Author: sectionix

70th Anniversary of the Nakba: It Was A Warm April Day In 1948 In Jerusalem

By Lama Z. Khouri

 

234503-1192125-1_320x400.jpgMy mother is finally mustering the strength to tell me about the day she left the home of her birth.

“I am 12 years old.  Nadia [her sister], our neighbor Lily, and I are playing hopscotch in front of the house. Your grandfather and grandmother are going in and out loading the car and getting ready to head to Amman. Our dog is strangely excited or agitated, I’m not sure which. Every time a suitcase is loaded in the car, she barks at the bag and her whole body shakes, as if the bag is a collaborator in some conspiracy. Maybe she knows what we do not anticipate.”

She pauses.

“My brothers are playing marbles. At 15 and 17, they aren’t getting into mischief, as they used to do. My father is roaming around, seemingly busy, but doing nothing. He seems to be all in a spin. My sister, Hala, is with my mother. She is barely two and not allowed to play outside.”

“Are you sad to be leaving?” I ask.

“No!” she says emphatically. “I am relieved. Zionist gangs are terrorizing the Arabs. They are laying mines in markets and in the backyards of houses. My mother spends the night on the roof of our house to make sure no mines are laid in ours. Going to school is dangerous – we could be caught in the

left to right Mother, Lily, Nadia 1948

Left to Right: Mother, Lily and Nadia in 1948

crossfire. When the sun sets, we run back home and pray to be alive the next day.”

“Why are you leaving?”

“The Zionists have bombed King David Hotel, which was owned by the British, as if to say: ‘even the British won’t stop us.’ The last straw was when we got news about a massacre in Deir Yassin — hundreds of Palestinians murdered, and in the most atrocious ways. We were told that the bellies of pregnant women were slit open. Yesterday morning, British soldiers knocked on our door and told us to leave for two weeks. The situation is becoming increasingly dangerous. They said we can come back in a week or two when the danger has subsided.”

She stops talking, lost in thought for a moment, then goes on.

“I think my mother knows that it will be longer than that because she has packed winter clothes. My father asks her: ‘why winter clothes, when we will be back in two weeks?’ She doesn’t respond. My uncle, aunt, and their daughter left to go to Amman a couple of months ago to seek safety. I sing to myself: ‘Ami bi Amman, ou kullo aman’ [my uncle is in Amman where it is all safe]. But, when we get to Amman, we receive news that the Zionists have invaded West Jerusalem and taken it over. We are told that we cannot go back to the house, because it is occupied by someone else. When we return a year later, we have to live in a one-bedroom apartment in East Jerusalem and barely scrape by. My two sisters and I sleep in my parents’ room and my two brothers in the living room.”

My mind stays with the dog, as if it is too painful to think about the betrayal which the Palestinians would have had to contend. I have heard about her before. My aunt Nadia loved her. Nadia hated meat and would sneak her lunch to the dog.

“What happened to the dog?”

After a moment of silence, my mother continues, but as if she hasn’t heard my question.

“My mother looks sad and sullen. I feel the heaviness in my parents’ hearts but I don’t particularly care to know why. Two weeks earlier a stray bullet entered the house and missed my head by this much.”

She makes a space of about an inch with her fingers.

“What happened to the dog?” I ask again.

Left to right Hala, Nadia, Mother, Cousin In front of the house they lost in 1948

Left to right Hala, Nadia, Mother, Cousin In front of the house they lost in 1948

“Nadia is crying,” she responds. “She wants the dog to come with us. When we finally are seated in the car and close the doors, the dog stops barking, lays her head between her paws and begins to whimper, as if she knows she won’t see us again. As we pull away, she runs after us until she can’t catch up.”

“Why don’t you take the dog with you?”

“I think because there is no space. And my mother says the dog needs to stay to guard the house.”

“But how will the dog survive if there is no one left behind to care for her?”

My mother has a dissociated look on her face, as if she doesn’t understand or something is amiss. She repeats:

“The dog has to stay to guard the house. My mother has placed the sewing machine behind the entrance door, with a mortar and hammer on top. She thinks if someone tries to enter, the hammer will fall, and they’ll get scared, thinking the house is occupied.”

For days following this conversation with my mother, I think about the dog, my heart heavy. Why was she barking? What might she have known that they didn’t know? Could she have known what was coming, the betrayal and deception? How did she fend for herself when they left? What happened to her? In dark moments, I imagine her roaming the streets emaciated looking for food. It is easier to feel sad for the dog than for the Palestinian people, homeless and destitute. I wonder how the dog felt when strangers entered the house. In my daydreams, I wish that there had been another 12-year-old girl, who might have fallen in love with the dog and protected her. Perhaps this girl wouldn’t have liked meat either and would have also sneaked it to the dog. Most likely, the dog, who was supposed to guard the house, barked and growled at the intruders. My worst thought is that they shot her dead.

I always found it peculiar that my mother could not recall the dog’s name. Perhaps the trauma is too great to remember it. I fantasize her name was Lady, perhaps because of the Disney movie The Lady and the Tramp. Was this Palestinian Lady forced to become a Tramp?

“What did you take with you when you left?”

A moment of silence. “The Christmas decorations,” she mumbles.

“All of them?” I ask with astonishment.

She goes quiet and looks lost in thought, staring at the Turkish coffee cup next to her.

“Mama?”

She forces the words out, as if barely able to breathe.

“The North Star.”

 

Lama Khouri is a Palestinian  psychotherapist, who was raised in Jordan and now resides in New York. She is the Executive Director and founder of Circle OASIS, which is a not-for-profit serving Arab immigrant and refugee school-aged children and their families. Lama comes to the field of mental health following a 14-year career at the United Nations Department of Peacekeeping Operations, where she was a Political Affairs Officer.

Advertisements

70th Anniversary of the Nakba: The Nakba in Brooklyn: Hidden in Plain Sight

By Christine Schmidt

001I&M201712284T0A9804I knew that Mrs. Daoud was Palestinian Bedouin and her husband identified as a Jordanian. They were living in their Brooklyn house when I moved next door in 1984. They welcomed me as their new neighbor.

We practically raised our children together. Mrs. Daoud had eight and I had three. Our children ran between our houses, playing on the swings in my back yards or riding bikes on the sidewalks out front. They played, laughed, teased and generally really liked each other. In good weather, Mrs. Daoud always sat on the patio out front. She was the matron of our block. As soon as she saw me she would motion for me to come visit and watch our children together. For hours. Tea with fresh mint and pastries or my homemade banana bread. She spoke a few English phrases and I spoke a few Arabic phrases. Occasionally, her children interpreted our conversations; at other times our gestures sufficed. Mrs. Daoud taught me how to embroider. She worked elaborate stitches on pieces of velvet cloth; I showed her how to knit. When the grape leaves from her backyard arbor matured, she taught me how make warak dawalie – grape leaves stuffed with fragrant rice and lamb. Sometimes other Palestinian women came by and all our hands worked together. Twice, afterwards, we all went into her backyard where women played on derbekkehs and we clapped and danced together.

The September 2001 weather was lovely. When planes crashed into the World Trade Center, I watched from the roof of my house as they burned and blue skies dimmed with falling ash. For days, bits of charred paper rained on to our block and the pungent burning smell pervaded our neighborhood.

We have a large Palestinian community in downtown Brooklyn. In the days following the attack, as the clinical supervisor for local public schools, I was charged with helping school personnel manage their own fears so that they could respond to children’s fears about safety. I intervened when an Islamophobic principal told his faculty that any schoolyard gatherings of Palestinian women in traditional garb should be reported immediately to the police. Challenging that sort of blatant racism absorbed my days at work. I felt angry and deeply saddened.

That month, Mrs. Daoud didn’t sit outside in her normal block-watching guardianship and her children didn’t play on the sidewalk. After missing her for a week, I knocked on her door. She sat inside, crying, shaking, shrinking into the woodwork. I had a sense that her terror had awakened an earlier trauma. I didn’t ask because I wanted to respect her privacy. Her story would have required her children to act as interpreters. Also, I was afraid of what she might tell me about an earlier tragedy. Boulanger (2018) writes about vicarious trauma as a contagion spread by intersubjective knowing. Knowing involves taking responsibility and in that moment I avoided both. So, I hugged her – a gesture that we often used as a greeting but this time it was a gesture of comfort. I sat with her inside because she didn’t want to go out. I offered to walk with her to the supermarket. At first she declined and then she accepted. I was outraged by the catastrophe that was propelling hatred towards my neighbor. I witnessed her traumatic response to the attack and I felt helpless to do more than walk with her to the supermarket and use my voice in countless protest demonstrations.

As I witnessed the waves of Islamophobia erupting in the United States, I was outraged by the hatred that was exploding all over the country and being directed at people like Mrs. Daoud. Terrorism was being projected onto my neighbors. I understood that the xenophobia erupting in the US was bred from decades of war and distrust in the Middle East, much of it related to Israel. I recalled the narrative I’d been fed as a child – that Israel had been built in an uninhabited desert. My Christian Sunday school collaborated with a local synagogue contributing pennies to grow trees in the barren deserts of Israel. It didn’t occur to me to question this narrative because the pervasive US ideology in the post-1948 years was, “There’s the West and the rest” (A&K Schmidt, personal communication, March 12, 2018). Israel was clearly an extension of the West. The rest didn’t count. Later, as a college student in the 70s I became aware of the “mess in the Middle East” through my young socialist friends who flocked to Israel to work on kibbutz. It never occured to me to wonder how Israel had acquired that land. My thoughts were foggy and I concluded that I didn’t really want to know.

