I love Morgan Farley’s piece in Transforming Terror. I found her poignant description of 9/11 victims especially moving, “It is possible to stay humanly connected, and inwardly free, in the face of terror beyond imagining, terror far more grievous than my own” (p. 188). It seems that this compassion within terror that these people displayed for one another, prompted her to foster this type of compassion for herself. Her personal journey reminded me of something Jentz described—that going into the dark can save you (p. 185). Farley wrote so eloquently about this process. I too have spent some time coddling my inner child. One of Farley’s most beautiful descriptions said, “She would knit me into the felt truth of that time and thereby knit me back into my own skin” (p. 190). I love the idea that our adult selves can journey back to comfort our child selves in an experience where the actual adults in our lives betrayed us. The notion that we can have the power to be the adult for ourselves, even after the fact, is truly empowering.

I also identified with Farley’s realization, “I held my head in my hands and wept. That was the balm for her wounds, the rescue she had been waiting for—someone willing to feel and suffer with her at this depth, to weep for her and hold her close” (p. 190). For me this also speaks to the idea that in the end we must be able to rely upon ourselves. There is something to be said for filling our lives with people that we can lean on for support, but ultimately there is so much power in knowing how to be there for yourself. In the end we’re all human, and this means that the people we love have the capacity to betray us and disappoint us in any variety of ways—even when it’s not their intention. I feel like knowing how to take care of ourselves when we’re hurt—and being confident in our ability to do so—lends a certain kind of freedom to our intimate relationships. It takes the pressure off of the other person to be that ultimate source of stability. We have the power to be that for ourselves.

Farley’s realization on page 191 also resonated with me; “I thought I was saving her, but it is she who is saving me…I am no longer divided against myself.” When we can approach our lives with all parts of ourselves participating, I feel we are truly unstoppable. “I rock in the small boat of my deliverance. The ocean I rest on is deep and still. Its touch is tenderness itself” (p.192). When we get to this place fear loses its grip on us. We are free.

“Aunt Muriel, when will this funeral be over, when will the coffin be buried, when will the grass grow over the graves and the children dance? When will the wounds close and scabs drop off the healing skin?” (exp: Kogawa, quoted in Lefebvre, p.159). I think Kogawa’s answer to this question, is that the trauma is never completely resolved; we never completely recover. Even when the funeral is over and everything is laid to rest, there is a residuality to grief and trauma. The scabs fall off, but evidence of the wound remains. The new pink skin, growth out of injury, glows brightly. I don’t think that healing is impossible, but some of the scars we carry forever. These battle wounds are not necessarily negative however; it’s possible to wear one’s scars proudly- evidence of life experience, resiliency, and growth. A “red badge of courage,” our scars can give us strength.

“To every story there is an after-story, and to every life an afterwards. Beyond each punctuation point, each period, are further questionings and more bends in the road ahead that we can imagine” (exp: Kogawa, quoted in Lefebvre, p.156). I love this quote by Kagawa. I think it suggests an underlying hopefulness in our life experiences. It seems that Kogawa is arguing that, like our traumas, our lives are always subject to re-narration. This is hopeful in that it creates a space for us to renegotiate our experience and to grow out of adversity. It also implies that what we can see at any given moment is not the whole story, and in this way suggests traumatic periods in our lives are not necessarily the end of the road, or the end of the our story. I recently ran across a quote that said, “In the end everything will be okay. If it’s not okay, it’s not yet the end.” Kogawa allows for a re-imagining of our futures.

One of my favorite lines in Lefebvre’s article regards the reference to one of Kogawa’s characters, Naomi. In a dream Naomi hears her mother’s voice say, “Find your road Naomi. I will wait for you on your road” (exp: Kogawa, quoted in Lefebvre, p.162). Even though Lefebvre doesn’t give a lot of context, I feel like Kogawa suggests that in taking a journey back to self, we can find inner truth and healing. And that in “finding our road” we can find ourselves and hopefully, a place of resilience and healing.

