| Photo by Jane Scherr |
Shari Eppel Interview: Conversations with History; Institute of International Studies, UC Berkeley
| Photo by Jane Scherr |
Page 6 of 6
This sounds like emotionally draining work that you do. How do you come down? How do you transcend the emotions that must be awakened in you, the frustration, the anger, and so on?
It is a very emotionally demanding job. I think, partly, obviously, I thrive on that, otherwise I wouldn't do it. But I think there are various things which help one manage that. Of course, the curious traumatization is a well-known phenomenon, and I know I've been victim of it, probably continuously. But we have a great team, we're a very supportive team, and I think that's great. We have a lot of fun together, and we're there for each other. We have a very informal group of people that we work with. Also, I have a great family -- I have three wonderful kids and a supportive husband -- and that makes a great difference. I also write, I write poetry, which is my catharsis.
What kind of poetry do you write?
That quite varies. Sometimes the poems are quite light-hearted; other times, they're very, I suppose, much more hard-hitting, and I draw through those the actual atrocities, the stories which I've heard, and even the kind of exhumation process.
I have one of your poems here.
Would you mind reading it for us, would you object to that?
That's fine. Which one is it?
It's called Winter Harvest. You might want to tell us about it before you read it.
Okay, well, this poem is about our first exhumation, actually. It was somebody who was killed by the Fifth Brigade in 1984 in front of the entire village; the entire community witnessed this murder. He had been buried in an ant-bear hole, which is an animal hole, in the school playing field. So he was in the middle of the school yard for all of these years, and the community didn't know what to do about it. In fact, his story was the story which motivated me to think, "Well, it's no good saying to this mother 'Whenever you feel sad about the fact that Edwell's in the middle of the school playing field, tell me and I'll empathize.'" It was obvious to me that to be useful we would have to pick our spades and start to dig. So this is the story of that poem.
It's dedicated to Anahi, Luis and Gustavo -- these were three Argentineans who made the dig possible, and also to the archbishop who supported us. And it mentions the word gukurahundi, which means the storm that washes away the chaff before the spring rain, which is what this brigade was known as.
for Anahi, Luis and Gustavo, who made it possible
-- and for Pius, who supported us
Gukurahundi: the storm that washes away the chaff before the spring rains
Then he said unto me,
Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel:
Behold, they say, our bones are dried, and our hope is lost:
we are cut off from our parts.
[Ezekiel, Ch 37, verse 11]
A withered land, this: dry wind stirs shadeless
earth as we dig ever deeper downwards,
casting aside barren mounds of dirt. For hours
we winnow and sift sand, seeking to recover
the chaff swept away during that terrible tempest.
At last, in this desolate place, we begin
to reap the truth, ending a fifteen-year famine:
beneath sun-browned stones, we gather in
the legacy of one life discarded, among
many thrown away, cruelly scythed too young.
They crucified Edwell in a time of hunger,
impaled him by his feet to the tree, his head
a football. A storm of gun butts pulped his lungs,
torrents of boots shivered his brain, smudged
the edges of his face, enclosed him within his pain
while others writhed, battered too by the savage gale.
They forced his corpse down an animal's den --
a hole in the schoolyard. New scavengers came
on the first night to gnaw the pulverised man,
rip his bones raw, until fearful friends pushed him
in deeper, sealed his shameful tomb with boulders.
Having expunged Edwell, they returned, those soldiers,
to rubbish his grave: dumped their trash in the place.
In this desecrated space, then, Edwell stayed --
no peace, no rites, his family afraid:
on his bones, unaware, school children played.
Now we softly sift him as evening comes,
finding first his delicate finger bones
that lay a trail to his huddled remains --
dislocated, muddled, a tribute to pain.
And his only son weeps to face at last
the father -- and childhood -- so many years lost.
Yet his bones bear witness to all that was done
in this valley of shadows where rain does not come --
where the innocent died and were flung away
like carrion, with no-one to mourn or pray.
Now we mourn and pray for Edwell's soul
as we lay him at last where he needs to dwell -
back home, by the graves of his kith and kin.
Yes, we weep as we watch his coffin settled in,
but these tears are shared, as we honour him
and support those he loved as they say farewell.
Our tears cleanse away the anger and pain
of the unjust death and the unholy lair:
careful clods fall and bury him again,
but the truth is out in the August air
and the grief in his family's hearts can cease,
knowing Edwell is free to rest in peace.
Shari Eppel
Thank you.
So in a way, writing this poetry does for you individually what this process you described for the community does for the community. Is that fair?
Yes, I think that's fair. I needed this exhumation as much as Edwell's family by the end. For me, it's a great relief to go past the school yard and to think "Edwell is not in the ant-bear hole," because for two years, I went past there and thought "Edwell is in the ant-bear hole." It was really important that he be moved. And, yes, I think a lot of it. With the writing of poetry, you intensify your emotion, you concentrate for a long time, and you're picking just the right words, and so on. So it allows you to process the emotions in which you've been involved.
One final question requiring a brief answer.
What is the most satisfying component of this work that you do?
I think seeing the absolutely astonishing power to heal that can come with exhumations, it's just been a amazingly rewarding experience. It's transformed my life as much as the communities that we work in.
Shari, thank you very much for taking the time to be with us today, and to talk about your work.
It's a great honor, I'm very pleased.
Thank you.
Thank you. And thank you very much for joining us for this Conversation with History.
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