Restitution Remains the Cornerstone—and the Future—of International Law

How an ancient legal principle, Israel’s experience, Ukraine’s search for justice, and the preservation of living heritage point toward the next chapter of international law.

Justice is measured not only by its ability to punish wrongdoing, but by its courage to repair it.

— Rabbi Mikhail Salita

The Birth of Restitution

International law is often associated with war, diplomacy, treaties, and state sovereignty. Yet one of its most enduring principles did not begin in a battlefield or at a peace conference. It was born more than two thousand years ago in Roman law, and its influence continues to shape the modern international legal order.

That principle is restitutio in integrum.

Although the Latin phrase may sound technical, its meaning is remarkably simple. Whenever possible, justice should restore the situation that existed before a wrongful act occurred. The objective is not merely to recognize that harm has been done, nor simply to punish the wrongdoer. The highest aspiration of law is to repair the wrong itself.

This idea survived the fall of the Roman Empire, influenced European legal thought for centuries, and eventually became one of the cornerstones of modern international law. It reflects a timeless conviction: justice is incomplete if it cannot restore what has been unjustly taken away.

Modern international law has developed several mechanisms to address the consequences of internationally wrongful acts. Although these concepts are frequently used interchangeably in public discussion, each serves a distinct legal purpose.

Restitution seeks to restore the original situation by returning what has been unlawfully taken or reversing the consequences of an illegal act whenever that remains possible.

Compensation applies when restitution cannot fully repair the damage. Instead of restoring the original situation, it provides financial or material payment for losses that can no longer be reversed.

Satisfaction addresses injuries that cannot be measured in monetary terms. It may take the form of an official apology, acknowledgment of wrongdoing, or other symbolic acts that reaffirm the dignity of those who suffered.

Together, these remedies form what international lawyers broadly describe as reparation—the legal obligation to remedy the consequences of an internationally wrongful act.

Among these remedies, however, restitution occupies a unique place.

Compensation accepts that something has been lost.

Restitution refuses to accept that loss as the final outcome whenever restoration remains possible.

This distinction became one of the defining principles of modern international law in 1928, when the Permanent Court of International Justice decided the landmark Factory at Chorzów case. The Court stated that the essential consequence of an internationally wrongful act is the obligation to eliminate its consequences and restore the situation that would likely have existed had the wrongful act never occurred. Nearly a century later, this principle continues to serve as one of the intellectual foundations of state responsibility under international law.

Yet restitution is more than a legal doctrine.

It expresses a moral vision of what law is meant to accomplish.

Law should not exist merely to identify injustice. It should strive, whenever possible, to repair it.

Few examples demonstrate this principle more profoundly than the post-Holocaust relationship between Germany and Israel.

No legal agreement could restore the millions of lives destroyed during the Holocaust. No financial payment could erase suffering or undo humanity’s greatest crimes. History itself could never be reversed.

Yet Germany’s willingness to accept legal responsibility and Israel’s willingness to transform that acknowledgment into a framework for rebuilding demonstrated something extraordinary. Restitution and reparative justice became more than legal mechanisms. They became instruments through which responsibility was acknowledged, trust slowly rebuilt, and the rule of law strengthened after one of history’s darkest chapters.

The lesson extends far beyond the Holocaust.

Restitution is not simply about returning property.

It is about restoring confidence that justice remains possible.

It reminds us that the strength of a legal system is measured not only by its ability to punish wrongdoing, but also by its willingness to confront its consequences honestly and repair them wherever repair remains possible.

For this reason, restitution remains one of the greatest achievements of international law.

Yet the twenty-first century confronts us with a question that Roman jurists—and even the judges in Factory at Chorzów—could never have imagined.

What happens when what has been lost cannot be returned—not because it was stolen, but because it has disappeared forever?

When Justice Becomes Personal

For me, restitution is not merely a subject of academic research.

It is the story of my own family.

