Literature is timeless. In it we glimpse the past and find a map for the future. It tells the story of mankind, filled with human themes that transcend particulars, still relevant in the here and now. Recently, I read such a book.

Alan Paton published “Cry, the Beloved Country” in 1948, right before apartheid was implemented in his homeland of South Africa. While specifics vary from our own day and age, the spirit he illustrates is one that can inspire our American culture to greater peace.

The issue of race has heightened in America, thanks to race baiters and Marxist organizations like Black Lives Matter. While people on the right may be justified in their anger at false accusations or forced multiculturalism, some go too far, returning to concepts like segregation and ethnic superiority. Ironically, they’re becoming exactly what the far left always wanted them to be: racists.

“Cry, the Beloved Country” offers another perspective, acknowledging cultural difference without trying to eradicate or demean it.

The book follows Stephen Kumalo, a black priest from the village of Ndotsheni, and James Jarvis, his wealthy, white neighbor. Both have sons who live in the city of Johannesburg. James’ son, Arthur, is a prominent figure and spokesperson for racial equality. Stephen, on the other hand, has lost contact with his son, Absalom, and travels to find him, eventually discovering that Absalom has been charged with Arthur’s murder.

The novel not only captures the complexity of multiculturalism, but provides a possible path forward. Rather than showing race as some sort of absolute, the story is realistic and nuanced, but the principles woven throughout are clear-cut, straightforward, and applicable.

Act, Not React

Though not overtly Marxist, the ideological mindset Paton explores in this book shares the same consequences. It fools people into thinking they’re making a change, starting a revolution; but all that’s really going on is reactivity. Arthur Jarvis is a strong character who encourages people to stop, reflect, and think, rather than shouting emotions to incite anger, violence, and revenge.

Right now, South Africa is doing the latter. In conflict with its own history, its citizens fight each other, too blinded by hatred to question the motives behind those who stir the pot. As race relations hit a boiling point, everyone is thrown once again into accusations and questions over whose rights are greater, who was here first, and which skin color is best.

Americans fall into this just as easily. To avoid the trap of race-baiting, we must learn to act from principles, not react to others’ hatred.

One of the most powerful lines in the novel comes from Stephen while conversing with James about their races. “I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving, they will find we are turned to hating,” he says.

This isn’t to say racism is inevitable. No, Stephen believes there’s another way forward, but he fears continued conflict. Now, it rings as a sad prophecy of identity politics.

Nevertheless, the overall tone remains optimistic: “And while there is life, there is hope of amendment of life.” People are never too far gone, and it’s never too late to break the cycle of reaction and choose actions derived from convictions.

Revenge is Not Reparation

South Africa has a complicated past, but what country doesn’t? Every nation has racked up a laundry list of injustices incurred, suffered, and ignored. Rather than being horror-stricken that mankind is capable of evil, we must move forward in peace, not bring the past with us.

This requires forgiveness and cooperation. Choosing to lock into a state of resentment against an oppressor doesn’t help anyone move forward. It may fuel the lie that it’s the only way to keep hurt justified, but that’s about it.

Ideological leaders say violence must be committed for the next generation, for the land, and for the common good. If that were true, their gaze would be set to the future, not their heads stuck in the past. As the saying goes, insanity is doing the same thing over and expecting a different result. Well, that’s what these leaders are doing: repeating apartheid policies, inciting discrimination and hatred, but just swapping the roles.

Paton shows how peaceful progress and repairing the past is only possible through forgiveness, not revenge. In one scene, we see an angry, vengeful Stephen lie to his brother, John. When he reveals his own dishonesty, they argue and John kicks him out. Stephen expresses his shame: “He had come to tell his brother that power corrupts, and that a man who fights for justice must himself be cleansed and purified, that love is greater than force. And none of these things he had done.”

Revenge leads only to brokenness. There’s a shut door at the end of that road, and no peace or resolution. Stephen sees that following an abstract of justice leads to clouded vision. That breaking free of resentment requires forgiveness and gratitude. That love for the individual spreads to society. While that’s a whole lot easier said than done, it’s the only way to keep from ripping ourselves apart.

Individual vs. Collective

Throughout the novel, we’re shown that viewing everything through the lens of the collective leads certain characters to ideology and racial contempt. When perspective shifts to universals and abstracts, the individual is quickly undermined and distanced from responsibility, making participation feel distant or pointless.

Meanwhile, the characters who can differentiate the individual from the injustice are able to move forward in peace. Change always occurs first in the individual, and the more we focus on what we ourselves can do, the better the world will become.

Neither white nor black supremacy will bring peace or justice because racial superiority requires collective thinking. Those ideologies do nothing but set off the satanic hamster wheel of Marxism, running in circles of hatred and misery. They claim they have the collective good in my mind, but really, it comes from a place of individual revenge.

Due to the economic shift caused by the Afrikaners, the village of Ndotsheni suffered years of neglect. Like many rural outskirts, it was abandoned by those who had to move to cities to make a living. At the end of the novel, we see Jarvis devote his own time, money, and efforts to healing the land. Rather than holding resentment towards his black countrymen for the tragedy his family suffered, he works with Stephen, the father of his son’s murderer, to bring Ndotsheni back to a fruitful life.

Yet Stephen also suffered the loss of his son, who was imprisoned and executed for his crime. He could just as easily hold resentment towards his white countrymen for his pain. But he doesn’t because he, like Jarvis, sees that the path forward is through working together.

The repairing of Ndotsheni is not just a happy ending, it’s the answer to racial tension. Only through the forgiveness given and received by both Stephen and Jarvis do they make a positive change for their country. They could’ve blamed an individual for the wrong done by a people, they could’ve accused each other with broad strokes and generalizations, but instead they saw each other as people, individuals with whom they share a community and a country who, by virtue of being a human being, are owed dignity and respect.

In the final words of the novel, the narrator leaves the reader with much to ponder: “But when will that dawn come, of our emancipation, from the fear of bondage and the bondage of fear, why, that is a secret.”

I don’t know when that dawn will come either, but it raises the question of what our fears actually are, bringing to mind the words of St. John the Evangelist: “Perfect love casts out fear.”

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This article was made possible by The Fred & Rheta Skelton Center for Cultural Renewal. 

Image credit: Bdward3, CC BY-SA 4.0