Fera Oculta

 

Este é um livro peculiar por várias razões, mas duas delas saltam de imediato à vista: livro pequeníssimo, de 13 páginas escritas, divididas em cinco poemas, e dedicado ao filho que estava para nascer. O nascimento de um filho, embora não salve o mundo, nem produza nenhuma ruptura ontológica, desata nos pais uma vontade de que as coisas sejam diferentes do que têm sido. Não uma diferença na vida pessoal, embora aqui e ali também a vida pessoal pudesse estar mais afinada...

A consciência do mal do mundo não aumenta, mas agudiza-se. 

Agudiza-se através daquele ser prestes a nascer, como se fosse uma parte do poeta (e da sua mulher) onde o mundo se faz sentir mais, onde o mundo mais dói ou passa a doer mais. 

É sabido, um filho é o calcanhar de Aquiles dos pais em relação ao mundo.

E, do centro desta vulnerabilidade, desta dor, Vasco Gato escreve meia dúzia de poemas onde mais do que a vontade de mudar o mundo, ou de que o mundo seja diferente, como por exemplo no poema de Jorge de Sena “Carta A Meus Filhos Sobre Os Fuzilamentos De Goya”, se desenha o absurdo do mundo, a geografia do absurdo do mundo. 

Apesar do cenário não ser brilhante, apesar de trazer o filho a estas ruas não muito famosas de amor, de todos os amores que as palavras inventaram e aos quais também escondem, apesar de saber que inventa um filho para “o fruto magro que hás-de roer noite dentro / nalgum bairro de pormenor / quando o escasso amor que te deram / for o alimento oportuno / de um amor mais desenvolto”, ainda assim o poeta reconhece que não perdeu tempo em dar ao mundo esta sua invenção, uma invenção conjunta com a mãe do filho, tal como singularmente está inscrito no início do livro: 

“Com a Inês / para o Rodrigo”.

Há assim neste pequeno livro duas defesas: a da paternidade e a da linguagem. 

A defesa da paternidade não implica necessariamente a obrigação da paternidade, mas a de alguém que reconhece, pessoalmente e não universalmente, à laia de teoria, ser melhor ser pai do que não ser...

Assim, a paternidade não produz uma ruptura ontológica, mas pode produzir uma ruptura ética, como a que se descreve neste livro: a transposição do limiar do cinismo. 

E é nesta corda ética, esticada entre o que agora se passa e o que o poeta espera para o filho, embora não espere nada que não exista agora, apenas que não piore a um ponto irrespirável.

Este livro, talvez mais do que qualquer outro livro, faz vir à consciência o problema da escrita em geral e da poesia em particular. 

A realidade é uma página por escrever num mundo sem escrita. Uma vontade que vem não se sabe de onde. E mesmo que alguém soubesse o que é um poema, ainda assim não deixaria de escrevê-lo, se fosse pela sua mão. 

E mesmo que alguém soubesse o que é um homem, ainda assim não deixaria de recebê-lo, se fosse seu filho. 

Esta estranha ligação que alguns de nós, humanos, temos com o desconhecido, quer seja o poema quer seja o nascimento de um ser humano, fica bem expresso na metáfora certeira que Vasco Gato usa para dizê-lo: nadar. “(…) Ouço-te nadar sempre nestes meus dias / de náufrago (…)”. 

Nadar não é existir, nada-se, enquanto se espera por vir à existência. 

Nada-se enquanto não se alcança esta terra perdida, indecifrável, que é o mundo, a vida, a existência, o estarmos aqui de mãos fechadas uns para os outros, desconfiados que a comida não chegue, desconfiados que o amor não chegue, desconfiados que a vida não chegue. 

Por isso, este pequeno livro torna-se o tesouro mais bem guardado que alguém pode deixar a quem chega à vida. 

De desconhecido para desconhecido, de poema para uma existência a vir, de agora para o futuro. 

Nunca um livro foi uma tão perfeita imagem de um vir à existência, como este de Vasco Gato.

Paulo José Miranda

O Imperador da Alegria

Numa noite chuvosa de fim de verão, Hai, um jovem imigrante vietnamita de 19 anos, está numa ponte em East Gladness, uma cidadezinha fictícia esquecida no interior de Connecticut, prestes a saltar. 

Do outro lado do rio, porém, ouve alguém a gritar do outro lado do rio, o que o impede de saltar — é Grazina Vitkus, uma refugiada lituana da Segunda Guerra Mundial, com 80 anos. 

Grazina oferece alojamento a Hai em troca da sua ajuda a lembrar-se de tomar a medicação, e a amizade sincera entre ambos ilumina o mundo cru e árido que habitam. 

Sem rumo e sem opções, eHai torna-se seu cuidador e, ao longo de um ano, esse laço passa a ser uma conexão improvável entre duas pessoas à deriva, e que dá início a uma relação que se transforma num frágil pacto de sobrevivência mútua. e que tem o poder de mudar a relação de Hai consigo próprio, com a família e com uma comunidade à beira do colapso.

Hai e Grazina revivem frequentemente a guerra através de encenações de batalhas que se aproximam de cenas de violência real, mas que são “tão parecidas com o inferno que parecem falsas”, como “gemidos de sangue coagulado enquanto ela ri e sopra fumo do dedo torto erguido…” 

Este livro é uma história sobre aqueles que vivem à margem da sociedade — jovens, velhos, imigrantes, pobres, viciados —, descartados pelo sonho americano e relegados aos bastidores do progresso. Ocean Vuong transforma esses esquecidos em protagonistas de beleza pungente, capturando momentos de conexão humana no meio do colapso económico, da rotina esmagadora do trabalho, das minúsculas perdas diárias e da insistência em, apesar de tudo, continuar a viver.

Vuong revela como a dor compartilhada pode abrir espaço para a ternura e o pertencimento, mesmo entre aqueles que o mundo insiste em esquecer. Aqui, não há idealizações, apenas a verdade crua e bela do que significa seguir em frente. Uma história sobre segundas oportunidades — não como milagres, mas como mínimos atos de coragem diária, que capta as esperanças e desilusões das pessoas que vivem na América contemporânea.

É um livro impressionante... 

Seguindo os ciclos da história, da memória e do tempo, O Imperador da Alegria revela as formas profundas como o amor, o trabalho e a solidão constituem a base da vida. 

No seu centro está uma corajosa epopeia sobre o que significa existir nas margens da sociedade e confrontar as feridas que se abrem na nossa alma coletiva.

É uma história de perda e esperança, sem sentimentalismos, sobre a dificuldade que temos para alcançar uma das misericórdias mais fugazes da vida: uma segunda oportunidade. 

Neste romance, sente-se intensamente a dureza de uma sociedade capitalista. O dinheiro – ou, mais precisamente, a necessidade crescente dele para sobreviver – é um motivo recorrente. 

Quando Hai começa a trabalhar na HomeMarket — uma popular cadeia de fast food — faz um turno experimental de cerca de quatro horas, mas quase não é remunerado, porque Sony, primo de Hai, diz a brincar que se esqueceu de registar a sua presença. 

Sony finge que o pai, que combateu no exército do Vietname do Sul, ainda está vivo. 

Hai e Grazina lutam para enterrar os respetivos passados traumáticos: Grazina sofre de demência, mas por vezes recorda as atrocidades da guerra na Lituânia, como o momento em que implorou aos soldados para pouparem a sua família, e por vezes dorme com uma nota de dólar pendurada sobre a cama. A decisão de narrar o pós-guerra, particularmente através das vidas fragmentadas dos imigrantes, é um ato de resistência contra a indiferença política.

The Emperor of Gladness não é uma história onde os sonhos se realizam. 

Antes, trata-se da honestidade e generosidade que estas personagens conseguem oferecer, e da sua capacidade de se manterem firmes apesar das pressões de uma sociedade implacável, repleta de divisões raciais e políticas. 

Em última análise, a vitória não está em mudanças concretas, mas no modo como constroem uma família escolhida onde são compreendidos por aquilo que realmente são.

A HomeMarket funciona tanto como espaço físico como metafórico — um local onde a vida laboral e o consumo quotidiano se repetem, alimentando a sociedade com comida industrializada e artificial, ao mesmo tempo que o slogan publicitário promete “Dia de Ação de Graças todos os dias do ano.” 

Em termos mais amplos, há muito por explorar em East Gladness enquanto metáfora espacial e tudo o que diz sobre as pessoas comuns enquanto cidadãos entre a esperança e a desilusão: 

“Se procurares a Felicidade e falhares, nos encontrarás. Pois chamam-nos East Gladness, uma terra rebatizada em honra de um rapaz que voltou da Grande Guerra sem pernas e se tornou herói — prova de que se pode perder quase tudo neste país e ainda assim ganhar uma cidade inteira.”

Hai foi criado pela mãe, avó e tia Kim, “mulheres iliteradas poupadas pela guerra no corpo, mas não na mente.” A mãe trabalha num salão de beleza e, segundo Hai, está “presa no nível treze” do Tetris “há mais de um ano.” Ele abandona a universidade e torna-se dependente de drogas. Impulsionado pelas suas ambições frustradas, Hai decide sair de casa, mentindo à mãe ao dizer que foi aceite numa faculdade de medicina em Boston, mentira que a enche de orgulho.

TUDO ISTO É AUTO-BIOGRÁFICO, e aconteceu na vida de Ocean Vuong.

Nasceu Vương Quốc Vinh em 1988, na Cidade de Hồ Chí Minh no Vietname.

É filho de uma mulher vietnamita que não sabe ler nem escrever, nem vietnamita nem inglês, e de um pai norte-americano. 

A avó materna cresceu no interior do Vietname e o avô era um soldado branco da Marinha americana, originário do Michigan. Seus avós conheceram-se durante a Guerra do Vietname, casaram-se e tiveram três filhos, incluindo a mãe de Vuong. 

O avô voltou para visitar a família nos Estados Unidos, mas não pôde retornar quando Saigon caiu nas mãos das forças comunistas. Foi então que a avó separou a sua mãe e tias em orfanatos, preocupada com a sobrevivência delas. 

Fugiram do Vietname depois de um agente da polícia suspeitar que a sua mãe era de ascendência mista, deixando-a propensa à discriminação pelas políticas laborais do regime da época.

Foi com dois anos de idade para um Campo de Refugiados nas Filipinas, com a mãe e as tias, até conseguirem asilo nos EUA, na cidade de Hartford no Connecticut, com seis parentes. 

Vuong, que suspeita que a dislexia é hereditária, foi o primeiro na sua família a aprender a ler e a escrever, aos onze anos. Aos 15 anos, Vuong trabalhava ilegalmente numa fazenda de tabaco e, mais tarde descreveria as suas experiências na fazenda, no seu primeiro romance On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous.

Estudou no Manchester Community College no Connecticut, e depois foi para a Universidade Pace, em Nova Iorque, para estudar marketing. Ficou lá apenas algumas semanas antes que ele entendesse que "não era para ele" e foi viver como sem abrigo para a estação de comboios por vergonha de voltar para casa sem a licenciatura, o que ia desapontar demasiado a sua mãe. 

Na estação dos comboios, com 19 anos, encontrou um antigo colega da Universidade Pace, que era refugiado como ele, e contou-lhe a verdade e ele disse-lhe que tinha uma avó com demência e que precisava de alguém para ir viver com ela para a ajudar com a medicação e as compras para a casa. 

Vuong foi viver com a avó desse rapaz refugiado lituano, com quem mais tarde se casou, e matriculou-se no Brooklyn College, da Universidade da Cidade de Nova Iorque, onde estudou literatura inglesa do século XIX com o poeta e romancista Ben Lerner, e recebeu o seu M.B.A. em inglês, e recebeu o seu M.F.A. em poesia pela Universidade de Nova Iorque.

Vuong descreve-se como tendo sido criado por mulheres. 

Durante uma conversa com uma cliente da sua mãe, que era manicure num salão de cabeleireiro, manifestou vontade de ir à praia, e pronunciou a palavra “beach” como “bitch”. A cliente sugeriu que ele usasse a palavra “ocean” em vez de “beach”. A Mãe, depois de aprender a definição da palavra "ocean" - o corpo de água classificado mais massivo, como o Oceano Pacífico, que liga os Estados Unidos e o Vietname - passou a tratar o filho por Ocean.

