For advocates—sometimes lawyers, but not always—who work on hostage and wrongful detention cases, the public often sees only the final headline: a release, a swap, a return home. Keep in mind that most of these cases rarely come to light. And that is good. That should be the gold standard for resolving any wrongful detention case.

Unfortunately, especially here in the United States, there is a growing perception that unless something is on a liquid display monitor, it is not real. Of course, when a sovereign or non-sovereign wrongful detention case extends to six months or more, that hard no-media rule starts to melt somewhat. But we can discuss that, perhaps, in another post.

What is rarely visible is the long stretch of uncertainty beforehand—months or years marked by fragmented information, shifting political incentives, and families caught between hope and exhaustion. My work on hostage cases—and in my view, all wrongful detention cases in this space are hostage cases in degrees, so I refer to them that way—has taught me that success is rarely linear, and that law, while essential, is never sufficient on its own.

One of the most consequential developments in recent U.S. practice has been the Robert Levinson Hostage Recovery and Hostage-Taking Accountability Act (the “Levinson Act”). It represents an attempt to bring structure, accountability, and coordination to a problem that historically relied on ad hoc public or private diplomacy and improvisation. Experience also reveals the challenges of implementing the Act—and the limits of exporting it wholesale to the international level.

The Reality of Hostage Advocacy

Every case begins with asymmetry. The detaining state or non-state actor controls the person, the process, and the narrative. Families, advocates, and even governments often operate with partial information at best. When dealing with authoritarian systems, opacity is not a bug; it is a feature. In more “respectable” legal systems, procedural complexity can be just as paralyzing. The latter is especially true in the U.S., where we have few, if any, practical tools to leverage the legal system to compel action by those who are supposed to do the work.

A recurring challenge is expectation management. Detainees and families understandably want speed, certainty, and transparency. All three are extremely challenging to provide, at least in the United States. Governments—and, to a certain extent, non-state actors—move slowly, constrained by diplomatic equities, the vagaries of diplomacy, intelligence sensitivities, and domestic politics. Advocates often function as translators between these worlds, helping detainees and families understand what is possible while pushing governments to use the tools they already have.

Success, when it comes, usually reflects converging pressures—not a single decisive move: diplomatic engagement, political cost-raising, third-party mediation, economic leverage, and carefully calibrated public accountability when needed. Law can help organize these tools, but it cannot substitute for judgment, strategy, or moral clarity. John Jay made the point in Federalist No. 64, noting that successful foreign negotiations often depend on “secrecy and dispatch” and the practical steps that make agreement possible—an early reminder that law can structure action, but human judgment determines outcomes. Most cases, thankfully, are handled—and resolved—out of the spotlight.

The Levinson Act: A Practical Assessment

The Levinson Act was a necessary intervention, and it has helped make the American process somewhat more manageable. I was, and remain, skeptical of the utility of this process because, in an ideal world, our diplomats can and should resolve these cases without much fanfare or bureaucratic inertia. So what works?  I am limited by space, but here are a few high and low points.

The Levinson Act clarified roles within the U.S. government, elevated hostage recovery as a national priority, and created a formal process for determining whether a U.S. national has been wrongfully detained. That determination matters. It unlocks resources, focuses senior-level attention, and signals seriousness to foreign governments. There are now even more people who work in this space, and they are eager to help.

That said, the Act has produced real successes. It has improved interagency coordination, professionalized advocacy, and ensured that hostage cases are not quietly sidelined. These are meaningful gains—and they matter deeply to families.

In practice, however, implementation has been uneven and, as expected, the process has become another stove-piped mechanism that keeps families and advocates at bay—subject to the whims of unwritten bureaucratic codes and political considerations by political appointees. Here are three areas that, in the short term, require careful consideration by policymakers in Congress and the executive branch if we are to continue using this mechanism.

First, the designation process is slow, opaque, and, in some cases, unduly political. A modicum of due process would help remedy this, but I doubt there is any appetite to inject administrative process into what is fundamentally a foreign policy issue. Families often wait months or years without a clear explanation of how decisions are made or what evidence is being weighed. While confidentiality is sometimes necessary, prolonged silence undermines trust and fuels frustration. In practice, when a lawyer is assisting on a case, there is little or no effective due process. We advocate in a regulatory vacuum—an accountability gap where law, policy, politics, and bureaucracy collide.  The state is aware of this and, not surprisingly, exploits it.

