Medusae: The Monster’s Gaze and the Unspoken Wounds of Women

Indonesian literary enthusiasts may not yet be fully familiar with Theodora Sarah Abigail—often affectionately called Ebi—but she has published several notable works. Most of her books take the form of poetry chapbooks that explore themes of womanhood and femininity, and Medusae is no exception. Written in English and published by Gramedia in 2021, this poetry collection invites readers on an intimate journey through the female experience and the unspoken wounds carried within it, using the allegory of Medusa—one of Greek mythology’s most iconic figures.

Medusae: Medusa as a Symbol of Women Punished for Their Power

In classical mythology, Medusa is known as a monster—her hair a nest of venomous snakes, her gaze capable of turning men to stone. But who crafted that image? Who decided that a woman becomes monstrous simply by being too much—too bold, too beautiful, too different? In Medusae, Theodora Sarah Abigail invites readers to reexamine this narrative. She doesn not aim to retell mythology literally but instead deconstructs the cultural lens through which women—particularly those who refuse to submit—are viewed. Medusa becomes the symbol of the punished woman: feared not for what she has done, but for daring to exist on her own terms.

In one often-cited version of the myth, Medusa was once a beautiful maiden living in Athena’s temple until Poseidon raped her within its sacred walls. Instead of protecting her, Athena punished her—transforming her into a monster and banishing her. This punishment reflects the historical rage directed at female bodies marked by violation, as if being a victim warrants retribution. It is deeply ironic, as Athena, in Greek mythology, is the goddess of wisdom, warfare, and craft. Yet where is the wisdom in this response? Can she stand for her fellow woman?

Ebi does not spell out this mythology in her poetry. She does not offer lectures or cite academic theory. She writes with quiet honesty, through language that is both intimate and piercing. Her poems form not merely a literary collection, but a protest—against a world that repeatedly punishes women simply for being. There is something eerily familiar in Medusa’s story: women shamed for being beautiful, envied for being intelligent, silenced for being outspoken, and feared for being strong. And again—the irony is that this often happens among women themselves. Society continues to breed new Medusas, only to demand their destruction. Another irony, as Medusa kills no one with her hands—only with her eyes. A passive act, misread as aggression. Her gaze becomes a metaphor for resistance, disobedience, and the threat of feminine autonomy. It is a reminder that even in stillness, a woman’s presence can be deemed offensive.

In one of Theodora’s poems, she writes:

“you don’t have to be giant to rule the world

you can spit thoughts into your hands and 

spoil the body with them. you can catch the 

hope and spread it onto yourself and eat raspberries…” 

These lines suggest the kind of freedom women should possess. But how free can a woman truly be, when the world so often defines her through the lens of Freudian hysteria—too emotional, too guarded, too complicated? As mentioned earlier, it is a sad irony that some women cannot—or choose not to—stand for one another. And when a repressed woman resists explanation, she is seen as cold, distant—even dangerous like Medusa. Other women may attempt to extinguish her fire. That is why Medusae turns the gaze around. It urges us to look back at Medusa—not to be petrified, but to see differently. Not with judgment, but with eyes that listen and understand.

Writers like Camille Paglia and Hélène Cixous have also sought to reclaim Medusa. Paglia interprets her as a symbol of male fear of female sexual power. Cixous, in The Laugh of the Medusa, implores women to write their bodies so that their narratives are not dictated by patriarchal structures. Ebi is aligned with that spirit. She writes the female body—not to exploit it, but to reclaim it. She writes pain—not to sell it, but to honor it. She writes anger—not to destroy, but to testify. It’s also because, especially today, people see Medusa everywhere: in headlines that shame women for “provocative” clothing, in workplaces that silence female voices, in families that still expect girls to be “gentler,” “quieter.” All of these are forms of punishment for feminine power. Yet, Theodora does not write Medusa with bitterness. She does not glorify her. She simply makes space. As if to say: “Maybe she was not evil. Maybe she just wanted to be heard.” And isn’t that what women always want?

