Repentance as Action; Repentance as Performance

Written by Gina Goodfellow.

While living in a country whose blood-soaked colonial history remains tethered to its violent present, and while attending a university with a similarly reprehensible story, guilt seems like a natural reaction. Complicity is forced upon us through our citizenship and our enrolment at an institution funding genocide. Should we view our attempts to challenge these systems as a form of repentance?

When forced to face the blood that covers the foundations of my privilege, I feel a mixture of guilt and anger. My guilt manifests in my drive for action and becomes a part of the motivation towards my activism. I am aware of the contradiction that arises here; by allowing my guilt to motivate me, I centre myself. This gives rise to more guilt as I know that this selfish preoccupation is granted to me by the very same privilege I first felt guilty for. I seem to be stuck in a cycle of guilt and repentance; guilt for my privilege, repentance through activism, guilt for my motivation, further repentance through activism.

I am not the first to feel this guilt. Rachel Corrie, the American ISM activist killed by an Israeli armoured bulldozer while trying to prevent the demolition of a Palestinian home in 2003, talked about how when she went home, she would feel guilty for no longer being in Palestine; she mentions being in “the midst of a genocide that I am also indirectly supporting, and for which my government is largely responsible.” Twenty years later, and I am sharing in her feelings of complicity as that same genocide continues to rage before my eyes; so, should I repent through action? 

By allowing activism to represent repentance, it becomes a cure to white guilt. ‘White guilt’ is guilt deriving from the collective responsibility of white people for the enactment of racialised violence including colonialism and slavery. This self-absorbed concern is itself a privileged experience. In Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race, Reni Eddo-Lodge says “I don't want white guilt. Neither do I want to see white people wasting precious time profusely apologising rather than actively doing things. No useful movements for change have ever sprung out of fervent guilt.” So, perhaps attempts to repent through action leave us dwell on our inward-facing guilt, and result, hypocritically, in inaction. 

One of the most objectionable parts of this inward-facing white guilt, as I see it, is its contribution to performativity. By remaining engrossed in one’s guilt, the individual is forced to make their repentance public. Like a Medieval Flagellant lashing themself in the street so that God may see their repentance and grant them forgiveness, we make public displays of charity and political engagement to assure our associates that we know our privilege and we repent. I find myself wondering if I am only reposting this headline on Instagram because I genuinely believe that it must be read, or if some part of me needs others to know that I am aware of my complicity and trying to be free of it. 

It also creates the desire to brag about one's under-privilege. Think of that guy you met from Surrey who claims to be from “a rough area near London, you wouldn’t know it.” This desperation to bring down one’s level of privilege appears to be an (unsuccessful) attempt at repentance; “forgive me for my privilege, it isn’t all-encompassing.” Or, think of the white queer person who can’t help but bring up their experiences of homophobic discrimination whenever a person of colour raises their experiences of racism. While there may be space for empathetic relatability, we instead compete to negate our guilt. At the trial of injustices, the privileged person pleads their not-guilty case with the defence that they, too, understand discrimination; they cannot be guilty of something that victimises them. In reality, of course, these systems are far more complex; having experienced oppression does not eliminate you from being someone else’s oppressor. 

However, it seems possible that repentance might give rise to progress. Land acknowledgements, for example, might be viewed as a form of repentance. This practice, often used in New Zealand, Australia, Canada, and increasingly in the USA, involves a formal acknowledgement of the native people to the land; this is, perhaps, an act of repentance for colonial crimes. However, this practice also points to the potential of activism-as-repentance to produce a hollow gesture; a land acknowledgement without concrete action to support Indigenous communities, or action to end ongoing colonial violence perpetrated by one’s state, is performative. Guilt may be a wake-up call and repentance may point us in the right direction, but long-term commitment to action should derive from empathy. 

Despite its associated challenges, privileged guilt seems inevitable. It is unfeasible to suggest that any feeling person could stop feeling guilt while knowing that atrocities are committed in our names, and that we continue to benefit from them. This guilt, alone, is immobilising; do not leave it to turn inward, but channel it into something useful. Following her objection to white guilt, Reni Eddo-Lodge added “instead, get angry. Anger is useful. Use it for good.” Make sure that your anger uplifts those whose subjugation benefits you. Respect what they want from your solidarity, whether this means stepping back and giving them space or getting out on the street in protest. Let your anger move you to walk alongside those your privilege harms, rather than over them. Do not ask how to be absolved of your privilege, but how it can be used for good.