Abstract This article explores the concept of ethical unforgiveness as a legitimate and morally serious stance, drawing on my theorization of unforgiveness as a form of principled dissent. In conversation with Vladimir Jankélévitch’s nuanced reflections in Le pardon, I clarify the ethical boundaries of forgiveness and argue for the necessity of an alternative moral language when forgiveness becomes complicit with injustice. By juxtaposing the fragility and grace of Jankélévitch’s conditional forgiveness with my concept of ethical unforgiveness, I offer a framework for understanding refusal not as retaliation or ressentiment but as fidelity to memory, justice and the ethical weight of the irreparable. I propose a counter-genealogy of forgiveness rooted in a critical ethics of resistance, dignity, and truth-telling. The expanded analysis situates unforgiveness not as an anomaly, but as a coherent moral practice with philosophical depth and political relevance.
Introduction
In dominant moral discourses—whether in transitional justice frameworks, clinical psychology, theology, or political reconciliation efforts—forgiveness is often elevated to the status of a normative ideal. It is framed as the hallmark of emotional maturity, a sign of moral transcendence, and an essential step toward healing and social repair. From Desmond Tutu’s (1999) vision of national forgiveness in No Future Without Forgiveness to countless therapeutic models that treat forgiveness as a clinical outcome, the imperative to forgive has permeated not only personal relationships but also collective processes of recovery. Within this prevailing ethical imagination, those who withhold forgiveness may be seen as emotionally stuck, spiritually immature, or morally deficient.
In this article, I want to challenge that paradigm. I propose and defend a concept I have previously articulated as ethical unforgiveness—a principled, reasoned, and non-retributive refusal to forgive when forgiveness would entail complicity in injustice or erasure of historical harm. Ethical unforgiveness is not a failure of virtue, but rather an alternative mode of moral clarity. It insists on the right to remain unreconciled, primarily when the pressures to forgive serve to neutralize suffering or uphold unjust power dynamics.
In advancing this argument, I situate my position in sustained dialogue with the work of Vladimir Jankélévitch, whose seminal text, Le pardon (1967), offers one of the most philosophically nuanced accounts of forgiveness in the twentieth century. Jankélévitch defends forgiveness as a fragile, generous act—but one that must not be extended to unrepentant perpetrators or in response to radical evil. In the wake of the Holocaust, he cautions against “the premature pacification of memory,” warning that forgiveness, when improperly granted, can function as a betrayal of the dead (Jankélévitch, 1967/2005). While I share his conviction that specific harms rupture the ethical ground on which forgiveness can stand, I depart from his framework by affirming the moral value of refusal itself—not as tragic necessity, but as ethical resistance.
Ethical unforgiveness, as I will argue, is not merely a reaction to unforgivable acts. It is a conscious withholding rooted in memory, justice, and fidelity to those who have suffered irreparably. It resists being pathologized, privatized, or instrumentalized. Drawing on my previous work on Unforgiveness (Lozano, 2018), as well as broader philosophical engagements with trauma, affect, and justice, I explore how the refusal to forgive can be theorized as a meaningful and necessary stance—particularly in contexts where the imperative to forgive serves hegemonic ends.
This article proceeds in four parts. First, I examine Jankélévitch’s theory of forgiveness, attending to his emphasis on grace, remorse, and moral gravity. Second, I elaborate on my theory of ethical unforgiveness, situating it within a framework of critical moral dissent. Third, I examine the roles of memory, irreparability, and narrative refusal in both positions, highlighting how remembrance operates differently in forgiveness and its withholding. Finally, I offer a counter-genealogy of forgiveness that challenges its universalization and proposes unforgiveness as an ethical and political stance in its own right.
Throughout, my goal is not to reject forgiveness per se but to reframe the moral landscape in which it operates. Ethical unforgiveness is not the negation of ethics but its reconfiguration. It is an act of fidelity—fidelity to memory, to the unspeakable nature of some harms, and to the autonomy of survivors who refuse to be reconciled for the sake of others’ comfort.
I. Jankélévitch and the Moral Fragility of Forgiveness
Vladimir Jankélévitch’s reflections on forgiveness in Le pardon (1967/2005) present a vision of forgiveness that is deeply attuned to the ethical stakes of memory, remorse, and irreparability. He regards forgiveness as a fragile miracle, a gratuitous act that can never be demanded and never fully justified by logic. “Forgiveness,” he writes, “is a miracle of the moral order; it occurs where it should not be able to occur” (p. 18). For Jankélévitch, forgiveness is not something one can expect or calculate—it interrupts the regular order of ethics as a gratuitous gesture that goes beyond justice. However, this act is never morally neutral. Its power lies precisely in its rarity, in the grace it extends to the other who has erred but who also seeks to make amends.
Crucially, Jankélévitch insists that forgiveness must be conditioned by repentance. Without a sincere acknowledgment of wrongdoing, forgiveness not only loses its meaning but becomes an offence against justice. “We can forgive a repentant person,” he states plainly, “but we cannot forgive an unrepentant monster” (Jankélévitch, 1967/2005, p. 22). This position finds its most poignant articulation in his reflections on the Holocaust, a trauma that, for him, rendered forgiveness not just difficult but ethically inadmissible. Forgiving the Nazis, in his view, would be tantamount to forgetting the unthinkable. “There are crimes so grave that they silence even the possibility of forgiveness,” he writes, “because to forgive them would be to betray the dead” (p. 28).
In this sense, Jankélévitch does not offer a universal ethic of forgiveness. Instead, he presents forgiveness as a contingent, morally charged possibility—noble when sincere but perverse when misapplied. He preserves the sacredness of forgiveness by limiting its scope, insisting that it must not be reduced to political ritual or moral duty. He is particularly wary of institutionalized forgiveness, which he sees as undermining the personal, affective, and moral work that authentic pardon requires. “Forgiveness cannot be legislated,” he warns, “nor can it be collectivized; it can only be whispered by the heart of a single person” (p. 30).
My theory of ethical unforgiveness shares with Jankélévitch this deep concern for the ethical gravity of forgiveness. I agree that forgiveness loses its moral force when it is imposed as an obligation or reduced to a mere procedural reconciliation. Like him, I reject the commodification of forgiveness that occurs when it is instrumentalized to achieve closure or social harmony at the cost of truth. However, I part ways with Jankélévitch in his treatment of unforgiveness as merely the limit of forgiveness—a sorrowful acknowledgment that forgiveness is sometimes impossible but not something to be affirmed in its own right.
Where Jankélévitch maintains a tragic tone regarding the limits of forgiveness, I argue that the refusal to forgive can itself be a form of ethical action—a stance grounded not in bitterness or vengeance but in justice, memory, and political resistance. Ethical unforgiveness is not simply a passive impossibility; it is an active decision to refuse reconciliation when reconciliation would betray the integrity of the self or the memory of others. In this sense, I reposition unforgiveness from the margin of ethical discourse to its center, offering it as a coherent, deliberate, and, at times, necessary moral act.
This divergence is crucial. Jankélévitch mourns the impossibility of forgiving the Nazis; I argue that such impossibility should be celebrated as an expression of moral clarity. To forgive in such contexts would not be noble but complicit. My concern is that by portraying unforgiveness solely as a tragic necessity, we risk denying survivors their moral agency. We risk overlooking the ethical depth of those who say no—not because they are incapable of forgiving, but because they recognize that to forgive would be to lie.
