SELECTED WRITING

• To disarm the barricades of the heart at the eleventh hour
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Becoming Peacemakers #2: Fifteen Days To Reverse the Movement to War
Please Support Dennis Kucinich for President
Healing the Shoah
Speaking with Elephants - Long Version
Transmission Letter
Song
MaNdlovu
Birth and Rebirth in the Eleusinian Mysteries

Healing the Shoah

I never thought I would go to the Camps.
However, when I trace the origins of the
journey, I find a preoccupation with the
Shoah * since I was a child, which I never
acknowledged and always tried to set aside.
Last year when the idea insisted itself upon
me, after a similar insistence the year before
that I devote myself to studying the Shoah, I
turned to my husband, Michael Ortiz Hill,
intending to say, "I am thinking about going
to the Camps this spring." But in the instant
between the gesture and the speech, I knew
that I wasn't contemplating such a journey; I
was simply accepting its reality.

Having decided, I prepared intellectually and
spiritually, in every way I knew. I read for
months and months until nausea overcame
me or until I found myself distancing from
the material. Then the next day, I began
again, trying to define the questions I wished
to address when I was there, looking for the
particulars of my concern. I formulated
responses, theories, understandings. I
brought as much mindfulness as I could to the
exploration. Toward the end, I was aware
that my ideas, feelings, responses, intuitions,
were changing so rapidly that by the time I
left, I no longer had answers; I didn't even
have questions.

At Ravensbruck, the first Camp we visited,
I found myself sitting down on the floor
before the ovens of the crematorium, laying
out a medicine bundle which had been put in
my hands just as I was leaving the U.S., then
grieving, praying, and meditating for some
hours. After that, I had some idea of how I
might approach the Camps. Within a short
time, a ritual approach which was satisfying,
if not comforting, appeared, and I was
grateful for it. Perhaps my preparation had
had some value after all.
The meditative ritual contained elements

gleaned from a long conversation I had had
with Reb Zalman Schacter, and another with a
friend who was familiar with the Tibetan Chod
practice performed in cemeteries. It also
combined an ancient and esoteric Kabbalistic
practice taught to me by a friend, with
elements derived from my own spiritual
practice developed over the last years. The
contemplative ritual which was developing
was stark but allowed for the minimum of
what I hoped to realize: to look unflinchingly
at the worst of what human beings had done
to each other and had suffered, and to listen
for whatever wisdom might choose to be
transmitted.

Because Michael and I did virtually nothing
else during this month but visit the Camps,
the entire time took on the character of a
meditative retreat. Personal concerns, ordinary
life, fell away and it seemed to us then, and in
retrospect, that we were living in non-ordinary
reality, were experiencing the odd privilege of
descending consciously into hell.
It had been important to me from the
beginning to take a train to Poland. I wanted
the experience, albeit in my imagination, of
following the route to the Camps. So after six
days in East Germany, we took a train from
East Berlin to Warsaw.

No sooner had the train started than we
heard a thump of bodies and a woman
screaming in the next compartment in either
sexual ecstasy or physical pain and terror.
Deeply disturbed but unable to ignore the
sounds, unable to understand the language,
we listened with increasing ambivalence,
incapable of deciphering whether the woman
was really in need of help. Finally, however,
we felt it imperative to do something. Opening
our compartment door, we saw that a small
group of men, equally perplexed, had gathered
outside. But just then the train came to a stop
and custom officials entered. Informed of the
situation, they intervened. The woman had
needed help. Later, I saw the two of them
standing in the corridor, the man shamefaced
and tender, the woman weeping.
The experience of my own hesitancy, my
seeming reluctance or inability to act as
quickly as I always thought I would to help
another human being, mortified and humbled
me. This awareness of my own moral failure,
appropriately undermined whatever spiritual
arrogance and self-righteousness with which I
might have so very incorrectly approached
this most unfathomable of events in human
history.

There are many ways to tell the Story of the
journey. But at the end when I was given a
Story to bring back, so to speak, I began to
see that a theme had emerged or perhaps an
agency whose activities I had not suspected
had been at work choreographing events and
insights in ways I would never have predicted.

