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Prologue for Paulina

In the winter of 1992 in London, I attended one of the first performances in English of Death and the Maiden, a play by Chilean writer Ariel Dorfman. Juliet Stevenson’s brilliant depiction of Paulina Salas presented a transfixed audience with a compelling question: what happens when a new and tenuous democracy, because of political necessity, turns its back on some of the victims of the regime it has replaced? Paulina is just such a victim, and the play provides a troubling answer.

The play opens when Gerardo, Paulina’s husband, returns very late to the isolated house he shares with Paulina. He is late because he had a flat tire and was rescued and driven home by a considerate stranger, Dr. Roberto Miranda. Paulina hears only voices outside as she waits inside the darkened house, clutching a gun and “rolled into a foetus-like position.”¹ Gerardo, a lawyer, is returning from a meeting with the country’s president, the most “important meeting of my whole life,”² in which he has been named head of a commission that will investigate some crimes committed by the recently displaced military dictatorship. The initial dialogue between Paulina and Gerardo reveals that Paulina’s response to the voices outside was typical: she has frequent breakdowns resulting from her treatment when she, as an activist student fifteen years in the past, was kidnapped and tortured. Rather than pleasing her, however, Gerardo’s appointment to head the commission further disturbs her:

Paulina:	This Commission you’re named to. Doesn’t it only investigate cases that ended in death?
Gerardo:	It’s appointed to investigate human rights’ violations that ended in death or the presumption of death, yes.
Paulina:	Only the most serious cases?
Gerardo:	The idea is that if we can cast light on the worst crimes, other abuses will come to light.
Paulina:	Only the most serious?
Gerardo:	Those beyond redemption.
Paulina:	Only those beyond redemption, huh?
Gerardo:	I don’t like to talk about this, Paulina.
Paulina:	I don’t like to talk about it either.3

Paulina’s fragile emotional state is thrown into turmoil by this official pronouncement in which her husband is complicitous: her kidnapping and torture will not be investigated because they are not considered to be among the “most serious” crimes committed during the dictatorship. For all official purposes, her pain and humiliation did not happen and she is forced back into her ongoing silence—“I don’t like to talk about this, Paulina.” The “this” is ambiguous: does Gerardo not like to talk about the Commission’s limited mandate or, more tellingly, does he not like to talk about what happened to Paulina? Paulina, in fact, has told Gerardo very little about her imprisonment and the treatment she received; she has not even told him that her torture included rape.⁴ The political process, she now discovers, promises only that her silence must continue. The new government, the government in whose cause she refused to give over names, including Gerardo’s, will not take retribution for her.

An hour later, after Gerardo and Paulina have gone to bed, Roberto Miranda, the stranger who assisted Gerardo with his flat tire, reappears to return Gerardo’s patched tire, which was inadvertently left in his trunk and because he heard on his car radio that Gerardo Escobar, the very man he aided, has been named to head the president’s Investigating Commission. Gerardo and Miranda discuss the Commission’s charge and the fact that the army will resist the Commission’s work, its officers having warned the president that the Commission will open old wounds. Miranda compares the army to the Mafia: “yes, a secret brotherhood, nobody gives out names and they cover each others’ backs. The Armed Forces aren’t going to allow their men to give testimony to your Commission and if you people call them in they’ll just ignore the summons. Whatever they please … they’ve got the guns.…”⁵ This late night exchange between the two men discloses the tenuous nature of the new government, the uneasy alliance that exists between the duly elected democratic leaders of a transitional democracy and the former regime that still has “the guns.” It captures the difficult and dangerous process by which such a government attempts to provide redress to the victims of abuses committed on a massive scale, a process complicated by a military establishment that is in retreat but far from powerless.

Because of the late hour, Gerardo invites Dr. Miranda to spend the night. Paulina, who has been huddling in the hallway in a kind of posttraumatic stress reaction to any late night knock on the door, recognizes Miranda’s voice (she was blindfolded during her imprisonment) as that of the doctor who tortured and raped her fifteen years earlier, crimes that will be ignored by the president’s Commission because she did not die. Confronting the failure of legal state retribution, she decides to take personal revenge. After the men have gone to sleep, she finds Gerardo’s gun, ties up the doctor, and gags him. She then hides his car; in it she discovers a cassette recording of Schubert’s string quartet “Death and the Maiden,” the very music her torturer played repeatedly as he raped her.

