South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  I walked back to my villa after accompanying Thordis to the Ritz. It’d become a familiar route so I didn’t need to give much thought to the lefts and rights. Instead I just lazily tracked down the middle of the back alleyways and listened to the gentle slapping of my flip-flops on the tarmac.

  The sharing of my ‘black box’ went relatively well. Not pleasant but deeply necessary. I was glad to bring those things with me, and showing her the photos and ticket stubs felt like maybe the last time I will have any use for them. It was good to voice how they’ve weighed on me, but it now feels like those keepsakes from my year in Iceland are inessential. I’ve stared at those things too many times, trying hard to re-inhabit the body of my 18-year-old self. Now that we’re actually in each other’s presence, and able to discuss the events of ’96, that small packet of prickly memories seems to have lost some of its intimidating force.

  Albeit I did feel a sense of being misunderstood. She seemed to dismiss my collected traces of that year as merely ‘just paper’, and the utility and power of all their embedded, dark connections seemed to be somewhat lost on her. At one point, I felt kind of silly explaining them. Little does she know though, those pieces of paper conjured such fear that they’ve been reserved for when I’ve felt calm and strong enough to try to uncover my memories. Even just the word ‘Iceland’ can fire me back into history when I hear it in the news, but those thin little pieces of paper can do worse. They connect me to it.

  But maybe she didn’t see that? Maybe she and I work differently? Maybe the work that she has done in dealing with the traumas connected to that night did not need to be aided by photos and old passes to nightclubs?

  Perhaps her memory isn’t as foggy and unclear as mine.

  Actually, I know it is not.

  I know she doesn’t have to try to remember like I do.

  On many occasions she’s remembered words and moments with crystalline clarity. More than once I’ve been astounded by her ability to recount the small and not-so-small details. In all truth, the quality of her memory has helped us both.

  And yet, I learnt the other day that, like me, she’s also suffered from the suppression of memories. For once, the tables were turned and it was me helping her recall something.

  It’s one of the things I do remember well, that bizarre and erratic relationship we had in 2000. It was right there in some of those photos we looked at tonight. When we were dressed up and out partying together but still sitting meters apart. I remember clearly how there was a conditional distance and how the intimacy was like some kind of broken but still hopeful light bulb. On. Off. On. Off.

  But, memories or no, I’m beginning to comprehend why certain things are rendered forgotten. It makes sense to me that the mind ‘misplaces’ things that the body takes no pride in.

  I’m fighting a memory right now. On the walk home I was trying my best to avoid revisiting what she said to me on the patio. But when I walked through the exact space in which she voiced them, her words were already echoing around my head.

  ‘You’re not the only one to have been violent with me.’

  ‘… you caused a chain reaction.’

  I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes trying to fight the momentum of their meaning.

  She’s been raped by other men.

  How?

  Why?

  There’s a thick sadness trying to take root. She said she looked for ‘glue’ in others. She spoke of seeking out broken others. I knew she’d been through a hugely traumatic breakup and has hinted at other troubles in her relationships … but never this.

  I’m picking up fragments of the recent and distant past and trying to make a picture of her … but where do I put these pieces? Are any of them mine?

  One question keeps swinging around my head with growing intensity: Is it all my fault?

  I know I scarred her ability to trust, but should I own the violence of others as well?

  What a whirlpool; all these questions … I can feel myself being sucked in.

  Stand up, Tom.

  Don’t do this now. She told you so that you can understand the full meaning of her forgiveness. Don’t start new fires … not tonight.

  Go brush your teeth. Go to bed. This will find its place.

  DAY SIX

  1 April 2013

  It’s 9am when room service awakens me. Last night’s exposé lingers in my thoughts. Tom now knows about the detrimental domino effect that tore through my late teens and early twenties. It makes him in no way accountable for my choices nor anybody else’s who crossed my path, but it tells him how the harm caused by violence is by no means confined to the deed itself. Another piece of the puzzle has found its place in the complex mosaic that is our story.

