This morning, the house on Osbourne St. is still for the first time since we moved in a little less than two weeks ago. While the others went to the Green Market I, having already been, decided to stay behind and grapple with a few issues we have been presented with—and with my own internal struggle to believe in reconciliation.

I feel privileged to be here. Yes, the Cape is breathtaking. Johannesburg was also beautiful. The course has been rigorous, but the challenge has expanded my thoughts and been extremely rewarding. Above all though, the people I have met in this little “journey,” have been among the most wonderful, brilliant individuals that I have ever had the privilege of acquainting in such a brief period of time. Classmates, faculty, the lecturers, and even chance meetings with restaurantuers and shuttle drivers, in no particular order, have certainly confirmed a hope that all peoples can be teachers and friends.

So how can Apartheid happen? How can the Ku Klux Klan still operate a major church just thirty miles from my childhood home? What is it that abuses all of Earth’s individuals, and causes us to do such, for lack of a better word, shitty things to each other?

Power. The physical and deeply psychological desire for power has manipulated its way into probably every aspect of human society. The results? Racism. War. Opression. Gender and Sexuality Bias. Certainty of having the one true correct set of beliefs (are you listening Benedict, Mom, Dad? Nation of Islam? Organized religion?). There are others, but if I get the picture…then in my blog that should hopefully suffice.

The very history of all peoples can be seen in this violent (and in my opinion all oppression is violent) light. Bushmen and Koi fought over the best hunting and farming lands. Then, in a fight for the domination of Europe, white sailors claimed a land that had its own inhabitants. They came. They saw. They conquered. Then, not to disregard any other history, it became easier to assume that the European peoples and their beliefs were more important than any others. Not a bad economic decision for six million whites who might have had to compete against 48 million people of color. Apartheid—not all of it, but a damn good chunk. Another example? Well, it sure made Hitler’s bid for power a lot easier to make himself look like a savior sent to rescue his people from the clutches of religious and social minorities. He gave the masses a sense of entitlement—and only at the cost of millions of lives. Why did the south in the States become so disgustingly segregated after those three wonderful amendments in the late 19^th century? Well, a previously privileged population was obviously not keen to realize that, in their racist, power driven society, they had been the ones to create a larger population of now freed slaves than slave owners. It would have been a shame for the Colonel Angus plantation, if the colonel’s voice was now equal to his five hundred slaves.

But what does this mean for Reconciliation? Well, let me first say that social institutions based on power are not that easy to trump. The life of an activist is in no ways easy. Standing against the state, even when the state is totally wrong, is a commitment to an uphill struggle. So, in this post-apartheid society…or in the States…or anywhere for that matter, there must be a conscious movement to educate on the institutionalized relations of power and the human flaw to comply with these structures.

When it is convenient for whites in South Africa to continue to believe in their own superiority, and in doing remove social power from others, it is not as if the removal of laws will remove these behavioral patterns. Likewise, the colored population, which is so distinct here, is used to having more privilege than Africans. I am doubtful that the behavior of most coloreds in this nation will fight to destruct the psychological aspects of this man-made advantage. This vie for power applies to all races, all religions, all sexualities…all people.

Last night we went to a book launch for a new novel that challenges hetero-normative culture (ask for a definition when I get home family). I was shocked when one of the other guests pointed out that as a bi-sexual she was not only concerned about hetero-normativity but also homo-normativity. Both invalidated her difference. Her sexuality, like a race, is part of her identity but not the defining characteristic—just a part in the million piece jigsaw puzzle that we each are. Pecking orders, I dream, are for chickens. Though each time I meet beautiful individuals I become more aware that while a person is smart, people are dumb pack animals.

Yet, here I am. By all considerations I am in the most privileged of every social category. I am not sorry for this. I am responsible for this though, as I move forward with my aspirations. And, despite my writing all these revelations about the ills of power, I am aware that many of my ideals are just that—limited to academia. I have no doubt that my own life is filled with comforts that depend on and will depend on my compliance with power structures. I just hope that someday my life will not be defined by a societal, and human, addiction to a destructive drug.

Reconciliation in all societies is limited to the recognition and deconstruction of this must ugly human flaw. Because there must be a way to teach that achievement deserves recognition, not elevation. There must be a way to learn that difference is just different, not threatening. Reconciliation might in part be the recognition that power lie in the respect, understanding and love of difference. In other words, the possibility of reconciliation will be augmented when power is defined as relationships with each other, not as the relationship to others.

