by Rabbi Greg Weisman, (CAS ’05) who is a rabbi at Temple Beth El of Boca Raton, FL, where he is striving to make his city, county, state, and nation more just and fair for all.

I came to BU because of Prof. Wiesel. Like so many Jews I turned to his writings to help me understand the legacy of the Holocaust, and was inspired to find a man who turned his experience of horror into a life devoted to preventing others from suffering a similar fate. I came to BU hoping that just by being on campus with him I might catch a glimpse or a morsel of his moral wisdom. I was blessed to learn from him in class in the fall of 2004. The class met in STH, the School of Theology building, a building where another one of our University’s Nobel Laureates studied, Dr. Martin Luther King. When I reflect on that, the weight of it still hits me: I sat in a classroom with Elie Wiesel, in the same building where Martin Luther King studied.

The two men came from very different backgrounds, but the legacies they left behind have much in common. Both were gifted with extraordinary eloquence and they used their words, written and spoken, to inspire others to pursue causes of justice and peace. They reached generations of people across the globe and urged them to care for the vulnerable, the forgotten or ignored, and that each of us, regardless of our station in life, has a role to play in that work.

For the last seven years, I have served as a rabbi in Boca Raton, Florida. My journey into the rabbinate started at BU, through my work in the Jewish Studies program, which has since been renamed in Prof. Wiesel’s honor. In my work, I often reflect on my memories from that time, in particular on the lessons from Professor Wiesel's class on “Literary Responses to Oppression.” With the rise of national awareness for the pervasive ill effects of systemic racism and race-based inequality, members of my community and I have been poring over modern-day responses to the oppression of People of Color in the US. We travelled together in the past year to Georgia and Alabama to visit the sites, memorials, and museums of the Civil Rights era. We have listened to podcasts, watched films, and read books and articles about white privilege, racist violence, and most recently, antiracism. While this learning was in light of the ongoing struggle for racial justice, it took an even more pressing turn after the murder of George Floyd.  When the leadership of our local Black community organized a Peace March through Boca Raton, my congregation turned out in great numbers in support. Our membership wanted to learn more and asked us to put together a panel on race in our community with a local pastor, a community leader, and a Black member of our congregation sharing their stories.

I also heard from members of my congregation that they wanted to read together and discuss How to be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi, that we might learn from him how we can combat the ills of racism in our day through our own lives and behavior. Right after I announced this book discussion group to the entire community, the news broke that Dr. Kendi would be relocating to BU. Like many alumni I felt a sense of pride, and was curious about what prompted his decision. When I heard that he chose to come to BU because of its history of the acceptance of students of Color and because it was where Dr. King pursued his doctorate, I thought back to the STH building and my time in those classrooms.

As a Jew and a rabbi, what compels me about Dr. Kendi’s thinking is that it leaves no room for standing by. The core message in his book, and of antiracism in general, is that everything we do either reinforces a system of racism that has been erected and reinforced over centuries or strives to tear that edifice down. In each action we take, we are either being racist or being antiracist. There is no neutrality when it comes to racism. As I processed his argument and began to think about it in Jewish terms, I couldn’t help but think about the acceptance speech Professor Wiesel gave in Oslo when he received the Nobel Prize for Peace, where he cautioned against neutrality: “We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must – at that moment – become the center of the universe.”

The burden Dr. King, Prof. Wiesel, and Dr. Kendi lay upon us is great. “The day is short, the work is much" (Avot 2:16), Jewish tradition says. But along with that burden, these great minds of BU inspire me each and every day.

I am a BU professor of religion and director of an academic center named for Elie Wiesel. For those who don’t know, Elie Wiesel (1928–2016) was a Jew from Sighet, a town on the border between Hungary and Romania, who, along with a million other Hungarian Jews, was handed over by their own government to the SS to be gassed and cremated or enslaved in the thousands of labor camps across German-occupied Eastern Europe and the homeland that supported the German war industry. Wiesel wrote about his experience at Auschwitz in the memoire Night, a short book that is still widely read today. The reason it is still widely read is because Wiesel found words to evoke what is ultimately indescribable: the psychological horror of abject dehumanization. The Elie Wiesel Center carries on Elie Wiesel’s mission by teaching about Jews and Judaism, the Holocaust and other genocides, and the importance of universal human rights.

