I have spent the last few weeks immersed in Gilead, or rather, in watching the excellent series The Handmaid’s Tale. Funnily enough, I only started watching it because a quote from the series was used in my Restorative Justice course notes. I saw the image of the main character, June, aka Offred, assumed it must be one of those sweeping period dramas I am so fond of, and started watching. Only to be completely floored by the actual subject matter: a totalitarian, theocratic society in which women are stripped of their rights and reduced to their reproductive function, enforced through methods such as kidnapping, rape, mutilation, and death by hanging for disobedience.
Yet despite being deeply disturbed by the violence, something kept me watching. Partly, of course, because of June Osborne herself, and her extraordinary courage, rebelliousness, and resilience. What I found even more impressive about The Handmaid’s Tale, however, is that it is absolutely brilliant at highlighting the complexity of human nature, and of life in general. It constantly reminds us that two things can be true at the same time. In a world that seems increasingly intent on polarity, populism, and simple answers to very complex problems, this kind of nuance feels almost radical.
The series shows us, for example, how ordinary women like June and the other handmaids can turn into ruthless killers when subjected to sufficient abuse, and yet still keep their love and compassion for humanity intact. It portrays how even the very person who created the violent regime still retains traces of a conscience, so much so that he helps some women to escape and, in the end, sacrifices his own life to bring Gilead down.
Then there is the question of loving two people at the same time, as shown in the secret love story between June and Nick, and the fact that one can love wildly inappropriate people because the heart wants what it wants. June can love Nick even though he is a spy for the regime and later becomes a Commander, while he repeatedly risks his life for her and betrays the State he is meant to serve.
Just when you think you have figured a character out, The Handmaid’s Tale repeatedly shows you how multifaceted human beings are, and how they can grow and change at any time. In that sense, it is not comfortable viewing, but oddly reassuring at the same time. It reminds us that people are capable of transformation, and that we are shaped by circumstances and the people we encounter along the way.
Reflecting on this topic reminded me of something else I came across a while ago. I was reading a book written by Traudl Junge, a young woman who, through a chance opportunity, became Hitler’s secretary at the age of twenty-two and accompanied him through the last years of his life, including his suicide in the bunker in 1945.
Her descriptions of the “private” Hitler really struck me, because they were in such stark contrast to the dictator who had millions of people imprisoned and murdered in concentration camps. For example, he was deeply interested in yogic philosophy, was largely vegetarian, frequently lectured his companions on the cruelty of slaughterhouses, did not drink alcohol or smoke, and was very fond of herbal tea. Reading this, there were moments when I caught myself thinking: “Gosh, he sounds like me!” Which, given what he had done, was a rather disturbing thought.
But of course, that only confirms how contradictory human beings can be. It is something I noticed as well when I worked in the prison service: people cannot be reduced solely to their crimes, or, for that matter, only to their good deeds. We are all made up of light and shadow. Everyone has flaws, although in some people they are perhaps more obvious or pronounced than in others.
Yet much of our public conversation seems to be moving in the opposite direction. Instead of embracing complexity, we increasingly look for simple explanations and convenient groups to blame. And this is why I am so disturbed by what is currently going on in the UK, and in many other parts of the world. A young Sikh man stabs another young man to death, and suddenly immigrants as a whole are blamed once again. The murderer’s ethnicity seems to matter more than the huge problems of youth knife crime, police failures, or mental health. And the unfortunate thing is that such isolated incidents, which are of course horrendous and need to be addressed, quickly become prime populist rhetoric for people like Nigel Farage or Elon Musk.
But why is complexity so difficult for us to hold? Why do we so often divide people, and life itself, into categories of good and bad, black and white? Why is separation the solution for so many of us, when unity would make so much more sense?
Perhaps it is that age-old tendency towards tribalism: us against them. For most of human history, survival depended on belonging to a group and knowing who could be trusted. Better the devil you know, right? Uncertainty, meanwhile, is uncomfortable for many people, as the brain naturally prefers simple stories to complicated realities. Even when those stories are contradicted by the available evidence.
And the sad thing is that humans really do not seem to learn from history at all. Time and again, societies swing from one extreme to another, only occasionally finding a healthy balance. Right now, we are moving towards greater authoritarianism and separation, and many people appear to have already forgotten where scapegoating and division can ultimately lead.
So how do we counteract this? This is where I want to pivot back to June Osborne, whose tireless determination to stand up for what she believes in is matched only by her faith in the power of love. The problem with authoritarian regimes such as Gilead, or Nazi Germany for that matter, is that they do not happen overnight. They creep up on us slowly: one restrictive law here, one racist comment there, one act of discrimination, one normalisation of the previously unthinkable. And before we know it, our government may suddenly be headed by someone like Nigel Farage. Who, like all human beings, has his complexities as well, but appears to thrive on division.
Standing up for what you believe in does not have to involve murder and acts of terrorism, as it does in June’s case. It can simply mean voicing your opinion when yet another person tries to offer a simple explanation for a complex problem. It can mean being curious, reading beyond the headlines, and asking yourself: Is this actually true? It can involve seeking out viewpoints that challenge your own assumptions.
And perhaps, most importantly, it means remembering that people are neither heroes nor villains. Human beings are messy, complicated creatures. Learning to live with that complexity may be one of the most important skills of our time.
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