Learning Forgiveness in South Africa’s Story
Although I wasn’t able to access Patti Waldmeir’s Anatomy of a Miracle, I’ve focused instead on Alec Russell’s Bring Me My Machine Gun: The Battle for the Soul of South Africa from Mandela to Zuma, along with a personal choice, Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela’s A Human Being Died That Night: A South African Woman Confronts the Legacy of Apartheid.
For nearly five years, I’ve had the privilege of living, working, and building community in Nouakchott, Mauritania—my home, 6,813 kilometers (4,233 miles) from our upcoming DLGP Advance in Cape Town. In that time, I’ve studied not only the country’s history but the continent’s, carried the weight of its injustices, prayed for its healing, and longed for courageous leaders who will rise up for the sake of their people. On Nelson Mandela Avenue in Nouakchott, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Diplomatic Academy stand as places I’ve often visited in support of a flourishing Mauritania. At its crossroads with Moktar Ould Daddah Avenue, Mandela’s name serves as a daily reminder of how far his impact reaches—and how much work still remains.
Across its history, the African continent has been scarred by human rights abuses. At times, I feel drawn to remain in that brokenness—the injustices that seem to define the lives of my friends and so many across the continent. Still, I cannot allow myself to remain there. In this short reflection, I don’t want to dwell on the rampant corruption across Africa, to which South Africa is not immune, nor on the technocrats whose policies and plans have not yet broken poverty’s grip on the continent. I also cannot do justice here to every political figure who has shaped South Africa’s story. My focus is narrower: the thread of forgiveness as a path toward healing. Few leaders embody that thread more powerfully than Nelson Mandela. Alec Russell writes of Mandela: “After twenty-seven years in prison, the tall, dignified leader of the ANC emerged preaching forgiveness instead of war.”[1]
This same vision was embodied by Dr. Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela, a clinical psychologist and member of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC). Sitting across from Eugene de Kock—nicknamed “Prime Evil,” a man who had come to personify apartheid’s brutality—she faced the very figure of that evil. While the entirety of that encounter and its outcomes extend far beyond what I can capture here, I would like to offer a few powerful insights from her reflections. She wrote simply: “I did not want hatred to make me his victim.”[2] She later observed: “Feelings of anger and revenge are easier to sustain than seeking dialogue, for fear that engaging perpetrators as real people will compromise our moral stance.”[3]
For Gobodo-Madikizela, forgiveness is a way of reclaiming power from the past: “The motivation to do this does not stem only from altruism or high moral principles. The victim in a sense needs forgiveness as part of the process of becoming rehumanized… Reciprocating with empathy and forgiveness in the face of a perpetrator’s remorse restores to many victims the sense that they are once again capable of effecting a profound difference in the moral community.”[4]Her insight reveals how forgiveness, when spoken and lived, can loosen the stranglehold of history’s wounds. Her witness still carries weight today. In 2024, Gobodo-Madikizela received the Templeton Prize.[5]
Gobodo-Madikizela shows us the power of forgiveness to heal wounds of the past. At the same time, Russell reminds us that forgiveness does not erase the challenges of leadership or the flaws of even the most revered figures. Mandela’s presidency was far from flawless: “His presidency was not a Golden Age, as his friends are the first to concede. He had an autocratic streak. He neglected key areas of policy, most critically the fight against AIDS. He was also overly loyal to underperforming ministers.”[6]
It is this very question of leadership—its power to shape or to misshape a people—that the Queen Mother of the Royal Bafokeng Nation in South Africa would later draw our attention to. As Russell recounts, reflecting on the mishandling of the Bafokeng’s platinum wealth, the Queen Mother put it plainly: “The platinum is not our wealth. Our wealth is through leadership. That’s why I am saying that we have to be on our knees all the time to say, ‘Please Lord, do whatever You do, but make sure that we remain focused. If we get a leader who is not focused, we could go backwards to where we came from.’”[7] Her warning feels timely in a world where many question what direction we are headed.
Mandela’s example of forgiveness, echoed in the work of Gobodo-Madikizela, speaks beyond South Africa—it also speaks into my own struggle to forgive. Their examples have challenged me to practice forgiveness in places where I would rather hold on to hurt. Forgiveness is not weakness—it is the courage to release bitterness and open the possibility of healing. It does not mean expecting perfection, but choosing a path that opens space for renewal and wholeness. Mandela’s choice of forgiveness reshaped South Africa’s path, and Gobodo-Madikizela bore witness to its power in the TRC.
Their lives remind us that healing is not simple—it is costly, courageous, and necessary if a society hopes to be transformed. As leaders, this is how we keep moving forward and not backward: by choosing forgiveness over resentment, hope over despair, renewal over revenge. As Gobodo-Madikizela herself wrote: “Through the vicarious experience of stories of forgiveness, a society can begin to heal itself, and a more authentic and lasting sense of self-esteem and of collective worth can come to permeate public discourse about the past.”[8] Ultimately, healing is never easy, yet it opens the door to something far better.
[1] Alec Russell, Bring Me My Machine Gun: The Battle for the Soul of South Africa from Mandela to Zuma (New York: PublicAffairs, 2009), Kindle Edition, 59.
[2] Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela, A Human Being Died That Night: A South African Woman Confronts the Legacy of Apartheid (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2003), Kindle Edition, 118.