Lefebvre ends the article with the following: “Kogawa’s larger body of work is not resolutionary…it does not, in fact, “resolve” the traumas…these traumas are unconcludable. Instead, what can be achieved are the steps towards peace that can be found gradually in the gap between speech and silence, between memory and forgetting” (Lefebvre, p.166). If our traumas cannot be resolved- it they are inconcludable, can we still heal? Does this mean that our healing is also inconcludable or simply ever evolving? Is there a difference? Perhaps inner peace is not a destination on our road, but a journey- open to further questioning and future bends; something we constantly grow into and rearticulate…

If I am reincarnated and get to choose a talent next time, I want to be a songstress. Song is such a powerful platform for social change with its ability to appeal to both a large quantity and diversity of people. Margolick writes of Strange Fruit, “They credit it with helping awaken them to the realities of racial prejudice and the redemptive, ameliorative power of art” (p.6). “The redemptive, ameliorative power of art”… I love that. Margolick seems to imply that art facilitates the reconciliation of trauma, while simultaneously soothing the wound. Music seems to have a greater capacity to do this than photography. I think photography can be incredibly influential in raising awareness and creating dialogue about certain issues, but there is something about a song that can get in your soul. I think that’s what Billy did when she would sing Strange Fruit; she would punch people in their souls.

I also love Studs Terkel’s observation, “… by revealing her own vulnerability, a great artist makes everyone else feel vulnerable, too” (Margolick, p.67). This seems to imply that a great artist can create a collective vulnerability among her audience. Is it possible that by experiencing this vulnerability with others, it acts as a community trust-building exercise? If we are willing to be vulnerable together, does it create a larger space for us to be honest about our complicity in creating collective trauma? Out of this space, can attempts at collective reconciliation emerge? What about collective healing?

Did Billy’s willingness to make herself vulnerable to her audiences contribute to her demise? If we are vulnerable with others, and they are not vulnerable with us in return, what kind of damage does that cause? In Billy’s case, did it diminish her resiliency?  “I think we felt as if we had seen more deeply into another person’s suffering than we had any right to see…” (Vella, quoted by Margolic, p.94). How did the seeing that Vella mentions render the audience, in return, vulnerable? In these instances of witnessing, do we have some sort of responsibility to respond, to engage?

Is there such a thing as collective vulnerability, or is that a fundamentally individual experience? At the individual level, if we are willing to make ourselves vulnerable, what kind of impact can that manifest in our social justice work? Is there something to be gained? Does it make us appear more relatable or perhaps, trustworthy? Is our information conveyed in a more authentic way? Does our pursuit for justice come off as more genuine?

One of the most provocative and encouraging passages in Elephants on Edge was where Bradshaw writes, “But the story of trauma is not hopeless. Astonishingly, traumatic experience has catalyzed profound positive transformations for some. The psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton writes: ‘In almost all of my interviews with people, with Hiroshima survivors and say, survivors of Nazi camps, as different as they are, they talk about something they have learned; some have amazed me and troubled me by saying that they would not want to have missed that experience'” (Bradshaw, p.116). Bradshaw speaks much of survivorship throughout the text, with references to both humans an elephants. I thought her examination of the implication of naming Elephants as survivors was interesting. She suggested that using the term “survivor” with regard to Elephants, “implies agency, selfhood, and righteousness in elephants’ persistence…” (Bradshaw, p.55). I think this conceptualization can easily be applied to any number of traumatic experiences. As mentioned in class, the study of trauma is the study of survivors. I appreciate that the term is imbued with a sense of agency. It seems more hopeful that one could be a victim of a trauma, but still find agency within the experience of survival.

I found the narrative of a male calf torn from its mother at the beginning of Chapter 5 “Bad Boyz” heartbreaking: “It did not seem possible to overcome his grief. He felt an overwhelming sense of homelessness and hopelessness. But day by day he learned how, if not to live, to survive” (Bradshaw, p.70-72). I feel like there is a subtle distinction made between living and surviving. I would venture to guess that as one works through the immediate trauma of an event, they are in the process of surviving. As they heal, and slowly begin to move forward, I would imagine one starts living again little by little. I think “survival” mode is an incredibly useful tool one can employ when trying to articulate and situate their lives both during and after a traumatic event. Not only for Elephants, but also for humans. I have seen this tension between surviving and living play out with my bipolar brother. When he slips into a manic or depressive episode he immediately reverts to “survival mode”- this shift seems to protect him through the episode until he is able to return to a state of “living.”

