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A Human Being Died That Night: A South African Woman Confronts the Legacy of Apartheid
A Human Being Died That Night recounts an extraordinary dialogue. Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela, a psychologist who grew up in a black South African township, reflects on her interviews with Eugene de Kock, the commanding officer of state-sanctioned death squads under apartheid. Gobodo-Madikizela met with de Kock in Pretoria's maximum-security prison, where he is serving a 212-year sentence for crimes against humanity. In profoundly arresting scenes, Gobodo-Madikizela conveys her struggle with contradictory internal impulses to hold him accountable and to forgive. Ultimately, as she allows us to witness de Kock's extraordinary awakening of conscience, she illuminates the ways in which the encounter compelled her to redefine the value of remorse and the limits of forgiveness.
208 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2003
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 121 reviews
October 10, 2011
I have to admit that this book dealt with a period of history which I am not well versed in. Apartheid ended when I was 13 so many of the key events in the history of this brutal period took place before I was old enough to grasp their significance. Of course, this is not an excuse for not learning more about the whole period as an adult but because of my work and research (and as someone who lives in Liverpool), my reading has always tended towards Colonial History and European interaction with Africa between 1700 - 1900 or thereabouts. When this was advertised as a bookring on bookcrossing.com I saw an opportunity to learn a bit more.
The book is well written, well researched and not overly emotive, nor does it dwell on the brutality of the activities orchestrated and led by Eugene De Kock, the man who bears the moniker "Prime Evil". If you thought this book would demonize de Kock and provide gruesome descriptions and insights into his reign of terror then you will be disappointed. Yes, he instigated the torture and death of many individuals, but this book moves beyond that (without ignoring the fact) to present the man after he has been stripped of his power and influence and given and opportunity to think about the context of his actions.
Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela examines the opportunities that the end of apartheid have given to allow a process of healing and recovery with the emphasis placed on discussion rather than revenge and retribution. Human history generally espoused that an eye for eye is the best, sweetest and most satisfactory method of revenge. The TRC (Truth and Reconciliation Committee) are trying to move beyond this by highlighting how forgiveness gives the wronged party the power and the upper hand as it is they who are in control. They become the signifier, the people who determine the status of both sides.
Gobodo-Madikizela interweaves her own experiences and memories of Apartheid and her one-to-one interviews of de Kock. The process is not easy or pain free for either party (but should we really care how painful it is for de Kock?) and it is clear that as well as learning about de Kock, Gobodo-Madikizela also learns new and unexpected things about her own perspectives, emotions and attitudes. This book is a unique and well written insight (although it is not the first book written about de Kock) but I have realised that I now need to learn a great deal more about this period of history and will be seeking out books accordingly.
The book is well written, well researched and not overly emotive, nor does it dwell on the brutality of the activities orchestrated and led by Eugene De Kock, the man who bears the moniker "Prime Evil". If you thought this book would demonize de Kock and provide gruesome descriptions and insights into his reign of terror then you will be disappointed. Yes, he instigated the torture and death of many individuals, but this book moves beyond that (without ignoring the fact) to present the man after he has been stripped of his power and influence and given and opportunity to think about the context of his actions.
Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela examines the opportunities that the end of apartheid have given to allow a process of healing and recovery with the emphasis placed on discussion rather than revenge and retribution. Human history generally espoused that an eye for eye is the best, sweetest and most satisfactory method of revenge. The TRC (Truth and Reconciliation Committee) are trying to move beyond this by highlighting how forgiveness gives the wronged party the power and the upper hand as it is they who are in control. They become the signifier, the people who determine the status of both sides.
Gobodo-Madikizela interweaves her own experiences and memories of Apartheid and her one-to-one interviews of de Kock. The process is not easy or pain free for either party (but should we really care how painful it is for de Kock?) and it is clear that as well as learning about de Kock, Gobodo-Madikizela also learns new and unexpected things about her own perspectives, emotions and attitudes. This book is a unique and well written insight (although it is not the first book written about de Kock) but I have realised that I now need to learn a great deal more about this period of history and will be seeking out books accordingly.
December 1, 2016
Black clinical pyschologist Madikizela is taken through the Truth and Reconciliation Commitee to interview Eugene de Kock, a man commonly refered to as 'Prime Evil' who has come to symbolise the violence and aggression of the apartheid government.
Madikizela seeks to find answers with this man, including why some of his victims families have forgiven him and feel a sense of empathy for this notorious man. She finds de Kock to be a thoughtful and sensitive man; fighting with the things he has done, with his own reasons and explanations for having committed such crimes and with the abandonment of the apartheid government who had sanctioned his crimes.
This book becomes about more than de Kock's answers, but Madikizela's fight with her empathy for him and about the question of evil: can one be both evil and caring? Can we forgive? Should we forgive?
For me the book was five stars from page one, but the final meeting between de Kock and Madikizela had my heart in my mouth:
"Have I ever killed any of your friends or family?"
The words bounced around the large room like an echo in a cave. I actually turned and looked around, expecting perhaps to see someone else in the room other than the guards at the door. Yes, I had heard de Kock's voice. I was sure that was what I'd heard...but had I just imagined it? Standing there stunned, in conversation with a broken man who had been an angel of death, I felt as if I were in a mist of a collision of scattered meanings within these prison walls that had enclosed our conversations. De Kock's words hovered in the room; I was struggling to understand them before I could take them in.
The tension created by this moment and then her subsequent answer made my heart pound, what if he had killed someone she loved, how would she cope with being so close to him and how would he cope, this man who started to seem so fragile.
For someone who rarely reads non-fiction I sped through this, and I'm sending it on a small journey through bookcrossing to a few other readers before it returns to me when I'm sure to read it again. I recommend you to beg, borrow or steal a copy. And I've already picked my next non-fiction read 'Blood River' about the Congo.
Madikizela seeks to find answers with this man, including why some of his victims families have forgiven him and feel a sense of empathy for this notorious man. She finds de Kock to be a thoughtful and sensitive man; fighting with the things he has done, with his own reasons and explanations for having committed such crimes and with the abandonment of the apartheid government who had sanctioned his crimes.
This book becomes about more than de Kock's answers, but Madikizela's fight with her empathy for him and about the question of evil: can one be both evil and caring? Can we forgive? Should we forgive?
For me the book was five stars from page one, but the final meeting between de Kock and Madikizela had my heart in my mouth:
"Have I ever killed any of your friends or family?"
The words bounced around the large room like an echo in a cave. I actually turned and looked around, expecting perhaps to see someone else in the room other than the guards at the door. Yes, I had heard de Kock's voice. I was sure that was what I'd heard...but had I just imagined it? Standing there stunned, in conversation with a broken man who had been an angel of death, I felt as if I were in a mist of a collision of scattered meanings within these prison walls that had enclosed our conversations. De Kock's words hovered in the room; I was struggling to understand them before I could take them in.
The tension created by this moment and then her subsequent answer made my heart pound, what if he had killed someone she loved, how would she cope with being so close to him and how would he cope, this man who started to seem so fragile.
For someone who rarely reads non-fiction I sped through this, and I'm sending it on a small journey through bookcrossing to a few other readers before it returns to me when I'm sure to read it again. I recommend you to beg, borrow or steal a copy. And I've already picked my next non-fiction read 'Blood River' about the Congo.
May 22, 2016
A highly interesting book. I found the authors reflections to be intelligent, respectful and honest. A bit dense at times, but otherwise, very good.
June 22, 2009
This is a remarkable book - a reflective investigation of what constitutes good and evil in society, the limits and expansiveness of forgiveness, and the meaning of humanity by the only psychologist to be named a committee member for the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
Much of Gobodo-Madikizela's book focuses on Eugene de Kock, the mastermind of many of the death squads who unleashed unbearable torment and killing in South Africa through the 1970s and '80s. She struggles, as a woman who grew up under apartheid, to know how to relate to de Kock - whether to believe his statements of regret, the evidence of his body language, his willingness to be interviewed. From there, however, Gobodo-Madikizela thinks bigger, asking questions that are universal in application - is de Kock evil by circumstance, by choice, or by design? What do we gain and what do we lose in labeling others as evil? How (if at all) might forgiveness not only heal perpetrators who wish for it, but the victims and survivors who can give it?
Gobodo-Madikizela's analysis is powerful, and I find myself both challenged and moved by her ideas. That she is a survivor; that she speaks from having heard days of testimony in the TRC hearings; that she believes compassion to be the bedrock of what we're about as human beings - these things challenge and move me even more.
Much of Gobodo-Madikizela's book focuses on Eugene de Kock, the mastermind of many of the death squads who unleashed unbearable torment and killing in South Africa through the 1970s and '80s. She struggles, as a woman who grew up under apartheid, to know how to relate to de Kock - whether to believe his statements of regret, the evidence of his body language, his willingness to be interviewed. From there, however, Gobodo-Madikizela thinks bigger, asking questions that are universal in application - is de Kock evil by circumstance, by choice, or by design? What do we gain and what do we lose in labeling others as evil? How (if at all) might forgiveness not only heal perpetrators who wish for it, but the victims and survivors who can give it?