Second, there is a growing terminology gap between “wrongful detention,” “hostage,” and “unjust detention,” particularly as applied to non-U.S. nationals. A legacy from the Cold War, the U.S. government still advocates for the political rights of non-U.S. nationals such as political prisoners. This drains substantial political resources from American cases. The distinction may seem semantic, but it has real consequences.

The Levinson Act is a U.S. statute designed to protect U.S. nationals. When similar language is used internationally without equivalent legal obligations or enforcement mechanisms, it risks diluting accountability. There is no doubt that it also impacts efforts to secure the release of U.S. nationals in countries where the American government also uses its political clout to beat over the head a rogue regime.

Third, there is the problem of mission drift. Offices created to coordinate and resolve the most complex cases can become clearinghouses for processes rather than engines of resolution. When everyone is responsible, no one is fully accountable. When this law was enacted, it clearly contemplated a reporting mechanism that would provide the office’s leader direct access to the President and the Secretary of State. That, in practice, needs to happen more than it does.

Should the Levinson Act Be Replicated Internationally?

As I shared in testimony on the subject before a Committee of the Australian Senate, and many times with American policymakers and professionals, the short answer is: not as-is, if at all.

The Levinson Act is an imperfect response to a complex problem, but it works because it is anchored in U.S. political realities. It assumes, among other things, that a government is willing—and able—to deploy diplomatic, economic, and political tools on behalf of its citizens. Many states lack those capabilities. Others lack the will. In some cases, we contend with both; with non-state actors, the process is even more complex.

An international version of the Act, divorced from sovereign enforcement power, risks becoming aspirational rather than operational. Declarations, conventions, and reporting mechanisms can raise awareness, but they do not compel behavior—especially from regimes that use detention as leverage. Consider the international convention against the taking of hostages. That does not mean international cooperation is useless. It implies that it must be designed differently.

Recommendations Going Forward

Based on experience, several adjustments—domestic and international—would strengthen hostage response efforts:

— Prevention. All governments need to do a better job raising awareness of travel hygiene, and impress upon travelers that they should do as much as they can to prevent these cases from happening—including not traveling to certain places. And if you must travel, take steps to have a plan in case you do land in a mess. The government should be a resource of last resort that, in an ideal world, never finds out you were wrongfully detained.

— Clearer standards and timelines. Even if the process remains private to stakeholders, designation processes should have presumptive timelines and clearer explanations, even if details remain confidential. Process opacity should not be the default.

— Re-center ambassadors and chiefs of mission. In many cases, the most effective negotiators are not special envoys but ambassadors and other advocates with local knowledge, relationships, and authority. Central offices should support—not replace—this role. Consular officials are on the front lines of this, and perhaps could use updated training.

— Differentiate advocacy from diplomacy. Families need advocates focused on outcomes, not institutional equilibrium. Governments need negotiators focused on leverage, not language. Blurring these roles weakens both.

— International coordination among capable states. Rather than universal replication of the Levinson model, a coalition of “responsible nations” with real leverage should coordinate pressure, share intelligence, and align consequences for hostage-taking behavior. The ingredients are already in place, but there is tension between doing this at the international scale and through a national mechanism.

— Restore consequences. Hostage-taking persists because it works. Sanctions, visa restrictions, and reputational costs must be predictable rather than symbolic.

Closing Thought

Hostage advocacy sits at the uncomfortable intersection of law, politics, and human suffering. Statutes like the Levinson Act are indispensable tools—but tools nonetheless. They work best when paired with moral clarity, strategic patience, and the willingness to impose real costs on those who treat human beings as bargaining chips. For families, the wait is never abstract. Every improvement in process, accountability, and resolution matters. And every successful return is a reminder that persistence—grounded in realism rather than illusion—can still move even the most immovable systems.

By: Jason Poblete – President & Counsel, Global Liberty Alliance