O pai de Vuong, soldado norte-americano, abandonou a mãe quando ele nasceu.

Quando a mãe estava com cancro em fase terminal, Vuong telefonou ao Pai, que vivia em Los Angeles, e ele foi de imediato para se despedir dela ainda em vida. Foi nesse dia que Vuong conheceu o pai, e depois da mãe morrer em 2019, passaram a estar em contacto. 

Vuong escreveu vários poemas dedicados ao Pai.

O poema “DetoNation” é emblemático da contradição que encerra a identidade de Ocean Vuong. O título do poema em si já pode ser traduzido com pouco prejuízo para “DetoNação”. O título funciona como um retrato dos EUA à época da ocupação no Vietname. Uma “Nação” que se identifica facilmente com “Detonação” – “DetoNação”. O primeiro dístico anuncia: “Tem uma piada que acaba com – ãhn?/ É a bomba dizendo aqui está o seu pai”. O pai e a “DetoNação” são associadas e são realmente a pátria do poeta. Tratam-se de dois versos que já nos levam num passeio por uma gama de narrativas no eixo pai-pátria-guerra.

A figura do pai aparece ainda noutros poemas, como em “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous” (“Na Terra Somos Brevemente Deslumbrantes”), título também usado para o seu primeiro romance. Uma estrofe do poema parece retratar violência doméstica e faz mais uma associação com a figura paterna.

Comparado com o primeiro romance de Vuong, On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous, The Emperor of Gladness foca-se mais no presente do que no passado, privilegiando as personagens em detrimento de uma única subjetividade narrativa, conduzindo-nos de volta à humanidade através da resiliência e da esperança dos protagonistas.

Filho de mãe vietnamita e pai americano, Ocean Vuong carrega consigo duas grandes heranças. 

A sua poesia revela a contradição de identificar-se com o povo asiático, entender muito de suas tradições e, simultaneamente, ver-se como um homem americano e, mais do que isso, esforçar-se para a sua literatura entrar no rol de obras da tradição americana. A Guerra do Vietname não pode deixar de marcar a narrativa pessoal e a obra do autor e, os seus poemas apresentam estes traços.

Vuong mora em Northampton, Massachusetts, com o seu marido, Peter Bienkowski.

EXCERTOS DO LIVRO:

"The hardest thing in the world is to live only once.

But it’s beautiful here, even the ghosts agree. 

Mornings, when the light rinses this place the shade of oatmeal, they rise as mist over the rye across the tracks and stumble toward the black-spired pines searching for their names, names that no longer live in any living thing’s mouth. Our town is raised up from a scab of land along a river in New England. When the prehistoric glaciers melted, the valley became a world-sized lake, and when that dried up it left a silvery trickle along the basin called the Connecticut: Algonquin for “long tidal river.” The sediment here is rich with every particle welcoming to life. As you approach, you’ll be flanked by wide stretches of thumb-sized buds shooting lucent through April mud. Within months these saplings will stand as packed rows of broadleaf tobacco and silver queen corn. Beyond the graveyard whose stones have lost their names to years, there’s a covered bridge laid over a dried-up brook whose memory of water never reached this century. Cross that and you’ll find us. Turn right at Conway’s Sugar Shack, gutted and shuttered, with windows blown out and the wooden sign that reads WE SWEETEN SOON AS THE CROCUS BLOOM, rubbed to braille by wind. In spring the cherry blossoms foam across the county from every patch of green unclaimed by farms or strip malls. They came to us from centuries of shit, dropped over this place by geese whenever summer beckons their hollow bones north."

“Because to remember is to fill the present with the past, which meant that the cost of remembering anything, anything at all, is life itself. We murder ourselves, he thought, by remembering. The idea made him sick. And without knowledge of his own legs moving beneath him, he crossed the hall to his bedroom, fished the contact lens case from his jacket pocket, and, having been sober for forty-seven days, tossed the Perc and codeines back in one gulp, then returned to where Grazina lay slumped in the jeep. “Good night,” he said, but then saw her lips moving. “What’s that?” He crouched down. “I said…” She swallowed and blinked. “We made it.” “We made it?” he asked.”

“Okay.” Hai nodded, but his mind was somewhere else. “Hey. Do you think a life you can’t remember is still a good life?” The question sounded almost silly aloud. “I mean, like—” “Yes,” said Sony. “Why’s that?” “Because someone else will remember it.”

“To be alive and try to be a decent person, and not turn into anything big or grand, that's the hardest thing of all. You think being president is hard? Ha. Don't you see that every president becomes a millionaire after he leaves office? If you can be nobody, and stand on your own two feet for as long as I have, that's enough. Look at my girl, all that talent and for what, just to drown in Bud Light?" [...] "People don't know what's enough, Labas. That's their problem. They think they suffer, but they're really just bored. They don't eat enough carrots.”

“You see, carrots become bright orange because it’s so dark in the ground. They make their own light because the sun never reaches that far—like those fish in the ocean who glow from nothing? So when you eat it, you take in the carrot’s will to go upward. To heaven.”

“How strange to feel something so close to mercy, whatever that was, and stranger still that it should be found in here of all places, at the end of a road of ruined houses by a toxic river. That among a pile of salvaged trash, he would come closest to all he ever wanted to be: a consciousness sitting under a light-bulb reading his days away, warm and alone, alone and yet, somehow, still somebody's son.”

“The prisons and madhouses have locked them up, so you think you’re the only one out there losing your mind when in fact there are many like you, trapped in this supposedly free world of work and sleep and endless fucking cakes.”

“What good is beauty, any beauty, if nobody wins?”

“Words cast spells. You should know this as a writer. That's why it's called spelling, Labas.”

“But where was she going? She was going to a place where freedom is promised yet made possible only by a contained egalitarian space fashioned with walls and locks, where measured nourishment is delivered each day through long corridors by staff born from a never-ending elsewhere who forgo watching their own children grow up in order to watch strangers grow old, all this to keep you alive so they can suck up money from your bank account while you’re warm, immobilized by tranquilizers, and satiated and numb, a body ripe for harvest even beyond ripening. She was heading to America after all. The truest version of it. The one where everyone pays to be here.”

“You say I'm so smart, right? Cause I went to college and all that? Then listen to me." He put both hands on Sony's shoulders. "Most people are soft and scared. They're fucking mushy. We are a mushy species. You talk to anybody for more than half an hour and you realize everything they do is a sham to keep themselves from falling apart. From prison guards to teachers, to managers, psychiatrists, even fathers, anybody - even your stupid generals. People put on this facade of strength. They act like they have a purpose and a mission and their whole life is supposed to lead to this grand fucking thesis of who they are.”

“He wanted too much of one feeling—and I guess his heart gave out because of it. I don’t think we’re made to hold too much of any one thing.”

“Somebody goes ahead and dies and all of a sudden you become a box for them, he thought, you store these things that no one has ever seen and you go on living like that, your head a coffin to keep memories of the dead alive. But what do you do with that kind of box? Where do you put it down?”

“It was one of those friendships that came on quick, like the heat on a July day, and long after midnight you could still feel its sticky film on your skin as you lie awake in your room, the fan blowing in what remained of the scorched hours, and realize for the first time in your peep of a life that no one is ever truly alone.”

“So on summer evenings, when summer finally came, and the full moon lit the fields so silver, you could squint and it would still look just like it did after snowfall. On those nights, Noah and I would run together through the tobacco, like this. And there was this mighty clear sky full of stars that made you stop and look up, you head empty as a ladle as you tried to locate yourself inside an immeasurable universe. And no one knows where you are and you feel, for a tiny second, that you have no parents, that they never existed at all, which is impossible and shameful to love, but I did. I loved that feeling.”

“People aren’t so bad. They’re just wounded little kids trying to heal.

And that makes them tell each other stupid stories," he said softly.”

“The boys had this way of knowing what the other was thinking without ever using words. "Because it's like that when you're fourteen," he said. The superpower of being young is that you're closest to being nothing - which is also the same as being very old.”

“What you see might not always be what you feel. And what you feel may no longer be real.”

“Look, I have it too. It's just like the weather. Like clouds and rain and stuff. They go away. But some of us spend more time in London, you know? Or Seattle. You're just raining right now.”

“Listen here, this country," she lowered her voice, "was purposefully built on war. The reptilians shape-shift into politicians and celebrities, then use these puppets to start wars so they never run out of bad energy to consume. Don't you get it? War is fertilizer for their crops.”

“With money I earned by myself, I gave my daughter a room just so she can read in peace for a day. And I sat there and watched her read, sipping a scotch from the bar. And I cried like a baby. And Lina, my little Lina, she said, 'Mama, why are you crying?' And I said, ' I know how God feels now.”

“At one point Hai opened the window to let the spring in, and it seemed to lift everyone inside, their heads leaning back to relish the sweet-scented flourish. Only in springtime, it seemed, does gravity work backward here, the dandelion pollen rising in great squalls, the flower buds shooting up, further from the ground, as if pulled by the sky's sudden need for them, all of it under the crisp brilliance of April sunlight. Watching this, Hai felt himself displaced by a wild, untenable gratitude.”

“How is it that we have become so certain that the sight of years, the summation of decades, should inflict such violence on the viewer - including family - that we have built entire fortresses to keep such bodies out of sight?”

“Everything else, what I do, what I've done, the goals and the promises, they're all, like, ghosts. For most people, their ghost is inside them, waiting to float out when they die. But my ghost is in pieces." He pointed with his chin at the scattered trees. "It's all over the place, caught in all the spots where I snagged myself.”

“How strange to feel something so close to mercy, whatever that was, and stranger still that it should be found here of all places, at the end of a road of ruined house by a toxic river. That among a pile of salvaged trash, he would come closest to all he ever wanted to be: a consciousness sitting under a lightbulb reading his days away, warm and alone, alone and yet, somehow, still somebody's son.”

“No one in his life knew he had such a friend until now, until Sergeant Pepper told her. Somebody goes ahead and dies and all of a sudden you become a box for them, he thought, you store these things that no one has ever seen and you go on living like that, your head a coffin to keep memories of the dead alive. But what do you do with that kind of box? Where do you put it down?”

Levarei o Fogo Comigo

 

Foto de capa: 

Leïla Slimani em Paris, aos 18 anos. 

Foto do arquivo pessoal cedida pela editora Gallimard

O que fica de alguém 

quando deixa um lugar?

O título do livro ecoa uma promessa e uma herança: 

Uma descendente que recolhe o que ainda queima, fere, foi silenciado da sua história pessoal e coletiva, e que tem um peso que faz com que não volte.

Ela teme os objetos, as heranças, e desconfia de tudo o que se prende com o passado.

Assim, arrumou a infância e levou o que importava.

"Mia, vai e não voltes!

Não guardes forças para o regresso, e nada o mais longe que puderes.

Percebi tudo sabes, e vi tudo.

O que te fizeram sofrer e o que dirão de ti.

Deverás pensar como uma mulher a monte, minha filha, porque é a nostalgia, sempre, a perdição dos criminosos em fuga. Um aniversário, um enterro, a saudade do país onde se nasceu. A nostalgia fá-los regressar e arrependem-se. Não deves regressar a Ítaca, mas sim encontrar para ti uma ilha como a dos Lotófagos, uma ilha para esquecer o regresso, para nem sequer sentir vontade de regressar. 

Sim, as pessoas tentarão convencer-te.

Pensarás que terás alguma coisa para fazer aqui, que podes ser útil.

Mas, não acredites nisso!

Enfia cera nos ouvidos, amarra-te ao mastro, lembra-te do que te disse.

Não voltes!

Essas histórias de raízes não passam de uma maneira de te pregar ao chão, portanto não importa o passado, a casa, a herança, os objetos, as recordações.

Ateia um grande incêndio a tudo, e leva o fogo contigo!

Não te digo até um dia, minha querida, digo-te adeus.

Empurro-te do cimo da falésia, solto a corda e observo-te a nadar.

Meu Amor,

Não cedas no que toca à Liberdade.

Desconfia do calor da tua própria casa,"

A questão é: 

1. Como manter a chama acesa? 
2. O que é que recebemos e deixamos em herança? 
3. Como nos incendiamos depois das cinzas?

