CASADE

John O. Ifediora.

Introduction.
Simon Wiesenthal’s seminal narrative of his experiences as a Nazi concentration camp inmate is, at its core, an inquiry into the nature of human capacity to make decisions under conditions of extreme trauma. Conditioned by the daily assault on his physical and psychological well-being by his captors, he was unwittingly placed in a position that required him to make a decision with moral and ethical implications – grant or not grant the request for forgiveness by a dying Nazi SS soldier who had confessed to a most depraved act of inhumanity against innocent Jews. The inability to grant this request bothered Wiesenthal; and ultimately provided the principal impetus for the book he entitled The Sunflower: On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness, which also contained instructive symposia on the question of forgiveness.

In the first English edition of The Sunflower published in 1969, only ten respondents offered their opinions on the question posed by Wiesenthal; all Jewish and Holocaust survivors who responded were unanimous in their opposition to forgiveness. The Christians amongst the respondents echoed a principal doctrine in Christianity, which is to forgive all sins. The current edition of the book, published in 1982, had fifty-three respondents, and offered a remarkably more varied responses and reactions to the same question. A critical analysis of the reception of The Sunflower by respondents in the 1982 edition of the book is the primary object of this dissertation. In point of objectivity, however, the analysis distills into one of forgiveness – should Wiesenthal have forgiven Karl, or was he right in withholding forgiveness? The reactions of the respondents thus centered on received articulations of forgiveness – what it entails, when to render it, and when it may be prudentially withheld. Hence in order to profitably analyze the reception of the book by respondents, it is first necessary to understand what informed Wiesenthal’s moment of “indecision.”

A secularized interpretation of forgiveness
The question raised in The Sunflower, by force of the faiths of the victim and the wrongdoer (Simon and Karl respectively), implicates a need for exploration of the different apprehensions of the concept of forgiveness in Christianity and Judaism, and warrants, at once, its secular interpretation and understanding. I begin with a multidisciplinary discussion of the literature, and then turn my attention to the theology of forgiveness. Theorists, particularly Hannah Arendt (1958, 32) and Bishop Butler (1970, 72)), insist that there are necessary and sufficient conditions for forgiveness, and that these conditions are partly moral, metaphysical, and existential. One obvious condition requires that a culpable wrong be committed for forgiveness to be relevant, and that both victim and offender be moral agents (the concept of forgiveness would be senseless in a world comprised of stones, fish, and vegetables).

Thus once a harmful act has been committed, forgiveness acts as a mechanism that interrupts the damages inflicted, and mitigates the stimuli to react or seek revenge. But once a great harm has been done, the mere act of forgiveness may lack the capacity to make whole or redeem the victim from what Arendt described as “the predicament of irreversibility – of being unable to undo what one has done”(Arendt 1958, 40). Arendt acknowledges this limiting power of forgiveness, but insists that forgiveness, in spite of its limitations, remains the solution for the “inevitable damages resulting from action, which, rather than undoing actions, interrupts their consequences;” without forgiveness we would remain the victim of our own behavior “confined to one single deed from which we could never recover.” (Arendt 1958, 241). In this sensibility of forgiveness, it terminates that which could go on pointlessly and endlessly without interference.

Arendt’s writing on forgiveness seemed to place strong emphasis on the distinction between minor wrongdoing and what Kant described as “radical evil,” or willed evil that transcends human capacity to understand or comprehend. Humans can forgive minor wrongdoing but willed or radical evil would require a more complex regime of forgiveness and punishment. Card (2002, 182) takes cognizance of Arendt’s later writing on the “banality of evil,” and defines evil “as a reasonably foreseeable harm (which need not be highly probable) that falls within a certain range of magnitude and importance and is brought about, seriously, sustained or tolerated by culpable wrongdoing.”(Card 2002, 185). Card’s range of evils includes “intolerable harm” and harm that tends “to ruin lives, or parts of lives.” If such definition of evil is applicable in a given circumstance, how can the response to incomprehensible atrocities such as genocide and mass murder be forgiven? How may victims be persuaded to forgo the natural human instinct for retributive justice or revenge, and instead carry-on and make do with the knowledge that whatever harm they suffered is “irreversible?” Joanna North (1998, 19) has an answer:

What we must remember is that a correct conception of forgiveness does not require that we forgo punishment altogether or that we should, in forgiving, attempt to annul the existence of the wrong done. Forgiveness does not remove the fact or event of wrongdoing but instead relies upon the recognition of wrong having been committed in order for the process of forgiveness to be made possible. What is annulled in the act of forgiveness is not the crime itself but the distorting effect that this wrong has upon one’s relations with the wrongdoer and perhaps with others. From the injured person’s point of view, forgiveness will have the effect of preventing the wrong from continuing to damage one’s self-esteem and one’s psyche, thus bringing to an end the distortion and corruption of one’s relations with others.

The point North is making here has a near universal appeal and utility amongst practitioners of psychiatry, and psychological counseling. A hypothetical case would be instructive. Suppose a male, jogging on a deserted road on a cold night, is brutally attacked and left for dead. But manages to survive the attack, and regains his physical abilities, but for the next several months he continuously relieves the horrible experience, and finds himself unable to leave the safe environment of his home after dusk, and ultimately becomes fearful and untrusting of anyone he encounters after dusk. Apart from the debilitating psychological effects of this attack, he remains consumed by anger and hatred of the assailant, but he is physically and legally unable to exact revenge. So he lives his daily life defined by fear, anger, and helplessness; one might say, he has allowed his assailant to perpetually dominate his existence by corrupting and destroying his ability to return to his accustomed existence before the assault. He is now a virtual prisoner in his new existence – unable to forgive, unable to free himself from the memory of the painful event, and clearly unable to lead a productive life. Again, Joanna North (1998, 17):

Through forgiveness the pain and hurt caused by the original wrong are released, or at least they are not allowed to mar the whole of one’s being for all time. …I am not suggesting that the moral value of forgiveness resides solely in its capacity to make the injured party feel better, as if forgiveness were simply a species of self-help therapy. Indeed, if this were a person’s sole motivation in forgiving another, then he should be in danger of losing sight of the notion of forgiveness altogether. …Forgiveness is not something we do for ourselves alone, but something we give or offer to another. The forgiving response is outward-looking and other-directed; it is supposed to make a difference to the wrongdoer as well as ourselves.

The debate over a precise secularized definition of forgiveness notwithstanding, there seems to be a consensus amongst theorists that it is a process that entails a revised emotion and attitude toward the wrongdoer (Finch 2006, 30; Govier 2002, 41). The process of forgiveness, once engaged, is believed to minimally suppress the instinctual desire for revenge, and release internalized harmful emotions such as fear and anger. Authors such as Herman (1997, 25), and Lamb (1998, 162) suggest that forgiveness need not be dependent on the attitude of the offender, and can be unilaterally rendered by the victim, thus giving the victim maximal control of the recovery process from the traumatic event. But other theorists such as Blech (1992, 60), and Finch (2006, 27) propound that forgiveness is a bilateral process that should be negotiated between the offender and the victim in order for both to reach beneficial closure on the harmful event.

So far the discussion has focused on the victim from whom forgiveness is urged on moral and existential grounds. But are wrongdoers always ‘culpable’, and thus candidates for forgiveness? Are there wrongs that are excusable because the act that led to the harmful event is outside the competence of the wrongdoer? Philosophers such as Kant (1996, 32) and Bentham (1948, 25) have argued the essence of determinism which postulates that events in the natural world have causes of indeterminate origin – that whatever happens in human existence or in the physical world is a result of a chain-reaction of events that far predates a particular act. This particularistic interpretation of acts by humans that lead to harm provides excuses, or at least explanations of why injuries were inflicted on a victim (I could not help it; it was an accident; it was out of my control; I was forced to do it). Kant, in espousing the concept of determinism, argued that because a cause is not readily made manifest does not mean it does not exist (Kant 1996, 49). Arguing in a similar vein, John Stuart Mill (1961, 32) insists that uncharacteristic and unpredictable human acts count no greater against the essence of causal explanation than unpredictable and uncharacteristic events in nature such as the weather and earthquakes count against the possibility of there being causes that remain elusive.

