“Ancient Greeks, Modern Trauma” with Erika Weiberg
Trauma: From the Ancient Greek word for wound,defined as a physical injury or more contemporarily known as the behavioral state resulting from an emotionally distressing ordeal.
On September 26, I attended a lecture entitled “Ancient Greeks, Modern Trauma” given by Erika Weiberg, a Davidson alumna who now teaches at Duke. Immediately, I was struck by her enthusiasm on the subject. Held in a room in Chambers, it had the feel of a class; students were talking beforehand and the professors were chatting with each other. As she was making small talk with teachers, some of which were her former professors, her face lit up as she explained her findings and research, making me all the more eager to hear her talk. And so she began.
In her research, she sought to answer the question of whether Ancient Greeks had a similar understanding and usage of the word “trauma” as we do in modern times. She spoke of how mainstream this word had become, employing TikTok user’s hashtags to emphasize her point. A word that was once shied away from given its severity is now used in casual conversation. She found that there were two dominant narratives: one being that trauma is a part of the cultural moment, a way of making sense of memories while the second is that trauma responses are universal, experienced by all cultures (including previous ones).
Weiberg’s idea of modernity is post-Industrial Revolution given the massive societal changes at the tail end of the 19th century. Psychology, or more accurately primitive psychology, was in fashion. Those were the days of Freud and Phrenology. She gave the example of what was known as “railway spine”: spinal inflammation that was caused by the jostling of the railcars which resulted in post-traumatic stress symptoms. Mental injuries were seemingly unheard of at the time, for how could something non-physical cause physical symptoms? Weiberg went on to explain that we now live in a “wound culture”–we bond over shared traumas, we go to therapy to work them out, we post videos online showing that this isn’t an individual phenomenon. Was this all because of the advent of the railroad, or rather, is there a bigger aspect of human nature at play?
Now flashing back to Classical Greece we know that there was a word τραύμα (pronounced “trow-mah”) that meant a physical wound. A wound of the flesh not a wound of the mind or of the soul. So, obviously, instances of this word don’t point to our modern equivalent, nor can we equate it with such. Instead, Weiberg combed through multiple texts to find words with a similar understanding associated to them. In a passage describing Clytemnestra (the wife of Agamemon), the word “plēgē” is present. Weiberg argues that it can be used to mean either wound or shock–an idea of lasting physical wounds or of emotional scarring. Another word employing “plēgē” as a suffix is “ekplēxis” or “ekplēssomai” which means to be almost struck out of oneself with shock, grief, or stress. This aligns much more closely to our modern understanding. Furthermore, Weiberg address the usage of the perfect tense. To those unfamiliar with the stricture of ancient grammar (most of us), the perfect tense is used when a past action still affects the present, not unlike a traumatic past event causing present day reactions.
There has and will always be criticism of translations. Some may believe that by transcribing the passages, we lose their original meaning; others maintain that translations are entirely necessary for this knowledge not to go to waste and die with the language in which is was written; extremists argue that there is little need for translations. I agree that both former claims are valid. When ancient texts are reintroduced with modern language, there will always be a margin or error and a level of interpretation; with all things, it is impossible to recreate the exact meaning of each word as the author had intended. Translations, therefore, should not be viewed as mere copies, for a translator has as much agency in interpreting as the author did in composing. For example, Weiberg made sure to disclose that she took some liberties in translation, using the structure and syntax to form an educated estimate as to what the word should be. Instead of viewing a translation as an adultered version of the original, it should be seen as a collaborative effort between the modern translator and the author; for what greater praise is there than to have one’s writing persist past their own language.
In conclusion, Erika Weiberg aimed to strengthen her audience’s understanding of modern and ancient instances of trauma as well as question its universality. Trauma, once entirely omitted from the written canon, is now an accepted reaction. Even in modern times, we’ve known it by different names: “railway spine”, “shell shock”, PTSD. Weiberg explored its previous monikers in Ancient Greece, as well as convinced me. It may very well be that we are projecting our modern understanding onto these texts (as we are prone to do), but I think we all would prefer to believe that “[we] are not alone across time” (Weiberg).