Ethical unforgiveness, therefore, builds on Jankélévitch’s insight that not all can or should be forgiven, but it advances this position by giving ethical form to the refusal itself. It insists that such refusal is not a failure to transcend but a fidelity to what must never be transcended. Forgiveness, in this light, is not the highest ethical response—it is one possible response among others and not always the most just.
II. Ethical Unforgiveness: A Counter-Concept
My concept of ethical unforgiveness arises from a sustained engagement with the philosophical, political, and psychological consequences of forgiveness as it has been canonized in dominant moral discourse. Forgiveness is often treated as a telos—as the endpoint of healing, the highest moral gesture one can offer after harm, and a universal imperative that transcends time, context, and power. However, this framing erases the conditions under which forgiveness is demanded, often from survivors of profound violence. It conceals the asymmetries of power that structure expectations of pardon and place the moral burden on those already injured. Against this backdrop, I have argued for a theory of ethical unforgiveness: a refusal not rooted in anger but in a clear-eyed recognition that forgiveness, when rendered obligatory, loses its ethical meaning.
Ethical unforgiveness is not retribution. It is not the mirror image of vengeance or a failure to regulate resentment. Instead, it is a principled withholding grounded in the recognition that some harms—especially those rooted in structural injustice, historical oppression, and systemic violence—should not be closed with pardon. It is a stance that protects the moral autonomy of the survivor and challenges the narrative closure that reconciliation so often seeks to impose.
In my earlier work, I defined ethical unforgiveness as “a non-retributive moral stance for direct and indirect survivors to respond to harm and wrongdoing when forgiveness is not an alternative for them” (Lozano, 2022a, p. 6). This refusal is intentional. It emerges not from the absence of compassion but from the presence of moral clarity. It resists being pathologized by psychological models that treat forgiveness as necessary for well-being, and it disrupts political models that demand forgiveness in the service of national healing or transitional legitimacy.
Here, Jankélévitch’s reflections prove generative, even if they stop short of fully affirming the position I advocate. His insistence that forgiveness must be conditional—based on sincere repentance and moral transformation—offers a partial bulwark against the uncritical universalization of forgiveness. He draws a sharp ethical line around what he calls le pardon, a line that some harms must never cross. “There are crimes,” he writes, “that put the moral world itself into question. To forgive them would not be generosity, but treason” (Jankélévitch, 1967/2005, p. 28).
However, Jankélévitch frames this limit in a tragic register. He laments the fact that forgiveness must be withheld in some cases. He regards this withholding as a moral necessity, yes—but not as a value in itself. Forgiveness remains the ideal, the telos, even if it is not always possible. The inability to forgive radical evil, for Jankélévitch, is the failure of the moral order to hold. However, in this stance I disagree. My work reframes this so-called failure as a strength. Ethical unforgiveness is not a lament; it is a stance. It does not grieve its inability to forgive; it affirms its refusal as morally justified and politically necessary. This refusal becomes even more urgent in contexts where forgiveness is weaponized—used to legitimize oppressive institutions, erase histories of violence, or coerce reconciliation in the name of peace.
Forgiveness, in such contexts, becomes a tool of closure. Ethical unforgiveness intervenes precisely to interrupt that closure. It leaves the wound open not out of cruelty but out of fidelity to its gravity. It refuses to heal when healing is prescribed as forgetting. It refuses moral repair when repair is used to deny the depth of destruction.
Where Jankélévitch limits forgiveness in the name of gravity, I limit it in the name of resistance. I understand the withholding of forgiveness as a political gesture, one that affirms the survivor’s agency in refusing to normalize what cannot be normalized. Ethical unforgiveness functions not only as a personal boundary but also as a public statement: that some acts destroy the moral world so thoroughly that to forgive them would be to consent to their terms.
This position does not preclude compassion, care, or future-oriented responsibility. However, it resists the subsumption of these virtues into a single narrative of pardon. In resisting that narrative, ethical unforgiveness proposes a counter-ethics—one that dignifies refusal and insists that silence, withholding, and even rupture can be ethical responses to harm.
III. Memory, Irreparability, and the Ethics of Refusal
If forgiveness is, as Jankélévitch (1967/2005) claims, a miracle that cannot be forced or summoned, then memory is its moral counterweight—a reminder of what forgiveness must never efface. He writes, “To forgive everything is to remember nothing” (p. 35), cautioning against the kind of pardon that functions as erasure. For him, remembrance serves as a guardrail, preventing forgiveness from devolving into moral amnesia. In the shadow of historical atrocities like the Holocaust, he insists that the ethical obligation to remember exceeds any imperative to reconcile.
My position builds upon this insight yet reorients its ethical force. I understand memory not only as a barrier to inappropriate forgiveness but also as the very ground of ethical unforgiveness. It is not just that we must remember what happened; we must also refuse to grant pardon when such a gesture would falsify the meaning of that memory. Ethical unforgiveness is, at its core, an ethic of remembrance—a refusal to allow suffering to be folded too neatly into a redemptive arc.
In many transitional justice contexts, memory is publicly acknowledged but then quickly subordinated to the project of national healing. Victims are encouraged to share their stories, but only as a prelude to reconciliation. Their pain is instrumentalized—rendered legible for closure, unity, or future peace. In this moral economy, forgiveness becomes the price of recognition. However, recognition that requires forgiveness is not recognition at all; it is conditional legitimation. Ethical unforgiveness insists that memory be allowed to persist in its fullness without being sacrificed on the altar of collective comfort.
Jankélévitch gestures toward this danger but stops short of endorsing the ethical value of refusal. He is wary of institutionalizing forgiveness, but he still holds out hope for its moral beauty. I, on the other hand, argue that the insistence on moral beauty can become ethically perverse when it compels survivors to suppress their anger to offer pardon for the sake of appearing virtuous. In Unforgiveness (Lozano, 2018), I refer to this as the “dorsal wound” of moral coercion—a wound reopened each time forgiveness is demanded as a sign of moral health.
To forgive in such contexts is not merely generous; it may be violent. It may require the survivor to deny the gravity of their experience in order to satisfy a communal fantasy of healing. Ethical unforgiveness resists this. It protects the wound not to keep it festering but because the wound bears witness to something that must not be smoothed over. It insists that some memories—especially those that implicate systems of power—are ethically irreconcilable.
The concept of irreparability is central to this discussion. Jankélévitch acknowledges that some harms are so grave they tear at the very fabric of the moral world. He calls these acts impardonnables—unforgivable not because we are too weak to forgive but because the crimes themselves rupture the logic that makes forgiveness intelligible. “There are evils so total,” he writes, “that they elude all reconciliation, all moral economy” (Jankélévitch, 1967/2005, p. 41). However, even as he affirms this rupture, he mourns it.
I propose that we do not need to mourn irreparability. Instead, we must confront it directly. Ethical unforgiveness is one way of doing so. It is a mode of fidelity—to those who suffered, to the structural conditions that enabled their suffering, and to the limits of what can be ethically repaired. It recognizes that specific histories cannot be folded back into the present through narrative integration. Instead, they remain out of joint—what Derrida (1994) might call hauntological—insisting on their unresolved presence.
Forgiveness, in many ethical frameworks, seeks to restore a moral balance. Ethical unforgiveness resists this drive. It argues that, in some cases, the imbalance must remain. To insist on balance is to risk denying the singularity of what occurred. The asymmetry of suffering cannot be undone, and to pretend otherwise is not only false but dangerous. Ethical unforgiveness affirms this asymmetry. It allows memory to retain its jagged edge. It affirms the ethical value of rupture, refusing to let healing become another name for forgetting.