A belief in the concept of determinism would tend to make forgiveness “irrelevant” to both the offender and the victim, for if the harmful act committed by the offender was due to forces outside his physical competence or legal responsibility, then the beneficial properties of forgiveness would not be in play since there would be no culpable individual to forgive. This position, of course, presumes that forgiveness is only proper where a culpable harm is properly in place. But such understanding of responsibility for harm done is too simplistic. The fact that there may be good excuses or reasons for acts leading to harm do not lift culpability; it all depends on the nature of harm caused, what precipitated it, and what it is that needs forgiving. Thus, the old saying, “To understand all is to forgive all,” while instructive may not be useful in many instances of atrocious inhumanity for the simple reason that when all is known about a harmful event, more “salt may be added to injuries.” It may also be the case that a rationale may be adduced to excuse the act. Jerome Neu (2002, 29) takes this point further:

Once one knows all the factors that went into bringing about an action, it will often emerge that the crucial determining factors were outside of the person’s control. It is a deeply Kantian part of our understanding of ourselves and others that where a person is not free to act otherwise, “could not help it,” that person is not regarded as responsible or properly blamable for the action done due to the factors outside their control….But this brings us to some of the limits on the folk wisdom which are also limits on our Kantian intuitions. For if we are determinists about human action, and believe that causal chains can always be traced outside the person, it might appear that we never have ultimate control or responsibility, and so everything must always be forgiven. To refuse to forgive is simply to cling to present ignorance. But I think we should recognize that there is always a story to explain how things have come to be as they are and why a person did whatever it is they have done. But not all stories excuse…

Determinism, however, is not a matter of our immediate concern; people forgive not because they believe in a general principle of universal causal order or that every violent act that causes harm has certain but indeterminate antecedent origins, but because of the existence of relevant and necessary conditions that make such act understandable, if possible, or excusable. Some atrocities may never be understood, but may still be amenable to forgiveness on religious, moral, or existential grounds. One of the conditions that properly facilitate our understanding of forgiveness is a distinction between excusing and forgiving; an excuse that reveals a harmful act to be purely an accident or a by-product of intent to advance the welfare of the victim may facilitate forgiveness because such act lacks purposeful will to inflict harm.

While the victim may be angry for the harm done, the excuse generally militates against resentment and hatred. In this regard, it will help matters to follow Jeffrie Murphy (1988, 92) and Bishop Butler (1970, 75) in describing forgiveness as forswearing resentment of the offender, and insisting that forgiveness is proper only when resentment is already justifiably in place, otherwise there is really nothing there to forgive of the offender. Equally important in this understanding is that the degree of resentment, and the willingness to forgive are both a function of the magnitude and duration of the harm. This articulation of forgiveness and resentment necessarily restricts resentment to culpable harm devoid of acceptable excuse; but even here, in this seemingly straight-forward description of forgiveness, there are still complexities. Jerome Neu (2002, 24) explains:

Even where an excuse removes all responsibility and so make resentment inappropriate, there may be a sense to forgiveness. The therapeutic concern served by forgiveness may require the overcoming of anger as well as resentment. The kind of responsibility essential to resentment may not be essential to anger, and so an excuse that attenuates responsibility may not undermine the anger provoked by an injury. Anger at harm may persist in the absence of resentment at wrong. Our concern here is how understanding might lessen responsibility, and so provide an excuse, or otherwise lead to forgiveness. Excusing and forgiving are two different paths to disarming resentment, one by showing it misplaced, and the other by renouncing it despite its warrant.

The causes or circumstances that led to harm aside, there may be instances where forgiveness is simply not possible. This would be the case where it is very difficult to separate the harm from the offender as is the case in instances of horrific crimes where the sheer magnitude of the event defies comprehension. Specific examples of such crimes would include genocide, torture and mass murder of children or the purposeful extermination of people who identify with a race or religion (such as the atrocities Karl confessed to participating in); in these cases the crime perpetuated would almost always militate against any interpretation of forgiveness especially where the extent and degree of the crime essentially foreclose understanding. Under these circumstances, retention of anger, resentment, and the desire for revenge by victims and family members may be a moral prerogative that preserves self-respect and human dignity. Writing on the Holocaust, Richard Fitzgibbons (1986, 63) insists that “wrongs having this degree of culpability and enormity may put one permanently in debt to the victim such that the moral amends are unending and resentment is forever justified.”

Aristotle (1984, 62) spoke about the proper role of anger in society as a signifier of one’s self-worth, and decried the deficiency of those who fail to be angry enough when harmed:
The deficiency, whether it is a sort of irascibility or whatever it is, is blamed. For those who are not angry at things they should be are thought to be fools, and so are those who are not angry in the right way, at the right time, or with the right person; for such a man is thought not to feel things nor be pained by them, and, since he does not get angry he is thought unlikely to defend himself; and to endure being insulted, and to put up with insults to one’s friends is slavish.

The point Aristotle seems to be making is that feeling anger and resentment is a constituent part of self-respect, thus failure to express such emotions appropriately would be a sign of insufficiency of self-respect and lack of concern for one’s dignity, and rights. Following Aristotle, Bishop Butler (1970, 77) suggests that resentment has social value because “resentment against vice and wickedness is one of the common bonds by which society is held together…and is to be considered as a weapon put in our hands by nature against injustice and cruelty.” But it should not follow from these pronouncements on anger and resentment that one should never let go of both; they do, however, suggest that if one is to forgive, the proper roles of anger and resentment require adequate consideration.

If one is to fully understand the complex process of forgiveness, it is also important to recognize that the attitude of the offender or perpetrators of harm is an integral part of the injury sustained by victims. The absence of care, recognition of the rights of victims, remorse or repentance are attitudes that are just as damaging as the physical injuries sustained. Part of what is therefore resented is the offender’s attitude, and what alters when forgiveness is granted is the forgiver’s attitude toward the offender. Jeffrie Murphy (1988, 28) puts it differently:

One reason we so deeply resent moral injuries done to us is not simply that they hurt us in some tangible or sensible way; it is because such injuries are also messages, i.e., symbolic communications. They are ways a wrongdoer has of saying to us “I count and you do not.” I can use you for my purposes, or “I am up here and you are there down below.” Intentional wrongdoing degrades us –or at least represents an attempt to degrade us—and thus it involves a kind of injury that is not merely tangible and sensible. It is a moral injury.

If one, therefore, takes forgiveness as the foreswearing of resentment, and the subsequent abatement of anger, the centrality of attitude in the complex scheme of forgiveness becomes obvious; for it enables one to see the connectedness of the reasons that may serve as the basis for forgiveness. Repentance and remorse, for instance, facilitate the distinction of attitudes displayed by the offender at the commission of the harmful act, and the moment forgiveness is sought, thus affording a better understanding of St. Augustine’s admonition to “hate the sin, but love the sinner.” (St. Augustine 2009, 123). St. Augustine’s counsel is very much relevant in the secular world since victims of horrific crimes often have difficulties separating offenders from their act. As Murphy (1988, 56) explains, “when you repent, I forgive you for what you now are. When I forgive for oldtime sake, I forgive you for what you once were.” Attitudes matter, and quite complex; just as it is difficult to be certain of the motivations that underwrote the offender’s current behavior in seeking forgiveness, it is equally a challenge interpreting a victim’s presumed change of heart – a forgiving heart that does not reflect such change in attitude toward the offender can hardly be countenanced as genuine forgiveness. This point is not lost in Heinrich Heine’s (1982, 72) statement:

Mine is a most peaceable disposition. My wishes are: a humble cottage with a thatched roof, but a good bed, good food, the freshest milk and butter, flowers before my windows, and a few fine trees before my door; and if God wants to make my happiness complete, he will grant me the joy of seeing six or seven of my enemies hanging from those trees. Before their death I shall, moved in my heart, forgive them all the wrong they did me in their lifetime. One must, it is true, forgive one’s enemies – but not before they have been hanged.

For both offender and victim, the certainty of a genuine change of heart or lack of it matters; it enables one to either move on or continue to seek a clear indication of repentance or forgiveness. Karl would never know of the status of his request for forgiveness; the crimes he confessed to gave Wiesenthal a lot to ponder.

The trauma dimension
While the concept of forgiveness, in its various articulations, informs the thrust of this enquiry, emotional and physical trauma and the subconscious psychological defenses they engender are proper and relevant areas of consideration in maters that touch on behavioral manifestations from Holocaust survivors (Gobodo-Madikizela 2008, 170). Trauma, emotional numbing, and post-traumatic stress have long been recognized in the literature as powerful determinants in shaping victim’s responses to both internal and external stimuli, and to a large extent, helped underscore the fragility of the human mind (Herman, 1997, 152). Unrelenting and persistent traumatic episodes have been shown to distort perception, compromise faculties, induce physical and psychological infirmities, impair judgment, and ultimately dehumanize (Kaminer 2006, 182).

