Candle Lit Huts

Most of the world now knows her torturer’s name, have seen the inside of her torture chamber home and have imagined the horror she lived in.  But what is her name and who is she?

In the maddening nature of this story, it is easy for me to hate, to despise, to dream of ways to injure the man who took away innocence, who buried beauty and desecrated life with the worst kind of torture. However, I think this man has received enough press, his photos have been on enough news stands and websites for him to increase his sadistic, fame-seeking pleasures. Because of that, I refuse to even mention his name here.

My intention instead, is to give Elizabeth a face, a name, and highlight the amazing strength, tenacity and hope that this woman bears. I have not seen photos of Elizabeth Fritzl. I have only heard her described as “disturbed,” “prematurely aged” and “sallow.” To me, she is anything but. She is glorious. She is sunlight. She is a reason to live.

I have been haunted by her, since first hearing of her last Monday, when she emerged from her torture chamber for the first time in her two dozen years of captivity.  I can’t stop thinking about this Austrian woman’s incestuous, horror-filled years of abuse…always physically under her father’s presence—either while during forced sex with him or just in the reality of being locked in the windowless basement beneath his house. It is the most egregious form of power gone awry imaginable.

This story, evoked the same feeling for me as did stories of suffering that I heard in Uganda. Inevitably, questions come up for me like, “where was I when this was happening?” Or “what innocent, naïve, privileged activity was I doing in 1984 when Elizabeth was first drug into her dungeon? What was I doing in 1989 when she gave birth to her first child? What about in 2003 when she had her seventh?” My answer, inevitably is “just living my privileged life.” In 1984, I was starting pre-school, In 1989, I was performing duets with my sister at church and taking piano lessons, In 2003, I graduated from college. All of these events happened during the span of time that Elizabeth was trapped underground. This is pure madness to imagine.

As I have continued to be visited by thoughts, imaginations of Elizabeth’s grim existence, a stunning thought occurred to me, “she could have killed herself.” And then, “Why didn’t she kill herself?” Hope. That is the only answer that comes. Lingering in the dank, oppressively low-ceilinged home that was also her prison, hope lived on. Is it possible that she held to the expectation that one day, the sunlight would once again touch her sallow skin? That her children would feel its rays for the first time? This amazes me. The testament she gives to the vibrancy, tenacity and will to live is absolutely breath-taking. Does not the artistry of an octopus and flower, painted on her bathroom wall, fly in the face of death? Oh Death, Where is thy Sting?! Oh, wicked man, your cruelty could not conquer! The death this father intended for her could not extinguish the light, the hope, the strength and the tenacity of a woman with a will to live.

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