Gobodo-Madikizela's analysis is powerful, and I find myself both challenged and moved by her ideas. That she is a survivor; that she speaks from having heard days of testimony in the TRC hearings; that she believes compassion to be the bedrock of what we're about as human beings - these things challenge and move me even more.
March 23, 2017
I’ve struggled with the concept and ways of forgiveness all of my life – I won’t bore you with the details – so it’s a theme I’m always interested in exploring in my reading, and it has led me to read quite a lot of holocaust literature. But rarely do I find anything that overtly addresses my issues as this book has done.
Naturally, being on the South African Truth and Reconcilliation Commission has meant a lot of struggling with the same (much worse in magnitude, of course) questions for Pumula Gobodo-Madikezela (PGM), in both her personal response to perpetrators, and as part of the TRC as an institutional method of healing the rifts in a deeply divided and once abusive society.
The book starts with the stirring of PGM’s inspiration by hearing the story of compassion from one of the mothers of some of those De Kock killed in his last crime, all of whom who were profoundly touched by him. One of the mothers tells her …” I couldn’t control my tears. I could hear him, but I was overwhelmed by emotion, and I was just nodding, as a way of saying yes, I forgive you. I hope that when he sees our tears, he knows that they are not only tears for our husbands, but tears for him as well… I would like to hold him by the hand, and show him that there is a future, and that he can still change.” Now, obviously this was an astonishing woman, with almost incomprehensible powers of forgiveness, but it turns out that it was also a reaction to an extraordinary man, who was in a place that few multiple killers reach, emotionally; a place where he was willing to look straight into the abyss of his moral abdication, instead of justifying it by (reasonable) rationalizations about an unjust society or a difficult childhood. And these highly unusual people, in their interactions (and PGM is included in this, as you will see) explore strange new territory and open up new truths from which we all can grow in understanding.
When Pumula meets De Kock, she is haunted and repulsed by her own uncontrollable sense of compassion towards him, in which she spontaneously reached out to touch the hand of De Kock to give him comfort when he was facing his demons on her first visit. She blamed herself for the reaction, both consciously and unconsciously – the next day her hand froze up and disassociated itself from her body as a reaction and she wondered if she had been manipulated. As the meetings went on, though, she could not see her own reaction (and that of the mother) as unnatural, disconcerting though they were, and so her journey began. After torturing her conscience, fighting against understanding lest it explain and mitigate the crimes of the perpetrator, worrying that seeking (or even not seeking, but unwillingly being dragged into) understanding of a murderer might be a moral equivocation, PGM is forced to conclude that compassion is not just for the good, and that it is the only way toward understanding, and further, is a way of regaining a proper footing on this precarious path she treads:
‘I felt a sense of power over him as a person who needed my understanding – that in his remorse, and behind all of his psychological defenses, he was a human being pleading to be understood, desperate, in fact, for someone to help him understand himself. …allowing myself to feel anger or bitterness towards him would chip away and ultimately destroy that distinction (between us)…I knew in a profound way that somehow that was the right thing to do – both for myself and for him…119’
These musings have far reaching implications, too, for the TRC on which she works, and offer an important truth, at the larger society level, about the way forward, what to aim for from such a process, pointing the way out of unending suffering and condemnation on both sides, (at least for a few extraordinary perpetrators), and so is huge in its consequences for all societies.
”....dialogue..does create avenues for broadening our models of justice and for healing deep fractures in a nation by unearthing, acknowledging, and recording what has been done. It humanizes the dehumanized and confronts perpetrators with their inhumanity. Through dialogue, victims as well as the greater society come to recognize perpetrators as human beings who failed morally…Far from relieving the pressure on them, recognizing the most serious criminals as human intensifies it, because society is thereby able to hold them to greater moral accountability. Indeed, demonizing as monsters those who commit evil lets them off too easily…excus(ing) him by dismissing him into the category of the hopelessly, radically other. .dialogue..forces an offender to unearth what moral sensibilities he has buried under a façade of ‘obedience to others’ or righteous ‘duty to my country’ , and to face what he has done, not in the heady climate of the period of mayhem, but in the sobering atmosphere of reflection on ordinary human lives now shattered. But it thereby invites him, if he can, if he dare, to negotiate the chasm between his monstrousness and the world of the forgiven. (it) …encourages him to stop denying.. that all along he knew he was human, and knew right from wrong. The act of humanizing is at once both punishment and rehabilitation.’
But she does not let society off the hook either: “If violence is a choice They make, and therefore their personal responsibility, our failure to protect them from having to confront such a choice is a choice we make”59
But back to PGM’s struggle with and thoughts on forgiveness, and its power to heal both parties, and correct the moral balance between them, I can express it no better than by quoting her words:
‘117 Although forgiveness is often regarded as an expression of weakness, the decision to forgive can paradoxically elevate a victim to a position of strength as the one who holds the key to the perpetrator’s wish. For just at the moment when the perpetrator begins to show remorse..the victim becomes the gatekeeper to what the outcast desires – readmission into the human community. And the victim retains that privileged status…as long as he or she..refuses to sink to the level of the evil that was done to her or to him..”this is what it means to be human” it says. ‘I cannot and will not return the evil you inflicted on me..”
One reason why we distance ourselves from those who have hurt us, and why Pumula reacted so strongly to her consciousness of the involuntary bond growing between her and De Kock, is the fear that if we engage them as real people we will be compromising our moral stance and lowering the entry requirements into the human community. Further, she observes, connecting on a human level with a monster (is)a profoundly frightening prospect for it forces us to confront the potential for evil within ourselves..’
There are frequent parallels I could see as reader and that PGM made to Hannah Arendt’s Adolf Eichmann work, as both require us to have more than we would wish to do with these deeply evil men, but this case is very different because De Kock is remorseful and understanding of the depth of his fall, and so an entirely different response is required from the observer. We must not lose sight of the fact that in seeking forgiveness, the perpetrator is showing a brave, hard won willingness to face up to his denial of humanity, his own and that of his victims.
Because the act of murder usually requires the murderer to excise the intended victim from the community of humanity with which they identify, and from the sense of moral obligation to which they subject their behavior usually, and to whom they feel a connection. This blunts the magnitude of the crime and the empathy with pain of the sufferer. This explains the urge to view Jews as dogs, if they are your victims, or blacks as monkeys, etc. So when the perpetrator acknowledges the common humanity of his victim, the moral obligation he has thrown out, he is welcoming the pain, opening his wound, ripping off the bandaid/blindfold he used to cover the extent of his sin, and revising and rehumanizing his victims. In offering forgiveness to the perpetrator, victims confirm a moral superiority and their own humanity to him, and find they have bought their reentry into the community of those whose behavior does, once again matter to others, and can heal. They are re-empowering themselves by acknowledging their common humanity and agreeing to share a single common table of humanity with their tormentor.
For all her powerful and moving observations, though, the examination PGM offers us here is not a moral exhortation to forgive, but more simply an attempt to understand her own instinct in that direction, and to ‘trace what makes it possible for enemies to connect in a way that might otherwise seem unimaginable.’ The bravery she shows in allowing this for herself, observing its effects on herself, others and society as a whole, offers all of us a clearer path towards a better world.
Naturally, being on the South African Truth and Reconcilliation Commission has meant a lot of struggling with the same (much worse in magnitude, of course) questions for Pumula Gobodo-Madikezela (PGM), in both her personal response to perpetrators, and as part of the TRC as an institutional method of healing the rifts in a deeply divided and once abusive society.
The book starts with the stirring of PGM’s inspiration by hearing the story of compassion from one of the mothers of some of those De Kock killed in his last crime, all of whom who were profoundly touched by him. One of the mothers tells her …” I couldn’t control my tears. I could hear him, but I was overwhelmed by emotion, and I was just nodding, as a way of saying yes, I forgive you. I hope that when he sees our tears, he knows that they are not only tears for our husbands, but tears for him as well… I would like to hold him by the hand, and show him that there is a future, and that he can still change.” Now, obviously this was an astonishing woman, with almost incomprehensible powers of forgiveness, but it turns out that it was also a reaction to an extraordinary man, who was in a place that few multiple killers reach, emotionally; a place where he was willing to look straight into the abyss of his moral abdication, instead of justifying it by (reasonable) rationalizations about an unjust society or a difficult childhood. And these highly unusual people, in their interactions (and PGM is included in this, as you will see) explore strange new territory and open up new truths from which we all can grow in understanding.
