Telling a story of pain or trauma evokes similar feelings in those who avidly consume the words written on the page, words describing things that most people living comfortable modern lives cannot fathom. But for the people whose stories are being told in memoirs detailing human rights atrocities, the pain they describe is real. Only in compiling these stories and publishing these memoirs can such books help bring down atrocious systems: not just on a small scale, but whole governments and political ideologies.
I recently had the pleasure of reading Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago: An Experiment in Literary Investigation (1973–5). Pleasure is perhaps a word misplaced in this context, but the abridged version of Solzhenitsyn’s original three-book work (2007) has had me contemplating the craftsmanship of human rights testimonies and what contemporary memoirists might learn from the powerful works that came before them. To wield a weapon as powerful as this book, which contributed greatly to the downfall of the Soviet Union during the later glasnost (openness) period, shows the strength of the written word as a tool of achieving justice in times of immense peril. Solzhenitsyn worked hard in dangerous conditions to bring together the stories of people who suffered at the hands of Soviet officers. The inhumane treatment suffered by victims of the gulag is detailed at great length, the use of which helped to break through to the outside world and depict the brutality of the Soviet regime, bringing it to an end.
The literary tools used to compose such an epic and harrowing tale are perhaps typical of the historical-memoir genre, but in effectively conveying a true story there are other approaches to be taken. Writing about pain suffered by human rights abuses involves a process of documentation that can offer catharsis no matter the form it takes. Solzhenitsyn’s masterpiece can be examined alongside Rigoberta Menchú’s I, Rigoberta Menchú (1983), which also strove to record human rights abuses and seek justice. The methods that each narrator uses to convey the pain that they felt, however, vary.
Soviet-era Solzhenitsyn follows the trope of factual, well-researched information, including maps and photographs. His writing is methodical, thorough, and what many critics consider trustworthy. This trust largely arises from the perceived alignment between his detailed narratives and other corroborated historical sources, as well as from his status as a trained historian and intellectual within a literary tradition that valorizes documentary precision. His work, grounded in exhaustive interviews, archival research, and personal experience, was seen as a monumental act of historical testimony. By contrast, these same critics may have difficulties comprehending the reliability of Maya-Quiché native Menchú as an author, whose memoir was edited by Elizabeth Burgos, a French Venezuelan anthropologist. Menchú narrated her story orally in Spanish to Burgos, who transcribed it, making as few edits as possible. With Quiché being Menchú’s native language, the script has evidence of minor errors and deviances from what might be considered standard Spanish. Burgos left these in in many cases to avoid overly curating the script.
Solzhenitsyn’s analytical narrative is, in some respects, less literary than Menchú’s, focusing on exposing the philosophical and structural foundations of oppression. He writes, “If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?” Solzhenitsyn’s exploration of good versus evil and of a universal internal struggle is a product of his status as a man of literary prowess and philosophical enlightenment. By intertwining his reflections with stark descriptions of brutality, he provides a persuasive argument of the moral obligation to choose good and to fight against the system of oppression in place, for readers and leaders alike. He demonstrates in his work that repression was not a natural byproduct of communism, but a deliberate tool used by Lenin and Stalin, discussing the “political genius” of the regime which extracted success “even from people’s ruin.” Systemic oppression in this case was not merely structural but an intentional act rooted in moral compromise.
The inclusive “we” and “our” that Solzhenitsyn uses throughout his prose suggests a collective identity. He writes not just about his experience but about those of the people who lived and died beside him in the camps. In the face of pain and suffering, individualism fades into insignificance, especially when ambitions abound to fell the Soviet regime. Solzhenitsyn’s work contributed under Gorbachev’s glasnost policies to the ultimate demise of repression, destabilizing the narrative control that communist ideology had across the Soviet Union and triggering a crisis of belief among many Soviet citizens. Menchú’s work came under criticism for the same use of a collective narrator—a “we” that was accused of being disingenuous because of Menchú’s lack of power as an Indigenous scholar. Narrating her tale orally in a language not native to her, telling the story of “all poor Guatemalans,” she came under scrutiny from mainly white, male scholars (notably David Stoll1David Stoll is an American anthropologist who gained notoriety for undermining the factual accuracy of Menchú’s work as it failed to conform to Western autobiographical standards. His criticism missed the point of her use of collective voice – his comments served to undermine Indigenous voices. As a white male academic critiquing the oral traditions of an Indigenous woman, Stoll’s intervention reflected broader colonial and elitist biases embedded in the reception of non-Western narratives.), highlighting the disparity in reception of memoirs depending on an author’s background and education.