IV. Toward a Counter-Genealogy of Forgiveness
The final task of this article is to offer a counter-genealogy of forgiveness. This account challenges the moral, theological, and political assumptions that have elevated forgiveness into a universal virtue. A genealogy, in the Foucauldian sense, reveals not the origin of a concept in purity but its sedimentation within relations of power. Forgiveness, as it is commonly invoked today, has a history. It is not simply an ethical good; it is a moral technology—a dispositif—that has been mobilized to resolve conflicts, stabilize institutions, and manage the emotional labour of survivors. My aim is not to deny the value of forgiveness in every case but to interrogate the way it has become hegemonic: assumed, expected, and required.
Jankélévitch gestures toward this problem when he writes, “Forgiveness must remain exceptional; it must not be transformed into an institution or an ideology” (1967/2005, p. 44). He worries that forgiveness, once codified, risks becoming performative and hollow. While he frames this concern as a caution, I take it as a call to action. The institutionalization of forgiveness—from truth commissions to carceral reform to public apologies—demands a philosophical response that can account for the survivor’s right to refuse. This is where ethical unforgiveness intervenes.
A counter-genealogy begins by asking: Who does forgiveness serve? In whose interest is reconciliation invoked? What harms are obscured when survivors are compelled to move on? When forgiveness becomes normative, it often silences those who cannot or will not forgive—not because they are vengeful, but because they understand that some acts rupture the very grounds of moral repair. These survivors are often treated as pathological, unwell, or “not ready” to forgive rather than as ethical subjects making difficult but coherent choices. Ethical unforgiveness challenges this narrative. It affirms that refusal can be just as moral as reconciliation, and often more so.
In Unforgiveness (Lozano, 2018), I argue that forgiveness has been co-opted by dominant discourses that conflate healing with pardon. Survivors are encouraged—or coerced—to forgive not for their own sake but for the sake of social order. This is particularly evident in postcolonial and transitional justice contexts, where victims of state violence are expected to endorse reconciliation projects that often fail to deliver structural change. In such contexts, forgiveness becomes a tool of governance, a means of pacification rather than transformation.
Ethical unforgiveness resists this. It refuses to allow forgiveness to be universalized, instrumentalized, or fetishized. Instead, it demands an ethics of refusal—ethics that does not center the redemptive arc but instead honours the fracture, the discontinuity, and the unresolved. It is in this spirit that I advance a counter-genealogy of forgiveness: one that includes silence, interruption, and withdrawal as meaningful responses to harm.
Jankélévitch’s thought provides a crucial bridge here. While he does not develop a full-fledged alternative to the forgiveness imperative, he preserves the sacredness of forgiveness precisely by withholding it in the face of atrocity. He recognizes that the power of forgiveness lies in its rarity, its extraordinariness. “The one who forgives forgives because they can; but they must also not forgive when to do so would betray justice” (Jankélévitch, 1967/2005, p. 45). This tension—between gift and gravity—is where my concept of ethical unforgiveness finds its strongest resonance with his.
However, I take one step further. I suggest that refusal can be more than a last resort; it can be a moral orientation in its own right. Ethical unforgiveness does not mourn the impossibility of pardon—it affirms it. It reclaims the power of saying no. In doing so, it opens up a space for what I call critical fidelity: a mode of being with the wound, not in endless suffering, but in active refusal to allow the harm to be morally neutralized.
This is what distinguishes ethical unforgiveness from nihilism or resentment. It is not the inability to forgive but the decision not to. It is not a wound that festers but one that speaks. It testifies to the irreparable, and in doing so, it refuses to let the world forget. That refusal is not the end of ethics—it is its beginning.
Conclusion
To withhold forgiveness is often construed as a failure—of moral courage, of emotional maturity, of spiritual generosity. However, as I have argued throughout this article, ethical unforgiveness must be reclaimed as a coherent and principled moral stance. It is a refusal that honours the depth of harm, the irreparability of loss, and the dignity of survivors who choose not to participate in a moral economy that rewards forgetting. In dialogue with Vladimir Jankélévitch’s ethically profound and philosophically rich reflections in Le pardon (1967/2005), I have sought to both affirm and extend the space he opens up for refusal.
Jankélévitch taught us that forgiveness is neither automatic nor infinite. He reminded us that forgiveness must be rare to preserve its moral weight and that some crimes rupture the very fabric of the ethical world. However, while he approaches these ruptures with reverent sorrow, I argue that we must also approach them with ethical defiance. Refusal, in the form of ethical unforgiveness, is not the abandonment of ethics—it is its intensification. It is a way of saying that some wounds are too deep to close, some memories too vital to release, some harms too grave to neutralize through pardon.
This stance is not about seeking revenge nor about harbouring resentment. It is about fidelity—to memory, to justice, and to the survivors who refuse to be morally managed by the very systems that harmed them. It is about resisting the pressure to reconcile when reconciliation would mean erasure. It is about recognizing that not all healing looks like forgiveness—and that sometimes the most ethical act is to hold open the wound, to name the irreparable, and to decline the invitation to absolve.
In proposing a counter-genealogy of forgiveness, I am not arguing against all forms of pardon. Instead, I argue against its universalization, specifically its deployment as a moral expectation or political strategy. Ethical unforgiveness is a practice of resistance, a reclamation of voice, and a disruption of closure. It is a call to remain with the trouble, not out of despair, but out of care—for the past, for the truth, and for the radical possibility that refusing to forgive might be, in certain moments, the most ethical act of all.
References
Derrida, J. (1994). *Specters of Marx: The state of the debt, the work of mourning and the new international*. Routledge.
Jankélévitch, V. (2005). *Forgiveness* (A. Sherman, Trans.). University of Chicago Press. (Original work published 1967)
Lozano, H. (2018). Unforgiveness: An alternative space for people who cannot forgive Master’s thesis, Simon Fraser University). Summit. https://summit.sfu.ca/item/35633
Lozano, H. (2022). Unforgiveness: An alternative space for people who cannot forgive. *Journal of Educational Controversy, 13*(1). https://cedar.wwu.edu/jec/vol13/iss1/12
Tutu, D. (1999). *No future without forgiveness*. Doubleday.
Hollman Lozano
Simon Fraser University
Resumen
Este artículo distingue entre el concepto de a-perdón, que he elaborado en mis trabajos anteriores, y el no-perdón, entendido como una negativa sin marco crítico. Mientras él no-perdón puede operar aún dentro de la lógica del perdón, el a-perdón cuestiona la estructura misma que impone el perdón como deber ético. A partir de un marco filosófico que articula voces como Derrida, Nietzsche, Rancière y Kohl, propongo que el a-perdón es una forma activa de agencia moral, especialmente relevante en contextos de injusticia estructural.
1. Introducción
El discurso del perdón ha sido ampliamente canonizado en la ética contemporánea como una virtud reparadora, deseable y universalmente aplicable. En marcos de justicia transicional, teología moral, psicología del trauma e incluso educación moral, el perdón se ofrece no solo como una opción, sino como una expectativa normativa: un signo de madurez, salud psíquica, o disposición cívica. La expectativa dentro de ese proceso de canonización es el perdón, y cuando este no se lleva a cabo, quien no responde al canon, tiende a ser de falta. Frente a esta hegemonía discursiva, el presente artículo parte de una posición crítica que he venido elaborando en diversos trabajos (Lozano, 2018; 2020; 2022): el a-perdón, entendido no como la simple negativa a perdonar, sino como la suspensión del marco normativo que convierte el perdón en un imperativo ético universal.