Question:

Ask anyone. Education is the answer. That is how to provide children with the ability to reconcile opportunity in this once legally segregated nation (this meaning South Africa, and really pretty much every other nation in this big blue puzzle). But what the hell do we do with the adults?

A freedom fighter has no other option, because of the education he was legally limited to in Apartheid, but to serve as a tour guide at the same prison where he was a political prisoner. Count the days in a prison, knowing that you are there for a just cause…get out when the good fight is won…breath the fresh air of freedom…look around…and slowly realize that you can go wherever you want, but you are still in prison. It may not be called Aparthied, but ask the guard on Robben Island if the fight is over.

Africans in the slums cannot get jobs because they do not have the education or skill sets to compete. But it is not because they are lazy. Africans were not allowed, until only fifteen years ago, to have the skills to compete in the market. Yes, send the children to school. But with what money?

I thought that the townships and cities were too great of a contrast of wealth to handle. Then we drove to the Cape of Good Hope. There is an interesting law in South Africa. If you can live on public land for twenty four hours without being removed, that land is yours. Across the street from the most beautiful chateaus I have ever seen (and I have been to Bel Aire (sp?)) were hundreds of little shacks. I am not privy to the interaction between the interactions between the wealthy white and destitute blacks in this area. But if I had to bet, the kids of Dr. Mydadwaswaytoorich and Mr. Iwasnotallowedaneducation do not go to school together.

What steps are being taken to remediate the effects of four racial groups, taught since they were innocent children that they are not meant for equal work? Because the children of Bantu, colored, and white educations are the workforce now. They are the ones who are vying for the best education for their children. Ill give you two guesses on who will win and be able to keep their kids in the privileged circle of academia-- but if you need more than one, we cannot be friends anymore. If we want a world were black and white children can respect each other as individuals whose opinions, though maybe different, are equally important, then having little black children going to bed and praying that they wake up white children cannot be a step in the right direction.

So what does South Africa, or any nation for that matter, do to encourage adults manipulated by the evils of discriminatory fear to pursue and education advanced to the one they were limited too as children? I am talking about all colors of people too. Let us not forget that whites were taught that they were superior. How do we teach them that they are not, so that they do not teach their children to think the same thing? After all, our parents are educators.

Yes, Education is the answer. Teach children of all color and creed that if they can believe they can achieve...tacky as that sounds. Only, realize that in educational terms, all individuals of a transitory society are children in terms of idea. Implement educational infrastructure for adults. They were cheated by the sins of a few—don’t let this cycle be perpetuated.

Oh, this is a rambling ideal. I know it. But what else can be done? Please tell me. Can you?

It could well be the ones I love

It is a simple black and white photograph circa 1938 of a black man and a “colored” woman celebrating their marriage at a church in District 6, Cape Town. Flanking the happy two is another, already married, white couple. The four are friends. In this particular district, people of all colors and creeds live together, in one of the most culturally vibrant areas of the city. It is a happy picture. Yet, for the first time I can no longer stay composed. I give just a few sniffles and a tear or two to the loss that will become evident in 1948…and will legally separate all four of these people in the 60’s. Everything we have seen, the horrors of political prison, images of violence and justified revolution, memorials to the fallen of the most noble cause, the greatest beauty my two eyes have ever seen, the ugliest side of man, the desperate face of poverty, and the glory of the human spirit….what is it about this picture?

Mixed marriages – especially between blacks, Asians and coloreds, were not uncommon before they were officially banned with the Immorality act. Imagine being told that loving a person is immoral—that finding beauty and glory in another’s soul is only possible if your skin has a matching shade. And not white that fill s a smile, the passionate red that fills veins, the pink and purple of the pulsing heart, the firing grey of the brain, the calm blue or earthy brown of the eye—but the biological contrast to the freckle. Tell me, who can morally make such a claim?

And what happened to these families after the Land Areas Act? To their children? To friends? People, by "God's" almighty account of morality, could only live with their own race. Husbands and wives were forcibly separated, friends made to say goodbye, and children…if they looked like the father, went with the father and vice a versa.

This is what happened in district 6. This is what became of the four people in the photograph. An entire integrated culture destroyed so that a few homes on a hill would have a better view of the cape.