For Holocaust survivors, remembrance and memory are exceedingly burdensome and complicated; each invariably demands more of the victim the greater the degree of trauma endured. Wiesenthal’s reaction to Karl’s request for forgiveness, while nonverbal, is complicated, and so are his subsequent behavior soon after his encounter with Karl, and after he was liberated from a Nazi concentration camp at the end of hostilities. The extent to which he was traumatized by his experiences is an open question, but one that leaves no doubt that he was indeed traumatized by events in the camp. But how much of what he relates in The Sunflower are “actual recollections” of his experiences? How reliable is his memory and his ability to accurately recall events that took place while under a state of prolonged trauma? Was his inability to accommodate Karl’s request a manifestation of his state of mind that subconsciously shielded him from unpleasant external stimuli? Krondorfer (2008, 244) elaborates further:

Holocaust memory, like all memories of atrocity and genocide, are complicated by the fact of trauma. Not only are survivors of catastrophes unable to comprehend the totality of their memory, their condition is also characterized by “the inability to convey their experiences, to utter the unutterable” (Zertal, 2005, 55). Because of the traumatic content, survivors themselves experience a tension “between the desire to forget and the need to remember” (Wajnryb 2001, 78). The deeper the trauma, the more remarkable the sense of irretrievable loss, and pain.

Are perpetrators of unspeakable evil such as genocide also traumatized by their act, even when such act of inhumanity was either willingly engaged or compelled in furtherance of perceived collective welfare? Was Karl’s request for forgiveness equally a manifestation of his traumatized state of mind, and thus not fully volitional? What about Klaus Barbie, the infamous butcher of Lyon, who proclaimed in his trial, “I have forgotten. If they haven’t, it’s their concern. I, in any case, have forgotten” (Suleiman 206, 103). Are these perpetrators just as traumatized by the knowledge of their atrocities, albeit on a different degree, as the victims? Again, Krondorfer (2008, 251):
When it comes to forgetting and remembering perpetrators of homicidal violence must be treated differently from survivors of atrocity. Testimonies of Nazi perpetrators and their accomplices differ fundamentally from testimonies of Jewish survivors, because perpetrators have an interest in trivializing the harm inflicted on their victims and in reducing their own culpability. As a general rule, perpetrators have reasons to distort the truth. While victims resist the rawness of trauma spilling into their lives, the perpetrator resists the acknowledgment of individual blame in relation to his participation in collective evil.

But Karl admitted his crime, confessed it, and sought salvation through forgiveness in accordance to the dictates of his religious faith (Catholicism, as we are told in the book). The question, however, is whether his testimony is an “accurate” account of the extent of the genocidal atrocity he committed alongside his fellow soldiers. Did he subconsciously withhold other deadly acts of violence against innocent Jews as a defense mechanism in order to minimize the harm done, and to facilitate Wiesenthal’s rendering of his request? One can never be certain, but traumatic events that perpetrators are not particularly proud of or were compelled to execute may engender memory suppression and misrepresentation of facts (North 1998, 19). It is, perhaps, within this context that Karl’s rendition of events may be profitably considered, for traumatized persons have been shown in clinical studies to deploy unconscious mental processes or coping mechanisms that lessen anxiety associated with painful events or internal conflicts, and thus protect the individual from psychological discomfort (Enright, 1998, 55). Some of the more commonly employed defense mechanisms by perpetrators of horrific crimes are rationalization of action, denial, projection, and sublimation, all of which have been found in one form or another in the trials of former Nazis (Card 2004, 215). There is no evidence that any of these applied to Karl; all we know of him in this regard are the details of his confession to Wiesenthal, and from them one may reasonably make inferences to this state of mind as one who engaged in a collective act of atrocity. Lewis (2005, 19) elucidates:

When atrocities are performed in the name of a collective identity, individuals may in fact not see the inhumanity of their deeds in the very moment they enact them. They neither perceive their own actions as individually willed nor do they truly see their victims’ faces, that is, recognize people in their subjectivity. Hence, when perpetrators later testify, they do not so much misremember as they actually – with respect to their own selective memory – remember “correctly.” Their victims have always been absent from their view, at the moment of the mistreatment and murder as much as at the moment when perpetrators are asked to recall their wrongdoings. Effacement, then, is already built into the initial act of genocidal evil. As far as the perpetrators are concerned, they do not remember the victims in their trial testimonies because they never saw them in their humanity to begin with. What perpetrators did not acknowledge (to themselves when committing the atrocity, they cannot recall later.

But what about the account of life in Auschwitz by Primo Levi in his book, Surviving Auschwitz (1958)? An account so devastating that one can almost feel vicariously the actual psychological pain of the victims. Was he really capable of recalling the “actual” event as stated below or is the narrative an out growth of “refreshed” or long-suppressed memory that is at best compromised by trauma? In any event, the accuracy of recalled events by individuals may matter less in the scheme of things if what they refer to are events that actually took place, diminished capacity and compromised specificity notwithstanding. Of immediate relevance in this enquiry, however, is whether, in spite of the traumatic events experienced by victims, and, to a limited sense, by perpetrators, both can function effectively in their daily existence without the agency of forgiveness. If normalcy is eventually restored with the passage of time, and with sufficient spatial separation from the offensive environment, then of what use is forgiveness except in compliance with religious dictates? But if these two conditions are reasonably met and the victim’s psychological wellbeing remains wanting, then there might be a case to be made for the usefulness of forgiveness.

The Bible, without explicit intent, gives an excellent narrative of an event that some experts in the field of traumatic disorder and unconscious human responses to stress now recognize as one of the earliest known incidents in which a trauma survivor managed to achieve remarkable success in secular activities, while at the subconscious level the traumatic events in his past remain operational. What is being referenced here is the story of Joseph and his brothers as told in the Old Testament (KJV, Genesis, Chapters 37-45), and repeated by Mann (2001). What began as squabbles between siblings soon degenerated into hatred that was self-consuming enough to compel Joseph’s brothers to sell him to a group of Ishmeelites who in turn took him and resold him in Egypt. Joseph, before this event, was their father’s favorite, in the main because Jacob (their father) had him when he was an old man and Joseph was the son of his beloved wife Rachel, who, for a long time was infertile. Leah, Bilhah and Zilpah had given birth to Joseph’s other ten brothers. Rachel died after giving birth to Benjamin.

Joseph, as we are told, was not a particularly humble child at seventeen; in one of his boastful moments, he told his brothers of his dream in which they all bowed down to him as their ruler. His brother’s jealousy of their father’s favoritism, and their contempt for Joseph’s behavior drove them to plot to kill him, but relented and instead threw him into a pit and sold him. They informed their father Jacob (who was later renamed Israel) that Joseph had been killed; Joseph, however, was eventually imprisoned in Egypt on false accusations of making sexual advances to his master’s wife. But, in due course, Joseph was called into administrative service by Pharoah for his uncanny ability to interpret dreams – his accurate prediction that Egypt would undergo seven years of abundance and then followed by another seven years of famine was enough to convince Pharoah to appoint him viceroy over Egypt.

As the famine swept over the region, his brothers traveled from the land of Canaan to obtain grain, and in the process had to appear before Joseph. Joseph recognized his brothers but they, however, did not recognize him. While Joseph at the end forgave and reconciled with his brothers, he took his time in the interim to undergo a catharsis by way of exacting psychological trauma of his own on his brothers. He first got his just revenge – he began by prosecuting them as spies, had one of the brothers thrown in jail, and then turned his anger on Jacob by having his other brothers request of their father to send Benjamin to Egypt knowing that such demand would cause his father much anguish. It took Joseph a while to come to terms with his past, but eventually he did tearfully reveal himself to his brothers, and invited them and his father to live in Egypt. Ultimately their descendents were enslaved in Egypt until their deliverance by Moses. (KJV, Genesis, Chapters 37-45).

Biblical interpretations of Joseph’s story raised pertinent questions: why did he take so long to reveal himself to his family? Why torment his father who loved him dearly, and by all account whom he also loved deeply, by not sending word earlier that he was fine and alive, thus relieving his father’s long years of grief? Why have his father send his other beloved son, Benjamin, to Egypt knowing how painful that would be to Jacob? But more importantly, why inflict so much torture on his brothers and father? While these are difficult questions to unravel, modern analysis of individual and collective trauma and its effects offer explanations and insights. In the Biblical narrative, Joseph was not described as emotionally burdened or despondent by what his brothers did to him; in fact he was described as doing quite well in Egypt.

This lack of explicit display of emotions and the ability to function in spite of the horrible event is indicative of the operational engagement of unconscious defense mechanisms that numbs emotions while enabling functionality. But such defenses may not long endure, for years later when his brothers appeared before him, his suppressed emotions reawakened and emerged with full effect, triggering the anger and desire for revenge. The three days he kept his brothers in jail match the three days he spent in the bit before being sold. The negative impact of traumatic stress, long suppressed, is now being unleashed, albeit not upon self but on others responsible for the event. The brothers’ expression of remorse for what they did further unleashed suppressed emotional pain that once acknowledged enabled Joseph to begin the healing process.