Este artículo desarrolla con mayor profundidad la distinción entre el no-perdón—entendido como rechazo dentro del marco del perdón—y el a-perdón—una posición ético-política que desactiva el marco mismo. Para ello, movilizo un aparato teórico que incluye, entre otros, a Jacques Derrida, Jacques Rancière, Friedrich Nietzsche y Herbert Kohl buscando expandir el horizonte conceptual del trabajo publicado hasta ahora en relación con el tema del perdón. Con relación a los autores mencionados, cada uno contribuye a la desnaturalización del perdón desde distintas entradas: Derrida desde la imposibilidad estructural del perdón como cálculo; Rancière desde una política de la interrupción y la redistribución del decir; Nietzsche desde la genealogía de la moral como dispositivo de culpa y domesticación; y Kohl desde una pedagogía de la negativa como forma de resistencia epistemológica.
El concepto de a-perdón surge así como una crítica a la reconciliación entendida como rendimiento ético por parte de las víctimas. Sin embargo, esta crítica no se limita a mostrar las limitaciones del perdón en contextos de daño irreparable, sino que problematiza el hecho de que dicho perdón sea demandado, institucionalizado, e incluso celebrado como índice de avance civilizatorio. Desde esta perspectiva, el a-perdón se convierte en una figura ética y política de interrupción, una forma de afirmar que no todo debe ser reconciliado, que no todo puede ser narrado desde la lógica del cierre, y que el dolor sostenido también puede ser una forma de justicia. El concepto de a-perdón busca en ese orden de ideas constituir alternativas a las narrativas hegemónicas del perdón y la reconciliación que han hecho carrera.
Herbert Kohl, en su ensayo I Won’t Learn From You (1991), ofrece un punto de partida esencial para esta argumentación: hay momentos en los que la negativa a aprender, a participar o a otorgar lo que se espera de uno, no es fracaso moral sino crítica situada. Así como el estudiante que “no aprende” lo que lo degrada, el sobreviviente que “no perdona” lo que lo niega no está fallando en su ética, sino afirmando otra. Esta “maladaptación creativa”, como la llama Kohl, es una práctica de agencia epistémica. El a-perdón se ubica exactamente ahí: como una forma de negativa que no rehúye del dolor, sino que se niega a convertirlo en mercancía redentora.
En esta elaboración, no se trata simplemente de añadir una categoría más al repertorio de respuestas posibles al daño. El a-perdón propone reconfigurar el terreno ético-político mismo donde se construye la noción de lo que cuenta como virtud. En esta primera sección, establezco los parámetros críticos de esta tarea. En las siguientes, desarrollaré con mayor precisión las distinciones clave, los fundamentos filosóficos del a-perdón, y las condiciones necesarias para que esta ética negativa pueda sostenerse sin ser subsumida ni excluida por el aparato reconciliador.
2. El no-perdón como reacción dentro del marco moral del perdón
El no-perdón, tal como ha sido discutido en la literatura filosófica y psicológica, suele entenderse como un acto de negativa dentro de una economía moral establecida: la de la ofensa, el arrepentimiento y la restitución. Es decir, no se cuestiona el marco mismo del perdón como una forma válida de responder al daño, sino que se decide —por razones válidas— no otorgarlo. Esta posición, aunque poderosa en ciertos contextos, permanece dentro de los límites discursivos del perdón mismo. La víctima retiene su lugar como sujeto ético que puede —si lo considera justo— perdonar o no. Esta agencia es valiosa, pero está inscrita en una estructura que no se pone en cuestión, y al jugar dentro de ese marco de referencia, amplifica esa binariedad.
Desde esta perspectiva, el no-perdón puede ser leído como un acto legítimo de resistencia —especialmente cuando hay impunidad o negación— pero también corre el riesgo de ser asimilado dentro del binarismo reconciliador, como “el otro polo” que eventualmente será superado. En contextos de violencia estructural, como los que atraviesan muchas comunidades racializadas, colonizadas o desplazadas, este binarismo puede funcionar como lo que Foucault llamaría una forma de gubernamentalidad moral: un modo de canalizar el sufrimiento hacia formas previamente legitimadas de expresión. Es decir, existe ya una dirección, un camino por el que debe transitar la persona que al ubicarse mas cercana al no-perdón, debe recorrer para llegar al fin ultimo del perdón.
En términos genealógicos, esta moral del perdón puede rastrearse —como lo hace Nietzsche— hasta un sistema de intercambio de deudas, donde el perdón aparece como el acto magnánimo que anula el saldo negativo. Pero como Nietzsche advierte en La genealogía de la moral (1887), el problema no es el acto mismo del perdón, sino la interiorización de la culpa como estructura de obediencia. El no-perdón, en este sentido, puede ser una interrupción necesaria, pero si no problematiza la lógica de fondo —la de la deuda, la expiación y la redención— corre el riesgo de ser capturado por la misma matriz moral que pretende suspender.
Más aún, la psicología del perdón ha contribuido a consolidar esta estructura binaria. Autores como Worthington (2006) o Enright y Fitzgibbons (2000) presentan el perdón como una herramienta casi universal de salud emocional, asociando el no-perdón con disfunción, falta de bienestar o incluso patologías afectivas. En este marco, la negativa a perdonar es vista como una anomalía que debe ser corregida, no como una posibilidad ética o política. Aquí, nuevamente, el no-perdón es tolerado solo como etapa provisional en un proceso hacia el “desarrollo personal” que culmina en el perdón.
Sin embargo, como argumenta Rancière en El desacuerdo (1995), la política comienza precisamente cuando se desestabilizan las formas instituidas de lo decible y lo visible. Aplicado al contexto del perdón, esto significa que la política del no-perdón no reside solo en su contenido (la negativa), sino en su capacidad de revelar la arbitrariedad del marco que lo contiene. Cuando alguien dice “no te perdono”, puede estar afirmando no solo su dolor, sino también su intolerancia hacia el sistema que espera su rendición afectiva como prueba de virtud.
En mi trabajo anterior he argumentado que, en ausencia de un marco crítico como el del a-perdón, el no-perdón corre el riesgo de ser interpretado como un simple impasse: un rechazo que espera resolución. Es por ello que resulta fundamental diferenciarlo del a-perdón, que no rechaza simplemente la oferta del perdón, sino que interrumpe la economía moral que lo convierte en exigencia universal (Lozano, 2020).
Dicho de otro modo: mientras el no-perdón puede decir “no ahora, porque no hay justicia”, el a-perdón dice “no porque este lenguaje mismo no sirve para nombrar lo que ocurrió”. Esta diferencia, aunque sutil, marca una ruptura profunda entre lo reactivo y lo fundacional. El no-perdón, sin duda, tiene un lugar en el repertorio ético de la resistencia. Pero es el a-perdón el que se atreve a desinstalar el dispositivo moral entero.
3. El a-perdón como gesto ético de ruptura
El a-perdón, como lo propongo en mi trabajo, no se limita a rechazar el acto del perdón, ni a interrumpir su cumplimiento en espera de justicia. Su radicalidad reside en que desactiva el marco normativo que convierte el perdón en una expectativa moral, y por tanto, en una tecnología de sujeción ética. Se trata de una operación que no solo suspende la acción del perdonar, sino que desconfía del lenguaje mismo en que el perdón opera. En este sentido, el a-perdón es una postura que no se limita a decidir no otorgar algo, sino que pone en cuestión el hecho de que “ese algo” —el perdón— deba o pueda ser demandado.
