The history we preserve shows us what happens when human dignity is systematically denied. That same history helped give rise to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights: an agreement by the global community that every human being matters, that dignity is inalienable, and that rights must not depend on power, origin or belief.
Human rights are not a matter of opinion. They are a shared norm, a codified value, a minimum standard that makes living together possible. In a time when violence and polarisation dominate, that foundation cannot be taken for granted—and is more crucial than ever.
Today, human rights are under pressure, worldwide. In many countries, citizens are not protected. Groups are excluded. Regimes prefer propaganda over truth. Warring parties target civilians.
In discussions about current conflicts, the question often arises whether human rights can truly be universal. The temptation is great to apply them selectively, or to see them as just another argument in a broader political struggle. But human rights lose their meaning the moment they become an instrument of one side only.
As an institution, we begin from the opposite principle: human rights apply to everyone, regardless of who violates them and who suffers as a result. They protect against arbitrariness. Against dehumanisation. Against the dangerous idea that some people are somehow less human than others. They give us the language and framework to name injustice and vulnerability—without falling into the trap of “us versus them.”
In our conversations, we see how difficult it can be to uphold that shared norm when images of violence stir strong emotions. Anger, grief, fear or solidarity can pull people in different directions. And yet, this is precisely when it becomes clear that human rights are more than just a legal framework. They remind us what it means to remain human—even when circumstances challenge us. Human rights protect us not only from what states or groups might do, but also from what we might do to each other: in our language, in our judgments, in our capacity to dehumanise.
The Holocaust reminds us of the consequences of structurally denying human dignity. But that memory is not merely a historical reference point—it is a warning against mechanisms that are resurfacing once more. That makes human rights a compass to read the present—not by forcing comparisons, but by recognising patterns of dehumanisation and vulnerability.
This creates a double movement. On the one hand, history shows us what goes wrong when rights are absent. On the other, human rights articulate what is needed to safeguard our shared humanity.
When we speak about these issues, we should not begin with the question of who is right, but rather: what does respect for human dignity demand of us here? That question does not evade conflict, but it breaks its logic. It invites us to seek space for facts, care for nuance, and recognition of suffering—without instrumentalising the historical integrity of the Holocaust in debate.
Human rights thus form the common ground on which difference can exist without humanity being lost. In that sense, they are not an endpoint, but an invitation: to speak with care and attention, and to realise that every recognition of another’s humanity also affirms our own.