Joseph’s experience illustrates the power of unconscious defenses, and conscious acknowledgement and accessing previously inaccessible pain and deep-seated anger; through them one can both function, and ultimately love again through forgiveness. Samuel Mann (2001, 337) repositions Joseph’s experience in modern psychology of trauma quite effectively:

Joseph’s story suggests that the use of unconscious defenses allowed him to move on seemingly unaffected after severe childhood trauma, and that repressing such emotions may help in maintaining psychological stability…. While teaching that psychological numbing is not antithetical to survival and success in life, the text also implies that repression, while desirable at the time of trauma, is not the ideal long-term solution, as it may stand in the way of emotional and spiritual healing. When emotions related to trauma are handled largely by repression, the experiencing of love and forgiveness may also be blocked. Joseph’s story suggests that healing and wholeness are possible after emotions kept from awareness have been consciously acknowledged.

The role of trauma in remembrance, memory and subconscious defense mechanism employed by victims and perpetrators alike remains complicated, but it affords a reasonable means to understanding the behavior of both Karl and Wiesenthal, and in a broader application, the dispositions of Holocaust survivors, and former Nazis.

On therapeutic aspect of forgiveness
The value of forgiveness, until the seminal work of Lewis Smedes in 1984, was almost exclusively considered within theological paradigms. Smedes’s Forgive and Forget: Healing the Hurts We Don’t Deserve (1984), dramatically raised awareness of the therapeutic value of forgiveness in secular psychology; by advocating self-forgiveness as the first step towards restoration of one’s dignity and health, it gained wide acceptance in the fields of psychotherapy and counseling. But the book’s popularity amongst the general audience derived from its insistence on the victim’s forgiveness of the offender because it helps the victim redefine his role, not as a powerless and abused entity but as a person who retains the strength to exercise grace by forgiving the offender. In spite of the interest generated in academic and professional circles, and to a limited extent, in the broader vested audience, questions on the therapeutic usefulness of forgiveness remain – when should one forgive? Does forgiveness actually help the victim in the long-run or does it simply ameliorate and mask short-term manifestations of psychological distress? Is the victim ultimately made whole again by forgiveness, and if not, how much relief should the victim expect when he forgives? Put more bluntly, does forgiveness have its reputed therapeutic efficacy? The questions are simple enough; but the answers, by the very nature of the matter under consideration, are complex, and become more so as the context within which forgiveness is sought displays its uniqueness and complexities. This is especially the case if the difficulties posed by oversimplification and unrealistic expectations are to be avoided.

In Forgiveness and the Healing Process: A central Therapeutic Concern, Ransley and Spy (2004) drew attention to misconceptions of the attributes of forgiveness, and the motivations that inform a victim’s desire to render forgiveness. Their point being that forgiveness is neither easy, nor a straightforward process, and definitely not a panacea for all wrongs inflicted on victims. In this regard they urge their readers to view forgiveness as a lengthy process of redeeming the self from the grasps of pain, anger, frustration, and anxiety inflicted by the offender, and through the same process revisit one’s core values and beliefs to facilitate healing. Their interpretation of what it means to forgive is transparent enough: “Forgiveness does not mean ignoring wrong things people do or condoning them; it is about seeing the humanity in ourselves and other people and giving ourselves and others the opportunity to change.”(Ransley and Spy 2004, 58).

Moltmann in his seminal work, God for a secular society: The public relevance of theology (1999), considers forgiveness as the creation of a new beginning. In this sense he suggests that forgiveness is less about the harm done, but more of the new life to which God awakens in the perpetrator and the wronged. In this regard, he asks, “How can we be free, not only of the evil we have committed, but of the evil we have suffered, and cannot forget because it has left traces in body and soul?” (Moltmann 1999, 75). His point being that freedom from debilitating effects of evil acts is what is obtained for those who forgive, for it frees them from hatred, anger and bitterness for what occurred in the past. And since the past cannot be revisited to foreclose the evil act, forgiveness frees the individual and enables the creation of a new existence. For perpetrators of evil acts, Moltmann (1999, 36) sees atonement and repentance as means to freedom but acknowledges that these would not be entirely sufficient to amend for harm committed. But nonetheless argues that “in the Bible repentance means conversion, and about-turn, and this turn is a turn to the future.” (Moltmann 1999, 24). Thus, to Moltmann repentance is forward-looking but mindful of harmful acts committed, while forgiveness frees the victim from the bondage of a painful past. This new beginning, made possible for both victims and perpetrators, emanates from the liberating and therapeutic effects of forgiveness.

Testimonies to the therapeutic efficacy of forgiveness, whether at the individual or national level abound. In the years following the Holocaust, there have been numerous acts of genocide, and high crimes against humanity targeted at minority groups or vulnerable ethnic groups in various parts of the world. Events in Rwanda, Bosnia, and South Africa come to the fore; others in smaller scope remain just as evil and inhumane. In what follows, it will be necessary to provide a full and unabridged reproduction of testimonies, not only for the sake of fidelity but also for effect. In the book entitled The Wisdom of Forgiveness, Victor Chan (2004) produced a powerful interview he conducted with Archbishop Desmond Tutu of South Africa, and the Dalia Lama. Victor Chan (2004, 67):

From 1995 to 1997, Archbishop Tutu was chairman of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission. His job? To listen to 21,000 witnesses describe the human-rights anuses and atrocities committed during the apartheid era. At times, he wept openly after hearing the tales of torture, of people’s limbs being blasted off with blowtorches. His mandate? He had to forgive the perpetrators in order to foster healing.

In 2004, Tutu, in a forum with the Dalai Lama at the University of British Columbia, talked about his experiences with the Commission. Tutu:

Many times people were moved by examples, especially examples of people who, having suffered a great deal, instead of demanding a pound of flesh in retribution, have behaved extraordinarily. A young black woman came to us and told this story: “The police came and took me to the police station. They put me in a room, and undressed me. They took my breasts and shoved them into a drawer, and then slammed the drawer repeatedly on my nipples until the white stuff oozed out.” Now you imagine that someone who had experienced this atrocity would be bitter, would lust for revenge. But frequently people like her would say they were ready to forgive. We sat there and we were deeply, deeply humbled. Humbled by the privilege of listening to people who by right should be angry, resentful and vindictive. And instead, they were filled with desire to forgive. (Chan 2004, 69).

His second narrative was even more compelling, and troubling. Again, Tutu:

There was something called the Bisho massacre, thirty to forty people were killed and 200 injured. We held a public hearing in a huge hall, the room was packed to the rafters with angry people, many of whom were either injured at the incident or they had lost their loved ones. Four officers that had shot and killed people came in. You could feel the tension in the room, the anger. They came and they sat over there on the stage and we were in the middle. One of the officers, a white officer, the other three were black, got up and said, “yes, we gave the order for the soldiers to shoot.

The temperature shot up in the room, the tension you could cut with a knife. And then, he said, “Please forgive us, please forgive these three of my colleagues and receive them back into the community.” Now, you’d have thought this hall will erupt with anger. You know what the audience did? They applauded. Incredible. They applauded. And when the applause subsided, I said, “let’s keep a moment’s silence. Because we are in the presence of something holy, we were standing on holy ground. We ought to be taking off our shoes, like Moses did. (Chan 2004, 71).

Chan: Archbishop Tutu came by his deep-seated conviction of forgiveness through his exposure to an age-old piece of wisdom. As Tutu put it during his dialogue with the Dalai Lama in Vancouver:

In my country, we speak of something called ubuuntu. When I want to praise you, the highest praise I can you is to say, you have ubuuntu – this person has what it takes to be a human being. This is a person who recognizes that he exists only because others exist: a person is a person through other persons. When we say you have ubuuntu, we mean you are gentle, you are compassionate, you are hospitable, you want to share, and you care about the welfare of others. This is because my humanity is caught up in your humanity. So when I dehumanize others, whether I like it or not, inexorably, I dehumanize myself. For we can only be human, we can only be free, together. To forgive is actually the best form of self-interest. (Chan 2004, 69).

Chan then posed the following sequence of questions to the Dalai Lama, the High Monk of Tibet:

Chan: So to be able to forgive your enemies can make a difference to one’s spiritual progress? I asked the Dalai Lama.

Dalai Lama: Yes, yes, there is no doubt, it is crucial. It’s one of the most important thing. It can change one’s life. To reduce hatred and other destructive emotions, you must develop their opposites – compassion and kindness. If you have strong compassion, strong respect for others, then forgiveness is much easier. Mainly for this reason: I do not want to harm another. Forgiveness allows you to be in touch with these positive emotions. This will help with spiritual development.

Chan: Is there a special meditation technique that you use?

