Talking about the Holocaust and reconciliation

Some days I am pretty sure I teach the most incredible students ever. Seriously.

Last week we had a conversation that I still have not gotten out of my head. You see, it started off by reading a story that just mentioned a "senator's wife." But these students are from Burma, and you can't explain even a simple political word without really talking about.

So we talked.

We worked through the different parts of government in the American system as a point of comparison, and then we talked about Burma. So far, I had not had any political conversation with my Shan students, and I was a little nervous about opening it up, but I also felt it was necessary. Because politics in Burma, to migrant workers in Thailand, means everything. It's what determines whether they ever return to the places where they were born.

Amazingly, as I began to ask about the constitution, my students demonstrated incredibly maturity and insight. I asked them what they thought would happen at the next election (when a majority of the seats are going to be contested), and they tackled the issues of whether Aung San Suu Kyi's NLD party might win and what that could mean for the country. They went on to discuss their fears and how sometimes they feel inside Shan State, Burma, as second class citizens.

If we had stopped there, I would have felt the lesson a great success. My goodness, they were incredible--seriously, incredible. They came from many different walks of life with so many different experiences, and yet they held a conversation with mild debate in a respectful and considerate manner.

But the story doesn't finish with talking about government.

One of the more thoughtful students had something he needed to tell the class: you see, on the way to class that day, he had seen a man stranded on the side of the road after a motorbike accident, and he stopped to help him, only to discover this man was Burmese. For my student, who has suffered deeply by the Burmese in the past, he had a decision to make. He wanted to turn away and leave this man to suffer alone, but this student really and truly is incredible. He did not turn away. He stepped in and helped him.  He looked at the class, fresh from the emotions and asked, "Did I do the right thing? I wasn't sure if it was right, because he was Burmese, and the Burmese have hurt our people so. But he was just a person."

The students stared back at him. They did not rush to tell him he had done the right thing, because I suspect all were wondering if they would have done the same thing. After a short silence, I told him that I thought what he had done was extremely brave and good, but I would tell them a story and see if my story helped them decide for themselves.

I told them about growing up, knowing of my Jewish heritage and therefore learning early on about the Holocaust and all those that died. Since my students did not know what the Holocaust was, I gave them a history lesson and showed photographs. As I paused, you could hear only the constant whir of the fans in the students' silence.

Then I confessed the fact that I came to know sometime later than I came to know my Jewish heritage: that's the Nazi war criminal past as well. That "other" cousin.

You see, I share in my blood the blood of many who died but also of one who did much to assure that more died. That's my heritage. Both.

I have since lived in Germany and come to speak German fluently, and my sister lives in Israel and has married an Israeli. We never walk away from the understanding of humanity's deep capacity for incredible good or evil, and, knowing that terrible evil has existed even within our family, we have no choice but to walk in forgiveness. That is why I went to Germany, and that is why I learned German. That is also why I chose to love what is German. Forgiveness is my heritage.

And it's precisely that understanding of my heritage which has translated into a passion for justice and reconciliation and sent me off to work with those who have suffered most by the Burmese regime's discriminatory and violent practices. I then turned to my student, who had helped the Burmese man, and asked him if he understood why I was telling the class this story.

"Yes," he responded and smiled. "I believe in helping him too."

The next day the class continued the conversation, adding that the only chance Shan State has for true freedom exists through forgiveness and valuing all people. I was floored. This is not normal Shan speech, and my students said it, not I. This may sound like ordinary Western meaningless fluff, but this kind of speech is completely foreign here and most definitely has meaning. We watched some videos about the Holocaust, and the students talked about both what was similar and different to what the Burmese have attempted against the Shan and the incredible risk of what the Shan could attempt against its minorities if ever given independence, if they do not first deal with their own hate, fear, and other issues. I. have. never. heard. anyone. actually. say. that.

I have hope today, because my students will one day be leaders, and these leaders will lead well.

As I said, I have incredible students. I am so incredibly privileged to be their English teacher.

The heritage that drives me.

In the last three weeks, I've been asked a dozen or so times why I care... why I care about the Shan... why I care about the victims of this genocide... why I care enough to move around the world to teach in a relatively remote location. Each time I've basically stumbled through this answer, mumbling something about the last time I was in Thailand and visiting a refugee camp and memories that stay in your head... etc.

But something absolutely fundamental is missed in this answer. Why do some memories stay forever in one's head? Why do some life experiences become the driving force of direction in one's life, while others pass away with only a gently nagging tug of guilt? It's not merely the idea of responding to the other in compassion, because I have seen suffering in many places around the world, including my own country. For me, it's this soul-sickening word called "genocide" that grips me.

You see, my response is fully rooted in the narrative into which I was born. Much literature has been written about the sense of guilt many children of the Jewish diaspora feel for surviving, for living, in light of the Holocaust and the pogroms of the 20th century in Europe. I have also witnessed the shame and guilt that is expressed in German culture over the Holocaust. As a product of American culture, where old world family histories do not determine new relationships, the memory of both types of guilt run deeply through my veins and perhaps more intensely than usual. It has always felt easier to claim solidarity with those that died (the distant Jewish relatives and the not so distant Bohemian relatives) than to recognize the ugly history of a few times removed cousin, who stood beside Hitler as one of his right hand men and directed the murder of millions. I am Bohemian, Jewish, and German (and by this I do not mean German Jewish, rather the relative a Nazi war criminal), and the histories of each have gripped me and caused me to wonder how it is that entire people groups can turn to hatred. It is what forces me to respond and to refuse to passively ignore genocide as it exists in this world.

I suppose this is not an easy answer to give when someone asks casually (as if any answer can be casual) why I care, and I will probably continue to mumble and stumble through in response, but here's the truth: I care, because the blood running through my veins dictates only two options in response to the face of genocide, either an actively compassionate response or a sickening hardening of heart. I choose the first.