I had heard that there was a Carmelite
Convent at Dachau where travelers could
stay, and I wrote to them originally only
because I wanted to see how it would feel to
stay over night in the Camp itself. Then a
reference in Reb Zalman Schacter's "Some
Dawn Thoughts on the Shoah" [ Tikkun, Vol.
2, No.1. I, to a similar Karmel at Auschwitz
aroused my curiosity. When Michael's sister,
Claire, a cloistered nun, spoke to us about
Edith Stein, a remarkable Jewish woman,
now beatified, who had died at Auschwitz,
we wrote to the Nuns in Auschwitz asking
whether we might visit them as well. These
Carmelite nuns, like another group situated
in one of the former most notorious prisons
in Berlin, have a devotional practice which
consists of prayer in the places of greatest
suffering. The day before we left the United
States, we received an invitation from the
Nuns at the Edith Stein Karmel, in Auschwitz
even though they have no "accommodations
for pilgrims." The letter said, "The intention
of your pilgrimage to various concentration
camps is beautiful and noble. The place of
death must be a place of prayer and the
prayer ought to unite people of various
religions."

The night before we arrived at Auschwitz,
I dreamed of the Sisters as a gaggle of young
girls bustling cheerily about us. In the dream,
they'd joined the Order as a means to live
together. At one point, the Mother Superior,
a warm, motherly woman, put her hands on
my cheeks with affection and asked
sympathetically, "How is it going?"

"It's getting easier," I replied.

"I'm not surprised," she said. But as we
spoke, we both knew that all I had seen so far,
had been only in preparation for Auschwitz.
And when we got there, it was true: Two
and a half weeks and six camps had been, in
fact, only preparation for Auschwitz and
Birkenau, the two most horrific Camps of all
where four million people were exterminated,
three million of them Jews.

Two days before, at Sobibor, I had been
confronted internally myself with two
questions: Was I willing to face evil wherever
it was, including in myself? Was I willing to
listen and absorb, if necessary, whatever pain
presented itself? Afterwards, when I was
meditating for some hours in the mass grave
of 18,400 Jews shot in one night at Majdanek,
the thoughts which insisted themselves into
my consciousness were: "Stop the making of
enemies. Be fierce, determined, and undaunted
in the expression of kindness and tenderness,
and not only to your own."

Continuing to wrestle with what might be the
meaning of this, we arrived at the Karmel
Edith Stein which is situated just outside
Auschwitz in what is said to have been a
storehouse for Zyklon-B. Earlier in the day,
looking out a window in Block 11 where the
gas had first been used on several hundred
Soviet prisoners of war, we had seen the large
cross in the courtyard of the Karmel and were
both comforted and unnerved by its presence.
The bird-like nun who opened the gate for us
bent over, shyly, as if to hide her face entirely
with her veil. We explained who we were, she
murmured, "California," which may be the
first English word she ever learned, and
invited us in.

We were led to a small room where we
waited. After some time, we heard voices and
giggles and then the curtain behind the
wooden grate was pulled aside and we were
face to face with the Mother Superior and a
young Nun who spoke some English, not
unlike the figures in my dream. That night
and the next morning we spoke together for
many hours in very halting but moving
conversation mostly in English and French.
When frustrated, I found myself retrieving
once more the Yiddish I'd spoken as a child,
which I had first activated in East Germany.
Michael, fell, as uselessly, into Spanish, both of
us instinctively diving for a mamalushen which,
however, neither of the Nuns understood.

Awkward as the communication was, we
focused upon the power of prayer, the need to
heal, ways to approach Auschwitz, and the
controversy engendered when various Jewish
organizations demanded from the Pope that the
Karmel be moved, insisting that the Nuns'
presence usurps the most symbolic of all
monuments to the Holocaust. (Sometime after
our visit, after a storm of protest and acrimony,
the Vatican agreed that the Karmel would be moved and an inter-faith center established on the site.) But the Nuns asserted passionately that in the spirit of the two people to whom the Karmel is devoted - Edith Stein and Maximillian Kolbe, a Catholic priest, also beatified after dying at Auschwitz - they prayed for everyone and while we were with them we did experience the unquestionable depth and breadth of their compassion.

