Perinatal grief is a silenced grief. This is what mental health experts say and this is what those who have experienced it firsthand feel. “It is a grief that is not socially accepted: it is covered up. And that makes it very difficult for us to live,” he says. the Basque writer Alaine Agirre (Bermeo, 33 years old), author of novels such as Libe (Eiren, 2022) or The white silk nightgown (Eiren, 2019) and winner of several literary awards such as the Kutxa Ciudad de Irún Prize in 2021. Agirre tells in her latest book Placenta (Tres Hermanas, 2023), through Sara, its protagonist, the rocky path of mourning for the loss of her daughter. In its pages it also dares to tread other paths, such as the B side of assisted reproduction treatments or the disagreements that occur in a couple's relationship when one of the parties is not a participant in the process with the same desire.
And she does it by writing from the body, pouring into each page the sensations and processes that motherhood and its search often trigger, but that rarely become visible. “We need more stories about (non) motherhood in all areas of society, including art and literature,” says Agirre in this interview. With this latest title, she has already added hers.
ASK. Placenta is the translation of Karena, initially published in 2021 by Elkar. How does the new language suit you?
ANSWER. Translating is not just transferring history from one language to another; It is also about capturing the sensations that words transmit. Sometimes, conventional definitions do not reflect the emotional and cultural load that those words have for each person. Meanings are constructed over time, and certain bodies and institutions have more power to define words and tell reality. In addition to meanings, the way words sound also gives life to a literary text. Translating from one language to another is a challenge that requires technique, but also the ability to feel the text, connect with it as if they were shared heartbeats. For these translations I trust a translator who not only has the technique, but also understands my work and my voice.
Q. In August 2022, the writers Nuria Labari, Silvia Nanclares and Carmen G. de la Cueva reflected in a report published in this medium about the increase in books related to motherhood. They all insisted on the need to continue telling the experience by making good literature. I ask you: are they enough?
R. For the patriarchal and capitalist system there are too many; For me they are not enough. They have enclosed maternity hospitals within the four walls of the home, distancing it from literature, stages, microphones and speakers. It is essential to explore, talk, capture and describe the experiences of motherhood (or its absence), narrating them from our own experiences, bodies, voices and perspectives. And I'm not just talking about that hegemonic motherhood, colonized by men, medicalized, productivist and exclusive, that they have sold us: I'm talking about all the physical and emotional processes that are related to motherhood, whatever they may be. More stories about (non) motherhood are needed in all areas of society, including art and literature.
Q. Sara, the protagonist of her novel, feels that “the desire to be a mother is like a lighthouse that does not go out at night or day,” and even if she doesn't want to see it, it is always there. How much is there of oneself in the desire to be a mother and how much of the context, the culture?
R. The protagonist asks herself that same question, although she has to live with the frustration of not having a coherent answer between what she thinks and what she feels, between her past and her present. How can she feel and think, how can we converse with the desire to be a mother as a feminist, being aware that this desire is not purely personal, our own, but something cultural that has been deposited within us? Is it possible to separate the cultural from the personal? Don't we also obey other cultural mandates, such as the ways of producing and consuming, organizing and living together, pairing and relating? A male reader judged the protagonist because she puts her desire to be a mother before her relationship. But why should being in a relationship be more important than parenting? There are no one-size-fits-all answers.
Q. Do you believe in maternal instinct?
R. No.
Q. Has writing changed your own relationship with motherhood? Placenta? How much is autobiographical?
R. I have changed with the writing of each of my novels. With each of them I have been able to process emotions that I had not previously left room for, and place, rather than overcome, past experiences. Writing is my way of digesting life and surviving in this world. It is both my fortress and trench. Regarding Placenta, I think writing it helped me heal my motherhood wound. After a lot of internal dialogue about whether or not I wanted to be a mother, or why I wanted to be a mother, after years of trying, I managed to get pregnant, but I had to give birth to my stillborn daughter. The topic haunted me, I knew that sooner or later I would have to write it, and as soon as I was ready to look at that pain, I did. At first I thought it would be the story of pain at the loss of a desired and unborn daughter, but the story became more consistent, and I felt the need to delve into other areas of motherhood with the “no entry” sign.
Q. “Sometimes there is no other choice but to go through the pain,” he writes. There is a lot of pain on the pages.
R. I cried and grieved the loss of my daughter and the uncertainty of my motherhood thanks, in part, to the writing of Placenta. Before I had not allowed myself to feel grief, since it is a grief that is not socially accepted: it is covered up. And that makes it very difficult for us to live it. It's not just that he doesn't accompany himself, but that he directly refuses. It's prohibited.
Q. Do shared pains hurt less?
R. They get along better. It would have been comforting for me to read something like what I had written years before. I myself fantasized about this novel being a hug for some people, and it has been very fulfilling to know that, in some way, it has been.
Q. Can literature save us when there is pain as enormous as grief?
R. Literature has saved me on many occasions because it has helped me survive in bad times and live with more fullness and meaning. But no matter how much it helps you, literature is not enough if you do not have a protective environment, not too violent, restorative and minimally accepting. We need them not to violate us, to give us resources to repair the damage, to accept and respect us. I'm not just talking about mothers, but in general: right now all my close friends are broken. The system breaks us. In short, may literature also serve to weaken this system that hurts us.
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