Our children were growing up and leaving home. In 2002 Mrs. Daoud’s daughter Samira married. I attended her elaborate, traditional Palestinian wedding in Bayridge. I danced dabke with the women and was honored to celebrate together. At the end of the year I moved away from the neighborhood. Driven by my own fears and insecurity from living in a house that was too big, I bought an apartment in a fully-staffed building.

The years have passed quickly and I haven’t seen Mrs. Daoud for quite some time. I avoid the old block; It holds a sadness that I don’t completely understand.

I began to learn about the Nakba in 2014 after Israel, backed by the United States, invaded Gaza. I wanted to understand why talk about Palestinian suffering was censored in my mental health organizations with charges of anti-Semitism. Trauma is trauma – except, it seemed, for Palestinians living under Israeli military occupation. Discussion of Palestinian trauma was silenced with conflated accusations of being anti-Israeli, Anti-Jewish, and anti-Semitic. This is when I learned about the Nakba of 1948, a catastrophe rendered invisible by the silencing of discussion. The creation of the State of Israel was ensured by Zionist militias who drove 750,000 Palestinians from their land, murdered thousands and seized their homes (Shavit, 2014). 80,000-92,000 Palestinian Bedouins were expelled from their Naqab desert homeland in what is now called the Negev desert and is a part of Israel (Felshin, 2016). These acts of terrorism uprooted 80% of the Palestinian population from their homeland. Many of those who survived became refugees. It was a catastrophic event. Nineteen years later, in an act of territorial expansion known as the Six Day War, Israel displaced between a quarter million and a half million Palestinians. Many were stateless refugees from 1948, twice refugees. Israel expanded its borders by demolishing Palestinian villages in the Jordan Valley, Golan Heights, and Sinai Peninsula and covered the newly barren land from the destroyed Palestinian villages with forests, erasing the history of Palestinian habitation (Nuseibah, 2017; Shavit, 2014). The Palestinians who were not murdered were expelled from their homeland and settled in refugee camps in the Jordan Valley and Golan Heights. Three generations later, this unresolved crisis has burgeoned into a humanitarian crisis of 7 million Palestinian refugees.

These horrific acts of ethnic cleansing were shamefully covered up by Israeli and Western governments (Pappé, 2007). It is one of the biggest stories never told – never told to children and adults in the West. I only recently realized that the pennies I contributed as a child to planting trees in the desert were part of a sinister forestation effort to conceal the ancient Palestinian homes recently destroyed.

Palestinians have been immigrating to Brooklyn for a hundred years, but the largest wave of immigrants arrived after the 1967 war and reached its peak in the 1980s (Nuseibah, 2017). Tragically, they have been cleansed from their homeland. Fleeing repressive apartheid-like policies imposed by the State of Israel that limited home ownership, access to education and employment, many Palestinians took a chance to settle in Brooklyn.

Mrs. Daoud made a home in Brooklyn. She was fiercely proud of her home but she and her children never stopped talking about Palestine as “my country”. I believe that the catastrophe of 9/11/01 re-awakened the catastrophe of 1948 that she had lived through as a child and the catastrophe of 1967 that sowed the seeds for her emigration to Brooklyn.

unnamed.jpg

Mrs. Daoud October 2001.

 

I imagine that the terror I witnessed in her eyes and in her shaken body in September 2001 was unspoken and unmetabolized trauma, trauma that Davoine and Gaudilliere (2004) describe as “outside the field of speech.” I cannot know because I didn’t ask her. I didn’t ask because I didn’t know about the Nakba. And even if I’d known about the Nakba, it didn’t seem right for me to ask her to expose her children to that trauma through the act of interpreting for me.

I was ashamed of my ignorance. Now I am furious about it. I feel that I owe a moral debt as a Westerner to speak truth and make a space for stories to be told, especially those stories where my ignorance and silence make me complicit. The Nakba of 1948 was an act of terrorism against Palestinians that continues until the present day. Even though I am two generations removed and live in Brooklyn, I feel its pulse daily.

Christine Schmidt LCSW, CGP is a psychotherapist in private practice in Brooklyn, New York, a mediator, and an educational consultant. She has published about the psychological dynamics racism with particular focus on the impact of whiteness. She is on the Steering Committee of the USA-Palestine Mental Health Network.

References:

Boulanger, G. (2018). When is vicarious trauma a necessary therapeutic tool? Psychoanalytic Psychology, 35(1), 60–69. https://doi.org/10.1037/pap0000089

Davoine, F., & Gaudillière, J.-M. (2004). History beyond trauma: whereof one cannot speak, thereof one cannot stay silent. New York: Other Press.

Felshin, Nina. (2016, May 13). A Photo Exhibtion About Israel and the West Bank that Chooses Sides. Hyperallergic.

Nuseibah, Munir. (2017, June 1). The Second Nakba: Displacement of Palestinians in and after the 1967 Occupation. Orient XII.

Pappé, I. (2007). The ethnic cleansing of Palestine (Paperback ed). London: Oneworld.

Shavit, A. (2014). The triumph and tragedy of Israel. Melbourne: Scribe.

 

 

 

 

70th Anniversary of the Nakba: Modifying some settings on the smart phone’s camera

By Mustafa Qossoqsi

تعديلات على شرح بعض خصائص كاميرا الهاتف المحمولmustafa-qosqase

Auto: وهو التصوير الذي سيقوم بتعديل كل شيء من تلقاء نفسه مع إمكانية التصوير بشكل سريع، خاصةّ في حالات الموت المباغت أو انهيار المباني والمعاني على رؤوس ساكنيها.

Beauty Face: يسمح بتصوير الوجه وتحسينه عند التصوير بمقطعٍ عامودي، مناسب لوجه يطلع من الركام ملطّخاً بالدم والغبار وبعيون مغمضة نهائياً عن تفاهة الشرّ وتكنو لجيّته البدائيّة الحديثة جداً.

BestPhoto: يتيح إمكانية اختيار أفضل صورة من مجموعة صور، لتسويق أفضل لموتٍ عنيف على شاشات تتجمّل مهرولة إلى موعدها القادم مع ضحايا أكثر ألقاً فوتوغرافيّاً وأقلّ شبقاً للحريّة.

BestFace: نفس الفكرة السابقة مع تركيز على الوجه والتعديل عليه تمهيداً لتحويله لأيقونة مؤقّتة للألم.

Sound & shot: خيار يسمح لك بأخذ لقطة من الصورة بالتزامن مع تسجيل صوتي لمدة 5 ثوانٍ الصوت يظهر تلقائيّا عند كلّ زيارة جديدة للصورة ( لا تسأل من أين يأتي كلّ هذا العويل).

Drama: التقاط صور للشخص أو الشيء الذي يتحرك ومن ثم إبرازها في صوره واحدة غير متحركة: هذا النوع من التصوير يمكنك لاحقاً من التعرّف على حياة ما من خلال تجميع ما تبقّى من لحمها وعظمها وحلمها بالإضافة إلى تمييز ملامح الصرخة الأخيرة من دوّي أشلائها..

Eraser: في حال ظهر شيء، في وسط الصورة، شعب يريد الحياة مثلاً، فيمكنك إزالته طبعا، بوسع الكاميرا أيضاً أن تمسح بقع الدم عن الضمير و أن تزودّه ببريقٍ إنسانيّ عابس.


وظائف استثنائيّة
                         :
التصوير البانورامي، لطعنة البحر في الظهر قبل غروب الشمس بقليل أو لقصف مائدة الإفطار العائلية بقنبلة تزن طنّاً وقرنين على الأقلّ من أدبيات الاستشراق

التصوير الرياضي، لمباريات كرة قدم قصيرة وحاسمة على الشاطئ يعاقب فيها اللاعبون قليلو الحظّ والتجربة على لهوهم المفرط خلال الوقت بدل الضائع في هدنة عرضيّة بين قذيفتين.

التصوير الليلي، لكوابيس الأطفال وحدقاتهم التي افترسها عمى المتفرجين.

التصوير المستقبلي: طفلة تنقذ كتباً من موت محقق تحت الأنقاض في غزّة وتضمد بها جروح الله بينما تنظر إليه دون دموع.

 

MODIFYING SOME SETTINGS ON THE SMART PHONE’S CAMERA

AUTO:  Quickly switches on its own to the setting for the conditions of the photograph, especially in the case of sudden death or the collapsing of buildings and meaning on top of the heads of their inhabitants.

BEAUTY FACE:  Allows the photograph to improve the face when taken vertically. This feature is suitable when shooting a face that emerges from rubble, covered in blood and dust and when the eyes are terminally closed by the banality of evil and its ultramodern primitivism.

BEST SHOT: Provides the ability to choose the best photograph from a group of photographs in order to better market violent death on screens which are pregnant with its forthcoming promise of more victims who are even more photogenic and less lusting for freedom.

BEST FACE: Same as the previous feature with a focus on the face and setting, preparing for its transformation into a temporary icon of pain.

SOUND AND SHOT: An option that allows you to take a shot with a simultaneous audio recording for up to five seconds. The captured sound appears with every new viewing of the photograph (Do not ask where the wailing comes from).

DRAMA: Takes a photograph of a person or a thing who moves and then frames it within a single photograph, motionless. This kind of photography allows you to later identify a life by collecting the remains of its flesh, bones, and dreams in addition to the ability to distinguish the features of the last scream from its tattered corpse.