O romance acompanha o crescimento de Mia e Inès, duas irmãs que, embora criadas no mesmo ambiente, seguem caminhos distintos. As diferenças entre elas servem como metáforas para o confronto entre tradição e modernidade, entre o peso da herança cultural marroquina e o desejo de emancipação individual. Slimani explora com sensibilidade as tensões familiares, as frustrações geracionais e os dilemas identitários que atravessam as personagens.

"Este livro é escrito não com sangue, mas com lava em ebulição. O que é que nos acontece quando já não temos sangue nas veias, mas apenas uma erupção imparável e incandescente? Leïla Slimani escreve com a fúria de alguém que escava um buraco com as mãos no jardim e que, muitos anos depois, sucumbe ao medo, ao medo paralisante que apaga a memória. Esta fúria e esta lava estão latentes. São sedimentos que resultam da sensação de se ser estrangeiro no seu país, de ser desconforme aos comportamentos de género socialmente aceites, a uma sensação de estranheza e despertença.

"Levarei o Fogo Comigo" é um livro de mulheres que são Ulisses, que inventam o seu próprio destino e que recusam ser a mítica Xerazade, que encantava tiranos e assim salvava a pele. Nesta "Odisseia" chamada "O País dos Outros", trilogia que se encerra com este volume, procura-se menos o regresso a casa, questiona-se: onde é casa? E entende-se casa, se não como sinónimo, como palavra-irmã de identidade, memória, integração.

Nas epígrafes, somos introduzidos a noções fundamentais: casa, raízes, incêndio. É um prenúncio de desgraça, que tem, como aqui se escreve, um cheiro particular. 

Consequentemente, coloca-nos uma pergunta: 

Como fazer o caminho para a frente, como prosseguir depois da hecatombe?"

Anabela Mota Ribeiro

"As pessoas como ela.

Havia, algures, pessoas que se lhe assemelhavam e ela forçava-se a esquecer que, se estavam unidas, era pela infelicidade. Pessoas como ela, e fingia ignorar a que se referia a mãe. Mia não se autorizava, nem em pensamentos, a dizer a palavra [lésbica], a qualificar-se.

Repetia para si própria: sou normal, e não fiz nada de mal.

A mãe queria que ela fosse feliz.

A mãe não acreditava na sua felicidade. Ela tem medo, pensava Mia, que eu seja estranha, travesti, sidosa, marginal. Preferia mil vezes que eu fosse conformista e banal.

Ama-me, repetia Mia para dentro, mas amar não tem nada que ver com palavras.

Amar era não fazer perguntas, não abrir os armários que o outro tivera o cuidado de fechar à chave. Não teimar em desenterrar os segredos.

Amar era guardar silêncio, juntos, deixar pairar perguntas sem respostas e aperceber-se de que isso não tinha importância nenhuma.

Amar e saber eram duas coisas muito diferentes."

O retrato de Marrocos nos anos 80 é rico e crítico. 

A autora não se furta a abordar temas delicados como o islamismo, o extremismo, a repressão política e a liberdade de expressão. 

A pergunta “Seria Marrocos uma verdadeira democracia?” ecoa ao longo do texto, revelando o desencanto de quem vive entre fronteiras físicas e simbólicas. 

Mia e Inès nasceram em Marrocos na década de 80, num país dividido entre o desejo de modernidade e o medo de perder a sua identidade. Enfrentam o preconceito e o desprezo, mas alimentam-se do fôlego que já havia movido as gerações anteriores das mulheres da família, a avó Mathilde, a mãe Aicha e a tia Selma. 

"Para uma mulher, envelhecer era a melhor vingança de todas, porque finalmente as pessoas a respeitavam.

Davam-lhe um beijo no ombro, e abençoavam-na.

Assim que os seios murchavam, o sexo de fechava, o rosto se sulcava de rugas e preocupações, finalmente, os outros aceitavam levar a mulher a sério. No crepúsculo da vida, acabavam por reconhecer que sim, ela tinha dado muito, tinha precisado de resistência e ternura para que os filhos crescessem e tivessem eles próprios filhos. A idade conferia-lhe o poder que sempre lhe faltara, o respeito pelo qual aspirava. 

As velhas podiam ser tiranas, autocratas, soberanas absolutas, podiam usar a bengala para bater e ralhar, gritar, reclamar, e ninguém se atrevia a dizer nada."

"Sempre detestei a ideia de traçar uma linha e dividir o mundo a preto e branco, de um lado as mulheres e do outro os homens. Ou dizer que o patriarcado é os homens no topo e as mulheres na base. A vida é muito mais complexa. Conheço mulheres que são muito patriarcais e conheço homens que foram destruídos pelo patriarcado. Tentei neste livro ser mais subtil e mostrar, através da personagem de Mia, uma mulher que, quando é jovem, despreza as mulheres e a feminilidade."

Leïla Slimani

"Quando era criança, não queria ser mulher. Odiava as mulheres. 

A vida das mulheres é muito trivial e pouco interessante: Elas passam o dia a falar sobre o preço das cenouras e das batatas, só querem ir ao mercado e tratar do jantar e estão sempre a perguntar-me pelos trabalhos de casa. 

O meu pai nem sequer entra na cozinha. É tão livre e tão egoísta. 

Quero ser egoísta e livre como o meu pai." 

A Mia pensa que, para ser livre, tem de ser um homem. 

Ao mesmo tempo, Mia encarna um pouco a masculinidade tóxica, porque é bastante violenta com as mulheres e aceita coisas horríveis da parte dos seus amigos homens, que fazem muitas piadas e vêem filmes pornográficos. 

Sim, as mulheres preocupam-se com o preço das cenouras e das batatas, mas estão tão vivas, profundamente enraizadas. Estão cá e, aconteça o que acontecer, adaptam-se. 

Não se preocupam com o progresso porque elas são o progresso. 

Estão no presente e estão no futuro. 

Os homens, falam e falam e falam...têm muitas teorias sobre tudo. 

As mulheres não falam assim tanto. Elas agem.

A memória, tema recorrente na obra, é tratada como um fio condutor entre gerações. A autora questiona o que resta da identidade quando a memória se esvai, e como o exílio — seja geográfico ou emocional — molda a forma como nos vemos e somos vistos.

É uma reflexão que explora o contraste entre Marrocos e os estados ocidentalizados, onde a liberdade parece mais tangível, mas também mais complexa. Slimani não idealiza o Ocidente, mas usa-o como contraponto para explorar o exílio, a perda de raízes e a reconstrução da identidade.

"Podemos amar um país que não nos ama?

Podemos ser, ao mesmo tempo, daqui e de lá?

Para que servia tentar saber qual era o meu lugar, qual era o meu país, quando eu nem sequer sabia quem era?

Que quer dizer "identidade" quando perdemos a memória?

Não a memória dos povos, essa pouco me importava.

Mas sim, as histórias que a minha avó me contava, as fábulas que o meu pai inventava, esses íntimos "era uma vez" que constituem quem eu sou e com os quais cubro as paredes.

Quando me perguntam de onde eu sou, nunca sei o que dizer, como o balbuciar de um gago tentando pronunciar uma palavra e que, exausto, acaba por desistir.

Tal como o meu pai, faço-me passar pelo que não sou, tornei-me a minha própria falsária, cópia de má qualidade de um quadro de mestre, falso bilhete que nada vale, a não ser para os ingénuos que merecem ser roubados."

Esta trilogia, que começou com O País dos Outros, depois Vejam Como Dançamos e, por fim, Levarei o Fogo Comigo, estes 3 livros são inspirados na vida da autora e na sua família. É a história dos seus avós, dos seus pais, a sua história. Esta trilogia é sobre família e é sobretudo sobre as mulheres, e sobre a ideia que as mulheres têm dos homens. Mas é também sobre identidade, emigração, sentirmo-nos estrangeiros - seja uma europeia em Marrocos, seja uma marroquina na Europa. E é sobre o que levamos quando partimos e aquilo que não podemos, ou não conseguimos ou não queremos, deixar para trás.

"Este livro não é só sobre viver", diz Leïla Slimani sobre "Levarei o Fogo Comigo". 

"Viver o nosso país, viver a nossa cultura para chegar a um novo mundo. Queria falar sobre o regresso. Regressar: gosto muito deste verbo português. É difícil e melancólico. É impossível regressar. Nunca se regressa, pois a pessoa que regressa não é já a mesma. O país para onde se regressa mudou enquanto estivemos fora. 

Quando Ulisses chega a Ítaca, no final da sua odisseia, depois de inúmeras aventuras, de tantos sofrimentos, ninguém o reconhece. Só a ama, já muito velha, e o cão dão sinal de que é ele. Eu passei pelo mesmo. À chegada, deparamo-nos com uma emoção muito forte. É o nosso país, é a cor do céu, a luz, o cheiro das coisas, a língua. Ao mesmo tempo, as pessoas olham para nós e pensam que somos turistas, perguntam se queremos uma visita guiada. Sentimos que há ali qualquer coisa que se desfez para sempre. Queria falar sobre esta mágoa de não ser possível voltar. Sempre me senti uma estranha.

Achava que não pertencia totalmente ao meu país, Marrocos, onde nasci e cresci. Provinha de uma família muito diversa, original e marginal na maneira de viver. A minha avó era da Alsácia, adorava beber vinho branco e comer salsichas durante o Ramadão. O meu pai, embora sendo muçulmano, nunca praticou o Islão. E eu não sabia nada sobre o passado do meu pai. Nunca tinha visto uma fotografia do meu pai em criança. Ele vinha de uma família pobre e frequentou escolas colonizadas. Foi muito influenciado pela cultura ocidental. Era uma espécie de Grande Gatsby, reinventou-se. A minha mãe foi criada em Meknès por uma mãe cristã e um pai muçulmano. As pessoas olhavam para nós com a sensação de que não pertencíamos ali. Éramos demasiado franceses, demasiado ocidentais, demasiado livres. Dávamos imensas festas onde havia álcool e os meus pais eram feministas. Não espanta que sempre me tenha sentido uma forasteira.

Chegamos a um país e tudo é diferente, fisicamente diferente. A imigração não é algo abstracto. Tem directamente a ver com o corpo. E é por isso que escrevo sempre sobre o corpo. O clima não é o mesmo, a comida não é a mesma, a forma como as pessoas se vestem não é a mesma. Foi muito violento chegar a França nos anos 90 do século passado. As pessoas eram bastante racistas e diziam coisas sobre os árabes sem sequer pensarem que podiam fazer-nos sentir vergonha ou tristeza.

Sou uma nómada. Não sei onde é o meu lugar. A minha casa é o corpo das pessoas que amo. Os meus filhos são a minha casa, o meu marido, os meus amigos, a minha família. Não é bem um sítio. A literatura também é a minha casa. Eu habito os livros, habito a ficção.

Por outro lado, não me identifico minimamente com a forma como as pessoas e a política que nos rodeiam falam de raízes, de identidade. Tentam definir uma identidade, dizem-nos que temos de ser assim ou assado. Não é sobre quem somos: o que importa é o que fazemos, o modo como agimos. 

Acho ridículo dizer: “tenho orgulho em ser desta nacionalidade ou daquela”. Orgulhem-se de serem boas pessoas. Não se orgulhem de ser ganeses, portugueses, franceses ou ingleses, se forem más pessoas. Isso é uma estupidez.

É apenas a minha história e não quero passar a minha vida inteira a pedir desculpa por ela."

"Quanto mais envelheço, mais me sinto frágil, vulnerável. 

Mas não o encaro como fraqueza. 

O que sinto é que agora posso partilhar a minha vulnerabilidade com as outras pessoas. 

Quando somos jovens, não queremos ser vulneráveis. Queremos ser fortes, sair e curtir, queremos que as pessoas nos amem e admirem. 

Agora quero olhar para as pessoas e dizer: também tens medo?"

Leïla Slimani

Leïla Slimani nasceu em Rabat em 1981. 

Recebeu o prestigiado prémio Goncourt aos 35 anos. 

Vendeu mais de um milhão de livros no mundo todo. 

Vive desde há quatro anos em Lisboa.

