J. M. Coetzee's Disgrace (1999) has occupied a contested place in postcolonial and feminist criticism since its publication, admired for its unflinching portrait of post-apartheid South Africa and simultaneously indicted for the way it renders its female characters instrumental to a white male protagonist's moral education. This paper examines the novel's central preoccupations — gender, guilt, and grace — as they intersect with the unresolved racial and historical anxieties of the new South Africa. Reading David Lurie's disgrace alongside his daughter Lucy's, the paper argues that Coetzee stages two parallel and unequal reckonings with power: one narrated in the confessional register of a man learning, however incompletely, to see himself as an object rather than a subject of desire, and the other largely silent, borne on Lucy's body and her refusal to translate her suffering into a language the novel's men, and by extension its readers, can easily consume. The paper draws on feminist theories of the gaze and of narrative silencing, alongside postcolonial theories of land, restitution, and the politics of reconciliation, to argue that Disgrace refuses the redemptive closure its title's final word seems to promise. Grace, in Coetzee's rendering, is neither earned nor granted; it is at best an uneasy, provisional accommodation with loss.