When Pumula meets De Kock, she is haunted and repulsed by her own uncontrollable sense of compassion towards him, in which she spontaneously reached out to touch the hand of De Kock to give him comfort when he was facing his demons on her first visit. She blamed herself for the reaction, both consciously and unconsciously – the next day her hand froze up and disassociated itself from her body as a reaction and she wondered if she had been manipulated. As the meetings went on, though, she could not see her own reaction (and that of the mother) as unnatural, disconcerting though they were, and so her journey began. After torturing her conscience, fighting against understanding lest it explain and mitigate the crimes of the perpetrator, worrying that seeking (or even not seeking, but unwillingly being dragged into) understanding of a murderer might be a moral equivocation, PGM is forced to conclude that compassion is not just for the good, and that it is the only way toward understanding, and further, is a way of regaining a proper footing on this precarious path she treads:
‘I felt a sense of power over him as a person who needed my understanding – that in his remorse, and behind all of his psychological defenses, he was a human being pleading to be understood, desperate, in fact, for someone to help him understand himself. …allowing myself to feel anger or bitterness towards him would chip away and ultimately destroy that distinction (between us)…I knew in a profound way that somehow that was the right thing to do – both for myself and for him…119’
These musings have far reaching implications, too, for the TRC on which she works, and offer an important truth, at the larger society level, about the way forward, what to aim for from such a process, pointing the way out of unending suffering and condemnation on both sides, (at least for a few extraordinary perpetrators), and so is huge in its consequences for all societies.
”....dialogue..does create avenues for broadening our models of justice and for healing deep fractures in a nation by unearthing, acknowledging, and recording what has been done. It humanizes the dehumanized and confronts perpetrators with their inhumanity. Through dialogue, victims as well as the greater society come to recognize perpetrators as human beings who failed morally…Far from relieving the pressure on them, recognizing the most serious criminals as human intensifies it, because society is thereby able to hold them to greater moral accountability. Indeed, demonizing as monsters those who commit evil lets them off too easily…excus(ing) him by dismissing him into the category of the hopelessly, radically other. .dialogue..forces an offender to unearth what moral sensibilities he has buried under a façade of ‘obedience to others’ or righteous ‘duty to my country’ , and to face what he has done, not in the heady climate of the period of mayhem, but in the sobering atmosphere of reflection on ordinary human lives now shattered. But it thereby invites him, if he can, if he dare, to negotiate the chasm between his monstrousness and the world of the forgiven. (it) …encourages him to stop denying.. that all along he knew he was human, and knew right from wrong. The act of humanizing is at once both punishment and rehabilitation.’
But she does not let society off the hook either: “If violence is a choice They make, and therefore their personal responsibility, our failure to protect them from having to confront such a choice is a choice we make”59
But back to PGM’s struggle with and thoughts on forgiveness, and its power to heal both parties, and correct the moral balance between them, I can express it no better than by quoting her words:
‘117 Although forgiveness is often regarded as an expression of weakness, the decision to forgive can paradoxically elevate a victim to a position of strength as the one who holds the key to the perpetrator’s wish. For just at the moment when the perpetrator begins to show remorse..the victim becomes the gatekeeper to what the outcast desires – readmission into the human community. And the victim retains that privileged status…as long as he or she..refuses to sink to the level of the evil that was done to her or to him..”this is what it means to be human” it says. ‘I cannot and will not return the evil you inflicted on me..”
One reason why we distance ourselves from those who have hurt us, and why Pumula reacted so strongly to her consciousness of the involuntary bond growing between her and De Kock, is the fear that if we engage them as real people we will be compromising our moral stance and lowering the entry requirements into the human community. Further, she observes, connecting on a human level with a monster (is)a profoundly frightening prospect for it forces us to confront the potential for evil within ourselves..’
There are frequent parallels I could see as reader and that PGM made to Hannah Arendt’s Adolf Eichmann work, as both require us to have more than we would wish to do with these deeply evil men, but this case is very different because De Kock is remorseful and understanding of the depth of his fall, and so an entirely different response is required from the observer. We must not lose sight of the fact that in seeking forgiveness, the perpetrator is showing a brave, hard won willingness to face up to his denial of humanity, his own and that of his victims.
Because the act of murder usually requires the murderer to excise the intended victim from the community of humanity with which they identify, and from the sense of moral obligation to which they subject their behavior usually, and to whom they feel a connection. This blunts the magnitude of the crime and the empathy with pain of the sufferer. This explains the urge to view Jews as dogs, if they are your victims, or blacks as monkeys, etc. So when the perpetrator acknowledges the common humanity of his victim, the moral obligation he has thrown out, he is welcoming the pain, opening his wound, ripping off the bandaid/blindfold he used to cover the extent of his sin, and revising and rehumanizing his victims. In offering forgiveness to the perpetrator, victims confirm a moral superiority and their own humanity to him, and find they have bought their reentry into the community of those whose behavior does, once again matter to others, and can heal. They are re-empowering themselves by acknowledging their common humanity and agreeing to share a single common table of humanity with their tormentor.
For all her powerful and moving observations, though, the examination PGM offers us here is not a moral exhortation to forgive, but more simply an attempt to understand her own instinct in that direction, and to ‘trace what makes it possible for enemies to connect in a way that might otherwise seem unimaginable.’ The bravery she shows in allowing this for herself, observing its effects on herself, others and society as a whole, offers all of us a clearer path towards a better world.
August 2, 2023
This is one of the best books I have ever read on the notion of forgiveness. The way in which she tells her story and deeply understands human nature is extraordinary. If only everyone who has ever been harmed would read this book.
April 1, 2024
conceptually interesting, but overall a boring read
Read
November 30, 2015
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b06qjknzInfo: Harriet Walter's curated season ends with an acclaimed theatre production from the Fugard Theatre in Cape Town and later seen in London and New York. Based on Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela's book, Nicholas Wright's play explores the relationship between the psychologist and Eugene de Kock, the apartheid regime's most notorious assassin. Part of the BBC On Stage season.
Sound design by Christopher Shutt
Produced for the Fugard Theatre by Eric Abraham
1997. Pretoria Central Prison, South Africa. Psychologist Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela prepares to sit opposite the notorious Eugene de Kock, nicknamed 'Prime Evil', the head of the apartheid regime's death squads. A member of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, Madikizela questions de Kock who is serving a 212 year sentence for crimes against humanity, murder, conspiracy to murder, attempted murder, assault, kidnapping, illegal possession of firearms, and fraud. She is determined to try to understand what motivated de Kock's actions. One is reminded of European writer and philosopher Hannah Arendt's endeavour to understand the nature of evil when she wrote about the Nazi holocaust architect Adolf Eichmann's trial in Israel in 1961.
'A Human Being Died That Night' is based on Professor Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela's best-selling book of the same name and explores, through her extraordinary prison interviews with de Kock, how a fundamentally moral person could become a mass murderer.
South African born Nicholas Wright is one of Britain's foremost playwrights and has written regularly for the National Theatre. His plays include 'Vincent in Brixton' (Laurence Olivier Award for Best New Play 2003), 'The Last of the Duchess' (2011), 'Travelling Light' (2012) and recently a dramatisation of Pat Barker's 'Regeneration' (2014).
Tubing
I need to find out about interviwers coming under the spell of mass murderers...
Cannot rate this - it is way too gruelling
Writer Nicholas Wright
Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela Noma Dumezweni
Eugene de Kock Matthew Marsh
December 1, 2015
From BBC Radio 3 - Drama on 3:
1997. Pretoria Central Prison, South Africa. Psychologist Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela prepares to sit opposite the notorious Eugene de Kock, nicknamed 'Prime Evil', the head of the apartheid regime's death squads. A member of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, Madikizela questions de Kock who is serving a 212 year sentence for crimes against humanity, murder, conspiracy to murder, attempted murder, assault, kidnapping, illegal possession of firearms, and fraud. She is determined to try to understand what motivated de Kock's actions. One is reminded of European writer and philosopher Hannah Arendt's endeavour to understand the nature of evil when she wrote about the Nazi holocaust architect Adolf Eichmann's trial in Israel in 1961.
'A Human Being Died That Night' is based on Professor Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela's best-selling book of the same name and explores, through her extraordinary prison interviews with de Kock, how a fundamentally moral person could become a mass murderer.
South African born Nicholas Wright is one of Britain's foremost playwrights and has written regularly for the National Theatre. His plays include 'Vincent in Brixton' (Laurence Olivier Award for Best New Play 2003), 'The Last of the Duchess' (2011), 'Travelling Light' (2012) and recently a dramatisation of Pat Barker's 'Regeneration' (2014).
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b06qjknz
1997. Pretoria Central Prison, South Africa. Psychologist Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela prepares to sit opposite the notorious Eugene de Kock, nicknamed 'Prime Evil', the head of the apartheid regime's death squads. A member of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, Madikizela questions de Kock who is serving a 212 year sentence for crimes against humanity, murder, conspiracy to murder, attempted murder, assault, kidnapping, illegal possession of firearms, and fraud. She is determined to try to understand what motivated de Kock's actions. One is reminded of European writer and philosopher Hannah Arendt's endeavour to understand the nature of evil when she wrote about the Nazi holocaust architect Adolf Eichmann's trial in Israel in 1961.
'A Human Being Died That Night' is based on Professor Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela's best-selling book of the same name and explores, through her extraordinary prison interviews with de Kock, how a fundamentally moral person could become a mass murderer.
South African born Nicholas Wright is one of Britain's foremost playwrights and has written regularly for the National Theatre. His plays include 'Vincent in Brixton' (Laurence Olivier Award for Best New Play 2003), 'The Last of the Duchess' (2011), 'Travelling Light' (2012) and recently a dramatisation of Pat Barker's 'Regeneration' (2014).