Today, Americans are called upon to confront the long shadow of slavery in multiple recent acts of white-on-black police brutality. We are horrified by the murder of George Floyd. We are horrified by the murder of Ahmaud Arbery. And we are horrified by the murder of Breonna Taylor. Our thoughts and prayers are with their families and friends.

I want to say to our students: If I am hopeful for the future, it is because of you. Over the past few days, I have listened to many of our students who made one thing very clear: expressions of empathy and solidarity are good and necessary, but students expect more from us than words.

Our students are deeply conscious of the complexities of race, economic inequality, and the many ways in which systemic injustice manifests on our own campus and elsewhere.  They are also tired of having to explain themselves to others over and over again, including to faculty, advisors, and counselors charged with their well-being. Meanwhile, they have acted. The BU student government and black student association, Umoja, just raised nearly 100k in support of social justice organizations.  http://www.bu.edu/articles/2020/bu-umoja-student-government-raise-100k-social-justice-groups/ Their initial goal was a modest 10k. It was a BU student who organized last Sunday's momentous rally in Boston.

Many of us have joined vigils and marched in protest, despite the raging pandemic. But expressions of solidarity go only so far. Our students expect more of us. Social justice, equity, and inclusion must be more than slogans disseminated in official communiqués. Justice, equity, and inclusion manifest in who occupies positions of power, influence, and trust. It manifests in making sure students see their own skin color reflected in the faces of their faculty, advisors, counselors, and university leadership. Systemic change is painful, as it means relinquishing customary privilege and truly opening oneself to difference. This requires that those of us who take their white privilege for granted pause and listen to the anguished cries of protest and the calm voices of student leaders who are willing and eager to engage. We need these voices, and we need to listen.

Last year, which was a particularly bad year for race relations on the BU campus, we listened to the students and took action when we offered a response to a speech by conservative activist Ben Shapiro that was provocatively titled “America was not built on slavery but on freedom.” (See http://blogs.bu.edu/mzank/2019/11/14/the-ben-shapiro-performance-why-it-was-shameful/) Shapiro’s much-hyped speech, which was accompanied by exaggerated and expensive security measures, was a blatant example of how white power can manifest on a campus that likes to claim the legacies of Howard Thurman and Martin Luther King Jr. We need to understand that the first step toward inclusion is to refrain from actions that suffocate the concerns of Black and Brown students. At the time, the University did not even rise to that minimal level of consideration. Though the Elie Wiesel Center decided to do something in response, it was too little and too late. (See http://www.bu.edu/articles/2019/response-to-ben-shapiro/)

A BU graduate student told me, that “sustained thriving of students of color will require an examination of and reckoning with systems of power in the university with the lens of anti-oppression and bias-prevention. Those with the most power must make that commitment in order for any kind of truly welcoming environment to be created.” The Elie Wiesel Center is ready to partner with faculty, students, staff, the Dean of Students and the upper University Administration to do the work necessary to bring about lasting systemic change on campus.

Change requires self-examination. We want to know, and we want to be told what prevents students from feeling included and respected. Starting in the fall, we will offer listening sessions to students, where we listen as students speak. We want our students to be our teachers so we can learn how to be better teachers and mentors to them.

We would love for you to reach out to us with suggestions and ideas.

Michael Zank, PhD
Professor of Religion and Director, EWCJS

Today is April 15, the day, 75 years ago, when the 11th Armored Division entered the gates of hell that was Bergen-Belsen. If you want to know what it looked like, spend eleven long minutes to listen to BBC correspondent Richard Dimbleby's description from April 19, 1945.

April 15 is what my father-in-law, York University professor emeritus of mathematics and statistics Abe Shenitzer used to call his second birthday. He was among of the 40,000 survivors who greeted the British liberators at the gate of the concentration camp. The attached document attests to his incredible resilience. By July 1945, the British officer, signing the document, attests to Abe's services as an interpreter.

Aside from his love for learning, his wit and humanity, Abe brought with him a fierce devotion to linguistic precision. He went on to become a sought-after translator and editor of books on mathematics and other subjects. He was also a superb teacher.

