The Sounds of Silence

I have recently finished reading The Making of the Atomic Bomb by Richard Rhodes. The final chapter contains excerpts from witnesses in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. One concept which stood out for me was the sounds of silence which they all experienced.

The silence is what I remember most in the minutes after the tsunami passed. I do not remember the sound of the tsunami, which I have been told would have been loud like a train hurtling towards me. In my mind, I can’t hear my husband yell ‘corred’ which I know he yelled. My visions of those minutes are all in silence.

It was deathly silent once the water had subsided. No birds. Even though there were animals in the water, they made no sound. We believed that all the other people on the beach had died, as we heard no sounds from the beach. The sounds of silence. The silence of nature after a catastrophic event.

It is not only the silence of the tsunami. There is also the silence of the morgue. The silence of the house on our return; the cold, silent house. The silence of Clea’s grave at the cemetery. The silence of Clea’s room when I enter each morning to wish her good morning and to open the blinds on her windows. The silence of her photographs all through the house. The silence of Clea; no voice, no laugh, no giggle. The silence of the dead.

It is also the silence of others who are unable to contact me. And my own silence when I do not want to contact people. The silence of people when I tell them that I have a daughter who drowned in a tsunami in Samoa; the silence of not asking questions, moving on to the next subject. The deliberate silence – if you don’t ask, you don’t have to deal with anyone else’s pain. As the years go by, that deliberate silence becomes more a question of if you don’t ask, then they will get over the death of their child. That’s the silence theory anyway.

It is so much easier, for all of us, to discuss the good things that happen rather than the bad. To discuss the bad things implies giving meaning and thought to what most people keep within their nightmares. The consequences are that you will have to confront your own deep feelings of pain and your own inability to control the pain of the other person. But, if you maintain your silence, you can walk away and feel good about yourself because you haven’t had to face the reality that is the other person’s life.

For us, it is sitting alone at home listening to the silence. The silence of a mother and a father grieving for their daughter. The silence of two brothers saying goodnight to their sister and hearing nothing in response.

It is the silence between us. The silence of pain. The silence of not uttering the unspeakable pain in our hearts. The silence of one who has been missing from our family for the past 205 weeks.

About huntersoledad

Mother of three. Bereaved mother of one. Survivor and victim of 2009 Samoan tsunami. Could be if would be writer.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to The Sounds of Silence

  1. Livonne says:

    That silence is awful. I always considered myself so blessed that my circle of friends and family talked.. and let me talk. My daughter’s name will never be forgotten as everyone still talks about her, even after 18 years of her leaving us. I’m glad you’re writing. It helps so much. Keep talking about Clea.. here and everywhere. Eventually people get used to it and it’s not so “silence inducing” anymore. xxxx

  2. Your depiction of the silence is so true and so sad. It is part of the pain that is so constant and ever-present to bereaved families. We can try to distract ourselves, but we never fool ourselves.
    And that others should expect us to “get over” the loss is preposterous. How can one get over the loss of the very air we breathe or the water that sustains us? Our children are integral to our lives in every way and living without them is the most painful thing that anyone can experience.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s