In 1998, Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela (69 years old) was a psychologist at the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commissioncreated two years earlier to foster coexistence between blacks and whites after decades of apartheid. Looking for readings in a second-hand bookstore, he came across Dead Man Walkingan autobiographical work by Helen Prejean, the nun played by Susan Sarandon in a film co-starring Sean Penn and translated in Spain as Death penalty. Gobodo-Madikizela devoured this gripping story of guilt and redemption. And she sought to emulate Prejean by meeting repeatedly with Eugene de Kock, a former police officer whom the press had dubbed ““prime evil” (supreme or original evil) for its history of torture and murder against members of the resistance antiapartheid.
Gobodo-Madikizela, who spoke to this newspaper via videoconference, dissected those meetings in her 2003 book A human being died that night (“a human being died that night”, not translated into Spanish). His research has broadened the margins of such thorny notions as forgiveness not exempt from justice or collective healing after periods of violence. His work has contributed to pacifying other African countries such as Rwanda. At the beginning of June, the Templeton Foundation awarded him its annual awardwhose list of winners includes the Dalai Lama, primatologist Jane Goodall and Nobel Prize winner for Literature Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.
Ask. Was your relationship with De Kock a difficult process on a personal level?
Answer. It was, above all, a search. I never thought it would be easy, that I would find simple answers. In South Africa, a space had opened up for such conversations, but what I did was somewhat counterintuitive to what was supposed to happen. In my encounters with him, I often experienced a sense of unreality.
P. How did the black community in South Africa react? Did anyone see her as a traitor?
R. Surprise prevailed, as did intrigue – especially among the victims most affected by the apartheid— as to the very possibility of forgiving even those who had killed your loved ones. As far as I know, no one accused me of betraying my community, which does not mean that all black South Africans happily embraced De Kock or similar figures with grace.
P. For many people, he epitomized the evil, the raw brutality of white oppression against blacks.
R. I remember an anecdote during the commission sessions [de investigación de crímenes del apartheid]. De Kock was detailing the atrocities he had committed. And the audience, mostly black, began to applaud. It had a profound impact on me. We had come from decades of total secrecy: finally hearing the unvarnished truth, told by the person who had committed horrible crimes, was a moment of revelation. It opened a path to healing for the country.
P. I suppose that, among white citizens, a figure like De Kock helped clear consciences. He did the dirty work, but was he more guilty than the leaders of the apartheid or all those who benefited from it?
R. De Kock followed orders and was convinced that he was protecting the white community. For decades, activists antiapartheid They appeared to public opinion as the antichrist, in the context of a regime that had to redefine what was or was not moral. Many whites wanted to turn the page as quickly as possible, arguing that the criminals had already been judged and that they had remained outside of all that horror. It was nothing more than a projection of their own responsibility onto people like De Kock, whom they treated as an outcast.
P. You did the opposite. Once you visited him in prison, you even held his trembling hand.
R. I no longer thought of him as just an evil man, but as someone who had done monstrous things, yes, but who still had a human side. I remember walking away from the prison and being struck by a thought that made me question myself: “I touched him, I showed empathy!” But the moment had been genuine: why was I questioning it? In large part, I wrote the book to try to understand the deeper meaning of that moment, our resistance to welcoming people who show signs of wanting to return to the realms of human morality.
I am interested in a type of justice in which the experience as a victim encourages a change in the perpetrator of the crime.
P. Is the confusion between justice and revenge the main obstacle to harmony in traumatized societies?
R. We can conceive of justice as punishment, but in my opinion this is not healing. We must ask ourselves what is the purpose of the decisions we make. I am interested in a kind of justice in which the experience of being a victim encourages a change in the perpetrator of the crime, opens up the possibility of a new life as a moral citizen, which can be much more gratifying than seeing him suffer.
P. Can you forgive someone and at the same time want them to go to jail?
R. The question is why we want him to go to prison. If it is to make him suffer, that motivation collides with the very idea of forgiveness. I have worked a lot in Rwanda, and I have seen victims there who had as neighbours the murderers of their loved ones. Something like this is only possible when there is a purpose: to build something new, a future in which the children of victims and perpetrators live free from the desire for revenge, which always perpetuates itself.
As Hannah Arendt said, forgiveness is the possibility of starting over.
P. It can’t be easy to see the person who killed your husband or your son every day.
R. The key is that your forgiveness does not give the other person carte blanche to avoid assuming responsibility. I have dealt with perpetrators in Rwanda who, after being forgiven, tried to ignore their past, to stop talking about what they did. And I have also dealt with others who carry deep remorse and know that every day they have to answer for themselves and their community. Not to the point of destroying themselves, but knowing that their inescapable responsibility is to live a moral life. As Hannah Arendt said, forgiveness is the possibility of starting over.
P. His commitment to collective reconciliation, which he calls reparative search, addresses forgiveness as an attitude that benefits the victim and also has expansive potential.
R. When you forgive, you inject something very powerful into yourself and into the world. This doesn’t mean that anger or sadness suddenly evaporates. It’s more about knowing that there is another possible way to relate to your pain and to the person who caused it, which is extremely empowering.
South Africa will never be able to completely eradicate the ghosts of its past
P. Reflecting on such slippery terrain, I understand that you have been assailed by a host of doubts. I am thinking of one in particular: to what extent does trying to understand evil justify it?
R. My work is a continuous dialogue with myself, a thinking and rethinking, a taking of risks, an imagining of possible futures, a redefinition of difficult terms. Your question reminded me of what I was saying [el cineasta] Claude Lanzmann on the obscenity of understanding the Jewish Holocaust, which he considered pure evil. In my opinion, trying to prevent certain things from happening again makes it worth asking brave questions.
P. Would you say that South African society is fully reconciled?
R. The legacy of the apartheidwhich was based on spatial segregation, is that the descendants of blacks remain confined to the poorest areas and the new generations of whites, who have inherited the wealth of their ancestors, to the richest ones. This social structure has made true reconciliation difficult. Economic justice has not been adequately addressed.
P. Is race still a determining factor in relations between blacks and whites?
R. Racism underpins policies of oppression, whether through colonialism, slavery, apartheid or genocidal violence against dehumanised groups. It rears its ugly head even in the most progressive societies, whether or not there are any outstanding issues of reconciliation. South Africa will never be able to completely eradicate the ghosts of its past.
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