Evoking Genocide
Scholars and Activists Describe
the Works That Shaped Their Lives
Edited by
Adam Jones
The Key Publishing House Inc.
Copyright © 2009
Adam Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable
to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
First Edition 2009
The Key Publishing House Inc.
Toronto, Canada
Website: www.thekeypublish.com
E-mail: [email protected]
ISBN 978–0–9782526–9–4 paperback
Cover design and typesetting Olga Lagounova
Indexer Jennifer South
Printed and bound in ....... This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and
made from fully sustained forest sources.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Evoking genocide : scholars and activists describe the works that shaped their
lives/editor, Adam Jones. — 1st ed.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-9782526-9-4
1. Genocide. 2. Genocide — Psychological aspects. 3. Genocide in literature.
4. Genocide in art. 5. Scholars — Biography. 6. Social reformers — Biography.
7. Political activists — Biography.
I. Jones, Adam, 1963–
HV6322.7.E96 2009
364.15’1
C2009–900699–5
Published in association and grant from The Key Research Centre (www.thekeyresearch.org). The Key Publishing promotes mutual understanding, respect and peaceful
coexistence among the people of the world. We represent unique and unconventional
voices whose objective is to bring tolerance, peace, harmony, and happiness to our
human society.
The Key Publishing House Inc.
www.thekeypublish.com
Table of Contents
Page
Preface
Adam Jones
1
“All My Inner Self Protested”
Raphael Lemkin
5
Lost Worlds
(Diego Rivera, “La Gran Tenochtitlán”)
John M. Cox
8
The Wound at the Heart of the World
(The Mission)
Christopher Powell 11
“A Bargain Indeed”
Ward Churchill
(Buffy Sainte-Marie,
“My Country ’Tis of Thy People You’re Dying”)
18
The Westering Holocaust
(Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian)
Benjamin Whitmer
23
My Grandfather’s Testimony
Sara Cohan
27
Werfel, Musa Dagh,
William Schabas
and the Armenian Genocide
(Franz Werfel, The Forty Days of Musa Dagh)
“The Desire to Communicate
Something of My Torment”
(Armin T. Wegner: photographs and letters )
Nina Krieger
Warning: Here There Be Experts
Benjamin Lieberman
(Bernard Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey)
32
35
43
Conspiracy of Silence
(Voices from the Lake)
Ani Kalayjian
45
Discovering the Haitian Massacre
(The Norweb communiqué)
Edward Paulino
49
Page
Where It All Began
(Stefan Lorant, I Was Hitler’s Prisoner)
Paul R. Bartrop
55
Documenting Torture
in the Early Nazi Camps
(Karl Schwesig, Schlegelkeller)
Joseph Robert White
58
Sexuality and Genocide
(Magnus Hirschfeld)
Jack Nusan Porter
65
The Multiple Meanings of Lidice
(Monument to the Child Victims of War)
Atenea Acevedo
70
A Boy Who Refused to Grow Up,
and One Who Did
(Günter Grass, The Tin Drum)
Michael Hayse
73
A Tale of Two Children
(Hans Peter Richter, Mon Ami Frédéric)
Diane F. Afoumado
77
The Attic and the Imagination
(Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl)
Jina Moore
80
Lessing’s Wisdom
(Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, Nathan the Wise)
Viktoria Hertling
84
Not the Holocaust Memorial
(Or-Sarua Synagogue, Vienna)
Pam Maclean
87
The Processes of Destruction
Joyce Apsel
(Raul Hilberg, The Destruction of the European Jews)
91
The Look of Terror
(The Shop on Main Street)
Robert Skloot
94
The Role of the Bystander
(Elie Wiesel, “The Town Beyond the Wall”)
Fred Grünfeld
97
Page
“Revisiting Again and
Again the Kingdom of Night”
(Elie Wiesel, Night)
Steven L. Jacobs
101
Will Only the Darkness Remain?
(Elie Wiesel, Night)
John K. Roth
104
The Holocaust as the Holocaust
(The Grey Zone)
Jonathan C.
