Transitional Justice in Law, History and Anthropology

1.0 Introduction

It has become almost axiomatic to suggest that societies emerging from protracted periods of conflict need to find ways to ‘come to terms with’ past human rights abuses. In recent decades, a set of mechanisms and tools known as ‘transitional justice’ has been developed with the goal of assisting states to confront the wrongdoings of repressive predecessor regimes. These mechanisms seek to ascribe individual criminal responsibility for past acts, enact punishment, provide opportunities for truth-telling, produce historical records of conflict and deliver reparations to victims. At its core, transitional justice works discursively to establish a break between the violent past and a peaceful, democratic future, and is based upon compelling frameworks of resolution, rupture and transition.

Over the past two decades, transitional justice, both a field of interdisciplinary scholarship and as practice, has seen an extraordinary rise. There has been a proliferation of war crimes courts and tribunals around the globe and a growing number of truth commissions. Transitional justice is now firmly entrenched as part of peacebuilding interventions that seek to promote stability, liberal democracy and a market economy in post-conflict societies, and has become ‘an article of faith as a catalyst for reclaiming societies in political and social imbalance and dysfunction’.¹

This Special Issue on Transitional Justice in Law, History and Anthropology unsettles many of the assumptions of transitional justice theory and practice by critically reflecting on the analytical frameworks of justice and injustice; history and record; healing, transition and resolution its proponents take for granted. Drawing together contributions from the disciplines of law, history and anthropology, Melissa Demian and I seek to open up critical conversations around these frameworks by exploring how they operate across time and space, as well as disciplinary boundaries. We adopt a broad view of transitional justice, recognising that a range of related mechanisms have been used in different geographical locations to respond to different reports of historical injustice. We acknowledge, too, that what are now termed ‘transitional justice mechanisms’ join a list of many other legal and quasi-legal mechanisms and processes, including Royal Commissions, Boards of Inquiry, magistrate courts, truth and reconciliation commissions, criminal courts (international, national and ‘hybrid’) and local village courts. A common thread running through this Special Issue is that these mechanisms are utilised by governments and, increasingly, international bodies such as the United Nations, in an attempt to resolve complex legacies of violence in ways that are often narrow, partial and incomplete, and reinforce existing relations of power.

Of particular interest to us are the closely linked concepts of resolution and transition. The concept of resolution, which is underpinned by an assumption that conflict is resolvable and that the law is the prime vehicle for achieving this resolution, is consistently reproduced from very large scale institutions (such as truth commissions, national and international tribunals) to small scale ones, such as local magistrate courts and village courts. This narrative is undoubtedly ‘seductive’² because it reinforces an idea that straightforward solutions can be found to complex historical and political problems. Yet, by foreclosing other, more nuanced, ways of thinking about those problems, and about what ‘justice’ may entail, it is also deeply problematic. For instance, narratives of resolution can paper over the extent to which transitional mechanisms do not always ‘resolve’ interpersonal disputes but may, at times, aggravate them. They may also render invisible the many other reasons why people engage with such mechanisms, for instance, to publicly shame family members or reconfigure relationships.³

The concept of transition, by contrast, is commonly applied to nation states, where it is embodied in the suggestion that states will be able to ‘move on’ from violent pasts by undergoing a linear transition from conflict to peace and liberal democracy. Here it helps to enact what Ruti Teitel refers to as a ritual of ‘bounded change’, a political rite of passage that, by representing and responding to certain forms of past violence, and relegating them to the ‘past’, announces a shared narrative of the future.⁴ As the work of Claire Moon has suggested, the narrative of transition is a progress narrative that has a clear beginning (conflict) and a clear end (peace or reconciliation), evolves ‘as if in a linear and developmental trajectory’ and has now come to appear natural or universal.⁵ It is a narrative that is undoubtedly convenient for fragile, post-conflict political elites seeking to consolidate new regimes, enable stable governance and construct new narratives of national identity and unity. It is also useful to post-conflict ‘interveners’ who may be seeking to downplay their own nation states’ contributions to colonial-era harms and reconstruct themselves as ‘saviours’ in its aftermath.⁶ Yet, just as this imagining of liberal societal progress remembers and responds to certain aspects of the past, it forgets others. Overlooked, for instance, are the underlying economic, social and institutional legacies that affect the ability of many so-called post-conflict states to become stable democracies. Many of these are legacies of colonialism. The narrative of transition also works to bolster the post-conflict peace-building ‘industry’ which, worryingly, tends to assume that external experts can implement solutions to conflict that embody universal values without regard to the specificities of local contexts.