Born in Warsaw, Abe had grown up and attended Heder, followed by a Hebrew Gymnasium, in Sosnoviec, Poland. In 1943 he was deported to Gross-Rosen (referred to by inmates as the yeshive) from whence prisoners capable of labor were farmed out to the hundreds of labor camps dotting the so-called General Gouvernement, a virtual SS state. He considered himself fortunate that he was placed in a wood-working factory (Hubert Land Werke, Bunzlau) where he worked sawing and planing machines alongside German and other workers, and could forget for hours at a time that he was no longer human. There was starvation, of course. But he rarely spoke of being brutalized, and attributed his survival to the kindness of a few strangers at key moments.

When the Germans began to evacuate the east, moving prisoners westward, Abe's odyssee led him via Nordhausen, Risa, and Ellrich to Bergen-Belsen where he was liberated by the British. This month he turned 99. Twice.

For more on Bergen-Belsen, see the following links:

https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/the-liberation-of-bergen-belsen

https://www.royalnavy.mod.uk/news-and-latest-activity/news/2020/april/15/20200415-75th-anniversary-of-bergen-belsen

https://www.ushmm.org/learn/timeline-of-events/1942-1945/liberation-of-bergen-belsen

https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-scotland-51234466

Further reading by Boston-area author Bernice Lerner: https://bernicelerner.com/

By Abigail Gillman

In the brutal nights we used to dream
Dense violent dreams,
Dreamed with soul and body:
To return; to eat; to tell the story.
Until the dawn command
Sounded brief, low
'Wstawac'
And the heart cracked in the breast.

From: Primo Levi, “Reveille”

These lines, which comprise the first stanza of Primo Levi’s poem “Reveille,” lay at the center of the second Elie Wiesel Memorial Lecture of 2019.  The poet recalls the prisoners’ dreams of returning home, eating, and telling the stories, interrupted each dawn by the Polish command.  But the three repetitions of the word “dream,” argues Sharon Portnoff, also allude to three dreams in Dante’s Purgatorio: dreams which enable the pilgrim to ascend to paradise.  In Dante, the dream represents the power to imagine, to tell the story of hell, in a way that preserves dignity and redeems suffering.

How did Dante help Levi to survive, and to write about the hell of Auschwitz? In Portnoff’s words, “Levi’s poem – as almost all of his writings do – draws on the texts of the Western canon to invite us to literally engage the fact of Auschwitz against the backdrop of our higher aspirations, to spend our time reading and studying his many allusions.  We do this not to find out what the human being really is in the midst of his suffering, but to enact what the human being might be.”

Dante’s Hell, and Levi’s hell: as Dante is inscribed throughout Primo Levi’s oeuvre, Levi’s writings, his poetry, his two memoirs, become a commentary or education about Dante.  Levi’s turn to Dante recalls the approach of another child survivor, Israeli writer Aharon Appelfeld, who referred to Franz Kafka as his redeemer, and who copied from the Hebrew Bible in his quest to become a writer.  

When a great writer translates or interacts with another great literary work, there is a magic or alchemy which is hard to put into words.  Portnoff owned this challenge, teaching us various approaches one might take and inviting us in to her own process of interpretation.  

In doing so, she continued the narrative begun by Rabbi Joseph Polak in the first lecture back in September. Polak spoke about memory, and unexpectedly, about shame.  Though he has authored an award-winning memoir, Polak taught us that he continues to think about how to tell his story, and is still retrieving, or receiving, new memories from the war, which he survived as a very young child.  The sound of counting aloud in German, heard on a recent trip to Germany, evoked a visceral reaction, an aural memory of the Appelplatz, the prisoners’ roll call, which, according to his mother, he attended daily as a young boy, sitting on the shoulders of a Nazi soldier.

Rabbi Polak also spoke, provocatively, about shame as the most damaging, lasting injury the Nazis perpetrated on their victims. By implication, those of us who were not there need to ask whether we continue the shaming by not being fully present to survivors.

In these lectures, we learn not only about the survivor, but about the power and limits of language for the survivors of genocide, and for those of us who engage with their writings.  The speakers challenge us to hear those stories in new ways; to wake up, as Levi’s poem implores; and to become more human in the process.

Abigail Gillman is Professor of Hebrew and German in the Department of World Languages and Literatures and a core member of the faculty of the Elie Wiesel Center for Jewish Studies where she teaches courses in modern Jewish and Hebrew literature. She served as interim director of the Center in 2016-17 and directed the university-wide Day of Learning and Commemoration for Elie Wiesel in September 2017. Her most recent book is A History of German Jewish Bible Translation (University of Chicago Press, 2018).