The differing intended audiences of the two works also warrants consideration. Solzhenitsyn’s publication was intended for consumption by the Soviet people and was meant as a tool of ideological subversion. It had to prove beyond doubt that atrocities were being committed so that readers could no longer reconcile the purported ideas of the state. He wrote, “In keeping silent about evil, in burying it so deep within us that no sign of it appears on the surface, we are implanting it, and it will rise up a thousand-fold in the future. When we neither punish nor reproach evildoers, we are not simply protecting their trivial old age, we are thereby ripping the foundations of justice from beneath new generations.” Seeking justice is a fundamental element of human rights testimony, but by writing such a dangerous book Solzhenitsyn was persecuted by the Soviet government. Through unravelling decades of propaganda and destabilizing the status quo of Soviet authority, Solzhenitsyn ended up deported and stateless for decades.
Menchú’s book was published in a language accessible to the wider world. She learned Spanish as a tool to engage with the community outside of her Maya-Quiché homeland and her memoir was published as a plea for help. She intended for her words to resonate across the Hispanic world. Following oral storytelling traditions, her memoir is full of raw emotion and, at times, desperation. It exposes brutal injustices and celebrates the beauty of Indigenous traditions and culture. Menchú details rites and ways of life that show her people’s deep connection to the natural world. She writes, “The earth is our mother. She nourishes us, and when we die, we return to her. But now our mother is soaked with the blood of our people.” Her evocative prose, emphasizing her community’s deep connection to mother nature, heightens each scene of violence against them. The soldiers’ disrespect for native culture, violations of corporeal integrity, and lack of regard for the sacred land become more atrocious as their brutality unfolds.
Menchú’s strength shines through in her writing. She states that “the word is her weapon,” and that she “learned the language of the oppressor to use it against him”—a noble act, and one which renders any assertions of incredibility baseless and accusatory. Menchú blends personal and collective narratives to amplify the struggles of her community. While Solzhenitsyn’s authority rests on the conventions of documentary precision, Menchú’s truth emerges from the beating heart of oral tradition, where the memories of a people are carried in voices rather than archives, and where storytelling itself becomes an act of survival and resistance. Her book played a crucial role in advocacy efforts, combining ultimately with truth commissions, discoveries in police archives, and the concrete evidence of cadavers to secure the convictions of key military officials. Menchú told both her story and one representing her community, and her book achieved global acclaim for seeking justice and creating a collective narrative to inspire solidarity and activism. Menchú’s evocative writing is, at times, more powerful than the clinical turns of phrase utilized by Solzhenitsyn, although he too writes about pain and suffering at the hands of repressive ideological systems.
Solzhenitsyn spoke out against the crimes of the state, giving voice to countless nameless victims. Menchú achieved the same purpose, and both writers were awarded a Nobel Prize for their ethical pursuits. While Solzhenitsyn’s work hails from Russian literary traditions, Menchú carved a niche for her work. It was the first of the testimonio genre, a unique literary form that arose to meet the needs of the oppressed in 1980s Central America. Testimonio is by nature anti-literary, breaking free from the constraints and expectations of traditional literature. Menchú’s work became a cornerstone of literature promoting and fighting for human rights. It formed an important part of the Guatemalan’s fight for social justice and ethno-cultural resolutions based on upholding the rights of Indigenous peoples. Solzhenitsyn and Menchú fought for collective justice and used their nonfiction works as ethical forces to give literature a meaningful purpose.