The audience is left to wonder whether Miranda is actually Paulina’s torturer or whether she has fallen past sanity into delusions. Small clues are dropped—like the cassette tape of “Death and the Maiden” and Paulina’s memory of characteristic phrases the torturer used that Miranda also uses (“teensy-weensy bit”)—but we can never be certain that Paulina is right. It may be that her damaged psyche and her new knowledge that she will have no chance for retribution combine to find someone—anyone—to blame.

When Gerardo awakens, he is, naturally, shocked at what Paulina has done to their guest, and he accuses her of being ill. Paulina responds: “All right then, I am. But I can be ill and recognize a voice…. It’s his voice…. The way he laughed. Certain phrases he used…. It may be a teensy-weensy thing, but it’s enough for me. During all these years not an hour has passed that I haven’t heard it, that same voice, next to me, next to my ear, that voice mixed with saliva, you think I’d forget a voice like his?”⁶ That Paulina identifies her torturer by his voice reflects the polarization of language that occurs in torture in which “the prisoner become[s] a colossal body with no voice and the torturer a colossal voice … with no body.”⁷ For fifteen years, Miranda has remained a “colossal voice,” all language, to the silenced, purely sentient Paulina, who has been unable to tell even her husband the details of her torture. Language itself has become part of the disbalance that occurs with such a harm.

Gerardo asks Paulina what she intends to do with the bound and gagged Miranda, and she explains: “We’re going to put him on trial, Gerardo, this doctor. Right here. Today. Or is your famous Investigating Commission going to do it?”⁸ The curtain drops to end Act One.

In Act Two, the “trial” commences. Gerardo protests that Paulina is merely mirroring the tactics of her own kidnappers: “If something revolted me about them it was that they accused so many men and women, that they forged evidence and ignored evidence and did not give the accused any chance of defending themselves, so even if this man committed genocide on a daily basis, he has the right to defend himself.”⁹ In response, Paulina assigns Gerardo as Dr. Miranda’s “defense counsel.” Gerardo insists that Paulina’s actions will destroy him, that he will have to resign his new government post on principle, even if no one finds out about Paulina’s actions. Paulina replies: “Because of your mad wife, who was mad because she stayed silent and is now mad because she suddenly began to speak?”¹⁰

The lawyer Gerardo represents the prudent voice of the new democracy that must compromise to appease the army and must make practical decisions about the country’s future. Its decisions mean that people like Paulina will never have a chance to speak out officially against their torturers, will never have an opportunity to tell their stories and have them officially acknowledged. The state has forgone retribution for them. Gerardo tries to explain the practicalities: “If he’s guilty, more reason to let him go. Don’t look at me like that. You want to scare these people and provoke them, Paulina, till they come back …? Because that is what you’re going to get. Imagine what would happen if everyone acted like you did. You satisfy your personal passion, you punish on your own, while the other people in this country with scores of other problems who finally have a chance to solve some of them, those people can go screw themselves—the whole transition to democracy can go screw itself—…. Let him go, Paulina. For the good of the country….”¹¹ Miranda, in his own self-interest, also presents a compelling argument against any action: “So we go on and on with violence, always more violence. Yesterday they did terrible things to you and now you do terrible things to me and tomorrow the same cycle will begin all over again. Isn’t it time we stopped?”¹²

Paulina is unconvinced and unwilling: “What about my good? … You’re asking me to forget.”¹³ She lays out for Gerardo her emotional response when she first heard Miranda’s voice that night. At first she wanted an eye for an eye; she wanted someone to rape him: “But I began to realize that wasn’t what I really wanted. And you know what conclusion I came to, the only thing I really want? I want him to confess. I want him to sit in front of that cassette-recorder and tell me what he did—not just to me, everything, to everybody—and then have him write it out in his own handwriting and sign it and I would keep a copy forever—with all the information, the names and data, all the details. That’s what I want.”¹⁴

Gerardo later concedes that he understands Paulina’s need: “It coincides with the need of the whole country. The need to put into words what happened to us.”¹⁵ And this, he realizes, should be the task of his Commission. As the scene ends, Paulina, with a gun aimed at the head of a kneeling Miranda, poses the question at the heart of the play: “Why is it always people like me who have to sacrifice, who have to concede when concessions are needed, biting my tongue, why?”¹⁶ A giant mirror descends to the stage and the audience members are forced to look at themselves.¹⁷

