One of the charming differences between my husband and me, (and admittedly not all of them are charming!) is that he is happy to pack and schlep a massive 575-page volume as vacation summer reading, while I prefer to travel feather-light. I am happiest to fill my suitcase with almost nothing. One of the few, if not only occasions when I truly don’t mind, even enjoy (!) washing clothes is at the guest laundromat in our Kona hotel. In Hawaii, like San Francisco, you can wear really anything, and (even almost nothing in these climes!) So, where he packed a comprehensive, in-depth, (weighty in more ways than one!) history of the Hopi people of the American Southwest, I selected a petite volume from the groaning pile, which happened to be one I was eager to read anyway: the brand new Knife: Meditations After an Attempted Murder, by Salman Rushdie (Random House, 2024.) Light but not lite!
I have always liked Salman Rushdie, I know a lot of people don’t. I have not read many of his numerous books, although one truly memorable one, about the same size as my husband’s Hopi book, is his Joseph Anton, (Random House, 2012) which is a stunning work of autobiographical fiction. (still, I would not tote that one on a trip!) It chronicles his years of “fatwa:” a “moral,” authoritarian decree, issued by Ayatollah Khomeni of Iran in 1989, which declared his novel Satanic Verses, to be blasphemous. The fatwa called for the execution of Rushdie, which resulted in some 20 years of exile and traumatic fleeing and hiding. It is no wonder that his son, then only 10 years old, even now still has a ferocious flying phobia, and had to travel by ocean liner from London to New York to be with his father following the recent attack. Who knows what other trauma and neglect symptoms linger, especially after this? Those fatwa decades were nightmarish, and a triumph of not only trauma survival, but also passion for justice, freedom of speech, and art. The story is brilliantly told in the weighty novel, I recommend it. I guess I had not read anything else of his in twenty years until this recent memoir.
Since Rushdie’s heroic wife, Eliza, is a key figure in his story, I was curious about her. It is decidedly a love story, and a testament to the ultimate healing power of not only dogged determination but the unshakable anchoring provided by attachment and community, at both an intimate and mass levels. Admittedly one beef I had had with Rushdie, or certainly a curiosity, was that the short, squatty, rather odd-looking Rushdie always seemingly promenaded tall skinny, elegantly drop dead-model-gorgeous, young white partners or wives on his arm. One might expect and forgive that of Mick Jagger, but this political and brilliantly gutsy, literate intellectual? Of course, I had checked out all the women, via Google images. (So who is shallow?) True to form I had a look at Eliza, who it appears has broken the mold, and absolved him of whatever prejudice I had harbored against him (especially after reading this book!) She is also gorgeous but in a very different way. Not tall, not thin, an African-American, published poet and author; filmmaker and photographer, all in her own right. She turned out also to be an angel, as far as I am concerned, and the Robin to his Batman in the story.
Knife is a brilliant story not only of trauma, and neglect, but the power of love and support. It is also an accounting of near death, apparently without significant memory loss. For 27 seconds, Rushdie was face to face with his knife wielding would-be killer, who almost “succeeded” in his vicious intent. It is a powerful documenting of trauma, and intergenerational transmission, very much from the inside. Surviving was most certainly nothing less than miraculous, nor was the way, Eliza stayed by his side like glue, through every grueling day and night of his two months of hospital and rehab, draconian procedures and surgeries, and unspeakable pain throughout his multiply pierced and slashed body. She witnessed and even partially filmed the protracted nightmare.
It is a worthy read for anyone, but especially those of us, like me, who are passionate about trauma, neglect, intergenerational transmission, social justice, art, and of course determined and untiring persistence and love. Do be advised, however; a slender volume it is graphic and hideously explicit- certain to be triggering for some. Still, it is indeed an inspiring story of attachment and love. The dedication in Eliza’s first-after-this-ordeal, new book release (quoted in Rushdie 2024, p. 178) reads:
Salman, let our love show this impossible world that nothing is impossible. I love you with every heart and story that has ever lived in me and every story that is to come. Salman— my joy, my home, my joy, my dream, and my miracle—Always.
Trees (and Cheese)
We purposely selected last week’s “summer re-run” to set the stage for this week’s “update.” If you missed it, please do, to get the back story. A year after our serendipitous, accidental heroism on the sacred mountain, Hualālai, our friend and trusted Native guide, Kimo took us back up the mountain, where he in deep gratitude and we with equal gratitude and honor, planted a Koa seedling on the mountain.