  Pulling back the curtains, I’m met with a gloomy sky. A downpour could happen any minute. I’m starting to regret having packed my shorts, mocking me from inside the closet. Whaddya say, those pale Icelandic legs could use some fresh air, eh?

  After a hot shower and a bowl of fresh pineapple, a text arrives from Tom.

  Getting up for breakfast now. Meet you for a coffee?

  At 10:30am, an hour and a half before the boat leaves for Robben Island, Tom and I start walking along rainy streets towards the Waterfront. Bundled up in my woolen jacket, I can’t help but stare in disbelief at Tom’s bare legs.

  ‘Won’t you be cold?’ I wonder.

  ‘Not my legs, no,’ he replies, as if his legs in no way belong to the rest of his body.

  I bury my hands deep in the pockets of my jacket.

  ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but how was the treatment you had for post-traumatic stress? I mean, if you can explain it to me, I’d like to know what you have been taken through?’

  ‘Well, it was exposure therapy,’ I tell him.

  ‘Of what kind?’

  ‘Exposing the client to the feared object or context. I had to write down accounts of the violence I’ve been subjected to, recalling every sound, smell, and feeling down to the smallest detail. Then, I had to read it out loud, over and over again. The goal is to grow a callus over the hurt, so eventually it doesn’t sting as much, isn’t as tender. But to begin with, it feels like being punched in an open wound. Over and over again.’

  ‘When do you … reach the therapeutic endpoint?’

  I envision the white plastic door-handle in my mind’s eye while answering: ‘When you can step into the core of your fear without falling to pieces.’

  ‘Geez.’ He whistles.

  ‘When I started exposure therapy in January 2007, I couldn’t even say the word “rape” out loud when referring to my own experience. Luckily, my therapist is a smart woman who allowed me to do things at a pace that I could handle. Two and a half years later, I’d gone public with my story in my book and also in the press interviews that followed.’

  ‘That’s beyond amazing, Thordis.’

  ‘Thank you; I’d like to think of it as my graduation,’ I say with a genuine smile.

  All of a sudden, a car coming out of a side street a little further down the road brakes with a loud screech. This is followed by a string of curse words, and a man crawls to his feet. On the street next to him lies a scooter on its side. He rubs his hip, fussing and swearing but seemingly unharmed. ‘You could’ve killed me!’ he screams at a sheepish woman sitting behind the wheel of the car. She’s too far away for me to make out her words, but whatever she’s saying, the man doesn’t like it one bit. He thunders: ‘Forgive you? THIS IS UNFORGIVABLE!’

  Unforgivable. The word rings in my ears. I’m going to a prison where innocent people’s rights were violated in the most gruesome ways. I’m going there with a man who raped me. And on my way, I cross paths with a man who thinks it’s unforgivable that another motorist nudged his scooter.

  Squeezing the rock in my pocket, I wonder if Ro
bben Island will be the right place to hand it over to Tom? Wouldn’t it be symbolic to leave the rock in prison, where it can shoulder the blame for centuries to come, allowing us to carry on with our lives free from the burdens of the past? Pushing these speculations to the back of my mind, I tell myself that when the right time comes, I’ll know it.

  Despite the gloomy weather, the Waterfront is lively as ever with its street musicians and eager shoppers. We’re admiring a great jazz quartet made up of four old men in matching baseball caps when my phone beeps. It’s a text from Dad.

  Many days to go, still. Careful, precious, careful. Dad.

  ‘The more I learn about sexual violence, the better I understand that it doesn’t just affect the survivor,’ I think out loud.

  ‘Yes, I’ve thought a lot about that too,’ Tom says. ‘Your loved ones … the people surrounding you. Which brings up the question — how do you feel about me writing a letter to Vidir and your parents?’

  The question comes as a surprise. ‘I’m not sure, it’s been nine years since I told my mother about what you did to me … and well, she doesn’t want to shoot you any more. Perhaps she could handle getting a letter from you at this point. But Dad …’ I shake my head. ‘I really don’t think I would recommend that.’

