Never what again?

Below is a journal entry I wrote in the heat of the moment after a class visit to Yad VaShem, Israel's memorial and museum of the Holocaust. I have succeeded in little more than raising questions; please feel free to suggest answers, or to express criticism or support for anything I have set forth here. Thanks for reading.

In early 2002, after an emotionally draining college course on “Texts and Images of the Holocaust”, I swore off Holocaust movies, literature, and images indefinitely. The combination of helplessness and guilt with which I left the course convinced me that I had been overexposed and that I needed a hiatus from this traumatic topic.

About a year later, I went to see The Pianist with my former professor. As good as I thought the movie was, I was still not emotionally ready to be exposed to that imagery again. So I reinstated my self-imposed ban.

Other than a few sessions and readings on historical analysis of the Holocaust in a Modern Jewish History seminar during my senior year of college (in the spring of 2003), I hadn’t touched the subject until today.

It was, predictably, very hard for me. Much of it I simply walked through with my eyes averted – past images of piles of emaciated corpses, ghetto round-ups, and concentration camp horrors. Once or twice I snuck a peak and was immediately reminded of why I had averted my eyes in the first place:

How many more photos of Holocaust horrors do I need to see before I can legitimately say, “I get it”? Is it even really possible for me to understand? (I think, in the end, no.) What am I learning or gaining by continuing to expose myself to this traumatic imagery? Do I somehow owe it to each victim or survivor to hear their stories and see their pictures? All 6,000,000? This would be an inhuman task. So where am I?

I am, as always, left with the question, What is the point of Holocaust education and commemoration? The typical American answer seems to be something along the lines of “teaching tolerance”. Sometimes that takes the form of making us see ourselves as capable of being perpetrators; sometimes, motivating us – as Americans – to act to ensure that “never again” isn’t just a neat slogan but a political reality. There tends to be a universalistic message of humanitarian hope, where Never Again means Never again will genocide happen on our watch.

Today, it was interesting to look at the Holocaust as seen through Israeli eyes. The exhibit went into more detail than I’ve seen before about both Jews and Righteous Gentiles from various nations (e.g. the North African Jewish community, which I’ve never seen mentioned in a Holocaust exhibit). Ending the exhibit with Hatikva, followed by a panoramic view of Jerusalem just outside the exhibition hall, was a powerful statement of the importance of Israel to Jewish survival – and the importance of anti-Semitism in Israeli and Zionist self-understanding. It was also interesting to see how much Israel’s perception and reception of the Holocaust has changed since the early years of the State. It is not surprising that a glaring instance of Jewish victimization and helplessness would not be a popular State myth for the young Israel. And it is doubly interesting that Holocaust consciousness and anti-Semitism seem to be the norm for Israelis today. That such a vast site as Yad VaShem, with free admission, is situated below the graves of the great leaders of Israel and the honored military dead, makes a powerful statement about the significance of the Holocaust in Israel’s self-understanding. If not a defining event, it seems to be at least a reminder of the imperative of Jewish self-defense and the fragility of Jewish survival – and, thus, the importance of the state.

The complete lack of Arabic in the museum was another indication of the particularistic Jewish message of Yad VaShem, about the need for Jews to defend themselves and to build and protect their nation in Eretz Yisrael. I wouldn’t claim it to be maliciously exclusionary, but it is clear at least that the current conflict with Arabs – indeed, the struggle within Israel to provide equal rights for all regardless of race – did not figure into the consciousness of the architects of the exhibit. Here, Never Again seems to mean Never again will any foe be allowed to bring the Jews to the brink of destruction, nor will we ever again trust anyone but ourselves to save us.

* * *

For me, the most powerful part of the museum was the Righteous Gentiles section. Seeing the personal stories of non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews and others from the Nazi slaughter made me very emotional and filled me with hope (unlike the rest of the exhibit). Interestingly, I found that it was the stories of non-Jews working together with fellow Jews to help save Jewish lives that moved me most. I also got to thinking about the label “Righteous Gentile”, and began to deconstruct it: what does it imply about other gentiles? What does it imply about Jews? Are we Jews by default righteous and thus without need of the label? Are gentiles who do other humanitarian work that doesn’t directly save Jewish lives (but, e.g., saves non-Jewish lives) less worthy of the epithet?

More to the point, I think this section moved me most because it speaks of the need to look beyond race and religion to see the humanity, first and foremost, in an individual. In a frustrating and ironic way, the Jews conceded the race card in the establishment of Israel and its citizenship laws.

Maybe instead of some abstract universalistic lesson about tolerance, or a particularistic call for self-defense and survival, we should use the Holocaust as a tool for teaching techniques of intergroup cooperation and resistance to immoral governments, politicians, and policies. Just a thought…

* * *

Several other miscellaneous quotes and episodes struck me as noteworthy:

In the German propaganda section, the images of the noble German worker bore a striking resemblance to the images of the “New Jew” of the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries. There is some kind of common thread of nationalism and rebirth that runs through both…

Tuvia Bielski, a partisan, said, “Don’t rush to fight and die… We need to save lives. It is more important to save Jews than to kill Germans.”

Imre Bathory, a Righteous Gentile from Hungary, said, “I know that when I stand before God on Judgment Day, I will not be asked the question posed to Cain – where were you when your brother’s blood was crying out to God?”

Father Hubert Celis, who together with his brother Father Louis helped hide a Jewish family’s children during the war, said, “I have always preferred a good Jew to a bad Christian.”

Moussa Abadi, a Damascus Jew, was teaching at a Catholic theological seminary in occupied France. With the help of Monsignor Paul Remond, Bishop of Nice, Abadi worked within the network of Catholic seminaries and institutions to hide Jewish children from the Vichy regime, saving more than 500 lives. We need to lift up these extraordinary examples of interfaith cooperation! Especially when the Pope basically stood idly by…

In a series of pictures of German troops' occupying various countries in Europe, one in particular caught my eye: an April 1941 shot of German troops raising a Nazi flag on the Acropolis in Athens, with the Parthenon in the background. Because of the novelty of this image and my affinity for classical Greek culture and philosophy (Plato, to be precise), I felt like this was a desecration. These fascist brutes, staking a claim to the symbol of Athenian democracy’s zenith?!? Forgive me if I appear to be intellectualizing the tragedy of the Holocaust to a fault, but for someone like me, this image will have a lasting impact (and, anyway, I don't like to draw a hard line between the intellectual and the spiritual/emotional).