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b06qjknz
April 9, 2025
A captivating read, especially for those interested in the theory and practice of forgiveness. It is incredible that a black south african woman would be the appointed psychologist to interview the white De Kock about his crimes during apartheid. How did she steel herself for their meetings? How could she dare to look beyond his violent past against her people and see his humanity? Was it being a trained psychologist? Was it because of professional and academic goals? Is she a christian exploring the ethics of Jesus and a theology of the cross?
You might think this book would slide into a moral diatribe against De Kock and the society who employed and encouraged his evil and violent acts. Yet, she explores and prods the dimensions of forgiveness, the possibility of seeing the human side of De Kock and then even sympathizing with a man who has functionally become a scapegoat for the anti-apartheid movement.
She is neither pollyannaish nor vengeful, she stands in a thoughtful space and explores her own feelings and hopes. The mediations on forgiveness, remorse and guilt are incredibly insightful and full of pathos and wisdom of a person who has walked a long road of suffering without being defined by anger and bitterness.
You might think this book would slide into a moral diatribe against De Kock and the society who employed and encouraged his evil and violent acts. Yet, she explores and prods the dimensions of forgiveness, the possibility of seeing the human side of De Kock and then even sympathizing with a man who has functionally become a scapegoat for the anti-apartheid movement.
She is neither pollyannaish nor vengeful, she stands in a thoughtful space and explores her own feelings and hopes. The mediations on forgiveness, remorse and guilt are incredibly insightful and full of pathos and wisdom of a person who has walked a long road of suffering without being defined by anger and bitterness.
January 16, 2024
No book yet read gives more hope for the true possibility of goodness and remorse for any member of humanity and the end of cycles of violence than this. Pumla's vulnerability with both her reader and her abuser speaks volumes and is direct evidence of the very themes and arguments she champions here. A necessary read for showcasing the beneficial effects of what a truth and reconciliation committee can have on a traumatised society such as South Africa.
July 29, 2019
Thought provoking, whilst reinforcing my contempt for psychologists. Agree with Eugene, the erm noise, irritated me far earlier than it did him. Will try to find further works by the author; maybe. Does highlight the double standards and holier than though attitude we all show at times. Politicians of all colours and persuasions. the weathervanes of all that is bad in public opinion.
September 19, 2022
I found this book exceptionally lucid and moving on the topic of forgiveness, and what it takes for a human society to move beyond acts of unbelievable cruelty. Dr. Gobodo-Madikizela has clearly put a good deal of thought into this topic, given her work on South Africa's post-apartheid Truth & Reconciliation Commission. She centers her book around interviews she conducted with Eugene de Kock, the former commander of state-sponsored death squads.
It's hard to know how to approach de Kock, and even the author is wary of him, after getting over her initial disgust. Is he truly contrite, or is he just a sociopath "playacting" for the sake of the Commission? He does seem regretful, at one point saying, "We killed a lot of people, they killed some of ours. We fought for nothing, we fought each other basically for nothing. We could have all been alive having a beer" (p. 78).
The most moving lesson I take away from A Human Being Died That Night is the importance of moving forward: how victims find ways to live a good, meaningful life after unspeakable evil has taken their loved ones. Dr. Gobodo-Madikizela makes clear that forgiveness, or at least dialogue, must be part of this.
"There are many people who find it hard to embrace the idea of forgiveness. And it is easy to see why. In order to maintain some sort of moral compass, to hold on to some sort of clear distinction between what is depraved by conceivable and what is simply off the scale of human acceptability, we feel an inward emotional and mental pressure NOT to forgive, since forgiveness can signal acceptability, and acceptability signals some amount, however small, of condoning. There is a desire to draw a line and say, 'Where you have been, I cannot follow you. Your actions can never be regarded as part of what it means to be human.' Yet not to forgive means closing the door to the possibility of transformation" (p. 103).
It's hard to know how to approach de Kock, and even the author is wary of him, after getting over her initial disgust. Is he truly contrite, or is he just a sociopath "playacting" for the sake of the Commission? He does seem regretful, at one point saying, "We killed a lot of people, they killed some of ours. We fought for nothing, we fought each other basically for nothing. We could have all been alive having a beer" (p. 78).
The most moving lesson I take away from A Human Being Died That Night is the importance of moving forward: how victims find ways to live a good, meaningful life after unspeakable evil has taken their loved ones. Dr. Gobodo-Madikizela makes clear that forgiveness, or at least dialogue, must be part of this.
"There are many people who find it hard to embrace the idea of forgiveness. And it is easy to see why. In order to maintain some sort of moral compass, to hold on to some sort of clear distinction between what is depraved by conceivable and what is simply off the scale of human acceptability, we feel an inward emotional and mental pressure NOT to forgive, since forgiveness can signal acceptability, and acceptability signals some amount, however small, of condoning. There is a desire to draw a line and say, 'Where you have been, I cannot follow you. Your actions can never be regarded as part of what it means to be human.' Yet not to forgive means closing the door to the possibility of transformation" (p. 103).
April 6, 2024
“Daring, on the other hand, to look the enemy in the eye and allow oneself to read signs of pain and cues of contrition and of regret where one might have almost preferred to continue seeing only hatred is the one possibility we have for steering societies toward replacing long standing stalemates out of a nation’s past with genuine engagement.” (125-126)
Really really incredible novel. Gobodo-Madikizela deals so incredibly well with a balance of posing psychological questions weighing the pros and cons of forgiveness, what it means to forgive and under what circumstances we can, and immersive and heartbreaking testimonies from her experience on the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. I think everyone should know more about the South African apartheid and I’m grateful that I had the chance to experience it because of my lovely professor. Extremely powerful, highly recommend.
Really really incredible novel. Gobodo-Madikizela deals so incredibly well with a balance of posing psychological questions weighing the pros and cons of forgiveness, what it means to forgive and under what circumstances we can, and immersive and heartbreaking testimonies from her experience on the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. I think everyone should know more about the South African apartheid and I’m grateful that I had the chance to experience it because of my lovely professor. Extremely powerful, highly recommend.
November 27, 2024
had to read this for school. it was mid, good information and message but very repetitive. the point she was trying to make was good but just kept getting repeated basically. don’t recommend unless you’re a history/apartheid geek.
March 26, 2009
For a nonfiction book, this was a surprisingly easy read. Pumla Gobodo-Madizekela worked on South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission during the aftermath of apartheid. As a psychologist, she found a personal interest in one Eugene de Kock, mass murderer and strong arm of the apartheid regime. During her conversations with him, she brings to the reader a portrait of a deeply remorseful and changed man, and through him discusses the process of restorative as opposed to punitive justice. There are no easy answers, particularly when confronted with brutality and evil on such a massive scale, but as a look at South Africa's road to healing, this is a fine work to examine and digest.
As appealing as I find the idea of restorative justice, one must always temper these things with reason. What works in the aftermath of a war fueled by race and long standing oppression does not necessarily translate into a full-fledged system of justice. It all sounds great in theory, but the problem happens when you run across someone like the Joker, a true sociopath who's dangerous not simply because he doesn't give two shits and a polish sausage about 'restoration' or 'truth,' but has the ability to cry crocodile tears and convince everyone he does. Amnesty and forgiveness work a hell of a lot better when people don't expect them before they commit a crime. After all, can you imagine a society where a petty thief knows he's going to get off before he's even made the decision to pocket a few free beers? Suddenly his deliberation process becomes quite brief.
This is a complex issue, but one worth examining. I expect many readers would find this book challenging, but I suppose that's half the fun, isn't it?
As appealing as I find the idea of restorative justice, one must always temper these things with reason. What works in the aftermath of a war fueled by race and long standing oppression does not necessarily translate into a full-fledged system of justice. It all sounds great in theory, but the problem happens when you run across someone like the Joker, a true sociopath who's dangerous not simply because he doesn't give two shits and a polish sausage about 'restoration' or 'truth,' but has the ability to cry crocodile tears and convince everyone he does. Amnesty and forgiveness work a hell of a lot better when people don't expect them before they commit a crime. After all, can you imagine a society where a petty thief knows he's going to get off before he's even made the decision to pocket a few free beers? Suddenly his deliberation process becomes quite brief.
This is a complex issue, but one worth examining. I expect many readers would find this book challenging, but I suppose that's half the fun, isn't it?
April 24, 2007
I visited South Africa in 1997 and what impressed me the most was the dignity of the people and their hope for a better future. This book speaks to that dignity and sense of hope. To be able to see your oppressor as a human takes a great deal of compassion...a great deal of humanity. A great thought-provoking read.
March 12, 2008
This book can be hard to follow at times because she is such a brilliant woman and alot of it is written from a psycological point of view. But this book presents forgiveness in a whole new light. Everybody should be able to forgive and this book tells alot about how and why.
October 16, 2012
This book gives an inside look at a woman's ability to forgive in a time when so much heart break has been experienced. This was a powerfully moving book that was a testate to the courage this woman had.
September 24, 2012
For weeks she has lain there, in a thoughtful pose beneath the prison bars of a window high above her.
