By Gloria Inés Restrepo
Summary: In December 2016, the Colombian state signed a peace agreement with the FARC-EP guerrillas (1). For its implementation, the state created the Integral System of Truth, Justice, Reparation and Non-Repetition. This system is made up of institutions such as the Special Justice for Peace, the Truth Clarification Commission, and the Unit for the Search for Disappeared Persons. Almost 2,000 officials work in these institutions.
In this article, I describe what implementing the transition has meant in the lives of these government officials. What has it meant in their trajectories, for their emotions and their bodies? How do they take care of themselves? My writing is based on conversations I have shared with these officials and on my own experiences in working on these transitional processes.
Feeling burned out (2) seems to be a regularity in the work of Colombian transitional justice institutions. From personal experience, I often wonder if this feeling is a social issue. Is being burnt out the obvious result of transitional contexts that have historically failed, in institutions where the interaction between officials and the public is mediated, in part, by “affect” (3)? In this article, I describe how the emotions generated by this work are incorporated by state officials like myself, who are involved in these peace processes. I especially explore how our bodies are expressing the particularities of the Colombian transition.
1. A skin problem…
In 2017, some spots appeared on my arms. I thought it was just another one of my allergies, but the spots soon spread to the rest of my body. My skin was breaking out day-by-day and the prickles turned into sores. My daily routine, and even my sleeping hours, were consumed by an unbearable itching.
Living with a skin problem did not seem to be an important issue—not even a relevant argument for a leave of absence. At that time, I was working at the National Center for Historical Memory (4), coordinating a research project about one of the most controversial acts of violence in the history of Colombian violence. My contract stipulated that in one year, I had to produce a book, a documentary series, and an exhibition. I thought that my work could not stop because of a few pimples and an itch. Besides, it was embarrassing to talk about them.
After three dermatologists, a family doctor, a general practitioner, and a dermatology clinic, I was frustrated. Creams, antibiotics, and cortisone controlled this breakout at times, but the outbreak kept coming back. An acupuncturist said that my “excess of compassion” broke the skin. An ancestral physician told me that I had caught the “nostalgia” of the stories of violence. These hypotheses showed me the urgency of revisiting my work experience in order to heal.
I had been working for thirteen years on paramilitary violence in different parts of the country and I had never been sick. I asked myself, “What’s wrong with this research?” I couldn’t find an answer. I hoped that by the end of the work, I would get better. I was going to stop being in contact with a reality that seemed to be burning me. I finished the book and the documentary series, but the magic did not happen.
The sores grew and my skin began to fall off. At the dermatology clinic, I was diagnosed with “contact dermatitis.” I obsessively wondered about what was making me sick in my relationship with others, with the outside world—with my world. The suspicions initially centered on the immediate: the food and the objects in my home. Like a character in a detective television show, I began to suspect everything: laundry soap, perfume, body soap, cotton, chocolate, pineapple, pork….
A new dermatologist ordered detoxification and a diet. The skin outbreak started to come under control, but it was still there. It was not clear what was so toxic to me. I understood that reviewing my relationship with the world went beyond my diet and habits. It demanded a deeper reflection. When I started this healing journey in 2018, it was difficult to accept that I needed help to do this kind of reflection. But I eventually began to try psychoanalysis, to recognize the history that was drawn on my skin. In this process, the theme of my work experience became very relevant. I wondered if this bodily expression of working with victims was only happening to me or if it was a phenomenon that other civil servants also experienced. How had my historical and social context broken my skin?
2. The Integral System of Truth, Justice, Reparation and Non-Repetition (SIVJRNR)
In 2019, I started working in the Unit for the Search for Missing Persons (UBPD) (5). I arrived with multiple expectations, but with a clear limit drawn by my skin. In fact, in my medical examination upon entering the unit, the doctor warned me about the need to control the dermatitis that was spreading over my body.
I began to ask my SIVJRNR colleagues about their illnesses: “Have you ever gotten sick doing this work?” Each one had an experience of illness accompanied by a hypothesis: diarrhea from fear, vomiting from saturation, tonsillitis from not being able to digest what they heard, sinusitis from keeping tears, facial paralysis from frustration, migraines from anxiety, sick kidneys from the impossibility of filtering certain realities of war, clogged ears from not wanting to listen, cancers associated with entrenched sadness, among others.
Currently, according to civil service data, 1,631 people work in the SIVJRNR. It is not a pioneer generation of civil servants in the study of violence or in working with victims. For more than seventy years, Colombian social scientists have been trying to “do something” about political violence both within the state and on its margins. In fact, some of the so-called “Colombian violentologists” (6) were our teachers. On the other hand, in Colombian history, hundreds of officials have worked on the various Colombian “transitional experiences” dating back to 1958 (7). However, these experiences of understanding and action in the face of violence have not achieved great results. Although they have served to accompany government peace proposals, they have not generated the structural changes demanded by the end of the war. We are therefore officials who have inherited a historical frustration.
