This essay was first published in the Chicago Tribune, Perspective Section, March 4, 2007.
Photo of the Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Taken by Judith, June 3, 2007.
I first met Paul in the winter of 2005, on my first day volunteering as a French-English interpreter at the Marjorie Kovler Center for the Treatment of Survivors of Torture.
Paul (not his real name) is a survivor of the second war in the Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly Zaire) — the bloodiest conflict since World War II.
It was during his initial evaluation that I heard Paul’s torture history, told to a social worker in the space of a few short meetings. Though I am familiar with African tragedy told in the broadest terms, I had never experienced such a story told by a survivor.
During intake—a process to assess why trauma survivors left their country and how they’ve been feeling since—I would come to learn not only the details of Paul’s torture, but of his life before the war—before the end of the world, as he put it.
Before the war, which began in 1998 and officially ended in 2003, Paul lived happily as a merchant. Then one day rebels came to his house, on a rampage. Paul watched helplessly as his wife and child were taken. He was beaten, then left for dead. He searched for his family for months as he continued to flee the violence. During his last attempt to find his family, he was captured, imprisoned and tortured. He knew then that if he didn’t save himself, there would be no one left in his family.
The story of Paul’s escape had the elements of so many others: a bribe, a serendipitous encounter, a kindhearted stranger, and pure luck. His story ended—and began—in his treacherous passage out of the Congo in the hold of a cargo ship heading to New York. Eventually he made his way to Chicago, and to this North Side center, part of the Heartland Alliance.
Awkward at first
The only reason I now know all of this is that I speak French. At the beginning it certainly felt awkward. What right did I have to be there? I’m not a therapist or a social worker. Yet I also felt a duty to help Paul tell his story.
After the third and last intake session, we said our goodbyes. Paul touched his heart with his hand. "This will stay with me forever," he said. I didn’t expect to see him ever again.
But later that winter, a Kovler caseworker phoned me. Would I be willing to interpret for a Congolese client who has signed up for psychotherapy, one of the treatment options offered to trauma survivors after intake? It was Paul, and I was touched that he had taken this step toward reclaiming his life.
Before we began, I talked with Vienna, his therapist. She had never conducted therapy through an interpreter.
"You must translate everything, even the pauses," she instructed me. "I don’t understand a word of French. I need you to interpret the `ums,’ and the `ers.’. " She wanted me to interpret the spaces as well as the words.
How does one interpret a silence?
I went to greet Paul in the waiting room. He smiled broadly upon seeing me again.
We joined Vienna in a small consultation room. The air was musty and heavy. A broken clock, forever stuck on 1:30, rested on a table. Next to it was a dusty globe with Zaire still on it.
As a key member of this triad, I was there and I was not there. I was part of the treatment team, yet I did not have my own voice. Vienna acknowledged this inherent awkwardness and told Paul that although he would be speaking through me, he should address her directly.
Vienna asked Paul what he would like to talk about that day. "De quoi veux-tu discuter aujourd’hui?" I interpreted, and Paul responded, "C’est elle qui décide." He had said "She is the one who decides," instead of "You are the one who decides." I debated for an instant whether to change the pronoun, then interpreted the sentence literally.
Vienna smiled. "No, you decide what happens here."
Psychotherapy is much more free-form than intake, and I realized I was not quite fluent in its language.
But as I grew more confident, I found myself making suggestions to Vienna, even anticipating her words. I heard myself naturally imitating my two clients, reflecting the lilting phrases of Paul’s French and the quiet monotone of Vienna’s comments and questions—and the silences as well. I paused when Vienna paused, laughed awkwardly when Paul did. I was the ears and mouth for two other people.
Sometimes it was hard to interpret for Paul when his sing-song French was reduced to a muffled mumbling, reflective of his own description of himself as engourdi—numbed—by the events of his life.
One day in the waiting room, I asked Paul what his first language was. Lingala, he told me. But he said he no longer wanted to speak or even think in his mother tongue anymore. I wondered if Lingala would reveal his unspoken thoughts.
Believing in destiny
At our last session, in a break from our usual format, Vienna asked us to share our feelings about each other. Vienna told Paul how honored she had been to be his therapist, and how much she admired his strength. Paul told us he would never forget us and that we would be part of him forever. He believed destiny brought him to us.
In French, in my own voice this time, I told Paul what I had been thinking all along: how much I admired him, how fortunate I felt to have known him, and how I wished him much success. I repeated this to Vienna in English.
What I did not say was how sorry I was about the circumstances that brought us together, and how I never thought that my gift of language would be used in this way. This I would tell Vienna in private.
After we had all shared our thoughts, we sat for a few moments in silence. There was no need for interpretation.
