South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  The group’s cheerful chatter has given way to silence as we enter another courtyard. When we stop, the sea breeze slides its cold fingers down my neck. Far above our heads, the steel-gray sky is laced with barbed wire.

  ‘So here we are,’ I whisper to Tom, aware of the people near us. ‘In prison, after all these years.’

  ‘Seems fitting,’ he mutters.

  I hesitate. ‘If you’d been found guilty of violating me, your sentence would’ve been less than a year, Tom. Having sex with someone unable to fight back wasn’t even considered rape in Iceland at the time.’ The truth leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

  For a second, he just stares at me in shock. ‘That’s so … mild. It’s … just unfair.’

  All I can do is shrug.

  ‘I reminded myself a few times through the years what my sense of a jail cell would be and how soul-destroying such a sentence would be. I’ve asked myself if I think I deserved that, to be locked away. A part of me still thinks that is what I deserve, and it might gain me a bit of redemption in my own eyes and in that of society.’ After a moment’s hesitation, he asks: ‘Would it gain me anything in your eyes?’

  My eyes go to the thick-walled prison behind us as I contemplate my answer.

  ‘A prison cell is a place of punishment. Figuratively speaking, you can walk around with a maximum-security prison cell in your head for years without ever actually setting foot in one. The punishment you gave yourself was far more effective than any punitive justice the outside world has to offer, I believe. So, yes. The time you spent in your private prison gained you something in my eyes. It was a form of resurrection for me, as it allowed me to swap places with you. For the first few years, I was the one behind bars, so to speak. I blamed myself. I didn’t see a point in respecting or loving myself when other people could treat me like trash, even the ones who claimed to love me. When you shouldered the blame, you let me out and took my place. That was a necessary step along the way. But the time of punishment is over. It’s time to heal. Which is why I wanted us to meet up in person so we could finally close the cell and throw away the key.’ I squeeze the rock in my pocket and add in a hopeful voice: ‘Together.’

  Could this be the right moment?

  He fails to meet my eye and the moment passes. We both know this pattern very well from our correspondence. Whenever I bring up the question of him forgiving himself, he closes up. He’s given a handful of excuses through the years; he isn’t ready to forgive himself; his sense of justice doesn’t allow him to; even that it’s impossible until he reaches a better knowledge of self. I want to grab him by the throat, shake him, and scream: ‘How DARE you not forgive yourself IF I’M WILLING TO? YOUR GUILTY CONSCIENCE ISN’T HELPING ME ONE BIT!’

  Instead, I look at his somber profile, overwhelmed by the irony of it all because a person who is plagued by guilt and suppresses his emotions is one step closer to becoming a person who blows his top one day and does something he’ll regret. Don’t you see that, Stranger?

  ‘This way,’ our guide says. The prison tour is over and we’re being ushered onto a bus where another guide will take us on a ride around the island. The group forms a single line to thank the former prisoner for taking us through the history of the prison, intertwining it with his own life in a way that left nobody untouched. My heart beats faster as the line grows shorter and by the time it’s my turn to shake his hand, it’s pounding so loudly he’s bound to hear it.

  His handshake is firm, his palm leathery.

  ‘I’ve got a question.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he asks. Brown spots dot the whites of his sharp eyes.

  ‘Is it possible to forgive what they did to you?’

  For a moment, he looks at me as if the question is completely absurd. Then his mouth opens to let out the most heartfelt, genuine laughter that comes cascading from his core and hits me like a tidal wave. ‘Of course,’ he answers with a beaming smile. ‘We’ve forgiven all of it. It’s the only way forward.’

  This simple yet powerful truth lights up my face as I walk out of the prison towards Tom.

  ‘You look like you just won the lottery,’ he says.

  ‘Forgiveness is the only way forward, Tom. He told me.’

  ‘He’s an incredible human being,’ he says with deep respect as the bus takes off and an energetic young guide with a microphone begins the tour. ‘Imagine surviving the times he’s been through, the things he has seen, and then retelling your history for a job …’

  I nod in agreement. I wonder if any women who served time for their political convictions make a living retelling their stories? The rights of black women were even more curtailed than black men’s during apartheid. Was incarceration a different experience for them? Were they raped in prison? What about pregnant women? Were they allowed to have their children or were they taken away from them? Did any children grow up behind prison walls?

  ‘It’s hard to comprehend how an entire society can unite in an institutionalized discrimination against one group of people,’ Tom says.

  ‘But that’s not how it happened. “Society” didn’t invent apartheid — a small group of white men did. They made up the rules and made sure nobody else could threaten their power. Yes, apartheid may have favored white women over black in vast and systemic ways, but it certainly didn’t favor women as a gender. They were expected to stay at home and rear children, as in all fascist ideology. In Nazi Germany, laws were passed that kept women from enrolling in universities. This widespread and systematic trend to keep women from politics and power is probably part of the reason why today, women own only one per cent of the world’s wealth.’

  ‘Um, you don’t need to preach to me, Thordis,’ he says, laughing awkwardly.