ERASER:  In the chance that something appears in the middle of the photograph, for example, a people who desire life, you can naturally remove it with the camera function that allows you to wipe bloodstains from the conscience while also providing it with a grim humane luster.

SPECIAL FUNCTIONS

Panoramic Photography: For stabbing the sea in the back shortly before dusk or the shelling of the Iftar family table with a one-ton shell and at least two centuries of Orientalist scholarship.

Sports Photography:  For short and decisive soccer matches on the beach, where the

three-boys

Three children killed on a beach in Gaza in 2014

unfortunate and inexperienced players are punished for excessive entertainment during stoppage time in an accidental truce between two shells.

Night Photography: For children’s nightmares and their stares on which the blind spectators prey.

Future Photography: A young girl saves books from certain death under the rubble of Gaza and uses them to bind God’s wounds as she stares at Him without tears.
Translation by Stephen Sheehi

 

Mustafa Qossoqsi, PhD, is a Palestinian clinical psychologist

and psychotherapist, poet, writer and translator. He is the Chief

Clinical Psychologist in the psychiatric department of the

Nazareth Hospital E.M.M.S., and is a psychotherapist in private

practice. Mustafa’s expertise is in trauma and refugee care.

 

This poem is from his poetry collection, “Defamation of

Hope” (2016) published in Haifa.

Introduction to Special Edition: 70th Anniversary of the Nakba

By Lara Sheehi

LaraI am honored to be the guest editor of this special edition of the Psychoanalyst Activist which commemorates the 70th Anniversary of the Nakba. Nakba, or “the Catastrophe” is the Arabic term that refers to the dispossession of more than 700,000 Palestinians in 1948 by Zionist forces.

Seventy years later, Trump’s White House contravened long standing international norms, UN Security Counsel Resolutions, and official US policy by moving the United States Embassy to Jerusalem.  Finding kindred political visions with the ethno-nationalist Netanyahu regime, Trump’s administration punctuated the prejudice of this unilateral decision by announcing that the United States embassy in Jerusalem will be inaugurated on the anniversary date of the Nakba.  At the same time, Gaza, effectively the world’s largest open-air prison, is under attack as Palestinians exercise their right to protest and alert the world to the failures of the Oslo Accord with the Great Return March.

Against this sobering backdrop, this special issue of the Psychoanalytic Activist humbly offers an opportunity to hear, listen and witness. This issue hopes to offer space for indigenous voices as well as to their clinician-allies who may have the privilege to speak louder on this solemn anniversary and during this troubling time. This space hopes to begin to reintegrate the dissociated and represent the marginalized.

This issue is a timely, evocative and welcomed shift in psychology, in general, and psychoanalysis in particular, where clinicians of conscious have worked diligently over decades to help amplify the narratives of the oppressed and disenfranchised in order to acknowledge and witness, but also make amends, heal, and rectify.

The Palestinian narrative is one such unrepresented narrative. Within the context of psychoanalysis, it has largely been missing from the psychoanalytic oeuvre until recently.

While the Nakba is the organizing metaphor of this issue, the issue itself is intended to

guerrilla-art-palestine-wall-banksy.jpg

Art by Banksy on the Israeli West Bank barrier

provide a psychoanalytic holding space for witnessing, but also processing, mourning, and repair. A space where we, as Psychoanalyst Activists, can extend the reach of the clinic, engaging critically in the global call for justice against the backdrop of an increasingly dire political climate.

The contributors will not always directly take up the Nakba. Yet, they all center and prioritize the Palestinian experience and perspective. They do so consciously and conspicuously, calling us to attend to the nuanced texture of Palestine and its inhabitants.

Many of the Palestinian contributors themselves are clinical colleagues, engaged in important psychoanalytic work under and within occupation.  Others are artists or poets, engaging in the social and political work of unpacking the lived experience of the Palestinian diaspora. Still others are clinicians from “home”—many of whom you may know.

Psychoanalysis uniquely provides us with the tools to engage with, hold, and unpack the many histories and emotions that the words on our pages may evoke over the next six weeks. We will alert you to each new post, each progressively unfolding the issue, a visual parallel process representing a march toward the anniversary date of the Nakba

We invite you to join us in this solidarity march, steadfast and hopeful in our call to witness and acknowledge.

 

Past-President’s Column 2018

By Lynne Layton

Past-President’s Column, February 2018

Lynne LaytonI haven’t yet had much time to settle into the role of past-president of Section IX, in part because it’s only been a week from the end of my term to the beginning of writing this column, but perhaps even more so because I don’t feel any diminishment in my commitment to the Section. There is SO much work to be done. But how to contribute to that work in this different role? I’ll begin to try to figure that out by talking about what these past two years of working with all of you have brought to me personally and politically.

Often, I get involved in activist projects before I know a whole lot about the roots of the issue I’m protesting – this was true both in regard to our protest against the Dakota Access Pipeline as well as the ensuing letter of apology to native populations. At the same time that we were mobilizing for those actions as a Section, Donald Trump was elected President. I had just begun to write a paper for the Austin Division 39 affiliate on psychoanalysis and ethics. For a couple of years, I had been teaching Freud’s paper, “Thoughts for the Times on War and Death” (1915), alongside Jacqueline Rose’s (2004) post-Abu Ghraib commentary on Freud’s paper, titled “Our Present Dis-Illusionment.” I became committed to the idea that ethical behavior demands confronting our illusions both about ourselves and about our collective and intertwined histories (what Davoine and Gaudillière (2004) call the Big History). I sought out psychoanalytic teachers who had spoken about what I began to think of as an ethic of dis-illusionment, chief among them Freud, Fromm, and Erikson. I also had gotten involved with the national organization, Showing Up for Racial Justice (SURJ), a group of white allies to Black Lives Matter and to documented and undocumented immigrant groups. And I got involved in an activist project focused on making my very white liberal town, Brookline, MA, more racially equitable. The first phase of that project was to get the town to adopt a program in which they commit to looking at all town policies and divisions through the lens of racial equity. This passed town meeting almost unanimously. The second phase has been much harder both to conceptualize and to carry through: it involves getting the townspeople to look honestly at the psychic and material effects of white advantage, to look honestly at past and present history. Meanwhile Trump’s policies and his blatant racism were making all this activist work feel increasingly urgent.

Even as I got involved in these movements requiring spot actions, showing up at rallies, and lots of meetings, I was aware of the big gaps that exist in my understanding of U.S. history. About a year ago, I had to come up with a title for my Division 39 2018 keynote address, and I decided to elaborate on the theme of an ethic of dis-illusionment. I wanted to contrast such an ethic with an ethic of adaptation to the cultural status quo. The conference theme, Generations: Ghosts and Guardians, provided a good frame for thinking about intergenerational transmission and the Big History. So, to prepare for writing and, quite honestly, to do what I’d been “meaning” to do for years, I decided that it was crucial for me to confront the real history of the U.S. After spending the summer reading about our history, I experienced my own sense of radical dis-illusionment. You may say: as a long-time leftist, didn’t you KNOW? Well, yes and no (I first wrote “yes and know”). Born in 1950, I, like most white students of my era, was of course, throughout my childhood, indoctrinated with what one can only call fake news posing as U.S. history. Nothing about Native American genocide, little to nothing about slavery, nothing about the Civil Rights movement that was unfolding at the very time I was in school. But I protested the Vietnam War in my late teens and early twenties, so I did know about government lying. And then there was Watergate and Nixon.

I have always had enormous respect for what I consider the most powerful finding of psychoanalysis, the ubiquity of the repetition compulsion when what is too painful or too unpleasurable to be remembered is acted out again and again. Since reading works like Suzy Hansen’s Notes on a Foreign Country, Roxane Dunbar-Ortiz’s An Indigenous People’s History of the United States, and Carol Anderson’s White Rage, however, I now have equal respect for the power of disavowal, perhaps the primary motor of the repetition compulsion. We know that illusions about ourselves die hard; illusions about our history seem to die even harder, and usually they don’t die at all. They become the undead in two contradictory ways: like vampires that need to keep repeating the kill over and over, or, more hopefully, like ghosts that demand that something be done to unmask illusion and demand justice.

Dis-illusionment must proceed on multiple fronts. We can bring our psychoanalytic knowledge to bear on contemporary political issues. I took a try at this in a recent article that appeared in the January 2018 issue of Psychoanalytic Perspectives, an issue devoted to psychoanalysis and contemporary politics (other Section IX members have articles in that issue as well). In my article, titled On Lying and Disillusionment, I contended with the debate going on in our circles regarding whether or not it’s useful to understand Donald Trump as mentally ill or rather to focus on calling him and his policies out as evil. I argued for a both/and, understanding Trump’s character as sadly not aberrant in our neoliberal culture. And I tried to look at how illusion and lying to oneself takes shape in different segments of the U.S. population, including among liberals.

People in the section like Oksana Yakushko, Stephen Soldz, Steven Reisner, Ghislaine Boulanger, Ruth Fallenbaum, and others, have focused our attention on the illusions we hold about our field and our professional organizations. Oksana has written about how deeply entwined our field has been with eugenics movements. Stephen, Steven, Ghislaine, and Ruth led our Section and our Division in contesting APA’s ethics code that allowed psychologists to participate in enhanced interrogations.

