Crying in the wilderness
by Theodore Dalrymple
When prisoners are released
from prison, they often say that they have paid their debt to society. This is
absurd, of course: crime is not a matter of double-entry bookkeeping. You
cannot pay a debt by having caused even greater expense, nor can you pay in advance
for a bank robbery by offering to serve a prison sentence before you commit it.
Perhaps, metaphorically speaking, the slate is wiped clean once a prisoner is
released from prison, but the debt is not paid off.
It would be just as absurd for me to say, on my imminent retirement after
14 years of my hospital and prison work, that I have paid my debt to society. I
had the choice to do something more pleasing if I had wished, and I was paid,
if not munificently, at least adequately. I chose the disagreeable neighborhood
in which I practiced because, medically speaking, the poor are more
interesting, at least to me, than the rich: their pathology is more florid,
their need for attention greater. Their dilemmas, if cruder, seem to me more
compelling, nearer to the fundamentals of human existence. No doubt I also felt
my services would be more valuable there: in other words, that I had some kind
of duty to perform. Perhaps for that reason, like the prisoner on his release,
I feel I have paid my debt to society. Certainly, the work has taken a toll on
me, and it is time to do something else. Someone else can do battle with the
metastasizing social pathology of Great Britain, while I lead a life
aesthetically more pleasing to me.
My work has caused me to become
perhaps unhealthily preoccupied with the problem of evil. Why do people commit
evil? What conditions allow it to flourish? How is it best prevented and, when
necessary, suppressed? Each time I listen to a patient recounting the cruelty
to which he or she has been subjected, or has committed (and I have listened to
several such patients every day for 14 years), these questions revolve
endlessly in my mind.
No doubt my previous experiences fostered my preoccupation with this
problem. My mother was a refugee from Nazi Germany, and though she spoke very
little of her life before she came to Britain, the mere fact that there was
much of which she did not speak gave evil a ghostly presence in our household.
Later, I spent several years touring the world, often in places where
atrocity had recently been, or still was being, committed. In Central America,
I witnessed civil war fought between guerrilla groups intent on imposing
totalitarian tyranny on their societies, opposed by armies that didn't scruple
to resort to massacre. In Equatorial Guinea, the current dictator was the
nephew and henchman of the last dictator, who had killed or driven into exile a
third of the population, executing every last person who wore glasses or
possessed a page of printed matter for being a disaffected or potentially
disaffected intellectual. In Liberia, I visited a church in which more than 600
people had taken refuge and been slaughtered, possibly by the president himself
(soon to be videotaped being tortured to death). The outlines of the bodies
were still visible on the dried blood on the floor, and the long mound of the
mass grave began only a few yards from the entrance. In North Korea I saw the
acme of tyranny, millions of people in terrorized, abject obeisance to a
personality cult whose object, the Great Leader Kim Il Sung, made the Sun King
look like the personification of modesty.