Estelle Luck“Up to half a million Afghans could flee the country by the end of the year.”
“The current crisis comes on top of the 2.2 million Afghan refugees already in neighbouring countries and 3.5 million people forced to flee their homes within Afghanistan’s borders.”
These quotes come from a BBC article published at the end of August about the refugee crisis in Afghanistan. The whole piece was jam-packed full of statistics, which, while shocking, are sometimes difficult to fully appreciate and put into perspective. What does this actually mean for the people counted in these numbers? I remember thinking that every one of those millions of people has their own story — and, most probably, their own trauma that they’re dealing with.
Not long after seeing this article, I read Christy Lefteri’s The Beekeeper of Aleppo. And while the novel isn’t directly about Modern Slavery and Human Trafficking, it serves as an important reminder that a response to trauma looks different in different people. It also opened my eyes to how fiction can be another means through which we can expand our understanding of the various trauma responses exhibited by humans. We can’t put people and patients into boxes, as VITA’s “What does trauma look like?” campaign for Anti-Slavery Day also highlighted.
Lefteri’s novel is based on the author’s time volunteering in a refugee centre in Athens. It’s about a couple who, after watching their war-torn city and home crumble around them, start the treacherous passage to seek refuge in England. The story is told by the male protagonist, Nuri, and flits between the present day in their temporary accommodation in the U.K. and the various points on their journey. As readers, we see it all through Nuri’s eyes — the destruction in Aleppo, Syria, the dangerous boat crossings and the haunting refugee camps. And, crucially for us in the VITA Network, we see how both Nuri and his wife, Afra, deal with their trauma in different ways — despite going through the same thing. They’ve both lost their son, they’ve both watched as their home has collapsed around them and they’ve both lived through the dangers of their travels. And yet their trauma responses are very different.
Afra watches as her son is killed by a bomb, and from that point on she’s unable to see. Until about halfway through the novel readers are made to assume this blindness is caused by a physical injury. But after the grieving mother meets with the doctor, we understand that this is in fact her body’s unique response to the trauma she has faced.
The doctor tells Afra, “Mrs. Ibrahim, your pupils are reacting to the light, dilating and constricting exactly the way I would expect them to if you could see.” (p.246) And he later explains, “There is a possibility that the force of the explosion or the bright light damaged the retina in some way, but it is also possible that the blindness you are experiencing is the result of severe trauma — sometimes our bodies can find ways to cope when we are faced with things that are too much for us to bear.” (p.246) Health professionals treating victims of MSHT should remember this, too. These patients will have likely been through immense trauma, but it won’t always manifest in the ways one might expect.
Nuri, on the other hand, responds to his traumatic situation very differently from Afra. Physically, he’s unaffected. But his thoughts are jumbled, and he’s experiencing flashbacks and hallucinations. Lefteri’s portrayal of this begins early on. Take this passage, for example:
“Colourful Lego pieces scattered about the floor
Blue tiles with black flowers
Afra wearing a yellow dress
Sami playing with the Lego in the living room, building a house
The apiaries in the field beneath the midday sun
The burned hives and the dead bees
Mustafa sitting in the middle of the field
Bodies floating in the river”(p.125)
Nuri’s memories are broken into fragments, and he can’t seem to separate the good from the bad. Everything is floating around in his mind, and he hasn’t properly been able to process what has happened to him. Later on in the novel, we see how this leads Nuri to hallucinate and imagine that he’s talking to a young boy who’s eerily similar to his son who died in Aleppo. The doctor tries to speak to Nuri about what he’s experiencing, but Nuri isn’t as forthcoming as his wife.
“‘Have you experienced any flashbacks, Mr. Ibrahim?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Any repetitive or distressing images?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Trembling, nausea or sweating?’
‘No.’
‘How is your concentration?’
‘Fine.’
‘Do you feel numb, as if you have lost your ability to experience emotions such as pain or joy?’
‘No, doctor. Thank you for your concern, but I am fine.’”(p. 248)
Nuri, as you can see, doesn’t want to open up about how he is feeling. He’s in denial that there is something wrong. This serves as a key reminder that not everyone who has experienced trauma will be open to receiving help as soon as it is offered. This is perhaps especially true for victims of MSHT, where there may be other factors involved. They may have been told not to talk about their situation by a trafficker, for example, or they may be frightened about what could happen if they start to share their story.