A Família que Devorou Seus Homens

 

 

SINOPSE

A família que devorou seus homens é um relato poderoso sobre os significados, as dimensões e as implicações da diáspora. Um livro sobre perdas, partidas e memórias; um retrato de família mergulhado em ternura e dor. Através do diálogo da narradora com a mãe e as memórias dessa mãe, o leitor vai conhecendo as histórias de uma família formada basicamente de mulheres. A autora síria, Dima Wannus, retrata essas mulheres e as reviravoltas na vida de cada uma numa linguagem concisa e luminosa, direta e muitas vezes cheia de humor. São personagens que ficarão com certeza, e para sempre, na memória do leitor.

Ocorrida a Nakba em 1948 e por consequência da expulsão dos povos árabes habitantes da Palestina para diversos países do mundo, uma sensação de não pertencimento e desejo de retorno apoderou-se dos usurpados, todavia, quase incapazes de retornar à Pátria, muitos se fixaram de maneira permanente em países como Líbano, Síria, Irão e Turquia.

É nesse contexto que a escritora síria Dima Wannus escreve o seu romance; fala sobre uma geração de mulheres refugiadas em Damasco e da “saudade mais doída sendo aquela que temos pelo que não existe mais”, quando são novamente refugiadas dado o caos social que a ditadura dos al-Assad promoveu na Síria, fazendo delas novamente migrantes agora em Londres, Paris e Beirute.

Assim como narra cada particularidade das personagens femininas e o seu modo de enfrentar a situação diante da solidão, do passado e da inconformidade do presente, narra também o impacto do conflito Israel-Palestina na vida dos que foram afetados. 

"Minha mãe tem medo 

de perder a memória, e eu 

tenho medo da loucura."

São as memórias que nos dão identidade. 

Não apenas uma identidade pessoal, mas também nos unem a quem tem as mesmas memórias que nós. 

“Aquela confusão, aquela bagunça, dava-me a sensação de estar em lugar nenhum. O carregamento terminou a última caixa e começou a levá-las para o camião. A nossa memória estava a ir embora em caixas numeradas e com uma breve descrição de conteúdo. Como viajar sem memórias? Chegaremos a Londres duas ou três semanas antes de as caixas chegarem! Ter a nossa memória a viajar em caixas facilitou as coisas.”

Os exilados, tentam fazer a viagem de volta a essa identidade desaparecida e ao passado histórico. Quando essa rota se mostra condenada, eles apegam-se a coisas que carregam memórias daquele ponto no tempo e no espaço. É um anseio por uma experiência nacional passada que não se ajusta mais à realidade social e às expectativas futuras sob o exílio. 

Dima Wannus retrata esse sentimento ao montar um retalho de memórias, fiando-o com as biografias da mãe, da avó, suas tias e suas primas.

Mas as memórias podem também ser um fardo. 

Há memórias que nos desequilibram, porque são um fardo que nos atormenta a mente sem tréguas. 

O esquecimento — assim como o medo — são benéficos em certa medida. 

O medo protege-nos. Quando ultrapassa o limite, o medo torna-se uma fobia que nos escraviza. 

O esquecimento também nos protege. Há dores, mágoas, lembranças que, caso nunca sejam superadas, integradas e curadas, ficam ali a remoer o passado numa prisão de porta aberta.

As memórias — assim como o medo, a culpa e a vergonha — podem aniquilar-nos aos poucos até nos levar à morte — seja esta espiritual, psíquica, emocional ou, até mesmo, física.

 

No livro, conseguimos distinguir as personagens e entender as diferentes maneiras como elas lidam com a vida ao ouvir as suas histórias.

Dima mostra as dimensões e implicações da diáspora na relação entre duas gerações de mulheres. Ela e a mãe, num apartamento temporário em Londres, vivem esses múltiplos lutos, o de sua terra natal, de seus homens e suas mulheres. A escrita, ao documentar essas memórias, ajuda-as a processar essas perdas.

Dima Wannus nasceu em Damasco, na Síria, em 1982, e tinha menos de trinta anos quando a guerra civil implodiu na Síria. 

Este livro conta os impactos do conflito na sua família, e o desmantelar das suas relações. 

Dima decide fugir para Londres junto com a mãe e, lá, reclusas e refugiadas, elas mantêm vivas as memórias de Damasco contando as histórias do passado. A filha filma as lembranças da sua mãe enquanto ela fala sobre a sua família que ficou na Síria, e elas apegam-se a esses fragmentos de memória — os cheiros, as comidas, as tragédias — para digerir a perda, a culpa e a saudade.

Dima Wannus traz uma narrativa de memórias. 

A mãe narra cada detalhe do que foi perdido para sempre: a luz da manhã em Damasco, o sabor da comida da irmã, o som das portas do armário, o cheiro da madeira…

A família de Dilma já não tem homens...morreram na guerra, desapareceram sem deixar rasto, e só restou Dima, a sua mãe, as tias e primas, e vivem juntas os anos do regime autoritário da família Assad e o conflito civil que corrói a Síria desde 2011.

A Revolução de 2011,  foi reprimida pelo regime Assad o que desencadeou a guerra civil. 

Mãe e filha reunidas nas fugas, saídas, retiradas, nas trajetórias para longe da revolução na Síria, que se apresenta como uma guerra de interesses envolvendo pelo menos três grupos que disputam o poder, além das intervenções americanas e russas. 

A fuga de Damasco afeta profundamente a mãe de Dima de forma irreversível.

A mãe apoiava-se no passado, ficou aprisionada no passado, e Dima vivia em modo de espera...à espera de um dia se libertar das memórias da mãe...à espera de poder transitar do presente para o futuro completamente desenraizada. Era um abismo aberto entre mãe e filha, entre o apego ao passado e uma sede enorme de futuro...dilemas típicos dos imigrantes e dos refugiados.

Quem são os refugiados sírios?

Os pobres não têm como fugir do país, não têm como financiar uma fuga para um lugar seguro e, muito menos, manter-se num outro país e recomeçar de novo.

A maior parte dos refugiados sírios são, portanto, classe média e classe média alta. 

Dima e a família deixaram Damasco durante a Guerra civil na Síria, refugiaram-se em Beirute, e depois espalharam-se por Paris e Londres. Dima e a mãe foram para Londres. 

Segundo dados das Nações Unidas, existem mais de 6,8 milhões de refugiados sírios espalhados pelo mundo.

Um dia, tudo se perde, tudo se desfaz. 

Ficando apenas as memórias.

As memórias são a única coisa que é verdadeiramente nossa. 

No entanto, as memórias também são grãos de areia que se perdem entre os dedos com o passar do tempo. 

“A saudade mais doída 

é aquela que temos 

pelo que não existe mais.”

Trauma and Recovery

THE ORDINARY RESPONSE TO ATROCITIES is to banish them from consciousness.

Certain violations of the social compact are too terrible to utter aloud: this is the meaning of the word unspeakable. Atrocities, however, refuse to be buried. 

Equally as powerful as the desire to deny atrocities is the conviction that denial does not work. Folk wisdom is filled with ghosts who refuse to rest in their graves until their stories

are told. Murder will out. Remembering and telling the truth about terrible events are

prerequisites both for the restoration of the social order and for the healing of individual

victims. The conflict between the will to deny horrible events and the will to proclaim them

aloud is the central dialectic of psychological trauma.

(...)

When the truth is finally recognized, survivors can begin their recovery. 

But far too often secrecy prevails, and the story of the traumatic event surfaces not as a verbal narrative but as a symptom. 

The psychological distress symptoms of traumatized people simultaneously call attention to the existence of an unspeakable secret and deflect attention from it. This is most apparent in the way traumatized people alternate between feeling numb and reliving the event. The dialectic of trauma gives rise to complicated, sometimes uncanny alterations of consciousness, which George Orwell, one of the committed truth-tellers of our century, called “doublethink,” and which mental health professionals, searching for a calm, precise language, call “dissociation.” It results in the protean, dramatic, and often bizarre symptoms of hysteria which Freud recognized a century ago as disguised communications about sexual abuse in childhood. 

Witnesses as well as victims are subject to the dialectic of trauma. It is difficult for

an observer to remain clearheaded and calm, to see more than a few fragments of the

picture at one time, to retain all the pieces, and to fit them together. It is even more

difficult to find a language that conveys fully and persuasively what one has seen. Those

who attempt to describe the atrocities that they have witnessed also risk their own credibility.

(...)

Like traumatized people, we have been cut off from the knowledge of our past.

Like traumatized people, we need to understand the past in order to reclaim the present

and the future. Therefore, an understanding of psychological trauma begins with

rediscovering history. 

Clinicians know the privileged moment of insight when repressed ideas, feelings,

and memories surface into consciousness.

(...)

Because the traumatic syndromes have basic features in common, the recovery

process also follows a common pathway. The fundamental stages of recovery are

establishing safety, reconstructing the trauma story, and restoring the connection

between survivors and their community. The second part of the book develops an

overview of the healing process and offers a new conceptual framework for

psychotherapy with traumatized people. Both the characteristics of the traumatic

disorders and the principles of treatment are illustrated with the testimony of survivors

and with case examples drawn from a diverse literature. 

(...)

It is very tempting to take the side of the perpetrator. All the perpetrator asks is that the

bystander do nothing. He appeals to the universal desire to see, hear, and speak no evil.

The victim, on the contrary, asks the bystander to share the burden of pain. The victim

demands action, engagement, and remembering.(...)

In order to escape accountability for his crimes, the perpetrator does everything

in his power to promote forgetting. Secrecy and silence are the perpetrator’s first line of

defense. If secrecy fails, the perpetrator attacks the credibility of his victim. If he cannot

silence her absolutely, he tries to make sure that no one listens. To this end, he marshals

an impressive array of arguments, from the most blatant denial to the most sophisticated

and elegant rationalization. After every atrocity one can expect to hear the same

predictable apologies: it never happened; the victim lies; the victim exaggerates; the

victim brought it upon herself; and in any case it is time to forget the past and move on.

The more powerful the perpetrator, the greater is his prerogative to name and define

reality, and the more completely his arguments prevail. 

The perpetrator’s arguments prove irresistible when the bystander faces them in isolation. 

Without a supportive social environment, the bystander usually succumbs to the temptation to look the other way.When the victim is already devalued (a woman, a child), she may find that the most

traumatic events of her life take place outside the realm of socially validated reality. Her

experience becomes unspeakable.

(...)

PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA is an affliction of the powerless. At the moment of

trauma, the victim is rendered helpless by overwhelming force. When the force is that of

nature, we speak of disasters. When the force is that of other human beings, we speak

of atrocities. Traumatic events overwhelm the ordinary systems of care that give people

a sense of control, connection, and meaning. 

(...)

The many symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder fall into three main

categories. These are called “hyperarousal,” “intrusion,” and “constriction.” Hyperarousal

reflects the persistent expectation of danger; intrusion reflects the indelible imprint of the

traumatic moment; constriction reflects the numbing response of surrender. (...)

After a traumatic experience, the human system of self-preservation seems to go

onto permanent alert, as if the danger might return at any moment. Physiological arousal

continues unabated. In this state of hyperarousal, which is the first cardinal symptom of

post-traumatic stress disorder, the traumatized person startles easily, reacts irritably to

small provocation’, and sleeps poorly.

Long after the danger is past, traumatized people relive the event as though it

were continually recurring in the present. They cannot resume the normal course of their

lives, for the trauma repeatedly interrupts. It is as if time stops at the moment of trauma.

The traumatic moment becomes encoded in an abnormal form of memory, which breaks

spontaneously into consciousness, both as flashbacks during waking states and as

traumatic nightmares during sleep. Small, seemingly insignificant reminders can also

evoke these memories, which often return with all the vividness and emotional force of

the original event. Thus, even normally safe environments may come to feel dangerous,

for the survivor can never be assured that she will not encounter some reminder of the

trauma. 

(...)

Traumatized people relive the moment of trauma not only in their thoughts and

dreams but also in their actions. The reenactment of traumatic scenes is most apparent

in the repetitive play of children. Terr differentiates between normal play and the

“forbidden games” of children who have been traumatized: “The everyday play of

childhood . . . is free and easy. It is bubbly and light-spirited, whereas the play that

follows from trauma is grim and monotonous. . . . Play does not stop easily when it is

traumatically inspired. And it may not change much over time. As opposed to ordinary

child’s play, post-traumatic play is obsessively repeated. . . . Post-traumatic play is so

literal that if you spot it, you may be able to guess the trauma with few other clues.” 

(...)

