Georgia’s insanity defenses have long reflected tension between accountability
and mental illness. The State’s statutory framework, which preserves both a
“mental incapacity” and “delusional compulsion” defense, reflects this tension.
Yet for decades, the Supreme Court of Georgia’s decision in Bailey v. State
imposed a judicial limitation: a defendant who “brought about” her own delusion
through voluntary acts or omissions could not claim insanity. The court’s recent
decision in State v. Wierson marks a turning point. In Wierson, the court
considered whether noncompliance with psychiatric medication preempts the
defendant from invoking statutory insanity defenses. Rejecting Bailey, the court
reasserted the primacy of statutory text and clarified that insanity defenses
hinge solely on the defendant’s mental state at the time of the offense, not the
prior causes of that condition.
Through its factual background, legal reasoning, and broader implications,
Wierson marks a pivotal shift toward textualism in Georgia’s insanity defense
jurisprudence, carrying significant consequences for mental-health law,
evidentiary practice, and legislative authority.
The Bill of Rights established a series of fundamental American individual
rights, from the freedom of speech to the right to a fair trial, that the
federal government cannot violate. Yet, across a conceptual divide lies a
landscape of other crucial rights the Framers never enumerated. Substantive due
process is one legal mechanism that bridges that gap: extending the
Constitution’s protection to these other fundamental rights. Grounded in the
Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments, substantive due process enables plaintiffs to
sue for government violations of rights that, though unenumerated in the
Constitution, are long-recognized by common law and essential for American
liberty.
In Littlejohn v. School Board of Leon County, decided in March 2025, the United
States Court of Appeals for the Eleventh Circuit erected a new obstacle for
substantive due process plaintiffs. In that case, the Littlejohns asserted a
substantive due process claim against a school for violating their parental
rights. The Eleventh Circuit dismissed their claim, holding that the Littlejohns
must allege facts that “shock the conscience” to sue the school.
The Eleventh Circuit’s application of the “shocks-the-conscience” standard as a
threshold barrier in Littlejohn jeopardizes fundamental rights protection.
Typically, when a government action violates fundamental rights, that action
must survive strict scrutiny review. Under strict scrutiny, the government has
the burden to prove that its action was narrowly tailored to a compelling
government interest. The Littlejohn ruling inserts a preliminary burden on
plaintiffs: requiring them to show that the government’s conduct shocks the
conscience. Under this framework, plaintiffs who cannot meet this initial burden
automatically lose, even when the government’s action would not survive strict
scrutiny review. This test even applies to fundamental rights claims, as it did
in Littlejohn, effectively imposing a new hurdle for substantive due process
plaintiffs seeking to vindicate their fundamental rights.
The Prison Litigation Reform Act is celebrating its 30th birthday this year. It
was designed to make it harder for incarcerated people to file lawsuits
challenging the constitutionality of their conditions of confinement and to
restrict their remedies even when they do so successfully. It has been wildly
effective at achieving those objectives. It has also propped up mass
incarceration and facilitated the persistence of dismal conditions of
confinement in carceral facilities in the United States.
The PLRA’s exhaustion requirement—arguably its most damaging provision—silences
carceral voices without regard for the merit of their complaints. It does so by
mandating dismissal of prisoner plaintiff complaints if the plaintiffs have not
managed to navigate labyrinthine carceral grievance procedures before filing
their lawsuits. It thereby violates the tenants of social psychology’s
procedural justice theory. It also causes profound epistemic injustice, while
compounding the epistemic injustices already relevant to carceral populations.
This Article thus confronts the dual procedural justice and epistemic injustice
harms of PLRA exhaustion.
In this moment in the United States, where we are seeing a resurgence of
tough-on-crime fearmongering (in spite of dropping crime rates), confronting the
humanity of incarcerated people and the corrosive dehumanizing reality of
carceral conditions is as essential as it has ever been. That means it’s beyond
time to put a stop to the PLRA’s deliberate silencing of carceral voices,
especially through its exhaustion requirement. The Prison Litigation Reform Act
deserves no more birthdays.
The prohibition of cruel and unusual punishment in the Eighth Amendment of the
U.S. Constitution requires that execution methods avoid “superadding pain.” The
U.S. Supreme Court has held that the imposition of a death sentence should
include no additional pain beyond that needed to kill. That means, for example,
that while pain may be inherent in the method of killing, torture is prohibited.
