Brutal violence

This weekend I went with a friend to visit her relatives. While there, an elderly family friend came to visit who told the most horrific story about how her 67-year-old sister was brutally attacked in her home only a few days ago. She was beaten, raped and stabbed several times, and only by some miracle had survived the ordeal and was receiving emergency surgery as we spoke. This family friend broke into small, controlled sobs while telling the story and then quickly composed herself again.

It was a heavy story to receive. We sat in shock as it unraveled before us and we were left not knowing what to say in response. I've often read and heard stories of violent crime, but this incident was particularly recent, close and brutal. We struggled to make sense of the cruelty of the crime. It seemed possible that it was committed by a beggar that this woman had been giving food to.

In the US, this kind of crime would probably be seen as the work of a psychopath and be dealt with within that framework. In South Africa, these crimes are normally set within a political framework, assumed to be racially motivated and to draw from deep seated anger and resentment still simmering within people as they recover from Apartheid. Or perhaps the theories about poverty, unemployment and frustration are brought into the mix.

Any of this might be true. But it doesn't explain the cold brutality and cruelty of the crime. The senselessness of it. Pure maliciousness and hate seem to be at its root. As I sat with it, tried to make sense of it, had it play over and over in my mind, a small tendril of fear started to grow in me. The fear is not so much about being the victim of such a crime as it is about what it says about the human race and our ability to lose touch completely with our humanity.

The family friend said several times, with a heavy heart, how it shakes one's faith. She was speaking about her faith in God and God's protection. It shakes my faith in humanity. It shakes my faith in the ability of people to rehabilitate, be restored, be healed, be whole. It shakes my faith in the possibility of reconciliation in our fragile society.

And yet, in that painful conversation, there was already the narrative of forgiveness and healing. I think it was probably much too soon. I think there would need to be a lot of anger and hatred; a sitting with the feelings of betrayal, fear and doubt. I think there would need to be a being with the sick reality of the cruelty and brutality of what happened. But growing out of that, is a little seed of restoration. The family friend spoke of being with her sister once she's out of hospital and recovering, sleeping next to her in her bed, holding her while she sleeps. My faith is a little shaken but perhaps hope will, in its determined and persistent way, show its face amidst the horror.