Before We Were Free takes the form of 12-year-old Anita’s diary. While the diary is a way for her to voice her secret dreams and frustrations away from the prying eyes of her parents, it also becomes a record of the six months preceding and six months following the assassination of Trujillo, the dictator of the Dominican Republic. As Anita comes to rely more and more on her diary to make sense of the frightening things going on around her, the novel pays close attention to the way that trauma brings about silence and secrecy—and how this creates a vicious cycle, in which the silence and secrecy in turn cause even more trauma. Ultimately, the novel suggests, it’s essential to break the cycle and share one’s story, as sharing can be a way to heal and gain a sense of control.
From the beginning, Before We Were Free shows that sharing one’s thoughts and recording one’s story is empowering. The Anita whom readers initially meet is confused—at only 11 years old, she doesn’t understand the political and familial turmoil happening around her—but she’s confident in her voice. Indeed, her family members call her by the nickname cotorrita, or “little parrot,” because she’s so talkative. At this point, talking and asking questions is a way for Anita to assert who she is. Though she resents the nickname because she thinks it makes her sound like a little child, she’s not ashamed of being talkative and communicative.
But as Anita becomes more familiar with the danger and the political turmoil plaguing the Dominican Republic, speech itself starts to seem dangerous and unwieldy. When it seems like every conversation brings about a new kind of pain and suffering, silence starts to look more and more attractive. Furthermore, Anita realizes that her parents and their friends speak almost exclusively in code—they refer to Trujillo as Mr. Smith, for instance, and they bring up nonexistent flies as a warning that someone might be listening in. This makes Anita realize that silence can protect her family; with the possibility that nefarious people are eavesdropping or bugging the house, Anita worries that if she speaks, she might accidentally say something that puts her family in danger. Because of this, when Anita receives a diary for Christmas, she erases every entry after writing it, just in case her family is arrested and her diary is searched. With this, she begins to experiment with trying to protect herself through silence.
However, the novel makes the case that having to stay silent is a traumatizing experience. Eventually, Mami asks Anita to stop writing in her diary altogether; she seems to share Anita’s fear that it could put the family at risk if discovered. And at the same time, Anita’s older sister Lucinda is evacuated from the country to save her from being Trujillo’s next victim of sexual abuse—on the same day that Anita starts her period. Menstruating, in Anita’s mind, puts her at risk of Trujillo’s predation. In this increasingly frightening time, Anita stops talking altogether. Though Anita describes her silence as “forgetting” words, it’s possible to read her silence as an understandable response to major trauma. Again, when it seems like anything she says could lead to pain or suffering for her or someone else, the best alternative seems to be silent.
While staying silent initially seems to help Anita and her family, ultimately the novel suggests that in order to heal, Anita should make every attempt to tell her story. Following Trujillo’s assassination, when Mami and Anita go into hiding in the Italian diplomat’s walk-in closet, Mami gives Anita permission to start writing in her diary again. In Mami’s opinion, it’s important for Anita to record her experience so that others in the future will know what happened—but Tía Mari, the diplomat’s wife, notes that as Anita writes she begins to talk more, too. Writing helps Anita regain a sense of normalcy and control as she records her every thought. And while the novel ends before Anita has fully regained her voice, it nevertheless shows clearly that finally being allowed to express her thoughts and tell her story were essential to her recovery. It’s possible, the novel suggests, to survive traumatic experiences—but the success of one’s recovery hinges on their ability to talk about what happened.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Storytelling and Trauma ThemeTracker
Storytelling and Trauma Quotes in Before We Were Free
Sam tells me about this invention in the United States called invisible ink that lets you write stuff down so that no one can read it until the page is soaked in a chemical that makes all the letters reappear.
I wish I had a bottle of that kind of ink for writing in my diary because the truth is I feel kind of sad writing in pencil, always prepared to erase. But Sammy says that ink is probably not sold anywhere in the country, even at Wimpy’s.
