The Scream - painting

A survivor of political violence is often revisited by memories when least expected. Some time ago I was sitting next to a young woman on a plane who told me of her dreams of becoming a painter. She had visited a museum in Oslo. One painting in particular had captured her attention. She spoke with enthusiasm of the painting's color composition, simplicity, clarity. What she did not mention was the subject matter.

The painting, Edvard Munch's The Scream, is quite familiar to me. But as that bright young woman described it, in one terrifying moment I witnessed again the unrelenting clutches of torture.

Dear young artist, dear fellow human-being - can you not see? This painting that you passionately describe is my life, the life of every woman, child, man who has been subjected to torture. Can you not hear the cries coming from those terrified souls? Can no one hear them but those of us who have survived this hell?

Jacobo Timerman, tortured in Argentina, remembers someone in the next cell, a man he never saw. What Timerman remembers is the wracking cough, until one day it stopped. I remember the screams. I was that scream. I heard, I saw the screams of people being tortured. I assure you, that scream etches itself into one's eternal memory. I remember this and much, much more.

I remember the night I died, when the screams of other people were muffled, falling, finally, into dead silence. I was taken to a place where there is no more pain. But the Angel of Death passed me by. I was not one of those lucky enough to close my eyes; instead I was reborn in an instant. I remember it: no beliefs, no values, no friends, no family, no memory. I was witness to that rebirth, not innocent as some newborn, but fatally flawed, born in the image of those who raped and tortured me. I remember the scream that only I could hear.

Later, I remember how people, blind to torture and its effects, looked at me, as if I were a mad woman who had just popped out of Freud's notebook, while others were convinced that I was feeling sorry for myself. Others advised me to forgive and forget. But can one forget, even momentarily, that which was, and that which still is? Elie Wiesel says, "To forget would be an absolute injustice....To forget would be the enemy's triumph....The enemy kills, tortures, and disappears twice - the second time, in trying to obliterate the traces of his crime." Forget? We have neither the freedom nor the right to forget.

When individuals become the target of political violence, their worlds crumble. The damage done to the basic foundation is so severe that the pillars of one's life come crashing down. There is nothing life-giving left. Trust in one's self, in humanity, and in God is shattered. The survivor feels more kin to the dead than to the living. We are left with fear, guilt, humiliation, helplessness, shame, nightmares, flashbacks, hideous memories. This is the survivors' world, a world we wish to flee.

In that darkness, where so many have stood and continue to stand, transfixed by paralyzing fear, there flickers the faint light of a candle, the Marjorie Kovler Center. The Center exists as a sanctuary for survivors of torture, and for their families. At Kovler, we are lifted when we fall, cared for in our brokenness, empowered to take the most daring of all risks - to live.

How has Kovler been a healing presence for so many of us? Sometimes the past, like the future, is too painful to face. Survivors of torture find themselves bombarded with the most intrusive memories. The smell of cigarettes, the sight of a policeman, the barking of a dog, or simple eye contact can trigger memories of the torture chamber. Like many survivors, I adopted behaviors to protect myself from these memories. I would drink twenty cups of coffee to avoid the nightmares that came with sleep. Bathing frequently, I would use A-Jax and bleach to disinfect myself. I was contaminated by what my torturers had done to me. But at Kovler, I came to realize that my behavior was not abnormal, that I was not mad. Can you imagine what that meant? I was, I am normal.

Survivors of political violence emerge from an environment of total control, victimized and powerless. But Kovler recognizes something that we believed had been lost forever: the inner strength that our torturers and all their allies have not destroyed. It was at Kovler that I, and countless others, first came to see ourselves not as victims but as survivors, fragile and broken perhaps, but very much alive.

To Kovler come survivors of political violence, dipped with the colors of despair. We reproduce The Scream with our lives. We come mute, desperately seeking a way to unleash the silent screams trapped within us. At Kovler, we recreate our shattered lives and deepen our alliance with those whom we have learned to trust. This strength, feeble at times, empowers us to confront our torturers and their allies, to use our experience to end the practice of torture.

Often times, I am asked what makes Kovler so special. Kovler heard my scream. To it, I owe my sanity, my life. It is a candle in the darkness.

Dianna Ortiz, O.S.U., was abducted and tortured in Guatemala in 1989. This article is based on a presentation she gave at the tenth anniversary of Chicago's Marjorie Kovler Center for Survivors of Torture.

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