Whether adopting a tone of analytical distance or visceral proximity, the essential task remains the same: to bear witness in a way that preserves memory, awakens empathy, and sustains resistance against the erasure of suffering.
A casual observer of Solzhenitsyn and Menchú’s memoirs would notice the visceral nature of Menchú’s words in its less formal structure and style than Solzhenitsyn’s. She writes, “They poured gasoline on my little brother. He screamed. Then they set him on fire. I could smell his flesh burning. It was the smell of suffering, of death.” It is impossible not to empathize with such a sense of pain, evoked through blunt syntactical choices and the utilization of sensory description. Menchú’s language conveys a sense of immediacy and proximity, as though you are listening directly to her, sitting in Burgos’ seat across the kitchen table. Menchú uses compelling language to describe seeing her family die before her eyes, the smell of their corpses and the way that the soldiers carried on with their daily lives right next to the crumpled and pungent bodies of those she loved. Such intensity and emotion build rapport with the audience who, in turn, may feel more inclined to help out.
Solzhenitsyn’s writing is equally brutal, speaking plainly of being killed and tortured, yet it often feels less personal in its delivery. He writes, “A human being hesitates and bobs from side to side…and the KGB simply gives him a little shove and he flies headlong into the pit.” This almost comical description creates a sense of detachment, perhaps reflecting the dehumanization endured in the camps. Solzhenitsyn writes not always about the pain he suffered, but on the lessons he learned: “Bless you prison, bless you for being in my life. For there, lying upon the rotting prison straw, I came to realize that the object of life is not prosperity as we are made to believe, but the maturity of the human soul.” His philosophical musings are impressive, yet they hold no more value than the intimate connection Menchú’s community has with the natural world. Value cannot be measured by theoretical strength in a work intended to evoke empathy, but by emotional potency. The formality of Solzhenitsyn’s language and adherence to literary conventions were necessary to conform to the expectations of a Soviet audience accustomed to high-brow literature. They may not have respected anything less formal and would have not been inclined to read it.
Solzhenitsyn’s formality of prose gives him an air of authority that contrasts with the natural style of Menchú’s words. Solzhenitsyn presents a logical style of argumentation, whereas Menchú leans more on pathos. Solzhenitsyn’s audience would have expected no less. Menchú had no formal education and made valiant efforts to learn Spanish to reach out to the world. Her audience would not likely have anticipated a well-constructed, analytical account—nor should she be expected to provide one. Burgos preserved the unrefined nature of her account to reflect its oral origins. Menchú derives authority from her bravery and strength and is respected for protecting the secrets of her culture. She omits certain facts and information, stating, “I can’t tell you about that. I’m not going to explain the secrets of my people because that would be a betrayal” and that “not even anthropologists or intellectuals, no matter how many books they have, can find out all our secrets.” This sense of privacy, of protecting that which remains sacred, reflects her integrity and responsibility. Such a powerful literary and cultural decision asserts control over the narrative and challenges expectations of full disclosure in testimony and anthropology.
Omission as a literary tool is not as evident in Solzhenitsyn’s work, although in both works the first-person perspective creates a sense of proximity, bridging the formalities of classic Russian literature and carving out space for the unique testimonio genre. Solzhenitsyn sought to bend genre conventions to get through an urgent message of collective suffering whereas Menchú broke down barriers to create a style of writing that met the needs of the time. The pacing of Menchú’s work feels as though the words are falling from her mouth, whereas Solzhenitsyn’s more curated style takes time to detail key elements of camp life, adding layers to the dark imagery of the Gulag. Each decision made in crafting a story of pain evokes emotions, triggers memories, and helps readers understand the severity of the authors’ experiences.
