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Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Never Again?

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The Last Pediatrician in Syria

Hunger Camp at Jaslo
by Wislawa Szymborska
Write it. Write. In ordinary ink
on ordinary paper: they were given no food,
they all died of hunger. "All. How many?
It's a big meadow. How much grass
for each one?" Write: I don't know.
History counts its skeletons in round numbers.
A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,
an ABC never read, 
air that laughs, cries, grows,
emptiness running down steps toward the garden,
nobody's place in the line.

We stand in the meadow where it became flesh,
and the meadow is silent as a false witness.
Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest
with wood for chewing and water under the bark-
every day a full ration of the view
until you go blind. Overhead, a bird-
the shadow of its life-giving wings
brushed their lips. Their jaws opened.
Teeth clacked against teeth.
At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky
and reaped wheat for their bread.
Hands came floating from blackened icons,
empty cups in their fingers.
On a spit of barbed wire,
a man was turning.
They sang with their mouths full of earth.
"A lovely song of how war strikes straight
at the heart." Write: how silent.
"Yes." 

Breaking News

Today

"All the people like us are we, and everyone else is they." ~Rudyard Kipling

"When you think of the long and gloomy history of man, you will find more hideous crimes have been committed in the name of obedience than in the name of rebellion." ~C.P. Snow

"The world is too dangerous to live in-- not because of the people who do evil, but because of the people who sit and let it happen." ~Albert Einstein

"Genocide, after all, is an exercise in community building." ~Philip Gourevitch

"I graduated from a special school. Four years I spent there... all my days were nights. Everything that was near and dear to me they took. There is only one thing worse than Auschwitz itself, and that is if the world forgets there was such a place." ~Henry Appel, survivor

"Goodness, like evil, often begins in small steps. Heroes evolve; they aren't born." ~Ervin Staub

Preemptive Love

Friday, December 9, 2016

Week of December 12

We are close to the end now....

Monday, 12/12
Connections

Tuesday, 12/13
NO CLASS

Wednesday, 12/14
Other Genocides

Thursday, 12/15
Now What?

Friday, 12/16
Timeline Activity

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Links to audio/video

Only comment on the Silent Discussion for the ones you watch. You don't have to watch every single link. Totally up to you.

Music
http://www.cpr.org/classical/story/voice-silenced-and-terezin-composers-lost-holocaust

Theater
http://www.pri.org/stories/2014-03-12/seventy-years-later-holocaust-survivor-remembers-performance-her-lifetime

Personal Histories, USHMM
https://www.ushmm.org/exhibition/personal-history/

First Person Testimonies, USHMM
https://www.ushmm.org/information/visit-the-museum/programs-activities/first-person-program/first-person-podcast

Testimonies by topic, Yad Vashem
http://www.yadvashem.org/yv/en/remembrance/multimedia.asp

Victor Frankl TED Talk
https://www.ted.com/talks/viktor_frankl_youth_in_search_of_meaning

Friday, December 2, 2016

Week of December 5

Monday, 12/5
Stuart Visit

Tuesday, 12/6
Long Class:
Stations

Wednesday, 12/7
Personal Responsibility
Notes check for honors
Long class

Thursday, 12/8
Sunflower
America's Response
Nuremberg
Aftermath

Friday, 12/9
Japanese-American Internment Camps
Farewell to Manzanar

Holocaust Poetry

"When It Happened"
by Hilda Schiff


I was playing, I suppose,
when it happened.
No sound reached me.
The skies did not darken,
or if they did, one flicked
away the impression:
a cloud no doubt, a shadow perhaps
from those interminable airplanes
crossing and recrossing
our unbleached beaches, Carbis Bay
or the Battery Rocks, where
all summer long we had dived
and cavorted in and out of
the tossing waters, while
the attention of the adults,
perpetually talking,
seemed focused,
unaccountably,
elsewhere.

No sound reached me
when it happened
over there on that
complicated frontier
near Geneva. (Was the sun
shining there too?)
I did not hear you cry out,
nor feel your heart thump wildly
in shock and terror. 'Go back,'
they shouted, those black-clad figures.
'Go back. You are not permitted to cross.'
Did the color drain from your face?
Did your legs weaken?
'You are under arrest,' they barked.
'Go back and wait.' Back to the
crowd waiting for the train, the train... East?
Did you know what it meant?
Did you believe the rumors?
Were you silent? Stunned? Angry?

Did you signal to them then,
When it happened?
To the welcoming committee
one might say, on the other
side of the border.
To your husband and his friends
just a few yards away,
there, beyond the barbed wire,
beyond the notices saying,
'Illegal refugees will be shot.'
They called across, they said,
'Run, jump, take the risk,'
the frontier is such a thin line,
the distances so short between you and us,
between life and death,
(they said afterwards).
How was it you lacked
the courage (they said
afterwards, drinking tea).

No sound whatsoever disturbed me
when it happened.
I slept well. School
was the same as usual.
As usual I went swimming,
or raced down the hill
on my scooter or on foot
laughing with friends.
Often at night
in the dark of my bed,
I would hear the trains being
shunted down at the station,
their anguished whistling
stirring my imagination
drawing me towards oblivion.
At last, no more embarrassing letters
arriving in a foreign language
witnessing my alienation
from the cricketing scene.

Distracted and displaced
when it happened
I did not hear you ask
which cattle truck to mount,
nor, parched in the darkened
wagon, notice you beg for
a sip of water. On the third day,
perceiving the sound of Polish voices,
I did not catch you whisper to your neighbor,
'It is the East. We have arrived.'
Nor, naked and packed tight
with a hundred others
did I hear you choking
on the contents of those well-known
canisters marked 'Zyklon B Gas'
(It took twelve minutes, they say.)
I was not listening
when it happened.

Now I hear nothing else.


"Holocaust 1944"
Anne Ranaisnghe

To my mother

I do not know
In what strange far off earth
They buried you;
Nor what harsh northern winds
Blow through the stubble,
The dry, hard stubble
Above your grave.

And did you think of me
That frost-blue December morning,
Snow-heavy and bitter,
As you walked naked and shivering
Under the leaden sky,
In that last moment
When you knew it was the end,
The end of nothing
And the beginning of nothing,
Did you think of me?

Oh I remember you, my dearest,
Your pale hands spread
In the ancient blessing
Your eyes bright and shining
Above the candles
Intoning the blessing
Blessed be the Lord...

And therein lies the agony,
The agony and the horror
That after all there was no martyrdom
But only futility-
The futility of dying
The end of nothing
And the beginning of nothing.
I weep red tears of blood.
Your blood.