The howl in my heart
Judy Clinton reflects on a Holocaust memorial service
Several weeks ago I attended a memorial service for the Holocaust and other genocides. The tabernacle was packed with adults and children from different faiths and none, all drawn for one reason or another to the purpose of the service: to acknowledge the horror of genocides of the past (and still hideously present in our world today), to pray, and to consider together how such things might be healed and how to reduce the chances of them happening in the future. The grim statistics of those killed through genocide were interwoven with poems, readings, songs, prayers and an address, which expressed both the horror of such atrocious killings and a heartfelt longing for healing and peace.
The statistic that stabbed my heart and even made me feel physically sick was that of the killing machines of a German death camp, which exterminated some 1,000 people per hour. How is it that man’s capacity to design machines and organise thousands of people could sink to this level of depravity? How could human beings (in this case Jews and other minority groups) be seen as so ‘bad’ that it was deemed a good and necessary thing to annihilate them, simply because they bore a different label?
I understand why it could be so, from the perspective of conditioning, with the human propensity both to brainwash others and to be brainwashed ourselves. As the spiritual teacher Krishnamurti said, all these troubles come from the images that our minds create of others and ourselves; the human brain itself needs to undergo transformation. I understand from Marshall Rosenberg’s work on nonviolent communication how a failure to be in touch with, and to be honest about, our own deepest needs, combined with lack of awareness and skill of how we might respond to others’ needs, contributes to our violence one to another. And I understand how social inequality fuels that violence. Intellectually, these give me some reasonable explanations, some hope, some possibility. But they don’t go to the depths of my pain. My heart howls over what we are capable of.
I see in the annals of history the same fundamental ghastliness repeated over and over again. Is there to be no end to this? Why are we so appallingly slow to learn that fighting with each other ultimately achieves nothing other than the perpetuation of violence in all its many manifestations?
For all the pain it inflicts upon me, I am grateful that I can feel this depth of horror because, without that sensitivity, I would neither be aware of the magnitude of it all, nor be fired up to want to do my part to try to alleviate it and make some tiny contribution in the direction of change for the future.
I came away feeling powerless, helpless and grief-stricken. My shopping at a supermarket on the way home seemed trivial. I wanted to shout out that there are so many more important things to deal with than whether someone is angry because an overstretched assistant produced the wrong drink. But no, these aren’t trivial things. This is exactly where I need to start; in this moment, in this particular situation, when I can decide to act compassionately or aggressively. This is what Mohandas Gandhi meant when he said: ‘Be the change that you wish to see in the world.’ It isn’t easy; I fail again and again. I can’t do this on my own. I need to unite with others to support and be supported in the attempt to live nonviolently. Above all, I know I cannot do anything in a sustained and deep way without a power that is greater than my own. For me, to try is a recipe for despair; it’s all far too big, complex and painful.
That morning I felt that we experienced both unity in the intention that had brought people to attend, and the presence of God. I suspect that it was that love which enabled me to feel the depth of the effects of hatred and to yearn for the possibility of something better. Therein I put my faith, and listen for the guidance of the still, small voice within me, which answers the howl in my heart and shows me how to be, and what to do, one moment at a time.
