A personal reflection on the teaching of law in the 21st century
Gabriel Real Ferrer (Professor Emeritus from the University of Alicante)
From a technical-legal point of view, we could reflect on the extraordinary changes that lie ahead for the law over the next 20 or 30 years. We could discuss hybrid sovereignty, the transition from a rule-based law to a principle-based law, the need to move from a reactive to a proactive law, or the emergence of transnational law and sustainability as a new paradigm. We are undoubtedly moving towards a legal system which is vastly different from the one we have been teaching.
From a very personal perspective, I would prefer that we take a few moments to rethink our profession of teaching the law, which is so valuable to the world. Let us reflect on how we use our knowledge and on what society hopes we will achieve. It is obvious that society expects us to train good professionals who go on to have successful careers, but, in my view, our responsibility goes far beyond that.
Given the state of the world – the wars, the decline of democracy and human rights, and the obvious erosion of the values on which we have based our civilisation – I believe we must look up and ask ourselves about our impact on global society. Indeed, our knowledge as legal professionals is not neutral; it conveys values and carries an indisputable ethical and moral responsibility to guide society. That said, the question arises: are we doing the right thing? Is this what we are instilling in our students? Are we failing?
When my children asked me what I did for a living, I told them that I was a law professor, and that I was teaching the path to justice, which would help build a better, fairer world. I believed, and still sincerely believe, that this is our primary mission: to train lawyers who will improve the world, who do not see the law as a mechanism of oppression by the rich against the poor, or by the powerful against the disadvantaged, but as the most powerful tool for social progress and the advancement of civilisation. This progress is founded on solidarity and social justice, on understanding and tolerance. We have trained legions of lawyers, yet the world seems to be heading towards a moral abyss.
As my mentor, Ramón Martín Mateo, used to say, legal professionals – that is, both us and our students – are social engineers: we design institutions and lay down the rules of society through legislation. Do we not know how to do better?
Now, I dread looking into the eyes of my children and grandchildren and sensing a burning question: “Where is that world you promised us, the one you worked towards?” All they see is a future of war and plastic. I did not lie to them, but we have collectively failed.
We can adopt different attitudes towards the news that reaches us every day. Personally, I can only offer my own: that of the “melancholic optimist”. The concept stems from the poetry of Luis García Montero and was popularised in Spain by the actor José Sacristan, but it is well on the way to becoming a collective attitude. Melancholy alludes to a sense of loss and an awareness of one’s own mortality: the values we once believed in have been lost, many hopes have been dashed, friends and mentors are gone, and I have little left in this world. Yet, despite this, I remain optimistic; every day I continue to fight for dignity – my own and that of others. I continue to believe in and work towards a better future, even if I cannot yet see it.
That said, given the state of the world, progress in terms of the advancement of civilisation seems to have failed, but this is actually not the case. If, for the sake of simplicity, we define this progress as the consolidation of human dignity and the rejection of cruelty – cruelty towards human beings, but also towards animals, our companions on this journey, and towards nature, our common home – then the upward trajectory of civilisation is unquestionable. One need only compare current ethical and moral standards – albeit still crisis-ridden – with those of 100, 200 or 500 years ago. They are, without question, on an upward trajectory.
As Pope Leo XIV stated on the 25th of May of this year in his Encyclical Letter Magnifica Humanitas (a title that should not be forgotten): “Each generation inherits the task of shaping its own era, of guiding history to become a place where the dignity of every person is safeguarded, justice is promoted and fraternity is made possible. Yet every era also runs the risk of creating an inhumane and more unjust world.”[1]
This risk is currently evident in the weakness of multilateralism, in diplomacy based on force, and in the fragility of the rule of law – which is the foundation of any peaceful civil coexistence – as Pope Leo XIV also stated in January of this year during his annual address to the Diplomatic Corps accredited to the Vatican City State (The Holy See).
But we are not looking at the end of progress; rather, on that systematic upward curve, there are collapses – some more prolonged and some shorter – but progress is restored. History is full of such collapses. To cite a few examples, the European Inquisition was a downturn that lasted, to varying degrees of intensity, for more than three centuries. Auschwitz is the symbolic scene of another collapse, and Gaza is now yet another failure of civilising progress. But history also provides reasons for optimism: slavery has accompanied humanity since the dawn of time, yet it was abolished. Although this may not be widely known, it was perfectly legal in Mauritania until 1981 and was only criminalized in that country in 2001. In the 21st century! It should be noted, however, that it has now taken on other forms and continues to exist, but there is no longer any physical punishment, and it must be disguised.
The point I am making is that this end of the hegemonic empire we are witnessing – chaotic and confusing, as is the end of every empire – and this civilisational collapse we are experiencing, is merely a temporary phase; progress will continue. And it largely depends on our efforts to determine how long this collapse will last.
What will our attitude be, however, during this collapse, in the face of this global disorder, amidst this self-centred, anti-civilisational current that seeks to impose authoritarianism and rejects tolerance and solidarity?