‘Have you read Gobodo-Madikizela’s book on Eugene de Kock yet, Jude?’ my long-suffering husband asks. He’d read it on the plane to Cape Town. ‘You’ll find it interesting.’
‘Mmm,’ I mumble, trying to think of another excuse, another reason, not to hold “Prime Evil” in my hands. ‘I’ll get to it later.’
But still I resist picking it up and reading the first page.
I’ve had enough of that sort of thing, I say to myself. I sat, night after night, listening, watching and finally weeping for their pain and my guilt at the stories blurted out in the television visuals of the Truth and Reconciliation committee in those early days of our proud New South Africa. I just want to move forward into the future, to honour the innocent dead by making my contribution to a society which offers “a better life for all”. To be just an ordinary citizen in a nation where everyone has an equal national pride that is as race-less and colour-less as it is passionate.
Until one day, a cold miserable day, when I’m warm and safe in my ironically white-and-black suburban house, and the wind howls and yelps outside. On that day I force myself to open the book and face what I have feared all along: the judgement of a fellow human being.
A fellow South African. One who knows. One who lived through the same days and nights as I did, but in a way I had never perceived as possible.
And so we finally meet – we three. A man, committing murder in my name. A woman, suffering under that cardinal sin. And myself, blind no longer and, with nowhere left to hide, more afraid than I have ever been, for who is to be judged and who the judge?
As I devour the short journey of less than two hundred pages; drawn hurriedly from paragraph to paragraph in a combination of righteous shame and not-so-righteous indignation, I’m left as exhausted and sweaty as if I’d taken a journey of a thousand miles.
Perhaps I had. For there – behind the white man beyond moral hope and the final praise-singing for a black woman who is moral hope – lay the best and the worst of me.
Now, here I am. Writing to you, dear Pumla, in an attempt at the dialogue you state is so essential in helping this fledgling democracy of ours honourably fulfil the great potential she has shown so far and in which today, nearly twenty years after freedom came, we struggle with corruption, violence, lack of education, unemployment and other governmental failings, somehow worse than those of the apartheid government because *this* government all the people of our beloved country believed in and trusted.
I do not know whether I write to you with a plea for redemption or as an act of justification. All I know is that my belief in this brave new world of ours is wavering. For, after reading your book, my heart and my head - my shame and my pride - are in conflict as never before.
On my travels through the pages of your remembrance, there are times when I weep for the insanity of a little boy who witnessed his father’s gruesome and unnecessary death. Where is that little boy today, I wonder, now that he’s grown to be a man?
There are times I fling your precious testament from me in anger as, despite your sincere attempt to remain non-judgemental, you subtly sneer at the apathy of collective white South Africa, that tribe of mediocre souls – of which I am indubitably one – whom, you feel, didn’t suffer as you did. While others cried and died in agony, I gaily lived my life, reaping the rewards of a social system I was too comfortable in to challenge, and too blindly obedient to question.
Then I gasp in awe at your courage; at the pride and strength you showed in rising above the humiliations of your own oppressed past. Still I snigger knowingly – and with some relief at this evidence of your own humanity which makes you appear less saintly – when I realise that your ability to transcend hate is not quite as evolved as you believe, for you are clearly unable to forgive Mr F W de Klerk, the last President of apartheid South Africa and another of our Nobel Peace Prize winners. The man who irrevocably opened the prison doors and who, although you might not like to acknowledge it, set us all free.
In your compassion and empathy for de Kock as a fellow human being, you seem to place such credence on the words of a man who chose to embrace his evil. How will you respond to my words, I wonder? Will you say: what has she, in her trivial, privileged life, suffered? What remorse has she shown?
Or will your compassion and intellect allow you to clearly see into the mind and soul of an ordinary white South African, a single self with no claim to fame or infamy other than that I did nothing?
Let me state it plainly, so that it’s out in the open, not taunting me from the shadows in my heart.
Unlike you - with your impressive and somewhat intimidating personal biography: your academic qualifications and international connections, your participation in the TRC, and the moral probity your black skin automatically bestows on the words you write like a badge of suffering - I am Nobody. There! In all humility, it is said bluntly and with no adornment. I am nobody and I did nothing.
And yet, with pride, I say to you, ‘I am also Somebody.’ Like you, a woman of many faces: a wife, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a neighbour, a friend.
What of those other women? Those other wives, daughters and sisters, also ordinary people and also ‘Somebodies.’ Why did I not cry out in their pain when young white men, young enough to be their sons, pushed hands up their vaginas?
With every cell in my being cringing at the vicious, violent imagery of acts committed in my name, I want to ask you where are your stories of all the ordinary, white people, people like my parents, who did invisible good deeds, not because they were politically inclined (and therefore never got their names in newspapers,) but because it was bred in their very souls to always help those in need, irrespective of the colour of the person who was hungry or cold or being terrorized (do you even care that my mother single-handedly took on an AWB bully who was harrassing an old black man - now there would be a good story for you!)
Can your justifiable pain not allow you to see that good people *did* exist during the time of your suffering, even if they were too involved in their personal struggle to rise above the poverty they were born into to take an interest in politics. Can you not see that, just like the new South Africans today, all these good ordinary people wanted was to give their children (lucky me!) a better life than they had had?
At the same time, I want to resort to the age-old whine of ‘I didn’t know!’ Before I can voice that weak, pathetic cry I see, in my mind’s eye, the mocking lift of your eyebrow at those hollow words.
‘You really didn’t know?’ you ask politely, clinging tightly to your badge of honour as a victim of apartheid.‘Come, come, Judy! There are none so blind as those who will not see.’ Your unforgiving disbelief is etched deeply on your face as you say, ‘Our pain was all around you, in the townships and in the valleys; in the cities and in the villages. In every “whites-only” sign adorning the restaurants you ate in, the beaches you swam on and the buses you rode, our suffering was there for you to see. If you’d wanted to.’
All I remember is my white Afrikaner Father sitting around our table, eating and laughing with his black mine colleagues who, day after day, came to him with their cares, their fears, their desperate need for someone to help them with the minutia of a life lived far from their tribal homes. That scene was my normality and I never questioned it.
So, with perfect hindsight, today I can only confess, ‘You’re right!’
Remorse slithers though me like an unwanted parasite in my belly. I do not know how to explain to you that the first time I knew how terrible things had been for you, truly *was* only as I sat listening to the perceptions and experiences of other ordinary souls like myself.
Only they weren’t like me: they were black and they lived on the other side of my life.
My head sinks lower, the millstone of guilt becoming heavier and heavier with each page of your book I read.
For I don’t even have the excuse of the cold-faced Afrikaner killer you portray so accurately and so empathetically – that I was a crusader for the apartheid values which he believed were good. I was raised in the Church of England. I’m Anglican and the 1984 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Archbishop Desmond Tutu, of all people, was my religious and spiritual leader!
And still I was blind.
Was it because, like the ordinary soul I am, I was too busy living my own life - draped in joys and fears and sorrows so unlike yours, but so real to me - to notice you were being so cruelly oppressed? Or was it because there is some inherent evil, some unacknowledged darkness existing within me? And how could the person I thought I was possibly be a collaborator to one of the two greatest human rights abuses of the twentieth century?
Why then, my apathy? Why then did I think that, when the time came for the ultimate measure of my humanity to be judged, I would have accomplished sufficient goodness to be considered a worthy human being when I had made no great sacrifices to eliminate the scourge of apartheid?
The fragments with which I shore up the illusionary ruins of my single self as a decent, honourable human being are varied and many.
Will the slivers of my perceptions from those apartheid days be enough to explain the ambivalence with which I finish reading your book and, closing it, think of a killer who, but for my lassitude, you accuse, could have been me?
Your book, and the annals of world history, records only the inflexible dichotomy between good/evil or hero/villain, forgetting that the human condition is a continuum of many shades of grey. In those records for all time, the white South African face of Prime Evil is me, simply because I, a white South African of the same era, did nothing.
Will my memories be enough to refute that bond I do not want and yet cannot escape? Will they be enough to save my soul from the sins of apartheid? Perhaps.
By sharing them with you am I saying I’m sorry that, as a somebody, I didn’t do something?
Oh yes.
Hindsight always gives one a perfect view of what should or shouldn’t have happened at that crossroads in one’s life when one has to make that pivotal choice on which one’s eternal destiny is built. Retrospection of what – in those exact same circumstances of my life – I, me or thee would, should, could have done, make it so easy for me to say now that I’m sorry I never did anything.
Of course I’m damned well sorry! If I’d done something – anything, no matter how small - just think how much easier my life would be now, as I sit contemplating your story on forgiveness.
‘World,’ I would say, ‘Look at me! Just like Pumla I am a Heroine of The Struggle. But I,’ — and here I could smirk as virtuously as you do at times in your story — ‘am a white heroine! One of History’s righteous.’
But I didn’t, and I’m not, and instead I sit and grapple daily with the twin demons of shame and failure.
Shame, because I was too weak to fight for what the world, and my awakened conscience, now tells me I should have fought for then. Failure because, in the recognition of the fact that at a specific moment in time when A Big Cause called to me and you tell me I should have answered, instead “I did Nothing”.
