What justice sounds like

People often ask me what justice looks like. At Limmud Johannesburg, an archaeologist and survivor of 7 October taught me something else. 

He taught me what justice sounds like. 

Dr Yoram Haimi came to Limmud South Africa representing the Israel Antiquities Authority, to present on his life’s work: excavating sites of mass atrocity. Co-directing the archaeological excavations at Sobibor in Poland from 2007 to 2020, his team uncovered thousands of personal objects, among them a small pendant engraved with the words “Mazal Tov” and a date of birth. Yad Vashem researchers eventually traced it to Karoline Cohn, a young girl from Frankfurt whose exact fate remains unknown. She was deported to the Minsk ghetto in 1941. Sometime before the ghetto was emptied in 1943, her pendant reached Sobibor and was lost along the path to the gas chambers. 

For Yoram, this work is deeply personal. He understands that a fragment of evidence can return us from the enormity of mass atrocity to the individual. But this weekend, I discovered that the archaeologist who has spent decades recovering other people’s stories was carrying a story of his own that he needed us to hear. 

Yoram lives on Kibbutz Mefalsim, one of the communities attacked on 7 October. He had come to South Africa with his wife and adult daughter, their first time leaving Israel since the attacks. 

He mentioned to me that Limmud Johannesburg hadn’t asked him to share his 7 October experience. Then came the words that stopped me, “They’re missing out. I’m missing out.” 

Almost three years have passed since 7 October, but for survivors, the past remains relentlessly present. Yoram and his family are still navigating the daily reality of its aftermath, and he wanted to tell us what had happened. 

No survivor owes us their testimony. The question is never “Tell me what happened”, but rather “Would you like to tell us?” Yoram’s answer was yes. 

I approached the Limmud organisers and, to their enormous credit, they listened. There was no empty slot on the schedule, but by the following day, a space had been made, and the room was packed. 

That morning, Yoram had taken us into his excavations of the past. That afternoon, the archaeologist became the witness. 

He took us through what had happened to him, his family, and his community. Photographs and footage of the destruction filled the screen. You could hear a pin drop. At the back of the room, his daughter stood with tears in her eyes. Something was happening that went far beyond a standard presentation. We were holding a family. 

Yoram also showed how, after 7 October, the tools he used to excavate antiquity acquired a grim new purpose. His team helped search the shattered communities for human remains, including those of peace activist Vivian Silver at Kibbutz Be’eri. For weeks, her family had lived in the agonising belief that she had been abducted to Gaza. It took five weeks to formally identify her remains through DNA testing. It was a bone fragment, recovered from the ruins of her home by Yoram’s team, that finally ended that uncertainty. A fragment gave her family the truth, and truth finally made mourning possible. 

At October 7 Justice Without Borders, a pro-bono legal team representing survivors and bereaved families of 7 October across multiple jurisdictions, our purpose is to place them at the centre of the pursuit of justice: transforming their voices into legal standing, and their right to the truth into legal record. Justice for the victims of 7 October is not guaranteed. It must be established in a court of law, or it remains vulnerable to denial and erasure. 

While this wasn’t the first time I had witnessed a survivor share their story, I felt deeply honoured to play a small part in his healing. He needed a space where his pain was held. 

That afternoon, I understood what justice sounds like. It sounded like a community listening: not debating, interpreting, or explaining, but bearing witness. 

We are only now, approaching the three-year mark, seeing a surge of survivors ready to come forward. When justice is conducted reparatively, when testimony is received with dignity, helplessness transforms into agency. Survivors become authors of the historical record, not merely its objects. 

As one 7 October survivor we represent recently told us, “When I stand before the court, I am no longer just a victim. I am reclaiming my story and my power. This is how I heal.” 

There is no peace without justice. If a victim is not heard, or their experience is denied, they cannot heal. Accountability must follow, but being heard is the foundation of it. 

After Yoram finished speaking, he thanked me, simply stating, “I feel complete.” 

For that hour, the room held Yoram, his wife, and his daughter. We cannot all prosecute crimes, collect forensic evidence, or argue cases before courts. But within our broader legal strategy, maintaining a humane structure and direct communication with every survivor is something we hold close. 

Each survivor is an individual story, an entire world, a life. We know how to do the legal work. But each of us has a part to play, including through what we say and how we speak about it. We can create communities in which victims do not become invisible and can rediscover hope. 

Sometimes the most important session at a conference is the one that was never on the programme. 

People often ask me what justice looks like. This weekend, Yoram taught me what justice sounds like. 

It sounds like being heard. 

• Michalya Schonwald Moss is the chief advancement officer at October 7 Justice Without Borders, a pro-bono public-interest law firm providing direct legal representation to survivors and bereaved families across global jurisdictions.