Dame Daphne speaks of the piece that comes after one has “survived” with reference to Mizma, an orphaned young bull who arrived at the Sheldrick orphanage, “…no longer tasked with just trying to survive, he is now able to contemplate the enormity of his loss, and this, sadly, only time will heal” (Bradshaw, p.118). I think this is true for humans as well. Once we exit fight or flight mode- once we have “survived” and are safe and secure again—when we have reached the point where we are able to let down a little of our guard, I think it is then that the enormity of the traumatic experience begins to seep through. Sadly, for the elephants, time is the only tool they have to heal their wounds. Time is of course instrumental in healing human suffering, but lucky for us, we have access to a much more diverse set of tools for healing once we begin to come to terms with the trauma.

One other way both humans and pachyderms can potentially heal is through the power of touch. Bradshaw writes, “…the intimacy of touch is healing to the heart and body” (p.182). With regard to healing touch for animals, she writes, “Caring touch may provide a chance, particularly in sanctuary, to stimulate the life force that has been suppressed, to create a buffer from the damaging environment, to give a reason to feel and seek pleasure again, and to be alive” (p.182). I believe that the healing benefits of touch can also be applied to humans- I don’t even think it has to be an official “healer”- I think that both animals and humans can sense intent, and if one’s intent is to provide relief from suffering, the touch can heal.

“…they carried these shameful secrets hidden in the folds of their skirts for fifty years” (Cho, p.121).

If the women of the Korean diaspora must remain silent about their pasts in order to “assimilate” into American culture, can there be true healing of their trauma? What happens when there is no safe space for one to tell one’s story? Did the imperative to tell haunt them?

“Like the stories of untold numbers of others before her, my mother’s personal history no doubt remained in silence and shadow because she was a commoner and because she was a woman. But I think she complied with the erasure because she did not want to unveil herself and her mother as “bad women”… I like to think that she was motivated by a wish to protect me from the legacy by not letting me know that I come from a long line of “bad women” (exp: Elaine Kim, “Bad Women,” quoted in Cho, p. 145).

What did it mean for these women to comply with the erasure? Did they compartmentalize, shut out the trauma? Refuse to look back? What about the trauma of the “American Dream;” of assimilation? Can we ever truly shut out trauma? “This is a history she cannot speak, and the unspoken is passed down from flesh to flesh, the unspoken already lining the inside of the womb” (Cho, p.121). It would seem from Cho’s book that even if we try- if we never speak of it- it still finds ways to manifest in our lives and the lives of those around us.

I found the distinction between “comfort women” and “camptown women” disturbing. Is there actually any agency in sex for survival? Does one truly shift from “sex slave” to “willing whore” (Cho, p.122)? “She was not forced by human hands or imperial guns, but walked with her own two feet to meet her destiny. She walked willingly from the labor camp to the camptown…” (Cho, p.121). I think, similar to prostitution everywhere, it’s not so much an issue of choice, as it is a lack of choices. I don’t think she would have “willingly” walked to this destiny if there had been any viable alternatives for her survival. And yet, she never seemed to have permission- not from herself or others- to frame her experience in this way. I think the inability to compose a narrative of trauma could easily have stolen any notions of agency she may have felt.

Even within the camptowns when GI’s proposed to these women, was it really a choice to marry them? When the only alternative to a “choice” is death- is there actually agency in that? Cho writes, “Does this trajectory of marriage and migration indeed represent a way out of the camptown, and if so, to what escape does it lead” (p.133). Research has shown that military sex workers view marriage to an American as the primary means out of the camptown, ““an escape from prostitution and its stigma.” The fictional and autobiographical work about camptown life tells of another way out—death. This alternative to marriage suggests that these avenues are not disarticulated from one another…” (Cho, p.133).

How then, to heal? “To awaken is thus to bear the imperative to survive…as the one who must tell what it means to not see.” (Cathy Caruth, quoted by Cho, p.168). Is the imperative to survive not realized if we do not “awaken”? Can one “awaken” in silence? Was there choice and agency in deciding to remain silent? Can one find healing in silence?