Dalai Lama: I use meditation technique called giving and taking. I make visualization: send my positive emotions like happiness, affection to others. Then another visualization. I visualize receiving their sufferings, their negative emotions. I do this every day. I pay special attention to the Chinese – especially those doing terrible things to the Tibetans. So, I meditate, I breathe in all their poisons – hatred, fear cruelty. Then I breathe out. And I let all the good things come out, things like compassion, forgiveness. Giving and taking. I take care not to blame; I don’t blame the Chinese, and I don’t blame myself. This meditation is very effective, useful to reduce hatred, useful to cultivate forgiveness. (Chan 2004, 74).

Clinical studies have shown that forgiveness is positively associated with better mental health in victims of evil acts (Walker 2006, 181; Govier 2002, 36). In these studies, forgiveness was found to be a lengthy process and ultimately linked to reduction in stress, depression, anxiety, and anger; but more importantly, it encouraged victims to abandon the desire for revenge, and resentment of offenders, which in turn brought about improved psychological wellbeing (Schott 2004, 209). Similar findings were reported in a study by Meyers (2009, 136), in which the focus was the impact of forgiveness on mental health of victims. In this clinical study, forgiveness was conceptualized as a unilateral act by the victim in order to investigate the efficacy of forgiveness that emanates from the victim independent of the perpetrator following victimhood and exposure to extreme violence, and the subsequent impact such unilateral forgiveness has on mild psychiatric morbidity. They found it to be very helpful, and facilitated the victim’s recovery process.

If these findings hold true for some victims (they certainly cannot be generalized to be helpful to all victims) then what does one make of the notion of the need to never forget past evil acts, for to forget is to doom one to forever fall victim of similar acts of evil. This sentiment is aptly captured by Elie Wiesel (1982, 32), “Never should I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never. But how does one forgive and move on with life while clinging to the memory of a painful and damaging past that constantly invoke the image of the wrongdoer? Is the age-old admonition “Forgive and Forget” useful in the forgiveness paradigm? Put differently, is forgetting essential to forgiveness and psychological wellbeing? Friedrich Nietzsche (1969, 58) in a different context, certainly believed in the efficacy of forgetting for a healthy psychological state: “It will be immediately obvious how there could be no happiness, no cheerfulness, no hope, no pride, no present, without forgetfulness.” James Young provided the introduction for Oblivion by Marc Auge (2004), and cited the fable of a man who had perfect memory to illustrate the dangerous consequences of not forgetting things. In the fable, the man was incapable of living in the present because the past kept intruding, thus he was forever compelled to relive every minute of his past, which made living in the present impossible. It is in this regard that Auge (2004, 235) wrote:

Given the fundamental role that forgetting plays in the life of an individual and a community, it is surprising to realize that hardly anything positive has been said about forgetting in Holocaust discourse. Without much sustained thought or critical examination, forgetting has often been identified as the antithesis of remembrance, as an attempt at distorting and denying the reality of genocidal anti-Semitism perpetrated by Nazism. The discourse has assigned cathartic, religious, and sometimes quasi-magical powers to remembrance – in often repeated phrases such as “those who don’t remember history are doomed to repeat it,” “not granting Hitler a posthumous victory,” “from destruction to remembrance,” “in remembrance lies the secret of deliverance.” Forgetting, on the other hand is denigrated as an activity in which only perpetrators and their descendents, anti-Semites, and revisionists would engage. Forgetting is viewed as a form of individual repression and cultural amnesia, as a mental operation that, if not done with outright malicious intent, can only be explained as a kind of psychic defense or psychological pathology. The case as presented is somewhat exaggerated, but it makes the point that a ubiquitous rhetoric of remembrance, especially in public commemorations and popular discourse, has pushed aside a more careful analysis of the role of forgetting.

These statements and questions aside, it is quite natural and very possible to forgive a wrongdoer without the necessity to forget the harm done; forgetting should not be a prerequisite of forgiveness. To forget all aspects of an event that caused so much misery and destruction is to go against the natural instinct of what it means to be human; and that would be asking too much of the victim or even the perpetrator whose interest it is to forget. It is the ability to use past experiences to shape one’s future that separates humans from the lower species. But this is not to suggest that one must perennially dwell on the past; it simply means that past events should be selectively used to guide future conduct. It is a matter of balance – knowing what to disregard and what to retain for self-preservation. In discussing the notion of forgetting within the context of a genocidal atrocity, such as the Holocaust, may seem callous, and perhaps bordering on immorality, for it appears to withhold empathy to, and recognition of, the incredible act of inhumanity visited on the victims. Thus, advocates of forgetting come perilously close to denying the historical event or suppression of it in collective memory, and in the process make it more difficult for victims still grappling with the process of being made “whole” again through forgiveness.

It is within this understanding of the beneficial aspects of forgiveness that one may contextualize some of the opinions adduced by respondents to Wiesenthal’s narrative, for it sees forgiveness not from a theological perspective but from the point of view of its therapeutic value.

Forgiveness as understood in Judaism and Christianity
Two of the Abrahamic faiths relevant to this enquiry, Judaism and Christianity, have at their very core a procedural and objective understanding of forgiveness. For Christians, Jesus of Nazareth is the embodiment of forgiveness and the absolver of all sins, for through him God forgave his subjects all their trespasses against Him, and harm done to humans. By sacrificing his “only begotten Son” to atone for the sins of His primary creation (humans), salvation for all believers must thus come through Jesus, first by believing in him, and second, by abiding by his teaching of love and forgiveness. In this particular Christian sensibility, forgiveness assumes a pervasive role in the functional existence of believers in the sense that forgiveness becomes a duty to be constantly discharged to remain in good standing with God; all Christians have a duty to forgive all sins regardless of scale and scope, and no sin may be deemed so great that it cannot be forgiven by God. This understanding, at the very least, informs an overarching Christianity’s doctrine on forgiveness; but as is true of many doctrines based on faith, Christians of various denominations hold varied opinions on this subject as do Christian theologians. (Bass 2012, 131).

In Christian theology, forgiveness is not dependent on repentance by the wrongdoer; repentance only facilitates the healing process and soothes the victim but it is not a requirement. The victim already bears the burden of forgiveness as a duty imposed on him by his faith. The New Testament, beginning with the book of Matthew, is replete with the theological imperative from Jesus to forgive all sins regardless of who the victim is or the magnitude of the sin. “This, then, is how you should pray,” said Jesus to his followers: “Our Father in heaven hallowed be your name……Give us this day our daily bread, forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors…” (KJV, Matthew 6: 9-15). Jesus then admonishes his followers, “For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if do not forgive, your Father will not forgive your sins.” (KJV, Matthew 6:17-20). Ever so mindful of the persuasive power of dramatization and logic, Jesus utilizes parables to remarkable effect in his teachings of love for neighbor, and forgiveness of transgressions by fellow beings. The parable of the unmerciful servant is particularly instructive:

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times should I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?”

“Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.”

Therefore the Kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle accounts with his servants. As he began the settlement, a man who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him. Since he was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt.”

The servant fell on his knees before him, ‘Be patient with me,’ he begged, ‘and I will pay back everything.’ The servant’s master took pity on him, canceled the debt and let him go.”

But when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a hundred denarii. He grabbed him and began to choke him. ‘pay back what you owe me!’ he demanded. His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, ‘Be patient with me, and I will pay you back.’

But he refused. Instead, he went off and had the man thrown into prison until he could pay the debt. When the other servants saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed and went and told their master what had happened.”

Then the master called the servant in. ‘You wicked servant,’ he said, ‘I canceled all the debt of yours because you begged me to. Shoudn’t you have mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?’ In anger his master turned him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed.

This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother from your heart.” (KJV, Matthew 18:21-35).

But there remains the vexing and unsettling matter that touches on the severity of the sin under consideration. Are there sins against God and humans that are, on account of their magnitude and depravity, outside the reaches of a theologically informed conception of forgiveness, and tend to activate the all-human impulse for retribution and resentment? Examples abound. During the civil rights movement in the United States in the 1960s, Martin Luther King, Jr., in alliance with other groups combating Jim Crow laws in the Southern states of the country that effectively encouraged extreme brutality, lynching, and debilitating discrimination against African-Americans, preached love, non-violence and forgiveness of perpetrators and enablers of the laws. In addressing a crowed that had gathered soon after his home was bombed in Atlanta, he remained steadfast in his belief in the efficacy of the teachings of Christ on Love: “We are not advocating violence. We want to love our enemies. I want you to love our enemies. Be good to them. Love them and let them know you love them.”(King, Jr. 1998, 80). Many in the African-American community doubted the wisdom of such strategy and agitated for a responsive approach that matched violence with violence, an eye-for-an-eye, and restorative justice (Eagles 2009, 72).