  ‘I understand,’ he says with a nod. ‘If I were your father, I wouldn’t want to hear the mention of my name. I’d be scared of what I’d do, honestly.’

  ‘Out of the three of them, Vidir is most likely to appreciate a letter from you. But to be sure, maybe it’d be best if I read it over first?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  We pass an arts-and-crafts store selling sculptures in all shapes and sizes. Dozens of them adorn the street in front of the store, forming an open-air museum of sorts. The largest sculpture is that of a life-size buffalo made of hundreds of thousands of black beads. Surprisingly, many statues are of women, especially mothers with small children, reminding me that Cape Town is called the ‘Mother City’ by South Africans. These plump mothers are carved out of solid black rock, with chubby children peeking from behind their skirts and baskets bursting with fruit on their heads. In other words: Abundance embodied.

  Ahead lies our destination: The Nelson Mandela Gateway to Robben Island. Long, colorful banners adorn the building, hanging from columns that frame the entrance. I read the words ‘freedom’ and ‘humanity’ from the banners as Tom announces that he’s going to get us coffee from a nearby shop.

  The first thing to catch my eye as I step inside is a picture of Mandela and the number ‘27’, referring to the years he spent behind bars for his political beliefs. The atmosphere is elevated and solemn. On the right is a blood-red wall with a silver inscription:

  While we will not forget

  the brutality of apartheid

  we will not want

  Robben Island

  to be a monument

  of our hardship

  and suffering

  We would want it

  to be a triumph

  of the human spirit

  against the forces of evil

  a triumph of wisdom

  and largeness of spirit

  against small minds

  and pettiness

  a triumph of courage

  and determination

  over human frailty

  and weakness

  Ahmed Kathrada, 1993

  My eyes well up with tears, my skin breaking out in goosebumps. Standing at the entrance to a landmark in world history is nothing short of overwhelming. It’s overwhelming to be in a country with such a mangled past, accompanied by a man many would expect me to despise. At that very moment, he appears with two coffees, upbeat and unsuspecting. Revenge gave me nothing, I think as I accept the cup from his hand, only darkness and stagnation. Being here, in a country where hatred was defeated after generations of its cruel reign, gives me hope that suffering isn’t pointless pain but provides an opportunity to learn.

  We wander into a souvenir shop where the shelves are bursting with books about heroes who fought against apartheid. I miss seeing women’s faces on the covers, knowing that they contributed greatly to the resistance movement and were imprisoned and killed alongside their male counterparts. Just as I’m having these thoughts, I notice a t-shirt that says: ‘History depends on who wrote it.’ Ha! My sentiments exactly.

  After a security screening and X-ray (hatred must still have powerful allies), we board the boat. ‘I’ve got butterflies in my stomach,’ I say as Tom takes the seat next to me.

  ‘So do I. It’ll be a memorable day, that’s for sure.’

  The windows are foggy as the boat takes off, bobbing on the waves. On a flat-screen in the center of the room, a video about Robben Island and its role during apartheid starts to play. I recognize a young Mandela and listen carefully to the part about how he co-founded the ANC’s Youth League. When we’re halfway to Robben Island, women’s contribution to the resistance is first mentioned in the video: ‘As a general rule, male political prisoners were kept on Robben Island, but the female prisoners were kept in the Kroonstad prison.’ To my disappointment, that’s the only mention of women’s involvement in the fight against apartheid that I hear.

  When we set foot on Robben Island, the bleak weather turns out to be the perfect backdrop. The island is barren, the earth parched. Scraggly bushes tuft out of the cracked soil. A few crooked trees in the distance add to the air of desolation. The prison buildings ahead of us are made of solid rock, enclosed by a wall with barbed wire winding on top of it like a fanged snake. A surveillance tower in the middle of the premises reminds me of photographs of the Nazi death camps. I shudder and it has nothing to do with the weather.