Finally, on the topic of dis-illusionment, while I was preparing to write the Austin paper on ethics, I allowed myself to get immersed in the writings of people critical of what they call, variously and dismissively, therapy culture, therapy discourse, psychologization, and the professional psychology project of governing the soul (e.g., Eva Illouz, Frank Furedi, Nikolas Rose). I say “allowed myself” because it wouldn’t be accurate to say that I didn’t know for years that this literature existed. But it was only when I stopped practicing that I could bear to read what these critics had to say about, for example, how our field has constantly increased the range of what officially comes to be seen as a mental health problem. They strongly contest the way that we in our profession consent, knowingly and unknowingly, to treat social problems as psychological ones.

So, given all of this “new” knowledge, which has not accidentally accompanied life in our current elected regime of ignorance and cruelty, I am often a nervous wreck and sometimes a yelling maniac. Nonetheless, during these two years of being president of Section IX, I have felt a strong sense of responsibility to offer containment to our members; I know that all of you have been reeling from the country’s willful and unconscionable turn to ignorance and illusion (under the guise of Making America Great Again). Over the two years, I felt that before I could send out any email to the Section, I had to think carefully about every word that I wrote, had to keep asking myself: what is my project?, what is psychoanalytic activism right now? do I care about the “rules” of APA listservs (as Howard Zinn (1994) said, You can’t be neutral on a moving train)? What I didn’t really realize until becoming Past-President, though, is how much containment you all have offered me. And I am very grateful for that!

My project, I have concluded, has been “connecting the dots,” and there is no better place in Division 39 than in Section IX to pursue that project. We must continue with the work many of our members have undertaken to connect psychoanalysis with community, to understand better the nature and effects of group unconscious process, to think and practice intersectionally and with as full awareness as possible of the Big History and of how we are all implicated in each other’s psychic fates. Finally, we need to continue to fight oppression wherever we see it damaging the mental health of all our fellow human beings, and to understand how oppression differently operates for victims, perpetrators, and bystanders. We must continue to question the politics of our professional organizations and continue to insist that the psychic and the social are not separable, that to ban discussion of “politics” from our discussions of practice, from our listservs and professional conversations IS in fact a politics, one that supports an individualistic and elite status quo.

Outside of my Section activities, it has become clearer to me that what I want to do in these coming years is work in electoral politics, to write postcards, to textbank and phonebank in order to elect people who respect what we know about environmental damage, who respect the human and voting rights of all of our people, who fight xenophobic and racist action and language. Some of the people I’ve been supporting are as full of illusion about some aspects of the U.S. and about neoliberalism as the next guy, but I feel that, at this moment in history, I have to be strategic and not indulge myself in what too often has seemed to me to be the disastrous purism of the left. As a member of the Section and the Division, I will continue to press for commitment to an ethic of dis-illusionment, a psychosocial praxis that deconstructs collective and individual illusions and that stands firmly on the side of the oppressed. Thanks to all of you for your support, containment, and your comradeship. I look forward to more years of working by your side.

References

Trump’s Pathology Is Also His Brand

By Stephen J. Ducat

The Problem of Diagnosis

Trump 1Debates rage in the increasingly politicized world of mental health clinicians about how to name and understand Trump’s evident psychopathology. Is he a narcissistic psychopath, a psychopathic narcissist, or simply a ruthless con man who managed to grift his way into business and then into the White House?

There are those cautious souls that still abide by the “Goldwater Rule” a proscription against clinicians diagnosing politicians and others in public life who haven’t been interviewed directly. This was an attempt by the American Psychiatric Association to prevent the kind of reductive and politically motivated pathologizing that was directed against Barry Goldwater in the 1964 presidential campaign. As it turns out, the rule was an overreaching corrective for an overreaching use of diagnosis. We have a wealth of data on what those in public life do and say in the world, something we don’t have access to with our patients. Although patients behave in certain ways in the context of treatment, we can only speculate how that translates to other relational contexts.

Even though we cannot know Trump through a personal analytic transference, we have seen and heard him engaging in a multiplicity of transference-like enactments, and we have witnessed the many countertransference-like responses he has invoked in others (such as aggressive retaliation and submission, often in the same person). He has shown a particular talent for getting those under him to abandon any moral constraint when those morals interfere with serving his interests. In October of 2017, we witnessed the supposed “adult in the room,” presidential Chief of Staff General John Kelly devolve into a more persuasive and articulate but no less mendacious Trumpian mini-me. A Florida Congresswoman, Rep. Frederica Wilson, had overheard on speakerphone Trump’s callous and thoughtless attempt to console the newly widowed wife of a slain soldier, and dared to criticize the President for his stunning lack of emotional intelligence. Leaping to his boss’s defense at a press conference, Kelly attacked Wilson’s character and fabricated a story about her supposed outrageous behavior at a public event, in spite of readily available news footage of that event that shows Kelly’s assertion to be an elaborate lie.

Furthermore, assessing Trump’s psychology requires little speculation as we have available to us a life-long history of personal, romantic, business, and political relationships. With the exception of some of his predatory and criminal behavior, he has led his entire life in public. We know what he says and how he says it. Through his own words Trump has even let us in on what provokes him to act – primarily vengeance, vainglory, lust, greed, and an obsession with domination. It has been on this public stage, not behind closed doors, where we have witnessed him reward anyone who flatters him and punish those who fail to do so. His daily Twitter tantrums have constituted a kind of ongoing characterological EEG reading, as if the vicissitudes of his personality disorder produced brain waves that could be converted into a text form readable by all.

To discuss and explore his obvious psychopathology – a malignant narcissism and psychopathy that threatens us all – is not to adopt the Soviet-style use of psychiatric diagnosis in the service of political repression. Rather, as I will argue, it is understanding that can be put to emancipatory purposes. This is because knowing his psychology is central to the project of resisting his policies, and to the task of understanding his appeal to a significant plurality of Americans. If the central thesis of this essay is correct, that Trump’s pathology is isomorphic with his brand, then what may look to some of us as signs and symptoms of profound impairment is precisely what makes him the object of near delirious veneration on the part of his base. As he well understands, to them he can do no wrong. Or, rather, every wrong he commits is righteous. This will be unpacked in the next section.

Allen Frances, a former editor of the DSM, argues against the tendency of some inside and outside the mental health field to apply diagnostic categories to an understanding of Trump. He insists that because Trump’s personality traits do not seem to bring him suffering and have made him quite successful, this militates against evaluating him in terms of psychopathology. However, in taking this position, Frances illustrates one of the many weaknesses of the DSM, a pseudo-empirical insurance coding guidebook of little clinical utility.

In this case, he ignores a central feature of personality disorders – their ego-syntonic nature. In other words, the behavior of such patients is untroublingly congruent with how they want to see themselves. This is especially the case with narcissism. Furthermore, it is not that “successful” narcissists, like Trump do not suffer distress. Rather, it is that their psychic pain is hidden behind the central preoccupations that mark their character: a ceaseless obsession with zero-sum status competition, a desperate Sisyphean pursuit of admiration that is never satisfied, and an unrelenting series of vendettas against those who have questioned his greatness. Like most narcissists, Trump would never seek treatment for his character – not because he doesn’t suffer, but because he locates that suffering in the failures of others to affirm his most grandiose self-image.

Fortunately for Trump, he is wealthy and privileged enough to get others to accommodate his pathology rather than challenge it. In fact, a December 2017 New York Times profile of Trump, drawn from 60 sources, advisors, aides, and political allies, fills in the details of a picture many can see from a distance: a petulant, brittle, and impulsive baby-man, a mad king who must be managed by a large team of courtiers and Trump 2sycophants whose main task is to protect him from his own actions. Functioning as a kind of fun house mirror in reverse, they render his deficits and dysfunctions as admirable virtues. For example, to counter the accusation that Trump is a perpetrator of fake news and a relentless fount of confabulation and conspiracy mongering, those who serve him affirm the notion that he is instead the long-suffering victim of and noble crusader against the “fake media” and lies of liberals. His loyal coterie of buffers and fluffers, seem to operate as a kind of auxiliary component of his personality disorder, ensuring that his impulses and actions remain ego-syntonic and his sense of self-importance remains sufficiently inflated.

 

From Personality Disorder to Brand to Political Order

One of the remarkable features of Trump’s personality is the way it has come to saturate, in fact, define his brand as a businessman and now as a politician. As Naomi Klein has pointed out in her new book, the essence of the Trump brand is not simply wealth and power but impunity, which is what that wealth and power have bought him. Such impunity becomes an even more useful currency when congealed in his brand, which becomes the semiotic carrier of the fantasy of being able to “do anything,” as he bragged in the infamous Access Hollywood tape. During the campaign Trump expressed a more murderous vision of his moral if not legal indemnity when he said he could “stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody” and “not lose voters.”

For him, of course, it has not been just a fantasy. While impunity is deeply felt by Trump, it is also realized in the external world. Ms. Klein has detailed how his administration has been able to function as an unapologetic kleptocracy and a heretofore unconstrained one. As I see it, he has transformed a personality disorder into a brand and from there into a form of rule, an entire regime of psychopathy.

The fact that Trump and his family have enriched themselves by outsourcing the production of their products and real estate development projects to manufacturers and builders that use sweatshop and slave labor has not stopped him from being able to depict himself as an America Firster and a working-class hero. And frank treason has not impeded his efforts to portray himself as an uber-patriot.

