Occasionally, in response to something I write, I receive an e-mail advising me that, for the good of my soul, I had better stop judging criminals (or criticizing, or even joking about them) and train myself to vigilantly “forgive” them instead. For example:
Life is too short to walk around with this kind of hate inside. Anger and bitterness is a poison that destroys the pot it is kept in.
There is more at work here than anonymous sanctimony and poor grammar. There is presumption: presumption that forgiveness does not exist unless it is broadcast like a cheap pop song; presumption that crime victims as a group must be regulated and policed, that they are the dangerous creatures, more dangerous than the offenders who committed crimes against them.
Why is it that people who incontinently think only the best of criminals leap to believe the worst about people who are victimized? I suppose the simple answer is that they must, in order to justify their choices. Victims must be distrusted, lest people feel restrained from showering trust and affection on offenders.
Crime must be disappeared in order to legitimate sentimental feelings towards the criminal.
The Ur-text of such sentimental pathology surely is the film Dead Man Walking. In order to promote herself as an extremely special harvester of extremely hardened souls, Sister Helen Prejean ran roughshod over quite a few facts and suffering innocents, both in her real life and through her artistic collaboration with the vile Susan Sarandon, who’s never met an unrepentant murderer she couldn’t love, lust for, or name her unborn baby after.
Such exercises have little to do with the exercise of actual forgiveness, which is perfectly capable of existing without the interventions of activist nuns, United Nations reconciliation committees, or federal grant-subsidized “restorative justice” professionals.
In fact, I know a great many crime victims, and exactly none of them are burning up on the inside because they cannot escape the carping furies in their souls (Aeschylus was such a hack).
On the other hand, crime victims do burn understandably hot over never getting their day in court, or not seeing their offender held accountable, or watching him walk free to offend again. In other words, it isn’t feelings of vengeance that drive crime victims crazy: it’s denial of justice.
Yet that message doesn’t register with the reconciliation professionals. They are too busy finding ways to level moral distinctions between offenders and victims, if not tip the scales completely. The “restorative justice” movement itself started out as a program to push offenders to take responsibility for their crimes and make amends — but like many similar programs, it quickly devolved into mere advocacy for inmates. Scratch the surface of most reconciliation programs and you will find nothing more than anti-incarceration activists deflecting resources that are supposed to aid crime victims.
Reconciliation and forgiveness are nice words. Closure is a lovely, if overused concept. But we have turned these words into burdens we hang around the necks of people on the receiving end of crime. And this has been done in order to benefit criminals in ways that may not really benefit them at all.
I recently read two interesting books that confront, in vastly different settings, the politics of forgiveness. Columbine, by Dave Cullen, examines the 1999 Colorado massacre by Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold; The Antelope’s Strategy, by Jean Hatzfeld, is an account of the government-and-NGO-enforced reconciliation of Tutsi survivors with Hutu murderers a decade after the 1994 Rwandan genocide.
Although rural Rwanda and suburban Columbine are vastly different places, I came away from these books with an eerie sense that the Colorado and Rwandan murderers were speaking in a single voice. Eric Harris, sitting in his basement in Colorado taping messages about the slaughter he’s about to commit, sounds chillingly like the leaders of the Hutu killing parties as they recount their daily forays to catch and kill the Tutsis who had escaped the killing of the previous day. There is the same degree of nihilistic, cheerful premeditation and ambitions of slaughter. Both Cullen and Hatzfeld seem aware that “root cause” theories, forensic psychology, and even their own considerable powers of explanation can only take them so far in explaining any of these killers’ deepest motives.
Evil, which is frequently overlooked in discussions of crime, is given its due. So is not knowing — not being able to make sense, after a point.
Columbine was marketed as a corrective to media misrepresentations, but even so, I was surprised by the vast differences between the Columbine story as it played out in the national press and the story Dave Cullen uncovers. Of course, I knew about the mythology that sprang up around victim Cassie Bernall: reporters had already eagerly discounted that pro-Christian-faith story, as Cullen shows. But it appears that they were far less cautious with their own favored narratives (secular faith systems, one might say).