Writing Trauma: Between Language, the Body, and Silence

There is something haunting yet familiar in Medusae. The poems rarely speak of violence directly. Instead, insecurities and repressed silence whisper through the gaps—through metaphors of birth and pain. The trauma lingers between the lines, unspoken but unmistakable. Ebi writes not to explain, but to affirm. Her poems seem to declare: “I was here. I felt this. Maybe you did too.”

These unpleasant feelings in Medusae do not scream. They breathe. The silence in Ebi’s Medusae is not chosen—it is inherited, worn like a second skin. Born from fear, shame, and guilt. Even when they want to speak, the voice folds inward. At the beginning of the book, Ebi writes:

“A girl is born every hour 

Goodbye, says the mother 

Who are you? Asks the father 

Every hour, a new curse is unleashed upon the world…” 

These lines can be interpreted to show that when a girl is born, the mother—though likely grateful—feels released from the burden of carrying pain in her womb. Yet the father’s response suggests a preference for sons. The contradiction of motherly love is also explored in other poems, like when Ebi writes: 

“Love is simply an exercise in addressing the cuts and wounds that parents left behind, like all the rest, she was born to be wounded.”

This, in a way, expresses that women are deeply complex beings. From birth, even if desired by their mothers, they may be less favored by their fathers. As they grow up, they must deal with wounds—possibly trauma—left behind by parents. This sentiment echoes in another line: 

“No matter how many years pass from the first cut of sorrow, she always returns to that same scene. That helpless child, trembling at her school desk, waiting…”

This reflects what Freud described as repetition compulsion: the idea that individuals unconsciously seek to recreate trauma—not to avoid it, but to master it. According to attachment theory, early relationships with caregivers form the basis of one’s future relational patterns. If a child experiences neglect or abuse, they may develop insecure attachments, leading them to repeat similar painful dynamics later in life—because they are familiar, even if harmful. Medusae resonates with these ideas, because it speaks through silence—not to explain, but to acknowledge.

Moreover, Theodora Sarah Abigail’s decision to write in English is not merely artistic—it is political. In the Indonesian literary context, English creates distance from cultural expectations of politeness and propriety. It carves out a space where emotions aren’t filtered, where pain doesn’t need permission. The pains a woman must endure from birth to adulthood in Medusae are not just isolated events. They are states. They are residues that outlast language, often defying it. That is why poetry becomes essential—it offers room for multiple interpretations without demanding clarity or grammar, only honesty. It allows Ebi to shape the unspeakable into something we can recognize. As Hélène Cixous insists, women must write their bodies—or risk having them written into silence by others.

This is precisely what Ebi does in Medusae. She writes the body in all its fear, touch-aversion, and fractured trust in words like love and security. She writes of nurturing herself when no one else will. What is most powerful in Medusae is Ebi’s refusal to frame healing as a conclusion. There is no triumphant closure, no promise of redemption. What exists instead is presence—of wounds still healing, of voices still trembling, of bodies still learning to exist. In a broader sense, Medusae explores how women portray and navigate their pain and wounds in a world that seldom makes room for recovery. Beauty exists in Medusae—but not comfort. It lies in sorrow acknowledged, in fear voiced. One may never write trauma perfectly—but one can write it truthfully. And Medusae is one of the strongest examples of that truth: a book that doesn’t demand women to heal, only that they admit—they have been hurt.

Closing: A Mirror, Not a Monument

Medusae is not a call to arms, nor a eulogy. It is a mirror—held gently to those who have endured, been silenced, or simply felt too much. Theodora Sarah Abigail does not offer salvation. Instead, she offers space: space to feel, to speak, to exist without apology. In reading these poems, readers are not asked to be whole—but to be honest. And sometimes, that is the most radical act of all.

Desca Angelianawati simply known as Desca Ang is a lecturer at one of the universities and a research assistant at an Indonesian NGO. In her spare time, she travels, reads, writes, and doing some book reviews with the melodies of John Denver and Connie Francis from her stereo. | I. Subandrio, simply known as Imam Subandrio or Imam is a lecturer at two Indonesian universities. During his leisure times, he travels and reads.