His life of salacious debauchery, greed, and marital infidelity has not diminished the gushing enthusiasm with which he is greeted by the Christian Right. In the case of Trump, these good Christians do not merely defer to Caesar; they worship him. Some evangelical leaders compared him to Churchill, arguing that Trump “may be profane but ordained.” The mantle of God’s imperfect vessel was passed to former Alabama judge Roy Moore during his 2017 Senatorial race. He, like Trump, faced numerous sexual assault allegations. (In Moore’s case, some involved underage girls.) And like Trump, Moore denied everything and attacked his accusers. As with many Trump clones on the Right, the Moore scandal illustrates the extent to which impunity, at least among pious Republicans, is conferred upon those who disclaim any accountability for their actions. While Moore lost the Senatorial race against Doug Jones, it was by a narrow margin. And, he enjoyed the enthusiastic support from the President who made robocalls on Moore’s behalf. In addition, the Republican National Committee, the executive arm of the “family values” party, resolved their earlier ambivalence about backing an accused pedophile, and gave him a full-throated endorsement prior to the election.

In the case of Trump, his Teflon exoskeleton is even slipperier than the one attributed to Ronald Reagan. One could argue that the Trump “T” emblazoned across the top of his phallic buildings fundamentally stands for Teflon. He is the spokesmodel for impunity – impunity for sexual assault, for stiffing contractors, for wage theft, for providing investment safe havens to laundered Russian mob money, for proudly embracing murderous autocrats around the world, and for alternately denying and celebrating Putin’s corruption of our elections. In addition, at least among his supporters, Trump evinces impunity for praising the virtues of Nazis and white supremacists, for blaming Puerto Rican hurricane victims for their suffering and mocking their plight with Marie Antoinette-like “gifts” of paper towels tossed into desperate crowds, for exalting sadism and belligerence into noble virtues, and for compulsively and ceaselessly lying about both trivial and profound matters. In some ways, the latter, the normalization and acceptance of his lying, may be the most impactful and defining aspect of impunity in the present era.

 

“How Many Fingers, Winston?

In the reign of Trump, we have witnessed the emergence of a paradoxical species of disinformation, the open cover-up. It is a lie about something we can all see. It is an attack on our capacity to know what is true, to apprehend reality outside the assertions of the autocracy. It can be about trivial matters, such as inaugural crowd sizes. Or, it can involve more substantive concerns, such as the popular vote or Don Jr.’s well-published glee over getting the dirt on Hillary Clinton from Putin surrogates.

“Orwellian” is an appellation easily thrown around these days. But in the current moment, the descriptor seems especially apt. In the famous scene in 1984, O’Brien, the interrogator, confronts the prisoner, Winston, “Whatever the Party holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party.” What follows is the nightmare exchange burned into all of our memories in which O’Brien holds up four fingers and insists under the threat of escalating torture that Winston must not only say that he sees five fingers but believe he does. We are now in a world where our masters not only demand obedience but also hysterical blindness. Fortunately for Trump, he has had and continues to have an eager team of well-paid liars, such as Sean Spicer, Kelley Anne Conway, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, and the entire rogue’s gallery of Fox News fantasists to share the labor of rewriting reality.

Astonishingly, in an episode that could have been scripted by Orwell, Trump even tried to assert, once elected, that the aforementioned Access Hollywood tape, in which he gloated over his special ability to get away with sexual assault, was fake. This was in spite of his prior video-taped campaign admission and perfunctory apology.

There is an important prehistory to the current administration’s attack on the possibility of a consensual reality. For many decades, right-wing pundits and politicians have not only lied whenever it suited their purposes but elevated lying itself to a kind of political sacrament and an admirable sign of Machiavellian mastery. Many may recall author Ron Suskind’s interview with a senior presidential advisor employed by the GW Bush administration that derided journalists as anachronistic members of the “reality-based community.” He had insisted that the only necessary function of reporters was to be stenographers of those in power – the movers and shakers whose stories were the only ones worth telling. This was the soil from which a thousand “alternative facts” would later bloom. There is no greater impunity than the ability to repudiate reality, and to suffer no consequences for that repudiation.

 

The Meaning of the Trump Brand

Every brand makes a promise: that the qualities projected onto it, as with totem animals, can be bestowed upon those who purchase the associated products. In fact, the brand functions as a kind of meta-product. Just as a product used to be and still is marketed as a currency that can confer qualities and experiences you might never be able to get on your own – power, sexiness, glamour, admiration and envy of others, freedom from moral or legal sanction – the brand can perform this magical transfer without the need for an actual object. The label or logo now embodies the same spiritual essence as the material thing once did – a fetish that has been liberated from the fetish object itself. The impunity that animates Trump’s character and life can, in the wishful imagination, be licensed like his brand and inhabit his customers and fans. He is the permissive super-ego who says, “Since I can do it, so can you.” His brand thus offers a kind of preemptive pardon (anticipating the legal one he has openly considered for those loyal to him), not just for his cabinet members, his consiglieri and official explainers, but also for his base. The grace of normalization is not just conferred on those white supremacist groups filled with “good people,” but also ordinary Americans who no longer have to sublimate their ethnic hatred and misogyny.

Since the beginning of Trump’s campaign, incidents of racist verbal and physical assaults and vandalism have not only dramatically escalated but have involved the use of his name in the text of those attacks. As one businessman said to a Kennedy Airport worker in a hijab, “Trump is here now. He will get rid of all of you.” In Connecticut, fans of an all-white high school basketball team hurled racist taunts at the opposing team comprised largely of black and Latino players, and yelled “Trump! Trump! Trump!” This incident is one of many similar examples in which the President’s name has joined the swastika and the Confederate flag as brands signifying unapologetic exterminationist white supremacy.

At this point, some of my strenuously tolerant liberal readers might assert that not all Trump supporters are racist or contemptuous of various Others. And yet, they voted for someone who was, and cheered rapturously at his rallies. What does it mean to say you are not a bigot but are happy to support someone who is?

Forgive me for moving to the rhetorical third rail but occasionally Hitler analogies can be clarifying. How might we have regarded “good Germans” in the post-Weimar era who looked upon the brash Austrian rabble rouser and his party as simply the sort of nationalist disruptors the country needed? “Well,” they might say, “I don’t really think Jews are vermin, the principal vectors for all our economic and social maladies, but that Treaty of Versailles was a really bad deal. The Nazis promise to make Germany great again, create jobs, and build that beautiful autobahn. So, I want them in the Reichstag. And, you’ve got to love that idea of Lebensraum. Who doesn’t want to stretch out?”

Whether you are a bigot or can overlook bigotry in your leaders, the distinction doesn’t seem to constitute a meaningful difference, especially when it comes to policies those elected leaders get to enact. (For a fuller account of racism, in particular its role in eclipsing class as a driver of political identity, see my essay, “Tribe vs. Class in the Age of Post-Reality Politics,” which appeared in the anthology River of Fire: Commons, Crisis, and the Imagination.)

 

Absolute Power, Absolute Impunity

Impunity preempts any need to even imitate, let alone feel, empathy and other emotions common to the rest of the species. For Trump, regret and remorse are affective kryptonite to his singular superpower, untrammeled entitlement. He seems to live by his version of the medieval dictum of le droit du seigneur, the right of the lord. Originally, this referred to the master’s prerogative to rape any woman living on the land over which he ruled. For Trump, it is a more inclusive privilege and applies to anything and anybody he covets. So, unlike other politicians and CEOs, he cannot allow himself to even insincerely apologize, regardless of whatever short-term political or economic utility it might offer. The long-term damage to his brand would be too great.

Impunity is linked to another central feature of the Trumplandian universe – its authoritarianism and admiration of dictatorship. This may be why the Right is not just unperturbed by the Russian electoral espionage scandal, but even sees it as a good thing. To them, Putin is no villain but an icon of “manly” dominance whose central virtue is his ruthless proficiency at crushing those who impede his pursuit of empire. From this perspective, it makes sense why Trump and his base would want him to follow in Putin’s goose steps. And should the Mueller investigation present evidence of collusion with the Russians, Trump World will likely reframe it as one more affirmation that the President is a virtuoso at the “art of the deal.” If treason leads to a win, it is an unalloyed good. And, should there be a charge of obstruction of justice, there is no reason to worry because, according to Trump’s lawyer, John Dowd, the president has impunity when it comes to that crime as well.

For his supporters in particular, the fantasy of domination without limits, consequences, or regret can be an effective if short-lived antidote to feelings of impotence. So, while those outside the Trumpian universe may be filled with bilious revulsion, his base cheers every act of destruction: every attack on an Obama era achievement, every display of arrogant swagger on the global stage, every assault on public health, every puerile insult directed at the enemy of the day, every thinly veiled racist incantation, and every ludicrous denial of science. All his actions say, “I’m here to fuck things up and burn it down. And I can get away with it.” And for those who feel powerless and enjoy little impunity in their own lives, his brand is burnished further.

 

Truth and Consequences

What can challenge this impunity? It will not be the invertebrate “mainstream” Republicans whose individual and collective Faustian bargains feel to them like offers they can’t refuse. Trump promises to give them what they want, a world safe for unregulated corporate predation, if they give him their loyalty. If they keep the praise coming and block any effort to impeach him for his crimes or to invoke the 25th amendment for his manifest incompetence to govern, he won’t invite Bannonite deplorables with pitchforks to primary them. The few exceptions to GOP moral cowardice have been those whose belated courage has been born of impending retirement.

Trump 3When it comes to enabling Trump and his team to evade any consequences for their potential crimes, there is now a plurality of Republican members of Congress that are going well beyond looking the other way or uttering low-risk overdue protests as they exit public life. There is now a well-organized and resolute effort underway among GOP politicians, the editorial board of Rupert Murdoch’s Wall Street Journal, and FOX News (what is now essentially Trump State TV) to subvert and delegitimate the Mueller investigation, discredit the Justice Department, and slander the FBI. Perhaps this anticipates their slogan for the 2018 mid-term elections – Impunity: It Takes a Village.

