In the Rwandan village of Nyamata, survivors of the 1994 genocide gather not in a courtroom, but in a theatre. They come to watch Rwanda: My Hope, a community play performed by both survivors and perpetrators of the decades-old violence. On stage, they relive the horrors they endured and committed during this time. Through performance, they mourn, confess, and begin to heal. This is not justice as delivered by the legal system, but as felt through catharsis, dialogue, and shared humanity.
It is often said that “life imitates art,” but perhaps it’s the opposite: art imitates life.
In the wake of human rights violations, societies find themselves in a period of profound political, judicial, and social reckoning, and transitional justice mechanisms are often called upon to foster peace and reconciliation. Prosecutions, accountability, reparations, and truth commissions dominate this landscape—yet all of these depend heavily on institutional capacity and funding, which are frequently scarce in post-conflict settings. In Sierra Leone, for example, the reparations program has struggled for years to meet victims’ needs, with many survivors still waiting for promised support.
Cultural traditions, however, endure as the roots that anchor societies, nurturing both celebration and mourning. When tragedy strikes in the form of war or genocide, it’s like a wildfire—scorching the social landscape and leaving generations grappling with loss. No nation has developed an ideal solution that will instantly restore what was lost, nor does anyone have a perfect blueprint for renewal. Instead, societies must seek new ways to honor the past, plant the seeds of memory, and cultivate a future from the ashes. In this pursuit, when conventional approaches fall short, we turn to a powerful, ancient, and often overlooked tool: the arts.
Art as witness, art as balm
Throughout history, art has served as a transformative tool in cultural, social, and emotional contexts, inspiring empathy and driving action. More than a form of expression, art has amplified silenced voices, sparked movements for change, and become a powerful catalyst for the pursuit of justice. One only needs to think of Pablo Picasso’s Guernica or Mersad Berber’s Chronicle of Sarajevo to acknowledge that art is often a call for justice, at once a means of scrutiny and a way to memorialize and demand accountability. These works do not merely depict the suffering of those killed during the Spanish Civil War or the Siege of Sarajevo during the Bosnian War. Rather, they confront viewers with the moral and political realities behind violence, driving engagement with questions of responsibility, memory, and redress.
Transitional justice, too, extends beyond courtrooms and the ritualized language of law, engaging with the ways victims confront and process the past. Indeed, it reaches into the terrain of anthropology and sociology, acknowledging the deeper social and cultural dimensions of healing and accountability. As Elie Wiesel once wrote, “If the Greeks invented tragedy, the Romans the Epistle, and the Renaissance the sonnet, our generation invented a new literature, that of testimony.”
In its many expressions, art provides individuals and collectives with a means to process trauma. Psychoanalyst Anna Ornstein explains that when art supports identity development and symbolic expression, it can help victims emotionally navigate and heal from deeply inhumane experiences. Studies show that symbolization leads to the externalization of unformulated—and potentially overwhelming—emotions. Through artistic expression, individuals give form to the unspeakable, offering a pathway to engage with and make sense of trauma. For those scarred by genocide or war crimes, this can bring a sense of solace and emotional release, lightening the weight of isolation by making space for their pain to be seen, felt, and held by others.
Nevertheless, not all artistic expressions foster justice, diminish violence, or commemorate memory—some projects may accidentally cause further harm to communities, make light of their pain, reinforce harmful stereotypes, or disrespect important cultural stories and traditions. We can see this, for example, in the aftermath of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), when South African artist William Kentridge collaborated with the Handspring Puppet Company to create the play Ubu and the Truth Commission. This production sought to explore testimonies from the TRC. However, some survivors felt that Kentridge’s use of puppetry and abstract imagery risked trivializing the profound suffering recounted in the testimonies, reopening painful memories without providing healing. While intended to honor victims and educate the public, the exhibition was criticized for sensationalizing suffering and failing to offer the dignity survivors hoped for in post-Apartheid society.
As such, the success of arts-based transitional justice initiatives largely hinges on the aesthetic and ethical values artists, facilitators, and institutions alike bring to their efforts. This tension underscores the importance of aligning the aesthetic choices and goals of arts-based initiatives with the community’s needs, fostering both support and constructive critical reflection.
The Arpilleras movement in Chile
During General Pinochet’s military dictatorship in Chile (1973–1990), strict media censorship concealed the regime’s widespread human rights abuses, including enforced disappearances, torture, and extrajudicial killings.
In this climate of silence, the Vicariate of Solidarity, a human rights organization linked to the Catholic Church, took a bold step in 1976 by establishing a handicraft workshop that became a refuge for poor and working-class women, many of whom were grieving the disappearance of loved ones or seeking to express solidarity with victims of political violence. Together, these women transformed their grief into creative resistance, crafting textiles to sustain themselves and share their stories.
Using simple materials like burlap and fabric scraps, they created Arpilleras—colorful, tactile tapestries—that chronicled the brutal realities of life under the dictatorship. Far more than folk art, these “cloths of resistance” became visual testimonies of protest—hunger, military raids, grief, and the quiet pain of waiting filled the frames. Smuggled abroad and shared in exile communities, they broke through the regime’s imposed silence, becoming a global symbol of grassroots dissent.
As one Arpillerista explained, creating these tapestries provided her with a form of therapeutic expression. The first piece she made depicted the disappearance of her son. Through the image, she was able to preserve his memory, keeping it vivid and close, an act that offered her a sense of comfort and solace.
This is just one example among many others, like those in Libya, Guatemala, or South Africa, that show how works of art have been used as a reconciliatory mechanism.
Conclusion
This analysis offers a starting point from which to rethink the ways we pursue reconciliation in communities devastated by conflict and placed under the scrutiny of international criminal law. In this terrain, the arts should not be relegated to the margins of justice, as they are central to the healing process. Where international criminal law strives for accountability through rules and verdicts, it often falls silent in the face of grief, trauma, and memory. Art steps into that silence. Its value lies in its openness, offering ambiguity where law seeks clarity, embracing complexity, and creating a safe space for mourning, regret, or atonement. This is not the justice of the courtroom, but a justice of recognition, dignity, and emotional repair—one that makes space to glimpse a new and more humane future.