But regardless of the strategy adopted in this instance, the central question of whether the perpetrators of the horrific crime of lynching innocent beings deserve the benefits of forgiveness pits human nature against a theological imperative to forgive all sins. To staunch believers in the Christian doctrine on forgiveness, the answer to the question being asked is really quite simple, “turn the other check,” and pray for those who seek to harm you. The simplicity of this solution, while admirable, was not enough to persuade a vicar who lost a child in a 2005 London terrorist attack to render forgiveness, nor was it enough to keep her as a “woman of the cloth;” she resigned her position as a vicar on the grounds that she was unable to forgive (Morris 2006, 12). But in spite of the vicar’s inability to discharge her Christian duty, which, as a believer she had preached to her congregants all along, some of the victims of the attack, however, publicly professed their forgiveness of the attackers. The public, already conditioned by the implicit social contract that calls for punishment for inexcusable harm, expressed amazement and even went as far as to describe the few victims who professed forgiveness as saints (Morris 2006, 12). Other victims, still understandably consumed by resentment and anger, felt unjustly treated by implication. One of the victims who lost his wife in the attack could not be clearer of his resentment:

I could never forgive and I think that recently there has been too much pressure put on people to express forgiveness. It’s as if we are being asked to apologize for feeling hurt, that society is embarrassed by our anger and would feel better if we would express forgiveness and then disappear . . . . Forgiveness is being offered up as an alternative to justice and that is very dangerous. (Morris 2006, 13).

Such “willed evil” almost always defy comprehension; and has the capacity to compel even the most ardent believer in the Christian imperative to forgive all sins to question the rationale of such theologically imposed duty. But for believers still encumbered with the dilemma of whether to forgive incomprehensible acts of evil wrongdoing or withhold forgiveness, Jesus had already put in place a generalized and all-encompassing response – cast the first stone if you are without sin! The idea, of course, is that everyone is a sinner and deserving of forgiveness not judgment, the nature and depravity of the act notwithstanding. He illustrated this idea with yet another profound session of teaching, and admonition:

But Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. At dawn he appeared again at the temple Courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. The teachers of the Law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law, Moses commanded us to stone such woman. Now what do you say? They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw stone at her.” Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground. At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time……” (KJV, John 8:1-11).

This understanding of sin informs a fundamental Christian theology that defines forgiveness as a return to God, and that God invariably forgives, and forgives all sins (at least since the death of Christ, who died to atone for all sins; this would not be the case in the Old Testament). Since God, in all His infinite wisdom and love for His creations, is willing to forgive humans for all transgressions if asked, why should humans not do likewise in their relations with their fellow beings? Christians hence have a duty to forgive all sins, and such dispensing of forgiveness should not be conditioned on repentance by the sinner; but for the wrongdoer, some Christian denominations, such as Catholicism, insist on repentance, and penance that include sacrament, confession of the sin and contrition for the sin to be forgiven by God or face the prospect of purgatory, and possibly eternal damnation in hell.

Judaism, in contrast, is not based on creed but on deeds; it is not just a religion that teaches the laws handed down by God, it is a way of life that guides, prescribes and proscribes on matters that touch on both theological and secular existence of its adherents (religion, culture, and nationhood). For over 4000 years it has been a source of strength, inspiration and grief for Jews, and for ardent believers, it is what has kept the world Jewry from extinction given the history of hostility endured by practitioners of its belief system. It is in this regard that Mark Twain (1934, 23) pondered:
All things are mortal but the Jew; all other forces pass, but he remains. The Egyptians, the Babylonians and the Persians rose, filled the planet with sound and splendor, then faded to dreamstuff and passed away; the Greeks and the Romans followed and made a vast noise, and they are gone; other peoples have sprung up and held their torch light for a time but burned out; and they sit in twilight now, or have vanished. The Jew saw them all, survived them all, and is now what he always was, exhibiting no decadence, no infirmities of age, no weakening of his parts, no slowing of his energies, no dulling of his alert and aggressive mind. What is the secret of his immortality?

To which Rabbi Benjamin Blech (1992, 21) replied, albeit not directly, “Judaism is the secret of our survival. It is not we who have kept our faith, but our faith that has kept us.”

Judaism teaches that there are two kinds of sin; the one against God, (neyn adam le-makom) which only God can forgive, and that committed against humans (beyn asam le-adam) for which the victim is the only one who can render forgiveness. Thus, it is the case that a victim, while within his right to forgive or not forgive a sin against him, it is not within his competence to forgive a wrongdoer on behalf of other victims (Steinlauf 1997, 52). The relationship of the one whose forgiveness is sought to the victims does not change this entitlement. In either type of sin, the rendering of forgiveness engages a complex formulaic process that begins with a recognition of the sin or harm done, followed by repentance and atonement. In this lengthy procedure, repentance or teshuvah (a return to God, and renouncing evil) requires the faithful to take specific steps that evince remorsefulness and the will to abstain from committing future harmful acts or sin. Prayer, fasting and charity are means by which one atones for sins against God; to these should be added reparations, if possible, for harm against a human being (Kegan, 1982).

Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, is the holiest day of the year for practicing Jews. The centrality of repentance and atonement for wrongs done to others defines this particular Jewish understanding of the cleansing and restorative effects of forgiveness from God and humans. Yom Kippur, which takes place on the tenth day of the seventh month of the Jewish calendar, and completes the annual activities of the High Holy Days that begins with Rosh Hashanah on the first day of the same month, is a period of fasting, prayers, and specifically seeking a return to the Torah (Heschel 2005, 59). It is thus a period of high significance for the faithful practitioner who seeks a return to God through repentance, atonement, and a solemn promise not to stray from the teachings of the Torah, for as the Talmud states, “Yom Kippur atones for those who repent and does not atone for those who do not repent.” (Heschel 2005, 66). But it is equally important for the faithful to take notice that Yom Kippur is not only a period of asking for forgiveness, but also one in which forgiveness is granted to those who have transgressed against others. Tzedakah is the final stage of this process for it is the point when one recognizes harm done or sins committed and takes responsibility to make as much amends commensurate with one’s capacity. This may be accomplished, directly or indirectly, through charitable contributions to causes that help address the kind of wrongs committed. Just as important in this discourse is Yom ha-Kippurim, a period of atonement for God and individual Jews, as observed in the Hasidic tradition of Judaism.

Only after these observances have been undertaken would the wrongdoer entertain a reasonable expectation of forgiveness from the victim or from God. But within this relevant understanding of forgiveness, God, His status as the supreme deity notwithstanding, cannot forgive a wrongdoer unless he has first secured forgiveness from the victim; this requirement necessarily places the wrongdoer in a position where he is forever beholden to the victim unless there is a change of heart; not quite. A wrongdoer who asks for forgiveness of a victim after undergoing the procedural and substantive aspects of repentance and atonement is deemed to have atoned if after several requests the victim remains unforgiving. Maimonides (2004, 152), while not uniformly viewed as authoritative, had this to say on this matter:
When you ask some one for forgiveness, he or she is allowed to turn you down. If this happens, you should return a second and a third time, with three witnesses, and try apologizing again. If the victim won’t forgive you after three tries, then you are considered to have atoned, even if you have not been granted forgiveness.

It is for this reason that murder can never be forgiven because the victim is gone, and cannot render forgiveness; and God cannot unilaterally forgive the murderer because the victim has not, and cannot forgive. This understanding further emphasizes the belief in Judaism that murder is one of the most horrible acts against God and humanity for it essentially makes light of God’s most important creation, and since it cannot be atoned for, it is unforgiveable. This particularly Judaic sensibility of murder and its implications provide relevant contexts for Wiesenthal’s dilemma, and the responses from Jewish respondents in the Sunflower.

While Christianity is an outgrowth of Judaism, fundamental differences in the relevant issue of forgiveness remain remarkable. Judaism, anchored by the tenets, laws and instructions that issue from the Torah, mandates strict adherence to a processes that requires the wrongdoer to first repent and atone for harm done or sins committed, and then ask for forgiveness. But of equal import in this understanding is that certain crimes such as murder are unforgiveable. And herein lies the all-important difference between the two faiths in matters of forgiveness; in Christian theology Jesus died to save humanity from its sinful self, and whosoever believes in him would have his sins forgiven. The sinner or wrongdoer need not ask his victim for forgiveness to receive grace; it is the victim’s duty to forgive because the Christian faith demands it. But for sins against God, the sinner would have to appeal to God through Jesus for absolution; this would include repentance, penance, and sacrament followed by prayers and perhaps fasting, depending on the denomination of Christianity one ascribes to. It is on this ground that Denis Prager (2012, 63) adduced four reasons he believes separates Judaism and Christianity on the concept forgiveness:

1. The Christian doctrine of forgiveness has blunted Christian anger at those who oppress them.
   2. The notion that one should pray for one’s enemies has been taken to mean “pray for them, do not fight them.”
   3. The belief that God loves everyone, no matter how evil, makes it impossible for a believing Christian to hate evil people and therefore difficult to fight them
   4. The Christian emphasis on saving souls for the after-life has led to some de-emphasis on saving bodies in their lifetime.

