Elie Wiesel: A Memory of the Man
I read Wiesel's "Night" in high school. It was a total gut punch to my young mind. I was a morbid little shit then; and by that time had watched countless footage, and read endless books on genocide, crime, serial killers, and satanism(which was big in the 80s for some gawdawful reason. I blame post 70s coke orgies/baby boomer guilt. God is coming for you, you filthy hippies, and Satan is going to eat your children. Or some such nonsense like that.)
But Wiesel humanized the bulldozed piles of bodies, and the beady-eyed shrunken skulls peering from filthy barracks. These were people. People that had been hounded from their homes, stripped of their possessions and protections by the law, and eventually railroaded to their deaths. Each had their soul exploded by hopelessness, their humanity stripped from them by a dead-eyed bureaucracy.
Sweet little Anne Frank shared the innocence of childhood, and the fears of hiding on the good graces of friends and ex-employees. Wiesel shared the death of his parents, the disease and starvation of the camps, and his eventual loss of self in the falling ash of Buchenwald. Could you imagine tasting your dead in the very air that surrounded you?
It's a damn good book. Sparse and real.
I met him at Chapman University in 2005. He had come to do a showing of "The Boys of Buchenwald". A documentary of what happened to the orphaned boys that survived the camps. After, they held a press conference for the local media. As a Panther reporter, I was sent to observe and report. I was older than a lot of the official media there, but I still felt intimidated. I felt it wasn't my place to speak or ask questions. The PR person running the event had asked me to be 'respectful' of the proceedings. I'd already got in trouble a few days earlier for:
a. Asking the library's holocaust museum if we could use an image of the picture of a gaunt Wiesel flanked by other starving death camp inmates peering out of their barrack. I thought it made it real. I wanted it next to an image of him by the podium. Powerful, right? Nope. Morbid, and seriously inappropes apparently.
b. Calling the organization in Washington DC that books his talks and asking how much he gets paid. I was told I shouldn't ask such questions, they weren't any of my business. I said that if the students were paying for him to come speak, they should know how much they paid for the privilege. Money is always news, and plenty of well known people are profiled about how much they charge for speeches. That evil withered bitch called my journalism professor to complain.
So, I was feeling a little butt hurt, and thwarted. I listened to questions being asked. Wiesel had come in, sat at the table, poured himself a glass of water, and began answering questions. He would stare at the person asking. He took the time to compose each answer, no matter how banal they were. And boy were they!
Q: What was it like in the camps?
Q: Are the memories still fresh?
Q:What was it like to return to regular life after that?
All these questions were already answered by his books, the movie they just watched, and the 30 minute speech he had just given. I was beginning to suspect none of these professionals paid attention. The PR woman stated that they were drawing to a close, and if there were any more questions.
Wiesel looked at me, and asked, "Would you like to ask a question?"
Everyone looked at me. I had a question, but I was scared. I felt harangued for not being sensitive enough with the subject matter, when I consider the holocaust one of the most horrific, yet inspiring moments in history. The world went truly mad, yet people survived, triumphed, and had moments of pure grace led by love from and for their fellow man. Such beauty could not have existed if hadn't bloomed in the shadow of sadistic madness. I remember taking a deep breath and thinking 'fuck it'.
I looked him in the eyes, and asked my question.
"I read Night. In it you describe going to temple alone and weeping over the beauty of the Torah. You wept because you loved God so much. After the death camps, did you ever regain that child like belief and love for God?"
He smiled at me. I felt like that moment when a yogi tells a student:
That was the right question.
He steepled his fingers and answered me.
"I never divorced myself from God, but I was very angry at him for a long time."
It it remains one of my favorite memories of Chapman, and one of my favorite quotes.
But Wiesel humanized the bulldozed piles of bodies, and the beady-eyed shrunken skulls peering from filthy barracks. These were people. People that had been hounded from their homes, stripped of their possessions and protections by the law, and eventually railroaded to their deaths. Each had their soul exploded by hopelessness, their humanity stripped from them by a dead-eyed bureaucracy.
Sweet little Anne Frank shared the innocence of childhood, and the fears of hiding on the good graces of friends and ex-employees. Wiesel shared the death of his parents, the disease and starvation of the camps, and his eventual loss of self in the falling ash of Buchenwald. Could you imagine tasting your dead in the very air that surrounded you?
It's a damn good book. Sparse and real.
I met him at Chapman University in 2005. He had come to do a showing of "The Boys of Buchenwald". A documentary of what happened to the orphaned boys that survived the camps. After, they held a press conference for the local media. As a Panther reporter, I was sent to observe and report. I was older than a lot of the official media there, but I still felt intimidated. I felt it wasn't my place to speak or ask questions. The PR person running the event had asked me to be 'respectful' of the proceedings. I'd already got in trouble a few days earlier for:
a. Asking the library's holocaust museum if we could use an image of the picture of a gaunt Wiesel flanked by other starving death camp inmates peering out of their barrack. I thought it made it real. I wanted it next to an image of him by the podium. Powerful, right? Nope. Morbid, and seriously inappropes apparently.
b. Calling the organization in Washington DC that books his talks and asking how much he gets paid. I was told I shouldn't ask such questions, they weren't any of my business. I said that if the students were paying for him to come speak, they should know how much they paid for the privilege. Money is always news, and plenty of well known people are profiled about how much they charge for speeches. That evil withered bitch called my journalism professor to complain.
So, I was feeling a little butt hurt, and thwarted. I listened to questions being asked. Wiesel had come in, sat at the table, poured himself a glass of water, and began answering questions. He would stare at the person asking. He took the time to compose each answer, no matter how banal they were. And boy were they!
Q: What was it like in the camps?
Q: Are the memories still fresh?
Q:What was it like to return to regular life after that?
All these questions were already answered by his books, the movie they just watched, and the 30 minute speech he had just given. I was beginning to suspect none of these professionals paid attention. The PR woman stated that they were drawing to a close, and if there were any more questions.
Wiesel looked at me, and asked, "Would you like to ask a question?"
Everyone looked at me. I had a question, but I was scared. I felt harangued for not being sensitive enough with the subject matter, when I consider the holocaust one of the most horrific, yet inspiring moments in history. The world went truly mad, yet people survived, triumphed, and had moments of pure grace led by love from and for their fellow man. Such beauty could not have existed if hadn't bloomed in the shadow of sadistic madness. I remember taking a deep breath and thinking 'fuck it'.
I looked him in the eyes, and asked my question.
"I read Night. In it you describe going to temple alone and weeping over the beauty of the Torah. You wept because you loved God so much. After the death camps, did you ever regain that child like belief and love for God?"
He smiled at me. I felt like that moment when a yogi tells a student:
That was the right question.
He steepled his fingers and answered me.
"I never divorced myself from God, but I was very angry at him for a long time."
It it remains one of my favorite memories of Chapman, and one of my favorite quotes.
Eda, you are a gifted writer and I like the fact that you see things as they are when the "sheep" just go with the flow. What an amazing experience to have had and to make the right connection with such an amazing man. Well done!
ReplyDeleteThank you!! I'm trying so hard to write again. Comments help! It was an amazing experience.
Delete