  The group is divided in two. Tom and I start off on a walking tour around the prison with about sixty other tourists. The coldest wind I’ve felt in South Africa yet ruffles my hair as we walk through an opening in the wire-mesh fence and enter one of the buildings with pale fluorescent lighting. Preoccupied with the surroundings, I don’t catch the name of the former prisoner who introduces himself to the group as our guide. I’d heard and read about former prisoners of Robben Island working as guides here, but I still can’t help but stare at the man as the group gathers around him. He’s probably over seventy years old and bald, wearing brown pants and a blue V-neck sweater. As his story unfolds, we learn how he was arrested in 1982 when he was a member of the military wing of the ANC. ‘They tortured me. I was naked, chained, and strung up by my hands and feet, like this,’ he says, stretching his hands up. ‘I confessed to everything. I showed them where we kept our weapons. I was found guilty and convicted to seven years’ imprisonment on Robben Island.’ He tells his story in a calm, almost neutral voice. Pointing at his glasses, which are tinted despite the gloomy weather and poor lighting, he tells us: ‘Many of us suffered eye damage when working in the limestone quarries. The sun projection was so strong it burned our corneas, ruining our vision. When we asked for sunglasses, we were denied. They told us it wasn’t part of our prison uniform. Many prisoners’ tear ducts were also damaged. They stopped producing tears, rendering them unable to cry. Respiratory diseases were also common, due to the amount of dust we had to breathe in while working in the quarries.’ He produces a small straw mat. ‘We slept here on the concrete floor, on this. The floor was very cold, especially in the wintertime,’ he adds, looking at us over the rim of his glasses. ‘We were divided into different ethnic groups; coloreds, Indians, and blacks who were called Bantu. Our ethnic group was a deciding factor in how we were treated. Blacks got less food than the other groups. Coloreds and Indians got long pants and long-sleeved shirts, but blacks only got shorts and t-shirts. There was also a subdivision into groups A, B, C, and D. Prisoners in group A had certain privileges, they were allowed more visits and letters — heavily censored, of course — more food, and even cigarettes. We racked
our brains trying to figure out how the system worked, why some prisoners were immediately put in group A while other prisoners had to work their way up there. Some had to endure years of group D, no matter what. Eventually, we realized that the system was arbitrary and its sole purpose was to create inequality and division amongst us, to weaken our spirit. But we found a way around that,’ he says with a sparkle in his eye. ‘We decided that group A prisoners had to share their privileges with other prisoners, making everybody equal. We had to live by our vision.’

  He gestures for us to follow him and the group gets moving. I’m lost in thought about grand victories that revolve around cigarettes and baked beans. The notion that the prisoners were robbed of their freedom is tragic enough, but the thought that they were also robbed of the ability to shed tears over their circumstances is devastating.

  Our next destination is the courtyard, enclosed by a four-meter tall concrete wall. ‘Here, we were allowed to play sports,’ our guide tells us, resting one hand on his hip. ‘But only certain sports, approved by the government. Like tennis.’ Again, his eyes light up. ‘We cut holes in the tennis balls, stuffing notes with handwritten messages inside them. Then, we shot them over the wall to message our allies in other divisions of the prison. That way, we coordinated ourselves.’

  Via correspondence, I think, automatically looking at Tom.

  ‘Would you like to see Mandela’s cell?’ the guide asks, and the group murmurs eagerly. We enter another building and walk along a narrow corridor with cells on both sides. The group forms a line, stopping to peek into the cell where Mandela served most of his long sentence. When it’s my turn to look, I’m taken aback. Between white iron bars I see a space that’s no bigger than a broom closet. The small straw mat on the floor extends from wall to wall. The only other items in the room are a steel cup, a stool, and an iron bucket that must’ve served as a chamber pot. The walls are painted in an ugly green color that reminds me of an operating room. Six thick bars secure the only window in this small space. To corrupt authorities, free thinking is the most dangerous thing in the world, I silently conclude. If you get an idea that ruffles the feathers of tyrants, you might have to spend the rest of your life in a cell like this.