As concerns about the pain involved in lethal injections has increased, states
have begun executions by shooting inmates in the heart and by suffocation
through gas mask. These methods have been used despite evidence that they
superadd pain.
The only method that truly complies with the Supreme Court’s jurisprudence
requiring that executions inflict no more pain than necessary to kill is
execution by shooting the inmate in the back of the head. There is abundant
evidence that shooting the condemned in the back of the head with a direct
bullet into the brainstem would cause a faster, painless death than current
methods. While a head shot avoids superadding pain to death, it raises the
distressing images of a disfiguring and mutilating head wound, accompanied by
blood and brain splatter, as well as the image of shooting an inmate from
behind. Such images risk offending Supreme Court dicta requiring executions
respect the ‘dignity of man.’
Because there is no execution method that both avoids superadding pain while
also protecting the dignity of the executed, there is no possible way to execute
without violating the Eighth Amendment to the United States Constitution.
Accordingly, at least given current technology, the death penalty is
unconstitutional.
This article explores whether Guantanamo detainees are entitled to
constitutional protections at military commission trials. In 2006, Congress
passed the Military Commissions Act (“MCA”). Its goal was to establish a fair
system to try foreign detainees accused of war crimes. The ensuing nineteen
years have revealed that the system needs reform. The most important cases, such
as the 9/11 and U.S.S. Cole prosecutions, are still bogged down in pre-trial
litigation that has lasted over a decade. But before policy makers consider
reforms, they should know what constitutional protections apply at a military
commission. Federal courts have not answered that question. This article does.
Relying on constitutional text, structure, and history, this article explains
why Guantanamo detainees are not entitled to any constitutional protections at a
military commission.
Justice Clarence Thomas appears to be on a mission to reconsider the actual
malice standard adopted sixty years ago by the Supreme Court of the United
States in New York Times v. Sullivan. And Thomas has not been a lone voice
crying in the wilderness—others also have questioned New York Times. While New
York Times represents a big shift in the law for those cases to which it
applies, the scope of its precise holding is relatively narrow—New York Times
protects publications about the official conduct of public officials.
Moreover, focusing on the precise facts in the New York Times case narrows the
holding even more. The libelous advertisement published by the New York Times
criticized the City of Montgomery’s official response to the local
manifestation of the Civil Rights Movement. The publication never named the
plaintiff J.B. Sullivan and was never proved to cause any specific harm. Thus,
while plaintiff Sullivan’s civil suit against the New York Times masqueraded as
a private libel suit, it was, in essence, a prosecution for seditious libel
(libel against the government), and New York Times held essentially that such
seditious libel prosecutions are unconstitutional.
This Article argues that such prosecutions for seditious libel had always been
distinguished in America from private libel actions. And the inverse also is
true; unlike defamatory publications about individuals, criticisms of government
have always been especially valued in America. Therefore, the core holding of
New York Times is that the First Amendment protects personally harmless
publications criticizing the government, works no great innovation in American
defamation law. To demonstrate this point, the main body of this Article will
show that many Anglo-American thought leaders throughout the Eighteenth and
early Nineteenth centuries saw and emphasized this important distinction between
libeling a human and libeling the government, with the latter’s being more
worthy of more protection.
After this brief introduction, this Article will first survey the holding in New
York Times v. Sullivan. Then the Article will review the history leading up to
and immediately following the adoption of the First Amendment with an eye to the
important historical distinction between seditious libel and libel of a private
party. Then the Supreme Court’s post-New York Times blurring of this important
distinction will be noted before the Article concludes briefly.
As a guide to understanding—and applying—the doctrine of substantive due process
under the Fourteenth Amendment, Obergefell v. Hodges seems to have enjoyed a
relatively short reign. Less than ten years after the Supreme Court of the
United States held that individuals enjoy a fundamental right under the
Fourteenth Amendment to marry a person of the same sex, the Court in Dobbs v.
Jackson Women’s Health Organization turned to a different approach to the task
of identifying and enforcing unenumerated constitutional rights. Dobbs, like
Obergefell, is not without its problems: where the substantive due process
analysis articulated in Obergefell lacks rigor, the analysis in Dobbs lacks
sufficient attention to context. Obergefell may glance too lightly at history
and tradition, but Dobbs accords them a weight they cannot bear.
