Every time I leave home I drive through a thick, temperate rainforest of mountain ash trees and rough tree ferns. The forest seems timeless and utterly impenetrable. Fire feels like an impossibility in the middle of this, but the towering mountain ash rely on bushfires to propagate. This damp, majestic forest is here only because a fire was here before it.
Bushfires are a part of the Australian landscape. This place we call home has been – and will continue to be – shaped by fire. But we still do not understand the very specific type of trauma that can accompany a bushfire.
Live in a forested area for long enough, and fire becomes a certainty. The ubiquity of fire in Australia has narrowed the stories into things made up almost entirely of numbers and simple stories; how often on the evening news do we hear of fires reduced to bald statistics about houses destroyed? The effects extend beyond those who lost a house, who fought the fires, or who fled the flames. People who had past experiences re-triggered, children whose parents instilled in them a certain way of treating bushfires, or anyone whose ability to parent was shattered by trauma – all people suffering from the effects that ripple out from a bushfire.
The impact of bushfires on those involved is extremely complex. Melbourne writer Alice Bishop has written beautifully about her experiences dealing with the aftermath of Black Saturday in 2009, the worst bushfire disaster in Australia’s history. “We need to recognise the ongoing struggles that so many bushfire-affected people face for years, sometimes lifetimes, after the actual event,” she says.
I have worked with children and adults in trauma recovery, and have also studied bushfire trauma and trauma counselling. Many of the systems in place that deal with bushfire trauma recovery, and trauma recovery more broadly, are centred around talking. People are expected to tell their stories to strangers over and over to get help – whether it’s a case manager, or a support worker, a psychologist or a doctor. People are expected to relay what they’ve been through; they’re expected to identify their needs when they might not yet realise what those needs are. They’re expected to be able to articulate things in a way that is meaningful and then they’re expected to quickly recover.
But not everyone wants to or is able to talk, particularly in the weeks and months after a bushfire when formal aid is often most readily available. Jodie Bowker was the bushfire recovery coordinator for EACH social and community health in response to the Black Saturday bushfires. She recognised the importance of storytelling and tried to start a project for people to share their stories in their own way: writing, painting, poetry or photography. But she found that, in this case, it was too soon. She told me about colleagues of hers in Canberra working with people who had been through the fires of 2003. It had taken some of these people 10 years to be ready to tell their stories and seek help.
Working with both adults and children who had experienced other types of trauma, such as domestic violence and sexual abuse, I would often hear the same stories over and over. Each time, a new detail. Another thread in the tapestry of something immense and important. A story may grow from a short mention of an ex-partner being difficult, to disclosures of extreme violence and post-traumatic stress disorder. A child may offhandedly mention their parent was sad, but it was revealed as serious depression and psychosis. Each person was so different, not only in what their stories were and what they needed but how and when they identified those needs.
In terms of bushfire trauma, Bowker said: “Each person is an individual and has their own experiences of life pre-bushfire. Those pre-bushfire experiences shape the person you are and how you react to traumatic events and experiences.”
Laya Ross, an experienced counsellor who organised a stunning anthology featuring the work of survivors of Ash Wednesday, told me of a client who lay a sock down on the table between them. “That’s all I have,” she said. “My home and car, burnt. The dress on my back singed and the soles of my shoes melted. All I have are these socks, the parts that were covered by the tops of my shoes. I hate these socks with every fibre of my being. And I love these socks. They are my most precious possession.”
It’s vital that the public become more aware of the nuance of trauma so that we are more effectively able to support people experiencing it – particularly trauma with as wide an impact as bushfires.
One way for Australian readers to explore the emotional and psychological impact of bushfires is through fiction. Bushfire fiction, like other trauma fiction, can give readers a chance to bear witness to important events that they may not have experienced. Ross acknowledges the innate value of fiction: “We come away from a story bigger than we were before. We can hold more and therefore we have more to give out, more compassion, understanding and wisdom.”
Reading fictional accounts of bushfires can also give people who have experienced trauma permission to experience it in a way that deviates from what they may problematically consider the “norm”. This is not for everyone. Bowker points out that people may have trouble reading after a traumatic event and may need to start with children’s books. But for some, fiction can help illustrate that there is no one right way to grieve or to deal with trauma; it has the capacity to highlight and communicate facets of an issue in a way that can be quite different from real life accounts.
Similarly, writing fiction allows people to process trauma in a way that can still be as private and personal as documenting real life, but with the capacity to be less confronting and potentially gentler. “Writing fiction about the Black Saturday bushfires has really helped me make sense of the event,” Alice Bishop says. “One second life seemed normal and the next our house was gone. It takes a while to process that, and writing has really helped … It has helped me find home again.”
• Eliza Henry Jones’ latest novel, Ache, about a family and community recovering after a bushfire, is out now through Harper Collins.