TRAUMATIC EVENTS CALL INTO QUESTION basic human relationships. They

breach the attachments of family, friendship, love, and community. They shatter the

construction of the self that is formed and sustained in relation to others. They

undermine the belief systems that give meaning to human experience. They violate the

victim’s faith in a natural or divine order and cast the victim into a state of existential

crisis.

The damage to relational life is not a secondary effect of trauma, as originally

thought. Traumatic events have primary effects not only on the psychological structures

of the self but also on the systems of attachment and meaning that link individual and

community.The sense of safety in the world, or basic trust, is acquired in earliest life in the

relationship with the first caretaker. Originating with life itself, this sense of trust sustains

a person throughout the lifecycle. It forms the basis of all systems of relationship and

faith. The original experience of care makes it possible for human beings to envisage a

world in which they belong, a world hospitable to human life. Basic trust is the foundation

of belief in the continuity of life, the order of nature, and the transcendent order of the

divine. (...) A secure sense of connection with caring people is the foundation of personality

development. When this connection is shattered, the traumatized person loses her basic

sense of self. Developmental conflicts of childhood and adolescence, long since

resolved, are suddenly reopened. Trauma forces the survivor to relive all her earlier

struggles over autonomy, initiative, competence, identity, and intimacy.

Unsatisfactory resolution of the normal developmental conflicts over autonomy

leaves the person prone to shame and doubt. These same emotional reactions reappear

in the aftermath of traumatic events. Shame is a response to helplessness, the violation

of bodily integrity, and the indignity suffered in the eyes of another person. Doubt reflects

the inability to maintain one’s own separate point of view while remaining in connection

with others. In the aftermath of traumatic events, survivors doubt both others and

themselves. Things are no longer what they seem.(...)

As the normal child develops, her growing competence and capacity for initiative

are added to her positive self-image. Unsatisfactory resolution of the normal

developmental conflicts over initiative and competence leaves the person prone to

feelings of guilt and inferiority. 

(...)

A SINGLE TRAUMATIC EVENT can occur almost anywhere. Prolonged,

repeated trauma, by contrast, occurs only in circumstances of captivity. When the victim is free to escape, she will not be abused a second time; repeated trauma occurs only when the victim is a prisoner, unable to flee, and under the control of the perpetrator.  Such conditions obviously exist in prisons, concentration camps, and slave labor camps.

These conditions may also exist in religious cults, in brothels and other institutions of

organized sexual exploitation, and in families. (...)

Captivity, which brings the victim into prolonged contact with the perpetrator,

creates a special type of relationship, one of coercive control.(...) 

In situations of captivity, the perpetrator becomes the most powerful person in the

life of the victim, and the psychology of the victim is shaped by the actions and beliefs of

the perpetrator. Little is known about the mind of the perpetrator. Since he is

contemptuous of those who seek to understand him, he does not volunteer to be

studied. Since he does not perceive that anything is wrong with him, he does not seek

help.(...)This idea is deeply disturbing to most people. How much more comforting it

would be if the perpetrator were easily recognizable, obviously deviant or disturbed. But

he is not. (...) The perpetrator’s first goal appears to be the enslavement of his victim, and he

accomplishes this goal by exercising despotic control over every aspect of the victim’s

life. But simple compliance rarely satisfies him; ; he appears to have a psychological need

to justify his crimes, and for this he needs the victim’s affirmation. Thus he relentlessly

demands from his victim professions of respect, gratitude, or even love. 

(...)

People subjected to prolonged, repeated trauma develop an insidious,

progressive form of post-traumatic stress disorder that invades and erodes the

personality. While the victim of a single acute trauma may feel after the event that she is

“not herself,” the victim of chronic trauma may feel herself to be changed irrevocably, or

she may lose the sense that she has any self at all.(...)

REPEATED TRAUMA in adult life erodes the structure of the personality already

formed, but repeated trauma in childhood forms and deforms the personality. The child

trapped in an abusive environment is faced with formidable tasks of adaptation. She

must find a way to preserve a sense of trust in people who are untrustworthy, safety in a

situation that is unsafe, control in a situation that is terrifyingly unpredictable, power in a

situation of helplessness. Unable to care for or protect herself, she must compensate for

the failures of adult care and protection with the only means at her disposal, an

immature system of psychological defenses. 

Chronic childhood abuse takes place in a familial climate of pervasive terror, in

which ordinary caretaking relationships have been profoundly disrupted.

Even more than adults, children who develop in this climate of domination develop pathological attachments to those who abuse and neglect them, attachments that they will

strive to maintain even at the sacrifice of their own welfare, their mown reality, or their

lives.In addition to the fear of violence, survivors consistently report an overwhelming

sense of helplessness. In the abusive family environment, the exercise of parental power

is arbitrary, capricious, and absolute. Rules are erratic, inconsistent, or patently unfair.

Survivors frequently recall that what frightened them most was the unpredictable nature

of the violence. Unable to find any way to avert the abuse, they learn to adopt a position

of complete surrender. (...)

Adaptation to this climate of constant danger requires a state of constant

alertness. Children in an abusive environment develop extraordinary abilities to scan for

warning signs of attack. They become minutely attuned to their abusers’ inner states.

They learn to recognize subtle changes in facial expression, voice, and body language

as signals of anger, sexual arousal, intoxication, or dissociation. This nonverbal

communication becomes highly automatic and occurs for the most part outside of

conscious awareness. Child victims learn to respond without being able to name or

identify the danger signals that evoked their alarm.

While violence, threats, and the capricious enforcement of rules instill terror and

develop the habit of automatic obedience, isolation, secrecy, and betrayal destroy the

relationships that would afford protection. It is by now a commonplace that families in

which child abuse occurs are socially isolated.

It is less commonly recognized that social isolation does not simply happen; it is often enforced by the abuser in the interest of preserving secrecy and control over other family members. Survivors frequently describe a pattern of jealous surveillance of all social contacts. 

Their abusers may forbid them to participate in ordinary peer activities or may insist on the right to intrude into these activities at will. The social lives of abused children are also profoundly limited by the need to keep up appearances and preserve secrecy. Thus, even those children who

manage to develop the semblance of a social life experience it as inauthentic.

She perceives daily, not only that the most powerful adult in her intimate

world is dangerous to her, but also that the other adults who are responsible for her care

do not protect her. The reasons for this protective failure are in some sense immaterial to

the child victim, who experiences it at best as a sign of indifference and at worst as

complicit betrayal.

In this climate of profoundly disrupted relationships the child faces a formidable

developmental task. She must find a way to form primary attachments to caretakers who

are either dangerous or, from her perspective, negligent. She must find a way to develop

a sense of basic trust and safety with caretakers who are untrustworthy and unsafe. She

must develop a sense of self in relation to others who are helpless, uncaring, or cruel.

She must develop a capacity for bodily self-regulation in an environment in which her

body is at the disposal of others’ needs, as well as a capacity for self-soothing in an

environment without solace. She must develop the capacity for initiative in an

environment which demands that she bring her will into complete conformity with that of

her abuser. And ultimately, she must develop a capacity for intimacy out of an environment where all intimate relationships are corrupt, and an identity out of an environment

which defines her as a whore and a slave. 

Though she perceives herself as abandoned to a power without mercy, she must find a way to preserve hope and meaning. The alternative is utter despair, something no child can bear. To preserve her faith in her parents, she must reject the first and most obvious conclusion that

something is terribly wrong with them. She will go to any lengths to construct an

explanation for her fate that absolves her parents of all blame and responsibility.

All of the abused child’s psychological adaptations serve the fundamental

purpose of preserving her primary attachment to her parents in the face of daily evidence

of their malice, helplessness, or indifference. To accomplish this purpose, the child

resorts to a wide array of psychological defenses. By virtue of these defenses, the abuse

is either walled off from conscious awareness and memory, so that it did not really

happen, or minimized, rationalized, and excused, so that whatever did happen was not

really abuse. Unable to escape or alter the unbearable reality in fact, the child alters it in

her mind.

The child victim prefers to believe that the abuse did not occur. In the service of

this wish, she tries to keep the abuse a secret from herself. The means she has at her

disposal are frank denial, voluntary suppression of thoughts, and a legion of dissociative

reactions. The capacity for induced trance or dissociative states, normally high in schoolage children, is developed to a fine art in children who have been severely punished or

abused. Studies have documented the connection between the severity of childhood

abuse and the degree of familiarity with dissociative states. While most survivors of

childhood abuse describe a degree of proficiency in the use of trance, some develop a

kind of dissociative virtuosity. They may learn to ignore severe pain, to hide their

memories in complex amnesias, to alter their sense of time, place, or person, and to

induce hallucinations or possession states. Sometimes these alterations of consciousness are deliberate, but often they become automatic and feel alien and involuntary.

Under the most extreme conditions of early, severe, and prolonged abuse, some

children, perhaps those already endowed with strong capacities for trance states, begin

to form separated personality fragments with their own names, psychological functions,

and sequestered memories. Dissociation thus becomes not merely a defensive

adaptation but the fundamental principle of personality organization. The genesis of

personality fragments, or alters, in situations of massive childhood trauma has been

verified in numerous investigations. The alters make it possible for the child victim to

cope resourcefully with the abuse while keeping both the abuse and her coping

strategies outside of ordinary awareness.

Not all abused children have the ability to alter reality through dissociation. And

even those who do have this ability cannot rely upon it all the time. When it is impossible

to avoid the reality of the abuse, the child must construct some system of meaning that

justifies it. Inevitably the child concludes that her innate badness is the cause. The child

seizes upon this explanation early and clings to it tenaciously, for it enables her to

preserve a sense of meaning, hope, and power. If she is bad, then her parents are good.

If she is bad, then she can try to be good. If, somehow, she has brought this fate upon

herself, then somehow she has the power to change it. If she has driven her parents to

mistreat her, then, if only she tries hard enough, she may some day earn their

forgiveness and finally win the protection and care she so desperately needs.

 Self-blame is congruent with the normal forms of thought of early childhood, in

which the self is taken as the reference point for all events. It is congruent with the

thought processes of traumatized people of all ages, who search for faults in their own

behavior in an effort to make sense out of what has happened to them. In the

environment of chronic abuse, however, neither time nor experience provide any

corrective for this tendency toward self-blame; rather, it is continually reinforced. The

abused child’s sense of inner badness may be directly confirmed by parental

scapegoating. Survivors frequently describe being blamed, not only for their parents’

violence or sexual misconduct, but also for numerous other family misfortunes. Family

legends may include stories of the harm the child caused by being born or the disgrace

for which she appears to be destined. A survivor describes her scapegoat role: “I was

named after my mother. She had to get married because she got pregnant with me. She

ran away when I was two. My father’s parents raised me. I never saw a picture of her,

but they told me I looked just like her and I’d probably turn out to be a slut and a tramp

just like her. When my dad started raping me, he said, ‘You’ve been asking for this for a

long time and now you’re going to get it.’

Feelings of rage and murderous revenge fantasies are normal responses to

abusive treatment. Like abused adults, abused children are often rageful and sometimes

aggressive. They often lack verbal and social skills for resolving conflict, and they

approach problems with the expectation of hostile attack. The abused child’s predictable

difficulties in modulating anger further strengthen her conviction of inner badness. Each

hostile encounter convinces her that she is indeed a hateful person. If, as is common,

she tends to displace her anger far from its dangerous source and to discharge it unfairly

on those who did not provoke it, her selfcondemnation is aggravated still further. (...)

Children often resist becoming accomplices. They may even strike elaborate bargains with their abusers, sacrificing themselves in an attempt to protect others. These bargains inevitably fail, for no child has the power or the ability to carry out the protective role of an adult. At some point, the child may devise a way to escape her abuser, knowing that he will find another victim 

By developing a contaminated, stigmatized identity, the child victim takes the evil

of the abuser into herself and thereby preserves her primary attachments to her parents.

Because the inner sense of badness preserves a relationship, it is not readily given up

even after the abuse has stopped; rather, it becomes a stable part of the child’s

personality structure.(...)

Similar failures of integration occur in the child’s inner representations of others.

In her desperate attempts to preserve her faith in her parents, the child victim develops

highly idealized images of at least one parent. Sometimes the child attempts to preserve

a bond with the nonoffending parent. She excuses or rationalizes the failure of protection

by attributing it to her own unworthiness. More commonly, the child idealizes the abusive

parent and displaces all her rage onto the nonoffending parent. She may in fact feel

more strongly attached to the abuser, who demonstrates a perverse interest in her, than

in the nonoffending parent, whom she perceives as indifferent. The abuser may also

foster this idealization by indoctrinating the child victim and other family members in his

own paranoid or grandiose belief system.