It was bullying, the media breathlessly reported, that drove Harris and Klebold to kill, and the victims they targeted were none other than the stereotypical high school bullies who taunted them for being different. Columbine, according to many members of the press, was yet more proof of the terrible consequences of picking on people, and not respecting differences, and the horrors of “jock culture,” and feeling alienated in high school, and so on. This tale, encouraged by “anti-bullying” professionals, took on a life of its own, and few in the media bothered to question the presumptions underlying it.
But it was not true, not only because the killers were not relentlessly bullied, but because the crime they tried to carry out would have killed many hundreds of random students and rescue workers, had the detonators worked in the bombs they set. The shootings were random, also, as Cullen proves through an excruciating march through crime scene evidence.
Yet in the interest of promoting a narrative that spread blame to “everyone” for the murders, and additionally laid special blame on jock-types (an acceptable bias), the press played down the story of the bombs and largely invented the story about revenge against specific targets.
These misrepresentations were hardly random. The victims were tarred with culpability; Harris and Klebold were unburdened of it. Even though the “bullying” story was a complete fabrication, anti-bullying “tolerance” activists received a massive payday from the $3.8 million dollar fund set up to compensate victims, a payday several times larger than the largest payouts given to the most critically wounded students or the families of the dead. Some students with lesser injuries didn’t even receive enough money to cover their medical costs, while tolerance trainers raked in the cash for a “crime of bullying” that didn’t really happen and wouldn’t rise to the level of a misdemeanor crime if it had.
So although Harris and Klebold were not victims of bullying, their non-existent suffering was thus “reimbursed” at a far higher rate than the real suffering they inflicted on any of their victims. And that is an important untold story of Columbine, though, strangely, after going to great lengths to decimate the false “bullying” narrative, Dave Cullen doesn’t question the use of victim funds to perpetuate the bullying story.
What did this payday to “tolerance trainers” actually purchase? Most likely, to tell the surviving students — and their families, and the families of the dead, and the community at large — that they were all responsible for the social alienation that culminated in the loss of their loved ones. By paying for tolerance programs, authorities were essentially pleading guilty, on behalf of others, to the crime of intolerance. Intolerance towards whom?
People who are “different.” People who feel victimized by society. Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold? Who else?
What might a sane, fact-based response to Columbine look like? It certainly wouldn’t include paying people a dime to sensitize innocent survivors to minor social offenses that didn’t occur in the first place. Money would have been better spent examining the actual warning signs displayed by the killers, Eric Harris in particular. Harris was a textbook psychopath who had accumulated a long rap sheet — or would have, had multiple reports of violent threats, stalking, and explosives-based vandalism, in addition to car theft charges, been taken seriously. Instead, probation and classroom records show that he easily adopted the stance of a remorseful and prison-scarred youth (after just a few hours in jail), even earning admiration from one teacher because he’d “learned so much” from the enriching experience of being arrested.
But grieving victims who asked how the two killers could plan a massacre and stockpile and stage multiple weapons and guns without detection found themselves on the wrong side of a grief industry — and intertwined anti-bullying industry — that insisted that questions like these were simply the wrong questions to ask. It is practically impossible, in the current atmosphere, to blame crime solely on the offenders. Everyone else is expected to ritualistically absorb some portion of blame — or stand accused of failing to heal, find closure, or audibly forgive.
But what happens when the scale of the crime is so large that many people are responsible, so many that imposing justice is practically impossible? In 1994, more than half a million ethnic Tutsi were systematically slaughtered by Hutu militias in Rwanda, a genocide that spared only 300,000 Tutsi in a country of nearly 7 million. In 2003 the surviving Tutsi learned that the government would be releasing tens of thousands of Hutu being held for the murders. Already forced to live alongside Hutu who had failed to stop the killings, or even participated in them, Tutsi survivors would now be pressured to participate in tribunals designed to “reconcile” victims with many of the killers who had led the genocide. Imprisoned Hutu who willingly confessed (often to extremely minor parts of their activities) were allowed to return home to live alongside the people they had tried to kill and whose family members they succeeded in killing.