Gerardo and Dr. Miranda are right, of course. Paulina’s possible violence toward Miranda both mirrors and perpetuates the horrors committed against her. She remains enmeshed in a cycle of violence that may have no end. All the arguments are there: why dredge up the past and dwell on past wrongs? Why risk a backlash? Let bygones be bygones and move forward in a spirit of reconciliation.¹⁸ But Paulina’s needs are personal, not political. She seeks, as do most victims, a rebalancing. Her torture took something from her that she wants to take back. The Latin root of “retribution” is “retribuere” meaning “to pay back” (re + tribuere). Adequate retribution for Paulina will pay back to her something that she lost as a result of the crimes against her. The play symbolizes this loss by Schubert’s string quartet, “Death and the Maiden,” her favorite piece of music to which she cannot listen since her torture. In the play’s final scene, Paulina is shown at a concert at which the musicians are tuning up for “Death and the Maiden.” A surreally lighted Dr. Miranda is also present at the concert, and the audience is left to decide whether he exists only in Paulina’s imagination or is real: whether she fired the gun or let him go after his confession. In either case, she has her Schubert back, but was the balancing gained through violence or language?

This book will argue that it was language, that Paulina lost language as well as Schubert.¹⁹ Her ability to articulate her pain was taken away by her torture, and any adequate balancing she would achieve requires a restoration of that language. Pain and oppression destroy a person’s ability to use language, and the rebalancing that is at the heart of revenge and retribution requires the recovery of that destroyed language. Paulina was surprised to discover that words were what she needed; she wanted Miranda’s confession. She wanted the story of what happened to her to be heard and acknowledged.

So, what happens when a new and fragile democracy turns its back on some (or even all) of the victims of the regime it has replaced? The troubling and provocative answer that the play provides is this: if what happened to Paulina is ignored, if the state fails in its responsibility to enact retribution for her, she will take revenge into her own hands. If a new government turns its back on the victims, the victims will, in time, get their own back, becoming the perpetrators in the next stage of the cycle, the cycle of revenge that has no appropriate stopping place. If a state expects the Paulinas of the world to be the ones who make the concessions, it ignores critical truths about human history and psychology.

History shows us that revenge cycles end when the victims cede the right to take revenge to the state and the state properly fulfills this duty. That is, the victims are somehow satisfied that they have retrieved something that they have lost. What they get back, of course, can in no way be commensurable with what was lost by the harm. Nonetheless, it must be in some measure satisfying. The first process is the subject of Chapter 1, a look backward at the evolution of private revenge into state retribution. It demonstrates that revenge was once at the heart of the idea of justice and that the taking of revenge was considered a noble duty. As nation-states emerged, that duty was given over to (or taken over by) central authorities and became state-sponsored judgment and punishment, but the human need for revenge remained acknowledged and served as the basis for state punishment. Revenge and justice continued to be aligned. Moreover, the giving over was tentative and reluctant and was frequently taken back by the individual or family, especially in those instances in which the state failed to take retribution.

Eventually, however, in order to insure its own security against the disorder and destructiveness of private revenge, it was in a state’s best interest to go further and attempt to convince people that private revenge was not only imprudent but also evil. Thus, as part of the cultural Zeitgeist, a duality was created that put revenge and justice into a false opposition—not just the act of revenge but also even the feeling of wanting revenge. A state would benefit by making people ashamed of the human need for revenge and by characterizing it as immoral and excessive. It needed to buttress the transfer to the state with moral and religious arguments. Yet the passion for revenge remained powerful, albeit underground, and much of what was written about revenge was layered and ambiguous. Chapter 2 examines the attempted demonizing of revenge and the gradual removal of emotion from state responses to harms against people. It also discusses the undercurrent of opinions that acknowledge the potential problems if a state fails to take into account a desire for retribution and ignores the necessity of allowing personal passions into systems of justice. The chapter concludes by suggesting that discussions about revenge and retribution generally presume a state willing and capable of taking action (in the form of state-sponsored violence) on a victim’s behalf. Few commentators take up the critical contemporary problem of a state incapable or unwilling to so act. Are there possibilities for adequate and satisfying balancing beyond violence for violence?

These background chapters ultimately show that the need to take revenge is a deeply rooted human need that cannot be moralized away; it is an inevitable and indestructible part of the human psyche. At the same time, it is a powerful emotion that can be contained in the appropriate forms. These chapters, meant to be allusive and suggestive rather than definitive historical analyses, lay the groundwork for the argument that a state must do something in response to wrongs against its people. Ignoring the needs of victims insures that the revenge cycle will continue. These chapters also lay bare the void that exists when a state will not or cannot act in its citizens’ behalf. For all we know or think we know about revenge and retribution, we have not developed a way of thinking about alternatives to traditional violence for violence—whether personal or public. Our vision is limited by our history, but Paulina shows us another possibility.