Such glorified images of the parents cannot, however, be reliably sustained. They

deliberately leave out too much information. The real experience of abusive or neglectful

parents cannot be integrated with these idealized fragments. Thus, the child victim’s

inner representations of her primary caretakers, like her images of herself, remain

contradictory and split. The abused child is unable to form inner representations of a

safe, consistent caretaker. This in turn prevents the development of normal capacities for

emotional self-regulation. The fragmentary, idealized images that the child is able to form

cannot be evoked to fulfill the task of emotional soothing. They are too meager, too

incomplete, and too prone to transform without warning into images of terror. (...)

Under conditions of chronic childhood abuse, fragmentation becomes the

central principle of personality organization. Fragmentation in consciousness prevents

the ordinary integration of knowledge, memory, emotional states, and bodily experience.

Fragmentation in the inner representations of the self prevents the integration of identity.

Fragmentation in the inner representations of others prevents the development of a

reliable sense of independence within connection. (...)

These three major forms of adaptation—the elaboration of dissociative defenses,

the development of a fragmented identity, and the pathological regulation of emotional states—permit the child to survive in an environment of chronic abuse. Further, they generally allow the child victim to preserve the appearance of normality which is of such

importance to the abusive family. The child’s distress symptoms are generally well

hidden. Altered states of consciousness, memory lapses, and other dissociative

symptoms are not generally recognized. The formation of a malignant negative identity is

generally disguised by the socially conforming “false self.” Psychosomatic symptoms are

rarely traced to their source. And self-destructive behavior carried out in secret generally

goes unnoticed. Though some child or adolescent victims may call attention to

themselves through aggressive or delinquent behavior, most are able successfully to

conceal the extent of their psychological difficulties. Most abused children reach

adulthood with their secrets intact. 

(...)

Many abused children cling to the hope that growing up will bring escape and

freedom. But the personality formed in an environment of coercive control is not well

adapted to adult life. The survivor is left with fundamental problems in basic trust,

autonomy, and initiative. She approaches the tasks of early adulthood—establishing

independence and intimacy—burdened by major impairments in self-care, in cognition

and memory, in identity, and in the capacity to form stable relationships. She is still a

prisoner of her childhood; attempting to create a new life, she reencounters the trauma. 

The survivor’s intimate relationships are driven by the hunger for protection and

care and are haunted by the fear of abandonment or exploitation. In a quest for rescue,

she may seek out powerful authority figures who seem to offer the promise of a special

caretaking relationship. By idealizing the person to whom she becomes attached, she

attempts to keep at bay the constant fear of being either dominated or betrayed.

 Inevitably, however, the chosen person fails to live up to her fantastic

expectations. When disappointed, she may furiously denigrate the same person whom

she so recently adored. Ordinary interpersonal conflicts may provoke intense anxiety,

depression, or rage. In the mind of the survivor, even minor slights evoke past

experiences of callous neglect, and minor hurts evoke past experiences of deliberate

cruelty. These distortions are not easily corrected by experience, since the survivor tends

to lack the verbal and social skills for resolving conflict. Thus the survivor develops a

pattern of intense, unstable relationships, repeatedly enacting dramas of rescue,

injustice, and betrayal.

 Almost inevitably, the survivor has great difficulty protecting herself in the context

of intimate relationships. Her desperate longing for nurturance and care makes it difficult

to establish safe and appropriate boundaries with others. Her tendency to denigrate

herself and to idealize those to whom she becomes attached further clouds her

judgment. Her empathic attunement to the wishes of others and her automatic, often

unconscious habits of obedience also make her vulnerable to anyone in a position of

power or authority. Her dissociative defensive style makes it difficult for her to form

conscious and accurate assessments of danger. And her wish to relive the dangerous

situation and make it come out right may lead her into reenactments of the abuse. For all

of these reasons, the adult survivor is at great risk of repeated victimization in adult life. 

THE CORE EXPERIENCES of psychological trauma are disempowerment and

disconnection from others. Recovery, therefore, is based upon the empowerment of the

survivor and the creation of new connections. Recovery can take place only within the

context of relationships; it cannot occur in isolation. In her renewed connections with

other people, the survivor re-creates the psychological faculties that were damaged or

deformed by the traumatic experience. These faculties include the basic capacities for

trust, autonomy, initiative, competence, identity, and intimacy. Just as these capabilities

are originally formed in relationships with other people, they must be reformed in such

relationships.

 The first principle of recovery is the empowerment of the survivor. She must be

the author and arbiter of her own recovery. Others may offer advice, support, assistance,

affection, and care, but not cure.

RECOVERY UNFOLDS IN THREE STAGES:

1. The central task of the first stage is the establishment of safety. 
2. The central task of the second stage is remembrance and mourning. 
3. The central task of the third stage is reconnection with ordinary life. 

Like any abstract concept, these stages of recovery are a convenient fiction, not to be taken too

literally. They are an attempt to impose simplicity and order upon a process that is

inherently turbulent and complex.

SAFETY

Survivors feel unsafe in their bodies. Their emotions and their thinking feel out of

control. They also feel unsafe in relation to other people. 

Establishing safety begins by focusing on control of the body and gradually

moves outward toward control of the environment. Issues of bodily integrity include

attention to basic health needs, regulation of bodily functions such as sleep, eating, and

exercise, management of post-traumatic symptoms, and control of self-destructive

behaviors. Environmental issues include the establishment of a safe living situation,

financial security, mobility, and a plan for self-protection that encompasses the full range

of the patient’s daily life. Because no one can establish a safe environment alone, the

task of developing an adequate safety plan always includes a component of social

support. 

The survivor’s relationships with other people tend to oscillate between extremes

as she attempts to establish a sense of safety. She may seek to surround herself with

people at all times, or she may isolate herself completely. In general, she should be

encouraged to turn to others for support, but considerable care must be taken to ensure

that she chooses people whom she can trust. Family members, lovers, and close friends

may be of immeasurable help; they may also interfere with recovery or may themselves

be dangerous. An initial evaluation of the traumatized person includes a careful review of

the important relationships in her life, assessing each as a potential source of protection,

emotional support, or practical help, and also as a potential source of danger. 

Establishing a safe environment requires not only the mobilization of caring

people but also the development of a plan for future protection. In the aftermath of the

trauma, the survivor must assess the degree of continued threat and decide what sort of

precautions are necessary. She must also decide what actions she wishes to take

against her attacker. Since the best course of action is rarely obvious, decision-making

in these matters may be particularly stressful for the survivor and those who care for her.

She may feel confused and ambivalent herself and may find her ambivalence reflected

in the contradictory opinions of friends, lovers, of family.

The guarantee of safety in a battering relationship can never be based upon a

promise from the perpetrator, no matter how heartfelt. Rather, it must be based upon the

self-protective capability of the victim. Until the victim has developed a detailed and

realistic contingency plan and has demonstrated her ability to carry it out, she remains in

danger of repeated abuse.(...) Like battered women, adult survivors of chronic abuse in childhood are often still entangled in complicated relationships with their abusers.

The survivor may wish to put the experience out of mind for a while and get on with her life. And she may succeed in doing so for a time. Nowhere is it written that the recovery process must follow a linear, uninterrupted sequence. But traumatic events ultimately refuse to be put away. At some

point the memory of the trauma is bound to return, demanding attention. Often the

precipitant is a significant reminder of the trauma—an anniversary, for instance—or a

change in the survivor’s life circumstances that brings her back to the unfinished work of

integrating the traumatic experience. She is then ready to embark upon the second

stage of recovery. 

REMEMBRANCE AND MORNING 

IN THE SECOND STAGE OF RECOVERY, the survivor tells the story of the trauma. She tells it completely, in depth and in detail. This work of reconstruction actually transforms the traumatic memory, so that it can be integrated into the survivor’s life story. The basic principle of empowerment continues to apply during the second stage of recovery. The choice to confront the horrors of the past rests with the survivor.The next step is to reconstruct the traumatic event as a recitation of fact. Out of the fragmented components of frozen imagery and sensation.

The narrative includes not only the event itself but also the survivor’s response to it and the responses of the important people in her life. As the narrative closes in on the most unbearable moments, the patient finds it more and more difficult to use words. A narrative that does not include the traumatic imagery and bodily sensations is barren and incomplete. The ultimate goal, however, is to put the story, including its imagery, into words.

The recitation of facts without the accompanying emotions is a sterile exercise,

without therapeutic effect. She must reconstruct not only what happened but also what she felt.

The description of emotional states must be as painstakingly detailed as the description

of facts. She is not simply describing what she felt in the past but is reliving those feelings

in the present. 

Reconstructing the trauma story also includes a systematic review of the

meaning of the event, both to the patient and to the important people in her life. The

traumatic event challenges an ordinary person to become a theologian, a philosopher,

and a jurist. The survivor is called upon to articulate the values and beliefs that she once

held and that the trauma destroyed. She stands mute before the emptiness of evil,

feeling the insufficiency of any known system of explanation. Survivors of atrocity of

every age and every culture come to a point in their testimony where all questions are

reduced to one, spoken more in bewilderment than in outrage: 

Why? The answer is beyond human understanding. 

Beyond this unfathomable question, the survivor confronts another, equally

incomprehensible question: 

Why me? 

The arbitrary, random quality of her fate defies the basic human faith in a just or even predictable world order. In order to develop a full understanding of the trauma story, the survivor must examine the moral questions of guilt and responsibility and reconstruct a system of belief that makes sense of her

undeserved suffering. Finally, the survivor cannot reconstruct a sense of meaning by the

exercise of thought alone. The remedy for injustice also requires action. The survivor

must decide what is to be done. 

As the survivor attempts to resolve these questions, she often comes into conflict

with important people in her life. There is a rupture in her sense of belonging within a

shared system of belief. Thus she faces a double task: not only must she rebuild her

own “shattered assumptions” about meaning, order, and justice in the world but she

must also find a way to resolve her differences with those whose beliefs she can no

longer share. 

Not only must she restore her own sense of worth but she must also be prepared to sustain it in the face of the critical judgments of others. 

Because the truth is so difficult to face, survivors often vacillate in reconstructing

their stories. Denial of reality makes them feel crazy, but acceptance of the full reality

seems beyond what any human being can bear.

It is understandable to wish for a magic transformation, a purging of the evil of the trauma. Psychotherapy, however, does not get rid of the trauma. The goal of recounting the trauma story is integration, not exorcism. In the process of reconstruction, the trauma story does undergo a

transformation, but only in the sense of becoming more present and more real. The

fundamental premise of the psychotherapeutic work is a belief in the restorative power of

truth-telling. 

About Mourning,

Trauma inevitably brings loss.

The telling of the trauma story thus inevitably plunges the survivor into

profound grief. Since so many of the losses are invisible or unrecognized, the customary

rituals of mourning provide little consolation. 

The descent into mourning is at once the most necessary and the most dreaded

task of this stage of recovery.

The survivor frequently resists mourning, not only out of fear but also out of pride.

She may consciously refuse to grieve as a way of denying victory to the perpetrator. In

this case it is important to reframe the patient’s mourning as an act of courage rather

than humiliation. To the extent that the patient is unable to grieve, she is cut off from a

part of herself and robbed of an important part of her healing. Reclaiming the ability to

feel the full range of emotions, including grief, must be understood as an act of

resistance rather than submission to the perpetrator’s intent. Only through mourning

everything that she has lost can the patient discover her indestructible inner life.

Since mourning is so difficult, resistance to mourning is probably the most common cause of stagnation in the second stage of recovery. Resistance to mourning can take on numerous disguises. Most frequently it appears as a fantasy of magical

resolution through revenge, forgiveness, or compensation. 

The revenge fantasy is often a mirror image of the traumatic memory, in which

the roles of perpetrator and victim are reversed. It often has the same grotesque, frozen,

and wordless quality as the traumatic memory itself. The revenge fantasy is one form of

the wish for catharsis. The victim imagines that she can get rid of the terror, shame, and

pain of the trauma by retaliating against the perpetrator. The desire for revenge also

arises out of the experience of complete helplessness. In her humiliated fury, the victim

imagines that revenge is the only way to restore her own sense of power. She may also

imagine that this is the only way to force the perpetrator to acknowledge the harm he

has done her.