There is another way to think about unenumerated constitutional rights—more than
one, in fact. Alternative approaches lie within the reach of state
constitutional law. They are illustrated in a post-Dobbs case from the
Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court (the “SJC”), interpreting the Declaration
of Rights—the Commonwealth’s Bill of Rights-equivalent. The decision in Kligler
v. Attorney General argues for thinking differently about unenumerated
constitutional rights, as well as the judiciary’s relationship to constitutions
and constitutional interpretation. The framework proposed in Kligler recognizes
that there are circumstances in which the judicial recognition of unenumerated
rights as fundamental is appropriate while, at the same time, it respects the
limits of the judiciary’s role in a constitutional democracy.
This Article proceeds, first, to unpack the majority’s approach in Obergefell to
substantive due process. I turn next to Dobbs and the doctrinal analysis that
the Supreme Court applied in the decision that overturned Roe v. Wade and
Planned Parenthood v. Casey. Finally, I consider the recent attention the SJC in
Kligler devoted to the development of a comprehensive substantive due process
analysis that seeks both to cabin judicial discretion (which the Obergefell
framework fails effectively to do) and appreciate the importance of creating an
avenue for doctrinal evolution in constitutional law (which the Dobbs framework
fails effectively to do). Kligler presents an alternative to the current federal
substantive due process analysis—one rooted in a pluralist approach that
considers history, precedent, ethical principles, and the practical consequences
of recognizing unenumerated interests as fundamental. This framework provides
both the analytical guardrails missing from Obergefell and the analytical
flexibility missing from Dobbs.
My aim throughout this Article is to examine the complexity of substantive due
process problems from the perspective of those lawyers who initially will
confront arguments about the metes and bounds of substantive due process and,
especially, trial court judges, both state and federal. It is the judges on
these courts, and not the relatively well-resourced justices of the Supreme
Court, who must in the first instance answer questions about the existence and
reach of unenumerated constitutional rights. Respecting the limits of their
role, most of these judges will turn—like the advocates appearing before them—to
the guidance provided them by the Supreme Court and their state’s highest court
and attempt, as best they can, to wring meaning from the decisions of the
highest court in the land (and its state counterparts).
In this Article, I recount the brief history from the Philadelphia Convention,
during which scant attention was paid to a bill of rights, to the ratification
of the Bill of Rights only four years later. Although the delegates to the
convention made frequent reference to individual liberty as central to their
mission, and several of the newly enacted state constitutions included bills of
rights, there was no serious consideration given to including a bill of rights
in the constitution proposed for ratification by the states. In response to the
occasional suggestions during the convention for specific rights guarantees,
most of the Framers argued there is no need for a bill of rights in the
constitution of a government of enumerated and divided powers. The proposed
constitution, they insisted, is in its nature a bill of rights. The Framers
would not have expected those who have since exercised the powers of the
national government to embrace their theory. They are the ones, after all, who
are to be constrained. But the Framers would be disappointed that only rarely
have the courts recognized the importance of the Constitution’s disbursement of
power to the protection of individual rights.
“Freddy Mercury did not confess to having ‘just killed a man’ by putting ‘a gun
against his head’ and ‘pulling the trigger.’ Bob Marley did not confess to
having shot a sheriff. And Johnny Cash did not confess to shooting ‘a man in
Reno, just to watch him die.’” However, a troubling trend in state and federal
courts across the country is that rap lyrics are not being granted the same
protections and latitudes that other forms of artistic expressions are afforded.
In a movement that is shocking—yet formulaic—creators of rap music are seeing
their lyrics used against them in court as autobiographical confessions instead
of artistic expression.
The longest trial in the history of Georgia, State v. Jeffery Williams (“YSL
RICO case”), was a case that seemed to be written by a team of Hollywood’s
greatest writers. The case commenced in 2022, when prosecutors indicted
twenty-eight defendants on charges alleging violations of Georgia’s Racketeer
Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (“RICO”) statute, along with multiple
associated violent offenses. The scope of the case was extraordinary, as
evidenced by the fifty-six count indictment. The charges included murder,
assault, robbery, theft, gun possession, and illegal drug possession, arising
from conduct in and around the Atlanta metropolitan area dating back to 2012.