While some Democratic politicians may have finally developed a modicum of spinal integrity since the devastating losses of 2016, it has come too late to do anything beyond handwringing or cheering on the resistance from the sidelines. They are largely without sufficient political power to stop the nihilistic Trump juggernaut.

For a solution, among the many that can be employed, we must return to Naomi Klein’s book and its compelling call to arms. She makes the case that, in addition to local grass roots efforts at organized resistance, one of the most effective forms of opposition to the destructive ambitions of the current regime would be to undermine the Trump brand itself. This should be a two-pronged strategy: 1) reframing his brand and 2) boycotting its associated products.

First, there needs to be an unrelenting campaign of semiotic guerilla warfare against his brand in which it becomes infused with meanings that displace its current salutary symbolic freight. The Trump T must bring to mind treasonous loser instead of tough guy winner. Every effort must be made to recast his putative strengths as the weaknesses they are. As many have already done, we need to redefine his impulsivity. Instead of allowing his spokespeople and brand managers to present his thoughtless acting out as bold frankness, it must be portrayed as the infantile psychological incontinence that it is. Then there are the “luxury” attributions carried by his brand. We must bring to the surface the unconscious lexicography of the Trump name itself. In other words, few may know that the actual meaning of trumpery is something that is “showy but worthless” (according to the America Heritage Dictionary) – an accurate description of everything Trump. Poetic justice will be done.

As polls indicate, our numbers are growing. If the resistance can unite across its many differences, and if we are creative, focused, and steadfast in our efforts, even his Success deodorant (a real Trump product) will not be able to cover up the stink.

Once the patina of the brand is tarnished and the products licensed to bear the ignominious T come to signify all that is vile and cheesy, a global effort must be undertaken to subvert its monetary power – its ability to generate a profit for those who license it. Once a world-wide boycott turns a marker of pride and impunity into a symbol of shame and liability, the stigmatization of Trump’s brand could be one bankruptcy from which Russian mob money will not be able to rescue him.

 

 

 

Nazism, Chaos, and Order

By Neil Altman

It took me a long time to recognize the psychological significance of national identity. I remember staring at the title of Vamik Volkan’s Killing in the Name of Identity and, while recognizing the phenomenon of identity, wondering why it was such a big deal, so big as to prompt murder. At the time of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, I remember thinking, with wonder, that a few miles at the border between Alberta or Saskatchewan and North Dakota or Montana would make the difference between fierce support of, or indifference to, or skepticism about, the invasion. The election of Donald Trump has brought home to

statemap1024

Electoral College Map 2016

me the significance of national identity, and not only because his election was concrete evidence of nationalism, or rather white nationalism, in the United States. As my illusions about the virtue of the United States, about which I had been intellectually skeptical for many years, melted away, I experienced a depression that showed me how much my own sense of goodness depended on my identification with an imaginary national group inspired by virtuous values.

This realization facilitated my understanding of Andrew Samuels’ (2015) discussion of Nazism. According to Samuels, at the core of Nazi ideology is the notion of the nation, a defined people inextricably tied to a particular land and a particular national character. Jews constituted a threat to the way the Nazis organized the world because they were seen as not having a homeland. Instead, they, along with international communism and international capitalism, were seen as an insidious force undermining the national identity of each country in which they lived. In Samuels’ words the Jews were seen as a “strange so-called nation without a land” (2015, p. 156), thus to be eliminated in the service of the purity of the Aryan nation.1 With these points in mind, one can better understand the importance of Israel, the Jewish “national homeland,” to Jews in the wake of Nazi Germany and the Holocaust. Israel is not only land meant to be safe for Jews, but also is the means by which Jews can claim a place as a nation at all, like other nations. 2

In 2016, Donald Trump rode to power in the United States on a wave of nationalism, linked to anti-elitist populism. Instead of Jews or international capitalism, globalization and Islam are portrayed as the forces undermining “American” national identity3. Under the Trump administration, some troubling new elements have now been added to the brew of nationalism and hatred identified by Samuels as core elements of Nazi ideology.

Trump’s way of speaking is a kind of performance marked by bluster and braggadocio. He intimidates like a schoolyard bully. He takes no responsibility for what he says, its truth or lack of same, its effect on his audience. He does a kind of negative containing; instead of being a leader who tries to help people cope with and channel constructively their anxiety and rage, he incites, he stokes the flames, evoking uncontained fantasies and acts of violence, especially the latent rage of the displaced and disenfranchised white working class. Anthony Scaramucci believed that, riding on Trump’s coat-tails, his own narcissism and arrogance could have free reign. Scaramucci appeared to model himself after the crude, bullying, volatile Trump, who stirred up and exploited the resentment, hatred, and contempt felt for Muslims and “illegal” immigrants and the elites that brought on such plagues to enrich themselves. But even though he had millions of dollars to fuel the particular omnipotence that U.S. capitalism makes possible, he was not President; he overstepped and was put back in his place by John Kelly.

Immediately after being appointed communications director, Scaramucci attacked Reince Priebus, Trump’s Chief of Staff, in vulgar, demeaning, and pathologizing terms. Priebus was soon dismissed. He had been brought on to the Trump team as the former head of the Republican National Committee, representing the old-school Republican establishment that Trump courted to secure a major party nomination. Scaramucci having served his purpose to get rid of the Republican establishment in the form of Priebus, the country was ready to accept and welcome the military order, discipline, and hierarchy represented by Kelly.

In the wake of Scaramucci’s vulgar and arrogant attack on Priebus, Scaramucci’s abrupt dismissal, coupled with the elevation to power of John Kelly, might have seemed a stabilizing turn from chaos to order. For me, a moment of relief as Scaramucci was so abruptly humbled, quickly faded into the frightening sense that Scaramucci and Kelly represented two sides of the same coin. How was this so?

At first glance, it might have seemed that the order and hierarchy imposed by Kelly were at odds with the vitriol spewed by Scaramucci, unrelated to any authorized job description. On further reflection, however, it began to appear that Scaramucci’s loose canon and Kelly’s more tightly controlled military canon balls may, as the metaphor suggests, be linked at a deeper level. Leo Bersani’s (2001) introduction to the Penguin Freud’s volume entitled “Civilization and its Discontents”, comes to mind in this connection. Bersani pointed out that civilization’s repression of sexuality and other impulses generates the very aggression that it then tries to control via the superego, which generates further aggression, in a destructive spiral. This analysis tends to undermine the opposition of id and superego in Freud’s structural theory. The energy of the superego with which it opposes and represses id impulses can only be derived from the libidinal/destructive energies of the id itself. Civilization, via the superego, thus advances the aims of the id by appropriating id energy in the service of repression of the id.

Likewise, the libidinal/destructive energy mobilized by Trump, leavened by arrogance and omnipotence, found one outlet in Scaramucci’s vulgar outbursts against the establishment, and another in the repressive regime instituted by Kelly. This latter regime, coupled with white nationalistic anti-globalization leanings brings us perilously close to the Nazi configuration identified by Samuels, along with the orderly, militaristic element so prominent under the Nazis in Germany.

As I write in the aftermath of the violence of Charlottesville, it is apparent that Trump is testing the waters for the degree to which his fanning of neo-Nazi flames will be tolerated in the contemporary United States. A charismatic and demagogic leader, a violent and hate-filled minority, a complacent and cowed majority in denial: all this has been shown many times throughout history to be a recipe for catastrophe.

References

Bersani, L. (2001) Introduction to Civilization and its Discontents Adam Phillips (ed.) Penguin International.

Samuels, A. (2015) A New Therapy for Politics. London: Karnac.

[1] Ironically, the Nazis took the idea of an “Aryan” people, with its symbol, the swastika (a Sanskrit word meaning “well being”), from India.

[2] Zionists may have identified with the Nazi aggressor in so concluding that there needed to be a Jewish homeland in order for the Jews to be entitled to exist. This identification with the victim in a doer-done to framework so that non-Jewish Palestinians could be deprived of their homeland.

It could be replied that what is in question for Zionists is not the Jewish entitlement to exist but rather possession of the resources necessary to defend their existence precisely because Jews do have a right to exist. However, if one added to this last sentence “like any other people” the entitlement to displace other people would come into question. If one does not add these last words, then Jews move toward the historic European feeling of entitlement to displace others (e.g. Jews, but also many others) that eventuate in Nazi ideology and untold number of wars.

[3] Actually an international term, encompassing all the Americas, but appropriated by a single nation, the “United” States, including red and blue and the would-be former nation, the Confederacy.

The Commodification of Loss: The integration of a capitalist critique into clinical work.

By Karen Maroda

iPhoto

Frank Maroda, the author’s father.

I am a liberal, as were both my parents. In fact, my father, forced to leave high school after the Depression and work in a factory to help support his family, organized the first union in that factory.   On the verge of being fired or beaten, he was happily drafted into the Army. He never overtly subscribed to any particular ideology, but made it clear that laws of common decency were not often followed when it came to business and the distribution of wealth. (He became self-employed when the war ended.)

Coming from this background, I have always been interested in critiques of our materialistic society, even though I admittedly succumb to some of the guilty pleasures of middle class suburban life. I try to limit my purchases and encourage my patients to look at what they are feeling when they experience the sudden need to buy something. Yet I cannot honestly say that anything I have read about capitalism has informed my clinical work beyond encouraging some measure of self-awareness regarding the urge to buy.