The process described in Chapters 1 and 2 is revealed in Paulina’s situation in Death and the Maiden. She turned her personal need for revenge over to the state and the state failed her. She thus takes back her “right” to revenge, seeking at first lex talionis, comparable violence, an eye for an eye, rape for rape. But then she discovers that she does not want violence, what she wants are words. In the middle of the night, when a bound and gagged former oppressor is at her mercy, Paulina discerns that more violence is not what she wants. Instead she requires an acknowledgment that something evil happened to her. She wants Miranda to say the words and she wants Gerardo to hear them. She wants them written down and she wants to keep the words forever.

The center of the book’s theoretical project, in Chapters 3 and 4, is to answer the question as to whether there is any reason to think that stories can work in this way in actual transitional democracies—countries that have few choices as to the action they take as they make the transition from a violent past. Chapter 3 analyzes the relationship between language and the violence that accompanies oppression, arguing that the appropriation and manipulation of language are central to the technology of oppression. Chapter 4 asks whether stories can do anything of value in the wake of such oppression. Is there any reason to think that the solution that Paulina discovers she wants—her story told and acknowledged—can work over the long term? What are the relationships between language and power, language and pain, language and violence? Is language an appropriate balance for violence and pain? Can having a story told and acknowledged possibly satisfy the emotional needs of victims? And if so, what forms should this language take?

The question whether storytelling can work over the long term is not a theoretical one and the stakes are high. Transitional democracies are faced with a concrete and pressing problem, an “enormous, miserable task,”²⁰ of how to deal with the past without destroying the future. History, recent and long past, has shown that cycles of revenge are indeed unending if dealt with in primitive and unthought out ways. From southern Europe to Latin America, eastern Europe to South Africa, Rwanda and Bosnia, the solutions are varied and controversial. Should (and can) a country fully investigate, bring to trial, and punish former leaders and their lackeys? Are amnesties or pardons a better solution? An international tribunal? Truth commissions? Is it wise to impose on states an affirmative duty to investigate and prosecute?²¹ Or does the best solution lie in turning the other cheek, putting the past behind and moving forward with the new government? Do states even have the right to forgive or is that “right” vested only in victims? Do amnesties and pardons perpetuate a culture of impunity? What is the appropriate way to move from lawlessness to the rule of law? Are any generalizations possible at all or does every case have a unique context?²² A fledgling democracy is in the process of building a new moral community. What ways of dealing with the past can best achieve this goal? A spectrum of solutions has been tried: trials, both national and international; exclusion from government posts; the opening of secret files; commemorations in art and ceremony; forgiveness and reconciliation; confrontations; and storytelling contained in truth commission reports.²³

Chapter 4 lays out seven potential benefits of storytelling in the context of transitional democracies: (1) translating chaotic events into a story not only provides therapy for victims (a claim that is well-documented), but the creation of story from experience also is an essentially human activity that enables all of us to make sense of our lives; (2) the restoration of the ability to use language for oneself in one’s own way balances the loss of language effected by oppression and violence, and thus is a form of retribution in a basic semantic sense (a sense of the word that was lost as the philosophy of punishment shifted the focus from the victim to the perpetrator) of giving back that which was taken away; (3) the free and open telling of stories can reveal more truth than other responses, including trials; (4) stories can bring about communication between people who normally cannot understand each other; (5) the storytelling setting in some circumstances provides healing ritual, akin to carnival, in which the hierarchy is inverted and the people are empowered; (6) the stories are a visible manifestation of the invisible in a sacramental sense; and (7) the truth commission reports give the stories a plot (in the technical sense used in narrative theory) and result in the creation of a constitutive history for the emerging state. Chapter 4 discusses the first six of these potential benefits and argues that they offer an expanded vision of the worth of stories for a transitional democracy and that they provide new and hopeful ways of thinking about and using such stories.

In Chapters 5 and 6, I first relate the ubiquity of truth commissions to the turn to narrative in diverse disciplines and demonstrate that truth commission reports can be a promising kind of constitutive history for a transitional democracy. The book then revisits my initial question: whether language can in any way adequately balance the harms of pain and oppression—can stories do any good?—in specific contexts. I analyze situations in which just such an attempt is being made: truth commissions and their reports. Looking in detail at commissions and reports from four countries—Argentina, Chile, El Salvador, and South Africa—I discuss the various layers of “stories” that are told by the commission reports, and, using narrative theory, I evaluate their relationship to justice. I ask, using a question generated in the work of James Boyd White: what kind of community does the report imagine and create?

