Forgive and Forget?

It was one of those quiet afternoons at the cemetery — the kind of stillness that hums, where the grass bends slightly to the breeze and the sun presses down just enough to remind you that life continues above ground. I was there with an aunt, tending to the graves of our elders. Out of nowhere, she said, “In a family, we must always forgive. Don’t keep grudges. No matter what they’ve done, they are still family.”

She said it casually, but the words fell like stones. I smiled politely, but inside I bristled. The statement sounded noble, but also naïve — and perhaps even cruel. Because what happens when the wound was never acknowledged? What happens when the people who caused the pain never asked to be forgiven in the first place?

That moment stayed with me. It made me question this often repeated phrase: forgive and forget. We say it as if it’s a moral equation, as if forgiveness is only complete when forgetting follows. But what does it truly mean to forgive? And what does it mean to forget?

What Does It Mean to Forgive?

Forgiveness is often defined as the conscious decision to release feelings of resentment or vengeance toward someone who has wronged us, regardless of whether they deserve it or not. Psychologist Robert Enright (2001) described forgiveness as a moral virtue — a process that involves acknowledging the injury, feeling the pain, and eventually choosing to let go of the desire for retribution.

But forgiveness is not amnesia. It doesn’t erase memory. It doesn’t rewrite history. It’s an internal decision to stop carrying the emotional burden — not a denial that the burden ever existed.

To forgive, one must remember clearly enough to know what they are forgiving. True forgiveness requires confronting the hurt head-on, not sweeping it under the carpet of politeness or cultural expectations.

What Does It Mean to Forget?

Forgetting, on the other hand, is a neurological process — often unconscious, sometimes protective. Our brains are wired to suppress memories that cause psychological distress. Cognitive neuroscientists Michael Anderson and Collin Green (2001) found that the act of suppressing unwanted memories involves the same neural mechanisms we use for controlling our physical actions. The prefrontal cortex can inhibit the hippocampus — the part of the brain responsible for forming and retrieving memories.

In simpler terms: sometimes, we “forget” because our brain chooses to protect us. It shields us from reliving trauma. As Daniel Schacter (1999) explained in his work on the “seven sins of memory,” forgetting can be a coping mechanism — not a moral failure, but a survival response.

So when people say “forgive and forget,” they often misunderstand what forgetting really is. It’s not a sign of magnanimity. It’s the body’s way of saying: I can’t keep bleeding from the same wound.

The Asian Context: Forgiveness as Hierarchy

In many Asian families, forgiveness is not a mutual exchange — it’s a commandment passed downwards. Sons and daughters are told to forgive their parents, but rarely the other way around. Parents are placed on a pedestal, shielded by age and sacrifice. Even when they are wrong — when words cut deep, when actions wound — the expectation remains: You must forgive because they are your elders.

The word sorry often disappears from parental vocabulary, replaced by silent gestures — a new meal cooked, a casual conversation, a question about work. The apology becomes implicit, never spoken aloud. And yet, children are taught that silence should be enough.

Sociologist Chua Beng Huat (1995) once observed that filial piety in Asian societies is less about affection and more about obligation — a cultural performance of respect. To question it, or to withhold forgiveness, is often seen as rebellion.

But what does that do to a child who was hurt? What happens when forgiveness is demanded but remorse is absent?

In that space, forgiveness becomes submission — not healing. It becomes a performance of family harmony, not a resolution of pain.

Forgetting Is Not Always Forgiving

Here’s where it gets complicated. Sometimes, we forget not because we forgive — but because remembering is too heavy. The mind folds the memory, tucks it away, lets time cover it with dust.

But the body remembers. The muscles tense at the mention of certain names. The heart races when the same tone of voice echoes across a room. Trauma can live in the body even after the mind has tried to forget. Bessel van der Kolk (2014) wrote in The Body Keeps the Score that traumatic memories are not stored in the narrative memory system — they are stored as sensations, emotions, and physiological responses.

So when my aunt said, “Don’t keep grudges,” I wanted to tell her — it’s not a grudge. It’s a scar. You can’t wish it away just because time has passed or because the family table looks whole again.

For some people, forgetting is not an act of grace; it’s an act of protection. The mind spares them the full replay of hurt so they can function, eat, work, and love again. But that doesn’t mean forgiveness has taken place. It only means survival has.

A Tale of Remembering: The Crane Wife

There’s a Japanese folktale called The Crane Wife. It tells of a poor man who rescues an injured crane. The crane later transforms into a woman and becomes his wife. To help him, she secretly weaves beautiful cloth from her own feathers at night, but she makes him promise never to watch her. One night, curiosity overtakes him, and he peeks — only to discover her true form. When she realizes he has broken his promise, she leaves him forever.

Some interpret this story as a lesson in trust, but there’s another layer: the impossibility of forgetting. The husband cannot unsee what he has seen. The wife cannot unfeel her betrayal. Both must live with memory. The story ends not with forgiveness, but with irreversible knowing.

That’s what forgetting truly is — an illusion we chase but never fully achieve. Once seen, some things cannot be unseen. Once felt, some things remain in the body forever.

The Myth of “Moving On”

In the Asian household, “moving on” is often mistaken for emotional maturity. We are told to keep the peace, to not bring up the past. But this peace is sometimes built on silence — and silence, as history shows, has its own cost.

To forgive does not mean to erase accountability. To forget does not mean to condone. They are separate processes. Forgiveness can happen while memory remains intact. In fact, sometimes the most genuine forgiveness comes because we remember — because we choose compassion despite the clarity of pain.

And forgetting? Forgetting is neither weakness nor virtue. It’s simply human. Our brains and hearts do what they must to keep us alive.

Returning to the Cemetery

As I placed the flowers on the gravestone that day, my aunt’s words lingered. Maybe she believed forgiveness was the only way to keep the family whole. Maybe she thought forgetting would make the world kinder.

But I think healing begins not with forgetting — but with understanding. To forgive is a decision, not a duty. And to forget is not a command we can obey; it’s a mystery our minds decide on their own.

So no, I told myself quietly, we don’t have to forgive everyone. We don’t have to forget everything. Sometimes, the most honest thing we can do is remember — and still choose to live.

Written by: Adi Jamaludin