And in the process of doing nothing I became somebody – something – I never thought I was.
So am I asking you to learn to forgive me, as you so heartrendingly learnt to forgive de Kock?
When I have finished my discourse then, dear Pumla, by virtue of the misery of your black life during the apartheid years, you can - in your just and proper role as moral arbiter of the New South Africa - decide on whether it is your right to forgive, or not to forgive me, for my apathy and my blindness, and for my pedestrian inability to rise above the comfort and convenience of my white life during the apartheid years.
Will I then be free of this weight on my soul?
Will I, redeemed and renewed by your gracious compassion, be able to sit comfortably around the log fire in my cosy lounge as I listen, watch and proudly participate in the creation of the myths and symbols of this New South Africa?
Soothed and saved by your forgiveness, can I then gratefully allow my single self to, once more, become integrated with that mediocre, undifferentiated mass of ‘good people’ who sleep soundly at night, knowing that the future of their humanity rests safely in the hands of the wise and noble leaders they have voted into power?
If only forgiveness were that simple.
‘Have you read Gobodo-Madikizela’s book on Eugene de Kock yet, Jude?’ my long-suffering husband asks. He’d read it on the plane to Cape Town. ‘You’ll find it interesting.’
‘Mmm,’ I mumble, trying to think of another excuse, another reason, not to hold “Prime Evil” in my hands. ‘I’ll get to it later.’
But still I resist picking it up and reading the first page.
I’ve had enough of that sort of thing, I say to myself. I sat, night after night, listening, watching and finally weeping for their pain and my guilt at the stories blurted out in the television visuals of the Truth and Reconciliation committee in those early days of our proud New South Africa. I just want to move forward into the future, to honour the innocent dead by making my contribution to a society which offers “a better life for all”. To be just an ordinary citizen in a nation where everyone has an equal national pride that is as race-less and colour-less as it is passionate.
Until one day, a cold miserable day, when I’m warm and safe in my ironically white-and-black suburban house, and the wind howls and yelps outside. On that day I force myself to open the book and face what I have feared all along: the judgement of a fellow human being.
A fellow South African. One who knows. One who lived through the same days and nights as I did, but in a way I had never perceived as possible.
And so we finally meet – we three. A man, committing murder in my name. A woman, suffering under that cardinal sin. And myself, blind no longer and, with nowhere left to hide, more afraid than I have ever been, for who is to be judged and who the judge?
As I devour the short journey of less than two hundred pages; drawn hurriedly from paragraph to paragraph in a combination of righteous shame and not-so-righteous indignation, I’m left as exhausted and sweaty as if I’d taken a journey of a thousand miles.
Perhaps I had. For there – behind the white man beyond moral hope and the final praise-singing for a black woman who is moral hope – lay the best and the worst of me.
Now, here I am. Writing to you, dear Pumla, in an attempt at the dialogue you state is so essential in helping this fledgling democracy of ours honourably fulfil the great potential she has shown so far and in which today, nearly twenty years after freedom came, we struggle with corruption, violence, lack of education, unemployment and other governmental failings, somehow worse than those of the apartheid government because *this* government all the people of our beloved country believed in and trusted.
I do not know whether I write to you with a plea for redemption or as an act of justification. All I know is that my belief in this brave new world of ours is wavering. For, after reading your book, my heart and my head - my shame and my pride - are in conflict as never before.
On my travels through the pages of your remembrance, there are times when I weep for the insanity of a little boy who witnessed his father’s gruesome and unnecessary death. Where is that little boy today, I wonder, now that he’s grown to be a man?
There are times I fling your precious testament from me in anger as, despite your sincere attempt to remain non-judgemental, you subtly sneer at the apathy of collective white South Africa, that tribe of mediocre souls – of which I am indubitably one – whom, you feel, didn’t suffer as you did. While others cried and died in agony, I gaily lived my life, reaping the rewards of a social system I was too comfortable in to challenge, and too blindly obedient to question.
Then I gasp in awe at your courage; at the pride and strength you showed in rising above the humiliations of your own oppressed past. Still I snigger knowingly – and with some relief at this evidence of your own humanity which makes you appear less saintly – when I realise that your ability to transcend hate is not quite as evolved as you believe, for you are clearly unable to forgive Mr F W de Klerk, the last President of apartheid South Africa and another of our Nobel Peace Prize winners. The man who irrevocably opened the prison doors and who, although you might not like to acknowledge it, set us all free.
In your compassion and empathy for de Kock as a fellow human being, you seem to place such credence on the words of a man who chose to embrace his evil. How will you respond to my words, I wonder? Will you say: what has she, in her trivial, privileged life, suffered? What remorse has she shown?
Or will your compassion and intellect allow you to clearly see into the mind and soul of an ordinary white South African, a single self with no claim to fame or infamy other than that I did nothing?
Let me state it plainly, so that it’s out in the open, not taunting me from the shadows in my heart.
Unlike you - with your impressive and somewhat intimidating personal biography: your academic qualifications and international connections, your participation in the TRC, and the moral probity your black skin automatically bestows on the words you write like a badge of suffering - I am Nobody. There! In all humility, it is said bluntly and with no adornment. I am nobody and I did nothing.
And yet, with pride, I say to you, ‘I am also Somebody.’ Like you, a woman of many faces: a wife, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a neighbour, a friend.
What of those other women? Those other wives, daughters and sisters, also ordinary people and also ‘Somebodies.’ Why did I not cry out in their pain when young white men, young enough to be their sons, pushed hands up their vaginas?
With every cell in my being cringing at the vicious, violent imagery of acts committed in my name, I want to ask you where are your stories of all the ordinary, white people, people like my parents, who did invisible good deeds, not because they were politically inclined (and therefore never got their names in newspapers,) but because it was bred in their very souls to always help those in need, irrespective of the colour of the person who was hungry or cold or being terrorized (do you even care that my mother single-handedly took on an AWB bully who was harrassing an old black man - now there would be a good story for you!)
Can your justifiable pain not allow you to see that good people *did* exist during the time of your suffering, even if they were too involved in their personal struggle to rise above the poverty they were born into to take an interest in politics. Can you not see that, just like the new South Africans today, all these good ordinary people wanted was to give their children (lucky me!) a better life than they had had?
At the same time, I want to resort to the age-old whine of ‘I didn’t know!’ Before I can voice that weak, pathetic cry I see, in my mind’s eye, the mocking lift of your eyebrow at those hollow words.
‘You really didn’t know?’ you ask politely, clinging tightly to your badge of honour as a victim of apartheid.‘Come, come, Judy! There are none so blind as those who will not see.’ Your unforgiving disbelief is etched deeply on your face as you say, ‘Our pain was all around you, in the townships and in the valleys; in the cities and in the villages. In every “whites-only” sign adorning the restaurants you ate in, the beaches you swam on and the buses you rode, our suffering was there for you to see. If you’d wanted to.’
All I remember is my white Afrikaner Father sitting around our table, eating and laughing with his black mine colleagues who, day after day, came to him with their cares, their fears, their desperate need for someone to help them with the minutia of a life lived far from their tribal homes. That scene was my normality and I never questioned it.
So, with perfect hindsight, today I can only confess, ‘You’re right!’
Remorse slithers though me like an unwanted parasite in my belly. I do not know how to explain to you that the first time I knew how terrible things had been for you, truly *was* only as I sat listening to the perceptions and experiences of other ordinary souls like myself.
Only they weren’t like me: they were black and they lived on the other side of my life.
My head sinks lower, the millstone of guilt becoming heavier and heavier with each page of your book I read.
For I don’t even have the excuse of the cold-faced Afrikaner killer you portray so accurately and so empathetically – that I was a crusader for the apartheid values which he believed were good. I was raised in the Church of England. I’m Anglican and the 1984 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Archbishop Desmond Tutu, of all people, was my religious and spiritual leader!
And still I was blind.
Was it because, like the ordinary soul I am, I was too busy living my own life - draped in joys and fears and sorrows so unlike yours, but so real to me - to notice you were being so cruelly oppressed? Or was it because there is some inherent evil, some unacknowledged darkness existing within me? And how could the person I thought I was possibly be a collaborator to one of the two greatest human rights abuses of the twentieth century?
Why then, my apathy? Why then did I think that, when the time came for the ultimate measure of my humanity to be judged, I would have accomplished sufficient goodness to be considered a worthy human being when I had made no great sacrifices to eliminate the scourge of apartheid?
The fragments with which I shore up the illusionary ruins of my single self as a decent, honourable human being are varied and many.
Will the slivers of my perceptions from those apartheid days be enough to explain the ambivalence with which I finish reading your book and, closing it, think of a killer who, but for my lassitude, you accuse, could have been me?
Your book, and the annals of world history, records only the inflexible dichotomy between good/evil or hero/villain, forgetting that the human condition is a continuum of many shades of grey. In those records for all time, the white South African face of Prime Evil is me, simply because I, a white South African of the same era, did nothing.
Will my memories be enough to refute that bond I do not want and yet cannot escape? Will they be enough to save my soul from the sins of apartheid? Perhaps.
