A Separation

When I finished the final edit of the translation of Bar Kupershtein’s memoir of his time as a hostage of Hamas, Unbreakable, my contact at the publishing house asked me, “Did you enjoy the book?”

It was a difficult question to answer. I enjoy editing. I enjoy making words and sentences and paragraphs sound more like themselves. But can you enjoy a book about horrors and starvation and captivity? Not really.

The truth is, I hesitated before taking on the project. It was a rush job, and I like giving myself the time and space to let things sit a bit so I can look them over with a fresh eye before handing them over to the client. But more than that, I was nervous about the emotional repercussions of the project.

I am not a person who seeks out exposure to terrible events, or has a need to know the minute details of a person’s suffering. Even from behind the shield of a screen or a page, I find it hard to separate myself from the experiences being evoked. I didn’t want even a small piece of Bar’s trauma.

In the end, though, I took on the project. I was important enough that I put aside my doubts, and put on my professional pants so I could approach the text. What I found, surprisingly enough, was that I was able to create a separation between myself and the book. Somehow, my editing brain took over, and all I was able to see were the words themselves and what needed to be done with them. What was important to me were not so much Bar’s experiences, but distilling Bar’s voice while also ensuring that the reading experience for the English reader was smooth and understandable. In a way, this cushioned me from the intensity of the trauma.

So, I didn’t enjoy the book, but I did find working on it moving, meaningful, and important. I’m glad it exists in the world.

Go Cubs.