Few ironies in modern British politics are as stark as the debate over the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR).
Drafted after the Second World War to protect individual freedoms and hold governments accountable, it was Britain that led its creation. And yet, today, the same nation considers abandoning it.
David Maxwell Fyfe, later Lord Kilmuir, was the driving force behind the Convention. A former Nuremberg prosecutor, he insisted on enforceable rights, precise legal language, and a court capable of hearing individual petitions. Alongside Sir Oscar Dowson and Arnold Duncan McNair, Maxwell Fyfe ensured the Convention would be more than moral rhetoric—it would be law with teeth. France and other continental states helped provide political legitimacy, but the framework, the enforceability, and the structure were unmistakably British.
Fast forward to 2025: Kemi Badenoch, following the path of David Cameron and Nigel Farage, has pledged that if she becomes Prime Minister, Britain could leave Strasbourg. The irony is staggering. Britain drafted the rules now condemned as “foreign interference.” Maxwell Fyfe, who built enforceable protections into the Convention, would likely be bewildered. The UK is not merely criticising a court; it is threatening to abandon its own creation.
The debate has taken on a distinctly contemporary flavour. Strasbourg is increasingly portrayed as an obstacle to sovereignty, particularly in immigration and border control. Politicians argue that the court prevents the UK from “controlling who enters the country.” But is Strasbourg really the problem, or is it being used as a convenient scapegoat for Britain’s inability—or perhaps unwillingness—to manage its own borders effectively? Maxwell Fyfe’s court was never intended to hinder legitimate government policy; it was designed to prevent abuse. Using it to justify domestic failings is historically absurd.
Withdrawal would be more than symbolic. It would strip British citizens of a legal safety net, weaken the UK’s influence in shaping human rights law, and isolate it from European judicial cooperation. The very mechanisms now criticised were embedded to protect citizens from government overreach. They were safeguards, not shackles.
The contrast between past and present could not be clearer. Britain’s architects laboured to build institutions capable of restraining the state and defending liberty. Today, politicians frame those same institutions as obstacles or excuses, while using Strasbourg as a political cudgel for populist messaging. It is a profound irony: the nation that once led in the defence of rights now casts its own creation as a burden.
Maxwell Fyfe, Dowson, and McNair acted with foresight, moral clarity, and legal ingenuity. Their work created a system that has endured for decades. To treat it as a political punching bag for domestic policy failures—particularly border control—is a betrayal of that legacy. Britain faces a choice: honour its own achievements, maintain influence, and protect citizens—or discard them, undermining history, credibility, and principle.
Human rights are only as strong as the institutions that enforce them. Britain built those institutions. Using them as scapegoats is not only ironic—it is a warning that short-term politics can easily eclipse long-term vision.
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