The trial itself was marked by a series of unusual and highly publicized
incidents, including the inadvertent playing of pornographic material in open
court, the stabbing of a co-defendant while in pretrial detention, allegations
that another co-defendant engaged in a drug transaction inside the courtroom,
the unintended livestreaming of jurors’ faces, and the incarceration of a
defense attorney for contempt—an order that was subsequently stayed. However,
the trial ultimately centered on the prosecution’s strategic and controversial
use of Jeffrey Williams’s— professionally known as Young Thug—rap lyrics as
evidence to implicate him and others in the alleged criminal conduct. This is an
ever-growing evidentiary tactic that raises First Amendment concerns created by
viewpoint-based discrimination against rap music and the culture it is connected
to.
Few settings test the limits of free speech more sharply than public schools,
where questions of personal identity, government authority, and constitutional
rights often intersect. Because the government has an interest in regulating
what its employees do and say, First Amendment protections afforded to
government employees are diluted in comparison to those afforded to private
citizens. A contemporary example of this tension is the question of whether the
government may regulate a public-school teacher’s use of pronouns or titles in
their own classroom.
In 2023, Florida enacted a statute forbidding teachers from using pronouns or
titles that differ from the sex listed on their birth certificates. The statute
directly affected Katie Wood, a transgender high school teacher who referred to
herself as “Ms. Wood” and used “she/her” pronouns in her classroom. Wood sued,
claiming the law violated her right to free speech. The United States Court of
Appeals for the Eleventh Circuit ultimately disagreed. In Wood v. Florida
Department of Education, the court held that when a teacher uses pronouns or
titles while addressing students in the classroom, they speak as a government
employee—not as a private citizen. Because the court classified such speech as
occurring “on the clock,” the court concluded it is not afforded protection
under the First Amendment, and as a result, Florida’s law could not be
challenged on those grounds.
As a matter of first impression in the Eleventh Circuit, the court defined the
scope of a teacher’s official duties, and by doing so, became the first court in
the United States to classify a teacher’s use of personal pronouns and title as
government speech. Wood’s reach extends beyond Florida: by treating nearly all
in-class communication as being made pursuant to official duties, the Eleventh
Circuit gave public schools—and potentially other government employers—broad
discretion to regulate their employees’ words. Accordingly, Wood has the
potential to alter the environment of many public-school classrooms.
The Bill of Rights established a series of fundamental American individual
rights, from the freedom of speech to the right to a fair trial, that the
federal government cannot violate. Yet, across a conceptual divide lies a
landscape of other crucial rights the Framers never enumerated. Substantive due
process is one legal mechanism that bridges that gap: extending the
Constitution’s protection to these other fundamental rights. Grounded in the
Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments, substantive due process enables plaintiffs to
sue for government violations of rights that, though unenumerated in the
Constitution, are long-recognized by common law and essential for American
liberty.
In Littlejohn v. School Board of Leon County, decided in March 2025, the United
States Court of Appeals for the Eleventh Circuit erected a new obstacle for
substantive due process plaintiffs. In that case, the Littlejohns asserted a
substantive due process claim against a school for violating their parental
rights. The Eleventh Circuit dismissed their claim, holding that the Littlejohns
must allege facts that “shock the conscience” to sue the school.
The Eleventh Circuit’s application of the “shocks-the-conscience” standard as a
threshold barrier in Littlejohn jeopardizes fundamental rights protection.
Typically, when a government action violates fundamental rights, that action
must survive strict scrutiny review. Under strict scrutiny, the government has
the burden to prove that its action was narrowly tailored to a compelling
government interest. The Littlejohn ruling inserts a preliminary burden on
plaintiffs: requiring them to show that the government’s conduct shocks the
conscience. Under this framework, plaintiffs who cannot meet this initial burden
automatically lose, even when the government’s action would not survive strict
scrutiny review. This test even applies to fundamental rights claims, as it did
in Littlejohn, effectively imposing a new hurdle for substantive due process
plaintiffs seeking to vindicate their fundamental rights.
Georgia’s insanity defenses have long reflected tension between accountability
and mental illness. The State’s statutory framework, which preserves both a
“mental incapacity” and “delusional compulsion” defense, reflects this tension.