Reading Todd McGowan’s book, Capitalism and Desire: The Psychic Cost of Free Markets, provided one of those rare moments where I not only was captivated and intellectually stimulated, but also discovered new insights and tools for helping both my patients and myself. I came away with a deeper understanding of what motivates the seemingly endless cycle of all manner of consumption, and how we are manipulated at the deepest social and psychological levels.

McGowan’s main points are as follows:

First, we all have within us a basic sense of loss. I found myself readily agreeing with this concept, though it is not truly a psychoanalytic one. Psychoanalysis focuses heavily on early loss and its lifelong impact, but does not go so as far as to say that we share a collective universal sense of loss as well as any individual losses we may have experienced. (However, the new emphasis on the intergenerational transmission of loss, e.g. Holocaust survivors and their families, support this thesis.)

McGowan says we seek relief from these painful feelings of loss by making purchases, as well as indulging in other forms of conspicuous consumption because we are naturally drawn to the temporary relief they provide. This is not news to psychoanalysts, of course. However, he adds a new twist in emphasizing not only the universality of loss, but more importantly, how we need to return to that sense of loss because it is part of our core identity. Often we are not really looking for long-lasting satisfaction when we buy something because that would work against the restoration of loss.

The role of capitalism in this scenario is that corporations not only know we have been trained in our capitalistic society to want things we don’t need, but that we are actually disappointed if they last too long. Built-in obsolescence is partly a response to the consumer’s desire to continue to make purchases endlessly. McGowan illustrates this with the iPhone, saying it epitomizes the cycle of longing for the next big thing, acquiring it, becoming inured to its benefits, then waiting for the next iPhone, which is barely distinguishable from its predecessor. Though this might seem too sophisticated for some to believe, McGowan says that businesses are well aware of what they are doing and know that the market for their goods is fueled not only by desire, but also by the inevitable disappointment and return to intrapsychic pain. An advocate for psychoanalysis, he points out that one must pursue the “public space” of psychoanalysis to gain insight on one’s sense of loss because it is necessarily unconscious and cannot be tapped through conscious attempts at awareness.

I was really excited by McGowan’s overall thesis and his many cultural examples, e.g. he quotes Don Draper from the Mad Men series, who said. “What is happiness? It’s the moment before you need more happiness.” This is great stuff, I thought. And McGowan is helping me to understand not only capitalism, but also the universal theme of the relationship between desire and loss. I thought to myself, “I should be able to use this clinically.” As you can see in the example that follows, I was particularly interested in McGowan’s hypotheses that went beyond the usual topic of making purchases and spoke more deeply to how capitalism essentially perverts the experiences of desire and loss in a myriad of ways.

Tom, a middle-aged man who has had long term relationships, but never married, came to mind immediately. He spoke of his negative experiences with dating services, but was being pressured by family and peers to try them again. Cringing at the thought of signing up for an interpersonal service that seemed “processed” and unnatural to him, he also feared being seen by others as not willing to help himself out of his loneliness. His desire for an intimate partner was palpable, yet he seemed helpless to alter his social situation. Moderately successful, highly intelligent and knowledgeable across a wide array of subjects, decent-looking and an excellent conversationalist, Tom’s inability to find a partner was a bit of a mystery to all who knew him.

I have treated him for several years with moderate success. Tom is one of those people who takes two steps forward and one step (or two) backward. Just when you think he’s on his way, he becomes profoundly depressed and regresses. During these times he comes to his sessions and spends the entire hour in helpless despair. He makes it clear to me that he does not want me to say much of anything during these sessions unless it is in the service of understanding and accepting his helplessness. Even then, he prefers that I say as little as possible. I think many of my colleagues can relate to the difficulty in treating patients like Tom, as we must join them in the abyss on a regular basis.

Lately I had been wondering if he would ever just maintain his gains and also establish a relationship (which would mean the end of his treatment). Or is he one those people who can never let himself be freed from the endless Promethean struggle with his demons? Is my witnessing truly therapeutic or merely an indulgence?

Reading McGowan’s book allowed me to understand Tom’s suffering in a whole new light. Interestingly, Tom appears to be very unmaterialistic, although upon closer examination he does spend a great deal of money, which he inherited. His primary desires, however, relate mainly to finding a person to be with and to his varied intellectual interests. I always knew Tom needed to grieve his traumatic childhood and tumultuous relationship with his alcoholic father. What I didn’t understand was how the cycle of Tom’s improvement, followed by his periods of regression, fit exactly with McGowan’s discussion of loss and desire.

Since reading his book I have been more at peace when Tom comes to his sessions in despair. I no longer feel depressed by his overwhelming angst and see it simply as a necessary part of the process for him, no matter how long it goes on. Tom can sense the change in me and bounces back from his despair more quickly these days. After more than a few sessions in a row where Tom is in despair he typically “recovers.” When this happens he apologizes to me for his fall into the abyss. The last time this occurred I had read Capitalism and Desire. Instead of simply telling him no apology was necessary, as I typically would, I added that I understood how integral his lifelong despair was to his sense of self and that he needed to revisit it in order to preserve his identity. He was blown away by this interpretation and said. “Yes, that’s exactly right.”

I also was able to help him be free of guilt over not wanting to sign up for a dating service by telling him about what McGowan said about these services and encouraging him instead to go out in the world and find someone who “disrupts” him. I added that Freud referred to falling in love as “temporary psychosis” and that was what he needed rather than being set up with someone who appears as much like him as possible. I don’t know if he will ever be able to let himself find a companion, but I feel that we are on the right track.

Psychoanalysis has in recent years made great efforts to demonstrate its application to politics, culture and the world in general outside of the consulting room. McGowan’s book has done the opposite in that he has taken the essential workings of capitalism and demonstrated how they manipulate individuals in a way that speaks to longstanding psychoanalytic notions about loss and the need for grieving and self-observation.

Clearly there is much to be said about how capitalism affects us both individually and collectively. But Professor McGowan’s thesis has helped me as a clinician both to identify psychological phenomena that are formed by growing up in a capitalist society and to address them at a deeper level within the psychoanalytic dyad. It is not easy to help patients to face their own feelings of helplessness and loss, nor is it easy to feel our own.

Memory, Mourning and Manhood in A Lie of the Mind, A Play by Sam Shepard

sam-shepard-920x584

By Jan Haaken

This piece originally appeared in Subversive Storytelling

Years ago I was invited to speak at the University of Pittsburgh Repertory Theatre after a performance of Sam Shepard’s A Lie of the Mind. The play invites reflection on remembering and forgetting, and human complicity in the varies lies of history—topics at the center of my own work as a psychoanalytic psychologist and feminist scholar. After Sam Shepard’s death on July 30th, I thought again about this wonderful man and the enormity of his contribution to the world. And in returning to some of the ideas in that talk in Pittsburgh, I hope to pay tribute to Shepard by showing his deep affinity with feminist critiques of manhood—and with psychoanalytic ways of thinking about human memory. My alliterative title—memory, mourning and manhood— serves as a structuring device in working through key motifs in the play. I also speculate on how our responses to the play are shaped by the historical moment, having lived through a period of heightened American nationalism. It may be useful to enlist Shepard’s work to reflect on current national failures to remember the violence in our political past and how this failure to remember is related to a refusal to mourn.

This reading of A Lie of the Mind places these twin problems in the context of an American culture of manhood. By a culture of manhood, I do not mean to imply a singular or static masculine identity, nor a masculine identity singularly possessed or perpetuated by males. I use the term manhood here to signify a view of human development that idealizes autonomy, control, and freedom from dependency. Many contemporary women, particularly white, middle class women emancipated from an older domesticated version of womanhood, have in a sense become “men” in this cultural sense. A Lie of the Mind invites critical engagement with the destructive and regressive aspects of American ideals of manhood. For if we take the position that the United States is a country suffering from chronic amnesias, and these amnesias contribute to its incapacity to mourn the violence that pervades its own political past, we might also question how these pathologies are transmitted through various psychological paths of identity.

A Lie of the Mind opens as a place of broken connections, of displaced people, and of chronic lapses of memory. Family members—presumed intimates—are unable to hold in mind knowledge of one another. Against this social landscape of unstable and frayed kinship ties, the sibling relation emerges as the one reliable human bond. Yet the sibling bond also is cast as precarious, strained by the emotional load of family grievances and bitter rivalries. The play opens with a bad phone connection. A younger brother is frantically holding onto his older brother who is reeling out of control. Jake calls from a forlorn phone booth on the highway, confessing to his brother Frankie that he has killed his wife. “I didn’t see it coming,” Jake explains in telling the fragmented story of his violent outburst, “I have been good for so long.” We learn that Beth is not dead. She is brain-damaged by the blows suffered through this assault by her jealous husband, but the damage also is rooted in a pernicious line of family pathology. “How can you love a man who tried to kill you,” Mike later asks his sister in frustration. “He’s my HEART,” Beth responds emphatically. The seeming masochism of Beth’s position yields to a more complex picture of her constraints. Breaking out of suffocating and controlling familial bonds, Beth strives to grow up. “I’m not a baby!” she insists, as her brother steadies her efforts to walk and talk. The sibling pair offers some possibility for restoring life—for regaining memory. Each sibling serves as the unconscious of the other—the one who holds the discarded memories of the other. Jake remembers his sister’s sexual abuse at the hands of the father and she recalls the violence where Jake brought about the death of the father. These siblings cling to one another like orphans.

