Write On! Features: Writing As Justice: Resurrecting Endings, Rewriting Stories by Rachan Hegde

“There’s one place that all the people with the greatest potential are gathered – that’s the graveyard.”
-Viola Davis, Academy Awards, 2017

When Viola Davis said that, she wasn’t talking only about death. She was talking about silence, erasure, and unrealised potential  – the stories that never see the light of day. Every untold truth, every voice left unheard, is a grave waiting to be dug. Writing is the shovel. Writing is the act of resurrection. Every sentence, every paragraph, every poem can be a reclamation of what was denied – a quiet act of justice in a world that often refuses it.

The idea that stories can die before they are told is not abstract. In classrooms, workplaces and homes, narratives are muted, ignored, or dismissed every day. Cultural norms, systemic oppression and historical silencing have created countless graves of stories never spoken. Writing gives these voices a chance to breathe, to exist in space and time. It allows histories, identities and experiences that might have been erased to claim their place in memory, in literature, in culture.

Justice in writing begins with survival. Survivors of trauma understand the weight of stories that refuse to be told. Judith Herman, in Trauma And Recovery, writes: The first principle of recovery is the empowerment of the survivor. She must be the author and arbiter of her own recovery. Writing offers that authorship: a private space to confront pain, reclaim agency and assert presence in a world that has tried to erase it.

Herman’s three-stage framework – safety, remembrance and mourning and reconnection – can guide writers seeking justice through narrative. Safety begins with a private page; a journal, a document hidden from the world, where words can be raw, unjudged and free. Remembrance and mourning allow the survivor to tell the truth of their experience, shaping chaos into language and grief into coherence. It is in this stage that the raw, often fragmented, truth of trauma becomes tangible, visible and manageable. Reconnection happens when writing is shared – with a friend, a support group, or a wider audience  – creating community, validation and witness. The act of sharing transforms a private survival tool into a public testament, bridging isolation and giving others the courage to speak.

But justice in writing extends beyond survival. It includes the stories of those silenced by oppression, poverty, systemic violence, or cultural marginalisation. Bell Hooks reminds us that storytelling is a form of resistance – a way to claim space in societies that would rather ignore or erase certain lives. Audre Lorde emphasises that the personal is political: speaking privately can be survival, but speaking publicly is justice. In telling these stories, writers perform an act of advocacy, illuminating truths that might otherwise remain invisible and reminding us that silence is not neutral — it is a choice that shapes history.

Gayatri Spivak’s question: “Can the subaltern speak?” asks us to consider the ethics of representation; how to amplify voices without speaking over them. To write someone else’s story ethically is to listen attentively, honor consent and place the subject’s voice at the centre. As Tania Hershman suggests, research becomes a practice of deep listening: piecing together experience with humility and reverence. It’s a commitment not only to accuracy but to dignity, a refusal to flatten the complexity of lives that have already been marginalised.

Writing justice also requires courage, patience and recognition of complexity. Cathy Caruth observes that trauma is often unclaimed experience; narrative allows partial understanding, the rendering of suffering into form, even when comprehension is incomplete. Louise DeSalvo adds that writing is not therapy itself but a disciplined way to process emotion, excavate memory, and bear witness to lives that might otherwise remain invisible. Writers like Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, and Arundhati Roy show us that narrative can transform private suffering into collective reckoning. Each word becomes both memorial and call to attention; a reclamation of dignity denied, a refusal to let the story die.

Practical ways to write justice are deceptively simple. Freewriting, journalling, or short prompts such as: What am I ready to name today? or: If I could speak for the silenced, what would I say? allow reflection and empower expression. Use imagery, metaphor, or poetic structures to translate complex emotions. Experimentation is not only allowed, it’s essential. Writing justice is rarely linear. Writing can take the form of letters to those who never had a voice, imagined dialogues with the silenced, or small creative circles that foster listening and validation. Each exercise becomes a rehearsal for the act of witness, and every line written can carry the weight of memory into the present.

If writing another person’s story, collaboration and consultation are key. Consent and accuracy matter, but so does narrative empathy; the delicate balance between respecting boundaries and telling truth. When ready, share the work. Even publishing online, contributing to a community zine, or reading aloud in a safe space can become acts of witness, building networks of understanding and solidarity. Small ripples can spread wider than anticipated, connecting communities, bridging cultural gaps and inspiring empathy in unexpected places.

Resurrection is the through-line. Viola Davis’s graveyard reminds us of unrealised potential, but the page allows us to restore what was lost. Personal and collective narratives reclaim dignity, honour truth and give shape to silence. Writing as justice is intentional, restorative and courageous. Words allow what has been silenced to speak; paragraphs claim space in history, culture and memory. Every story told is a miniature act of justice: whether it illuminates trauma, celebrates resilience, or affirms identity. Humour and play have their place too, as do sorrow and reflection; each tone enriches the truth being offered. Writing preserves not only what happened but what mattered, ensuring that the voices we lift today continue to resonate for generations to come.

So, when we write, we are digging. We are exhuming. We are restoring. We are listening. We are honouring. We are resurrecting: giving endings back to the stories that were denied them, giving voices to those who were silenced, giving justice to what might otherwise have remained buried. Viola Davis’s graveyard may be full of unrealised potential, but the page is alive. Every body, every story, every survivor has the chance to be heard, to be remembered, and to be seen. Writing is how we make that happen.

So, my last words: dig those graves. Exhume those bodies. And tell those stories. The ones that loved and lost. The ones that dreamt but didn’t live long enough to seethe dreams fulfilled. The silences between the words. The grief that feels like an ice pick. The loss that you will never get over. The regrets, the chaos, the confusion, the anger.

Because this right here is the beautiful curse of being a writer. Every word we write pierces through our heart, leaving a gaping hole.

Only hope can revive us now. The hope we instil in these stories. Because as writers, as poets, we don’t just enter someone else’s world or walk in their shoes, but have the rare blessing of creating it for them.

So that, at least in the pages of our books, between the lines of our poetry, they get the justice they deserve.

Starting with us.

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