That narratives of resolution and transition too often reinscribe, rather than disrupt, gendered power relations, is also apparent. What is easily eclipsed in the narrative of progression from conflict/violence to liberal democracy is that definitions of violence are deeply gendered, and tend to ignore the ‘everyday’ violence experienced by women in the private sphere. It also becomes easy to overlook the extent to which the achievement of liberal democracy does not necessarily equate to improvements in all areas of women’s lives.⁷ Obscured, for instance, is the structural violence and discrimination against women that, in many societies, is rooted in pre-conflict power relations and leads to the continued subordination of women following the formal end of conflict.⁸

This Special Issue seeks to destabilise the sharp distinction between ‘before’ and ‘after’ war or conflict that narratives of transition and resolution assume and reproduce. We also aim to examine the ways in which these narratives can become smokescreens that obfuscate the continuation of past injustices into the present. Yet, we acknowledge, too, that official attempts to enact rituals of bounded change that herald a new beginning are seldom completely successful or all-encompassing. As a number of contributions to the Special Issue show, these attempts often come up against, and are unravelled by, the counter efforts by victims of injustice or their supporters to keep the past alive. All of this is a reminder that there are no bright lines between the past and the present, and that closure can be ephemeral or elusive.

2.0 Overview of Articles

Broadly speaking, the contributions to this Special Issue adopt one of three analytical approaches to the investigation of transitional justice frameworks of resolution and transition. Each approach contributes to the project of unsettling these frameworks by analysing them from a slightly different angle. The first set of articles seek to ‘ground’ transitional justice by exploring how it operates across diverse geographic sites and is experienced by different actors. The second set of articles shows that transitional justice needs to be situated as part of a political and historical continuum rather than seen as something new. The third set of articles looks beyond state-centred and legalistic approaches to consider how transitional justice might be conceptualised in more creative, more expansive ways.

2.1 Grounding Transitional Justice: Sites, Voices, Relations

Transitional Justice is often viewed as a universal set of discourses, mechanisms, tools and practices that can be applied uniformly around the globe. The opening set of articles unsettles these assumptions by paying close attention to the ways in which transitional justice ‘travels’. By examining the lived experiences of transitional justice in diverse locations (from Papua New Guinea to Timor-Leste, from Cambodia to South Africa) and amongst diverse actors (village court participants, ‘ordinary’ people and female lawyers), these articles help to show how orthodox assumptions about transition, resolution, justice, injustice and agency are both unravelled and ascribed new meanings within in specific local contexts.

The opening article in the Special Issue, by Melissa Demian,⁹ works to problematise narratives of resolution through a finely grained case study of Papua New Guinea’s (PNG) village courts. Instigated at PNG’s independence, the village court system was intended to provide ordinary people with access to the legal system, and provides a highly public forum in which a wide range of grievances may be brought for general debate. Demian draws on long-term ethnographic observations to suggest that many of the cases managed by the courts ‘very patently do not produce “peace” and indeed may lay the groundwork for future conflict’.¹⁰ What kind of justice is being enacted in the village courts, she asks, ‘if not the “peace” of closure, completion and non-conflict’?¹¹

Focusing on two types of cases that are commonly brought to the village court — adultery accusations and sorcery accusations — Demian suggests that, while there is rarely an identifiable conclusion or resolution to such cases, the ‘having-out of problems in the open space of the court’ often appears to be an end in itself.¹² The village court can also provide an important mechanism of public shaming. Intriguingly, Demian also describes the way in which different people with an interest in a case will deliberately occupy different spatial positions during the court hearings. To explain the significance of these observations, Demian brings into conversation two different conceptions of justice: relational justice, drawn from anthropology; and spatial justice, drawn from legal theory and expounded by Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos.¹³ She suggests that what is occurring in the PNG village court cases is the interpellation of spatial justice with relational justice. What she means by this is that ‘people in PNG bring relations that have run into trouble into view in the space they create, through both the disposition of their bodies and of their speech, in the village court’.¹⁴ In this sense, the village courts may offer an ongoing and open-ended justice, rather than a justice of closure.