At VITA, we talk a lot about delivering good trauma-informed care. I know I’m not a medic, but I thought this doctor’s appointment in Lefteri’s novel was a good example of trauma-informed care. The health professional is clearly determined to help, but he doesn’t press Afra or Nuri too far with his questions. Plus, it’s obvious that he’s taking the couple’s body language and emotional state into consideration during the consultation. There is a moment during the examination when Afra gets upset, and the doctor, “puts down his flashlight and asks no more questions.” (p.244) Then, as Afra starts to open up about what happened to her son, she gets upset again, crying this time. Nuri’s narrative notes that “the doctor gets up from his desk and sits beside her.” (p.244) He also offers her a tissue and gets her a glass of water. He speaks “gentle words, sorry words” and gives Afra the support she needs to tell her story, which ultimately allows him to give his diagnosis (p.244).
When the doctor focuses his attention on Nuri, however, he can see that the same approach isn’t going to work. Nuri isn’t ready to admit that he’s struggling. So, without continuing to pry, the doctor gives Nuri the sleeping medication he asked for and schedules a follow-up appointment just for him three weeks later. He sees that it’s going to take longer for Nuri to trust him and to open up. Nuri will leave knowing that someone in the healthcare system is concerned about him and wants to help. And perhaps the space in between the appointments will encourage him to reassess how he’s coping.
The difference in the interactions here echoes the message in VITA’s “What does trauma look like?” campaign: “We must challenge ourselves not to only look for the “ideal victim” — someone who may be timid, polite, “compliant”, grateful for our care.” Nuri may not be a victim of MSHT, but the same principle applies. He’s clearly been through a lot, but he doesn’t respond to the doctor’s concern in the “ideal” way described above. He’s defensive and dismissive, and so the doctor recognises this and changes his approach.
Another part of Lefteri’s novel that stuck with me was Nuri’s interview with an immigration officer. By including it, Lefteri gives readers a brief but important look at what refugees and those seeking asylum in the U.K. have to go through.
The interview begins as expected, with Nuri confirming his name, date of birth and his country of origin. But then, as Nuri puts it, “The questions start to become strange.” (p.277) The interviewer asks Nuri to name the landmarks in Aleppo and the sorts of things sold in his city’s market. He’s asked about the president of Syria and the last book that he read — and he’s even made to sing the national anthem of his home country (p.277). By this point in the novel, readers are aware that Nuri has been struggling to process his trauma and that this has resulted in haunting flashbacks, fragmented thoughts and hallucinations. Nuri thinks the purpose of the meeting is for him to explain how he got to the U.K. The questions in his interview appear to catch him off guard. You can imagine how disorientating it would be for someone like Nuri to have to sing the national anthem of Syria in this setting as well as to describe parts of his home city that he saw being destroyed.
Showing readers an example of one of these interviews seems to me to be a deliberate move on Lefteri’s part. She’s highlighting the problematic nature of these interviews in that they don’t appear to cater for people who are dealing with immense trauma. And yet many people who end up sitting across the table from immigration officers will likely be in a similar position to Nuri. For refugees and people who have been trafficked, these interviews are hugely important. If they’re not granted asylum, they could be forced back to their country of origin. To be caught off guard with unexpected questions could easily throw an interviewee off-kilter and could end up causing more stress and anxiety.
Despite being fiction, The Beekeeper of Aleppo can open our eyes in lots of ways. Lefteri’s choice to place Nuri and Afra in situations such as the asylum interview and the GP surgery works to show readers what it’s actually like for refugees and those claiming asylum. The story provides a depth to the facts and figures we see in the news, and it touches readers in a way that statistics simply can’t. Even though the novel isn’t directly about Modern Slavery and Human Trafficking, I felt that the narrative on trauma is hugely relevant to anyone working in the anti-trafficking and anti-slavery sectors — and particularly in healthcare. We’re shown, from yet another perspective, how complex the human response to trauma can be. And not only that, but Lefteri also works to break down the notion that there’s an “ideal victim” when it comes to how someone responds to support — something that VITA has also been focusing on recently. Members of the VITA Network are always looking to learn and grow when it comes to advancing the health response to modern slavery. And it’s been wonderful to see how fiction can help us do that, too.
If you’ve read a novel containing similar themes, and you’d like to write about them in our newsletter, please don’t hesitate to reach out!
Sources:
The Visual Journalism Team, BBC News, 2021, accessed 31 August 2021, <https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-58283177>
Lefteri, Christy, 2019, The Beekeeper of Aleppo, Bonnier Books, London