Sudanese militia, with a 20-year sentence for atrocities committed in Darfur. The sentence was issued in 2025 and he has appealed.
“We have detainees from various countries and we try to reflect that diversity in our staff to understand the complexity of the situation,” Marc Dubuisson says. The balance extends to languages, which include Arabic and French, spoken by the current detainees. The complex’s two wings can hold 32 defendants; if a woman were to arrive, the director explains they would “make adjustments to accommodate her.” The day continues and the seven cells are about to be opened for a few hours. It’s time to leave.
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