The moral maze

Possible triggers warning: discussion of child and sexual abuse

The fall-out from the Jimmy Savile scandal continues as Max Clifford and Rolf Harris are the latest high-profile men to be involved with the off-shoots of Operation Yewtree. In each case, accusations of abuse and, in some instances, rape of underage girls have been alleged. These recent revelations have prompted me to think about my own links with these stories. You see, I was taught by a paedophile. And Mr X was one of the best teachers I ever had.

I was 9 years old when I was first taught by him, but well into secondary school when Mr X was convicted of producing and viewing obscene images of children, some of which were photographs of his pupils (all under 7s) who were changing for PE.

When the local newspapers printed details of his arrest and subsequent trial, I was disgusted and horrified, and I still am now. I cannot begin to imagine how his actions have scarred the very children he was supposed to be looking after. And it is even stranger because he taught me so much about Judaism and Israel, facts that have stayed with me for years, that I rely on in conversations and arguments. He encouraged my creative writing, allowing me to spend hours writing a ridiculous story about non-identical twins on the ancient classroom computer. There was nothing strange that I remember about him, no inkling of any shame to come. The technology for his crime was not really available either (primitive internet, obvious camcorders and Kodak disposable cameras). Had this not been the case, I am sure my memories of that classroom would have been far more tarnished than they are today.

The trouble is, I am struggling to see things as purely good or evil. I can't square things in my mind without concluding that either my old teacher was a good teacher with a dark, horrible side, or a horrible, broken man who somehow managed to impart knowledge, or both. It's not a new idea. Yin and yang, the vast majority of "human sinners", the antihero... it's something of a cliche, and like the cliche of cliches: it is a cliche because it is true.

I condemn child abuse with all my heart. I cry and taste bile at the experiences that stronger people than I have endured. In some of my darker moments, I ponder the merits of the death penalty. But I cannot read the papers or watch the news, switch on the radio or the computer today without thinking of my old teacher, and the lives he ruined, and the lives he enriched. How can a bag of flesh and bones - like me, like you - be capable of both? I wonder how, and I wonder why.