There are a number of synergies between Demian’s article and the second article, by Lia Kent,¹⁵ which similarly brings ideas of relationality — so often overlooked by the individualised focus of liberal transitional justice mechanisms — to the fore. With a geographic focus on Timor-Leste, Kent’s article destabilises the juxtaposition of ‘speech’ versus ‘silence’ that is central to the discourse and practice of transitional justice, in particular, the work of truth commissions. This juxtaposition, which suggests that silences must be ‘broken’ in order for both individuals and societies to ‘move on’ constructs silence in a negative light: as a marker of absence, pathology or repression.

Through a close reading of some of the ‘everyday’ ways in which East Timorese people are seeking to rebuild their lives in the aftermath of the 24-year Indonesian occupation, Kent shows how problematic this interpretation of silence can be. While acknowledging that silence is often associated with repression, shame and humiliation, Kent suggests that it might also, at times, be essential to the maintenance of critical relationships, the protection of reputations and the achievement of a better life for children in a context of enduring patterns of violence, poverty and stigmatisation. The apparent absence of verbal, public discussion about the past conflict also indicates that individuals and communities are working with its legacy in other ways, by for instance participating in ritual or community life. These rituals and practices, which underscore the centrality of embodied and relational forms of communication in the Timor-Leste context, show that individuals, families and communities are engaging in an enormous amount of work to negotiate the legacies of the conflict, suggesting that silence should not be equated with absence. Resonating with Demian’s observations of the PNG village courts, Kent also suggests that everyday strategies of social repair in Timor-Leste are ongoing, and that, while ‘tentative forms of “closure” and resolution may be possible, individuals, families and communities remain engaged in a dialogue with the past, rather than making a complete break with it’.

The third article, by Anna Bryson and Kieran McEvoy,¹⁶ which is similarly informed by rich empirical material, examines the experiences of female ‘cause lawyers’ in conflict and transitional societies. Focusing on the cases of Cambodia, Chile, Israel, Palestine, Tunisia and South Africa, and drawing on detailed interviews with female cause lawyers, the authors explore the ways in which these lawyers seek to ‘make a difference’ amid broader structural constraints. Bryson and McEvoy compellingly examine the personal, familial and relationship toll of involvement in cause lawyering and show how this intersects in complex ways with questions of gender. The comments of their interviewees illustrate the paradoxical effects of ‘transition’ for women, showing how, even though times of transition may allow for new ideas and opportunities to emerge, that newness can equally hide ‘deep pitfalls of structural and entrenched gender discrimination’.¹⁷ All of this means that the ‘“opportunities” arising for female lawyers during times of conflict and transition do not automatically translate into wider material gains for women in the legal profession — or indeed wider society’.¹⁸

Nonetheless, many of the stories highlighted by Bryson and McEvoy are inspiring, and suggest that despite the significant structural constraints upon their work, women exercise agency. What emerges from these narratives presented here is that these women cause lawyers are deeply invested in activism, and are at the ‘very heart of the social and political struggles of their respective societies’.¹⁹ While at times they may be ‘complicit in propping up and perpetuating deeply gendered processes, accommodations and structures’ they also use the law and legal settings as a space to engage in contests over political power.²⁰ By highlighting the creativity and energy of women cause lawyers, Bryson and McEvoy’s piece stands as a powerful corrective to the narrative of ‘women as victims’ that informs much transitional justice and research and practice.

2.2 Political and Historical Hauntings

The next set of articles continue to destabilise orthodox transitional justice assumptions by attending not only to questions of geography and space, but also to questions of time. By adopting an historical lens, these articles help to illuminate the ways in which past injustices continue to resonate in the present, and draw links between ‘modern’ transitional justice mechanisms and a much older set of legal and state tools (among them Commissions of Inquiry). By honing in on the ways in which historical injustices continue to haunt established liberal democracies, these articles also help to unsettle what Anne Orford refers to as the assumption that ‘massive human rights violations are an exceptional problem confronting states transitioning from authoritarianism or dictatorship to democracy’.²¹

