If you wanted to pick a demographic that has historically held the persona of “other”, you’d be hard-pressed to make the argument that anyone but Jews fit the bill. Anti-Semitism has to be the second oldest profession, and it’s still going strong. You want to deflect from [whatever’s going wrong] in your [village, city, country, world], point at the Jews. Anywhere, everywhere; any time, every time.
Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Memorial Day, began at
sundown yesterday and runs to sundown today. It marks the national program of
genocide committed by the Nazis and their allies against European Jews, which
resulted in six million dead.
Today’s poem is “After Auschwitz”, by Israeli
poet Yehuda Amichai. Amichai was born in Germany; he emigrated to Israel with
his family in 1936, when he was 12. I’ve always found his focus on the details
of life gripping; he tackles the big things with the same power.
“After Auschwitz”
After Auschwitz, no theology:
From the chimneys of the Vatican, white smoke rises—
a sign the cardinals have chosen themselves a pope.
From the crematoria of Auschwitz, black smoke rises—
a sign the conclave of Gods has not yet chosen the chosen people.
After Auschwitz, no theology:
the numbers on the forearms
of the inmates of extermination are the telephone numbers of God,
numbers that do not answer
and now are disconnected, one by one. After Auschwitz, a new theology:
the Jews who died in the Shoah
have now come to be like their God,
who has no likeness of a body and has no body.
They have no likeness of a body and they have no body.
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