When remembrance is not enough, who will hold survivors’ hands when the world moves on, listen when painful memories resurface, acknowledge their losses and trauma when their voices fade into silence, and stand beside them when the pursuit of justice becomes a lonely, seemingly endless journey? We should all care, because every atrocity leaves behind a human aftermath that time alone cannot heal. Lives may be rebuilt, and communities may return to relative peace, but grief, traumatic memories and unresolved injustices can endure long after the violence has ended.
Remembrance and memorialisation are not new practices; across generations and cultures, societies have honoured the dead, preserved painful histories and commemorated collective suffering through rituals, memorial prayers, monuments and days of remembrance. What remains unresolved is not whether we remember, but whether remembrance translates into meaningful healing, accountability and justice for those left to live with the consequences of violence. History is marked not only by wars fought, but by lives shattered, civilians massacred, and unimaginable wounds that time alone cannot heal. From the Holocaust in Europe and the Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda to the massacres during armed insurrections in Northern Uganda, West Nile, Teso, Lango and other communities in Uganda, many communities have turned to memorial prayers, monuments and days of remembrance to confront painful pasts.
Uganda’s troubled history is marked by episodes of mass violence whose horrors continue to haunt survivors and communities long after the guns fall silent. Among these painful yet less-discussed tragedies is the Omot massacre in present-day Agago District, which was then part of Pader District. The massacre offers a sobering lens through which to examine the enduring human cost of war and the struggle for remembrance, healing and justice. On 22 October 2002, 28 people were reportedly killed by the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) at Opota Trading Centre in Omot. Yet the horror extended beyond the loss of life. Accounts documented by the Justice and Reconciliation Project describe bodies being dismembered and placed in cooking pots before witnesses. Some survivors were reportedly forced, under threat, to handle and cook human body parts.
The violence left behind not only the dead but also widows and widowers forced to rebuild their lives without their partners, and orphans who have now grown into adults after spending their childhoods without the education, parental love, guidance and material support their deceased parents might have provided. The consequences extend beyond lost childhoods to enduring grief over opportunities denied, paths in life that might have been different, and the emotional burden of growing up without those who should have protected, nurtured and guided them. Other families remain haunted by the disappearance of loved ones whose fate is still unknown and whose bodies may never have been recovered for a dignified burial. For these families, the absence of a body to bury or a grave to visit can leave grief unresolved, keeping them suspended between hope and despair even decades after the violence.
Equally heartbreaking is the lamentation following survivors who have grown older and died without experiencing meaningful healing, justice, or acknowledgement of their suffering. As age advances and violence-related vulnerabilities take their toll, some survivors pass away carrying memories of terror, unresolved grief, and questions that may never be answered. Their deaths represent not only the loss of precious lives but also the gradual disappearance of first-hand testimonies that could help establish the truth and preserve the community’s history. For those still alive, each passing year can deepen the fear that they, too, may die without seeing their suffering recognised or their pursuit of justice meaningfully addressed. The psychological consequences may also extend across generations. Young people who did not witness the massacre, alongside adults who continue to relive its horrors, may encounter its emotional legacy through family stories, memorial monuments, community narratives, repeated commemorations, and the visible grief of survivors.
Each commemoration therefore brings the community face to face with more than the memory of those killed; it recalls broken families, stolen childhoods, unresolved trauma, and suffering that may continue to shape generations yet unborn. Behind every name remembered is a life violently taken and a family forever changed; behind every missing name is a family still yearning for answers; and behind every ageing or deceased survivor is the painful possibility of a life marked by atrocity without the healing and justice so deeply deserved.
Omot’s Burden of Remembrance: When Survivors Feel They Are Left to Carry the Past Alone
When a representative of Okony Too Ateda, an association of Omot massacre survivors previously supported by the Refugee Law Project (RLP) through the Democratic Governance Facility (DGF), called the RLP Gulu office to seek its contribution and participation in the Omot massacre commemoration scheduled for 22 October 2026, I initially felt encouraged. Despite the years of hardship, the community had continued to take the lead in organising its annual memorial ceremony, keeping the massacre's memory and refusing to let their suffering disappear into silence. But that sense of encouragement quickly gave way to unease when the representative asked why RLP no longer engaged with the survivors or participated in their annual commemoration. His question stayed with me long after the call ended. It brought to mind the painful image of a baby weaned before it is ready, not because it has outgrown its need for nourishment, but because the source of that nourishment is no longer available. I could not help wondering whether, beneath the survivor’s simple question, lay a deeper cry of abandonment: Why did the support stop when our suffering did not? Why has the search for healing and justice been left unfinished while we continue to live with the consequences of the massacre? DGF-supported activities in Uganda were suspended in January 2021, but the emotional wounds, unresolved losses and demands for justice did not end with the funding.