I am in love with this book.  Not only does it provide an important dimension to critical trauma studies, but Regarding the Pain of Others has much relevance to my Applied Project and my ideas about the power of photography for social change. I have always believed that photography can act as a universal language. It can stand on its own, without need for translation; the image can be a common meeting place, a platform, for people to come examine and dialogue about an issue. Sontag highlights this concept writing, “In contrast to a written account—which, depending on its complexity of thought, reference, and vocabulary, is pitched at a larger or smaller readership- a photograph has one language and is destined potentially for all” (emphasis mine; Sontag, p.20). I love that images can have mass appeal. It seems in modern society, it is often images that “go viral” on the internet- there is a characteristic inherent in them that allows diverse groups of people to experience a connection to an image. “In an era of information overload, a photograph provides a quick way of apprehending something and a compact form for memorizing it. The photograph is like a quotation, or a maxim or proverb” (Sontag, p.22).

Sontag seems to struggle with the universality photographs throughout the text- raising issues of objectivity, witnessing, survival and responsibility. She quickly reveals photos to be imperfect historical “documents,” writing, “It is always the image that someone chose; to photograph is to frame, and to frame is to exclude” (Sontag, p.46). But in recognizing that photos cannot be evidence of a pure truth, not unlike most historical “evidence,” she still argues that they are valuable and relevant (Sontag, p.57). In one of my favorite passages she writes: “To set aside the sympathy we extend to others beset by war and murderous politics for a reflection on how our privileges are located on the same map of their suffering, and may—in ways we might prefer not to imagine—be linked to their suffering, as the wealth of some may imply the destitution of others, is a task for which the painful, stirring images supply only an initial spark” (Sontag, p.102-103). I love the notion that imagery can inspire an “initial spark” in someone, that can lead to increased awareness and (hopefully) action. Imagery as impetus for change is a beautiful concept to me.

It doesn’t matter if the photographs are ugly or beautiful; whether we engage with them in the privacy of our homes, in museums or galleries, or fleetingly while scrolling through a facebook newsfeed—what matters is the fact that the images exist. I don’t think the goal is to present some “objective” truth—the fact that this is unattainable shouldn’t undermine their inherent value.  Sontag writes, “Let the atrocious images haunt us. Even if they are only tokens, and cannot possibly encompass most of the reality to which they refer, they still perform a vital function. The images say: This is what human beings are capable of doing—may volunteer to do, enthusiastically, self-righteously. Don’t forget” (Sontag, p.115).

The photographs remind us. And the photographers that bear witness to these atrocities create them so that “we” will not forget; with the hope, I would argue, that we will be stirred to action. “It is not a defect that we are not seared, that we do not suffer enough, when we see these images. Neither is the photograph supposed to repair our ignorance about the history and causes of suffering it picks out and frames. Such images cannot be more than an invitation to pay attention, to reflect, to learn, to examine the rationalizations for mass suffering offered by established powers” (Sontag, p.117).

Hope essentially lies within these “documents;” death and suffering are not the only themes depicted. “Photographs of the suffering and martyrdom of a people are more than reminders of death, of failure, of victimization. They invoke the miracle of survival” (Sontag, p.87).

One of the more interesting parts of the Caruth book for me, was the chapter where she discusses Hiroshima mon amour. I identified with the French woman’s struggle to negotiate a future for herself, while simultaneously trying to remain faithful to her past. The idea of death as intimate, and the telling of another’s death as a betrayal, was interesting. “Telling the story of her love affair with the German, telling, specifically, the story of his death, is for the woman a betrayal of the loved one who died, with the one who is alive and listens. What the woman mourns is not only the erotic betrayal, that is, but a betrayal precisely in the act of telling, in the very transmission of an understanding that erases the specificity of a death” (Caruth,  p.26). The act of telling one’s story constituting a betrayal seems to stand in contrast to some of the ideas posed in both the Henry 2006 and Denham 2008 articles. In the case of the French woman, perhaps telling her story was not helpful in helping her map the trauma in time and space, situating her within a larger narrative context. I wonder if more accurately, she was not far enough in her own healing process- in coming to terms with her German lover’s death- to have the act of telling be a helpful tool for her to move forward.

