Forgiving Fallujah

Two weeks ago, in the city of Fallujah, Iraq, four American security contractors were ambushed and killed in their vehicles. A mob quickly formed and burned the bodies, then ripped apart the charred remains. Two bodies were strung up over a bridge amid shouts and cheers. Forgiveness is not the first thing that comes to mind. "Forgiveness" always sounds like a great, nice idea until something happens that actually needs forgiving.

It is times like these that forgiveness just sounds like a fluffy, pious fantasy. Or, at the other end of the spectrum, forgiveness is considered cheap and given away easily and thoughtlessly. Those on the extreme 'left' say the people of Fallujah obviously should be forgiven, and so we should forgive. Those on the 'right' say they do not deserve forgiveness, and so we shouldn't. I think they are both half-right.

Forgiving is often confused with forgetting. It is thought that to forgive something, we must pretend it never happened. But this is very implausible. Who could simply forget mutilated corpses? To ignore the crime is to ignore the victim. Justice is meant to be blind, but not towards injustice. Moreover, we know even from our everyday life that when we forget rather than forgive the wrongs done to us, they do not really go away. They are swept under the emotional carpet only later to come bursting up in a collective fury during some petty argument in the future. The "forgiveness" did not take.

Some people might think that to forgive someone you must say that what he did really was not so bad, or that she really is a good person after all. But this is worse than ignoring the offense -- this is actually lying. To say falsely, "there is nothing to forgive" does not solve anything. Forgiving cannot mean downplaying the wrong done. I think we all know instinctively that to use the language of forgiveness at all is to recognize that a real wrong has been done. Just think how you might react if, in all the times and occasions in which you found yourself saying you were "sorry" you heard in reply, "I forgive you."

I have heard a story of a photographer who was told she must absolutely be on time for a photo shoot with a busy CEO. She was, but the CEO was 45 minutes late. When he arrived, he casually said, "sorry to keep you waiting." The photographer replied, "I forgive you." The CEO stopped short, turned to her and said, "Who are you to forgive me?" He was never really sorry for what he did; for he did not think what he had done was wrong. But he knew that she thought so. We all know that forgiveness is not given for accidents, but for wrongs.

The way we seek forgiveness also reveals this. When we know that we have truly and willfully done something wrong, if our apology is met with a weak "don't worry, it doesn't really matter," don't we leave deflated? We are not satisfied, and we do not feel forgiven. By trying to de-fang our offense, the person we wronged has not taken away the bite of our guilt. We know in our hearts that forgiveness is something more. Forgiveness cannot be dishonest; it must look the wrong in the eyes and accept it for just what it is.

Once this is done it becomes clear why no one should "obviously" be forgiven, or be able to demand forgiveness as a right. If the magnitude of the crime is not lessened, than the fact that it deserves punishment is not changed. Forgiveness, then, cannot be deserved. It can only be given.

What, exactly, is given in forgiveness? Contrary to belief, it is not the remission of all punishments. We do not have to empty all our jails to forgive our criminals. But once they pay their time, we should not deny them an honest job. Because what is given in forgiveness is our good will. When we forgive someone, we are saying that, despite the wrong they have done, we still choose to wish them well. Forgiveness does not require you to "like" the person or feel fond of him. But it does mean you desire the best for him. In forgiveness you are separating the person herself from the things she has done, and thereby excluding her from the rage you feel at her offense. You hate the crimes, but love the criminal.

This separation is not as strange as it seemed to me when I first heard of it. It became easier to understand when it was pointed out to me that I was already quite used to distinguishing actor from acts with respect to one person -- myself. I may hate or detest some things that I do, but does that prevent me from wishing my own best? If I am mad at myself it is precisely because I wish for myself better things than what I have been doing, not that I have hatred for myself.

What does this mean for Fallujah? I think it means that we do not have to ignore it. In fact, we should not just go home as we did after Somalia. We should pursue justice and arrest those responsible. But we can not hate them. We should forgive them before we should pursue. In ancient times, a powerful state like Sparta or Athens would respond to such atrocities by simply massacring the whole city. We cannot do that. We cannot just "nuke 'em."

We should forgive the people who cheered the murderers on, and forgive those who let filial loyalty prevent them from turning in the rebels. We need to stay in with a strength tempered by gentleness. We need to wish them well and desire their good, and the best way to do that is to help them as far as possible to govern themselves. They can not do that if most of their citizens are dead or in jail. But they also can not do it if several citizens are running around with grenades.

To avoid both will be costly. But forgiveness is always costly. If you owe me a hundred dollars, to remit your debt I must deprive myself of that money. I know that to forgive Fallujah, or Tikrit, or whatever atrocity in whatever city is next to come, it is not myself who will most feel the cost. But for what it is worth, I must say that I think forgiveness is worth it.

Jack Grimes is a senior majoring in Philosophy. He can be reached at grimes@tuftsdaily.com