"This is Auschwitz, not a museum." The
Mother Superior lamented that the Camp
having become the most popular tourist
attraction in Poland, was unable to serve
anyone's - Christian's or Jew's - spiritual
needs. And while it was obvious that the
Nuns are deeply wounded and perplexed by
the hostility to their presence, it was also
clear how devoted they were to alleviating
what suffering they could through the agency
of prayer and contemplation.

We did not feel that the Mother Superior
who had been born near Oswiecim was
oblivious to the enormity of Jewish suffering.
When she was about nine the Nazis appeared
at her door terrorizing her and her brother
while her mother was away. That same week,
she said, the Jewish child her mother had
offered to hide at her grandfather's farm was
arrested with all the Jews in the area. "In one
night," she said not without visible emotion,
"all the Jews, all the Jews in our town were
rounded up and killed." During the two
interviews, the Mother Superior spoke at
length about the suffering in the Camps, among
different peoples, Jews and Catholic clergy, in
particular.

Perhaps, she was presenting the requisite
stories, but I did not think so at the time. Nor
did I feel inordinate gratitude for her mother's
desire to have saved a child. Anger and envy
tainted my response: When the Nazis didn't
find Jews in her house, they went away. And
though she had been terrified, she had not
been killed.

However, I also knew that while 3 and a
half million Polish Jews had been killed by
the Nazis, 3 and a half million Poles had been
killed as well. And I did not want to play
numbers nor did I long for there to have been
more dead or more suffering.

While speaking, we were brought a modest
but satisfying supper by the Sister who had
first opened the door and afterwards were led
to a gratifyingly simple room where we slept
knowing full well where we were which we
could not have known so keenly had we
stayed at the hotel also on the Camp grounds.
In the morning, when we met again, the Nuns
once more voiced their pain about the
controversy regarding their presence. By this
time, enormous affection and community had
been established between us. It was so clear to
me that these 14 devout, innocent, yet
spiritually conscious women were the pawns in
a political-theological struggle they could not
begin to effect or understand. And, further, this
controversy is taking everyone further and
further away from the spirit and healing which
that place and this planet so desperately need if
we are to save ourselves - or anything at all.

Aside from the politics of the situation,
basic theological issues separate the Jews
from the Catholics in their response to and
understanding of the Shoah or Holocaust .
And this is complicated by the fact that basic
theological and political differences separate
Jews from each other in their responses as
well. When I had read in the Los Angeles
Times that "Jewish leaders outside Poland
demand the removal of the small group of
Carmelite nuns from a convent they
established in 1984. . . " I wondered, as I
always do when I read that phrase, how these
Jewish leaders came to speak for me.

Many Jews, it's true, are offended by
the application of the Catholic vision of
martyrdom, transcendence and resurrection
to the Shoah. The best analysis of the
situation I've read is Daniel Landes' "The
Pope's Assault on the Jews," [ Tikkun Vol. 2
No.4.]. As Landes puts it, "The Holocaust
has been transformed from a Jewish tragedy
into a Catholic victory." But for many Jews
the issue is political not religious, just as their
identification may be secular not spiritual. As
the Nuns said, naively but with real perplexity,
"Those who seem to be most opposed to our
being here, also indicate they no longer have
a belief in God." How Jews look at the Shoah
is as complex and contradictory as the ways
Jews look at anything.

When one sees the 23 foot cross outside
the Convent, it is possible to feel that the
Church is "expropriating the Jewish experience
and incorporating it into Christianity." But
then it is also possible to speak of how segments
of the Jewish community appropriate, co-opt
and even sell the Holocaust. It often felt to me
as though the original Nazi effort to build
Auschwitz-Birkenau for the Jews is being
maintained by the insistence that this experience
must be perpetuated as a completely Jewish
experience. I did not like walking through
Auschwitz thinking this is mine anymore than
I liked the fact that a Jew became whomever
the Nazis defined as a Jew. The next day
when Michael and I dug our fingers into the
soil of the crematoriums at Birkenau we came
up with a handful of ashes and bones. I did
not need or want to trace their genealogy;
that has been done too often in this century.
During this month when Michael, himself
Catholic, sat beside me, uttering the prayer
he had so carefully written for this pilgrimage,
he was as broken hearted as I was. His prayers,
are, I know, every bit as good as mine. I was
grateful for the Nuns whose presence was
maintaining the meaning of an increasingly
commercial and secular site. "We pray for
everyone," I remembered the Mother Superior
had said.

