This post is part of Marc H. Ellis’s “Exile and the Prophetic” feature for Mondoweiss. To read the entire series visit the archive page.
I have been writing about memorialization of victims of atrocity as primary political acts. I’ve taken notice because they are increasing at a disquieting rate.
Boston now takes its place among others acts of remembrance, including the shootings in Newtown, Connecticut just a few months ago. That is only touching the surface. Think of the memorialization of Oklahoma City bombing and the Columbine High School massacre. The memorialization of September 11th is in a memorialization league of its own. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall and the life that has grown up around it has to be included. We can’t leave out the United States Holocaust memorial Museum in Washington, D. C.
I’m mixing and matching, I know. But if you catalogue the major sites of remembrance and their auxiliaries the listing is expanding. Inevitably, memorial sites take on a life of their own and become entangled in a larger life. This includes the mingling of real grief with information guides, gawkers and ice cream stands.
It isn’t just American. Have you ever been to the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum? In 2012 almost 1.5 million people visited there. To accommodate the number of museum-goers the infrastructure of Auschwitz has to be constantly upgraded and expanded. Sad to say, Auschwitz is a major tourist site – and economic boost – in Poland.
What to do when atrocity, mass death and tourism intersect? How does a museum commemorating mass death function in the world of museums and tourism?
I have been part of a delegation to Auschwitz. I’ve spoken at the Holocaust Memorial in Washington, D. C. Viewing myself and watching the crowds in both memorial sites, believe me, it’s a strange experience.
What do these events accomplish other than connection and comfort? If you noticed the call for gun control which seemed so obvious during the memorial for the victims of Newtown just experienced its own NRA death in Washington. No matter how powerful, memorial services for victims don’t always work toward ameliorating the conditions that produced the atrocity. Nor do they prevent similar tragedies from occurring in the future.
It may be the opposite. The memorialization of victims may be a way of enabling powers in society to keep to their same path or even increase their ability to do so. These powers rarely think that the violence they memorialize will befall them or their loved ones. In any case, their affluence and status is too embedded in the system as it is. Why change?
Remembrance is highly charged. It needs critical analysis. But having offered my criticism, I offer another side of mourning the dead. Memorialization can be unsettling. It can shake you to your core.
During the first Palestinian Uprising, I experienced a public memorial that featured the Nakba as the defining event of Palestinian history. The memorial was held in Evanston, Illinois and was structured within a church service.
I remember the church was large. The attendees were scattered throughout. I sat alone in a church pew.
The memorial service impacted me deeply. It wasn’t just the facts of the Nakba that caused the impact. It was the Nakba performed in liturgical form.
As the service began, I immediately felt out of place. What was I doing in a church memorializing the Nakba? As the liturgy continued, I thought of Holocaust remembrance services. For the first time in my life I was on the other side. I wondered how Christians and especially Germans felt during Holocaust remembrances. I remember thinking that having their story played out in a public liturgy must be extremely painful.
What were they to do with the pain of their shattered history? Nakba was part of Jewish history being played out in front of me. What was I to do with that history?
What do Palestinians feel surrounded by Israeli memorialization of the Holocaust – as they are being displaced and occupied? What do Diaspora Palestinians feel surrounded by American Jewish and Christian memorialization of the Holocaust?
After the service, I walked alone by the water. It was late fall and the trees were bare. I felt winter coming. Like the trees, I felt exposed, stripped of my protection. My mind shut down.
Then, I felt the arm of a Palestinian friend of mine around my shoulders. It was Naim Ateek, an Anglican priest and liberation theologian, whose family had been expelled from their village in 1948. He had become a friend. He comforted me.
What a strange transposition. I was comforted by a victim of my people.
Some months later, I was in Zimbabwe for a conference sponsored by EATWOT, the Ecumenical Association of Third World Theologians. Few Jews had ever been invited to speak at their conferences. EATWOT considers Jews to be white and privileged.
My travel to Zimbabwe became an adventure when, on the first day of my arrival, the Palestinian Ambassador to South Africa summoned me. This was before the fall of apartheid. Obviously the apartheid government wasn’t having anything to do with Palestinian delegations, thus the Ambassador resided in Zimbabwe. Apartheid South Africa was too busy cozying up to Israel.
My meetings with the Ambassador are a story for another time. Suffice it to say, they were full of depth and laughter; our discussions extended late into the night. Our most interesting exploration involved Jewish and Palestinian identity.
Born in Lebanon, the Ambassador had never set foot in Palestine. I had. He was curious about my experience. I remember he wanted to know how Palestine – he used the word – “felt.” Was the countryside as beautiful as films suggested and he imagined it to be?
During the EATWOT conference there were dramatic renderings of stories from different parts of the world. One was about Palestine. The Palestine rendering was performed by African singer and dancers from around the continent. Their theme: genocide. “Genocide” against Palestinians was the recurring and quite powerful refrain throughout the performance. The dance featured rhythmic chanting and beating drums. “Genocide” was shouted – repeatedly.
Though the performers had no idea I was Jewish, I imagined the entire performance was aimed at me. This time, Naim Ateek, who had been invited to the conference as well, was unable to comfort me. Israeli authorities had prevented him from leaving his homeland.
Another fascinating transposition. The Palestinian who was accompanying me through “our” history was prevented from doing so by Jewish state authorities.
Nakba liturgies. Are they memorials that fix us in place or do they energize us toward action for justice?
The Nakba performed in public. A Jew listening to his own history.
Good point, Marc.
It would not be painful if one thinks of it like one would commemoration of other instances of oppression like ending slavery in the US. At least, it was not painful for me, except in the sense that it was painful to see the victims’ suffering.
What can only be upsetting for Christians- as it would be for you too- is if the wrong lessons are drawn from this. For example, if during the service someone would claim Christian religion did this, when in fact the Nazis were occultists and Hitler rejected Christianity. Not only that, but what about the 5 million Christian victims of the Holocaust mentioned on JewishVirtualLibrary? Ultimately this can be seen as a tragedy of both religious groups imposed by racist fascism.
On a sidenote, I also feel bad for the genociders when they were killed in bad ways as retribution. It is sad all around.