Perhaps the representative was asking about much more than RLP’s absence from an annual commemoration. His question exposed the painful fragility of community-led transitional justice initiatives when the organisations and funding that once sustained them withdraw. Memorialisation, transitional justice research massacre scoping, public and community exhibition, memorial prayers, reconciliation processes, memory and community dialogues, and the systematic documentation of conflict-related harms had offered opportunities for survivors to have their suffering acknowledged, articulate their needs and pursue redress. Yet, when such support fades, communities may be left to shoulder the burden of remembrance and the struggle for justice largely on their own.
Post-conflict recovery is often overlooked, surrounded by uncertainty and competing interests over when healing begins, when it ends, or whether it ever truly does. The absence of a clearly understood timeframe for recovery, coupled with limited recognition of the processes through which communities affected by mass violence can rebuild their lives, remains a critical concern. More than two decades after the Omot Massacre, these questions remain painfully relevant. The passage of time and the return of relative peace may create the impression among stakeholders that survivors and affected communities should have moved on. But moved on from what, and at what cost? For survivors, the past may remain painfully present in unresolved grief, unanswered questions about missing relatives, memories of brutal violence and an enduring search for justice. Time alone cannot heal these wounds. Without deliberate recovery processes, supportive systems, appropriate policies and sustained interventions that meaningfully involve survivors in decisions affecting their lives, relative peace may conceal rather than resolve the suffering that remains. The guns may have fallen silent, but for some survivors, the struggle to make sense of what happened, reclaim their identity and find justice continues.
Another pressing question concerns responsibility: when civil society organisations (CSOs) withdraw because funding has ended, who carries forward the unfinished work of healing, remembrance, accountability and justice? Can this burden fairly be left to survivors themselves, many of whom are ageing, economically vulnerable or still struggling to live with the consequences of violence? What responsibilities should fall to local authorities, government institutions, cultural and religious leaders, and other relevant stakeholders in sustaining these processes? More importantly, what structures and mechanisms can ensure that the needs and demands of affected communities remain recognised and addressed long after the projects that once supported them have ended? These questions demand urgent attention, because the end of funding should not mean the end of responsibility, and the withdrawal of an organisation should not leave survivors to carry the weight of remembrance and the pursuit of justice alone.
For many survivors, the past may remain painfully alive in the grief of losing loved ones, the anguish of unanswered questions about missing relatives, the haunting memories of brutality and the frustration of seeking justice that remains elusive. Some have spent years carrying these burdens with little recognition of how deeply the massacre continues to shape their lives and mental well-being. The silence of guns does not necessarily mean the end of suffering, just as the passage of time does not guarantee healing. Without deliberate recovery processes, accessible psychosocial support, responsive policies and sustained interventions that place survivors at the centre of decisions affecting their lives, relative peace risks concealing wounds rather than healing them. For the survivors of Omot, the struggle is not simply to remember what happened, but to reclaim dignity, make sense of unbearable loss and find justice in a world that may increasingly expect them to forget.
Another pressing question concerns responsibility: when civil society organisations (CSOs) withdraw because funding has ended, who carries forward the unfinished work of healing, remembrance, accountability and justice? Can this burden fairly be left to survivors themselves, many of whom are ageing, economically vulnerable or still struggling to live with the unaddressed consequences of violence? What responsibilities should fall to local authorities, government institutions, cultural and religious leaders, and other relevant stakeholders in sustaining these processes? More importantly, what structures and mechanisms can ensure that the needs and demands of affected communities remain recognised and addressed long after the projects that once supported them have ended? These questions demand urgent attention, because the end of funding should not mean the end of responsibility, and the withdrawal of an organisation should not leave survivors to carry the weight of remembrance and the pursuit of justice alone. They need safe spaces to share painful testimonies, have their losses recognised, and participate in collective efforts to rebuild trust, foster peaceful coexistence, prevent the recurrence of violence, and advance sustainable peace building agendas.
Remembrance and healing!
It is therefore important to ask why survivors continue to participate in commemorations that bring them back to a painful past more than two decades later. Perhaps the answer lies in the fact that the past remains unresolved. Missing relatives, unanswered questions, unacknowledged suffering and unmet demands for accountability and reparations may leave survivors struggling to find a sense of closure. Commemoration thus becomes both an act of remembrance and a reminder that the consequences of the massacre have not ended. Although these gatherings may strengthen solidarity, affirm collective identity and offer emotional relief, they cannot, on their own, guarantee psychological recovery or deliver justice.
Psychological recovery after mass violence is neither linear nor guaranteed by the passage of time. Long after the guns fall silent, survivors may remain trapped in traumatic grief and the anguish of ambiguous loss—never knowing whether missing loved ones are dead or alive, and therefore struggling to mourn or sustain hope. Such suffering is shaped not only by individual experiences but also by livelihood challenges, fractured relationships, social recognition, access to psychosocial support and the pursuit of justice. Unresolved losses, unacknowledged suffering and persistent suffering can keep the wounds of violence painfully alive, complicating trauma recovery and mental health rehabilitation.