Inspirado por Jacques Derrida, quien en On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness (2001) problematiza el perdón como una figura imposible y paradójica —“solo puede haber perdón donde hay lo imperdonable”—, el a-perdón que propongo asume esa imposibilidad no como obstáculo, sino como posibilidad ética de pensar más allá del cálculo moral. Para Derrida, el perdón que se ofrece como respuesta condicional —si te arrepientes, si reparas, si reconoces— deja de ser perdón y se convierte en transacción. En esta lógica, el perdón es domesticado, funcionalizado, convertido en parte de la maquinaria moral del Estado o del aparato terapéutico.
El a-perdón acoge esta imposibilidad como fundamento negativo de una ética afirmativa: la afirmación de que hay experiencias —violaciones, genocidios, desapariciones forzadas— que no pueden ser resueltas dentro del marco de la virtud reconciliadora. No se trata de nihilismo ni de venganza. Se trata de una decisión de no traducir el dolor en el lenguaje del cierre institucional.
Este acto, más que ético en el sentido tradicional, es estético-político. Como argumenta Jacques Rancière (1999), los verdaderos gestos políticos no son aquellos que negocian con el consenso, sino aquellos que reconfiguran el campo mismo de lo visible y lo decible, redistribuyendo el lugar desde donde se puede hablar, doler o resistir. El a-perdón cumple esta función: permite que voces que no encajan en el “guion reconciliador” no sean clasificadas como disfuncionales, sino como testimonios de otra racionalidad política —una que no cierra, que no redime, pero que tampoco desaparece.
A diferencia del no-perdón, que sigue operando dentro del código semántico de la deuda (perdonar/no perdonar), el a-perdón rompe esa economía. Y aquí Nietzsche resulta clave. En La genealogía de la moral (1887), Nietzsche rastrea cómo la moral occidental ha sido edificada sobre una lógica de deuda-culpa: quien hiere debe compensar, y quien ha sido herido debe, idealmente, perdonar. El resultado es una domesticación de los afectos, un sometimiento del cuerpo doliente al orden de la virtud impuesta. El a-perdón, desde esta genealogía, se presenta como una revuelta contra la moral del débito, no solo por parte del perpetrador, sino también por parte de la víctima, que se niega a ocupar el lugar del juez magnánimo.
En ese orden de ideas, en mi tesis doctoral (Negative Emotions as a Sense of Injustice, 2022), argumento que los afectos negativos —el enojo, el rencor, el duelo no resuelto— son formas epistémicas de justicia. El a-perdón surge, así como el espacio donde esos afectos no deben ser superados para ser escuchados, sino sostenidos como prueba de que algo persiste, que algo aún exige. Este espacio, sin embargo, no existe automáticamente, tiene que ser construido, sostenido, defendido, precisamente por quienes sienten la necesidad de vehicular esa alternative. En este sentido, el a-perdón también es un proyecto político: exige condiciones materiales y simbólicas donde la no-reconciliación no implique exclusión. De ahí la necesidad de lo que llamo heterotopías del a-perdón, lugares donde la negativa no solo sea tolerada, sino que forme parte legítima del relato de lo vivido y lo por venir. Pero sobre esto volveré más adelante. Por ahora, basta decir que el a-perdón no busca destruir el mundo moral, sino liberarlo de sus automatismos redentores. En lugar de acelerar la sanación, detiene el reloj y pregunta: ¿quién lo puso a andar?, ¿quién se beneficia de que sanemos rápido?, ¿qué estamos autorizados a recordar? ¿qué dolores cuentan, que dolores no?
4. Críticas éticas al perdón como imperativo
El núcleo de mi crítica al perdón no es simplemente que, en algunos contextos, se torna inapropiado. Es más radical: cuando el perdón es convertido en deber, se convierte en una forma de violencia moral institucionalizada. Lo que en otros tiempos fue un acto extraordinario, voluntario y hasta supererogatorio —perdonar— se transforma hoy en exigencia normativa, tanto en el ámbito político como en el psicológico. Esta mutación del perdón, de don gratuito a deuda moral, es lo que el a-perdón busca interrumpir.
En ese sentido, son autores como Everett Worthington y Robert Enright, algunas de las figuras centrales de la psicología del perdón, quienes han contribuido a consolidar esta transformación. Para Worthington (2006), el perdón es una estrategia terapéutica asociada a beneficios medibles: reducción del estrés, mejora de relaciones, bienestar emocional. Enright y Fitzgibbons (2000) sin embargo, van más allá: pues definen protocolos de intervención que “enseñan” a perdonar como una forma de autorregulación emocional. Sin negar la utilidad de estos enfoques en ciertos casos, lo que resulta éticamente problemático es su totalización y prescripción como norma universal.
Esta perspectiva psicologizante hace dos cosas: (1) privatiza el daño, haciendo del sufrimiento una cuestión de gestión emocional más que de justicia estructural; y (2) patologiza la persistencia afectiva, convirtiendo el duelo prolongado, la rabia o la negativa a perdonar en indicadores de rigidez o disfunción. La víctima que no perdona es leída como emocionalmente inmadura, espiritualmente estancada o clínicamente “no resuelta”. Este discurso, que en apariencia es neutral y científico, funciona en la práctica como un mecanismo de corrección emocional, alineado con una ética del cierre, que busca imponerse sobre la voluntad del individuo que no encuentra en las posibilidades que pudiese ofrecer el discurso del perdón una respuesta.
Sin embargo, mi posición es opuesta. Como sostengo en Unforgiveness: An Alternative Space (Lozano, 2018) y en Negative Emotions as a Sense of Injustice (Lozano, 2022), los afectos que se resisten al perdón no son errores a corregir, sino formas epistémicamente válidas de respuesta al daño irreparable. No toda rabia es destructiva. No todo duelo es patológico. No toda negativa es falta de voluntad. Muchas veces, la insistencia emocional es el único gesto ético posible ante la imposición del perdón, la reconciliación, y a veces incluso, la posibilidad del olvido en el horizonte epistémico.
Desde esta perspectiva, retomo a Nietzsche, quien en La genealogía de la moral expone cómo la moral de la culpa —deudor y acreedor— forma sujetos obedientes. En ese mismo registro, el perdón institucionalizado produce un sujeto moral funcional, que ha metabolizado su dolor y está listo para volver a “participar en la comunidad” reconciliada. El perdón, entonces, ya no es redención, sino rendimiento esperado, evidencia de sanación, señal de buena voluntad. La negativa se vuelve escándalo, incluso traición.
Derrida, con su lucidez sobre las paradojas del perdón, nos recuerda que el verdadero perdón es aquel que perdona lo imperdonable, sin cálculo ni reciprocidad. Pero esta concepción se vuelve impracticable en contextos donde el perdón ha sido estandarizado como práctica terapéutica, religiosa o pedagógica. Su valor disruptivo se pierde, absorbido por la industria del trauma y la maquinaria de la paz.
Aquí es donde el a-perdón reclama su lugar: no como negación rencorosa, sino como gesto de desobediencia ética ante un orden moral que exige a las víctimas convertirse en administradoras de su propio dolor. El a-perdón niega la pretensión de que toda herida pueda traducirse al lenguaje de la virtud. Rechaza la presuposición de que el cierre emocional es deseable, y se pregunta en cambio: ¿por qué el sistema necesita tanto que perdonemos? ¿A quién sirve nuestra reconciliación?
Es aquí donde entra Herbert Kohl con fuerza. En I Won’t Learn From You (1991), Kohl presenta a los estudiantes que se rehúsan a aprender como figuras de resistencia epistémica: no están fallando, sino eligiendo no participar en un sistema que los niega. De modo análogo, el a-perdón no es falta de virtud, sino una forma de aprendizaje crítico: una pedagogía de la interrupción frente a un sistema que convierte el perdón en condición de pertenencia, requerimiento exigido con antelación, demanda para pertenecer.