The article by Jennifer Balint, Julie Evans and Nesam McMillan draws links between the mechanism of the truth commission and the broader history of Commissions of Inquiry.²² Focusing on the Commissions of Inquiry into the Morant Bay Rebellion in Jamaica (1865), the Rwandan genocide (1998) and the Coranderrk Aboriginal Reserve in Australia (1881), they explore how inquiries have been employed by colonial and former colonial powers to manage social and political controversies linked to colonialism and its legacies. Their analysis suggests that Commissions of Inquiry often operate in ways that limit legal and political recognition of the underlying inequality of colonial relations, deflecting attention from the need for broader structural reform and, instead, legitimating state authority and reproducing colonial relations. This is accomplished, in part, through the deployment of a particular ‘politics of time’, one that silences ‘modes of relating to the past that do not accord with the commission’s vision of societal progress and repair through reconciliation’.²³

Yet, as Balint, Evans and McMillan show, this story is not only one of injustice and circumscribed possibilities. Despite their limits, Commissions of Inquiry can also open up spaces for structural injustices to be brought to the fore and put on record. For instance, even though the Coranderrk Inquiry that took place in 1881, in Victoria, Australia (concerning the management of the Coranderrk Aboriginal station) had very circumscribed terms of reference, due to the courage of Aboriginal witnesses and some Europeans, a deeper story of structural injustice was able to be told. Even in the context of deliberately circumscribed legal processes, ‘people come to law to lay claims and to provide their testimony of lived realities’. Whether these claims are heard, however, is ‘dependent on the political and social frameworks in which they are situated’.²⁴

Natalia Gerodetti’s article focuses on the issue of reparations for historical wrongs, asking the question ‘whose reparations claims count’.²⁵ Specifically, she considers past ‘eugenics’ policies and measures that were enacted within established democracies, including the involuntary sterilisation of women. These policies were framed within a prominent progress narrative of their time, a ‘utopian’ narrative that drew on discourses of rationality, reason and science, and was aimed at improving the ‘gene pool of the national collective’.²⁶

Gerodetti compares and contrasts the ways in which the Swedish and Swiss governments have, in recent years, addressed claims for reparations emerging from cases of involuntary sterilisation, and draws out their gendered implications. The Swedish government has been quick to respond to claims that, between 1934 and 1976, over 60,000 people had been sterilised by either force or persuasion — the majority of whom were women — by decreeing that compensation claims could be launched. Nonetheless, underpinning this swift response was, according to Gerodetti, a ‘wish to atone quickly and move on from the uncomfortable history’ which was difficult to reconcile with Sweden’s image of itself as a ‘caring welfare state’.²⁷ This has led to an emphasis on compensation rather than a more thorough grappling with the legacies of the past. The Swiss government, by contrast, has adopted a far more legalistic approach. In 2004, a proposal for compensation was rejected by Parliament, a move that was underpinned by an argument that it was wrong to ‘judge the past according to today’s measures’.²⁸ According to Gerodetti, this legalistic interpretation obscures the extent to which ‘the responsibility for the victims of the past is a question of the present’.²⁹ It also means that those women who were subjected to coerced sterilisation continue to experience ‘a threefold form of injury: first, a coerced sterilisation; second, a life managing womanhood without motherhood; and third, a present government that rejects them by neither issuing a clear apology nor a symbolic gesture of compensation’.

2.3 Transitional Justice Beyond Law: Art and Civil Society

The final set of articles and praxis notes further the project of unravelling orthodox transitional justice assumptions by exploring how questions of injustice and justice might be understood in less legalistic, less state-centric ways. By examining the roles played by civil society and arts initiatives in resisting premature closure on the violence of the past, and the attempts by war crimes trials to go beyond traditional representations of harm, they help to show that more creative, expansive and open-ended conceptions of transitional justice might be possible.

The subject of Nicola Henry’s article is civil society tribunals — sometimes known as ‘people’s tribunals’ or ‘people’s courts’ — as a transitional justice mechanism.³⁰ Civil society tribunals have operated to address various past harms in different geographical locations, yet, as Henry rightly notes, due to the state-centric focus of transitional justice scholarship, there has been scant scholarly attention to their role and impacts. This is unfortunate because, as Henry suggests, these tribunals, including women’s courts, can make a powerful contribution to the field of transitional justice. Henry draws a number of examples, including the Women’s Tribunal that was established by civil society groups in 2000 to examine the experiences of the so-called ‘comfort women’ of the Second World War. This tribunal brought international attention more broadly to the prevalence and impacts of wartime sexual violence.

