By Lutfi Dervishi
The killing of a judge inside the courtroom was not merely a criminal act — it was a tragic display of institutional failure and, worse yet, moral collapse. Justice was murdered twice: once by the bullet fired inside the “temple of law,” and once again by the applause that followed on social media. A society that rejoices in murder, seeing it as a form of “alternative justice,” has already killed its conscience.
This is the painful face of a society that has lost faith in justice and replaced it with momentary emotion — with revenge dressed up as “redemption.” When the system fails to deliver justice, people start taking it into their own hands. And when that act itself becomes public spectacle, we enter the gray zone where crime begins to masquerade as morality.
Justice is not vengeance — it is a process. It is not passion, but proof. And no injustice, however grave, can justify taking a human life. “Whoever kills one person kills all of humanity,” says the Holy Book.
These reactions reveal a much deeper wound: a crisis of trust in the institution of the court and the figure of the judge.
The judicial reform, heralded as a revolution, focused on punishing high officials but forgot its essence — that justice is not about “big fish” or “small fish,” but about a system that works for every citizen. While the public awaited spectacular results, tens of thousands of case files gathered dust. Citizens sank into endless waiting, and justice became an artifact.
Before 2016, a court case might take two or three years. Today, some cases drag on for 15 or even 20. Delayed justice is denied justice. And when even the Prime Minister himself waits seven years for a first-instance verdict, what hope can an ordinary citizen have in a system that resembles a tunnel with no exit rather than a court of law?
But this crisis of trust was not born from delays alone. It is fed daily by the public bullying of judges and prosecutors — often initiated by the head of government himself, who has gone so far as to publish the names, photos, and workplaces of judges, turning them into targets for mob outrage. When the image of a judge is publicly defamed, and institutions like the High Judicial Council (KLGJ) and the High Prosecutorial Council (KLP) remain silent, the road from moral to physical lynching becomes dangerously short.
There will always be people dissatisfied with justice, because every ruling divides a winner from a loser. But no dissatisfaction can justify violence. In 1997, when the state collapsed and weapons flooded the streets, judges were not harmed. Yet today — in a time of peace, in an era of “reform without end” — a judge is murdered in duty, in the very heart of the system, and the echo we hear online is applause. That should alarm anyone who believes they live in a country governed by law.
To restore reason and the sanctity of life, we need more than condolences or promises of harsher punishment. Those do not work. What we need is reflection — from every link in the chain:
Politics, which must end its rhetoric of violence and stop using justice as a weapon of humiliation;
Media, which must cease normalizing hatred, aggression, and vulgarity, and instead promote — yes — critical thinking, but never vengeful thought.
Pain is not healed by a bullet. He who seeks revenge always digs two graves.
If we truly want justice, we must begin by protecting those who deliver it. A judge is not an enemy — but the guardian of society’s balance. It is in everyone’s interest that the judge be safe, calm, protected — even content — because only then can justice be served.
A society that celebrates murder is one that has already murdered its conscience. And when conscience is silent, crime begins to speak in the name of justice.
If we want to live in a country where the court is a symbol of hope, not fear, we must rebuild not only our institutions — but our moral compass. Because, in the end, a state that fails to protect life has no right to speak of justice.