Commemoration presents a paradox for trauma healing. While remembering the past may foster solidarity and emotional relief, it can also reactivate traumatic memories, grief and psychological distress. When survivors revisit painful experiences without adequate professional mental health and psychosocial support or follow-up care, commemoration risks reopening psychological wounds without supporting recovery. Commemoration should therefore be linked to sustained psychosocial support, trauma-sensitive facilitation and appropriate referral services, ensuring that survivors are not left to confront painful memories alone. Remembrance therefore must do more than honour the dead; it must also protect the psychological well-being and safety of the living.
Uganda’s National Transitional Justice Policy (2019) provides an important opportunity and framework for addressing the legacy of past conflicts through truth-seeking, accountability, reconciliation, traditional justice, rehabilitation and reparations. Applied to Omot, the policy should provide a pathway for transforming annual memorial prayers from largely commemorative gatherings into sustained processes that respond to survivors’ continuing needs. This would involve linking remembrance to psychosocial support, documentation of survivors’ experiences, community dialogues, reconciliation and advocacy for redress, while ensuring that survivors themselves shape these processes. However, a critical challenge lies in translating policy commitments into practical action, particularly where implementation mechanisms, institutional coordination and sustained funding remain inadequate or uncertain. When civil society organisations withdraw as projects end, community-led initiatives risk losing the support needed to sustain remembrance, document historical harms and advance survivors’ demands for justice. This exposes a gap between policy aspirations and the lived realities of conflict-affected communities, whose needs often outlast the funding cycles designed to address them. Government agencies, local authorities, development partners and other well-wishers must therefore reconsider how such processes can be sustainably financed, coordinated and embedded within local structures. Ultimately, memorial prayers should not only provide a moment to mourn those who died, but also reaffirm that the living survivors have not been forgotten and that their continuing search for healing, recognition and justice remains a collective responsibility.
The National Memory and Peace Documentation Centre (NMPDC), an initiative of the Refugee Law Project (RLP) established in collaboration with Kitgum District Local Government, has played an important role in preserving the experiences of Omot massacre survivors and advancing locally grounded transitional justice. Through community engagement, the documentation of survivors’ testimonies, memorial prayers and advocacy, NMPDC has helped keep the massacre and survivors’ continuing demands for recognition, reconciliation and redress in public view. RLP’s historical engagement with Omot included supporting memorialisation as a space for remembering those killed, sharing survivors’ experiences and drawing the attention of leaders and institutions to unresolved justice needs. These efforts reflect NMPDC’s wider mandate to document conflict-related harms, preserve collective memory and support dialogue, healing and accountability.
Add a brick to transitional justice efforts in Uganda
Local, national and international stakeholders must renew their commitment to transitional justice by supporting community-led and national initiatives that address the legacies of mass violence. Such efforts are essential not only to advance healing, accountability and sustainable peace, but also to prevent the transmission of unresolved trauma, hatred and violence across generations. By building on and sustaining the unfinished work of the Refugee Law Project (RLP) and the National Memory and Peace Documentation (NMPDC) initiative, stakeholders can ensure that survivors’ experiences are documented, their suffering acknowledged, and their demands for justice and reparations remain on the national agenda. The goal must be to transform unfinished efforts into a lasting commitment to survivor voices for healing, justice and non-recurrence, so that the burden of the past is not inherited by future generations.
Survivors’ demands for trauma healing and mental health rehabilitation must be met through accessible, community-based counselling centres in areas affected by mass violence, such as Omot. These centres would provide sustained psychosocial support to help survivors process traumatic memories, navigate unresolved grief and ambiguous loss, and rebuild their lives with dignity. Survivors deserve the space to remember without being retraumatised, to mourn without being abandoned to their grief, and to reclaim their future without remaining imprisoned by the past.
Stakeholders should support survivor-led memorial prayer initiatives, complemented by targeted outreach counselling and follow-up services for affected individuals, families and communities. Psychosocial support during and after these events is essential to minimize and respond to retraumatisation, address emotional distress and ensure participants are not left alone to cope with resurfacing traumatic memories.
Funders and other stakeholders should support research and documentation to examine how memorial prayers and other local transitional justice engagements influence survivors’ trauma recovery, resilience and psychosocial well-being, addressing a longstanding gap in understanding their experiences.
Let us join hands with the people of Omot on 22 October to commemorate the victims, stand in solidarity with survivors, and renew our collective commitment to healing, remembrance and justice. As we honour Omot, let us also remember Atiak, Lukodi, Mucwini, Barlonyo, Abia, Abok, Pajule, Ombachi and Obalanga, among many other communities that suffered similar atrocities and whose survivors continue to bear the burden of the past.
By Okot Benard Kasozi, Mental Health and Psychosocial Support Supervisor, Refugee Law Project-Gulu Field Office.