Henry argues that civil society tribunals might be seen as an example of Nancy Fraser’s ‘counter publics’ in that they actively seek to articulate alternative discourses on the past, and fill in the gaps left by formal justice processes.³¹ While acknowledging that civil society tribunals may reproduce some of the problems of conventional justice measures, Henry nonetheless suggests that they also hold the potential to investigate underlying causes of gender-based violence, provide a space for victim-survivors to tell their stories in a non-adversarial context and consider both individual and collective forms of responsibility. For these reasons, more scholarly attention to civil society tribunals is needed.

Olivera Simic similarly approaches the question of transitional justice through a broader lens by considering the role of the arts and artists in transitional justice.³² Simic focuses on three case studies, the Dah Theater in Serbia, the work of Gustavo Germano in Argentina and the Grupo Cultural Yuyachkani in Peru which, in different ways, are working to raise awareness about past atrocities through grassroots art and theatre projects. All these projects are concerned with the issue of missing persons; they all call for keeping memories alive and underscore the need to know the truth about victims’ fates. Art, Simic suggests, can ‘transcend the temporal limits of legal justice’.³³ It can ‘work against the notion that transition can be “over”’³⁴ and serve as a reminder that ‘wounds are still open and healing is not yet over’.³⁵ Another valuable aspect of the arts is that it can ‘reach much wider and more diverse audiences than legal justice’.³⁶ The artists discussed by Simic seek, in different ways, to keep the memory of past violence alive, and defy denial and official silence; they resist official attempts to delimit attention to the past and herald new beginnings.

The short but insightful praxis note by Maria Elander hones in on some of the challenges faced by war crimes trials in attempting to ‘do justice’ to complex experiences, events and suffering.³⁷ Elander focuses on a case that will soon be considered by the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC), the tribunal set up through an agreement between the United Nations and the Cambodian government to prosecute crimes committed during the Khmer Rouge period.³⁸ ‘Case 002’ includes a trial segment on the ‘regulation of marriages’ (the so-called ‘forced marriages’ that were instigated by the Khmer Rouge regime). As she suggests, the stakes in this case are high. Specifically, the case is viewed as an opportunity for the ECCC to contribute to an evolving — and until recently, neglected — body of law on sexual and other gender-based crimes in times of conflict. Elander also highlights a number of interesting, and potentially promising, aspects of the charges, which depart from the ways in which sexual and gender-based crimes are generally treated by international criminal law. For instance, both persons in the imposed relations — i.e. the male and female spouse — are considered victims, which takes the emphasis away from an exclusive focus on women as victims. In addition, there is a suggestion that communities as well as individuals may have suffered due to the ways in which the marriages ruptured important societal bonds and undermined traditional marriage rituals.

Despite these promising elements, which push the boundaries of traditional legal representation of sexual and gender-based crimes, Elander remains concerned about whether the case will produce a sufficiently nuanced account of the marriages. What she finds worrying is that, within the ECCC Closing Order, the consummation of the marriage — in other words, the sexual act, comes to dominate the description of the crime of ‘the regulation of marriage’, suggesting that the case may ultimately result in a ‘narrow focus on the injured and sexualised body’. All of this means that the forthcoming trial segment should be watched closely, and with an awareness of the impossibility of the law to fully recognise the ‘complex relations and the multifaceted suffering imposed through these marriages’.³⁹

