A few weeks ago, along with millions of other Americans, I sat on a blanket, ate my pie, and watched the fireworks light up the sky. Patriotism is a loaded term- what it means is particular to the individual. For some it is a sentiment that comes with great pride, for others ambivalence, and for others skepticism and shame. We have all had our own unique American story- some of us have been prosperous and graced with opportunity while others have a story of struggle.
My mind went all sorts of places during the fifteen minutes of bright booms above me. As I surveyed the near-idyllic small town gathering surrounding me gasping and cheering, I felt a deep sense of privilege that somehow life afforded me to be in that moment cozied up to people I care about, safe as can be, without worry. I ruminated on the ‘unalienable’ rights- life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. A powerful standard still not guaranteed for some. I thought of my own roots, my generational story, and the hardship and resilience that made possible my own citizenship and opportunity. And in the flashes of illumination above came the images of children caged on the border – some only infants- sleeping on concrete floors, often without parental care, many without minimal physical comfort, and amidst my gratitude and patriotism was a mix of shame, anger, and sadness.
Two young girls sleeping on concrete at a Texas detention center.
Movement and nomadism are a part of human nature. Whether we are moving across town or across borders, the reasons we do so are varied, but most often involve seeking a greater sense of stability, acceptance, importance, or security. If we are lucky, we may move for simply aesthetic reasons wanting more space, more modernity, more grandeur. Yet much of humanity moves out of necessity- perhaps for financial reasons or eviction, but also for safety and survival.
My maternal grandmother was born in Warsaw, Poland. Her father was a physician and professor at the local university while her mother stayed at home. She was raised Roman Catholic, was afforded a top-notch education, enjoyed the arts, and traveled often.
On September 1st, 1939, the Nazis invaded Poland. My grandmother was 15. While not Jewish, her father was targeted as being part of the intelligentsia and so, my grandmother was relegated to the Warsaw ghetto, then separated from her parents who were never seen again. Then, given her vitality, she was chosen for forced labor rather than execution. While details remain a bit of a mystery, my grandmother escaped the forced labor camp, but while working for the underground in France where, she was captured again by the Germans and imprisoned in Frankfurt for two years until the end of the war when she was finally liberated. There was not much left for her at home in Poland and so, my grandmother who spoke no English (despite speaking at least four other languages) made the journey to Ellis Island along with so many others seeking something better and the promise of Lady Liberty.
Jewish refugee children catching sight of Lady Liberty.
Somehow out of such horror, my grandmother managed to make a life for herself in the United States. She married, had two children, settled in Long Island in comfortable suburbia, and later retired to a gated community in Palm Beach, Florida. Despite her unwavering resilience, it was not always pretty. The stain of the Holocaust brought nightmares and flashbacks, memories that compelled a quest to numb or distract with alcohol, pills, and risky behavior. Her traumas became also her children’s traumas and while her reasons for absenteeism or emotional distance as a parent are understandable, they were not without consequence. This is one version of inter-generational trauma.
Last week I enjoyed a brief visit to New York. As I toured the Auschwitz exhibition at Manhattan’s Museum of Jewish Heritage, I was struck most by a photo of a German family with young children- they are laughing and enjoying a swim in their backyard only 400 feet from the crematorium that in sharp contrast was burning thousands of murdered bodies each day. How is this possible?
Desperation loves a scapegoat. After World War I, Germany was hurting- and hurting bad. The financial situation left over a third of the country unemployed and grasping for hope or purpose. Hitler’s vision not only offered a way forward, but an enemy that was much more tangible and familiar than the complexities of the country’s crisis.
“The art of all truly great national leaders at all times consists in not dividing the attention of a people, but in concentrating it upon a single foe.” -Adolf Hitler (1925)
One way to a sense of pride is through unification and another, through division. Hitler did both. He unified the ‘Aryan race’ and by convincing those lucky enough to fit this description that they were superior, he enhanced their perceived pride even more by justifying the ostracism and persecution of millions. Germany quickly became Europe’s superpower, dominating economically and militarily. German author Raimund Pretzel (1928), describes the intoxicating Nazi vision among the German people:
“They are terribly happy, but terribly demeaned; so self-satisfied, but so boundlessly loathsome; so proud and yet so despicable and inhuman. They think they are scaling high mountains, when in reality they are crawling through a swamp.”
German gathering outside of Auschwitz
It is unsettling what we can become accustomed to- what we quietly accept especially when we ourselves are hurting. It can start small- perhaps with a suggestion or slur at the family table, then rhetoric spreads to groups, then to public acceptance of discrimination and segregation, then to widespread banishment and dehumanization, then somehow to mass genocide.
A single red shoe belonging to one of the millions murdered at Auschwitz.
Children’s clothing and objects found at Auschwitz.
It is well known that being excluded has deep emotional consequences, but what do we lose when we ourselves are the aggressor of exclusion? We often do so to seek a sense of solidarity or significance with other aggressors. We want to belong- just as every human does. Yet, the method by which we are seeking belonging involves hate, denial, dehumanizing, and anger. This demands a significant amount of energy, and detachment. And, quite frankly, anger is toxic on the mind and the body. The pain we inflict on others becomes our path to prosperity and reconciling this means we must create a worldview in which causing hurt is necessary. Ultimately, we create a very rigid and small world that must be maintained in order for us to have any sense of satisfaction. Problem is, this rarely happens, and we are often confronted, albeit maybe only on our deathbeds, with our legacy.
I write this not to make a political statement, but to remind myself and perhaps anybody who reads this that the seeds of hate are often apathy and desperation. It takes courage to acknowledge responsibility and look within rather than seeking to blame another. Furthermore, I am reminded of weight of our words. As I left the museum, I was challenged most by the following statement from Auschwitz survivor, Simone Alizon:
“Our words are not your words. Ramp does not equal platform. Number does not equal name. Segregation or selection does not equal choice. Barracks does not equal building. And today words have the power. And it is also destructive. On the internet, in discussion, on forums, in comments. In the media, titles, captions. In the groups of notions where the people who are poor, cringing, running away…are presented as people with germs and diseases. In the language of political debate, to demagogy, in populism. In brutal opinions of those who, supposed to serve, want to lead. The words of hatred poison the imagination and stupefy consciousness. Maybe this is why so many remain silent while confronted with evil. The words of hatred create hatred. The words of dehumanization dehumanize. The words of menace increase the threat. We have already started paying for this. The camp is not just a memory. For the majority of us, its reality is omnipresent in our everyday life. I have never heard a more terrible warning. The warning against our own words.”
Thanks for listening everyone.
Audry Van Houweling, Owner She Soars Psychiatry,
Sisters & Silverton, Oregon
She Soars psychiatry, LLC 