Where does our violence begin?

As I sat across from Randall, listening to his story, I found myself momentarily distracted, not by what he was saying, but by what I was seeing.

A well-groomed crop of dreadlocks. A calm, steady gent. Thoughtful and measured in speech.

The kind of man you’d trust without hesitation.

And yet, his story spoke of violence, crime and years spent behind bars. The contrast wasn’t very difficult to reconcile, but it raised a question in me:

Where does violence really begin?

We like to believe violent men are simply born that way. But even our oldest stories suggest otherwise.

In the scriptural account of Cain and Abel, violence appears early – as something tied to rejection, jealousy and the feeling of being unseen. Cain is not introduced as a monster, but as a man overwhelmed by what he carries internally.

Violence, in that sense, is part of the human condition.

The real question is: what awakens it?

In many South African communities, that awakening is shaped over time through parental absence, growing up in impoverished circumstances and substance abuse that distorts judgment.

Randall’s story is one example.

Born in George in 1990, he was raised by a mother who worked tirelessly to provide. His father, though alive, was largely absent and in and out of prison.

That kind of inconsistent and unreliable presence leaves a lasting impact on a child. Guidance becomes uncertain. Authority feels optional, and manhood is learned through observation rather than instruction.

Substance abuse

For Randall, his journey with a seemingly harmless two-skuif of a cigarette but gradually evolved into a mandrax addiction.

With it came a difference in the company he kept.

Many of us have witnessed this story in one form or another. A friend who drifts, the quiet change in behaviour and the subtle but noticeable shift in identity.

The fact is, these substances aren’t cheap, and for an unemployed young boy, that price doesn’t come with a payment plan. So a new kind of thinking kicks in: by any means necessary. And more often than not, those “means” don’t arrive politely, they arrive with force.

Substances accelerate that process. They don’t just numb pain; they reduce hesitation, heighten impulse, and dim the fear of consequences.

In South Africa, a significant portion of violent crime is linked to substance abuse. Substances like mandrax, crystal meth and alcohol don’t create violence on their own, they weaken the restraint that might have prevented it.

They don’t plant the seed.

They water it.

Repeating the cycle

In 2012, after hours of using drugs, Randall spotted a man walking with a phone and money in hand. What followed was not planned, but impulsive.

A robbery. A struggle. A stabbing.

A life tragically lost.

With it, Randall’s own life as he knew it, changed forever.

By the time Randall was sentenced to 20 years in prison, he was already a father, and the cycle had begun to repeat.

Across the country, many young offenders echo similar stories of fractured homes, absent fathers and environments that step in where guidance is missing.

A new hope

While he was in prison, Randall had space to reflect. Slowly, his perspective began to shift. He turned away from substances, and over time, their hold weakened.

After serving 14 years of his sentence, he stepped out of prison and into a different version of himself. 

He speaks now about breaking cycles, particularly the one he inherited from his father. Where addiction once defined him, he has chosen differently. Where his father’s absence shaped him, he now strives to be present for his child and his mother.

Encountering Fathers Matter

After prison, he began to journey with Fathers Matter, and one particular lesson made an impression on him.

In an exercise with a connect group, he was blindfolded while others shouted directions to the finish line, each voice competing for attention.

Later, he reflected on it. As children, we begin with clarity. But over time, the voices we follow, and the choices we make, can cloud that clarity.

Eventually, you find yourself moving without really seeing.

Which brings us back to the question.

Not simply whether people are violent, but how they became that way.

More often, violence is the result of something unresolved, something innate that started long before it revealed itself.

Even in our earliest stories, violence was not without cause.

It was triggered.

Awakened.

If we are serious about prevention, the work must begin earlier, where children are learning who they are.

So, what changed in Randall? It wasn’t just a fear of prison, but the choice to listen to an alternative message. One of peace, love and understanding. 

The potential for violence is a part of human nature, and we must nurture the child against it by encouraging values that promote a healthier lifestyle.