Forgetting as a form of betrayal is also a theme in this chapter. “Oh! It’s horrible. I’m beginning to remember you less clearly. I’m beginning to forget you. I tremble at the thought of having forgotten so much love…” (Caruth, p.32). It is as if she cannot forget the trauma of his death, without forgetting the beauty of their love. “To be reasonable here is no longer to cling madly to the memory of her lover’s death; it is to exit into the freedom of forgetting… Freedom from madness is thus equated with the forgetting that began her sane seeing and knowing, a freedom that is fundamentally a betrayal of the past” (Caruth, p.32-33). I don’t know that I agree that forgetting is necessarily a fundamental betrayal of the past. I think sometimes we must allow ourselves to forget the specificity of trauma in order to move forward. I think there is also fear associated with this concept, in that by forgetting, we may also be more susceptible to repeating past mistakes- to recreating that trauma again in our lives.

I agree with Caruth’s analysis, that there is freedom in forgetting. I think that reliving specific events of trauma can be detrimental to forward movement and healing. Maybe I keep the journals because knowing that I can reference the details of the experience if I need to, has allowed my heart and mind to let go of specificity of the trauma. And in not having to carry that around, I’ve been able to actually move forward. With regard to healing and resiliency following traumatic experience, I think allowing oneself to forget is a useful tool. Letting go of the old memories can create a space to make new memories. Perhaps to forget is not to betray the past, but to honor the present.

“In the ethnography of conflict and what can be hellish violence, it is not a tremendous leap to equate Dante’s journeys of discovery with fieldwork” (Henry, p.391). I love this parallel that Henry (2006) draws with Alighieri’s classic work. The exchange that Henry highlights between Daniel and Dante, in which Daniel asks him to “be mindful of my pain,” speaks to the growth that can emerge out of trauma. Henry writes, “What starts out as a terrifying and apocalyptic vision of bodily anguish turns out to be one of the more hopeful of all Dante’s visions in Hell or Purgatory, one in which one’s trials and suffering have a transformative power for the regeneration or reestablishment of order…It is a revelation of distress, but one in which anguish and treatment are tied together, where the poet reveals to Dante his suffering, but the experience and the expression of the suffering begins the process toward rebirth and healing” (Henry, p.391-392).

I think this passage speaks to two issues related to resilience within trauma; first it suggests that the actual experience of surviving trauma can be a source of power and growth. Second, it highlights an earlier point that Henry makes with regard to the healing nature of telling one’s story; “…the act of telling served a kind of function…realizing a history that, although not necessarily explaining an event, mapped it in time and space…”(Henry, p.382).

I feel like this concept also relates to the Si John case study in Denham’s article (2008) which explores how the Si John family, “…frame their traumatic past into an ethic that functions in the transmission of resilience strategies, family identity, and as a framework for narrative emplotment” (Denham, p.391). Denham seems to suggest that when it comes to resiliency, it is not only the telling of one’s story that is important, but the way the narrative is framed. I found the Denham article to be very intriguing, in that the way in which we narrate our trauma (our historical trauma response) – to ourselves and others- can make a difference in the way trauma symptomology manifests in our lives, both individually and collectively.

It was so inspiring to see how the Si John family, despite all of their historical experiences with marginalization and abuse, had created an historical family narrative of survival and resilience, as opposed to victimization. I love that these narratives were embedded with strategies for resilience and “non-pathological adaptive response and ability to maintain or ‘spring back’ to a stable equilibrium after experiencing adversity” (Denham, p.392). Denham writes, “Specifically, trauma narratives transmit strength, optimism and coping strategies that family members internalize and use to ‘emplot’ their own narratives, or organize ‘life events and experiences into a coherent and ever-evolving story’” (p.392-393).

I feel like this “ethic of sharing” is largely absent in contemporary Western culture. It seems rare that healthy coping strategies are shared generationally within families; in the absence of this, an entire field of ‘professionals’ has emerged to meet the demand for concrete tools needed to overcome adversity. Self-help books, counselors, psychiatrists, psychologists, Dr. Phil- seem to be the Western parallel to the cultural narratives of Native peoples.

I also love that the Si John family recognizes that one’s story is ever-evolving. This seems to suggest that trauma is not simply a fixed moment in time, but a process. In recognizing our capacity to evolve and change, I feel like the Si Johns create a space for growth and healing where trauma doesn’t comprise our whole identity or our whole story.