Forgive Me Not

Forgiveness has never come easy for me. The popular script for it (especially the Sunday school version) sounds like letting things slide, or turning the other cheek. That has always rubbed me the wrong way, grating like fingernails down a chalkboard against my instincts for fairness and justice. And the truth is, I believe in vengeance, at least the drive for it. It’s human. The question is: What do you do with that heat? Do you let it consume you? Do you let it run the show? Or do you learn to harness it into consequences, boundaries and accountability? I now try, however imperfectly, to do the latter.

Then there’s the other camp: forgiveness as a self-help detox. “It’s not about absolving them,” they say, “it’s about freeing yourself.” “Release the pain so it doesn’t own you.” Shit like that. I understand the need to put the heavy thing down so it stops crushing me. But that, to me, is not forgiveness. It’s boundary-setting, grief work, and anger management. It’s choosing not to let your life revolve around what hurt you. That is wise. But it doesn’t suddenly make the unforgivable forgivable.

You might sometimes catch me say that nothing is unforgivable. But if I’m completely honest, I don’t really believe that. Some violations are beyond the reach of resolution. Some things steal from you in ways that can never be repaid. Our culture tries to paper over this with inspirational quotes and a lavender-scented candle. Meanwhile, victims are told they stay “stuck” if they don’t forgive. Forgiveness becomes a personality test you either pass or fail.

And then there’s cancel culture, where the pendulum swings the other way: permanent excommunication for even a relatively minor transgression, with no nuance, no process, no way back. It’s brutal, often disproportionate, and it doesn’t help us become better. It also flattens context. Patterns matter. Remorse matters. 

As a descendant of Armenian genocide survivors, this question isn’t an abstraction. Historical trauma makes forgiveness a volcano. Our bones remember. The map remembers. When people, including me, talk about reconciling with Azerbaijanis or Turks, it can feel like being asked to leap across a canyon without a bridge. 

I don’t think forgiveness is necessarily the bridge, though. Justice is a bridge. Truth is a bridge. Mutual interests, carefully negotiated and enforced, can be bridges.

My point is: we don’t have to forgive to live in peace.

But we do have to agree on rules and stick to them. And peace without justice is just a temporary ceasefire. Peace with accountability may still ache, but at least it can hold.

On a personal level, I’m unforgiving in one sense and merciful in another. I don’t forgive easily, but I also don’t want to punish. I’m not interested in carrying around a private guillotine. If you wrong me, I don’t need to ruin you. I only want to reorient my life away from you. You don’t get my time, my thoughts, my head space or my living room. That’s not a crusade. That’s just self-respect.

Obviously, this doesn’t always work in every situation. Life is full of exceptions and non-negotiables. You might share a child with someone who failed you. You might share a wall with an insufferable neighbor who specializes in petty tyranny. You might share a workplace with a colleague who is, on their best day, a proper asshole. In those cases, the task isn’t forgiveness, it’s diplomacy, or what I call, begrudgingly, “adulting”. Be civil, as much and/or as often as possible, not because they earned it, but because your dignity and sanity require it.

There is relief in not making forgiveness the grand prize. When it’s no longer the mandatory finish line, you can pursue other forms of closure. You can say, “I see what you did. I see what it cost me. I’m adjusting my life accordingly.” You can also say, “I hope you change,” without offering yourself up as the laboratory.

We are being rushed into peace, and I’ve learned that moving on too quickly can make wounds fester instead of healing them. But we also don’t have to forgive Azerbaijanis or Turks to coexist with them. We share a border, whether we like it or not. Unlike your petty neighbor, who you can physically move away from, we cannot geographically move Armenia to a friendlier neighborhood. Still, to be told to forgive and just move on is naïve at best and insulting at worst. Yet to never move on is just as foolish, chaining us to the past. Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting or forgiving. It means remembering exactly what was done, and still choosing not to let it stop your ability to live and thrive.

Forgiveness, if it ever arrives, should be a byproduct of healing and accountability, not a shortcut around them. It may show up as a soft release long after the court case, the peace treaty, the years of silence or the apology. Or it may not. That’s not a moral failure. It’s an honest reading of the damage and the limits of human capacity.

What I want, what I’m after, isn’t a world full of saints who forgive on command. It’s a world where harm is named, proportionately addressed, and prevented where possible. Where we don’t confuse civility with surrender. Where we measure people by their honesty and their willingness to repair. Where peace is built with truth and process, not amnesia. Give me fewer rituals of shame and more habits of making amends. Give me the humility to know that some wounds time will never heal, but the scars they leave behind are beautiful reminders of our resilience.

Until then, if you hurt me, you’ll probably never hear from me again. Not because you deserve it, but because I do.

See all [Unleashed] articles here

Listen to Sheila’s personal reading of “Forgive Me Not”.

Sheila Paylan is an international human rights lawyer and former legal advisor to the United Nations. Now based in Yerevan, she regularly consults for a variety of international organizations, NGOs, think tanks, and governments.