Given the commitment of this Special Issue to disrupting linear narratives of resolution and transition, it is fitting that the final praxis note is original poetry by Robin Rowland coupled with Turkish translations by Mehmet Ali Çelikel on the experiences of both Australians and Turks during the Canakkale/Gallipoli campaigns of the First World War.⁴⁰ In addition to sharing some of her poetry, including some previously unpublished poems, Rowland reflects on the difficulties she faced in creating a book of poetry on the First World War⁴¹ and how, during intense periods of work she ‘had to stop to recover from the onslaught of that story; the loss, the horror, the stupidity, the waste’.⁴² She found it hard to let go of ‘all the voices that have disappeared into the earth’.⁴³ As she writes, ‘I felt I knew many of them, and wanted them here still’.⁴⁴ A number of poems from the book are also reproduced, in both English and Turkish, reflected on companion pages, which powerfully convey something of the complex effects of the First World War on a wide range of individuals, among them Allied troops, Turks, women and children. Collectively these poems help to tell a more nuanced and multifaceted narrative of the Gallipoli story than the one that has entered into Australian mythology in the form of the ANZAC legend.⁴⁵ In this sense, Rowland’s poetry resonates with Simic’s observations about the significance of arts initiatives; it works to forestall the relegation of the Great War to mythology, and to keep the memories of its personal and enduring effects alive in the public sphere.

3.0 Conclusion

While the articles in this Special Issue are diverse, and are grounded in different disciplinary approaches, what they share is a commitment to looking beyond the transitional justice frameworks of resolution and transition to new ways of thinking about questions of violence, conflict, injustice and justice. Several of the contributors suggest there may be other, more creative ways of responding to conflict that hold potential for moving beyond the constraints of the resolution narrative. For Balint, Evans and McMillan, this requires taking into account broader structural injustices that are often occluded by Commissions of Inquiry (and indeed, other mechanisms of transitional justice). For Kent, it entails unsettling the presumed link between public disclosure and both individual healing and societal reconciliation, and paying more attention to ‘everyday’ acts of social repair. For Demian it is about letting go of a preoccupation with peace and embracing an ongoing and open-ended idea of justice. For Henry and Simic, it is about broadening understandings of what constitutes transitional justice to encompass the roles and possibilities of civil society and arts initiatives. For Bryson and McEvoy, it is about recognising the paradoxical effects of transition for women while at the same time acknowledging their agency. For Elander, it requires acknowledging the limitations of the law in fully capturing complex experiences of suffering and trauma.

As transitional justice continues to be celebrated and promoted around the globe, critical reflections on its role — and promises — are timely and necessary. Legal and quasi-legal institutions are too easily seen as holding the capacity to resolve complex legacies of conflict, as providing a solution to trauma arising from it, or as the obvious safeguard against future violence. Rarely discussed are the ways in which such institutions can also perpetuate and even exacerbate the underlying conditions that foster violent conflict, mask the myriad ways in which violence continues into the present and delimit possibilities for justice and redress. We hope that this Special Issue helps to promote critical reflection on these questions.

Notes

1 Mutua Makau ‘Transitional Justice: Does it have a Future?’ (2015) 9(1) International Journal of Transitional Justice 1 at 1.

2 McEvoy Kieran ‘Beyond Legalism: Towards a Thicker Understanding of Transitional Justice’ (2007) 34(4) Journal of Law and Society 411.

3 See, for example, Demian Melissa ‘Court in Between: The Spaces of Relational Justice in Papua New Guinea’ (2016) 42(1) Australian Feminist Law Journal 13.

4 Teitel Ruti Transitional Justice Oxford University Press Oxford & New York 2000 p 229–30.

5 Moon Claire Narrating Political Reconciliation Lexington Books London 2008 p 6.

6 See, for example, Nesiah Vasuki ‘The Trials of History: Losing Justice in the Monstrous and the Banal’ in Buchanan Ruth and Zumbansen Peer (eds) Law in Transition: Human Rights, Development and Transitional Justice Hart Publishing Oxford & Portland Oregon 2014 p 305; Orford Anne ‘Muscular Humanitarianism: Reading the Narratives of the New Interventionism’ (1999) 10(4) European Journal of International Law 679.

7 See, for example, Buckley-Zistel Susanne and Zolkos Magdalena ‘Introduction’ in Buckley-Zistel Susanne and Stanley Ruth (eds) Gender in Transitional Justice Palgrave Hampshire & New York p 8; Bell Christine and O’Rourke Catherine ‘Does Feminism Need a Theory of Transitional Justice? An Introductory Essay’ (2007) 1(1) International Journal of Transitional Justice 23; Franke Catherine M ‘Gendered Subject of Transitional Justice’ (2006) 15 Columbia Journal of Gender and Law 813.