Without a doubt, we must stand firm and persevere in defending our values – the values that lead to a better world. We need not ask ourselves what will happen; we do not know that, nor do we control it. What we must ask ourselves is what we are going to do. How can we avoid falling into the bleak social scenario that García Lorca described in Poeta en Nueva York (La Aurora) as early as the 1930s: “the mud of figures and laws, (…) artless games, (…) fruitless sweat.”[2]
In Arabic, there is a word that perfectly defines the culture which, in my view, we should embrace at this difficult time: Sumud. Sumud means steadfastness, perseverance or constant resistance in the face of all adversity. Since the Six-Day War in 1967, Palestine has given this concept its current meaning as a non-violent yet active strategy for living and resisting, based on attachment to the land and the preservation of its culture, despite occupation, oppression and extreme hardship. Whilst the Palestinians cling to their land, let us cling to the values that serve the progress of civilisation, despite our sense of being besieged. Let us recall the great Fernando Pessoa: “My homeland is the Portuguese language”; and if, for the poet, language was his homeland, for us the values we share must be ours. Empathy, compassion, tolerance, solidarity… this must be our homeland – an open homeland without borders.
Let us prepare our students to take their place in this nation; let us teach them to use the law for the common good and to overcome this collapse. We must not think that this is utopian or that it is impossible to teach goodness, because, as the poet Cora Coralina said, kindness, too, can be learnt.
I propose a paradigm shift: modern law was based on the first three words of the American Constitution of 1787: “We the people”, which was a cry for freedom in the face of 18th-century absolutism. Since then, freedom has become the paradigm of the aspirations of the 19th and 20th centuries. An aspiration celebrated by citizens, politicians and poets, such as Paul Éluard: “On my school notebooks / On my desk and on the trees / On the sand, on the snow / I write your name”.[3]
Or in Neruda’s “Canto a la Libertad” (published in 1950), which warns us that freedom is never guaranteed, but must be won: “(…) freedom (…) you find yourself waiting/ for someone reckless and daring/ who will deign to win you over.”[4] But Pope Leo XIV warns of a new risk: when this cry for freedom is understood as the vigorous defence of “my freedom”, even at the expense of the enslavement of others – that is, freedom only for the rich and powerful – it eventually turns into outright barbarism. For freedom as the sole reference point is precisely that: barbarism. It must be accompanied by other values which, carrying equal weight, balance it out. This is nothing new; Robespierre already set us on this path when he coined the motto of the French Republic: “Liberté”, of course, that must be complement by “Égalité” – that is, true equality of opportunity – and “Fraternité”, a fraternal and supportive society; this is so because freedom, when isolated and misunderstood, becomes an exaltation of the “self” and gives rise to the excesses of egocentrism. As García Montero recently remarked in A puerta cerrada (2011–2017),[5] “Everything that binds you to the word ‘I’ / is now a danger”.[6]
But the revolutionary slogan did not take sufficiently deep root, not even in France, where it was suppressed on two occasions: during the Second Empire under Napoleon III and during the Vichy regime. These are the setbacks of progress.
Today, we must replace the “We the people” with which he cried out for freedom with an even more powerful and inclusive cry: “We the humanity”. A cry against suicidal egocentrism, against the technological dictatorship. A cry that calls for survival and dignity, which requires moving towards sustainability, the new paradigm.
“We, humanity!” do not need castles or palaces; we need liveable cities. We do not need more missiles; we need more schools. We do not need to reach Mars; we need to reach the hospital and be treated without our passports or bank balances being scrutinised. We do not need preachers; we need children to learn not to lie. We need to rediscover a sense of what it means to be human.
We need to be recognised as a collective – those we once were, those we are now, and those we will become. And, tentatively, the law has already begun to move towards this recognition.
One need only look at the Inter-American Court of Human Rights Advisory Opinion 32/25 of the on the Climate Emergency and Human Rights, dated 29 May 2025,[7] or the United Nations’ “Pact for the Future” (Resolution 79/1 of 22 September 2024),[8] or, as recently as on the 13th of May of this year, the United Nations General Assembly resolution (A/80/L.65) fully endorsing the Advisory Opinion of 23 July 2025 issued by the International Court of Justice.[9] This alone is enough to show the path we are following. Some of these documents already refer to the “collective interest of humanity” as being in full force – an interest that must be taken into account and considered; in other words, the prelude to the recognition of humanity as a subject of law.
“We, humanity!” – let’s say it in every language. After all, as Joan Manuel Serrat sang in “Te guste o no”, deep down we are all the same: “we share the same fear of death, the same fragility, (…) and the same desire to love and be loved in return”.[10] Here, or at the end of the world, we are all the equals, part of the same whole. In the name of humanity, let us enact the law that brings these things to fruition; it is our duty and what future generations expect of us.
I have often said that we must train imaginative and courageous lawyers. Imaginative enough to find solutions to problems we did not know how to solve, or to those that do not yet even exist; and courageous enough to stand up to the powerful forces that defend the interests of a selfish and self-destructive elite, willing to sacrifice the future of humanity in order to continue amassing power and wealth.