By sharing them with you am I saying I’m sorry that, as a somebody, I didn’t do something?
Oh yes.
Hindsight always gives one a perfect view of what should or shouldn’t have happened at that crossroads in one’s life when one has to make that pivotal choice on which one’s eternal destiny is built. Retrospection of what – in those exact same circumstances of my life – I, me or thee would, should, could have done, make it so easy for me to say now that I’m sorry I never did anything.
Of course I’m damned well sorry! If I’d done something – anything, no matter how small - just think how much easier my life would be now, as I sit contemplating your story on forgiveness.
‘World,’ I would say, ‘Look at me! Just like Pumla I am a Heroine of The Struggle. But I,’ — and here I could smirk as virtuously as you do at times in your story — ‘am a white heroine! One of History’s righteous.’
But I didn’t, and I’m not, and instead I sit and grapple daily with the twin demons of shame and failure.
Shame, because I was too weak to fight for what the world, and my awakened conscience, now tells me I should have fought for then. Failure because, in the recognition of the fact that at a specific moment in time when A Big Cause called to me and you tell me I should have answered, instead “I did Nothing”.
And in the process of doing nothing I became somebody – something – I never thought I was.
So am I asking you to learn to forgive me, as you so heartrendingly learnt to forgive de Kock?
When I have finished my discourse then, dear Pumla, by virtue of the misery of your black life during the apartheid years, you can - in your just and proper role as moral arbiter of the New South Africa - decide on whether it is your right to forgive, or not to forgive me, for my apathy and my blindness, and for my pedestrian inability to rise above the comfort and convenience of my white life during the apartheid years.
Will I then be free of this weight on my soul?
Will I, redeemed and renewed by your gracious compassion, be able to sit comfortably around the log fire in my cosy lounge as I listen, watch and proudly participate in the creation of the myths and symbols of this New South Africa?
Soothed and saved by your forgiveness, can I then gratefully allow my single self to, once more, become integrated with that mediocre, undifferentiated mass of ‘good people’ who sleep soundly at night, knowing that the future of their humanity rests safely in the hands of the wise and noble leaders they have voted into power?
If only forgiveness were that simple.
October 26, 2018
The subject matter, message, and voice of this book were amazing and it felt like a truly important book. Dr. Gobodo-Madikizela explores the specific history of some of the darkest crimes committed in one of the worst regimes our planet has ever known – South African apartheid. But she explores it not by telling the story of the victims so much as trying to get a glimpse of the point of view of one of the worst perpetrators, Eugene de Kock.
Gobodo-Madikizela made a number of points that resonate with me on the nature of what we call “evil.” She points ut that it may be easy to just decide people who do terrible things are evil – certainly it makes us feel warm and fuzzy because we know we’re the good guy and they’re the bad guy. But I don’t think that sort of view is very useful. We’re all the heroes of our own narratives and research shows over and over that even people who do terrible things craft a self-view that excuses or justifies it. In the words of Gobodo-Madikizela, the perpetrators of apartheid atrocities "believed that whatever they were doing wrong had to remain hidden from view, even from them themselves."
This by no means excuses the harmful actions. I believe what is important is figuring out how to prevent future violence and I don’t think just saying that only ‘evil’ people do terrible things isn’t justified by the research and doesn’t work. Instead we should invest the time to try to understand what led to the terrible actions and figure out what to do to make that less likely in the future.
The writing was a bit of a weak point as the story bounced around and sometimes struggled to connect pieces into a narrative. While some scenes (especially the direct interactions with de Kock) really moved, the interstitial pieces wandered a bit more. This aside, it felt like an important and rare read in terms of its implications and it has stuck with me.
------------------------------------------
2018 Reading Challenge Update
book number: 26 / 40
scorecard (see below):
W: 13/20
NW: 11/20
NA: 14/20
D: 1/3
F: 18
NF: 7
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Notes: I'm trying to read 40 books this year. To make sure I'm getting a broad range, I'm tracking some metrics. Open to more if folks have suggestions. My goal is to read books that are:
half by women
half not by white people
half by non-americans
at least 3 that I don't think I'll like or agree with going in
I'll also go for about half fiction and half non-fiction.
This year, I'm also adding the What Should I Read Next categories since they should provide some good ideas, and I love the recommendations I get from the podcast: https://modernmrsdarcy.com/reading-ch...
X A classic you've been meaning to read
X A book recommended by someone with great taste
X A book in translation
O A book nominated for an award in 2018
O A book of poetry, a play, or an essay collection
X A book you can read in a day
X A book that's more than 500 pages
X A book by a favorite author
O A book recommended by a librarian or indie bookseller
O A banned book
X A memoir, biography, or book of creative nonfiction
X A book by an author of a different race, ethnicity, or religion than your own
Gobodo-Madikizela made a number of points that resonate with me on the nature of what we call “evil.” She points ut that it may be easy to just decide people who do terrible things are evil – certainly it makes us feel warm and fuzzy because we know we’re the good guy and they’re the bad guy. But I don’t think that sort of view is very useful. We’re all the heroes of our own narratives and research shows over and over that even people who do terrible things craft a self-view that excuses or justifies it. In the words of Gobodo-Madikizela, the perpetrators of apartheid atrocities "believed that whatever they were doing wrong had to remain hidden from view, even from them themselves."
This by no means excuses the harmful actions. I believe what is important is figuring out how to prevent future violence and I don’t think just saying that only ‘evil’ people do terrible things isn’t justified by the research and doesn’t work. Instead we should invest the time to try to understand what led to the terrible actions and figure out what to do to make that less likely in the future.
The writing was a bit of a weak point as the story bounced around and sometimes struggled to connect pieces into a narrative. While some scenes (especially the direct interactions with de Kock) really moved, the interstitial pieces wandered a bit more. This aside, it felt like an important and rare read in terms of its implications and it has stuck with me.
------------------------------------------
2018 Reading Challenge Update
book number: 26 / 40
scorecard (see below):
W: 13/20
NW: 11/20
NA: 14/20
D: 1/3
F: 18
NF: 7
-------
Notes: I'm trying to read 40 books this year. To make sure I'm getting a broad range, I'm tracking some metrics. Open to more if folks have suggestions. My goal is to read books that are:
half by women
half not by white people
half by non-americans
at least 3 that I don't think I'll like or agree with going in
I'll also go for about half fiction and half non-fiction.
This year, I'm also adding the What Should I Read Next categories since they should provide some good ideas, and I love the recommendations I get from the podcast: https://modernmrsdarcy.com/reading-ch...
X A classic you've been meaning to read
X A book recommended by someone with great taste
X A book in translation
O A book nominated for an award in 2018
O A book of poetry, a play, or an essay collection
X A book you can read in a day
X A book that's more than 500 pages
X A book by a favorite author
O A book recommended by a librarian or indie bookseller
O A banned book
X A memoir, biography, or book of creative nonfiction
X A book by an author of a different race, ethnicity, or religion than your own
November 15, 2017
This is one of those books that forces its readers to think deeply about ethical and philosophical issues in real-life scenarios. How does a country move forward after decades of rule under an oppressive system like apartheid? What is to be done with the former oppressors when they make up a large fraction of society? How can oppressors and oppressed live side by side in a new society? What is the nature of evil, and how should we combat it? Who should be held responsible for state violence when it occurs? What does justice mean, and how do we achieve it?
Gobodo-Madikizela is a psychologist who worked on South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Committee. This book centers around her interviews with Eugene de Kock, the leader of the apartheid secret police/death squads, following his imprisonment. In many ways, it reminds me of Hannah Arendt's Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil , which Gobodo-Madikizela frequently references. The two books confront similar questions through looking at the testimony of people who have committed heinous crimes on behalf of oppressive states (Nazi and Apartheid South Africa) and trying to understand how people do such things. What I really like about Gobodo-Madikizela's take is that it focuses more on restorative justice and how to move forward after atrocities have been committed in addition to discussing how they are committed in the first place.
Overall, A Human Being Died That Night is a fascinating, thought-provoking, and inspiring work. I would highly recommend it to anyone with an interest in history, philosophy, psychology, or social justice.
Gobodo-Madikizela is a psychologist who worked on South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Committee. This book centers around her interviews with Eugene de Kock, the leader of the apartheid secret police/death squads, following his imprisonment. In many ways, it reminds me of Hannah Arendt's Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil , which Gobodo-Madikizela frequently references. The two books confront similar questions through looking at the testimony of people who have committed heinous crimes on behalf of oppressive states (Nazi and Apartheid South Africa) and trying to understand how people do such things. What I really like about Gobodo-Madikizela's take is that it focuses more on restorative justice and how to move forward after atrocities have been committed in addition to discussing how they are committed in the first place.
Overall, A Human Being Died That Night is a fascinating, thought-provoking, and inspiring work. I would highly recommend it to anyone with an interest in history, philosophy, psychology, or social justice.
Read
May 4, 2021 Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela is a black african psychologist in a South African township. In this book she records a dialogue with Eugene de Kock, Police Colonel, the commander of the state sanctioned death squads under the apartheid regime. He was a torturer & assassin.They met in Pretoria's maximum security prison where he is serving a 212 year sentence for "crimes against humanity.