8 See, for example, Sigsworth Romi and Valji Nahla ‘Continuities of Violence against Women and the Limitations of Transitional Justice: The Case of South Africa’ in Buckley-Zistel Susanne and Stanley Ruth (eds) Gender in Transitional Justice Palgrave Hampshire & New York p 115.

9 Demian above note 3.

10 At 19.

11 At 17.

12 At 28.

13 Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos Andreas Spatial Justice: Body, Lawscape, Atmosphere Routledge Abingdon 2015.

14 Demian above note 3 at 30.

15 Kent Lia ‘Sounds of Silence: Everyday Strategies of Social Repair in Timor-Leste’ (2016) 42(1) Australian Feminist Law Journal 31.

16 Bryson Anna and McEvoy Kieran ‘Women Lawyers and the Struggle for Change in Conflict and Transition’ (2016) 42(1) Australian Feminist Law Journal 51.

17 Ní Aoláin Fionnuala ‘Advancing Feminist Positioning in the Field of Transitional Justice’ (2012) 6(2) International Journal of Transitional Justice 1 at 3.

18 Bryson and McEvoy above note 16 at 72.

19 At 73.

20 At 73.

21 Orford Anne ‘Commissioning the Truth’ (2006) 15 Columbia Journal of Gender and Law 851 at 854.

22 Balint Jennifer Evans Julie and McMillan Nesam ‘Justice Claims in Colonial Contexts: Commissions of Inquiry in Historical Perspective’ (2016) 42(1) Australian Feminist Law Journal 75.

23 Bevernage Berber ‘Writing the Past Out of the Present: History and the Politics of Time in Transitional Justice’ (2010) 69(1) History Workshop Journal at 116.

24 At Balint, Evans and McMillan above note 22 at 90.

25 Gerodetti Natalia ‘Whose Reparation Claims Count? Gender, History and (In)justice’ (2016) 42(1) Australian Feminist Law Journal 97.

26 At 116.

27 At 107.

28 At 113 citing AB 2004 N 246 Mathys SVP.

29 At 113 citing Schürer Stefan Die Verfassung im Zeichen historischer Gerechtigkeit. Schweizer Vergangenheitsbewältigung zwischen Wiedergutmachung und Politik mit der Geschichte Chronos Zürich 2009 p 301.

30 Henry Nicola ‘Civil Society and Gender-Based Violence: Expanding the Horizons of Transitional Justice’ (2016) 42(1) Australian Feminist Law Journal 119.

31 Fraser Nancy ‘Transnationalizing the Public Sphere: On the Legitimacy and Efficacy of Public Opinion in a Post-Westphalian World’ (1997) 24(4) Theory, Culture and Society 7.

32 Simic Olivera ‘“They Say Justice Takes Time”: Taking Stock of Trust Seeking in Peru, Argentina and Serbia’ (2016) 42(1) Australian Feminist Law Journal 137.

33 At 145.

34 At 145 citing Bell Vikki ‘Contemporary Art and Transitional Justice in Northern Ireland: The Consolation of Form’ (2011) 10(3) Journal of Visual Culture 324 at 325.

35 Simic above note 32 at 145.

36 At 148.

37 Elander Maria ‘Prosecuting the Khmer Rouge Marriages’ (2016) 42(1) Australian Feminist Law Journal 163.

38 Prosecutors v Nuon Chea, Ieng Sary, Khieu Samphan and Ieng Thirith (Closing Order) (ECCC Trial Chamber Case No. 002 15 Sep 2010) (‘The Closing Order’).

39 Elander above note 37 at 174.

40 Rowland Robyn ‘The Transitional Heart: Writing Poetry on War, Grief and the Intimacy of Shared Loss’ (2016) 42(1) Australian Feminist Law Journal 177.

41 This Intimate War Gallipoli/Çanakkale 1915 — İçli Dışlı Bir Savaş: Gelibolu/Çanakkale 1915, Turkish translations Mehmet Ali Çelikel, Five Islands Press (Australia) and Bilge Kültür Sanat (Turkey) 2015.

42 Rowland above note 40 at 180.

43 At 180.

44 Ibid.

45 See Rhoden Clare ‘“Poppy-Hunters, Poppy-Picking”: Review of Robyn Rowland, This Intimate War: Gallipoli/Canakkale 1915’ (2015) 19(2) Text: Journal of Writing and Writing Courses.