The parents are useless and the knowledge they hold is obsolete. Beth’s parents abandon her in the hospital, unable to understand her medical situation. They are ghosts inhabiting a world that no longer exists. Jake’s mother holds onto the ashes of her dead husband, along with the war medals and flag that draped his military coffin. He was no hero, she announces bitterly, positioning the son as the bearer of this failed legacy of manhood.

Like many of Shepard’s plays, A Lie of the Mind centers on the relationship between manhood and America and the illusions that bind national and gender identity. And like many of the other plays, this drama conveys a pronounced sympathy with the dilemmas of women. Shepard creates richly drawn female protagonists—women who are complex agents of cultural history as well as victims of forces that hold them in check. The moral distribution of responsibility for violence falls more heavily on men, although women are not simply passive observers of their fate.

Two versions of hell shape the intersecting fates of men and women in this lonely landscape. A suffocating domestic sphere tended by women anchors men who also perpetually escape its influence. The men hunt, but they do not like meat. The socialized violence of hunting, bound in earlier eras to modes of subsistence, now gives way to the mere pleasure of the hunt. Men hit the road but the road to the bigger highway is risky. Lorraine warns her fleeing son Jake that he, much like his dad, may find himself “busted open on the road.” Caught between the call of the wild and the pull back to the maternal fold, men wander uneasily in search of a place of mooring. Women wander off as well but into an interior world of fantasy and absentmindedness.

Some readings of Lie of the Mind might draw out the relationship between the history of trauma in the lives of the lead protagonists and their blunted emotional capacities and memory lapses. Violence, abandonment, and emotional abuse dominate the histories of the two families trapped between futile efforts at exogamy—at attachments beyond the original family—and a regressive pull back to a hothouse of incestuous familial ties. The men hit the road, in a reckless bid for freedom, as the women wander into an interior dream world. The trauma of violence, loss, and abandonment gives rise to a numbing incapacity to connect with others. The mother’s incapacity to remember her daughter-in-law’s name, Jake’s repeated invoking of the absent Beth as an effort to recollect her—all of these dramatic devices foreground the blunted capacities of the protagonists, their incapacity to hold relationships or to preserve memory of others.

The failure to remember may also be framed as a form of melancholia—a self-absorption that follows from a disturbed process of mourning. Drawing on Freud’s Mourning and Melancholia we might begin with the idea that loss of a valued object—whether a person, a homeland, or an ideal—often confronts us with intense ambivalence. This monograph by Freud places memory at the center of the problem of mourning, and describes the condition of melancholia as a failed process of grieving. Freud’s concept of grieving cannot be summed up, as Judith Butler notes, through a version of the Protestant ethic, with its fixation on dutiful completion of tasks. Rather, Freud’s concept of mourning emphasizes the elusive search for the part of the other that must be found and preserved internally in reviving libidinal engagement with the external world. Preserving the internal object—the representation of the lost other, whether one’s country, a loved one, or a beloved ideal—confronts a series of forces that perpetually place the mourner at risk of melancholia. Idealizing the lost object—whether in nostalgia or memorials—serves as a means of preserving the good object against the unconscious anxiety that one has somehow been part of its destruction.

The centrality of ambivalence in intimate human bonds—of shifting currents of love and hate—is at the center of the Freudian paradigm. To varying degrees, we do not fully recover from the discovery that those we hate and those we love are often one and the same persons. What we come to dread and fear, those in the Freudian tradition would suggest, are unwelcome parts of ourselves. Although there are many potential readings of the play, Shepard seems to make central the problem of guilt. With the exception of the brain-damaged Beth, who remains childlike and unchanged throughout the play, the protagonists inhabit a world of shared torment.

Shepard draws us into a web of conflicted motivations behind the various screens of amnesia. While we recognize Jake as a prototypical wife beater, the play refuses to grant us such an easy way of classifying this violent man. In explaining his violence, Jake initially adopts the classic defense of the batterer: he blames the victim. “She got me in trouble more than once,” Jake insists in explaining how he beat his wife. Much like a good psychoanalyst, Frankie confronts Jake with how he habitually attacks the things he loves. Remember that goat you had as a child, Frankie recalls, how you “kicked the shit out of that goat.” This farm animal that Jake had loved so dearly had stepped on his foot, unleashing a torrent of violent rage. Beth, too, had stepped on him by moving out into the world and beyond her husband’s control. His paranoia was nursed by his deep sense of deprivation, but also by his equally deep sense of entitlement as a man.

In returning to his mother and assuming the position of infant, spoon-fed by the mother, Jake’s character regresses and this infantile dynamic is exposed. We recognize how the form of manhood Jake embodies is precariously held together, teetering on violence, on the one hand, and regression into madness on the other. Lorraine is a monstrous mother but we learn that her bitterness grows from the betrayals of the husband, the “stuff he put into me that’ll never go away” (67). Men in her world are like snarling dogs, and she has been bitten. But Lorraine retreats from recognizing her own guilt, her own part in perpetuating a pathological manhood. For to acknowledge her disappointment in her deranged son, his destructiveness and failed manhood, would require that Lorraine confront more than she can bear. To preserve the fantasy of the good son, Lorraine transfers moral responsibility to her dutiful daughter.

If Shepard would have us mourn the losses of both real and imagined pasts, of patriarchs and other sovereign powers, we also are left to wonder where there is potential consolation or hope for reparation. If the process of grief and mourning requires that we confront how we are each morally implicated in human destructiveness, we are still left with uncertainty as to how to intervene in the destructive cycles of history.

As Americans, perhaps we are invited by the play to identify with the pious Mike, the protective big brother who thinks he knows best, who insists on a confession from a compliant evildoer. Rather than an act of violence against his sister, an act that reenacted a violent history most brutally felt by women, Mike insists on a story that casts the violence as an assault on family honor. In the demand for submission over a weakened foe, in his humiliation over his defeated enemy, Mike refuses to acknowledge his own guilt and vulnerability. This desire to torture the object of threat grows out of a desperate effort to externalize the state of vulnerability, to put it someplace else, outside of the self, and to bring it under control. The American military response to 9/11 has been described as this form of pathological defense—both in the sense of a closing off of some disturbing part of the reality of a situation and as having the consequence, like many pathological defenses, of generating the very threat against which it initially serves to defend. Like a repetition compulsion, the war against terrorism allows the sovereign state a perpetual replay of engagement with a dreaded threat to its sovereignty—a perpetual struggle with the elusive dangers that can never be mastered.

Shepard introduces the flag as a fetish object for the parents who have abandoned their children. As the elder couple ritually fold the flag (the father recalls the correct military regulations), oblivious to the injuries of their children, the play seems to answer the question of what people remember. The failures in memory are the result of failures in love. The flag operates as a fetish in the sense that the object protects from human connection. As a memory fetish, the flag also signifies an imagined past that unites America as a people—an America with roots in small towns, small farms and roads that lead to larger places. If the stark emotional landscape of this play registers the difficulties in memorializing this imagined past, we would want to acknowledge Shepard’s personal roots in these same Western landscapes. This familiarity provides him with a capacity to give dramatic power to the costs of the various lies we endorse to keep the fantasy alive. But the radical counter-culture that gave Shepard a foothold beyond the ghost towns and car culture of Americana offers intimations of alternative communities beyond the roads that lead nowhere.

The family structure of the play registers tribal bonds of kinship, families torn loose from a way of life that bound men, women, and children within a hierarchical social order—a way of life that was oppressive yet secure. Many of Shepard’s plays are concerned with the place of the Western and Midwestern small town in the American imaginary—places that occupy an important social symbolic space in collective memory. But Shepard refuses any nostalgic return to this imagined American heartland. He reminds us of the costs of refusing to remember the destructive side of our collective past, the deadening effects of various refusals to mourn.

The play would have us recognize that there are both real and imagined pasts that we must mourn as Americans, as men and women both overly bound to limited spheres of attachments in the nuclear family, with its ideal of the self-sufficient dyad as its core fantasy. And it warns of the unbounded terrain that lies outside of the stifling sanctuary of the nuclear family. The play also acknowledges ambivalence through its characters: a woman who still loves a man who is trying to kill her, a man who wants to return to the fold of his mama while also breaking free of her, a father who loves the objects that represent people—the American flag—more than the people themselves. And I think the play invites us to acknowledge the power men still hold (over women and other men) and to mourn and relinquish old ways of life.

At the conclusion of the play, Frankie, the gentler of the two protective brother figures, survives the wounds inflicted by the patriarch and regains through assuming a feminine position of vulnerability his humanity. Beth does get the “woman-man” she desires in Frankie, although Beth seems permanently broken, unable to recover the man-side of herself. Sally, dutiful daughter and sister, also undergoes a transformation in that she is able to emancipate herself from the patriarchal family. She and her mother set the house on fire, signifying the violent ruptures accompanying acts of rebellion. The mother looks to the future as the daughter looks back, searching through piles of photos for a picture of her mother she can hold onto. The play seems to tilt toward the matrilineal line for the transmission of cultural memory, but here, too, the ties that bind are fragile. In returning to Ireland, in search of her matrilineal past, the mother becomes an unexpected source of consolation to her daughter. Someone will be there to recognize us, the mother assures the daughter. There always will be a straggler who remembers. But the play also casts this mother/daughter pair as perpetual wanderers, having burned their bridges behind them. There is no going back.

In the current political fog in America and as reactionaries call for revival of the old patriarchal order, we need all of the resources we can gather to find a path forward—and all of the beautiful spirits to guide us. Viva Sam Shepard!