Gobodo-Madikizela describes her struggle with her contradictory feelings, on the one hand to hold him accountable and on the other to forgive him.
She lets us witness his "extraordinary awakening" of conscience. She also explores how the encounter demanded she redefine her valuing of remorse & the limits of forgiveness.
I am totally UNCONVINCED by de Kock's sudden bout of conscience & I do not think his behaviour can ever be forgiven. But I am an atheist & a marxist. I think he simply did not want to remain in prison.
(Since beginning his sentence, De Kock has accused several members of the apartheid government, including former State President F. W. de Klerk, of permitting C10's activities. Eugene de Kock was released on parole in 2015 and has since been spotted at the Frranschoek Literary Festival, in the Western Cape. Vlakplaas, where he ordered numerous political executions to be carried out, is now used as a centre for research into the use of western and traditional medicines in South Africa. He was released completely in 2019- 26/10/20)
Gobodo-Madikizela describes her struggle with her contradictory feelings, on the one hand to hold him accountable and on the other to forgive him.
She lets us witness his "extraordinary awakening" of conscience. She also explores how the encounter demanded she redefine her valuing of remorse & the limits of forgiveness.
I am totally UNCONVINCED by de Kock's sudden bout of conscience & I do not think his behaviour can ever be forgiven. But I am an atheist & a marxist. I think he simply did not want to remain in prison.
(Since beginning his sentence, De Kock has accused several members of the apartheid government, including former State President F. W. de Klerk, of permitting C10's activities. Eugene de Kock was released on parole in 2015 and has since been spotted at the Frranschoek Literary Festival, in the Western Cape. Vlakplaas, where he ordered numerous political executions to be carried out, is now used as a centre for research into the use of western and traditional medicines in South Africa. He was released completely in 2019- 26/10/20)
June 6, 2022
"It has often been said that most of the people who commit human rights abuses are not psychopaths, a psychological condition that is characterized by an inability to feel guilt. (A person whose conscience does not bother him may be “insane,” according to the legal definition of psychopathy, with an inability to feel that makes it easy for him to repeatedly commit evil acts.) For a person who has a working conscience, who does extremely bad things even though his conscience tells him that what he is doing is wrong, explaining his behavior is complex. I have asked how conscience gets suppressed to the point where people can allow themselves to commit horrible acts against others. Should one ask as well what kind of society or ideology enables such suppression? Or is the question better illuminated by a consideration of group dynamics?1 Was de Kock simply “caught up” in apartheid’s grand plan of corruption?"
(Gobodo-Madikizela)
An incredible journey into the analysis of the psyche of evil written by the only clinical psychologist member of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Her insights and in-depth analysis of the dynamics of the psyche within the societal context of apartheid lead her to the conclusion that to avoid generational cyclical violence, communication between the victim and the perpetrator is essential. This may or may not lead to forgiveness, but it helps the victim integrate the trauma at times leading to episodes of compassion that are beyond human.
(Gobodo-Madikizela)
An incredible journey into the analysis of the psyche of evil written by the only clinical psychologist member of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Her insights and in-depth analysis of the dynamics of the psyche within the societal context of apartheid lead her to the conclusion that to avoid generational cyclical violence, communication between the victim and the perpetrator is essential. This may or may not lead to forgiveness, but it helps the victim integrate the trauma at times leading to episodes of compassion that are beyond human.
January 18, 2024
Absolutely phenomenal. I found this book in a little free library, and I'm so glad that I did because the subject of reconciliation after apartheid is entirely relevant right now, considering the ongoing genocide in Gaza being committed by Israel's apartheid regime. This book does a great job of refusing to excuse perpetrators of atrocities, while at the same time looking for answers as to why people in governments such as apartheid South Africa are able to commit such immense horrors while maintaining such a high level of cognitive dissonance and not being textbook 'psychopaths' (they are able to feel empathy to some extent). This book discusses how we assign blame when the perpetrators are both individuals and institutions, and the individuals responsible have in a sense been created by the contexts in which they are raised in and the institutions to which they enter into. It also discusses how and when we should offer reconciliation or rehabilitation to the people who have committed such atrocities, and what that should look like. This book is extraordinarily powerful, and gives me hope that we will see the day when Israel's apartheid comes to an end, and Palestine is free. And maybe there will be a truth and reconciliation commission formed when that day comes, and those who organize it will be able to learn and take note from authors and thinkers like Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela.
July 8, 2020
umla Gobodo-Madikizela is a Renowned psychologist who worked on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) of South Africa. After the TRC was concluded, she decided to conduct a series of interviews with Eugene De Kock in prison. Eugene de Kock was instrumental in upholding the apartheid government apparatus. He was responsible for the torture, sometimes death and punishment of anti-apartheid activists. At the time, I read the book, Dr. Gobodo-Madikizela was lauded for her humanity and empathetic feelings towards de Kock. I was conflicted. Now, not so much. After a week of watching and reading about the trial of Amber Guyger for the murder of Botham Jean, I’m very sensitive to how black forgiveness has been used to delay and deny black people justice. We are applauded for being forgiving, and the narrative becomes that of forgiveness without any expectation of restitution or justice. For Black South Africans, the euphoria of legal freedoms has died down. Realizing now, that in many ways justice has been denied, the country grapples with the present implications of apartheid, in a rigid system founded on a inaccurate narrative of forgiveness and justice.
June 8, 2020
Interested in models and meanings of reconciliation while living in a nation with immense systemic racism and intense political divisions, I started reading this book two days before George Floyd was killed in Minneapolis. Finishing it now, it has given me even more to think about in this time of transformational progress (I hope) and also escalating violence and resistance by many police departments and officers. What, if we desire it, would a reconciliation and healing process look like for our community and our nation? While this didn’t directly provide a history of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, it did raise intriguing psychological and sociological factors in what it might mean for victims to find healing and perpetrators to seek re-entrance to humanity after acts of brutality (especially acts done on behalf of the state, as police violence is done) all the more meaningful as some departments and officers become even more entrenched in their sense of us-versus-them and their rightness.
January 20, 2021
Can forgiveness follow crimes against humanity? And should it? These are the questions this short book explores, in the context of post-Apartheid South Africa and the case of Eugene de Kock. Nicknamed “Prime Evil”, he commanded the government’s top secret death squad in the 1980s and received a double life sentence for his crimes.
But in this, he appears as what he was - a man, a human being corrupted by a terrible system but still capable of remorse and change.
It was something I tried to bear in mind while reporting from court - that the defendants were still humans who, in different circumstances, may have turned out differently and could still change and be forgiven. Evil, then, is perhaps not a useful word - Gobodo-Madikizela suggests as much, in that it writes people off, but maybe it also helps us deceive ourselves into thinking criminals, large and small, are completely different from us. That in their shoes, we definitely would be stronger and better. I thoroughly recommend this profound and thought-provoking book
But in this, he appears as what he was - a man, a human being corrupted by a terrible system but still capable of remorse and change.
It was something I tried to bear in mind while reporting from court - that the defendants were still humans who, in different circumstances, may have turned out differently and could still change and be forgiven. Evil, then, is perhaps not a useful word - Gobodo-Madikizela suggests as much, in that it writes people off, but maybe it also helps us deceive ourselves into thinking criminals, large and small, are completely different from us. That in their shoes, we definitely would be stronger and better. I thoroughly recommend this profound and thought-provoking book
June 9, 2024
It's hard to review this book - this is an extraordinary account by Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela that starts with her encounters with Eugene de Kock and her unsettling impulse to empathize with him, and from there she reflects and analyzes on violence and forgiveness, restorative justice, healing from trauma and moving on as a society, right and wrong, redemption and remorse, etc. A lot of her observations and analyses seem to directly answer some of the questions I've been thinking about harm, especially unforgivable harm. Can we forgive? Should we forgive? What does it mean to forgive? And so on.
Pumla writes in a detached manner, and makes a lot of references to the Holocaust. She repeatedly emphasizes that people like Eugene de Kock didn't come out of nothing. He was created by a society and a people for a people. I'm left with a lot of food for thought about forgiveness, redemption, humanity etc. A really thought provoking book.
Pumla writes in a detached manner, and makes a lot of references to the Holocaust. She repeatedly emphasizes that people like Eugene de Kock didn't come out of nothing. He was created by a society and a people for a people. I'm left with a lot of food for thought about forgiveness, redemption, humanity etc. A really thought provoking book.
January 7, 2018
This was a thoughtful and moving recollection of both the dynamics of forgiveness as well as interviews with Eugene de Kock, nicknamed "Pure Evil" for his command of the state-sanctioned death squads that carried out ritualized torture and murder during the reign of apartheid. She approaches the topic from a very cerebral yet human perspective, and, through her words, you can truly feel her grappling with her growing empathy for the remorse exhibited by a man who committed so many crimes against humanity. She has a really thoughtful approach to the concept of forgiveness over vengeance, and her commentary on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) she helped reside over asserts that only through dialogue between victim and perpetrator can those individuals -- and the country divided by race-driven political ideologies -- ever begin to heal.
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