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When you approach the ICC, you find red poppies displayed everywhere at its entrance as a symbol of the blood shed of trench warfare during World War I. Ella Osborn best described their significance in her 1918 poem “In Flanders Field.”

“In Flanders Fields the poppies grow…

We lived, felt dawns, saw sunsets glow;

Loved and were loved – but now we lie

In Flanders Field”

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Stepping through the gates of the International Criminal Court, there is a dyke surrounding the perimeter of the complex - a brutalist-style gray pavilion situated before a beautifully designed glass democratic structure. As you cross the bridge to this building you feel the peaceful breeze of the Atlantic creating miniscule waves in the water - harmless waves between the gray stone pavilions, separating the democratic institution from the gates to the outside world. Something about the water’s movement was violent. Violent in an oppressive way, almost in an overprotective manner.

I am certain that if I was not escorted quickly by the guide, I would have seen the water splash over the stone and spread. But we scurried along before that could happen.

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At customs, I presented my passport and was given a brochure of the rules in the court. I vividly remember them: No eating, no phones, no pictures, all belongings must be stored in lockers, and you must be 16 and older to witness a court case. The last rule was so unnecessary.

That day, Omar al-Bashir was on trial for five counts of crimes against humanity, two counts of war, and three counts of genocide allegedly committed in Darfur, Sudan. I was 15. So what? I was let into the court, what’s the difference? What are they protecting us from? No way my parents spent all this money just for me to watch all of my 16 year old peers go see a war criminal on trial. It’s not every day you see a war criminal.

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So badly did I want to follow the group of 16 year olds from the locker rooms in the basement. Nobody would know, I had no ID on me, just a lanyard that read “ICC guest.” In fact, Greg Myers tried it. He walked off calmly until our advisor, whose name I don’t remember, called for him to remain with us.

There was an elementary presentation in one of the rooms while we waited for the others. There were hands-on displays, the type that you would find at the Queens Science museum that little kids scream “woah” to when they watch their ball roll down the interactive gravity maze.

Once they came back, Tristan told me that Aidan fell asleep during the case. I wasn’t too upset because no one was allowed inside the ICJ so precedent could not be held, but the situation stuck with me to the beginning of the school year. We were all rising juniors, yet separated into groups by birthright. It’s the same reason that November 24’ won’t be my first election - I’m a month off.

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I wasn’t sure who to blame. Was I to blame the advisor that was doing a headcount and told Greg to stay back? Or the protocol of the International Criminal Court? Or whoever determined that such a trial was inappropriate for kids? Or maybe it was for the privacy of Omar al-Bashir, so little kids wouldn’t knock on the windows during the case? Or was it the Roman Statute that created the International Criminal Court? Or because the Serbian president Milošević didn’t want to show young people the genocide he was committing? Or maybe because Bill Clinton would never end up at the ICC. If Kosovo was recognized then Catalonia, Kashmir and Crimea would also have to be recognized. Guantanamo would be under review. Puerto Rico would be a state. No taxation without representation. The UN Security Council would not have veto power. Each war criminal knows that kids under 16 would flip them and the judges off, even the Russian and American ones. They all know that if a kid under 16 were to get his hands on the key to the court, the secret cell that protects the laws of the world would be under threat.

Regardless, I thought about this even when I returned to Beacon in the fall. I was discussing with Tristan about starting a club called, The Critical Diplomacy Club. It was to be a mock trial club on Wednesdays afterschool at 2:30 where kids gather in room 408 in court procedure to present international cases. It was a diplomatic rebellion. Today, in a club of 15 members, I was the jury determining the verdict. I was the one determining who could witness the case. And I was proud of that.

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So in one way or another in order to tell a true adolescent story, there has to be a cause for rebellion. A true adolescent is still stuck in the locker of the basement of the ICC. In those lockers, they carry the belongings that they have to give up once they are old enough to go upstairs to witness court cases that determine the morals of world order. While serving their sentence in the lockers, they understand that they are only recognized by 100 or so countries as independent - mainly their peers and maybe their parents, if they are lucky. They understand that they must make do with the overflowing amount of responsibilities to carry, even if their confinement remains the same, and even Professor Rappaport tells them otherwise. And now while the poppies grow in the locker as they approach college, they are loved and were loved, but now as high schoolers they lie under the rules,  restraints, and consequences of experimenting, all while in Flanders Field.