#1 ·
I was sitting in a coffee shop the other day, watching a documentary on some old Cold War-era investigation, and it hit me how much we rely on the idea of "closure." We talk about it constantly in therapy, in our friendships, and in our news cycles. We treat closure like it’s a destination—a place you arrive at once the perpetrator is caught, or once the gavel finally falls, or once the statute of limitations expires. But lately, I’ve been wondering if closure is actually a myth we tell ourselves to keep from feeling overwhelmed by the sheer scale of human cruelty.
There is something deeply unsettling about the way time interacts with accountability. On one hand, we have this beautiful, idealistic notion that justice is an absolute constant—that even if it takes forty years, the moral arc of the universe still bends toward justice. It’s a comforting thought. It suggests that no one is truly "away" and that the past is never actually past. We want to believe that the decades spent in hiding or living a quiet, unremarkable life don't actually erase the weight of what was done.
But then there’s the darker, more cynical side of that same coin. If justice takes half a century to arrive, does it still serve the same purpose? When a person is finally held to account for something that happened during a completely different era, a different political landscape, and a different generation, is it a victory for the victims, or is it a symbolic gesture that can’t actually undo the damage? I find myself caught between these two feelings. I want the truth to come out, no matter how late it is, but I also feel this weird sense of futility when I realize how much life has passed in the interim.
I think about the families of those who were lost in massive historical upheavals. For them, the "news" isn't just a headline; it's a ghost that has been living in their living rooms for decades. For a family member, a sudden development in an old case isn't just a piece of information—it’s a reopening of a wound that they might have finally managed to scab over. It’s a reminder that the world they thought they lived in—a world where things are settled and resolved—was actually built on top of a massive, unaddressed crater.
It makes me question our modern obsession with "moving on." In our current culture, we are so pressured to leave the past behind, to focus on the "now," and to avoid getting bogged down in historical grievances. But how can you move on when the foundations of your society or your family are built on unresolved violence or systemic injustice? If we ignore the past to maintain "social cohesion," are we actually being peaceful, or are we just being cowards? Are we just burying the bodies deeper so we don't have to look at them?
I also wonder about the psychological toll on the people who have spent decades evading the consequences of their actions. Is there a way to live a "normal" life when you know the clock is ticking? Is there such a thing as a peaceful old age for someone who has spent their entire existence running? It’s a terrifying thought—that for some, the end of life isn't a quiet fading away, but a sudden, jarring collision with a reality they thought they had outrun.
Ultimately, I’m struggling with the idea of whether justice is about the individual or about the truth. If we catch a person after forty years, we’ve achieved a legal victory. But have we achieved a moral one? Does the truth actually change the outcome for the people who suffered, or does it just provide a formal acknowledgment that the world was wrong?
Do you think there's a point where the pursuit of historical justice becomes more about symbolic closure for society than actual restitution for the victims?
There is something deeply unsettling about the way time interacts with accountability. On one hand, we have this beautiful, idealistic notion that justice is an absolute constant—that even if it takes forty years, the moral arc of the universe still bends toward justice. It’s a comforting thought. It suggests that no one is truly "away" and that the past is never actually past. We want to believe that the decades spent in hiding or living a quiet, unremarkable life don't actually erase the weight of what was done.
But then there’s the darker, more cynical side of that same coin. If justice takes half a century to arrive, does it still serve the same purpose? When a person is finally held to account for something that happened during a completely different era, a different political landscape, and a different generation, is it a victory for the victims, or is it a symbolic gesture that can’t actually undo the damage? I find myself caught between these two feelings. I want the truth to come out, no matter how late it is, but I also feel this weird sense of futility when I realize how much life has passed in the interim.
I think about the families of those who were lost in massive historical upheavals. For them, the "news" isn't just a headline; it's a ghost that has been living in their living rooms for decades. For a family member, a sudden development in an old case isn't just a piece of information—it’s a reopening of a wound that they might have finally managed to scab over. It’s a reminder that the world they thought they lived in—a world where things are settled and resolved—was actually built on top of a massive, unaddressed crater.
It makes me question our modern obsession with "moving on." In our current culture, we are so pressured to leave the past behind, to focus on the "now," and to avoid getting bogged down in historical grievances. But how can you move on when the foundations of your society or your family are built on unresolved violence or systemic injustice? If we ignore the past to maintain "social cohesion," are we actually being peaceful, or are we just being cowards? Are we just burying the bodies deeper so we don't have to look at them?
I also wonder about the psychological toll on the people who have spent decades evading the consequences of their actions. Is there a way to live a "normal" life when you know the clock is ticking? Is there such a thing as a peaceful old age for someone who has spent their entire existence running? It’s a terrifying thought—that for some, the end of life isn't a quiet fading away, but a sudden, jarring collision with a reality they thought they had outrun.
Ultimately, I’m struggling with the idea of whether justice is about the individual or about the truth. If we catch a person after forty years, we’ve achieved a legal victory. But have we achieved a moral one? Does the truth actually change the outcome for the people who suffered, or does it just provide a formal acknowledgment that the world was wrong?
Do you think there's a point where the pursuit of historical justice becomes more about symbolic closure for society than actual restitution for the victims?