I think I see now why I was so moved by this image. I had only seen pain and struggle driven by a hope for a brighter future. I had seen ghastly images that made my conviction for freedom more indelible. I heard the word Ubuntu-I am because you are, and felt hope. I know there is so much truth to be sought, respect and understanding still to be yearned for, and reconciliation to continue for generations. Yet, I was proud to believe in it. Never again. Educate the masses. Individuals may not all be equally talented, but the world might finally be seeing that this is not a product of color or creed. So that equal opportunity to pursue those inalienable rights might someday happen. Yet, this picture stopped me.

The four friends…smiling…young…who could have been in any country of the world… who could very well be me and my brothers…had the same hope. These kids just wanted the world. They loved each other. They wanted a vote for each other, and a place to grow old side by side with dignity. But all they ended up having, was that hope. The two whites in one area. The colored woman and one child in another. Her black husband and two other children in another area still. The brothers and sisters would have an education so awfully unequal that they would barely be recognizable when reunited. Not to see each other. Not to hope and pray and live together. Not to love each other. What is the world, in all its majesty, sitting by the grand oceans, below the Table Mountain, on the green veld…but a place where just a few can say that these four young people had the wrong dream? A pretty prison is still a prison. These young people, wanted a better world. I want a better world. For them, and for me, it is on the horizon. But their future world became a worse world. I cannot imagine the pain to die with a withering vision of the future. Perhaps in seeing them, I am confronted with the fear that my dreams for the world, will not bloom but dry up in my too brief chance. I cry again for those who conquered oppression if just for a moment, who chose love over despair, who sought truth and never settled for less, and who still died in a jail cell. Not just in South Africa, but any time any person and her beliefs were deemed anything less than gloriously human.

Father, Forgive Us. That is the line outside the district 6 museum.

I have not the power to condemn nor forgive man and his folly. But I can pray, not to a God, but to my brothers and sisters, that we seek to understand and respect one another’s differences as beautiful and complementing. Let us seek truth together. Let us reconcile as a collage and not a uniform canvas. Let us dream. Let us hope. Let us learn, not in definitions of what things are not—but of what they are. Let us sing. Let us play. Let us cry—grieve and triumph. Let us remember. Let us move forward. Let us love.

Amen.

What’s done is done. As the day winds down, I look back and see that despite my most desperate efforts I cannot change what has happened (do not fear, since coming to this breathtaking place I am proud to say there is very little if nothing at all that I would change). Yet, how I see what has happened today—how I understand and take responsibility for the past—influences my present and future. This great importance of history applies not only to my individual reality, but also to a people.

Winston Churchill wrote, “History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.” Today, sitting in the oldest mosque in South Africa, the tour guide proposed a similar thesis saying, “History is written by those in power.” History alone is the unadulterated documentation of time as a product of events. But, as with any construction of knowledge, history can rarely be removed from the perspective of the individual or peoples that employ its use. Thus, history is as much a series of facts as it is a story. Like a human being, history is rooted in experience, and takes on identity through perception.

What has become evident as the idea of reconciliation and diversity in the South African Context continues to grow more lucid, is that the promised progress of a nation is intrinsically connected with its history—and the interpretation of that history. Allow me to divulge. I was recently asked whether or not current generations are guilty of the sins of their predecessors? This is a particularly interesting question in regards to the States, South Africa, Reconciliation, and the interpretation of history in general. In order to answer let me first say that if the TRC was capable of showing anything, it is that understanding and seeking truth in history and conflict can not be partial to any perception. If this had happened in the TRC, if the perception of apartheid in South Africa had simply gone from the Afrikaaner’s view to the African’s view—than the role of victim and oppressor might merely have changed in the future. The two groups will forever have a different story and perception of historical events, but even greater truth can be revealed from a mutual understanding and presentation of both histories. To put this concretely, given the history of the Boer people I can understand how fear and tragedy led to the creation of a fascist state. This does not mean that I approve of the creation – I merely understand it. At the same time, reconciling the Boer history with the African history presents even more truth and a different and more critical opinion on the legitimacy of the Boer’s tragedy. Doubt, especially in history, is a good thing. It promotes a desire for continued understanding. It prevents certainty and fundamentalism.

