It Doesn’t Start with Prisons: A Psychotherapist’s Warning About Silence
by Kissu Taffere

“The problem with Eritrea,” explained an Eritrean friend who has left the country, “is that half of my friends are in prison and the other half put them there!”
—Jeffrey Gettleman, “Recalling La Dolce Vita in Eritrea,” The New York Times, October 3, 2008
I’m not a political pundit. I’m a therapist and a recovering bureaucrat. But as a therapist, I’ve seen the aftermath of trauma in ways that can’t be ignored—the kind that leaves scars on both the body and soul. I’ve seen blood on people before it’s dried, seen evidence of torture laid out for documentation. I’ve had nightmares where I run toward the scene of a violent attack as others run away from it. Ta-Nehisi Coates, in writing about racism, said it best: “But all our phrasing—race relations, racial chasm, racial justice, racial profiling, white privilege, even white supremacy—serves to obscure that racism is a visceral experience, that it dislodges brains, blocks airways, rips muscle, extracts organs, cracks bones, breaks teeth.” I extend this visceral reality to fascism—it destroys more than just societies; it destroys souls and bodies. Each act of political violence ripples through generations, leaving traces in both flesh and memory.
I know this destruction from my own life, not just my work. I was born during Ethiopia’s Derg “Red Terror,” a brutal campaign of political repression and mass killings targeting all opposition, real and perceived. I recently learned that my late father had been imprisoned for months under suspicion of political activity. I carry childhood memories of being warned never to share the radio broadcasts we listened to at home with others. And I have family history, and memories from my ancestors. My grandparents survived Mussolini’s Italy. And before that, centuries of colonization by the Ottoman Empire. My family has survived generation after generation of colonialism and fascism—sometimes barely holding on, and always with scars. This history echoes America’s own foundational violence: the genocide of Indigenous peoples and the enslavement of Africans and their descendants. These aren’t just historical events—they’re ongoing traumas whose legacies shape the present.
After five years working as a trauma therapist alongside asylum seekers and immigration attorneys, I’ve also started seeing unsettling parallels between our present moment and the regimes I’ve known. The blind loyalty I see today reminds me of the unquestioning support I’ve witnessed for oppressive regimes. Watching family, friends, and colleagues slip into what seems to me like a fascistic trance fills me with deep grief. Many Americans are too sheltered or too hopeful to see the dangers in this rapid dismantling of critical institutions, kidnappings of dissenters, and the total disregard for due process.
I’ve witnessed the human cost of silence, indifference, and blind loyalty—costs felt both personally and professionally. These patterns aren’t just confined to national politics. As Adrienne Maree Brown teaches us through her work on fractals, these patterns of power repeat on different scales. I see them in smaller, everyday spaces: the supervisor who labels staff “insubordinate” for raising ethical concerns, who reprimands employees for “bypassing authority” when they document problems, who actively excludes those who question established practices. I see it in social media spaces where legitimate critique is dismissed as “bullying,” teaching followers that questioning authority is inherently hostile. These aren’t just workplace conflicts or online disagreements—they’re signs of authoritarian thinking taking root. Of course, these small-scale abuses are not equivalent to political imprisonment or torture; rather, they echo the early warning signs of authoritarianism—the same patterns of silencing, exclusion, and enforced loyalty that can, if left unchecked, escalate into far greater harm.
In my work with survivors of authoritarian regimes, I’ve learned that institutional erosion often starts with these small, seemingly insignificant acts of enforced conformity. Suppressing dissent, labeling critics as threats, gradually accepting extreme measures as necessary—these are the patterns I’ve seen. The whispered warnings not to discuss certain topics, the fear of being reported by a neighbor or coworker—these are all signs I remember from my own childhood.
The grief I carry isn’t just personal; it has been shaped by years of sitting with survivors of this kind of trauma. When we dismiss their warnings, telling ourselves it can’t happen here, we fall into the very delusion that makes us vulnerable. There’s a bitter irony to deporting and turning away asylum seekers while failing to recognize the seeds of what they fled taking root in our own soil. We have to learn to recognize these patterns before they’re normalized and accept that defending institutions requires constant vigilance and a willingness to engage in hard conversations.
The cost of failing to do so isn’t abstract—it’s measured in lives, in trauma that spans generations. I know this because I’ve seen it. I know it because I’ve lived it. And I name it now because I don’t wish it upon anyone.
- Kissu Taffere (she/her) is a licensed clinical social worker in Texas and California with experience spanning international organizations and community-based settings across three continents. Born in Ethiopia to Eritrean parents and raised in the U.S., her lived experience informs a clinical approach rooted in cultural identity, intergenerational dynamics, and family attachment. Her work often centers on supporting women—particularly in immigrant and BIPOC communities—as they navigate complex relationships, caregiving responsibilities, and the emotional impact of life transitions. In addition to her clinical practice, Taffere facilitates support groups with immigrant rights organizations, consults with refugee resettlement agencies, and contributes to university curricula focused on refugee and immigrant mental health.
- Email: kissutaffere@protonmail.com
ROOM is entirely dependent upon reader support. Please consider helping ROOM today with a tax-deductible donation. Any amount is deeply appreciated. |