When I began studying international law, I expected to spend countless hours reading treaties, judicial decisions, and legal doctrine. Instead, I found myself reading archival records that revealed a chapter of my family’s history I had never fully understood.

Those documents told a story that is at once deeply personal and profoundly universal.

My great-grandfather owned a brick factory in Kamianets-Podilskyi. My great-grandmother owned the family home where they lived. The archival records preserve not only their names but even the address of that home. More than a century later, the documents still exist. The address still exists.

What disappeared was the legal relationship between my family and what had once rightfully belonged to them.

Like thousands of other Jewish families throughout what is now Ukraine, they lost property during the Soviet period through confiscation and nationalization. Businesses disappeared. Homes changed hands. Private ownership gave way to state control.

Yet the story does not end with one factory or one family home.

The archives also reveal that my family belonged to the Husiatyn branch of the Ruzhin Hasidic tradition, one of the influential Hasidic movements that shaped Jewish religious life across Podolia before the Soviet era. That spiritual world was supported not only by faith but also by institutions built over generations—synagogues, בתי מדרש (houses of study), cemeteries, charitable organizations, schools, and communal property that sustained Jewish life throughout the region.

Much of that institutional and communal heritage was also lost.

When we discuss restitution, we often think about returning a painting to a museum or restoring ownership of a single building.

Those are important acts of justice.

But historical justice is larger than any individual property claim.

It concerns communities.

It concerns memory.

It concerns the legal recognition that what was taken unlawfully should not simply disappear from history because decades—or even a century—have passed.

At the same time, historical injustice was never experienced by Jews alone.

The Soviet system confiscated property from countless Ukrainians, religious communities, farmers, entrepreneurs, intellectuals, and families from many different backgrounds. It dismantled institutions, suppressed civil society, and transformed ownership through state coercion rather than the rule of law.

Recognizing this broader reality does not diminish the unique tragedy experienced by Jewish communities.

On the contrary, it reminds us that the rule of law protects everyone only when justice is applied universally.

That principle is particularly relevant today.

As Ukraine continues its path toward European integration, public discussion naturally focuses on reconstruction, democratic institutions, judicial reform, and the future.

Those priorities are essential.

Yet mature legal systems are judged not only by how they build the future, but also by how honestly they confront unresolved injustices inherited from the past.

This does not mean that every historical confiscation can—or should—be remedied in exactly the same way. Time changes societies, legal systems evolve, and practical realities must always be considered.

But the passage of time alone should never become an argument against justice.

One of the most important lessons Israel has offered the international community is precisely this.

The reparations agreements between Germany and Israel did not erase history. They did not restore the millions of lives that had been lost during the Holocaust.

What they demonstrated was something equally significant.

A democratic society becomes stronger—not weaker—when it acknowledges historical responsibility and creates lawful mechanisms to address it.

That lesson extends far beyond Israel.

It speaks to every nation committed to democracy, human dignity, and the rule of law.

For Ukraine, the path toward Europe is not only about adopting European legislation or meeting institutional standards.

It is also an opportunity to demonstrate that justice remains meaningful even when the wrongs belong to another generation.

My family’s history is only one among thousands.

It reminds me every day that restitution is not ultimately about buildings, factories, or land.

It is about restoring confidence that justice itself has not been forgotten.

And yet, while researching restitution, I gradually came to realize that international law is now facing an entirely different challenge—one for which the traditional understanding of restitution may no longer be sufficient.

The Future of Restitution

For centuries, restitution has been understood as the restoration of something that once existed.

A house can be returned.

A work of art can be recovered.

A cultural artifact can be brought home.

A territory may, under certain circumstances, be restored to its lawful sovereign.

But what happens when the object itself no longer exists?

International law offers no meaningful restitution for the dodo.

No court can restore an extinct species.

No legal remedy can return an ecosystem that has disappeared forever.

Once something irreplaceable has vanished, classical restitution reaches its natural limit.

This realization gradually changed the way I think about international law.