Yet for decades, the Supreme Court of Georgia’s decision in Bailey v. State
imposed a judicial limitation: a defendant who “brought about” her own delusion
through voluntary acts or omissions could not claim insanity. The court’s recent
decision in State v. Wierson marks a turning point. In Wierson, the court
considered whether noncompliance with psychiatric medication preempts the
defendant from invoking statutory insanity defenses. Rejecting Bailey, the court
reasserted the primacy of statutory text and clarified that insanity defenses
hinge solely on the defendant’s mental state at the time of the offense, not the
prior causes of that condition.
Through its factual background, legal reasoning, and broader implications,
Wierson marks a pivotal shift toward textualism in Georgia’s insanity defense
jurisprudence, carrying significant consequences for mental-health law,
evidentiary practice, and legislative authority.
In Maryland v. Wilson, the United States Supreme Court held that a police
officer may order a passenger of a lawfully stepped car to exit the vehicle.
This "bright-line rule" allows these intrusions as a matter of course and does
not require case-by-case determination.
Four factors were influential in my decision to write this survey paper
summarizing what economists believe theoretically and have found empirically to
be the major economic (and noneconomic) effects of monopoly. First, in my work
as an expert witness in antitrust cases representing both private parties and
public bodies, I have found a glaring lacuna in the minds of some judges, a
number of lawyers and most jurors in the area of antitrust economics. Second,
this feeling has been fortified by my guest lectures in antitrust law courses;
while the students are bright and the teacher dedicated, an acceptable level of
competence in antitrust economics had successfully evaded its pursuers. Third,
my reading of several law journals has convinced me that there are a large
number of legally competent antitrust lawyers who are not very familiar with
antitrust economics.
Finally, I was motivated by the growing realization that people do not regard
antitrust violations as very serious. The July 1974 issue of SCIENCE DIGEST
reported a cross-section study of Baltimore residents in which the respondents
were asked to rate the seriousness of crimes from 9 (most serious) to 1 (least
serious). The highest mean score recorded was "planned killing of a policeman"
(8.474), and the lowest mean score was "being drunk in public places" (2.849).
Of the 140 crimes listed three were of an antitrust genus. "Fixing prices of a
consumer product like gasoline" ranked 126 from the top (4.629), "fixing prices
of machines sold to businesses" ranked 127 (4.619), and "false advertising of a
headache remedy" ranked 132 (4.083). Offenses such as "breaking a plate glass
window in a shop," "refusal to make essential repairs in rental property,"
"shoplifting a carton of cigarettes from a supermarket," "driving while license
is suspended," "lending money at illegal interest rates," "joining a riot," and
"using pep pills" are each regarded as more serious than the antitrust
violations!
In Part I we will explore in some detail the economic (and some noneconomic)
effects of monopoly. In Part II we will examine briefly public policies toward
monopoly.
Social media platforms have overturned the previously known system of public
communication. As predicted at the outset, the spread of the public Internet
that started three decades ago has resulted in a paradigm shift in this field.
Now, anyone can publish their opinion outside the legacy media, at no
significant cost, and can become known and be discussed by others. Due to the
technological characteristics of the Internet, it might also be expected that
this kind of mass expression, with such an abundance of content, would
necessitate the emergence of gatekeepers, similar in function to the ones that
existed earlier for conventional media. The newsagent, post office, and cable or
satellite services have been replaced by the Internet service provider, the
server (host) provider and the like. However, no one could have foreseen that
the new gatekeepers of online communication would not only be neutral
transmitters or repositories but also active shapers of the communication
process, deciding on which user content on the Internet they deemed undesirable
and deciding which content, out of all the theoretically accessible content, is
actually displayed to individual users. Content filtering, deleting, blocking,
suspending, and ranking are all types of active interference with the exercise
of users’ freedom of speech and practices which also affect the interests of
other users in obtaining information. All this became an even greater and more
difficult-to-manage issue when, in certain sub-markets of the Internet, certain
giant tech companies’ services gained a monopoly or came close to doing so. This
process has emerged in connection with gatekeepers of a specific type: the most
important online platforms (social media, video sharing, search engines, web
stores). In this way, a new, unexpected obstacle to the exercise of freedom of
speech appeared, with the result that the earlier constitutional doctrines could
no longer be applied without any change. The crux of the problem is that the
platforms are privately owned. In formal terms, they are simply market players
which are not bound by the guarantees of freedom of speech imposed on public
bodies and which may enjoy the protection of freedom of speech themselves.
