Behind the Silence

Warning: spoilers ahead.

Motivation for Deafening Silence emerged from the confluence of two separate and totally unrelated events: the completion of my master's degree and a trip to my local shopping complex. As I was walking out of the complex, I spotted a free-standing digital sign that listed the number of Australian soldiers who had died by suicide since returning from the conflict in Afghanistan. As I stood there reading the statistics, I had two thoughts: that statistics such as this seemed an odd thing to advertise in a shopping mall, and that I was deeply saddened to learn about the number of Australian Defence Force personnel who had chosen to end their lives. It was a number far greater than the total number of soldiers who had been killed in the actual conflict. I was so moved, I immediately felt compelled to write about a traumatised veteran.

I don't know why I felt such empathy. Perhaps it was because images of the first Gulf War had been beamed into our living rooms day and night for weeks on end, and the devastating neon green sight of tracer fire flying over the city of Baghdad had been seared into my mind. Perhaps it was because I couldn't bear the thought of my own sons being forced to participate in a similarly devastating event at some point in their future. Whatever the reason, the national tragedy writ large in backlit statistics would not leave me. The escalating number of veteran deaths would eventually prompt a Royal Commission into Defence and Veteran Suicide.

There was only one problem with my urge to write such a narrative, and it was a big problem: I knew almost nothing about the military and even less about writing trauma fiction. I was also acutely aware of my presumptuousness. After all, I was a woman whose knowledge of the military was superficial at best, whose knowledge of mental illness and PTSD was limited, and whose prose writing skills were that of a neophyte. I had to consider what I could contribute to the conversation about the war in Afghanistan that a stack of non-fiction books could not. Non-fiction provides a factual, personal truth based on lived experience. Fiction offers an emotional truth. The firsthand accounts I read were eye-opening, but they left me largely unsatisfied, as none required any real emotional investment. I, like many other readers, wanted a truly emotional experience.

I also found there is a significant gap in modern Australian literature that has a focus on our participation in modern wars. Literary representation of the war in Afghanistan has largely been confined to non-fiction, particularly the military memoir. Authors from Britain, the United States, and Canada have penned significant fictions about this war, which raises questions about why Australian authors have largely avoided engaging with war narratives. Above all, my intention for writing Deafening Silence was to raise awareness of, and foster empathy for, Australia's injured military service personnel.

That intention became the creative component of my PhD. Deafening Silence is set in 2013 in a fictional suburb of the regional city of Ballarat. I chose a regional city because many Australian veterans (from all wars) were born and raised in Australia's country towns. Having been medically discharged from the army, Daniel Shaw, a former member of the elite 2nd Commando Regiment, returns to the town where he grew up. A hostile confrontation with the enemy in Afghanistan has left him profoundly deaf, physically scarred, and unfit for service. In the months leading up to Remembrance Day, a volcanic rage simmers beneath the surface of his meticulously controlled exterior, beset by shattered memories and warped dreams. He has trouble holding onto his job, is paranoid his wife Kelly is cheating on him (while he is cheating on her), and is devastated that his children are afraid of him. When his father dies suddenly, he loses his rock and his moral compass. Then, on Remembrance Day, when the country is dedicating a minute of silence to those who have fallen, Daniel must decide if he will swallow his pride and seek help or surrender his life to the war that is still being waged inside his mind.

The suicide bomb explosion that left Daniel deaf also killed him. He was revived, but it was not the bomb blast that caused his PTSD. Rather, it was his experience of the nothingness beyond the veil, what the philosopher Slavoj Žižek calls "the Real". In that nothingness, all of the labels that identified him were stripped away, and he was shattered to realise that his life and his sacrifice ultimately meant nothing in the grand scheme of time, space, and the universe. I could not paint a picture of a hero who was not damaged by his experience on the battlefield. I was compelled to challenge the hero myth. When veterans need help, they cannot ask for it for fear of being seen as weak, and Daniel's pride is his fatal flaw.

Ironically, when I began work on this book, I had no idea that I was working on a trauma fiction. A lightbulb moment occurred when one of my supervisors suggested that if it is not possible to write trauma authentically and truthfully, then ethically it should not be written about at all. The trauma theorist Cathy Caruth argues that traumatic experience can never truly be known, rendering its "truth" beyond written expression. So, how, indeed, was I to write about it? I was determined to try, because I wanted readers to discover what it felt like to be my protagonist, to live with PTSD twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I wanted readers to feel his anxious breath on their cheek.

The writing was not without its struggles. First person might seem the obvious choice; however, immersing readers in this character's mind felt not only claustrophobic but cruel and exploitative. I chose third person and included as much interior monologue as possible, but in hindsight, I wonder if first person would have been a better choice. Daniel's hearing aids frequently cut out, so I omitted words from the text to simulate that experience. The nightmare scenes were the hardest to construct, and I spent several months writing and rewriting them. My hard drive is littered with false starts and even whole chapters that were abandoned along the way. Throughout, I was painfully aware of representing suffering with emotional truth while resisting the lure of voyeurism. My interest is not trauma porn. My interest lies in the aftermath of a traumatic event.

When I was outlining the plot, I was in two minds about how I would end it. Would Daniel complete his suicide? Would I leave readers wondering? Or would he relinquish his pride and ego and ask for the help he needs? I won't tell you which path I chose. But I will tell you the message I wanted readers to take away: asking for help is not a weakness.

Little did I know when I stood in my local shopping complex over ten years ago that my desire to write about a traumatised veteran would evolve into a doctorate and a novel. I could not have completed this journey without the patience, love, and unending generosity of my son. And finally, my awe and appreciation go to the extraordinary men and women of the Australian Defence Force who commit to the job because their moral compass points them in that direction. Thank you for your service.

If this book raises issues for you, support is available. Veterans and their families can contact Open Arms on 1800 011 046, 24 hours a day. Anyone in Australia can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14.