Yet, this is also not the first time that we, as officials, have attended to victims. Our previous work experiences were also developed in several of these institutions that promised to respond to violence—and we did not succeed. We arrived at the SIVJRNR developing a work that does not convince us, yet one in which we became “technical experts.” We developed our work in an environment of overwhelming hierarchies, bureaucratic logics, multiple political pressures, and the continuity of violence. We doubted the scope of this new transition and this seemed to be expressed by our bodies.
3. A support group?
At one point, we—staff members who hate to admit that we need help—found ourselves in a sort of support group. Fifteen officials from the three institutions that make up the SIVJRNR gathered in an embroidery workshop together (9). We built a map of our body. In this map, we located and embroidered the points of tension, pain, and well-being. The head, hands, feet, and heart were identified as places of well-being and strength. The shoulders, neck, and forehead were highlighted as spaces of tension. The back, arms, and belly were identified as points of pain.
Talking about the body involved reflecting on our emotions. Initially, we shared guilt for “feeling bad” about our discomfort with the job. It is generally assumed that only victims are “allowed to suffer” and that part of the professionalism of staff members is “not to feel.”
But we also felt that listening to pain brings deep sadness and anger that sometimes expresses itself in the body. In our “support group” Ana* (10) explained:
“My body got sick after a very long year of listening, reading, and systematizing the stories of people who were victims and perpetrators of the conflict. First, I had anxiety attacks and nightmares. One day, both my ears were plugged as if I really wanted to stop listening to the stories. Then, I had a terrible episode of hives on my skin.”
Mercedes* is a social worker and identifies with Ana’s* story: “I remember that when I started, at times I dreamt things related to the stories. Sometimes I felt that these stories made me cry; sometimes I felt angry. However, I didn’t think I could express this.” She explains that one of the challenges of this situation is “not being able” to express it verbally because of embarrassment or shame. She explains, however, that emotions seek an outlet: “Today I believe that emotions, like rivers, seek an outlet, sometimes through the body, sometimes through the intention of moving away and keeping a distance.”
Valentina* adds that listening to the stories of the war implies an affective link with a “system of pain.” Mercedes* explains that the SIVJRNR asks officials to “put themselves in the body” of those who have been in the midst of the war.” Identification with the pain of the other permeates through dreams and daily behaviors. For example, those who hear stories of landmine accidents relate the repetitive dream of being mutilated. Officers who listen to stories of sexual violence often experience difficulties in going out on the street or even in relating to others.
The stories of war also move people to action. Valeria* explains: “working in these institutions has made me feel capable of generating change.” This “impulse to act” is, however, accompanied by frustration. Our actions fail to have an impact on the dynamics of war. Manuel* explains that it is as if the work is taking place on a “false floor.” Humanitarian work is described by Irene as a roller coaster: “It’s for me almost ten years of listening. There have been peaks of discovery (“this is happening? it can’t be”), peaks of enthusiasm (“I can help this change”), and peaks of frustration (“no matter how much we do, everything repeats itself”).”
We discussed the topic of frustration with the workshop group members. We placed it on our backs, reflecting that it comes from feeling that “we do not do enough.” But we also realized that “what we do does not solve much,” that what we do “serves other purposes.” And even that, on some occasions, our work “does harm.” Finally, we talked about hopelessness. For María,* this has been a theme in her work of searching for the disappeared. She began to ask herself: “Why keep hope? How much energy does hope consume? Isn’t hope a deception?” This causes her to feel overwhelmed, as her work is precisely to restore hope to the victims.
4. Conclusion?
What did we embody from that compromised, overflowing, sad, and hopeless transitional work? We agreed on the importance of recognizing the marks left by the work on our bodies. However, this is an exercise beyond us. Our commitment and emotions do not allow us to understand what is happening to us. It is also difficult to think of ways to heal the pain and tensions generated by our work. Multiple body self-care tips appear in our discussion, from “exercise” and “rest” to “meditation.” Victoria reflects on the need to “let go”:
“When I started with the search for missing persons, I felt it was a debt to my own family. It was also a debt to the dead of this war. Now, I understand that I took the blame that is not mine. I look back at the wall of my study, with sixty-two notes reminding me of some of the unfinished business I have. One of them stands out: “Priority # 1: Let go and take care of myself.”
We don´t like self-care advice, perhaps because we do not fully understand what is happening to us. Talking to each other about shared pain helps us to understand the body, to understand the feeling of being “burned out and overwhelmed.” These reflections show that malaise goes beyond the malfunctioning of state institutions or our relationships with suffering. The experience of violence leaves bodily and psychological marks, as the literature has amply shown. We then wonder about the bodily marks left by not being able to make a transition, not being able to leave the experience of violence and feeling that our effort will always be insufficient. From feeling that we are another generation that could not overcome the war. That may be the broken boundary that our body marks—that continues to burn us.