 Though the traumatized person imagines, that revenge will bring relief, repetitive

revenge fantasies actually increase her torment. Violent, graphic revenge fantasies may

be as arousing, frightening, and intrusive as images of the original trauma. They

exacerbate the victim’s feelings of horror and degrade her image of herself. They make

her feel like a monster. They are also highly frustrating, since revenge can never change

or compensate for the harm that was done. 

During the process of mourning, the survivor must come to terms with the impossibility of getting even. As she vents her rage in safety, her helpless fury gradually changes into a more powerful and satisfying form of anger: righteous indignation. This transformation allows the survivor to free herself from the prison of the revenge fantasy, in which she is alone with the perpetrator. It offers her a way to regain a sense of power without becoming a criminal herself. Giving up the fantasy of revenge does not mean giving up the quest for justice; on the contrary, it begins the process of joining with others to hold the perpetrator accountable for his crimes. 

Revolted by the fantasy of revenge, some survivors attempt to bypass their

outrage altogether through a fantasy of forgiveness. This fantasy, like its polar opposite,

is an attempt at empowerment. The survivor imagines that she can transcend her rage

and erase the impact of the trauma through a willed, defiant act of love. But it is not

possible to exorcise the trauma, through either hatred or love. Like revenge, the fantasy

of forgiveness often becomes a cruel torture, because it remains out of reach for most

ordinary human beings. Folk wisdom recognizes that to forgive is divine. And even divine

forgiveness, in most religious systems, is not unconditional. True forgiveness cannot be

granted until the perpetrator has sought and earned it through confession, repentance,

and restitution. 

Genuine contrition in a perpetrator is a rare miracle. Fortunately, the survivor

does not need to wait for it. Her healing depends on the discovery of restorative love in

her own life; it does not require that this love be extended to the perpetrator. Once the

survivor has mourned the traumatic event, she may be surprised to discover how

uninteresting the perpetrator has become to her and how little concern she feels for his

fate. She may even feel sorrow and compassion for him, but this disengaged feeling is

not the same as forgiveness.

 The fantasy of compensation, like the fantasies of revenge and forgiveness, often

becomes a formidable impediment to mourning. Part of the problem is the very

legitimacy of the desire for compensation. Because an injustice has been done to her,

the survivor naturally feels entitled to some form of compensation. The quest for fair

compensation is often an important part of recovery. However, it also presents a

potential trap. Prolonged, fruitless struggles to wrest compensation from the perpetrator

or from others may represent a defense against facing the full reality of what was lost.

Mourning is the only way to give due honor to loss; there is no adequate compensation.

 The fantasy of compensation is often fueled by the desire for a victory over the

perpetrator that erases the humiliation of the trauma. When the compensation fantasy is

explored in detail, it usually includes psychological components that mean more to the

patient than any material gain. The compensation may represent an acknowledgment of

harm, an apology, or a public humiliation of the perpetrator. Though the fantasy is about

empowerment, in reality the struggle for compensation ties the patient’s fate to that of

the perpetrator and holds her recovery hostage to his whims. Paradoxically, the patient

may liberate herself from the perpetrator when she renounces the hope of getting any

compensation from him. As grieving progresses, the patient comes to envision a more

social, general, and abstract process of restitution, which permits her to pursue her just

claims without ceding any power over her present life to the perpetrator.

Survivors of chronic childhood trauma face the task of grieving not only for what was lost but also for what was never theirs to lose. 

The childhood that was stolen from them is irreplaceable. They must mourn the loss of the foundation of basic trust, the belief in a good parent. As they come to recognize that they were not responsible for their fate, they confront the existential despair that they could not face in childhood. 

The confrontation with despair brings with it, at least transiently, an increased risk

of suicide. In contrast to the impulsive self-destructiveness of the first stage of recovery,

the patient’s suicidality during this second stage may evolve from a calm, flat, apparently

rational decision to reject a world where such horrors are possible. Patients may engage

in sterile philosophical discussions about their right to choose suicide. It is imperative to

get beyond this intellectual defense and to engage the feelings and fantasies that fuel

the patient’s despair. Commonly the patient has the fantasy that she is already among

the dead, because her capacity for love has been destroyed. What sustains the patient

through this descent into despair is the smallest evidence of an ability to form loving

connections. 

The reward of mourning is realized as the survivor sheds her evil, stigmatized identity and dares to hope for new relationships in which she no longer has anything to hide. 

The reconstruction of the trauma is never entirely completed; new conflicts and

challenges at each new stage of the lifecycle will inevitably reawaken the trauma and

bring some new aspect of the experience to light. The major work of the second stage is

accomplished, however, when the patient reclaims her own history and feels renewed

hope and energy for engagement with life. Time starts to move again. When the “action

of telling a story” has come to its conclusion, the traumatic experience truly belongs to

the past. At this point, the survivor faces the tasks of rebuilding her life in the present and

pursuing her aspirations for the future. 

RECONNECTION 

HAVING COME TO TERMS with the traumatic past, the survivor faces the task of

creating a future. She has mourned the old self that the trauma destroyed; now she must

develop a new self. Her relationships have been tested and forever changed by the

trauma; now she must develop new relationships. The old beliefs that gave meaning to

her life have been challenged; now she must find a new sustaining faith. These are the

tasks of the third stage of recovery. In accomplishing this work, the survivor reclaims her

world. Survivors whose personality has been shaped in the traumatic environment often

feel at this stage of recovery as though they are refugees entering a new country. For

political exiles, this may be literally true; but for many others, such as battered women or

survivors of childhood abuse, the psychological experience can only be compared to

immigration. They must build a new life within a radically different culture from the one

they have left behind. Emerging from an environment of total control, they feel

simultaneously the wonder and uncertainty of freedom. They speak of losing and

regaining the world.

The issues of the first stage of recovery are often revisited during the third. Once

again the survivor devotes energy to the care of her body, her immediate environment,

her material needs, and her relationships with others. But while in the first stage the goal

was simply to secure a defensive position of basic safety, by the third stage the survivor

is ready to engage more actively in the world. From her newly created safe base she can

now venture forth. She can establish an agenda. She can recover some of her

aspirations from the time before the trauma, or perhaps for the first time she can

discover her own ambitions.

 Helplessness and isolation are the core experiences of psychological trauma.

Empowerment and reconnection are the core experiences of recovery. In the third stage

of recovery, the traumatized person recognizes that she has been a victim and

understands the effects of her victimization. Now she is ready to incorporate the lessons

of her traumatic experience into her life. She is ready to take concrete steps to increase

her sense of power and control, to protect herself against future danger, and to deepen

her alliances with those whom she has learned to trust. A survivor of childhood sexual

abuse describes her arrival at this stage: “I decided, ‘Okay, I’ve had enough of walking

around like I’d like to brutalize everyone who looks at me wrong. I don’t have to feel like

that any more.’ Then I thought, ‘How would I like to feel?’ I wanted to feel safe in the

world. I wanted to feel powerful. And so I focused on what was working in my life, in the

ways I was taking power in real-life situations.” 

Taking power in real-life situations often involves a conscious choice to face

danger. By this stage of recovery, survivors understand that their post-traumatic

symptoms represent a pathological exaggeration of the normal responses to danger.

They are often keenly aware of their continued vulnerability to threats and reminders of

the trauma. Rather than passively accepting these reliving experiences, survivors may

choose actively to engage their fears. On one level, the choice to expose oneself to

danger can be understood as yet another reenactment of trauma. Like reenactment, this

choice is an attempt to master the traumatic experience; unlike reenactment, however, it

is undertaken consciously, in a planned and methodical manner, and is therefore far

more likely to succeed. 

Beyond the confrontation with physical danger, survivors at this point often

reevaluate their characteristic ways of coping with social situations that may not be

overtly threatening but are nonetheless hostile or.subtly coercive. They may begin to

question previous assumptions that permitted them to acquiesce in socially condoned

violence or exploitation. Women question their traditional acceptance of a subordinate

role. Men question their traditional complicity in a hierarchy of dominance. Often these

assumptions and behaviors have been so ingrained that they have operated outside of

awareness. She came to realize that her stereotypically feminine attitudes and behavior put her at risk. She is able to revise her attitudes, including her automatic and unrealistic expectations that dominant others would feel guilty about exploiting her and then be motivated by guilt to be concerned and

tender.

It bears repeating that the survivor is free to examine aspects of her own

personality or behavior that rendered her vulnerable to exploitation only after it has been

clearly established that the perpetrator alone is responsible for the crime. A frank

exploration of the traumatized person’s weaknesses and mistakes can be undertaken

only in an environment that protects against shaming and harsh judgment. Otherwise, it

becomes simply another exercise in blaming the victim.

As survivors recognize their own socialized assumptions that rendered them

vulnerable to exploitation in the past, they may also identify sources of continued social

pressure that keep them confined in a victim role in the present. Just as they must

overcome their own fears and inner conflicts, they must also overcome these external

social pressures; otherwise, they will be continually subjected to symbolic repetitions of

the trauma in everyday life. Whereas in the first stage of recovery survivors deal with

social adversity mainly by retreating to a protected environment, in the third stage

survivors may wish to take the initiative in confronting others. It is at this point that

survivors are ready to reveal their secrets, to challenge the indifference or censure of

bystanders, and to accuse those who have abused them.

 Survivors who grew up in abusive families have often cooperated for years with a

family rule of silence. In preserving the family secret, they carry the weight of a burden

that does not belong to them. At this point in their recovery, survivors may choose to

declare to their families that the rule of silence has been irrevocably broken. In so doing,

they renounce the burden of shame, guilt, and responsibility, and place this burden on

the perpetrator, where it properly belongs.

 

Family confrontations or disclosures can be highly empowering when they are

properly timed and well planned. They should not be undertaken until the survivor feels

ready to speak the truth as she knows it, without need for confirmation and without fear

of consequences. The power of the disclosure rests in the act of telling the truth; how the

family responds is immaterial. 

While validation from the family can be gratifying when it occurs, a disclosure session may be successful even if the family responds with unyielding denial or fury. In this circumstance the survivor has the opportunity to observe the family’s behavior and to enlarge her understanding of the pressures she faced as a child.

 

In practice, family disclosures or confrontations require careful preparation and

attention to detail. Because so many family interactions are habitual and taken for

granted, the dynamics of dominance and submission are frequently relived even in

apparently trivial encounters. The survivor should be encouraged to take charge of the

planning of the session and to establish explicit ground rules. For some survivors, it is a

completely novel experience to be the maker of rules rather than the one who

automatically obeys them.

 

The survivor should also be clear about her strategy for disclosure, planning in

advance what information she wishes to reveal and to whom she wishes to reveal it.

While some survivors wish to confront their perpetrators, many more wish to disclose the

secret to nonoffending family members. The survivor should be encouraged to consider

first approaching those family members who might be sympathetic, before proceeding to

confront those who might be implacably hostile. Just like self-defense training, direct

involvement in family conflicts often requires a series of graded exercises, in which the

survivor masters one level of fear before choosing to proceed to higher levels of

exposure.

 

Finally, the survivor should anticipate and plan for the various possible outcomes

of her disclosure. While she may be clear about the desired outcome, she must be

prepared to accept whatever the outcome may be. A successful disclosure is almost

always followed by both exhilaration and disappointment. On the one hand, the survivor

feels surprised at her own courage and daring. She no longer feels intimidated by her

family or compelled to participate in destructive family relationships. She is no longer

confined by secrecy; she has nothing more to hide. On the other hand, she gains a

clearer sense of her family’s limitations.

RECONCILING WITH ONESELF

 This simple statement “I know I have myself” could stand as the emblem of the

third and final stage of recovery. The survivor no longer feels possessed by her traumatic

past; she is in possession of herself. She has some understanding of the person she

used to be and of the damage done to that person by the traumatic event. Her task now

is to become the person she wants to be. In the process she draws upon those aspects

of herself that she most values from the time before the trauma, from the experience of

the trauma itself, and from the period of recovery. Integrating all of these elements, she

creates a new self, both ideally and in actuality.