Friedman
108
Keeping Memory Alive
(Primo Levi)
Henry Maitles
114
Identity and Contested Authenticity
(Binjamin Wilkomirski, Fragments)
Dominik J. Schaller
118
The Language of Klemperer
Jens Meierhenrich
(Victor Klemperer, LTI: Lingua Tertii Imperii)
123
Trauma and Transcendence
(Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning)
William L. Hewitt
130
On Visiting the Auschwitz Museum
(State Museum of Auschwitz-Birkenau)
Jacques Semelin
134
At the Wall
(Judy Ellis Glickman, “Execution Wall”)
Alexander George
138
“The Wealth of All Humanity”
(Train of Life)
Donna-Lee Frieze
140
Confronting the Porrajmos
Fiona de Londras
(Alexander Ramati, And the Violins Stopped Playing)
There’s No Place Like Home
(The Illustrated Auschwitz)
Simone Gigliotti
143
146
Page
Genocide and the Shock Process
Stephen C. Feinstein
in Conceptual Art
(Zbigniew Libera, LEGO Concentration Camp)
The Moral Capital of the World
(Weapons of the Spirit)
Winton Higgins
“You and I, We Must Change the World”
Helen Bond
(Raphael Lemkin, photographed by Hans Knopf )
149
153
157
Eichmann, Mulisch and Me
(Harry Mulisch, De Zaak)
G. Jan Colijn
162
Ugliness and Distance
(Hannah Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem)
Eric Gordy
164
169
Color Plates I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX
Eichmann on the Playground
(TV coverage of the Eichmann Trial)
Patricia Klindienst
179
Morality, Indifference, and Evil
Ernesto Verdeja
(Gitta Sereny, Albert Speer: His Battle with Truth)
185
Journey through Denial
John C. Zimmerman
(Walter Sanning, The Dissolution of Eastern European Jewry)
189
At Seventeen
Lee Ann Fujii
(Amnesty International, Cambodia photo exhibition)
193
Beyond Good and Evil
(The Killing Fields)
Scott Laderman
196
The Horror
(Apocalypse Now)
Stefanie Rixecker
199
Page
Apocalypse Soon
(Midnight Oil, “Hercules”)
Adam Jones
203
The Question of the Act
(The Act in Question)
Lior Zylberman
208
Photography, Memory, and Denial
Marcia Esparza
(Jonathan Moller, photographs from Guatemala)
212
Images of Impunity
(Guatemala crime scene photos)
Victoria Sanford
218
A Reluctant Genocide Activist
(US Defense Intelligence Agency document)
Thomas Nagy
223
Children’s Photos
Daniel H. Magilow
(Early photos of Saddam Hussein and Adolf Hitler)
227
The Face of Genocide
Donna-Lee Frieze
(Photo by Ron Haviv, from “Blood and Honey”)
230
The Death of “King” Habyarimana
(Cartoon in Kangura, Rwanda)
Christopher C.
Taylor
232
A Simple Task
Greg Barker (dir.), Ghosts of Rwanda (2004)
Shayna C. Parekh
238
“Never Again,” Again
(Pablo Picasso, “Guernica”;
Dachau and Kigali memorials)
David C. Simon
243
Dili on Fire
(Landsat photo of East Timor)
Russell Schimmer
246
Different Kinds of People
(American History X)
Wendy C. Hamblet
250
Page
“The Enemy We Seek To Destroy”
R. Charli Carpenter
(“I, Borg,” episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation)
255
Brotherhood
(Octavio Paz, “Hermandad”)
Alex Hinton
260
“A Single Child”
(Paul Jeffrey photo; Ursula K. Le Guin,
“The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas”)
Eric Reeves
262
About the Cover Image
265
About the Editor
266
Contributors
267
My Grandfather’s Testimony
Sara Cohan
My engagement with human rights, and specifically with the issue of genocide,
began in an intensely personal way at a young age. My father is Jewish and my
mother Armenian: enough said. My family’s history on both sides is marred,
slashed, pulverized by the genocides of the twentieth century. I joke with
friends that I should marry a Cambodian, Rwandan, or maybe a Ukrainian,
to ensure that my child, like me, will be raised with a morbid subtext of
genocide permeating an otherwise healthy and privileged childhood.
My father’s family history with regard to the Holocaust was vague to
me at best. A branch of our family tree was lost forever in the Shoah. But
the specific experiences of those who died were subsumed by the intense
desire of my paternal grandparents to assimilate in the United States. They
died many years ago, and took all the clues to the fate of my great-aunts and
great-uncles with them.
My mother’s side was a little different. My maternal grandfather,
Garo Aivazian, was a survivor of the Armenian Genocide. I spent a great
deal of time with him until his death in 2005. It was not his intention to
make me an activist by sharing his testimony about genocide with me. In
fact, he very much wanted me to be an “American,” and not to be bothered
with past events. He was a psychiatrist, and was always trying to broach
sensitive subjects with me in a way he felt would help me to lead a happy
and well-adjusted life.
I do live as my grandfather wanted me to, but at the same time, I cannot
quite be an “all-American girl” as he desired. As a child, I learned that much
of the maternal side of my family had been killed in the Armenian Genocide;
my grandfather had survived against the odds. What I did not know were the
details of his life in the Ottoman Empire: the names of the villages our family
had resided in for hundreds of years; the personal anecdotes about those who
had not escaped — people we would have known as aunties and uncles, held
reunions with, celebrated marriages and births with, mourned deaths with.
The bare bones of my family history in tow, I seized every opportunity
to write school papers and create projects on the Armenian genocide. I
regularly asked my grandfather about his own experiences, and received
27
28
MY GRANDFATHER’S TESTIMONY
Garabed Aivazian (courtesy Sara Cohan).
the same succinct answers I had become accustomed to over the years. I peppered my research papers with odd facts about famous Armenian-Americans,
but my understanding of the genocide was basic at best. I remember excitedly
coming across Peter Balakian’s poetry at the local library. Sitting in the book
EVOKING GENOCIDE
29
stacks, I read again and again Balakian’s poem “History of Armenia,” which
juxtaposed life in East Orange, New Jersey, with the intimate experiences of
his grandmother’s experience during the Armenian genocide. I tried to connect
with his well-crafted words, but I could not. The history felt distant and
foreign. I lacked the strong grasp of my own family’s experiences that would
allow me truly to connect with Balakian’s verses.