At the heart of the prison releases was a demographic argument: Rwanda needed imprisoned farmers to return to work, and Hutu women and children needed their men to sustain family life. But the releases also reflected another demographic reality: in an overwhelmingly Hutu nation, the government was more than willing to push the Tutsi genocide into the past.
Tutsi were already experiencing the nearly unbearable difficulty of living alongside people who had tried to kill them and had raped and murdered most members of their families. Survivors spend months fleeing from armed men who hunted them repeatedly, day after day, and returned home in the evenings to loot, feast, and rest for the next day’s hunt: entire villages preyed on their former, and future, neighbors. Given the scale of the attacks and their small numbers, Tutsi who survived the genocide had long-ago settled for symbolic justice and uneasy promises of safety.
But now, forced “reconciliation” was literally supplanting what little justice had actually been delivered. Few of the Tutsi who speak in The Antelope Strategy harbored any illusions about the effects of pardoning mass numbers of killers. They can hardly afford wishful talk about “closure.” They live in fear that reconciliation will embolden the Hutu and, ironically, inflame anti-Tutsi sentiment, leading to outbreaks of violence.
Antelope Strategy is, in part, an extraordinary exploration of the limits of rehabilitation and forgiveness:
Claudine Kayitesi: “In the courts injustice gobbles up justice. Obviously, not every killer deserves execution — but still, some of them, after all. Those who burned babies alive, who cut and cut till their arms ached, who led expeditions of a thousand hunters — those should really have disappeared from our lives. The state has decided to save them. If someone had asked for my opinion? I would have sent the propagandists and the major leaders to the firing squad. That wasn’t done; foreigners exerted influence, and the authorities proved flexible to favor national reconciliation. For us, it becomes impossible to relieve our grief, even with full bellies. Basically, justice is not worrying about the feelings of survivors.”
Berthe Mwanankabandi: “What’s the use of looking for mitigating circumstances for people who butchered day after day after day and even on Sundays with their machetes? What can you mitigate? The number of victims? The method of hacking? The killers’ laughter? Delivering justice would mean killing the killers. But that would be like another genocide, and would bring chaos. Killing or punishing the guilty in some suitable way: impossible. Pardoning them: unthinkable. Being just is inhuman. . . This is not a human justice, it’s a politics of justice. We can only regret that they never show either sincerity or sorrow.”
Innocent Rwililiza: “The other Tutsi, from the diaspora [who fled to refugee camps], make sure the survivors never take revenge. . . The diaspora Tutsi don’t forget anything — either the terror of their flight, or the wretchedness of of exile, or the massacres of their families. They are neither traitors nor ingrates. But it suits them to present the genocide as a kind of human catastrophe, a dreadful accident of history, in a way requiring formidable efforts of cooperation to repair the damage. They invented the policy of reconciliation because seven out of ten Rwandans are Hutus. It’s a terrible thing, after a genocide: a demographic majority that snatched up the machete. Reconciliation would be a sharing of trust. The politics of reconciliation, that’s the equitable division of distrust.”
Usually, western legal philosophy focuses only on the ethical limitations of punishment, not the ethical limitations of mercy. The Tutsi who speak in the book are not universally negative, but they cannot afford to be naive. It is not just in places like Rwanda that we are too quick to forgive murderers:
Francine Niyitegeka: “With age, the scars are healing from my skin. . . But although I am relieved, I am never at peace. Deep down, I , too, feel oppressed by walking behind the fate that was set for me. Someone who saw herself in muddy detail as a corpse in the papyrus lying among all the others, comparing herself to all those dead, always feels distressed. By what? I cannot say; I don’t know how to express it even to myself. If her spirit has accepted her end, if she has at some point understood that she will not survive, such a person has seen an emptiness in her heart of hearts that she will never forget. The truth is, if she has lost her soul even for a moment, then it’s a tricky thing for her to find a life again.”
Columbine Dave Cullen (2009, Hatchette Book Group)
The Antelope’s Strategy: Living in Rwanda After the Genocide Jean Hatzfeld (2007, Farrar Straus and Giroux)