[3] Gobodo-Madikizela, A Human Being Died That Night, Kindle Edition, 120.
[4] Gobodo-Madikizela, A Human Being Died That Night, Kindle Edition, 128.
[5] The Templeton Prize, founded in 1972 by philanthropist Sir John Templeton, is one of the world’s largest annual awards given to individuals who explore life’s spiritual and moral dimensions in ways that benefit humanity. Past recipients include Mother Teresa, Desmond Tutu, and the Dalai Lama.
[6] Russell, Bring Me My Machine Gun, Kindle Edition, 7.
[7] Russell, Bring Me My Machine Gun, Kindle Edition, 160.
[8] Gobodo-Madikizela, A Human Being Died That Night, Kindle Edition, 133.
About the Author
Elysse Burns
10 responses to “Learning Forgiveness in South Africa’s Story”
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Hi Elysse, I always enjoy your posts, partially because you bring a unique perspective as someone living in North Africa. Would you have read this book differently 10 years ago, before you lived in Africa?
Hi Christy,
Thank you so much for your kind words. It’s funny to think about now, but ten years ago I wouldn’t have had any interest in reading this book! If you had told me then that I’d be living in Africa and traveling to Cape Town for a doctoral program, I probably would have laughed out loud. I never imagined this would be my life. Back then, I wouldn’t even have picked up a book on South Africa’s history. My fight for the vulnerable really began when I started standing up for people in one of the poorest parts of our city—and what started there has grown into a true passion today. Now I can’t seem to stop; all I do is read books on African history.
Elysse,
“Forgiveness is not weakness” is a powerful statement and one that I do wish leaders would embrace. Instead, too many national leaders see any sort of contrition as weakness and diminishing. Instead it is healing and empowering.
Even though you are such a long way from Cape Town, it makes sense that you frequent a rode named after Mandela. After all, Africa is simply one big country.
Wait… Africa’s not a country?
Hi Elysse, This is such a powerful statement concerning Mandela and Gobodo-Madikizela: “Their lives remind us that healing is not simplistic—it is costly, courageous, and necessary if a society hopes to be transformed.” What are some of the costly, courageous steps necessary to bring healing in your country?
Chère Kari,
Merci pour ta question. Je pense que la première étape est d’avouer que des préjudices réels ont été causés aux gens d’ici. Les étrangers publient de nombreuses images et vidéos en ligne illustrant la dure réalité du pays, mais en tant que nation, on ne dénonce pas ce qui s’est passé. Certains sont trop à l’aise pour s’en préoccuper, d’autres sont indifférents, et d’autres encore ont peur de parler. Les raisons sont multiples, mais comme tu le sais, la situation est complexe.
Elysse, this is a very moving article. Thank you for sharing it and for focusing on forgiveness and reconciliation. I especially relate to: “Feelings of anger and revenge are easier to sustain than seeking dialogue, for fear that engaging perpetrators as real people will compromise our moral stance.”
It’s a struggle to maintain a moral compass when everything around you feels chaotic and in many cases, evil. I’m asking leaders this question through my new (not-yet-launched) podcast, “Flourishing Leadership in Tough Times”: How do you flourish when times are tough and forgiveness is hard?
Hi Debbie,
Thank you for your kind words and your thoughtful question. To be honest, I’m still figuring it out myself. I know things in the U.S. feel pretty chaotic right now, but from Africa I often feel quite disconnected from it. Even the conversations about polarization in the States feel distant to me.
What I wrestle with more in my own context is the challenge of what seems like a pervasive national indifference—an inability to look beyond the present moment. That kind of apathy can begin to seep into you, and before long you catch yourself wondering, “Does any of this even matter?” I found myself in that place this summer and realized I wasn’t flourishing. The month I did begin to flourish again was when I was meeting with a counselor every week.
So, if I had any recommendation for leaders, it would be this: seek out a counselor who truly understands you, someone who provides a safe and honest space to face the hard and the messy—whether it’s anger, disappointment, or the struggle to forgive. That space makes all the difference for me.
Elysse,
When I was in my Masters of Psych program I did a research paper on forgiveness. One key author, Everett Worthington co-authored a book examining forgiveness. I remember they talked about how we need to see ourselves as having needed to be forgiven in order to gain empathy for the person who injured us. Being a Christian he focuses on the need for the forgiveness of our sins from God, but also that none of us are perfect, that we have all injured others in some capacity through word or deed.
How has Mandela’s ability to forgive shaped the culture of Mauritania? Do you see the willingness to forgive others in those living 6813 km away?
Hi Jeff,
Thank you for sharing about this work on forgiveness. Do you remember the name of the book, or would it be easy to find if I search for Everett Worthington? Honestly, the only time I’ve heard someone mention Mandela in conversation was a few years ago when I was leading an English class—we were talking about strong leaders.
Here in my host country, forgiveness doesn’t seem to come up very often. I want to be careful not to generalize, but from what I’ve observed, it rarely happens voluntarily and more often seems tied to religious obligation. For example, during Eid al-Fitr at the end of Ramadan, it’s common for people to seek and extend forgiveness, visit family and friends, and mend relationships. That practice is certainly present here, but outside of that, I haven’t really encountered forgiveness in everyday life.