About ten years ago, my grandfather sat me down and told me he
had five years to live. He cited the results of a test he had taken in a health
magazine to prove his point. He knew I would not take his passing well,
and felt it was in my best interest to prepare me for it. Shortly after his
declaration, I attended a seminar for educators sponsored by the National
Endowment for the Humanities on Islam in Europe, and held at New York
University. The lead professor at the month-long seminar openly denied
the Armenian Genocide. During the last week of the seminar, she lectured
on aspects of Ottoman history. Suddenly, she raised her head and voice,
and announced that “so-called survivors” of the Armenian genocide were
liars. I challenged her, but she did not back down.
A rage consumed me. It was the year 2000. I had learned of Rwanda’s
genocide; I knew the fate of the Bosnians, and had read about the crimes
against humanity committed by Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia.
I had studied the Holocaust, taught it in my classes, and knew it was a part of
my own story. On a personal level, my maternal grandfather had suffered more
than anyone should have to in a thousand lifetimes. To have someone use his or
her power as a professor to deny my family’s tragedy, and the fate of 1.5 million
martyrs, was the single most humiliating and hurtful moment of my life.
Soon after I returned from New York, I bought a cassette recorder
and four blank tapes. Then I traveled to visit my grandfather in Memphis,
Tennessee, where he had lived since the 1950s. I asked him to provide me
with his testimony — a detailed testimony this time. He agreed, and set
about filling the tapes with his memories of a childhood perverted by genocide.
I expected to receive the tapes, transcribe them, and finally have his complete
life history. But when I sat down to listen, I realized he was not parting with
many of the details that I needed to know. We began a dialogue about his
experiences that lasted until his death. Through the tapes and our long
chats, the blank spaces began to disappear.
I listened to my grandfather’s voice as he recounted his father’s murder,
his extended family’s demise, and his struggle for survival in an empire that
hated him for being Armenian. He was very young in 1915 — just four
30
MY GRANDFATHER’S TESTIMONY
years old. He and one of his sisters found themselves moved from orphanage
to orphanage over the next four years. In one orphanage run by Turks, he was
renamed “Mehmet,” a traditional Turkish name. But his mother had written
his Armenian name in his shirt before she was deported, to remind him who
he was, wherever he might be sent. He described being so hungry at the same
orphanage that he buried a “little red tomato” in the fields he was forced to
work in, and snuck out in the evening to retrieve it. He was caught, and the
tomato was confiscated. He was then six years old.
When I visited my grandfather in Memphis, he would cook for me.
Our first course was always a simple salad with little red tomatoes. I never
asked him if his orphanage experience had spurred him to eat cherry tomatoes
with his meals. I couldn’t ask him: it just seemed too sad, too personal. But
every time I ate his salads, I couldn’t help but think how hungry he must
have been for that tiny tomato to hold such a powerful place in his memory.
Now Balakian’s poem was beginning to sink in. I realized that when one is a
survivor of genocide, or a descendant of a survivor, the genocide experience
is everywhere. It is on the dinner table in Memphis, Tennessee; or, as in the
poem, on a parkway in East Orange, New Jersey.
Genocide is a plague that infects everything, and even when denied,
seeps into each new generation. I decided I would not allow my grandfather’s
suffering to be denied any longer; I never wanted another child to suffer as
he had. A professor with a fine Ivy League degree should not announce from
her podium — with confidence, authority, and government funding — that
genocide survivors were liars. I had to do something.
The classroom was the only tool available in my small community
to assert my newfound activism. I developed lessons on human rights issues
and genocide. As a history teacher, I needed to make sure my students knew
the historical facts surrounding human rights atrocities. Next, they had to be
equipped with an understanding of how to address such violations today. Later,
I left the classroom environment for the Southern Poverty Law Center, where
I wrote an article about the Armenian genocide for educators. From there,
I moved to Washington D.C. and worked for Armenian organizations, assisting in historical research and educational outreach. I also used my time
in Washington to volunteer at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum
and with the “Save Darfur Coalition.” Currently, I teach world history, and
serve as Education Director of the Genocide Education Project. The mission
of the organization is also my own: to ensure that the history of genocide is
remembered, analyzed, and discussed, and to use that history to find ways to
EVOKING GENOCIDE
31
thwart future genocides. Through education, I am contributing to the fight
against genocide, and paying homage to my family’s history at the same time.
A few years ago, I read the poem “After the Survivors are Gone,” by
Peter Balakian. It explores how we remember survivors — or rather why,
once we hear their words, we cannot forget their pain. The last stanza of the
poem reads:
We shall not forget the earth,
the artifact, the particular song,
the dirt of an idiom —
things that stick in the ear.
My grandfather knew his testimony was not just his own, but was mine
as well. He felt a moral responsibility to leave his words with us after he was
gone. For my part, I have a duty to ensure that his story is not forgotten — for
the sake of the particular history he endured, and for those suffering from
genocide today. Maybe, if I yell loud enough and long enough, his words will
stick in others’ ears as well.