Later in the day’s packed training schedule, the participating therapists were asked to enact a situation from their therapy using the therapeutic intervention of psychodrama. This form of therapy is based on the work of the Brazilian psychotherapist Jacob Moreno (1946). His central idea is the powerful potential of reenacting a psychic conflict in front of an audience. Ideally, this performance will transform a traumatic experience into something that can be shared and thereby externalized from the inner, allegedly ineffable register of the traumatized person.
As a therapeutic method, psychodrama enjoys widespread popularity across Gaza and the West Bank. It is an intervention believed to be well suited to clients, such as women and children, who are not quite comfortable in providing coherent narratives of past and difficult experiences (Burmeister and Maciel 2007; Moreno 1946). That psychodrama also figured in the training program for group therapy is no surprise, since psychodrama and group therapy both emphasize collective sharing as a way to heal painful experience.
During such an exercise in psychodrama, Muna enacted the role of Amina, whom she represented as feeling too much like a victim. Still shaken, Muna told me afterward, “When I played the role of Amina and told the audience why I felt like a victim, I started crying and I could not stop; I just cried and cried. I felt for that moment that I was Amina. Esmail [Muna’s husband] is also political, he could just as well be in prison.”
Why did the enactment of Amina cause Muna to cry? The training session for the Palestinian therapists appears to convey at least two modes of understanding distress. One is a Palestinian moral discourse on suffering captured by Muna as the concerned wife of a politically active and potentially heroic husband at risk of both violent death and detention in Israel. The local idiom of perseverance, sumūd, summarizes this discourse. By this understanding, women like Amina are praised as the patient, supportive, and proud wives of heroic husbands, suffering as spouses, albeit differently according to the gendered division of labor in the Palestinian project (see Peteet 2005; Jean-Klein 2003). The second, underlying concept of suffering is the one offered by the Spanish trainers, an idea of victimhood as an emotional experience that one can recover from with time. This framework grounds affliction on the psychological terrain of trauma (Fassin and Rechtman 2009; Argenti-Pillen 2000; Leys 2000). The two modes of understanding anguish, both demonstrated in the vignette, together constitute how suffering is addressed and understood in the occupied territory.
This compound framing of affliction resembles what Didier Fassin has termed the hero-victim subjectivity, but there are important differences between his and my engagement with trauma among Palestinians. Fassin’s work (2008) is primarily based on professional immersion as well as fieldwork among medical and management staff in the organization Medecins sans Frontiers in Paris and its programs for Palestinians. In contrast my analysis privileges the view from rather than on subjectivities, in the sense that the bulk of empirical data is based on fieldwork in occupied Palestine among people who are labeled as traumatized and their therapists. This ethnographic premise allows me to ponder how the experiences of wives of Palestinian detainees are not adequately contained in the framing of their suffering as either trauma or heroic sacrifice.
By asking why Muna was crying as an initial question, this chapter offers both an ethnographic analysis and a conceptualization of the problem of experiences that evade what Sally Engle Merry and Susan Bibler Coutin (2014) term “commensurability.” This term refers to the globally circulating indicators used to register, for instance, suffering in the shape of violence, sexual assault, or poverty and the lives that can get lost in this registration. This chapter brings to light how the forms of affliction for detainees’ wives are incommensurate with, and elude, the languages of these indicators.
What Counts as Suffering in Palestine
Muna’s difficulty with Amina’s case suggests precisely the degree of incommensurability between the therapeutic premise of change and the uneventful life it is supposed to heal. This premise emerges in the Spanish teacher’s presentation of Amina’s inability to engage in life as related to the onset of an event—her husband’s imprisonment—to which Amina responded with an immediate show of overwhelming emotion. Following an emotional response, Amina was supposed to recover. By this understanding, suffering is caused, and defined, by an extraordinary human experience that befalls an individual. The problem with women like Amina, however, is that while they are included in therapy because they are wives of potentially traumatized men, and witnesses of potentially disturbing events of detention, these women’s experiences are arguably not “events” set apart from the ordinary, nor do they unfold in a temporally linear fashion with an onset, an emotional response, and an aftermath in which recovery can occur. Muna speaks about her client Amina by using the vocabulary of therapeutic progress, while identifying with Amina’s situation of being the wife of a man who is politically active. Muna thereby employs a language of affect that merges psychological jargon with Palestinian modes of knowing affliction. The complex resonances3 between these two modes of knowing suffering together form what I think of as a “grammar of suffering.” This grammar merges a global psychological understanding of suffering as trauma and a Palestinian moral discourse on suffering expressed in terms of events, heroism, and endurance in the face of hardship.
The Palestinian moral discourse of suffering is polyvocal. Khalili’s triad of heroic, tragic, and sumūd narratives captures the three main genres in which Palestinians tend to recount their experiences, depending on whether they are recounting a heroic past or current stories of tragedy and suffering (2007: 224). Heroic narratives, Khalili argues, are those that privilege the courageous aspects of a person or an experience, leaving, for instance, the cost of such courage unspoken. More often than not, heroic narratives are set in the past tense. Tragic narratives on the other hand increasingly have become part of the Palestinian narrative repertoire, as instances of loss and consistent discrimination against Palestinians in Lebanon, Palestine, and Israel are extremely common. Lastly, what Khalili calls sumūd narratives tend to describe a range of experiences not easily accounted for. At first glance, sumūd narratives would seem to sum up and include the experiences of, say, detainees’ wives. As this chapter proceeds, however, it will become clear that I am hesitant to agree with Khalili’s point that the value and efficacy of the sumūd narratives is that they allow their narrators a breathing space. Drawing my inspiration from Deleuze’s thoughts on convergence,4 I suggest instead that breathing space is precisely what is missing for detainees’ wives due to a convergence between knowing the Palestinian predicament as trauma, on the one hand, and local ways of acknowledging suffering by the criteria of event and relation, on the other.
As we shall see, however, these criteria are not equal. Event is given emphasis in the convergence of Palestinian and psychological ways of understanding suffering, while relation is considered secondary, or at least derivative. In the second half of the chapter, I analyze how these criteria and their internal hierarchies fail to recognize the less clear-cut aspects of Palestinian affliction.
The Criteria of Event
In their book The Empire of Trauma (2009), Fassin and Rechtman map out how knowledge