Self-Defence and the Colonial Genealogy of Legal Violence: From Vitoria to Article 51

Soran khedri.

Written by: Soran Khedri

Introduction:

When people talk about the international legal system today, they often treat it as a modern breakthrough—as if having rules to guide states is just as important as technological advancement. At the heart of this system sits the ban on using force, captured by Article 2(4) of the UN Charter. The only real exceptions come when the Security Council gives the green light, or when a country claims the right to defend itself under Article 51. (UN Charter, arts 2(4), 39–42, 51.) 

Lots of folks see this setup as a moral leap forward, a clear break from a past full of unchecked violence. But that story isn’t quite right. If you look closely at how powerful states interpret and use the idea of “self-defence,” you see it’s not so new. In fact, it lines up neatly with older ways of justifying war, like the ones Francisco de Vitoria mapped out centuries ago. So instead of truly breaking with the past, Article 51 keeps alive a system where power still decides what counts as legal. Meanwhile, anyone who tries to push back gets labelled as the aggressor. (Anghie 2005; Shaw 2021; Gray 2018.) 

I’m drawing here on ideas from Third World Approaches to International Law (TWAIL), especially what Antony Anghie has written. But I want to take it a step further looking at all of this through the example of Iran. (Anghie 2005.) 

Article 51 and the Elasticity of Self-Defence:

Article 51 lays out the right to self-defence only “if an armed attack occurs,” which sounds strict at first. But once you start looking closer, it’s not actually that clear-cut. No one agrees exactly what counts as an “armed attack”—and the text leaves room to argue about things like pre-emptive action or whether you can strike first if you think you’re about to be attacked. (UN Charter, art 51; ICJ, Nicaragua, paras 191, 195; Bethlehem 2012.) 

In practice, powerful countries have run with that ambiguity. They’ve started claiming self-defence not just when something happens, but also when they think a threat could be coming—throwing around words like “imminence” and “pre-emption.” At this point, Article 51 feels less like a firm rule and more like a tool that governments use to justify whatever they want. The real fight isn’t about whether something happened, but whether the people with the most influence can convince everyone else that force is justified. (Gray 2018; Kretzmer 2013; ICJ, Oil Platforms.) 

Supporters of this flexibility say it’s just reality—we live in a dangerous and unpredictable world, and the old rules don’t always fit new threats. But once you start stretching “self-defence” to cover vague or hypothetical dangers, it’s no longer a narrow exception. It becomes a permission slip you can fill in almost any way you want. This isn’t just about the wording; it’s a deeper problem. If the rules depend on interpretation, and only some actors have the power to define what’s legal, then the entire doctrine stops being neutral. To really see how we got here, you must look back and trace the history behind these interpretations. (Gray 2018; Kennedy 2006; Koskenniemi 2005.) 

Vitoria and the Shift from Resistance to Aggression:

This whole idea started back in the early days of modern just war theory. In the 1500s, Vitoria developed a system that essentially supported the Spanish push into the Americas. Indigenous people weren’t completely ignored. Victoria recognised they had rights. But if they blocked “natural rights”, the Spanish claimed, like the right to travel, trade, or spread their religion, then war against them became justified. (Vitoria, De Indis; Anghie 2005; Pagden 1982.) 

Here’s where things get twisted. Indigenous resistance—even something as simple as denying entry—got rebranded as injustice. Suddenly, defending their land counted as aggression. That move gave Spain the green light to use violence and call it legal. At its core, this framework lets the dominant group set the rules—and anyone who breaks those rules is labelled illegal. (Anghie 2005; Pagden 1982.) 

Vitoria didn’t just defend conquest; he shaped a legal structure that made domination look like it was following the law. When those in charge draw the boundaries of what’s normal, resistance almost automatically gets painted as unlawful. So, the difference between defending yourself and being “aggressive” isn’t some neutral reality — it’s about who holds the power to make those definitions. (Anghie 2005.) 

Civilising Standards and Conditional Sovereignty

This pattern kept rolling into the 19th century, just dressed up with talk about “civilisation.” European powers drew the line on what counted as legitimate, only granting full sovereignty to states that played along. The rest, like Iran, got stuck with unequal deals—capitulations and limited sovereignty—even if they still looked independent on paper. (Gong 1984; Anghie2005; Encyclopaedia Iranica, “Concessions”.) 

Trying to take up Western models wasn’t a guaranteed path to equal treatment. Legitimacy hinged on fitting with the interests of the dominant powers. Look at Iran: even reforms and moves toward constitutional government didn’t stop outsiders from intervening, mainly when their economic stakes were at risk. The 1953 Coup in Iran, following the nationalisation of Iranian oil by an elected prime minister at the time, illustrates how sovereignty was subordinated to the external economic interests of colonial Western powers, such as the USA and the UK. (Anghie 2005; Abrahamian 2008; National Security Archive, “CIA Confirms Role in 1953 Iran Coup”.) 

So, you end up with a kind of sovereignty that looks real but isn’t solid—it depends on following rules set by others, outside your borders. That imbalance isn’t just about whoever has the bigger army; it’s legal, too. Some states get to decide what’s lawful, and others must live with those decisions. (Simpson 2004; Koskenniemi 2005.) 

Treaties, Historical Memory, and Discursive Power

Iran’s experience with treaties paints a familiar picture. Deals with great powers usually ended with Iran losing territory, becoming economically dependent, and slipping into political subordination. People called these agreements “instruments of peace,” but honestly, they just opened the door for foreign intervention. (Encyclopaedia Iranica, “Golestān Treaty”; Encyclopaedia Iranica, “Concessions”; Abrahamian 2008.) 