  For a second, all I can do is stare. ‘What do you mean?’

  Looking flustered, he says: ‘I just … feel like you’re being patronizing.’

  I’m at a loss for words. ‘Patronizing?’

  The chirpy tour guide tells the group to look to the right. ‘Here, you can see the graveyard where they buried lepers,’ he says. Patronizing? ‘Lepers were banished to Robben Island well into the twentieth century,’ he adds. Patronizing?

  I clench my fists, outraged that Tom is comfortable with being guided through hours of a decidedly male history of discrimination but can’t stand to hear me talk about discrimination against women that still takes place and even erases their contribution from major world events. A discrimination that’s so widespread it exists in every country on the face of the earth and manifests itself financially, politically, and, last but not least, in violence against women. And that cuts too close to the bone. That I can’t condone coming from Tom.

  His words shut me up like a slap on the cheek that’s forceful enough to turn my head to the window. I fix my stare, cheeks burning, listening absent-mindedly to the story of Robert Sobukwe and other great heroes of the resistance who were imprisoned on the island. The magnificent bird life outside the window doesn’t budge my heavy heart, not even the penguin that waddles wide-eyed past the bus, having been separated from its flock. Does he even realize how patronizing it is of him to shut me up just because he finds the truth uncomfortable?

  The silence isn’t broken until we’re on the undulating boat-trip back, when Tom asks: ‘Are you OK? You’re very quiet.’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just disappointed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘With your reaction earlier. I’m disappointed that you get uncomfortable when I speak of inequality. After all, that’s what we’re here to discuss.’

  I turn to face him.

  ‘Rape is one of the most brutal manifestations of gender inequality. An overwhelming majority of those who rape are men and the vast majority of rape victims are women. Rape is an everyday occurrence across the planet, even in situations where women are supposedly safe, with men who ought to be worthy
of their trust. Rejecting the different realities of men and women, thinking that it has nothing to do with the past we share, means you don’t get it. If I’d been a boy, you wouldn’t have raped me.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘But you raped me because I’m a girl, a girl you felt entitled to. Something gave you the idea that your pleasure mattered more than my consent, even if I was too sick to consent to anything. I don’t know why, Tom. But I believe it has something to do with the fact that men have more power and influence on all levels of society and that’s how it’s been for centuries. Perhaps this archaic tradition has caused people to adapt to the notion that men are simply more important than women. Perhaps that’s why you felt that you and your lust mattered more than me, that night. From what I know, you’re what most people would call a “normal guy”, which is why I believe this incident to be part of a much bigger picture where women have less value than men. I can’t allow you to filter that out just because it makes you uncomfortable.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to filter anything out, nor silence anything, I just felt patronized … like I was the “other”,’ he says in a quiet voice.

  I lose my patience and half-scream: ‘I was sharing historical facts! You’ve been listening to a history of discrimination all day, but when it comes from me, suddenly it’s patronizing!?’

  ‘Can we discuss this when we get back?’ he suggests. The atmosphere between us is arctic. The warm connection of the last few days is gone and thereby the basis for the interaction we came here to have. The result is a terrifying free fall.

  A little while later, we’re sitting by a white-clothed table in an empty restaurant on the Waterfront. Tom rubs his hands together and clears his throat nervously. He speaks of having studied social science at university and having a basic understanding of gender-based violence and forms of patriarchy, but then stalls and stutters. I point out a discrepancy in his argument that he claims isn’t a discrepancy but a misunderstanding on my part. His explanation makes no sense to me, and I can’t even trace myself back to the point in the conversation where I stopped following him. Suddenly, it’s as if we’re speaking different languages. Although we’ve lived worlds apart for most of our lives, I’ve never felt as far removed from him as I do now.

  ‘I don’t know how to continue,’ I say, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I don’t understand how we’re supposed to make sense of the violence you subjected me to if you’re not willing to discuss the context it belongs to. Violence isn’t bred in a vacuum. It has societal causes and consequences that must be part of our conversation. Silencing is part of the problem.’

  All of a sudden, his eyes well up with tears. ‘I don’t know why I … I feel like I’m on the wrong team.’ Jumping to his feet, he adds in a breaking voice: ‘I just want you to like me.’ He darts out for a smoke, but I suspect that the real reason is that he doesn’t want to cry in front of me.

  Bewildered, I’m left by myself, unsure of how to react. I just want you to like me is not an argument, but it is bravely sincere. Not only do I respect Tom for it, but I also want to find my way into the same kind of candor. I could continue to debate gender inequality and bombard him with statistics and facts I know all too well, but it wouldn’t help us out of the rut we’re stuck in. When he returns, smelling of cigarette smoke and visibly unsettled, I’m ready with a proposal.

  ‘How about we make a deal?’ I say, studying his face. ‘You try not to get defensive when I talk about gender inequality and I try not be patronizing when I do.’

  He smiles and stretches his hand out. ‘Deal.’ We shake hands. ‘I’ve got to tell you also, I was out there standing in the rain smoking, all dramatic on the edge of the harbor, and it was your trick that flipped things on its head. I thought to myself “go back in there, Stranger, and even though it’s tough, find a way to laugh about it”.’

