Chimamanda is right when she states that grief is so much about language, the failure of language and the grasping for language. When we lose a loved one, it creates a void. In that space, the silence forces our body to live as a question rather than a statement.
Doubts start defining the condition of our existence. We start questioning most of our previous certainties. Furthermore, memories act as a reminder of a void that will never be filled again. The pain of the memories and the loneliness that derived from them makes us remorseful. Finally, anger, from watching our world goes down without being able to do a thing, pushes us to face our vulnerability. Thus, these conditions force us to deal with the singularity of our existence and to face our inadequacies. Even though these shared experiences are the source of our grief, we realized how lonely we are.
In many ways, this resembles to my experience in Guinea, at times. Isolation, the sense of being surrounding by people without being understood, feels like grieving. It creates a void. Within that void, the silence forced me to deal with my inadequacies, my ineptitude, my identity… I started questioning my own understanding of myself, my aspiration, and my deepest fear. Am I good enough? Why can they not understand my vision? Why am I even doing this? Why do I keep doing this? How can I make them understand my aspiration? What is wrong with me? How come am I still here?
Far too often, I was doubtful of my choices, angry of my decisions and fearful of my aspirations. What I needed was to embrace the silence with all the questions and doubts that derived from it. These questions certainly broke me, but from them, I slowly learned to reimagine myself, to re-accept my inadequacies and to realign with my deepest aspirations. Within that void, I just had to find my voice, my renewed voice.
The truth is that isolation, just like grieving, changes us, for the better or worse. Through them, we learn how ungentle and gratifying solitude can be.
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