By Jennifer Cazenave

On April 17, 1975, the Khmer Rouge entered the Cambodian capital of Phnom Penh, marking the beginning of a four-year brutal regime led by Pol Pot. In an attempt to transform the country into an agrarian utopia, the Khmer Rouge displaced millions of Cambodians to forced labor camps in the countryside. By January 6, 1979, an estimated 1.7 million people had perished from famine, forced labor, torture, disease, and execution; they were buried in mass graves known as killing fields.

The decade-long civil war following the end of the Khmer Rouge regime delayed recognition of the genocide, both locally and globally. The memory of the genocide began to emerge in the 1990s and 2000s, notably through the testimonies of survivors included in documentary films or published as memoirs. Transnational war crimes tribunals were also established in Cambodia in 2003, marking the beginning of a lengthy judicial process to investigate the atrocities and prosecute Khmer Rouge leaders.

Loung Ung was born in Phnom Penh in 1970. Along with her family, she was forced to evacuate the capital in April 1975. She survived the genocide as a child, before escaping Cambodia in 1979 and coming to the United States a year later. In 2000, she told her story of survival in a memoir published in English, which she titled First They Killed My Father. Her book was adapted into an eponymous film directed by Angelina Jolie in 2017.

On Monday, November 18, 2019, forty years after the end of the Khmer Rouge regime, we will welcome Loung Ung to BU. Her talk will conclude our fall series “Writing from a Place of Survival” and allow us to commemorate the genocide in Boston—a city situated an hour away from Lowell, which is home to the second largest Cambodian community in the United States.

Tsai Performance Center, 7:30-9pm.

The event is free and open to the public but pre-registration is strongly recommended. To register, follow this link. (Alumni status NOT required.)

Jennifer Cazenave is Assistant Professor of French. Her first book, An Archive of the Catastrophe: The Unused Footage of Claude Lanzmann’s “Shoah” (SUNY Press, 2019), undertakes a comprehensive examination of the 220 hours of filmic material Claude Lanzmann excluded from his 1985 Holocaust opus. Professor Cazenave is currently at work on a second book project that examines the centrality of the earth as a medium for the writing of the Cambodian genocide in the cinema of Rithy Panh. Her article titled “Earth as Archive: Reframing Memory and Mourning in The Missing Picture,” which examines Panh’s autobiographical representation of the catastrophe, recently appeared in Cinema Journal.

      All you need to know about Dante Alighieri (d. 1321) is that his Divine Comedy ranks as the greatest literary work in the Italian language. This does not mean you need to have read part or all of it in order to follow Sharon Portnoff’s talk on October 28. There won’t be an exam at the end. Our public-facing talks are meant to provide us with food for thought, not make us feel insufficient. We will be in good hands: Sharon Portnoff has read Dante. So did Primo Levi.

Who was Primo Levi? Primo Levi (1919-1987) was an Italian chemist who, in February 1944, at the age of 24, was captured by Italian fascists, handed over to the Nazis, and deported to Auschwitz. Following liberation by the Red Army on January 27, 1945, he eventually made his way back to his native Torino where he wrote poetry, worked in a paint factory, and, as early as 1947, published his meticulous and sober account of life as a slave laborer in the Buna camp (se questo é un uomo). The second edition (1958) was more widely distributed, including in English, French, and a German translation he closely supervised. Levi went on to write other acclaimed books, including The Periodic Table (1975), The Drowned and the Saved (1986), among others. He died in 1987 of a fall into the stairwell of his home. The circumstances of his untimely death remain disputed.

What does Levi have to do with Dante? Levi’s prose style is dispassionate, as one might expect from a scientist. But he has recourse, at important junctures, to the poetry of Dante, whose Inferno perceptively describes the kinds of psychological horrors and absurdities that were realized in a camp system whose sole purpose was dehumanization, esp. the dehumanization of Jews.

As we planned the 2019 Elie Wiesel Memorial Lecture series on “writing from a place of survival,” we felt that it was important to recall Primo Levi. We are looking forward to Sharon Portnoff’s lecture on Monday, October 28, 7:30pm, at the Tsai Performance Center. Please reserve your seat!