We are all looking for ways to recompose that broken boundary. For some people, “enjoying the pleasures of life” works wonders: laughing, eating well, enjoying artistic works. Beauty seems to reinforce the enjoyment of life. For others, it helps to connect with the spiritual world: meditating, breathing, connecting with nature, attending rituals, among other approaches. It is about finding the world beyond violence. Taking care of the body is also a resource: going to the gym, practicing martial arts, swimming, dancing, etc. It is about compensating the body for the affectation to which it has been subjected. Asking for help from health professionals is also a way. Some turn to traditional medicine; others to ancestral medicine. They also attend different types of psychological therapy. In part, it is a question of curing a discomfort.
Some make changes in their lives. They change their daily life by transforming their time management. They build clear boundaries between work and rest. This involves creating barriers to protect their own world and space. Barriers that affect even thoughts and narratives. War narratives are relegated to the workplace, for example. For many, building a “world of their own” implies strengthening their sources of stability: family, assets, etc. Changes can extend to the way that social relationships are assumed. Achieving better team environments becomes a goal. Kindness thus becomes a tool for self-care. Finally, some of us undertake radical changes: stop, change course, quit, and start again. It is a matter of gaining momentum and evaluating the meaning of this work in our lives.
But perhaps one of the most interesting strategies for dealing with the “burnout” is to look at our work in a historical perspective: what are the context and limits of our historical reality? What is the real scope of the institutions in which we work? What can we do as human beings in the face of wars that have been going on for decades? What are the important changes that can be made? What is the real value of our work? A more realistic perspective is to learn to value the grain of sand we contribute to these long transitional processes that will continue forward for generations to come.
About the Author
Gloria Inés Restrepo studied for her undergraduate degree in sociology and a master’s degree in history. She has researched and taught about forced displacement in Colombia and the resistance of the population to war. She has also worked for the state implementing processes of land restitution, the reconstruction of historical memory, and the search for missing persons. Currently, Gloria is working in humanitarian organizations.
References
Featured Image: Project Embroidering Bodies, 2020
1. The full name of this group is the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia – Ejército del Pueblo (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia – People’s Army).
2. In psychology, “burn out” is a syndrome characterized by “a state of physical and mental exhaustion that is prolonged over time and results from chronic stress.” Edú-Valsania, Sergio, Ana Laguía, and Juan A. Moriano. “Burnout: A review of theory and measurement.” International journal of environmental research and public health 19.3 (2022): 1780.
3. Authors such as Edith Calderon define the affective dimension as the symbolic universe that includes feelings, emotions, passions, affection, affections. Edith Calderón, La afectividad en antropología. Una estructura ausente. México, UAM-I/CIESAS (Publicaciones de la Casa Chata), 2012.
4. The National Center for Historical Memory is one of the institutions created within the framework of the Victims Law (1448). This law, created in 2010, was intended to provide assistance and reparations to victims of political violence. For more information, please see: https://centrodememoriahistorica.gov.co.
5. The Unit is part of the Comprehensive System of Truth, Justice, Reparation and Non-Repetition (SIVJRNR) created with the signing of the Final Peace Agreement between the Colombian Government and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia – People’s Army (FARC-EP) on November 24, 2016.
6. This was a generation of Colombian intellectuals who tried to understand political violence. They did so initially in response to a request from President Belisario Betancour’s administration in the 1980s. From that moment on, they dedicated all of their research efforts to understanding the new historical dynamics of this phenomenon.
7. I am referring to the Special Rehabilitation Commission of 1958, the rehabilitation programs created within the framework of the peace agreements of President Belisario Betancur (1982-1986), or the multiple institutions for the care of victims that were created after the increase in violence since the end of the 1990s (the National System of Comprehensive Care for the Population Displaced by Violence, the National Commission for Reparation and Reconciliation, or the System for the Care and Reparation of Victims).
8. This included the Truth Clarification Commission (CEV), Special Justice for Peace (JEP), and the Unit for the Search for Disappeared Persons (UBPD).
9. The Embroidering Bodies project, funded by the Faculty of Arts and the Faculty of Human Sciences of the National University of Colombia, asked what happens to the bodies of officials who must process stories of violence. This question was answered through textile exploration in four meetings that took place between April 17 and June 19, 2020. It was developed by an interdisciplinary group I participated in, led by Professors Tania Pérez and Maria del Rosario López.
10. All the names I will cite are pseudonyms due to my commitment to anonymize my conversations with other government officials. This story, and others included in this article, are included with permission from the embroidery workshop participants. They were written in my field diary.