Finalmente, el a-perdón no propone un nuevo mandato: no dice “debes no perdonar”. Lo que afirma es el derecho ético a no reconciliarse, el derecho a sostener el dolor como forma de verdad, y el derecho a no ser expulsado del espacio político por negarse a cerrar una herida abierta que se sabe y siente abierta. Esta crítica, más que un rechazo del perdón en sí es un rechazo del mundo que exige perdón como costo de la readmisión moral, sobre todo luego de la experiencia de daño.
5. Alternativas éticas: memoria sin reconciliación
Una crítica sólida al perdón como imperativo moral debe ir acompañada de una propuesta afirmativa de mundo, de modos alternativos de sostener la subjetividad, la memoria y el duelo sin reconciliación. Esta sección explora precisamente eso: ¿qué formas de vida, qué marcos institucionales, qué lenguajes éticos son posibles cuando decidimos no cerrar, cuando el dolor no se transforma en perdón, y sin embargo persiste como fuente de verdad moral?
El a-perdón, en mi lectura, no es una política de la parálisis. Muy por el contrario, es una política de la insistencia, de la afirmación del daño no resuelto como horizonte ético legítimo. En ese sentido, propongo tres alternativas normativas que permiten pensar esa ética más allá del perdón: (a) una ética de la persistencia emocional; (b) una política del testimonio no reconciliado; y (c) la construcción de heterotopías del a-perdón.
a) Ética de la persistencia emocional
La moral dominante suele asociar virtud con superación: se nos enseña que sanar es dejar ir, y que perdonar es la cúspide del crecimiento moral. Esta idea no solo simplifica el trabajo emocional del duelo, sino que deslegitima toda forma de recuerdo que no conduzca al cierre. El a-perdón se opone a esa lógica. Reconoce que hay memorias que no deben ser apaciguadas, y que las emociones negativas —rabia, tristeza, recelo— no son fallos afectivos sino respuestas lúcidas al daño.
Como escribí en mi tesis doctoral (Lozano, 2022),
“El dolor no resuelto puede ser una forma de resistencia epistémica. Persistir en la rabia puede ser un modo de proteger el sentido de lo que ha sido negado.”
Esta ética no propone celebrar el sufrimiento, sino restituirle su valor cognitivo y político, y agencial. La emoción no reconciliada no es un residuo que debe ser limpiado para que la moral funcione, sino un registro activo de que algo permanece sin reparación.
b) Política del testimonio no reconciliado
Los discursos oficiales sobre el trauma y la memoria suelen exigir un testimonio narrativamente cerrado: la víctima que cuenta, llora, se conmueve, pero al final —idealmente— otorga perdón o encuentra paz. Este formato narrativo, repetido en comisiones de la verdad, procesos de justicia transicional y pedagogías públicas, es también una forma de guión disciplinario, como lo explore Verdoolage (2013) Lo que no se ajusta a esa progresión —el silencio, la ira, la ambivalencia— queda fuera del marco de escucha, y no es permitido dentro del horizonte de la episteme discursiva del perdón.
Desde la perspectiva del a-perdón, el testimonio no debe ser una performance de sanación, sino un acto de verdad sin promesa de cierre. Lo que se testifica no es solo lo ocurrido, sino el hecho mismo de que no ha sido resuelto ni puede serlo. En ese sentido, el testimonio no reconciliado no es una “versión incompleta”, sino una afirmación radical de que no todo trauma debe ser traducido al lenguaje de la reconciliación.
c) Heterotopías del a-perdón
Para que esta ética pueda sostenerse en el tiempo, no basta con una disposición subjetiva. Se requieren condiciones institucionales y comunitarias que permitan habitar la no-reconciliación sin exclusión. A este tipo de lugares —espacios ético-políticos que interrumpen el orden reconciliador sin salirse de él— los llamo heterotopías del a-perdón.
Inspirado por la noción de heterotopía de Michel Foucault, estos espacios no son utopías ni márgenes externos, sino lugares reales, insertos en el orden dominante, pero que operan contra su lógica. Una heterotopía del a-perdón podría ser:
- Un archivo de memoria que no busca “cerrar” el pasado sino sostener su herida como herida.
- Una práctica pedagógica donde quienes exploran el a-perdón no sean forzados a “superar” su historia, sino que encuentren lenguaje para sostener su diferencia.
- Un rito comunitario donde no se perdona, pero sí se nombra, se llora, se afirma.
Como escribí en Unforgiveness (2018):
“El espacio del no-perdón no debe ser solo privado. Debe haber un lugar donde se pueda insistir públicamente en que el daño no ha sido resuelto, y que esa insistencia no es obstáculo para la vida política, sino una de sus formas más altas.”
Estas heterotopías permiten una vida no reconciliada que no sea patologizada. Son zonas éticas de refugio, pero también de confrontación: confrontan el deseo institucional de cerrar el expediente moral.
En conjunto, estas tres dimensiones permiten articular una política del a-perdón que no se reduce al gesto individual de negar perdón, sino que construye las condiciones para sostener esa negativa como forma legítima de presencia ética y política. No se trata de eternizar el dolor, sino de no dejar que el deseo de clausura institucional lo elimine.
6. Conclusión
Este trabajo ha intentado mostrar que el perdón, lejos de ser un acto neutro o meramente personal, opera como una tecnología moral e institucional de cierre. Su conversión en expectativa normativa —en los campos de la psicología clínica, la ética pública y la justicia transicional— lo transforma en una herramienta de normalización del sufrimiento. En ese contexto, lo que aparece como virtud puede funcionar como exclusión. Lo que se presenta como sanación puede convertirse en silenciamiento.
Frente a ese orden reconciliador, el a-perdón que propongo no es una excepción ni una anomalía; es una afirmación radical del derecho a no cerrar. A diferencia del no-perdón, que se limita a rechazar el acto de perdonar, el a-perdón niega que el perdón deba ser el marco desde el cual se mida la virtud, la recuperación o la ciudadanía moral.
Este gesto no busca instalarse en la negación permanente, ni glorificar la herida. Se trata de una ética de la interrupción, que se atreve a pensar que hay daños que no pueden —ni deben— ser reconciliados. En lugar de patologizar esa persistencia afectiva, el a-perdón la afirma como señal de integridad moral. Como he argumentado a lo largo de este artículo, el a-perdón no cierra la puerta a la comunidad política: la redefine. Permite pensar una comunidad donde no se exige rendición emocional para pertenecer, donde no se expulsa al que recuerda, y donde la justicia no se mide en términos de olvido institucional.
Esta posición encuentra respaldo tanto en la crítica genealógica de Nietzsche, como en la filosofía del acontecimiento de Derrida, la política de la disrupción de Rancière, y la pedagogía de la desobediencia de Herbert Kohl. En todos estos pensadores hay una idea común: que lo real comienza cuando se rompe el marco que define lo que se espera de nosotros. El a-perdón es eso: una ruptura que no niega el mundo, pero sí la forma dominante en que se nos ha dicho que debemos habitarlo después del daño.
Por eso, más que una ética del “no”, el a-perdón es una ética de la persistencia. Es la insistencia en que el dolor no resuelto no es un déficit, sino una forma de conciencia. Es la afirmación de que la justicia no siempre se expresa en acuerdos, sino a veces en silencios densos, memorias que no se domestican, afectos que no se rinden. Y es, sobre todo, la exigencia de que existan espacios —heterotopías éticas y políticas— donde esa persistencia pueda sostenerse sin sanción.