“Doris, put the lid on the sugar bowl, por favor. There are so many flies.”
I look around for flies, but there are none I can see. Lorena has just come out from the kitchen with a tray to collect the empty coffee cups. Perhaps she scared them away.
Then, just like that, it dawns on me: my mother is speaking to Mrs. Washburn in code. She’s saying: We are being overheard; be quiet. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a room I’m not supposed to be in—but now that I’m inside, the door has disappeared. I feel the same way as when Lucinda told me how one day I, too, would get my period.
We are free! I want to cry out. But thinking about how the SIM raided our property, how Tío Toni had to disappear, how I have to erase everything in my diary, I know that Oscar is telling the truth. We’re not free—we’re trapped—the Garcías got away just in time! I feel the same panic as when the SIM came storming through our house.
“Suddenly, you have to be a big girl—”
“I am twelve, Mami!” I sigh and roll my eyes. Recently, if anyone talks to me as if I’m a little kid, I get mad. But I also feel sad that I’m not a little kid anymore and that I know as much as I do. I’ve written about these confused feelings in my diary, too, but this is one confusion that doesn’t get any clearer by writing about it.
“One last big favor to ask you, mi amor. No more writing in your diary for the time being.
“That’s so unfair!” Mami gave me the diary for Christmas. Telling me not to write in it is like taking away my only present.
“I know it is, Anita.” Mami wipes away my tears with her thumbs. “For now, we have to be like the little worm in the cocoon of the butterfly. All closed up and secret until the day...” She spreads her arms as if they were wings.
Not even the thought of falling in love with Sam is a consolation anymore. Overnight, all boys (except for Papi and Tío Toni and Mundín) have become totally gross. Here’s an old lech flirting with my sister. Here are Oscar and Sam drinking liquor and throwing up. If only I could be like Joan of Arc, cut off my hair and dress like a boy, just to be on the safe side. Or even better, if only I could go backward to eleven, instead of forward to thirteen!
I admit I feel mean participating in this scheme—but I also understand that our lives are in danger. A tip from Lorena could wipe us out. It’s so unfair to have to live in a country where you have to do stuff you feel bad about in order to save your life. It’s like Papi and Tío Toni planning to assassinate Mr. Smith when they know that murder is wrong. But what if your leader is evil and rapes young girls and kills loads of innocent people and makes your country a place where not even butterflies are safe?
“I think we’d better have the nurse look at you,” she says, taking my hand.
I don’t resist. I stand and walk with her. As we cross the front of the room, Charlie Price makes a circle motion in the air to Sammy, who grins as if he agrees.
I feel like screaming, I AM NOT CRAZY! But instead, I swallow that scream, and suddenly it’s very quiet inside me.
Actually, Mr. Mancini says that people are secretly calling it an ajusticiámiento, which means bringing to justice, the way criminals have to face the consequences of their evil deeds.
I feel so much better thinking that Papi and Tío Toni were doing justice, not really murdering killing hurting someone. But still...just the thought of my own father—
Whenever I feel this way, I start writing in my diary so there’s another voice that I can listen to. A third radio, tuned to my own heart.
So I snuck off to the bathroom with my diary, and soon enough, Mami was calling me, saying it was rude for me to be off by myself, come join them and be sociable, but then Tía Mari told her to let me be, that it’s a good thing that I’m writing, that ever since I started keeping this diary, I’m talking a lot more.
It took her saying it for me to realize it’s true.
The words are coming back, as if by writing them down, I’m fishing them out of forgetfulness, one by one.
What I see as I look down aren’t angels but butterflies, the arm swings connecting to the leg swings like a pair of wings, our heads poking out in between! I’m sure if Chucha were here, she would say they are a sign. Four butterflies from Papi, reminding me to fly.
I close my eyes, but instead of making a wish, I think about Papi and Tío Toni and their friends who died to make us all free. The emptiness inside starts filling with a strong love and a brave pride.
Okay, Papi, I say, I promise I’ll try.