While researching historical restitution, I found myself working on an entirely different project: the preservation of the Kanaani cat, one of the world’s rarest officially recognized cat breeds and the only breed developed in Israel. What began as a conservation effort eventually became something more profound—a legal question.

Could international law evolve from merely restoring what has already been lost to protecting what still can be saved?

The Kanaani project forced me to reconsider the traditional understanding of restitution.

Unlike stolen property, living heritage cannot simply be returned after it disappears.

If the last representatives of a rare breed become extinct, no legal judgment will ever bring them back.

The same principle applies to countless elements of humanity’s living heritage—endangered species, unique cultural traditions, indigenous knowledge, sacred landscapes, and forms of biological diversity that cannot be recreated once they are gone.

Perhaps the greatest limitation of classical restitution is that it begins only after the loss has already occurred.

The twenty-first century may require something different.

It may require law to act before irreversible loss becomes inevitable.

This is why I propose a concept that I hope will become part of future scholarly discussion: preventive restitution.

I do not present it as an established doctrine of international law.

Rather, I offer it as a direction for future legal development.

Preventive restitution would expand the traditional purpose of restitution beyond restoring the past. It would seek to preserve irreplaceable forms of cultural, historical, religious, and biological heritage before they disappear forever. Documentation, legal recognition, international cooperation, conservation programs, and institutional protection would become not merely environmental or cultural policies, but expressions of the same legal philosophy that has guided restitution since Roman times.

The underlying principle remains unchanged.

Justice seeks to preserve what rightfully belongs to humanity.

Only the moment of legal intervention changes.

Instead of acting after irreversible loss, the law acts while restoration is still possible.

In this sense, preventive restitution does not replace the classical doctrine of restitutio in integrum.

It completes it.

The Roman jurists taught us how to restore what had been wrongfully taken.

The judges in the Factory at Chorzów case transformed that ancient principle into one of the foundations of modern international law.

Israel demonstrated that legal responsibility and restitution can become instruments for rebuilding trust after history’s deepest wounds.

Ukraine now has an opportunity to demonstrate that confronting unresolved historical injustice is itself part of building a democratic society founded on the rule of law.

The next step, however, belongs to all of us.

The greatest challenge facing international law in the twenty-first century may no longer be restoring what has already been lost.

It may be protecting what humanity still has time to save.

If that becomes the next stage in the evolution of restitution, then this ancient Roman principle will continue to fulfill the purpose it has always served—not simply correcting yesterday’s injustice, but safeguarding tomorrow’s justice.

Perhaps that is why restitution remains not only the cornerstone of international law. Perhaps it is also its future.

P.S.

One final thought.

Restitution is often discussed as a question of property.

In reality, it is a question of trust.

No democratic state can realistically restore every confiscated home, every lost business, or every piece of communal property taken by previous regimes. Time changes societies, and history rarely allows perfect legal solutions.

But acknowledging historical injustice is itself an act of justice.

For Ukraine, this is not only a question about the past. It is also a question about the future.

As Ukraine continues its path toward Europe, it has an opportunity to demonstrate that the rule of law is measured not only by how it protects property today, but also by how honestly it confronts unresolved injustices inherited from history.

This is not simply a Jewish question.

It is a Ukrainian question.

Jews, Ukrainians, and many other communities suffered confiscation, political repression, and the destruction of private and communal institutions under the Soviet regime. Recognizing that shared history does not divide a nation—it strengthens it.

Israel has demonstrated that confronting historical injustice through lawful institutions does not weaken democracy. It reinforces public trust and affirms the moral authority of the rule of law.

Ukraine will undoubtedly develop its own path. Its legal solutions will be different, shaped by its Constitution, its legal traditions, and its European aspirations.

But every democracy must eventually answer the same question:

How should justice respond when history itself remains unresolved?

Perhaps the first step is not returning every piece of lost property.

Perhaps the first step is having the courage to recognize that an injustice occurred—and the wisdom to ensure that justice remains a living principle rather than a forgotten chapter of history.