  Smiling back, I say: ‘Good plan.’

  A motherly waitress arrives with our food. Although the argument is behind us, the trust between us is severely damaged and our conversation suffers. The smile on my face feels strained, and I’m afraid that anything we say could be misconstrued, fueling further misunderstandings. Desperate for a moment to recuperate, I suggest to Tom that we separate and attend to private matters. A part of me feels rejected and frightened when he immediately agrees. The new distrust in our relationship is like an elephant that doesn’t settle for just being in the room — it forces itself between us, snorting and swinging its trunk.

  As soon as I exit the restaurant and hit the rainy streets of the Waterfront, my nagging doubts take over. Was I too optimistic to think that I could make sense out of the violence Tom subjected me to — and forgive him for it — if he can’t even hold a conversation about the system it belongs to without getting defensive? Is his remorse based on an understanding of himself as part of a bigger picture, or is it an egotistical analysis that ultimately feeds his self-pity and not much else? Gulping for air, a toxic thought invades my mind: Is our entire mission in danger? My stomach turns at the thought and I slump against a wall. Desperate for something to calm my nerves, I longingly eye a group of teenagers seeking shelter from the rain under a marquee. Fuck. Why did I quit smoking?

  An hour later, I’ve nervously treaded nearby souvenir shops, buying beaded merchandise and other South African artifacts for my family, all the while trying to soothe the voices in my head and steady my quivering core. As before, I try to find a turtle for Haflidi Freyr but without success. The thought of him is accompanied by a wave of angst-ridden guilt. How can I face my son and stepdaughters after having missed out on Easter with them to chase what seems to be a lost cause? And Vidir … How can I possibly return home and tell him that the worried conversations and energy I cost him were all in vain, that mutual understanding turned out to be an impossible goal for Tom and me to achieve?

  When Tom appears, also with souvenirs in a bag, I’m momentarily relieved to see him, but the fear flares up when the elephant comes trotting behind him. Every word we utter is like edging further out on a sheet of ice that could break any second. I can’t think of anything safe to say. Except: ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘Agreed,’ he mutters.

  We sit down by the bar in a restaurant that smells of old fried fish. Above us is a statue of a sailor in a yellow rain-suit holding a fishing net. It reminds me of a horror film I saw once, where the murderer gutted his victims with a steel hook. The air between us feels similarly hollowed and lifeless.

  ‘Cheers,’ Tom says cautiously, stretching out his bottle of beer.

  ‘Cheers,’ I reply, and touch his bottle with mine.

  Neither of us knows what to say next. What’s unbearable is the fact that without trust, we’ll accomplish nothing. Without trust, this whole trip is an overpriced farce and a massive inconvenience — for nothing.

  Tom looks no less shaken than I am, with darkened eyes and a closed expression. Much like me, he seems to be racked with doubt about the prospects of the work we came here to do. The atmosphere is spiked with dread. Before I know it, the words come tumbling out of my mouth. ‘We’re so vulnerable.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, twisting the damp bottleneck between his fingers. ‘There’s still a fragility, even after all our years of email.’

  After all those emotions, all those letters, all that goddamn counseling, all the pain and here we are, I silently conclude. Utterly fucking lost.

  With nothing left to say, I clutch at my last straw when muttering: ‘I just wanted something good to come out of this. That’s what I’ve always hoped for.’

  ‘Perhaps we can share what we’ve learned, sometime.’

  For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. Then I stammer: ‘Really? You want that?’

  Memories surface of how he’s insinuated once or twice in our correspondence that the lessons we’ve learned are worth sharing with others, but deep down I thought those were
just empty words: something he thought I wanted to hear given how passionate I am about the cause of preventing sexual violence. Is he serious now? Is this the same man I sat out in a tropical storm with a few nights ago, who confessed to me that his greatest fear is being discovered? Is this a result of my words about coming clean with our story as opposed to living life in fear of it?

  ‘I think so,’ he says with a nod. ‘I have no idea how, but I feel too much hard work has been put into this for it to not be used, somehow. We’ve moved through so much.’

  My heart beats faster just thinking about it. If men like Tom — who belong to a social group that often escapes analysis and scrutiny because they conform to what is seen as the ‘norm’, who come from stable backgrounds, and enjoy various privileges — would confess to having raped and to regretting it, it might provide the foundation for a long-awaited conversation about the root causes of sexual violence. In order for people to better understand this type of abuse, they need a three-dimensional view of those who perpetrate it, not two-dimensional stereotypes that either vilify the perpetrators as ‘monsters’ or glorify them to the point where their crimes become unthinkable. The ripple effect could be enormous, the possibilities endless. The big picture, indeed.

  ‘It goes without saying I’m scared of the reaction I’d get,’ he says, resting his elbows on the bar. ‘Of the flow-on effects for my loved ones. Of the public condemnation.’

  ‘Would you condemn someone in your shoes if you heard our story, with all the healing wonders we’ve experienced?’