Memory and forgetting

Do we ever transcend the hurt from our individual or collective past and how do we achieve forgiveness? Racism, sexism, homophobia and institutionalised prejudice still bedevil our societies today and yet we struggle to find ways to overcome this.

I’ve been doing some really diverse bits of reading lately and shall cobble these into today’s blog! I should also say that I spent many hours in airports earlier this week in flying to a small South African city (it shall remain nameless to protect its reputation) and alas the airline concerned was rather tardy. Regular readers will know about my flying issues so a discreet veil will be drawn over the delay on the return trip. Because the plane was now fuller than anticipated and the airport computers had crashed, the pilots had to do a MANUAL adjustment of the various weight ratios.  Needless to say I anticipated many hysterical obituaries, none written by me!

So during these delays I read a brilliant work, In a Different Time, by lawyer Peter Harris. It’s the story of four ANC struggle soldiers, part of a cell in the turbulent 1980’s here in South Africa, who are captured after a number of underground activities, including shootings and bombings in which key collaborators, and ordinary citizens, were injured or killed. Skilfully interwoven with this narrative of legal wiliness in the face of the death penalty for “treason” is the story of a young black lawyer. He is Harris’s partner in at least part of his defence of these men and ultimately becomes the perverse victim of an apartheid machinery plot to kill a white South African agent, who himself was part of underground killings to destabilise opposition to the apartheid government. The young black lawyer is not the intended victim, but a bizarre series of events leads to his death.

Reading like a thriller (enough to grip me even as I grappled with my fear of flying), with a fantastic, yet sad, series of climaxes, the book asks us profound questions about memory, pain and forgiveness.

On a smaller scale, perhaps, I have been reading about a column written by Jan Moir of the UK’s Daily Mail in which she revealed some not so hidden prejudices about homosexuality as she reflected on the death of Boyzone singer Stephen Gately.

She has released a kind of apology for some of her views, primarily the timing of them so close to his death, in a manner deeply offensive to his partner, family and friends. Was her apology convincing? I don’t think so, not least because she still believes there was an “orchestrated” campaign against her via twitter, Facebook and other electronic media. She has claimed she is the real victim here.

And so I’m reflecting today on forgiveness and memory. In some ways going back into our recent past here in South Africa is too painful to bear – and yet who am I to say that for some this isn’t necessary and cathartic? As a white gay man I can in some ways understand that prejudice aimed at my sexuality is similar to that aimed at people because of their colour, but I can’t ever fully comprehend what that form of institutionalised oppression fees like.

Am I able to forgive people who are homophobic? Can I really expect Jan Moir to know what it feels like to be devalued for something I cannot change about myself? Will her apology heal me – and how sincere does it need to feel before I will give that forgiveness?

And for black South Africans, what would it take to accept apologies from white South Africans, when the pain is still there for them and yet many of us wish to forget or minimise the past?

I don’t have answers to this but I hope that in writing about our past, our memories, and our rising above hurt (as imperfect and stuttering as this may be) we may leave a legacy – a toolkit if you like – of hope.