 

The re-creation of an ideal self involves the active exercise of imagination and

fantasy, capacities that have now been liberated. In earlier stages, the survivor’s fantasy

life was dominated by repetitions of the trauma, and her imagination was limited by a

sense of helplessness and futility. Now she has the capacity to revisit old hopes and

dreams. The survivor may initially resist doing so, fearing the pain of disappointment. It

takes courage to move out of the constricted stance of the victim. But just as the survivor

must dare to confront her fears, she must also dare to define her wishes.

Now is the time to rise above the sameness of your days and explore the risk of testing your abilities, the expansive feeling 

that comes from . . . growth.

Gaining possession of oneself often requires repudiating those aspects of the self

that were imposed by the trauma. As the survivor sheds her victim identity, she may also

choose to renounce parts of herself that have felt almost intrinsic to her being. Once

again, this process challenges the survivor’s capacities for both fantasy and discipline.

An incest survivor describes how she embarked on a conscious program to change her

ingrained sexual responses to scenarios of sadomasochism: “I came to the point where I

really understood that they weren’t my fantasies. They’d been imposed on me through

the abuse. And gradually, I began to be able to have orgasms without thinking about the

SM, without picturing my father doing something to me. Once I separated the fantasy

from the feeling, I’d consciously impose other powerful images on that feeling—like

seeing a waterfall. If they can put SM on you, you can put waterfalls there instead. I

reprogrammed myself.”

 

While the survivor becomes more adventurous in the world during this period, her

life at the same time becomes more ordinary. As she reconnects with herself, she feels

calmer and better able to face her life with equanimity. At times, this peaceable day-today existence may feel strange, especially to survivors who have been raised in a traumatic environment and are experiencing normality for the first time. 

Whereas in the past survivors often imagined that ordinary life would be boring, now they are bored with the life of a victim and ready to find ordinary life interesting. A survivor of childhood

sexual abuse testifies to this change: “I’m an intensity junkie. I feel a letdown whenever I

come to the end of a particular cycle of intensity. What am I going to cry and throw

scenes about now? . . . I see it as almost a chemical addiction. I became addicted to my

own sense of drama and adrenaline. Letting go of the need for intensity has been a

process of slowly weaning myself. I’ve gotten to a point where I’ve actually experienced

bits of plain contentment.”

 

As survivors recognize and “let go” of those aspects of themselves that were formed by the traumatic environment, they also become more forgiving of themselves.

They are more willing to acknowledge the damage done to their character when they no longer feel that such damage must be permanent. The more actively survivors are able to engage in rebuilding their lives, the more generous and accepting they can be toward the memory of the traumatized self.

At this point also the survivor can sometimes identify positive aspects of the self

that were forged in the traumatic experience, even while recognizing that any gain was

achieved at far too great a price. From a position of increased power in her present life,

the survivor comes to a deeper recognition of her powerlessness in the traumatic

situation and thus to a greater appreciation of her own adaptive resources. For example,

a survivor who used dissociation to cope with terror and helplessness may begin to

marvel at this extraordinary capacity of the mind. Though she developed this capacity as

a prisoner and may have become imprisoned by it as well, once she is free, she may

even learn to use her trance capability to enrich her present life rather than to escape

from it.

 Compassion and respect for the traumatized, victim self join with a celebration of

the survivor self. As this stage of recovery is achieved, the survivor often feels a sense of

renewed pride. This healthy admiration of the self differs from the grandiose feeling of

specialness sometimes found in victimized people. The victim’s specialness

compensates for self-loathing and feelings of worthlessness. Always brittle, it admits of

no imperfection. Moreover, the victim’s specialness carries with it a feeling of difference

and isolation from others. By contrast, the survivor remains fully aware of her

ordinariness, her weaknesses, and her limitations, as well as her connection and

indebtedness to others. This awareness provides a balance, even as she rejoices in her

strengths.

RECONNECTING WITH OTHERS

 By the third stage of recovery, the survivor has regained some capacity for

appropriate trust. She can once again feel trust in others when that trust is warranted,

she can withhold her trust when it is not warranted, and she knows how to distinguish

between the two situations. She has also regained the ability to feel autonomous while

remaining connected to others; she can maintain her own point of view and her own

boundaries while respecting those of others. She has begun to take more initiative in her

life and is in the process of creating a new identity. With others, she is now ready to risk

deepening her relationships. With peers, she can now seek mutual friendships that are

not based on performance, image, or maintenance of a false self. With lovers and family,

she is now ready for greater intimacy.

 The deepening of connection is also apparent within the therapeutic relationship.

The therapeutic alliance now feels less intense, but more relaxed and secure. There is

room for more spontaneity and humor.

Because the survivor is focusing on issues of identity and intimacy, she often

feels at this stage as though she is in a second adolescence. The survivor who has

grown up in an abusive environment has in fact been denied a first adolescence and

often lacks the social skills that normally develop during this stage of life. The

awkwardness and self-consciousness that make normal adolescence tumultuous and

painful are often magnified in adult survivors, who may be exquisitely ashamed of their

“backwardness” in skills that other adults take for granted. Adolescent styles of coping

may also be prominent at this time. Just as adolescents giggle in order to ward off their

embarrassment, adult survivors may find in laughter an antidote to their shame. Just as

adolescents band together in tight friendships in order to risk exploring a wider world,

survivors may find themselves developing intense new loyalties as they rebuild their

lives.

As the trauma recedes into the past, it no longer represents a barrier to intimacy.

At this point, the survivor may be ready to devote her energy more fully to a relationship

with a partner. If she has not been involved in an intimate relationship, she may begin to

consider the possibility without feeling either dread or desperate need. If she has been

involved with a partner during the recovery process, she often becomes much more

aware of the ways in which her partner suffered from her preoccupation with the trauma.

At this point she can express her gratitude more freely and make amends when

necessary. 

Finally, the deepening of intimacy brings the survivor into connection with the

next generation. Concern for the next generation is always linked to the question of

prevention. The survivor’s overriding fear is a repetition of the trauma; her goal is to

prevent a repetition at all costs. 

“Never again!” is the survivor’s universal cry. 

In earlier stages of recovery the survivor often avoids the unbearable thought of repetition by

shunning involvement with children. Or if the survivor is a parent, she may oscillate

between withdrawal and overprotectiveness with her children, just as she oscillates

between extremes in her other relationships. 

In the third stage of recovery, as the survivor comes to terms with the meaning of

the trauma in her own life, she may also become more open to new forms of

engagement with children. If the survivor is a parent, she may come to recognize ways

in which the trauma experience has indirectly affected her children, and she may take

steps to rectify the situation. If she does not have children, she may begin to take a new

and broader interest in young people. She may even wish for the first time to bring

children into the world. 

Also for the first time the survivor may consider how best to share the trauma story with children, in a manner that is neither secretive nor imposing, and how to draw lessons from this story that will protect children from future dangers. The trauma story is part of the survivor’s legacy; only when it is fully integrated can the survivor pass it on, in confidence that it will prove a source of strength and inspiration rather than a blight on the next generation.

Resolution of the trauma is never final; recovery is never complete. 

The impact of a traumatic event continues to reverberate throughout the survivor’s lifecycle. Issues that

were sufficiently resolved at one stage of recovery may be reawakened as the survivor

reaches new milestones in her development. Marriage or divorce, a birth or death in the

family, illness or retirement, are frequent occasions for a resurgence of traumatic

memories. 

Though resolution is never complete, it is often sufficient for the survivor to turn her

attention from the tasks of recovery to the tasks of ordinary life. The best indices of

resolution are the survivor’s restored capacity to take pleasure in her life and to engage

fully in relationships with others. She has become more interested in the present and the

future than in the past, more apt to approach the world with praise and awe than with

fear.

The psychologist Mary Harvey defines seven criteria for the resolution of trauma:

1. First, the physiological symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder have been brought within manageable limits. 
2. Second, the person is able to bear the feelings associated with traumatic memories. 
3. Third, the person has authority over her memories: she can elect both to remember the trauma and to put memory aside. 
4. Fourth, the memory of the traumatic event is a coherent narrative, linked with feeling. 
5. Fifth, the person’s damaged selfesteem has been restored. 
6. Sixth, the person’s important relationships have been reestablished. 
7. Seventh and finally, the person has reconstructed a coherent system of meaning and belief that encompasses the story of the trauma. 

In practice, all of these issues are interconnected, and all are addressed at every stage of recovery. The course of recovery does not follow a simple progression but often detours and doubles back, reviewing issues that have already been addressed many times in order to deepen and expand the survivor’s integration of the meaning of her experience.

The survivor who has accomplished her recovery faces life with few illusions but often with gratitude. Her view of life may be tragic, but for that very reason she has learned to cherish laughter. She has a clear sense of what is important and what is not. Having encountered evil, she knows how to cling to what is good. 

Having encountered the fear of death, she knows how to celebrate life.

COMMONALITY 

TRAUMATIC EVENTS destroy the sustaining bonds between individual and

community. Those who have survived learn that their sense of self, of worth, of humanity,

depends upon a feeling of connection to others. The solidarity of a group provides the

strongest protection against terror and despair, and the strongest antidote to traumatic

experience. 

Trauma isolates; the group re-creates a sense of belonging. 

Trauma shames and stigmatizes; the group bears witness and affirms. 

Trauma degrades the victim; the group exalts her. 

Trauma dehumanizes the victim; the group restores her humanity. 

Repeatedly in the testimony of survivors there comes a moment when a sense of

connection is restored by another person’s unaffected display of generosity. Something

in herself that the victim believes to be irretrievably destroyed—faith, decency,

courage—is reawakened by an example of common altruism. Mirrored in the actions of

others, the survivor recognizes and reclaims a lost part of herself. At that moment, the

survivor begins to rejoin the human commonality. 

Primo Levi describes this moment in his liberation from a Nazi concentration camp:

 "When the broken window was repaired and the stove began to spread its heat,

something seemed to relax in everyone, and at that moment [one prisoner] proposed to

the others that each of them offer a slice of bread to us three who had been working.

And so it was agreed. Only a day before a similar event would have been inconceivable.

The law of the [camp] said: “Eat your own bread, and if you can, that of your neighbor,”

and left no room for gratitude. It really meant the [camp] was dead. It was the first human

gesture that occurred among us. I believe that that moment can be dated as the

beginning of the change by which we who had not died slowly changed from [prisoners]

to men again."

 

The restoration of social bonds begins with the discovery that one is not alone.

Nowhere is this experience more immediate, powerful, or convincing than in a group.

Irvin Yalom, an authority on group psychotherapy, calls this the experience of

“universality.” The therapeutic impact of universality is especially profound for people

who have felt isolated by shameful secrets. Because traumatized people feel so

alienated by their experience, survivor groups have a special place in the recovery

process. Such groups afford a degree of support and understanding that is simply not

available in the survivor’s ordinary social environment. The encounter with others who

have undergone similar trials dissolves feelings of isolation, shame, and stigma. 

When groups develop cohesion and intimacy, a complex mirroring process

comes into play. As each participant extends herself to others, she becomes more

capable of receiving the gifts that others have to offer. The tolerance, compassion, and

love she grants to others begin to rebound upon herself. Though this type of mutually

enhancing interaction can take place in any relationship, it occurs most powerfully in the

context of a group. Yalom describes this process as an “adaptive spiral,” in which group

acceptance increases each member’s self-esteem, and each member in turn becomes

more accepting toward Others. 

Groups provide the possibility not only of mutually rewarding relationships but also of

collective empowerment. Group members approach one another as peers and equals.

Though each is suffering and in need of help, each also has something to contribute.

The group requisitions and nurtures the strengths of each of its members. As a result,

the group as a whole has a capacity to bear and integrate traumatic experience that is

greater than that of any individual member, and each member can draw upon the shared

resources of the group to foster her own integration. 

Commonality with other people carries with it all the meanings of the word

common. It means belonging to a society, having a public role, being part of that which is

universal. It means having a feeling of familiarity, of being known, of communion. It

means taking part in the customary, the commonplace, the ordinary, and the everyday. It

also carries with it a feeling of smallness, of insignificance, a sense that one’s own

troubles are “as a drop of rain in the sea.” 

The survivor who has achieved commonality with others can rest from her labors. Her recovery is accomplished; all that remains before her is her life. 

Judith Herman

in,Trauma and Recovery