Koa as you probably know, is the gorgeous marbled hard wood we are most familiar with as expensive salad bowls and furniture, art and even I recently learned, ukuleles. A sacred tree, the Koa is illegal to cut down. Only the fallen trees can be harvested, only with special permits; then sold to artisans and such. The Koa, like everything else Native, suffered terribly from colonialism, as did Kimo’s large family, although he remains open hearted. Kimo’s family, once the keepers and inhabitants of the mountain – “lost it” due first to exorbitant land taxation, then to greedy land-grabbing developers. Kimo has made it his mission to reforest the mountain. Our little seedling was our modest opportunity/privilege to participate.
For a variety of reasons and crossed wires, we missed out on going to see how our little tree was getting on, on our last visit. So, it had been nearly two years since we’d ventured up the mountain, our little guy must be entering tree adolescence by now. It took even Kimo, who intimately knows the mountain, a while to find its spot. When we did, I was crestfallen to see it was but a twig, with a couple of pathetic attempts at leaves sprouting from skeletal joints. Oh dear! The poor little thing rather reminded me of Rushdie following his attack. The ravaging of our little tree was hardly as cruel intentioned, if perhaps nearly as brutal. “Sheep!” Said Kimo. They eat everything right down to the barest bones, only goats being more rapacious. Apparently, the colonialists in their zeal brought too many. Goats became so overpopulated that there was a need to mass exterminate. As a cheese maker, I love sheep and goats, as well as trees, I was horrified, while also knowing that the culprits were of course not the critters themselves!
I was saddened, but Kimo said not to worry. Our tree will be back. Because the root system is strong and it will like him, like Rushdie, like many of us most likely not only survive but prevail. We all took pictures of our little weed and promised to be back in December. More indomitables.
Kimo said it takes a good eight years for the mighty Koa to get stable and reliably established. Wow! I thought cheese making takes patience, interminably waiting 4 to 24 months! This is more like trauma and neglect healing. Reforestation too is the work of years and decades, of a lifetime.
Indomitability
I don’t listen to much news here in Hawaii, but this morning I tuned the computer to stream my favorite public radio station, probably more than anything force of habit. The first and only thing I heard was that Dr. Ruth Westheimer died this morning at the age of 96. “Dr. Ruth” as everyone referred to her, -I don’t think I even knew her last name for years-, was a tiny, (4 feet 7 inches; 1.39 m tall) proper looking, German lady, and I always remember her as being an “old” lady, although that certainly changes as we move along that path ourselves. Although I have always been somewhat reactive to Germanic accents, from a young age I remember we all affectionately giggled at her heavily accented, famous words, “You hef to tell your partner vot you vant!” Dr. Ruth was a pioneering, early sex therapist.
Come to find out, we had more than a name in common she and I. Both of us had a Nazi Holocaust background, although hers was much more terrible. At the age of 10, her parents sent her, much like my Uncle Hans, to safety in a Swiss orphanage, while themselves staying behind to care for her elderly grandmother who was too frail to leave. Both parents were killed in at Dachau. Somehow young Ruth, alone, kept herself going and ended up emigrating to what was then British-controlled Palestine. In spite of her diminutive size, she joined the army and trained as a sniper, although she never engaged in combat. On her 20th birthday Ruth was seriously wounded in a mortar attack where she almost lost both of her tiny feet. She slowly recovered, and through working odd jobs, completed degrees in psychology and sociology at the French Sorbonne, and later earned her PhD, at the age of 42, at Columbia University in New York.
In 1980 she became “Dr. Ruth” via her pioneering syndicated sex therapy radio talk show, “Sexually Speaking,” which rapidly became wildly popular. I learned all this history only today, after being punched in the gut, by the grief. I have always admired Dr. Ruth, without even knowing the attachment as well as incident trauma story behind what had always seemed to be this gutsy character. 96 years, a grand survivor, teacher, and harbinger of pleasure. May she rest well.
Many who know me, have heard my little diatribe about how nobody talks about sex, even in our field it is all too rare. Is it prudishness, shame, ignorance, or moral tabu? I don’t know. It has been part of my mission for 20 years, to cross-pollinate the sexuality and trauma fields, beyond our of course necessary attention to sexual trauma. I will spare you my little tirade just now, I have way too much to say! For now, let me say, Thank you Dr. Ruth!
Ever since becoming a certified sex therapist in 2000, I always wanted (among multiple other reasons!) to get my PhD, so I too could be “Dr. Ruth.” She got her doctorate at age 42, I am 69…with all these stories of indomitability, I guess now I had better really do it!
The blog is a little long today. Perhaps it is my way of saying, hang in there with the healing journey, don’t give up. Let’s all remember Dr. Ruth’s immortal words! … And enjoy!
Today’s song: