The Natural Brilliance of the Soul: A Soldier's Story of War and Reconciliation

By Jan Hatanaka

"Dr. Hatanaka's exhaustive research and analysis have resulted in a book that should be an essential tool for those professionals who are assisting our soldiers having difficulties adjusting to life after the stress of service in a war zone. Likewise, soldiers, their families, and their friends experiencing difficulties understanding their own feelings and frustrations would benefit from taking the time to read this practical toolbox of ideas."
--Lewis MacKenzie, CM, OOnt, MSC and Bar, CD Major-General (Ret'd)

Jan Hatanaka, PhD, is the founder of Grief Reconciliation International Inc. Her pragmatic approach to grief and reconciliation is informed by her personal experience; her extensive academic research on the universality of grief and loss; and her in-depth discussions with hundreds of individuals willing to recount their personal stories when faced with significant grief. She has a Bachelor of Science degree in Nursing from the University of Ottawa, a Master's degree in Education and Counselling Psychology from the University of Toronto, and a PhD in Theology from the University of Wales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BPS Books
• Release date: Oct 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781927483671

Jan Hatanaka

Jan Hatanaka, PhD, is the founder of Grief Reconciliation International Inc. Her pragmatic approach to grief and reconciliation is informed by her personal experience; her extensive academic research on the universality of grief and loss; and her in-depth discussions with hundreds of individuals willing to recount their personal stories when faced with significant grief. She has a Bachelor of Science degree in Nursing from the University of Ottawa, a Master's degree in Education and Counselling Psychology from the University of Toronto, and a PhD in Theology from the University of Wales.

Book preview

1

Doing What Needs to Be Done

Surviving

It was a Wednesday morning late in May. I got to the coffee shop a few minutes early. Experience with the military has taught me that 0800 really means 0750.

Matt had been given my name and contact information by his friend, a fellow soldier, John, who had found our time together helpful. All I knew about Matt was that he was twenty-eight years old, had been home for six months from his second tour in Afghanistan, and, as John put it, was struggling quite a bit.

I got myself some coffee, found a booth at the back, and sat facing the wall. I knew I didn’t have to look for Matt; he would find me. I also knew he would want to sit with his back to the wall.

I had just nicely settled in when he approached the table, coffee in hand. Clearly, he had arrived before I did.

After brief formalities — Matt told me he was on leave, taking care of problems with his back; I told him a little about the work I do in the community — the conversation dropped off, and we sat without saying a word.

I have come to appreciate these moments of silence with a soldier. The question on the table: Was I going to lead him? Or was he going to lead me?

Matt broke the silence.

So, here we are.

We sat for several long minutes before he continued.

John said I should talk to you. Then after another pause: I’m not really sure what it is you and John worked on together, but John is a good friend of mine … and he said you helped him out since he got back.

Matt was looking at me but he was also scanning the room. This exercise created a stop-start rhythm in his speech common to people who are burdened, like a computer trying to process information with dozens of files open in the background.

What is it that you do? he asked.

I work in the area of grief and reconciliation.

Grief and what …?

He was asking a question, but it seemed he didn’t want the answer — that he didn’t want to be there at all. That wasn’t surprising. Who wants to be in the position of needing to talk to a total stranger about something as intimate as grief?

I couldn’t tell whether he was going to stay. He hadn’t opened his jacket. His coffee was in a to-go cup. He sat with his chair pushed back from the table.

We sat for a few more moments. I could see that, if we worked together, we would need to be okay with silence.

Eventually he gave me a nod to proceed. Since John had referred him, I thought maybe that would be as good a place as any to start.

John has told me very little about your situation.

That didn’t get us very far. All he said was, Same.

I tried another approach.

I help people find ways to manage grief in their lives.

What does that have to do with John? John is one of the few guys I know that has his life together.

John had given me permission to speak in general terms of our work together, so I simply said, John has worked hard at being fine. He has worked through a process of learning to come to terms with the realities of his life.

Matt folded his arms across his chest like someone getting ready to endure a lecture.

That was a no go for me.

Matt, I’m not someone who’s going to feed you a bunch of psychobabble. I’m prepared to help you think strategically about your situation.

Perhaps to conserve energy, or to buy himself some time, Matt pushed his elbows off the back of his chair and sat upright.

I’m not sure what John has told you about my situation, he said, leaning in a bit. John’s my buddy. I’m not sure we share all that much when it comes to our actual job descriptions. There are lots of different jobs in the military.

I understood this as code for he hasn’t lived what I have lived.

Acknowledged. I’ve worked with many soldiers.

John hasn’t been where I’ve been. He’s one of the good guys … I’ve …

I wanted to reassure him that I had been at this a long time and was not sitting in judgment.

I don’t know what you’re going to tell me, but you’re not going to shock me.

Matt stared into my eyes, then covered for himself.

I know a lot of guys who come back screwed up, but I’m not one of those guys. I don’t think I’m grieving anything. I’m just dealing with a few things since I came home.

We spent the next several minutes talking about the disconnect soldiers feel between themselves and the society they come home to. I could tell by how articulate he was that he had reflected on some of the problems he was up against.

Taking a deep breath, he said, I’m okay with talking to you. I just don’t know where to start. I’m used to people saying they want to hear what I have to say, but they don’t really want to know that much. What do you want from me?

He seemed to be spitting out a series of words rather than committing to a full conversation.

I asked him to tell me how long he had been home. I thought that might get him to tell me more about why he wanted to meet.

Six months, he said. Then he came right out with it. Why? Why are you doing this?

I knew I needed to give him a personal answer, but I also knew that no matter what answer I gave him, my own struggles paled in comparison with what he had lived through. I caught myself. Even after all this time working in the community the way I do, I still have to fight the temptation to measure: Who has suffered more? Whose story is more dramatic, more devastating, more deserving? I call it the grief-pissing contest.

I backed off and tried to tell him the truth as plainly as I could.

Anytime anyone experiences a major loss, they grieve that loss. My personal experience with grief and my experience with the military have shown me something — that many soldiers try to deal with grief by compartmentalizing it, you know, into my life in theater and my life at home.

That got his attention, but he wasn’t in the mood to give anything away.

I don’t feel particularly upset or anything, he said.

The gap between a soldier and the society back home is real, I said. But there are many gaps that contribute to making the transition home difficult. My guess is that you’re in the middle of finding out the hard way that you have changed; that your family has changed, your friends have changed … that things are different. You may have two or three … or fifty … moving parts that you’re trying to fit together.

His distant look told me there were a million other places he would rather be. It also told me he wasn’t here to socialize.

One way we can start, I said, is by helping you to assess some of what you have been through.

He swore under his breath, then looked at me and said, Like I don’t know what I’ve been through?

Knowing what you have lived through is different from being able to articulate what you’ve learned. My mission would be to help you develop a grief reconciliation strategy.

Matt picked up on the word strategy and smirked. Oh, so you’re an expert in using military language? He leaned back in his chair and pitched his chin forward. What’s in this for you?

It was a great question, but one with a complicated answer. I tried anyway.

You’ve got something that’s very valuable. As a soldier, what you’ve gone through, what you’ve seen, gives you the potential to understand the world as it really is. Your experience gives you street cred. A lot of lives could be changed as a result of what you know. I believe that what you know could help me help others who are grieving.

When he didn’t respond, I offered to get us some more coffee, but he went instead.

While I waited for him to return, I decided to push through by telling him how I first came to understand the important role of the military in our understanding of grief and the need for reconciliation.

I told Matt how I got my start, training as a nurse at the National Defence Medical Centre in Ottawa. It was the largest hospital serving the Canadian Forces at the time, I said, adding that this was where I was first introduced to the divide between those who have served our country and the society they come back to.

During the day, I said, many stories were told. Some were funny, some were heroic, others were sad.

But, Matt, I found out that it was the stories that were not told in daylight hours that begged the most to be attended to.

Matt leaned in. He put his hands on the table, then methodically pushed up one sleeve of his jacket, then the other. That small motion seemed to take all of his energy; he rested back in his chair.

I went on. These untold stories haunted the halls long after the therapists had closed up shop and the soldiers’ loved ones had gone home. It took me some time to understand what these stories were really all about: the fact that we humans can be terrifying creatures.

Matt heaved a heavy sigh.

I learned during these nighttime sessions never to ask soldiers whether they had a story to tell. I learned to ask whether they could and would share what they had come to know.

Matt’s eyes narrowed. His breathing slowed.

I was forced to ask myself: Do I really want to hear what they have to say? Do I really want to know what goes on in our world? Do I have the conviction to stay with these men and women as they struggle to come to terms with their suffering?

I asked Matt if I could tell him more. He gave the slightest of nods.

There was a dimly lit room at the end of the long hall, I said. That’s where small groups of soldiers formed up. The stories they told there were part chronological accounts, part confessions. They poured out slowly in the form of question after question. I learned to identify two groups: some were clearly in need of help; others were able to give their attention to those who were suffering — they were able to guide them through the tortures of their grief. To help them uncover the suffering they had buried down deep.

I paused to see if Matt wanted to respond, but he seemed content to listen.

The rawness of these sessions introduced me to the fact that soldiers know more about the state of the world than civilians do; they also know more about the topic of grief.

Matt held my gaze for a fraction of a second, then he shifted back into his solitude. I wasn’t sure whether he was able to hear what I was saying. It was a lot to absorb in a first meeting, but if this proved to be our only meeting, I wanted to leave him with as much as I could.

The direct approach taken by certain men, and sometimes women, who led these late-evening sessions had a big impact on my practice. It was different from the approach I’d been taught to this point. Their goal in listening to each other’s stories wasn’t to help them forget or to dispute the uniqueness of their experience. It was to help them to uncover, frame, and articulate their grief.

I told Matt how I