Now I will digress to the original question: being guilty for past generation’s sins. Guilty is the wrong word. It is rare in history that the children of criminals be put on trial and guilty is something to be determined in a courtroom, or if you choose to believe, by God. I will replace the word guilty with responsible. In the case of South Africa and the United States, the ensuing privilege of gross human rights violations does indeed make present generations somewhat responsible towards the sins of their forbearers. Afrikaaners still live in the best damn parts of South Africa. Disproportionate wealth still lies in the hands of white South Africans. Apartheid is over, yes, but the playing field was not leveled by the removal of laws. Opportunity is, in many ways, proportional to money. It is irrefutable that in South Africa and the United States alike, the undeserved privilege that was gained, socially and monetarily, through segregation cannot evaporate overnight for this very reason. Democracy and Capitalism (keep in mind they are what I believe to be the best and most practical ideologies, respectively) on the wide scale, are not generally fast moving social structures. Because past generations of whites created false privilege, future generations, including myself, continue to benefit from these sins. I did not create the privilege. I am not guilty of this crime. But I do benefit from it. I am thus responsible to use my advantages to be and instrument of change for the better. This understanding is essential to progress towards true equality of opportunity in a society.

What does this have to do with history and reconciliation? Settle down. I am getting there. Breath.

History must be reconciled to move forwards. A people must be able to celebrate and be critical of their own history. Moreover, all peoples’ histories must be reconciled in this very manner. Every nation alone has multiple histories. There would be tremendous power in being able to incorporate all of these histories in triumph, tragedy, good and ugly. A united history allows a united movement forward. This is not to belittle the differences in history. No, this inclusion encourages that all of these differences be exposed to encourage critical thought and remove, as previously mentioned, the dangerous desire of certainty in the past, present, or future. The first step is taking responsibility for personal history. Then sharing responsible histories. Then accepting others histories as your own. All the while leaving room for doubt and continuously seeking truth and understanding in the past, to move forward in the present.

When history can be a product of critical thought as well as events, dates and stories—then the present will also be subject to critical thinking. Then—I believe—Reconciliation will truly be able to begin.

Memorialization

What is the human need to idolize? I myself admire Mandela, King Jr., Suzeman, and even members of my own family. People should be admired and honored for heroic actions. Yet, I feel that “worship” of any individual can be dehumanizing and dangerous.

The same aforementioned leaders are human. Certainly, their disciplined dedication to noble ideals is admirable. In times of despair it is fair to look towards others for inspiration. But I must plead that it is courage, determination, justice, and all other things that these heroes stand for that remain more important than the heroes themselves.

When ideas become more important than symbols, in my humble opinion, critical thinking is able to overcome easier human tendencies such as grief and worship.

Today we had the opportunity of listening to Hector Peiterson’s sister, Antoinette. As a side note, one of my brilliant co-students later remarked that she wondered if we would have been as entranced by Antoinette’s opinion, had we not known who she was. Anyway, she was adamant in proclaiming that while her brother was part of a heroic cause, he was not the only student that died in the struggle to end the injustice of Apartheid. The other day while walking through the Apartheid Museum, I also recall one of the teacher’s asking her students if all of Mandela’s policies were followed…if they were all right. The answer was initially yes from the students. The teacher then went on to explain that the correct answer was no. Mandela was human. The same thing can be said about MLK Jr., who many have reported adulterated.

Again, this is not to say that what these individuals stood for was not important. What is truly admirable is the hero’s ability to, in spite of human flaws, stand courageously for what is right.

I say thank you to Hector, King Jr., Mandela, Robinson, Suzeman, knowing that they are not perfect—knowing that they are heroes because what they stand for is never to be forgotten. I pray that I forever use my heroes, and their memorials, to serve for inspiration in the continued quest for truth and justice—not to justify complacency and worship towards what has already been achieved.

brothers and sisters through the game

The neon lights of the clock read 4:30 when I first woke up naturally this morning. Stupid jetlag. I made myself “sleep” for three more hours before I got up and went for a run. Having been on this continent for over 24 hours I was ready to get lost. I successfully did so by weaving through back streets and ignoring street signs. Mom, don’t worry—we are in the safest part of Jo’berg and after six minutes I stopped going east and came back. It only took me ten minutes—four additional—to find my way back. The weather was perfect. Running, I could not help but notice how at home I felt as the people of Johannesburg bustled with daily preparations around me. If natives were looking at me like a stranger I could not tell—I did not wear my glasses. I cannot see why they would though, jogging is by no means an American practice.

Then the apartheid museum. One of the most emotionally, mentally, and physically draining things I have ever done. To try and recount all of what I experienced would be an injustice. Someday, I will come back to this museum. Then I will come back eight more times. Then, I will try to coherently explain what it was like to observe an infinite struggle in six hours.