En última instancia, el a-perdón no se opone a la reconciliación como posibilidad, sino a la reconciliación como obligación. Defiende el derecho de quienes han sido dañados a habitar sus heridas con dignidad, sin que el mundo les exija olvidar para considerarlos humanos. Y en ese derecho, afirma algo más que resistencia: afirma otra forma de mundo posible.
Referencias
Boon, S. Stackhouse, M. R. D., & Lozano, H. (2025). Reconsidering forgiveness and unforgiveness: A call for a more nuanced understanding. Social and Personality Compass, 19(4). https://doi.org/10.1111/spc3.70047
Derrida, J. (2001). On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness. Routledge.
Enright, R. D., & Fitzgibbons, R. P. (2000). Helping clients forgive: An empirical guide for resolving anger and restoring hope. American Psychological Association.
Exline, J. J., Baumeister, R. F., Bushman, B. J., Campbell, W. K., & Finkel, E. J. (2003). Too proud to let go: Narcissistic entitlement as a barrier to forgiveness. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 85(5), 894–908.
Kohl, H. R. (1991). I Won’t Learn from You: And Other Thoughts on Creative Maladjustment. The New Press.
Lozano, H. (2018). Unforgiveness: An alternative space for people who cannot forgive (Tesis de maestría). Simon Fraser University.
Lozano, H. (2020). A case for unforgiveness as a legitimate moral response to historical wrongs. Journal of Educational Controversy, 14(1). https://cedar.wwu.edu/jec/vol14/iss1/4/
Lozano, H. (2022). Negative emotions as a sense of injustice (Tesis doctoral). Simon Fraser University. https://summit.sfu.ca/item/21969
Rancière, J. (1999). Disagreement: Politics and Philosophy. University of Minnesota Press.
Verdoolaege, A. (2012). Representing Apartheid Trauma: The Archive of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission Victim Hearings. In Representations of Peace and Conflict (pp. 285-305). London: Palgrave Macmillan UK.
Worthington, E. L. Jr. (2006). Forgiveness and reconciliation: Theory and application. Brunner-Routledge.
Nietzsche, F. (1887/2006). On the Genealogy of Morals. Dover Publications.
As futile as new year resolutions are, one of my new year’s resolution is that I will go back to blogging in 2021. I used to do it weekly ten years ago or so when it was kind of a fashion, and almost everyone was also doing it. The one difference this time around is that I will not be focusing on current events, per se, but more on my thesis on negative emotions and giving updates, noting where I am at, that sort of thing. The process of writing and researching is incredibly lonely, so the hope is that another soul (someone, anyone!) will have a similar interest and or know a thing or two about what I am trying to do, and engage, reach out. Suffice it to say that the intent will be to write a weekly blog stating where I am and the general contours of where I should be going if I have any idea where that is, and roadblocks I am positive that there will be.
These days I am working on anger. It seems like we all know what anger is, namely an emotion that is part of the basic emotions as defined by Ekman (1970), and yet the more one reads, the less clear it seems to become. There is a trend grounded on Artificial Intelligence that seems madly interested to prove one way or another that the theory of basic universal emotions is true so that their project will continue to take shape. And yet, the people who questioned the accuracy of such an assumption of universality back then, whose voice was somehow overshadowed by the basic emotions enthusiast, continue to resound. However, whether or not there are universal basic emotions is only tangentially related to my project. Ultimately, my concern about anger in particular and “negative” emotions, in general, is about the possible role that they could have for emancipatory purposes in survivors who feel alienated by the reconciliatory industrial complex.
The history of Latin America seems to be the history of an agglomeration of people that for one reason or another were lumped together. Starting with the indigenous communities that at one point were forced to cohabitate with the settlers, that forced cohabitation lead to the mingling of communities, which made harder to make claims about race in terms of Latin America. The fact that a clear case about race could not be properly constructed, did not mean that there were not other axis upon which understandings of nationhood were meant to coalesce and more often than not, it was through a connivance of religious institutions with national armies as well as conservative politicians and foreign investors that those peculiar understandings of nationhood were fostered. Reactionary understandings of nationhood understood political opposition as a crime and chastise as demonic and terrorist anything that looked similar to Communism.
Latin America is an unfinished product, still in a process of discovery, not so much in terms of land, but in terms of soul searching. Most of the region experienced a tremendous swing to the right due to the policies of anti-communism that placated the world during the last part of the XX century and what they are experiencing now, is precisely the coming to terms with that part of the history that still haunts them. One of the discourses through which that process of soul-searching is being made is precisely through the discourse of rights, for it was precisely the obliviousness to that discourse which in most cases leads to the human rights violations.
Another point that was brought forward by the course was the repeated patterns of intervention that run through the region. More often than not, the pattern that is seen in Guatemala can be found in Chile and Argentina. One cannot necessarily talk about a structure of intervention throughout the region, but there are interesting patterns that are repeated at different places and by different characters, however, the result is often the same, the annihilation of political alternatives associated to the left. More than being able to tell what I have learned, it seems imperative to acknowledge the positive value of having a permanent opposition to one’s stance toward rights.
Recently I have been wondering about the theme of Truth Commissions and what some people have called the right to truth. If it is truth as it has been argued that the rights to truth is a fundamental component of international humanitarian law, particularly when gross violations of human rights have been committed. In Brazil, president Dilma Rousseff has established a Truth Commission that will look into the human rights abuses and disappearances that occurred during the military regime that went from 1964 to 1985.
Six commissioners who beyond subpoena powers will not be able to prosecute or recommend charges against the perpetrators of the human rights violations will integrate the Commission. Although, it is an interesting discussion to have, namely what is the purpose of having a truth commission if there are no prosecutions, not even under transitional justice parameters, particularly when the existence of the Commission is premised on the right to justice. But again it seems that if there was a fear of prosecution the Military will have not supported the creation of the commission.
Even if one disagrees with a truth commission with a sanitized sense of justice, it seems an interesting discussion to have. On the one hand, one could argue that it is a purely bureaucratic endeavor, which only aims at saving face, but that lack of prosecution could also open the door for confessions that would have not emerge if the fear of prosecution was present.
The more one reads about Latin American history the more common are the patterns, the structures, and the ways in which dissent, rebellions and resistance are smacked down in order to instill an oppressive perspective that benefits a handful few.
Of course there are also some peculiarities that differentiate one place from the other. The intense resistance of the Ixil and their abuse through history, the presence of ladinos and almost medieval practices through which a “Mayan worker’s wife or a daughter may be taken as a loan collateral.”[1] But there is also the perhaps obvious recourse to violence when they have been extremely exploited and abused by landowners, religious leaders, military personnel and the all too pervasive presence and assistance of the U.S. government trying to do away with those focus of resistance. Moreover, it is perhaps through that U.S. engagement in the Guatemalan conflict that the lawyer and Jennifer Harbury was able to cast a light on the abuses of the U.S. citizens by the Guatemalan government with the aid of CIA agents. Although it is curious how the life of a few U.S. citizens counts more than the life of countless Guatemalans who have died in the hands of the same pernicious coalition of Guatemalan security forces and U.S. government involvement in the region, it is through Harbury’s tenacity that an inquiry is launched and the issue moves beyond the demand of a few human rights activist, peasants and a crazy ‘gringo’ who sympathize with communism.