If we wish to build this conscious and caring humanity, the first thing we must teach our students is to identify and combat the myriad Shibboleths that permeate this blind society. “Shibbolet” means “ear of grain” in Hebrew, but to discover its other meaning, we must turn to the Old Testament (dating back more than 3,000 years). Specifically, to the Book of Judges, chapter 12, verses 5 and 6.
When the Ephraimites, fleeing for their lives, sought to cross the Jordan, the Gileadites were waiting for them and made them pronounce “shibbolet”, which the Ephraimites could not do properly; and if they failed to do so, they would be killed on the spot. According to the Holy Scriptures, around 42,000 died in these circumstances.
Since then, “shibboleth” has come to be understood as any identifying characteristic – be it cultural, religious, ethnic, linguistic or of any other nature – that identifies the outsider. The outsider who must be cast out, persecuted or killed. Historically, religion has been a recurring, absurd “shibboleth”, but so too has any other equally absurd difference. In September last year, none other than the United States Supreme Court ruled that ‘racial bias’ or the imperfect use of English were sufficient grounds for immigration patrols to make an arrest. This is “shibboleth” in its purest form. We cannot agree with this.
Let us pass this on to our students and do what Pessoa demanded of himself and told the poet Côrtes-Rodrigues in 1915: “… to work, as much as I can and in every way I can, for the progress of humanity and the broadening of humanity’s consciousness.”[11] It could not be put more clearly.
With the exception of my mentor – out of gratitude – I have not cited any great jurists to whom we owe so much. Neither Kelsen, nor Santi Romano; and I did not do so because I did not wish to follow the path of reason. Instead, I wished to explore and reflect alongside those who question the most sensitive aspects of the human spirit. This is because I believe this is the path that legal education must follow in the 21st century in order to restore the civilising process. We should stand with Vinicius de Moraes and his ‘Rosa de Hiroshima’,[12] rather than with Mao, for whom “political power grows out of the barrel of a gun”. Violence is, without doubt, part of human behaviour; all species use it to achieve their goals, but precisely for that reason – because it is common to all species – this trait does not set us apart from other animals. What sets us apart are certain sensibilities and the capacity to build and embrace values; that is what makes us human. Mozart sets us apart as a species; Gandhi sets us apart; the violent do not.
I would like to conclude with this amusing observation by the well-known Greek writer Nikos Kazantzakis: “What a strange machine man is! You fill him with bread, wine, fish, and radishes, and out comes sighs, laughter, and dreams”. We should make the most of this marvellous effect and continue dreaming of a better world. Help me to fulfil the promise I made to my children. Let’s teach law for the greater good.
[1] See The Holy See, Encyclical Letter Magnifica Humanitas of His Holiness Pope Leo XIV on safeguarding the human person in the time of artificial intelligence, available at https://www.vatican.va/content/leo-xiv/en/encyclicals/documents/20260515-magnifica-humanitas.html.
[2] Federico García Lorca, La Aurora, from Pueta en Nova York, translated by Stephen Spender and JL Gili, available at https://www.wussu.com/poems/lorca_la_aurora.htm.
[3] The original reads: “Sur mes cahiers d’écolier/ Sur mon pupitre et les arbres/ sur le sable sur la neige/ j’écris ton nom“. Paul Eluard, Liberté, 1942, available at https://www.poetica.fr/poeme-279/liberte-paul-eluard/. The excerpt has been freely translated into English.
[4] The original reads: “(…) libertad (…) te encuentras aguardando / alguien temerario y osado / que se digne a conquistarte.” Pablo Neruda, Canto a la Libertad, 1950, available at https://emigreat.org/canto-a-la-libertad/. The excerpt has been freely translated into English.
[5] Luis García Montero, A puerta cerrada (2011-2017) (Visor de Poesía, 2018).
[6] The original reads: “Todo lo que te une a la palabra yo/es ahora un peligro”. García Montero, A puerta cerrada. The excerpt has been freely translated into English
[7] Available at https://www.corteidh.or.cr/docs/opiniones/seriea_32_en.pdf.
[8] Available at https://docs.un.org/en/a/res/79/1.
[9] Available at: https://docs.un.org/en/A/80/L.65.
[10] The original lyrics of the song read: “tenemos el mismo miedo a morir, idéntica fragilidad, (…) y los mismos deseos de amar y de que alguien nos ame a su vez”. The excerpt has been freely translated into English.
[11] The original reads: “… trabalhar, quanto possa e em tudo quanto possa, para o progresso da humanidade e o alargamento da consciência da humanidade”, in Fernando Pessoa, Carta a Armando Côrtes-Rodrigues, 19 January 1915, available at http://arquivopessoa.net/textos/3510.The excerpt has been freely translated into English.
[12] The famous poem depicts and criticises the horrors brought about by the atomic bomb.
Picture credit: by Kari Alfonso on pexels.com.
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