Prager, a radio-talk host and a practicing Jew, used his program to express extreme disgust at the Roman Catholic Cardinal of New York in the 1990s for visiting the molesters of a young lady who was mugged and raped (Hooks 1995, 51). The boys, in their teens, were told by the Cardinal during his short visit that “God Loves them.” In the subsequent informal poll taken by Prager on the radio, virtually all his Jewish listeners expressed similar outrage at the Cardinal’s behavior. On the same question, all Christian callers and Catholic clergymen agreed with the Cardinal, and stressed that he did the right thing. All the Rabbis who responded, whether reformed, conservative or orthodox were unanimous in their disagreement with the Cardinal’s behavior, and consoling statement; but if forced to visit the boys, they would express their contempt for the act, and would prescribe severe punishment, followed by a lifetime of repentance and atonement; and surely would not have told the boys that God loved them for it is not within their competence to speak on behalf of God.

The centrality of forgiveness in Christian theology – the understanding that all humans may be and should be forgiven, thus reconciling all to God, also sets Christianity apart from Islam, an arm of the three Abrahamic faiths. In her interview of asylum seekers quarantined in camps in Australia under sub-human conditions that included physical and psychological abuse (in the main to discourage unlawful immigration), Elaine Ledgerwood (2012, 222) described how the “inmates,” responded to the notion of forgiving their captors who administered the regime of pain and agony. Here interview of one of the asylum seekers named Mahmud was revealing of his understanding of what Islam teaches on the concept of forgiveness; to Mahmud there was no forgiveness in Islam, or at least not the Islam he believed in. His faith does not believe in forgiveness from God that enable one to put behind his past harmful acts; instead, one who transgresses must work harder towards earning God’s favor. This understanding was repeatedly expressed to Ledgerwwod by other Muslin detainees she interviewed in the camp, and from these she reached the conclusion that such faith-based understanding of forgiveness would inevitably lead to a reluctance to forgive people (Ledgerwod 2012; 225). But this is purely anecdotal evidence that lacks universal or generalizing properties; it’s usefulness is manifest only in understanding how individuals, steeped in a particular faith, are guided by the principles they believe define their religious sensibilities, and how to conduct themselves in observance of such belief system.

These differences in Christian theology and Judaic formulations of what forgiveness means inform the varying responses in the Sunflower, and may help explain Wiesenthal’s inability to grant the dying Nazi’s request for forgiveness, and why Karl, as a Christian, sought forgiveness in the first instance.

Analysis of the responses to Wiesenthal’s dilemma and the implications for Jewish-Christian relations
The discussion so far has touched on different articulations of forgiveness and its apprehension in secular and theological interpretations. By its very nature, forgiveness, as also discussed in the preceding pages, is only relevant when someone is harmed as a result of the actions of someone else, otherwise there would be nothing to forgive. But forgiveness is a process presumed (and shown in clinical studies) to help victims overcome, in time, the traumatic and psychological pain suffered at the hands of the wrongdoer, through foreclosure of anger and resentment, abatement of anxiety and depression, and suppression of the desire to revenge; essentially, it is a process of “letting go” of harmful psychological manifestations of past evil acts inflicted on victims. It is in this special sense that forgiveness is said to have beneficial therapeutic and healing properties if properly engaged in any of the following ways: one way is to “reframe” the harmful act of the offender, thus enabling the victim to see the offender and the harmful act in a different light; another is for the victim to regard forgiveness as a moral imperative that empowers the victim through the ability to render grace, and retake control of one’s life; and yet another is for the victim to follow the dictates of his or her religious faith.

This last approach is of particular relevance to the current enquiry – the influence of Christian theology on forgiveness on Karl, a perpetrator of Holocaust atrocities, and the role forgiveness plays in Judaism, and how it may have influenced Wiesenthal, a victim of Nazi atrocities. That this is the case is because the principal actors in the book on which this enquiry is based, Karl and Wiesenthal, are respectively members of both faiths, and their behavior towards one another is a defining event in The Sunflower, and the ensuing reactions by respondents in the symposia. It is in this regard that the prisms of religious and cultural influences and dictates may be beneficial (Judaism comprises more than religion). Of course other reasons for the principal actors’ behavior, and reactions to the question posed may have superior explanatory powers than religious or cultural sensibilities, but their respective faiths happen to be more expedient “explanators” in light of the overarching thrust of this study – Jewish-Christian relations.

The point to be emphasized strongly here is that one’s faith or the belief system that guides conduct matters, and quite often decisive in matters of conscience and morality. Beginning with Karl’s urgent need for forgiveness, he, like all Christian respondents, would like to know that his evil acts have been forgiven before he dies. This is important, because what Karl is requesting, forgiveness, lies at the heart of Christian theology and its doctrine of salvation that rests on the belief that Jesus died to atone for all sins, and whoever believes in him and his teachings shall be saved. To the Christian, religion is a creed informed by faith, hence what one believes is far more important than what one does; believe in Jesus and you shall be saved is the message in John 3:16. Since Jesus prescribed love for those who hate you, and forgiveness for those who harm you, the belief in Him as means to salvation and the kingdom of God undergirds the essence of Christianity.

The logical implication of such belief system (assuming there is logic in acts of faith) is that a person of evil deeds can receive salvation and enter the Kingdom of God if he believes in Jesus and his teachings and repents; he need not do more. But one who, by all accounts, has been righteous in his dealings with others and never harmed anyone would not be saved or enter the Kingdom of God if he does not profess his belief in Jesus as his Lord and savior. And herein lies an important difference between Christianity and Judaism; for one, belief is more important than deeds, for the other, what one does in life is what grants him favor from God.

Rabbi Benjamin Blech (1992, 21) insists that Judaism is a religion of 613 commandments; and unlike Christianity, it is not a religion of “this thou shalt believe” and “this thou shalt not believe,” but one in which its 613 commandments are divided into “this thou shalt do” and “this thou shalt not do.” (Blech 1992, 21). The point being that Judaism places strong emphasis on deeds, and not so much on belief. Again Benjamin Blech (1992, 22):

Does this mean that belief plays no role in Judaism? Of course that cannot be. The very first commandment is “I am the Lord, your God, who took you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage” (Exodus 20:2). A Jew must believe. As Ibn Ezra, a prime commentator on the Torah, explained: If there is no commander, there can be no command. However, the purpose of belief in one Deity is to ensure that the mitzvoth is kept. Belief in God is not the message but rather the medium. The goal is not God but a life of holiness, for which belief is simply a prerequisite.

Adherents of Judaism understand that forgiveness is a very complex process, and that there two kinds of sins for which forgiveness may be sought: sins against God for which only He can forgive; and those against people for which only the victim has a right to forgive. No one, however, regardless of the relationship to the victim, may forgive a wrongdoer on behalf of the victim. Equally important is the notion in Judaism that there are certain sins that may never be forgiven, such as murder; in the main because the victim is no longer capable of rendering forgiveness, and God will not be disposed to forgiving the murderer because forgiveness must first originate from the victim.

These religious and institutional articulations of forgiveness are determinative in any effort to understand or analyze the reception of, and reactions to The Sunflower by respondents to the question posed by Wiesenthal. The positions held steadfastly by Christian respondents is one of forgiveness, for in Christian theology no sin may be considered too great or evil to disqualify the offender from salvation so long as he or she professes a belief in Jesus as the savior, repents, and seeks forgiveness. “If you ask anything in my name, I will do it.” (KJV, John 14:14). This sentiment, and what it means in Christian theology is in full display in one of the responses offered by Christopher Hollis, a Christian (1998 edition, 181):

I am asked what, absolutely, he ought to have done under these circumstances. Let me first make it clear that that is quite a different question from the question “what would I have done?” To the second question I can make no answer…..But on the absolute challenge of what the author should have done I have no doubt that he should have said a word of compassion. The theology of the matter is quite clear and, as the Polish seminarist truly says in this book, there is no difference on it between Christians and Jews. Differences are here irrelevant. The law of God is the law of love. We are created in order to love one another, and, when the law of love is broken, God’s nature is frustrated. Such bonds when broken should be reforged as soon as possible. We are under obligation to forgive our neighbor even though he has offended us seventy times seven……We are indeed told to be reluctant to condemn others. “Judge not that ye be not judged.” It is our duty to reflect how small is our understanding and that, if we knew all of a story, we should often see how much more there was to be said for another’s action, how much more – it may be – of the blame really is ours than appeared at first……According to an old medieval legend, the Apostles assembled together in heaven to recelebrate the Last Supper. There was one place vacant, until through the door Judas came in and Christ rose and kissed him and said, “We have waited for thee.”