The availability of assassination of foreign leaders as a means of achieving
United States foreign policy objectives is an issue that has proven in recent
years to be a recurring one. However, it does not arise in isolation; instead it
is almost always part of a larger political controversy over United States
foreign policy objectives and whether force of any kind should be used to pursue
them. Certainly this was true with regard to the controversies that surrounded
United States policy, including alleged involvement in assassination plots
toward Cuba, Vietnam, the Congo, and the Dominican Republic in the 1960s, and
toward Chile in the early 1970s. It is also true, though to a lesser degree, of
more recent debates concerning the United States air strike against Libya in
April 1986 and the role of the United States in Panama prior to the December
1989 invasion. In each case there was, or later developed, significant
disagreement over the appropriateness of United States policy toward the nation
involved and over the use of force to induce changes in the nature or activities
of its government.
Inevitably, such disagreements have tended to distract attention from the manner
in which force might be applied; if the chosen objective appears not to be a
legitimate one or if the use of force seems unjustified, the relative merit of
an -attack on a military installation, for example, as seriously or productively
considered. The recent war in the Persian Gulf has again revived the controversy
and provided a new opportunity for debate. This time, however, the issue
appeared more starkly framed than previously. Public doubt as to the legitimacy
of the immediate objective-the ejection of Iraq from Kuwait-was for the most
part absent, and although there was disagreement about the timing and amount of
coercion to be used, force was generally perceived as a legitimate option. The
American public perceived Iraqi President Saddam Hussein, hardly a sympathetic
image, as probably the least ambiguous villain of the second half of the
twentieth century. Unchallenged by any significant political opposition prior to
the war, he appeared as the sole instigator of Iraq's seizure of Kuwait, as well
as the cause of its intransigence in the face of international insistence that
it withdraw.
It is understandable that a reader may be puzzled by the title of this study.
American lawyers are undoubtedly familiar with the notion of "constitutional"
courts established under Article III of the Constitution.1 They also are likely
to recall another class of federal tribunals, created by virtue of the
legislative authority vested in Congress by Article I of the Constitution.'
However, few lawyers and scholars are aware that there exists a third class of
courts created by the Constitution. These are executive courts that, from time
to time in the Republic's history, have been formed to administer justice, in
times of war or civil unrest, over territories occupied by American armed
forces.
There is no question that these tribunals have been considered anomalous, as
aberrations of established constitutional order. Indeed, little intellectual
effort has been expended in examining the constitutional place of presidential
courts. In the midst of war or its aftermath, few were brave enough to criticize
the President's establishment of courts of law. Fewer still were prepared to
argue that his power should be limited by other provisions of the Constitution.
Instead, a pattern of judicial deference begun with the establishment of the
first such court in the Mexican War of 1846 has persisted to this day.
Exceptions to this trend have been noted, and it may even be apparent that a new
constitutional practice of Article II courts has evolved. Nonetheless, the
President's power in this field has gone virtually unchallenged.
This Article carefully examines the creation, operation, and jurisprudence of
executive courts. As a first step, however, it is essential to accurately define
what is meant when one refers to an Article II court. This inquiry places in
sharp focus the traditional constitutional dichotomy between Article III
"constitutional" courts and Article I legislative tribunals. Adding presidential
courts to this matrix does not upset the analysis used heretofore; it merely
places a greater premium on identifying the constitutional source of power for
creating the court in question.
Once this Article clarifies what is and what is not an executive court, it will
introduce the historical examples of this institution. I have identified twelve
tribunals that satisfy the definition propounded here. Although most date from
the Civil War and before, four of them operated in this century, and one of them
rendered a judgment no more than twelve years ago. Undoubtedly others exist that
my research has not revealed. Each of these courts shared one thing in common:
they were established by federal authorities occupying territory as a result of
armed conflict. The constitutional problems raised by belligerent occupation,
including the maintenance of law and order and the establishment of justice,
will be considered since this provided the practical imperative for the exercise
of the President's power to constitute judicial tribunals. How the President
exercised and delegated this power is also significant. More important, however,
is to understand how the power was limited, whether by the President's own
restraint, judicial review, or the passage of time and the termination of
hostilities.