Talking Shop: When shadows chase

Bluma Meinhardt is but one of the descendants of the millions traumatized by the Nazis and fascists in World War II. Activist unparalleled Bluma, born and brought up in Germany, now lives in and traipses across the Netherlands, tantalizingly bringing light to everything she touches. Hers is a soul that is blessed, perhaps because she has seen all that is really dark, dank and depraved—born to survivors of the WWII holocaust, this is what she had to say just last week. "Time and again, I am asked why can't I forget the war.

'It is over. You did not fight it. You must forget the stories of your parents. Anyway, this generation had nothing to do with it.' That's what they repeatedly tell me, to try and bring me relief. I know what they say is right. But nobody knows what my parents' experiences through life have done to me. I was 12 years old when I wrote to the Reparation Office for a reprieve for my father. I cannot forget the agony in my father's eyes when I read him Rejection Letters from the Gestapo."

"How can I forget? For nine months, he did not see daylight, because he was locked up in an underground holding cell and forced to make bombs—V1 and V2—the very same bombs that England was pounded with. How do I forget the whiplashes he received when he reached the concentration camp in Mauthausen (Upper Austria)?"

"Whenever I board a train today, I feel Mama was lucky. Her deportation train started from Schwarz Weiss Platz in Koeln and her destination was Auschwitz, but a woman gave birth to a child on the train. Parts of that moving train were divided and diverted to Korniza. It was no paradise, but it wasn't Auschwitz either. I remember grandfather playing Zigeunerweise by Brahms. It was melodious, but today it only causes me pain, for he was forced to play the violin while his wife and children were walked to the Gas Chambers."

"There have been no apologies, no action, relief or compensation. I can never forget. I can never forgive. The shadows chase me." Friends fondly called Bluma's father, a Gypsy like herself, Schmitto. His given birth name was Friedel Meinhardt.

Today's reality

It is not much different, glaringly so because this time around, nearly 80 years later, we still do not have many authoritative, heartfelt and truthful iterations such as the one by Bluma. Let's begin with Ukraine and Russia, for they hold centerstage and are the epicentre of today's misery, where countless untold are being eviscerated—of their homes, livelihoods and their dignity—all in the name of an alter ego and misplaced retribution; a despotic and desperate land-grab. Let's take a moment to applaud and re-welcome a miserable history into our fold, beholden as we are of a new and scary future.

Much like Bluma through the many decades since World War II, Nigerian Ottah Abraham is outraged. Barely 27 years old, Ottah was 8,700 km away from the frontline of the Russia-Ukraine skirmish when the invasion happened a month back. Asked by news channels why he tweeted that he wants to 'join the team', he jousted: "We know that it's war, it's not child's play. But being a soldier in Ukraine would be better than being here. I'll probably be allowed to stay if the war ends, plus I will be a hero and fight an undeniable enemy."

What's with Nigeria that Ottah wants to go to a war-stricken nation and become a 'hero', at the risk of losing his bells, whistle and more? Here goes. Nigeria's average life expectancy of 53 years is low compared to Western standards, yet dramatically higher than the 37 expected years they had in 1960. Incessant fighting in Borno state has decreased the quality of life and the country leads Africa in people without Internet access. It has an unemployment rate of 18.8 per cent and access to clean water remains life-threatening, even as the country faces massive air pollution. It has the second-largest HIV/AIDS-positive population in the world, 9 per cent of overall numbers. Maybe Ottah has it right, for he is pining for hedonism and citizenship.

Some inner thoughts

The moral is simple and earthly. Anything draconian turn of events shall inevitably lead to the emasculation of misery, followed by pain, grief and suffering for the masses. This may last for only a few years as per the calendar (as did the World Wars, a blip in the ocean of time), but it survives and vexes emotions far longer in the lives of the innocent. In our own country India, we are witnessing the beginning of just such mayhem, as nepotism and bigotry now rule the roost, as does communal inequity.

Let's visit the rumblings in our cinema halls where a controversial movie has just been released, watched by some idiots of the very highest order. Why 'idiots'? Well, that's because just weeks after being allowed to re-enter the world of popcorn, colas and burgers in a multiplex, they have not just forgotten all that tormented them and killed parents, brothers, sisters and neighbours for two years, they have truly reverted to type. Once again, they are singularly passing judgment on one community, asking everyone to chastise that caste and ground (grind too) all the Bollywood actors hailing from that cloth, maybe even go further and take punitive action. Therein lies the reason that this column started with the lovely Bluma and the deplorable holocaust. We in India, in today's supposed modern times, are apparently reverting to our simian beginnings.

History is witness to the fact that as a race, homo sapiens redoubtably recant and repudiate, even when circumstances are to their own detriment. Look at the monkeys living in the trees, the lions dallying in the wilds of the Savannah and the elephants ambling across our very own India. These four-legged 'animals' have dignity, jive and jazz, and never muddy their own clan or waters. They have class and a licit sense for proclivity and survival. Us humans, quite clearly, have lost that spleen and vein.

What is happening to us?

Good, you ask? Nothing, I can assure you. For long, we have been in a race—a race for a new car, a better house, more seats in the legislative assembly or Parliament if I were a political party. If I talk me alone, all I want is verdant greens and some bodily calisthenics while my endorphins still last. That is typically the choice of the sensible, but what of the others? Well, they want blood and are baying for retribution. Who are these people? They are those who have no real or succinct purpose, but would like to feast on the rewards that come along the way, a way that eventually shall lead to retribution and eventual hell.

This bothers me. My countrymen are hurtling down a road with brakes that are redundant and speed-breakers that have been removed. We are on a slimy slide. Today, I shall not talk of the failing economy, fiscal deficit, deflating Gross Domestic Product (GDP) or runaway inflation. I shall not talk of simians rejoicing on the roads in the wake of an abating Third Wave, seeing them indulging in irresponsible Holi gaiety, hugging, kissing and downing Patiala pegs and Butter Chicken. Happy days are here again, they feel, even as crores upon crores take a pitiful handout as their daily bread, to somehow feed their ageing and young.

I shall talk history, of why people like Bluma remember the past and relive it every moment, moments not to be forgotten. If they are, they shall throw up a scary sceptre—that these moments are being recreated. Today, as a world, we are turning complacent, running the risk of reliving historical horrors. The consequences shall be fatal, perhaps even natal.

The writer is a clinical analyst and a communications specialist. Views expressed are personal. narayanrajeev2006@gmail.com