I’ve never really minded knowing how a book or film ends, never felt as if a spoiler ruined the pleasure of a story. No doubt there are instances and whole genres for which foreknowledge upsets the intended effect, and I respect that — I don’t seek out endings, don’t need the comfort of knowing where things are headed — I’m just more interested in how they unfold, the small episodes full of meaning that never lead where you think they will, brief and exquisite moments of beauty that are ends in and of themselves, tangents and side plots that feel frustratingly beside the point. Death is the end awaiting all of us, and the certainty of life’s conclusion doesn’t make the living of it any less bitter or sweet.
I told a friend recently that I felt like a chapter of my life was ending, or at least that I could sense certain narratives wrapping up, that I was sad to say goodbye to some characters, though I knew others would be introduced in the pages yet to come, and that I was grateful how much of the cast was sticking around. We are all over each other’s stories, the best of which are written together, experienced alongside and through one another in a harmony of authorial voices.
Conflict is a type of story, too, though one too often told from only one perspective. I have in the past been scared of conflict, terrified of not knowing what someone else thought of me. At worst, I would attempt to co-opt their narrative and the write the entire thing myself. This usually included an apology, taking responsibility for whatever I imagined the problem had been without actually have to ask and risk being confronted with a depiction of myself wholly unfamiliar. Blaming oneself can be so much easier, so much less vulnerable, than truly listening to what another has to say. It is a terribly incurious way to interact with others.
An apology, then, is something wholly different from accountability. In some sense, we all know this, have all been on the other end of an “I’m sorry” that felt like the closing of a door rather than its opening. In its simplest form, this involves blaming some other person or thing for the hurt rather than assuming responsibility directly. But there’s so many more complex ways of avoiding accountability, too — weaponized therapy speak, a sort of fatalism that can accompany those estranged from themselves. In each instance, agency is lacking despite an outcome having been declared. The roles of victim and perpetrator have been assigned rather than accepted, with no clear account of what actually happened.
True accountability involves sharing a narrative, its characters and plot, that provides information to which everyone involved can access and choose to agree. It may not be a satisfying story — it might not provide a clear reason why a harm occurred, and all parties might not agree on their interpretation of that reason — but the who and what are known. There is an opportunity to fill in any blanks and offer any corrections. The act of communication is vital: in interpersonal conflict, when the facts are feelings and intentions, the interiority of another person is fundamentally unknowable. When it comes to people I care about, I often have no desire for punishment or retribution. I want to be able to understand their version of the story in relation to my own, to possess a narrative that makes sense of everyone’s experience no matter who, if anyone, is to blame. Reconciliation is a process of mutual emplotment. It is a way of finding truth together, justice aside.
Accountability is an important concept in my current research, too — I think Islamic law might also be more interested in living with the truth rather than meting out justice — or at least modestly presumes that the best we can do is attempt either. That was the idea that first made me fall in the love with the subject as an undergrad. It just seemed so honest, in ways that only feel more and more true the older I get, to admit up front that all anyone can do is give it their best guess. Aren’t we are all simply trying as hard as we can, all of the time, to understand what the hell is going on and what to do about it? How can we be accountable to each other, how can we recognize the extent to which we are mutually engaging in this activity, are participating in the writing of each others’ stories? How can we model and encourage the vulnerability required to submit the first (and second and third…) drafts of ourselves for editing? Maybe truth and justice need not be oppositional at all, both the outcome of people treating each other like people, assuming agency, not withholding forgiveness.