The architecture is reminiscent of a prison, and rightly so. Apartheid was the national imprisonment of a people and their ideas and culture, after all. I follow a school tour (semi-secretly), all black students, intrigued at the knowledge the children display. The teacher points to a list of apartheid laws. I look up and begin to read them. The class continues forward but I continue to look. Just a second ago I was watching propaganda for the racist National Party, disgusted at how scared people could behave so horribly. I look down. Below the laws is a window into and adjacent room where one can see hundreds of nooses. I sigh, saddened at what information I will encounter in my near future –when I make it to that room. Suddenly, my eyes readjust and in the midst of the nooses I see my own reflection. For the first time in my life I am genuinely horrified at my own image. I am not an Afrikaan, but what would I have done?

The further along in the museum I get, the further I am convinced that forgiveness is not deserved and reconciliation may not really be possible. Apartheid is a preview of the destruction of man. In their desperate attempt to be Gods, men become dogs. These dogs, in fear, then treat all other men as dogs too. Of course, I do not mean to limit the struggle to men, I just get tired of using the phrase people.

Mandela, Pieterson, Biko. I am touched by the struggle of students my own age and cannot help but be chilled at how recently this country, where I have been enjoying tea on a porch for an hour every morning was on the brink of Civil War.

Finally I get to the end of the museum. There is a video with Mandela walking out onto a Rugby pitch, in front of an 80% white stadium of South Africans for the finale of the 1995 Rugby World Cup Final. Historically, the color of one’s skin was coloured if a black was willing to play Rugby—the very game was intrinsically racist in the nation. Yet, Mandela came to support these 15 representatives of a new nation. His arrival signaled the support of an entire nation behind one cause. I cannot help but be awed at the effect. Amidst the initial shock of the crowd, one fan begins the cheer Nel-son, Nel-son. Soon the stadium of white fans is uproarious.

I am reminded of the Ivory Coast, who just four years ago ended their Civil War in order to unite behind their soccer team in the World Cup. I cannot forget Jackie Robinson, Jesse Owens, and the 1968 Olympics. What is it about sport that is so healing…so uniting? Perhaps sport provides a reminder of our most basic humanity. Competition for social standing no doubt leads to a fear that perpetuates senseless hatred and lack of understanding. But competition on the pitch—where thirty men from two different teams, countless different races, and thirty individual’s backgrounds are united as brothers in a holy quest to progress just one meter forward. Reconciliation by this definition, is not some sign of great western civilization or and idea limited to societies elite. Rather, it is more human than the fear of understanding and respect that has caused so much pain throughout history. What a great hope.

Sports are not barbaric. In fact they are a celebration of the human spirit and will. Sports, in their reminder of a common humanity, unify against all odds. Reconciliation cannot depend on sports, but the reconciliatory nature of the games we love, serve as a hope that in spite of, and because of, our common humanity, greater Reconciliation is possible.

First things first

Too much to say. Entirely too much. The thirty minutes I have sat in front of the computer screen, in an attempt to organize my thoughts of the last two days, has been a futile attempt to juggle an enormity of experience. So I will simply jot a few ideas from the past 48 hours.

The longest plane ride that I have ever been on lasted four or so hours. So, after a nine hour flight to London, followed by a seven hour layover and the promise of another eleven cramped hours, (I find it a small irony that economy should favor the “little” person in airline travel only) I was slightly peeved. The lights turned out after dinner was served and I was determined to force some sleep when a booming laugh startled me. Of course, I was flying next to the only passenger who decided not to sleep on a trans-continental night flight—awesome. Fortunately, his laugh was maintained to a slight chuckle until about six hours in, when I was again startled. Still, his laugh was infectious. He noticed me looking his way and pointed to the screen. In a thick accent he said, “I love Friends.” I nodded subtly, slightly amused but not trying to engage in conversation. He continued. “I am on my way back from Georgia, in the United States.” I wondered if he knew that I was from the states. Was I that obvious? We were flying out of Heathrow after all. Again he started talking, “Sometimes my work takes me there.” For the third time I just sort of nodded but this time I acknowledged that I was from Colorado. He said he had never been there but that he was from Botswana. With that I turned and tried to get more sleep. Then, a few hours later—at about four in the morning and without any great warning—the man reached across and opened the plane window screen. He seemed disappointed and sat back. I just looked at him, shocked at his daring to just reach across. “You will like the African Sunrise,” he said, “I think it is different than in America.”