Truth commission reports have come into existence in the final decades of the twentieth century, and they are seen as filling a gap when countries do not have the will or the resources to pursue more traditional forms of justice: investigations, trials, and punishment. As time passes though, truth commissions are being criticized as doing as much harm as good by some observers who assert that truth commissions are a poor substitute for traditional justice. These critics maintain that truth commissions offer an inadequate second-best and that truth commissions and their reports encourage premature closure. The first of these common criticisms I refute and instead argue that truth commission reports may constitute a radically new kind of justice, and that they are, in any event, a necessary component of any adequate understanding of justice. This book will argue that justice is not a single event that occurs for once and for all—“we were harmed and now we have ‘justice’”—but is instead an ongoing, dynamic process, of which storytelling is a vital part. The second criticism—that the reports are a rush to closure—I engage in the final chapter and offer a cautionary word about narratives in general and the reports in particular: they can tempt us to a comfortable sense of closure more appropriate to fictions than actual political and human situations. I also engage two other potential problems: hearing or reading too many stories of violence may result in “psychic numbing,” in which we shut off our empathetic response rather than feeling anything; and the appropriation of people’s stories of pain, for whatever well-intentioned reasons, is a morally and ethically problematic act. As Hayden White and other narrative theorists warn, stories can be used to put across a moral vison of the world in the interests of power and manipulation. Is it possible to fashion truth commission reports in such ways to minimize their misuse in the interests of the new power structure? If the strengths of stories that I discuss in Chapter 4 are to be realized, we must be wary of the dark potentiality of storytelling as well.

Lingering doubts persist about the efficacy or propriety of language when confronting mass atrocity, that “radical evil seems to surpass the boundaries of moral discourse.”²⁴ When I set out to look at truth commission reports through the lens of narrative theory (in a broad sense),²⁵ I expected that such a view would provide a richer vision of the potentialities of the reports, and indeed this has proven the case. Truth commission reports are capturing the imagination because stories can achieve powerful ends, many of which have not been articulated or even brought into consciousness. This book begins the process of uncovering what stories can achieve in the context of transitional democracy, whether they represent the “simple drama of storytelling”²⁶ or something far more profound and significant.

There is certainly no dearth of published opinion about the various responses that countries have undertaken to reckon with the past.²⁷ The reports themselves, including the four on which I focus, continue to be discussed and evaluated.²⁸ One of the widely recognized problems in truth reports is the political agenda of their writers; one of the less-recognized problems in the critiques of truth reports is the political agenda of the critics. Looking at the reports through narrative theory allows us to see their strengths and weaknesses in an apolitical way—as, after all, stories. This book draws from but does not retrace the steps taken in previous works; instead it focuses on a particular somewhat neglected issue: What constitutes revenge and retribution and what role, if any, does language play in those processes? It seeks to develop a theory about the role of language in revenge and retribution and in so doing makes several claims. First, given the historical and psychological evidence about revenge, putting the past behind by attempting to draw a bright line between the past crimes and the new government, in other words, “getting on with it” with no action, is unworkable and unwise. The metaphor of balancing is at the heart of discussions about revenge and retribution, a metaphor that we should consider and take seriously. When grievous harms occur, a rebalancing will occur whether it is orderly and lawful or disorderly and unlawful. Second, adequate government action need not be state-sponsored violence in the form of prosecutions; as Paulina discovered, lex talionis may not be the rule. At the same time, a state should provide or assist victims in finding “effective alternative means of psychic support that provide the benefits sought in revenge: preserving self-esteem and honor, providing physical security, and satisfying the desire for justice” (italics original).²⁹ Third, in any case, state-enacted redress must not be decided upon from the top down; the desires and emotions of the victims must be taken into account and outlets provided for them. Fourth, language, if not necessarily the end-all of the retribution process, is requisite to any adequate balancing. This fourth claim has several implications that have to do with the work of truth commissions, and indeed all other responses to an oppressive past including trials. A solution is viable only if it provides an atmosphere in which storytelling and subsequent dialogue can flourish.

The book’s final claim, and perhaps its most critical contribution, is that in the developing culture of ubiquitous truth reports, we need to become attentive to the form that these reports take. The form of the report and its use of victims’ stories necessarily convey a political message to the citizens of the emerging democracy. The book’s theoretical framework and its analysis of prominent truth reports reveals that some reports are better than others. Why? To what forms should the writers of truth reports aspire?

Gerardo’s question—What would happen if everyone acted as you did?—is a compelling one to which we know the answer if we are attentive to history. Miranda’s question—Isn’t it time we stopped?—is the contemporary humanitarian response. But Paulina’s question—What about my good?—is too often put aside. What is Paulina’s “good” and can it be achieved without bringing down the country? That’s what this book attempts to answer.