So, Iranians don’t exactly see treaties as fair, neutral tools. They treat every agreement as uncertain, always at risk of being twisted by whoever holds more power. Those who control legal language and political narratives get to set the rules for what counts as following the agreement—and what doesn’t. (Koskenniemi 2005; Anghie 2005.) 

This explains why modern Iran is wary of international deals. Many see them as possible weapons for future pressure, not paths to real stability. Even if the regime changed tomorrow, this memory would stick around. Iranians approach legal commitments with suspicion, remembering too well how past treaties only made them more vulnerable. (Abrahamian 2008; National Security Archive, “CIA Confirms Role in 1953 Iran Coup”.) 

Disarmament, Vulnerability, and Historical Memory

It’s not just Iran. History is full of examples where weaker states or societies were coaxed into disarming or making concessions, supposedly for their own security—only to be betrayed once they were defenceless. (Hemming 1970; Restall 2003; Cave 1996.)
 
Think of Pizarro tricking Atahualpa, the massacre at Cholula, or countless colonial encounters that followed the same pattern. First comes diplomacy, then comes force against the now-weakened. These aren’t random episodes; they shape the political memory of states like Iran. (Hemming 1970; Restall 2003.) 

For many, the lesson is clear: it’s less about what the law promises and more about how safe compliance really is. Whenever legal promises became a doorway for domination, scepticism wasn’t just emotional or ideological—it became rational. (Anghie 2005; Kennedy 2006.) 

Resistance Recast as Aggression: Colonial Continuities

One thing you see repeatedly in colonial legal thinking is how resistance gets reframed as aggression. Going back to Vitoria’s doctrines and straight through to later imperial policies, anyone who refused to play by imposed rules suddenly became a lawbreaker. (Anghie 2005; Pagden 1982.) 

In the Americas, Indigenous resistance was painted as a crime against “natural law;” English colonists in North America called it savagery—anything to justify violence. The same logic surfaced in Africa and Asia—resistance turned into rebellion, disorder, or criminality. (Pagden 1982; Britannica, “Pequot War”; Britannica, “Indian Rebellion of 1857”; Britannica, “Anglo-Zulu War”.) 

So, the powerful defined what was legal, expansion was just “enforcement,” and anyone who pushed back was a problem to be eliminated. This logic is still lurking in international law today. Article 51 of the UN Charter looks neutral on paper, but applying it comes down to who decides what counts as a threat. These decisions rely on power as much as on law. The habit of turning resistance into “aggression” hasn’t disappeared—it just wears a new outfit in modern legal arguments. (UN Charter, art 51; Anghie 2005; ICJ, Nicaragua; Kennedy 2006.) 

Self-Defence, Discourse, and Hegemony

When people talk about self-defence under international law, it’s not just about clear-cut facts—it’s about stories. Narratives shape what counts as a threat, what’s imminent, and what’s necessary. (Kennedy 2006; Koskenniemi 2005; Kretzmer 2013.) 

Sure, these are “legal” decisions on paper, but they’re really driven by politics and who has a seat at the table. Often, self-defence ends up giving power a vocabulary for legitimising itself, instead of holding it back. (Kennedy 2006; Gray 2018.) 

Take Iran, for example. It’s routinely cast as a threat in international conversations, regardless of strict legal claims. That perception alone lowers the bar for outside powers to use force. Legal equality is supposed to be a principle, but reality is lopsided. (Kennedy 2006; Anghie 2005.) 

Hegemony isn’t just tanks and sanctions; it’s the power to shape the law’s categories. Deciding what counts as a threat is real power. Creating danger—or the feeling of it—becomes part of the architecture that lets violence be called lawful. (Koskenniemi 2005; Kennedy 2006.) 

This isn’t a defence of the Iranian regime—it’s about recognising a structural pattern: over and over, resistance to dominant policies gets transformed into illegality, making it easier to justify force. (Anghie 2005.) 

Conclusion

Most people treat self-defence (like what’s enshrined in Article 51) as a pillar of international law. But the truth is, you can’t look at it apart from its history and power dynamics. From the old just war theories and colonial tricks down to today’s legal wrangling, you see the same shape repeatedly: the powerful set the rules, and resistance, sooner or later, becomes “aggression.” (UN Charter, art 51; Anghie 2005; Gray 2018.) 

Sure, the rules on paper have gotten more advanced. But how they’re used still hinges on power imbalances. The idea of self-defence, instead of reining in violence, often becomes another way to excuse it. (Gray 2018; Kennedy 2006; ICJ, Oil Platforms.) 

It’s not that today’s law is the same as its colonial ancestor. But the tradition of letting the top dogs define “legal” action lives on. The language changes, but the hierarchy stays. (Anghie 2005; Koskenniemi 2005.) 

Iran’s story proves the point. Deep mistrust of legal commitments isn’t just paranoia—it’s a reaction to a history where law made control easier instead of more just. This disrupts the fairy tale that modern law means order over oppression. (Abrahamian 2008; Encyclopaedia Iranica, “Golestān Treaty”; National Security Archive, “CIA Confirms Role in 1953 Iran Coup”.) 

A true rule-based order needs more than good laws—it needs those laws applied fairly and consistently. It means facing up to old injustices that still shape how the law gets used. If power decides what “self-defence” means, it’ll swing between restraining violence and rubber-stamping it—always caught between the hope of order and the reality of violence dressed up as law. (UN Charter, arts 2(4), 51; Anghie 2005; Koskenniemi 2005; Gray 2018.)