I told him I would wait for it. I was awake now. Oddly he next asked me, “Are there good cattle in Colorado?” I said there were and asked why he would ask. “We have very good cattle in Botswana. I have several myself. Cattle are good in my country—stand for family and tradition.” I asked him why he was going to South Africa. His answer was simple, “I cannot get to Botswana from Britain or America without first going through South Africa. Why are you going to South Africa?”

I told him to study reconciliation and diversity. “Aha. Yes that is very interesting in South Africa.” We continued to talk, he with his booming voice and I trying to whisper. At one point he explained why Botswana had not become a colony of Great Britain saying, “Everyone thought we were in a desert. The British were tired of deserts (I assume he was referring to parts of the Middle East). They saw nothing so they left us alone. When they left we found the diamonds and began selling the cattle to Europe. It is lucky, really, that God hid the diamonds of our land. If we seemed plentiful, we would have been colonized. We were saved from Apartheid.” He began to ask if I was studying anthropology, but was not entirely surprised that I was not. “It is important for everyone to know,” he said, “because Apartheid manipulated everybody and now everything must be reconciled.”

I, being ignorant and still trying to keep the conversation simple replied “Yes, it is complicated.” The classic conversation ender failed though.

“No it is not complicated,” he said to my dismay and shock. “If your children are oppressed you must fight for liberation. But, if your children are the ones benefiting from Apartheid, you might not be so quick to stand up. When you think of people, and how they act with their families—and in Africa family is so important-- you see why so few manipulated so many. It is simple.” It was at this point that the flight attendant came and hushed us—I was speechless without her help, though. At five fifteen the man reached across and again opened the window. The sun was rising in Africa. It was blood red. I asked the man’s name. “Peter,” he said. We shook hands, the plane landed, and while Peter crossed the terminal to connect home, I took my first steps into Africa and reconciliation.

That very day, after a moving trip to Constitutional Hill (a political prison in the heart of JoBerg that is famous for holding prisoners such as Ghandi and Winnie Mandela) and the South African Constitutional Court we had a very interesting discussion about the role of forgiveness in Apartheid. Our host professor asked whether or not it was immoral to forgive in reconciliation, acts that are unforgivable. The topic was interesting. Having seen the court and steaming with a glorified desire for justice given my background in South Africa, it is easy to condemn. In the same manner, by the Christian doctrine (one that I generally support more than most “Religious” ideas) if one must forgive, then forgiveness is not a choice, and in my opinion, the meaning of forgiveness is diluted.

I cannot help but make reconciliation not only relevant to the US, but also global in answering this question. Never again. These two words are a promise in the States, in Israel, in South Africa. Denying, in any way, the “unalienable rights” that I—I---I hold to be self evident is unforgivable. It has happened in the past in my country, it is happening in the present in my country. Never again can not be a slogan—rather it must be a mission statement.

At the same, what Peter said resonates with me. I cannot help but to embrace the struggle of Apartheid, and the ideas of reconciliation and diversity without remembering that we are all members of a family. To sin, religious or not, is to be human. Blacks, whites, Indians, and all others are sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, South Africans…Americans. The only way to hope for reconciliation is to hope for a change within people. When Mandela says, “Freedom is a responsibility to assure the liberties of others,” he is referring to the choice that has so rarely been made by those who have the rare opportunity to deny self interest for the greater good. (As a side note this does not mean that what I consider to be Freedom is what all people consider to be freedom. Indoctrination, which I believe is, by nature, subservient to a doctrine, is not a message I am trying to promote). Thus, forgiveness must to be a choice, in its ability to allow the liberty of an individual to change and grow.

Reconciliation and Forgiveness are not one in the same. They are both choices. Events and actions which are condemnable and must never be repeated are not to be forgiven. They are to be understood. Through this understanding people may learn a respect for one another. The creation for respect and understanding of all peoples in all nations creates reconciliation. Forgiveness, after understanding and respect, may follow.
This is why Peter mentioned family. We, all peoples, are family. Shit happens. But a healthy family is grounded in respect and understanding. Families must reconcile problems all the time. Sometimes a member of the family does something that must never happen again, (David forgetting Mom’s birthday—I joke). Though the event is unforgivable, brothers and sisters are forgiven as a choice from love. This is the role of forgiveness in reconciliation. Forgiveness is not to assist in the necessary understanding of past evils, but to allow personal transformations of future members of “the family.”

Forgive my incoherence, verbosity, and grammatical errors. Jetlag mixed with emotion and excitement is an inebriating mix.