Endophasia, or inner voice, changes drastically following an experience of violence, moving from self-reflection to a form of silence or self-censorship, from which it is difficult to re-emerge. How to transfigure this voice, which risks remaining segregated in pain, into a narrative of revenge that can become literary testimony? How to make of one’s own experience a narrative capable of providing spaces for reflection and education for other victims, without falling into the trap of morbid emphasis on the perpetrator, but centering the discourse on reconstruction and emotional release?
When a person experiences a devastating trauma such as rape, endophasia-the inner voice-becomes a site of contention. The mind that was previously capable of reflection, understanding and self-understanding, is confronted with an experience that is so overwhelming that it can no longer find adequate words to express it. Endophasia turns into a deafening silence, a mute cry of despair that imprisons the mind in the utter loneliness of pain. It is as if language is no longer sufficient to contain the intensity of suffering. This, in particular, is a theme I address in my latest book, “Of Another Voice Will Be the Fear,” where I explore the dynamics of psychological violence and its connection to other forms of trauma, such as rape trauma. Psychological violence, though often invisible, is a type of abuse that leaves equally deep wounds, and for a long time it may seem that there is no way to articulate and give voice to a pain that remains trapped in the mind, unable to manifest itself clearly.
In my book, the silence of the victim is one of the main themes, and I talk about how this silence is never really empty. It is the result of deep trauma, which erodes the very essence of the person. Those who have experienced violence, as in the case of rape, are in a condition where their inner voice is mutilated, broken. The mind and body can no longer seem to find a way to communicate their experience. Trauma destroys not only the body, but also the ability to reflect on it. The individual finds himself living with an invisible wound, often without even the courage to face or name it, and this silence becomes the expression of unprocessed pain. This inability to find words to express trauma is central to my narrative. Silence becomes a defensive reaction, a barrier that the body and mind erect to protect themselves from the intensity of the memory. But this silence is not peaceful; instead, it is the theater of inner contention. On the one hand there is the need to express oneself, to tell one’s story, and on the other there is the fear of not being believed, of being judged or, even worse, of not being able to find the right words to restore dignity to such a humiliating and destructive experience. In this sense, psychological and physical violence intersect because both rob the victim of the possibility of her own narrative, one that is not tainted by control or manipulation.
I chose to call my book “Of Another Voice Will Be Fear” because fear is the form that the inner voice of those who have been victimized takes. It is not a voice of vindication, but of resignation, fear and loneliness. It is the fear that often prevents the victim from speaking out, from asking for help, from expressing their pain. But at the same time, it is also the fear that, through writing, can be transformed into a new voice. A voice that is no longer that of the silent victim, but that of the one who finally finds the courage to tell. In the book, I tried to relate silence to trauma, because I observed that too often the pain of rape victims is relegated to a silence that even the victim herself cannot break. For me, writing is a means to break that silence, to restore a voice to those who have never been able to find it, or have lost it in the process of trauma destruction. In psychological violence, the victim often feels invisible, as if their pain is too intimate and unbearable to be told. Writing, then, becomes a tool of resistance. It is not only a cathartic act, but a way to restore meaning, dignity and identity to the victim.
In my work, I wanted to show how it is possible to transform that pain and silence into a new form of resistance. Writing is not only a way to give voice to pain, but also to educate others, to break the cycle of silence surrounding violence, to give those who have been abused a chance to rebuild their narratives. For me, writing has been an act of redemption. Writing has been the means through which I have been able to shape fear, a shape that was not a wall, but a bridge.
The article From suffering to revenge through writing comes from TheNewyorker.