Menchú and Solzhenitsyn intend to motivate action and activate moral responsibility. Solzhenitsyn sought to help his comrades see the light in a time of darkness, and Menchú was pleading for help in a situation of suffering and repression. Solzhenitsyn posed himself as a historian-dissident, Menchú as a communal storyteller, but both shared unique and personal experiences. Emotion is conveyed in both works through different techniques, tones, and voices: rational versus emotional, distanced versus intimate. Solzhenitsyn’s work targeted educated readers and dissidents, relying on moral argumentation and extensive documentation to evidence the violations occurring in labor camps. Historical memory is also preserved within the pages of Menchú’s work, despite its criticism, which largely stems from discontent with empowerment. She told the story of her people, a heartbreaking but necessary endeavor to elicit empathy.
Solzhenitsyn and Menchú followed the traditions of their respective communities, producing equally valid moral and political truths, contributing to achieving transitional justice, and demonstrating how literary craft shapes the impacts of human rights testimonies. The power of their stories lies in the facts presented and their craftsmanship. Solzhenitsyn’s precise documentation reinforces his authority and credibility, appealing to a readership accustomed to intellectual discourse and rigorous historical analysis. Menchú’s fluid, emotive discourse fosters an intimate connection with her audience, capturing the urgency of indigenous struggles and transforming personal grief into a collective act of resistance. Both authors use storytelling as a means of survival for themselves and for the memory of those silenced by oppression. Literature stepped forward in both cases to fill the void between victims and justice.
Contemporary nonfiction writers navigating the complexities of bearing witness to trauma will find that the examples of Solzhenitsyn and Menchú illuminate paths of both craft and conscience. Solzhenitsyn’s integration of philosophical reflection within historical testimony demonstrates how suffering can be articulated not merely as a catalog of wrongs, but through contemplating human nature and moral failure. Menchú’s immediacy and oral cadence reveal that emotional authenticity transcends linguistic barriers, inviting empathy where polished rhetoric might falter. Both authors show that the act of narrating trauma requires more than recollection; it demands an ethical positioning towards one’s community and audience. Writers today can take from their examples a sense of duty, a requirement to honor the rawness of lived experience while shaping it into a form capable of sustaining collective memory, inspiring solidarity, and resisting the forces of erasure.
Writers might consider, as Solzhenitsyn did, how integrating historical or philosophical frameworks can elevate personal suffering into universal moral inquiry. They may also find, as Menchú exemplifies, that emotional immediacy, collective voice, and commitment to lived experience can forge profound connections across cultural and linguistic boundaries. In being granted permission to express emotions and being shown the importance of diligently detailing atrocities, contemporary memoirists must weigh the demands of documentation against the imperatives of emotional truth. They must decide when rigorous corroboration strengthens a story and when raw authenticity carries greater ethical weight. Whether adopting a tone of analytical distance or visceral proximity, the essential task remains the same: to bear witness in a way that preserves memory, awakens empathy, and sustains resistance against the erasure of suffering.
Storytelling, whether through established patterns of literature or oral traditions, is crucial to achieving justice. Menchú and Solzhenitsyn’s works transcend historical records in their acts of literary defiance. Literature is shown to connect personal experiences with broader societal issues, humanize complex injustices, and inspire people to act. Through giving voice to the silenced, it empowers individuals and creates space for advocacy, empathy, and accountability. Legal procedures are caveated with loopholes, and forensic anthropology is complex and often impossible. Preservation of pain and memory is frequently the best solution, with words bearing witness to injustice. Literary craft becomes a weapon against erasure, one of the most powerful tools in the fight for human rights.
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Georgie Archer is a graduate of modern languages and anthropology and is using her free time to write about social issues in countries she has traveled to, from Kyrgyzstan to Argentina. She is passionate about storytelling and writes travel memoirs, essays, commentaries, and more. She spends a lot of time reading and recently read Yellowface in 24 hours. She has moved from that to Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey and likes to think she has a wide repertoire of literary interests. She spent too many years reading books for university and is now trying to establish a career as a journalist and writer. Georgie posts her reading and travel writing on her Substack.
