The Limits of Forgiveness

M

y wife and I are just back from nearly two weeks in South Africa, during which time we made many friends, spent Shabbos and Shavuos in one of the most vibrant Jewish communities in the world, and viewed wondrous scenery around Cape Town.

But for me the most fascinating part of the trip was observing the interactions between blacks and whites in South Africa today, and reminding myself that less than 30 years ago blacks and whites could not sit on the same bench or drink from the same water fountain. The notorious Pass Laws severely restricted where blacks could travel and effectively separated families. The ruling Afrikaans government provided, under the Bantu Education Act, only the most rudimentary education to blacks to ensure that they could not compete with whites for skilled jobs.

Today, blacks and whites mingle naturally. In the smiling greetings of a group of young black children in their school uniforms at the entrance to the Cape Town aquarium, I detect no indication that they view white people as enemies or oppressors. Nor do I detect the slightest indication that they doubt in any way their equal human dignity. (These observations of an outside visitor, on a short visit, almost certainly lack important nuance.)

Much credit for South Africa’s ability to move past its bitter racial past undoubtedly belongs to Nelson Mandela, the first democratically elected president. Mandela understood the power of symbolic gestures, and the primary signal he sent to South Africa’s white citizens was: We seek to build a society based on the equal dignity of all human beings, and not with the intent of taking revenge.