Eugene Fisher (1998, 150), a leading American catholic, was forcefully emphatic in his position that forgiveness of the dying Nazi was not an option, but also adds that Karl, by asking forgiveness of a Jewish concentration camp inmate commits yet another sin because the sheer enormity of the Holocaust makes it unethical to place additional burden of responsibility to forgive on Jews. Many respondents (philosophers, Buddhists, Christians) advocate forgiveness for peace of mind of affected Jews and for the greater good of humanity. Others, however, point out that the suffering received by Jews at the hands of the Nazis is so unimaginable and horrific to the extent that it is understandable why a Jew could never forgive or forget.

The strongest argument for this position is that some crimes against humanity are simply too great as to make any request for forgiveness more damaging, for it trivializes the enormity of the harm inflicted. Andre Stein, a Jewish respondent (1998 edition, 251), explains:
For me Simon’s story does raise important questions about Karl’s role in this matter. Did he have the right to ask for forgiveness? Can we believe in the authenticity of his repentance? Should anyone perpetrating crimes against humanity expect forgiveness? If we forgave war criminals how would such act of questionable generosity affect the survivors and victim’s memory?…..The call for forgiveness reminds me of the words Arthur, Simon’s comrade, uttered in the camp when Simon asked his opinion: “…..there will be people who would never forgive you for not forgiving him…But anyhow nobody who has not had our experience will be able to understand fully.” The quote points out two truths: First, that those who caste a stone at Simon show a greater affinity with the dying murderer than with his victims. And second, that by lobbying for forgiving the young SS, they view Nazism through spuriously humane glasses. Let’s remember that Karl at twenty-one was old enough to make informed choices. He could have drawn on the teachings of his faith and on the moral values of his family. Instead, he opted for endorsing a seductive myth that gave him powers nobody should have….I am not moved by his “moral pain” any more than were Simon’s comrades, or for that matter than Simon himself.

The position held and advocated by respondents who self-identify as Christians remains consistent throughout; the source of this unanimity of response is not difficult to trace – the theology of their faith prescribes it. Here is Cardinal Franz Konig, a Christian (1998 edition, 182):
Even though an individual cannot forgive what was done to others, because he is not competent to do that, there is still a question of whether one may forgive. For Christians, the binding answer is in the Gospels. The question of whether there is a limit to forgiveness has been emphatically answered by Christ in the negative. The distinction between whether we can forgive and whether we may forgive still leaves unresolved questions of whether we should forgive. You did the dying young man a great service by listening to him despite your internal reluctance, by showing him sympathy, by giving him an opportunity to confess his crimes and express regret, which means you acknowledged his inner conversion. We have reasons to assume that the dying man still believed in God, and that, through his personal confession to you, he did what he could under those circumstances, in the hope of finding God’s mercy. Even though you went away without formally uttering a word of forgiveness, the dying man somehow felt accepted by you; otherwise he would not have bequeathed you his personal belongings….Nevertheless, you had the opportunity to put forward an act of almost superhuman goodness in the midst of subhuman and bestial world of atrocities. The fact that you did not take advantage of this opportunity may be what still haunts you as a striving human being.

But faith and theology do not offer such simplicity of understanding when grappling with responses given by Jewish respondents. For practicing Jews, Judaism certainly offers a partial explanation, but other deterministic vectors remain operative for both practicing and non-practicing Jews. These would include the extent of personal exposure to the Holocaust, whether family members also perished in the camps, and the degree of psychological trauma endured. These powerful deterministic factors maybe outside the life-experiences of some of the Christian respondents who urged forgiveness; one wonders if they would react the same way if they personally experienced the tragedy of the Holocaust. One hopes they never do; but such life-altering experiences have a way of forcing victims to “reframe” and reconsider the essence of humanity. It is in this sense that Walker (2006, 153) wrote:

Any appreciation of forgetting is complicated by Christian appeals to forgiveness…. Religion, both as a reflective discourse and a communal practice, can play an important role in developing spaces where ritualized acts of active forgetfulness can transpire. The purpose would be to help erode traumatic memories that paralyze and to allow compassion to flourish between and among those deemed “others.”

It will, however, not do to designate Christianity as a religion of forgiveness and Judaism as one of remembrance, a contrast that is itself an outcome of post-Holocaust insensibilities. For, forgiveness is also a central aspect of Judaism, especially during the High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Conclusion
The reception of The Sunflower, as reflected in the statements by respondents, is as varied as their theological and life experiences. This outcome, for all its limitations in generalized applicability, re-enforces the underlying fact that forgiveness is a personal journey that only the victim may profitably engage; faith, morality, and culture notwithstanding. The fact that Jewish respondents found forgiveness inappropriate for perpetrators of the Holocaust may be a reflection, not so much on how Judaism teaches the essence of forgiveness, but on the horrific nature of the Holocaust and its indelible imprints on the collective memories of Jewish respondents. It is perhaps in this sense that Wiesenthal’s dilemma may acquire meaning and sensibility. It is much easier to articulate what one should do in “hypotheticals,” but quite a different matter altogether to adduce a theologically and morally infused response when one is an actual victim of unspeakable crimes. The referenced instance in which a vicar in Britain had to resign her position because she could not bring herself to forgive the terrorists who killed her child, despite a long history of preaching forgiveness to her congregants, is most instructive of such human dilemma.

But is there value to forgiveness? How useful is it to victims and offenders? Christians, therapists, and philosophers who responded to the question posed by Wiesenthal believe there is – on theological grounds, on the basis of morality, and its efficacy in facilitating the recovery process of both victims and perpetrators of the Holocaust. Clinical studies cited in this work show that forgiveness significantly helped victims regain control of their humanity, and cope effectively with debilitating traumatic events (no similar research has shown a similar beneficial outcome for harboring hate, anger, and a desire to revenge). The need to forgive was argued quite forcefully by no lesser personalities of the likes of Archbishop Desmond Tutu, and The Dalai Lama; their position could not be better articulated than the remarks by Yandell (1998, 45):

The significance of forgiveness rests, perhaps, on two facts and a consequence. The facts are that people harm people (theologians place this fact under the rubric of sin) and that people are inherently social and cannot flourish in isolation. The consequence is that people either forgive one another or else wither as persons; they reconcile or perish. Reconciliation among sinners has forgiveness as an element – a necessary though not sufficient condition. So people learn to forgive, or they wither as persons, quite independently of the harm caused by the seeking of revenge.

Could Wiesenthal have benefited by forgiving Karl, and thus avoid the prolonged agony of not rendering the request made of him by the dying Nazi soldier? Perhaps, but we would never know, for forgiveness is a process that draws much from the individual’s constitution and life experiences. The inability to forgive, and the need to forget the past, resonated strongly amongst the respondents. Being able to forget, however, is made possible by the act of forgiveness; but forgetting is a necessary part of remembrance for it allows the recollection of essential aspects of the past, that is uncluttered by irrelevancy and endless reliving of what makes living in the present impossible. This, in no way implies that the past should be entirely forgotten, which is impossible, but rather to unburden memory of aspects of the past that do not add value to remembrance but instead retard the ability to remember important parts of past events that enable effective communication and the ability to forgive. This may be beneficial to victims, but as Finch (2006, 33) argues, forgetting is especially useful to perpetrators:

As much as one may wish a genocidal perpetrator to admit culpability, it might be unrealistic to expect from him a demonstration of his ability for human compassion by asking him not to forget. Suspending the role of forgetting – that which assists in his efforts of self-preservation- would be to take away his identity, his life. Having to face one’s shame, without protective mental operations, has the power to wipe out a person’s existential grounding. From a victim’s perspective, this may be a risk worth taking, since one can legally and morally insist that genocidal perpetrators have forfeited their rights to be part of humanity. From a perpetrator’s perspective, the means to circumvent a memory that would lead to recognizing the face of the victim and to acknowledge their own shameful agency is to resist such memory or to perceive it as an external force imposed on them.

Jewish-Christian relations have been, as far back as the parting of the ways, a complex and complicated one. The persecution by Christians, massacres instigated by Christians, deadly anti-Semitic charges such as the blood libel that led to loss of innocent lives, and forced conversions are some of the atrocities that may be rightfully blamed on Christianity’s intolerance of the Jewish faith. While the tension between both groups has remarkably eased by virtue of progressive civilization of human society, more work needs to be done at reconciliation and tolerance. The lesson from this work indicates that forgiveness by Jews (once again), and a recognition by Christians of past harmful deeds (by way of apology and good-will gestures) may well facilitate a mutually beneficial relationship based on trust and respect for the right to practice one’s faith.

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