Another peculiarity that also caught my attention was the story of the Comandante in page 79. The sheer self-sufficiency of the one who feels that might is on his side, the deliberate or misunderstood use of his real rank within the army as well as his take on Marxism and how the fact that his perspectives on the futility of ideas until they are tested through reality, which happens to be a Marxist concept is only so because Marxism has stolen their language. There is also the extremely conservative language of family, protection, reeducation and the Mayor who according to the Comandante does not speak Spanish is simply someone who may speak Spanish but simply does not understand it.
The other aspect that also caught my attention was the turn to Israel as a source of weapons and instructions, which happends to coincide a few years later with a recent approach of the Colombian army to Israeli forces who are said to provide training and instruction in anti-terrorist practices.
[1] Victor Perera, unfinished conquest, the Guatemalan Tragedy Berkeley, University of California Press 1993 Page 70
An asylum seeker from China was caught in the U.K. when the police raided a gang that was participating in the trade of cannabis. In principle the news would not have much to do with the theme of this class, however, a Chinese citizen who had applied for asylum in the U.K. was caught in the raid. One of the arguments of the defense was that the conditions of his asylum in the U.K. did not allow him to work, so there was not much of an alternative for him to find money, other than to enter the illegal market.
Mr. Jiajie He, who acted as a curier for the gang will be deported to China once he serves his sentence in the U.K. Mr He’s lawyer argues that it is highly likely that his client will face cruel and unusual punishment because it is widely known that the Chinese government does not see with positive eyes Chinese nationals who apply for asylum. Moreover, another question that remains is the extent to which Mr. He has violated any law that prevents his case from being heard. The Convention of Refugees states that anyone who has committed a crime against humanity, against war, etc none of which could be indicted to Mr. He yet at end he is most likely to be deported.
Although the purpose of the exercise is to write the first thing that comes to one’s mind after doing the readings I have waited a few days to see if that will allow the anger to settle and something else will come to light. Bu that anger has not receded. The readings about Guatemala are not necessarily different from Chile or countless other places where in the name of democracy and anti-communism, democratic regimes where brought down in allegiance with the military institutions and the Catholic Church. It did not matter that there was not evidence of links between the Soviets and the emergent democracies of –in this case- Central America. A good for nothing bunch of rifles from Cechoslovaquia were in themselves good reasons to intervene against a democratically elected government. The will of the people of Guatemala was of no use, because the people that mattered needed to get bananas at an affordable price. The will of the workers of United Fruit Company did not matter, because better working conditions was a legitimate demand for some people, but not for others. Perhaps Jose Saramago was right, when he argued that one of the problems with democracy was that people choose their political representatives, but those were simply “political commisars” of the economic power. Perhaps Ranciere is right when he argues that politics is the staging of a dissensus and that is precisely what continues to happen, the dissensus continues being staged.
Many times when people talk about the possibilities of development for Latin America, they go on and on about the rich natural resources of the region, but perhaps those natural resources have been a blessing, which became a curse.
Many other times when people talk about the corrupt governments of the region they make it sound like it is an incapacity of the people to differentiate the good from the bad apples, but too often, far too often, even when the sovereign will of the people have chosen the best that they can, it is the foreign intervention that brings back to power those who have been ousted by the people. The latter could be demonstrated in the case of Guatemala when the people that had worked under the Urbico government went back to power with the CIA backed government that ousted the Arbenz government.
Perhaps the most troubling fact is not so much what happened, as horrid as it was, but that the same trickeries are being used, the same grandiose words, are being invoked in order to subdue and oppress peoples, the same old and tired concepts like liberty, democracy and security continue being placed as masquerades for economic interests whose only concern is the maintenance of the status quo.
The greatest error of Arbenz and many others after him was to think that the people of Guatemala were being exploited by unequal political and economical arrangements, to thin that he could change that and that the populace followed him.
After readings like this week’s reading, it is so hard to continue believing that a better world is possible. Perhaps it will never be. The only alternative will be to become cynics, give up the idealism and comprehend that democracy is an idea that is rotten in its modern use.
Often, when things about the plight of a refugee, one thinks of a person who at the edge of angst decides to flee their country trying to find a safe haven to secure their life. More often than not they are in state of “in-between-ness”; they are emotionally attached to the life that they left behind, but they are living a life estranged from that which they left behind. However, the condition of being refugee has not often been something to be proud of. Who could be proud of having to abandon one’s life, as one knew it and start anew, somewhere else? However, for all the fear mongering and trash-talk that often precedes the discussion on or about refugees in the United States, it turns out that there is a certain profit to be gain from claiming oneself to be a refugee even if one has not been. There is an air of victimhood and perhaps of commitment towards one’s sense of justice and rightness, which can be exploited for political gains, even if one simply fled the country for merely simply trying to start a new life, without being necessarily persecuted. Over the weekend, I stumbled upon an article by Tom Lyons where he talks about the claim of Mario Rubio Republican Senator from Florida who claimed that his family arrived to the U.S. after Castro had taken over Cuba; however, an investigation from the Washington Post forced him to admit that his family arrived to Florida in 1956 four years before the Communist rise to power.
More than the obvious denounce, which has already been done by the Washington Post and Tom Lyons, it seems interesting to explore how there seem to be gains from the figure of the refugee that could be exploited from a political perspective. It is not a matter of naivete, eventually everything could become twisted and or vented and exploited for political purposes; however, it is curious that one of the parties that has the most conservative policies towards immigration has a senator and possible presidential contender, exploiting the story of having been a refugee.
One of the images that came back to me when I was reading the article of Ricardo Piglia was the role of musicians like Charly Garcia who also through art and metaphor managed to deliver a message of hope and a future of possibilities in the uncertain times of the Argentinian dictatorship. Particularly relevant to the theme at hand are songs like “Los Dinosauros” which refers as the dinosaurs as the hoary political structure that will for certain disappear when time comes. Part of the chorus says something along the lines that “the friends of your neighbourhood could disappear, the person that you love could disappear, but the dinosaurs will disappear.” In a sense the song tries to give hope to those who despair seeing that people are disappearing and nothing is changing for good. Those in power continued disappearing people, particularly the people around you; however, it is a fact that they “the dinosaurs” will disappear. Moreover, Charly Garcia is not the only one who used art to channel or express the fear, hope and uncertainty of those who felt overwhelmed by the oppressive State powers. There were also people like Juan Gelman, who although having lost a son and a pregnant daughter at the hands of Argentinian State forces, remained a faithful to the possibility of a world after the Junta.
Although the songs now seem more like historical documents of a few daring musicians who decided to take a stance on their political situations, there were also a few historical conditions that should be remembered when considering the mentioned songs and poems. The first one is that there was a strong censorship that decided what was to be heard in the radios and sung in public recitals, so the songs needed to deliver the message trying to use as much allegory and metaphors that the agents of the government were not able to see what was really being said, while managing to deliver the message to the listeners. Another factor that also contributed to the development of Argentinian music industry and the allegoric mechanism of delivering the message bypassing the censorship was the fact that around the war of the Malvinas Islands music and art in English was forbidden and that to a certain extent obliged people to explore the peculiarity of the circumstances that they lived as well as poetic mechanisms to bypass the governmental censorship.
Although I have focused mostly in music and a few poems mostly because it is the material with which I grew up, I simply wanted to point out that although the Mothers of the Plaza the Mayo are recognized as “the only visible oppositional presence during the dark years of the dictatorship” there were also people who although not so visible as the mothers, were also struggling to dissent from the powers of the Argentinian dictatorship, who perhaps had a greater range of influence.
hollmanlozano 