If I have any criticism of the Karmel at
Auschwitz, it is only that the Nuns do not
open the doors of their chapel to the public as
do the Nuns at Dachau. Walking through
Auschwitz, I was beside myself with agitation,
in part because there was no place where I
could find solitude. The next day at Birkenau,
I found shelter from the rain, cold, and
crowds in a remote barrack where I sat and
prayed on the long cement latrines. This felt
soul searing and, therefore, appropriate. But
I longed for some temple, some chapel, where
I could gather myself together again or
completely fall apart and the Catholic Church
across from the Camp, designed, it seemed to
me, to serve the newly developing suburb,
offered no sanctuary. The Jewish exhibit at
Auschwitz, was hardly a place to experience
grief or healing, and I preferred finally to
spend time in the barracks with their horrific
displays of suitcases, toothbrushes and human
hair - despite the crowds - than to stay in that
dark gallery, rather shabbily furnished with
now overly familiar photographs and slogans.
Walking back to my car after having completely
circled the terrible expanse of Birkenau, I was
horrified for the literally millions of visitors
who have no option but to integrate in the
tourist bus whatever experience they can have
in the two or so hours allotted them. Mother
Mary Teresa who established Karmel Heilig
Blut had written in her petition: "The name
Dachau will always be connected with man's
most terrible cruelties. The site of such ill deeds,
where so many human beings bore unspeakable
pain, should not be lowered to the status of
merely a monument, or worse, to just a tourist
attraction."

On the Shabbas, the night before, in Krakow,
I had attended Services for one of the first times
in my life. But the evening left me with another
kind of grief. After the Services, one of the
younger men, with whom we had been speaking
warmly, asked us if we would be in Krakow the
next day. Without thinking, I replied we
wouldn't because we were going to Auschwitz.
He turned on his heel and walked away from
us. Because one must not travel on the Sabbath?
Because one must not mourn on the Sabbath?
Because of some other restriction or law with
which he virtually dismissed us and, for his
purposes, reduced Judaism by another one or
two ? Where the Nuns had gathered me in, he
had set me apart and so it turned out that it was the kindness and tenderness of these very simple, perhaps naive, women which sustained me at
Auschwitz-Birkenau.

"Come back if you like, to eat or sleep, for
whatever you need," the Nuns said when we
were leaving, clucking over us like the proverbial
Jewish mothers. We had felt and expressed a deep and surprising love for each other in the short time we'd been together. "Pray for us," they said, "and we'll pray for you." I think they did.

Days later we were at Dachau. I felt
apprehensive driving to the Convent. In
retrospect, I was ambivalent about my stay
with the Nuns. Why? I wondered. Had I
overdone my support for their presence in
Auschwitz? Had I, in the interest of
community, soft pedaled the history of Polish
and Catholic anti-semitism? Had I failed to
received something from them which I wanted
and was it simply something personal: Had
they merely been insufficiently interested in
what it meant for a Jewish woman to make
this pilgrimage? Or had they been defensive
or unwilling to seriously attend the Jewish
objections to their presence? Or was it only
the inner fear of sleeping once again in a place
which was so brutally saturated by pain, terror
and death ? Was I just overwhelmed with being
Jewish among Christians in Germany? Michael
was already bending over with the pain of the
history of the Church and its relationship to
anti-semitism. Was it just that I'd had too
much? I want a German to reach out to me,"
I said to Michael. "I want some gesture from
that side."

When we arrived, the Nuns greeted us in a
flurry of warmth and delight. We stayed three
days. There I experienced what I think must
be a small vision in the Camp and then the kind
of humble miracles which sometimes occur
between people. These form the substance of
the Story which I feel I have been given to
bring back.

"Why don't we have a temple, chapel, or
meditation hall in each of the Camps?" I asked
desperately, after the first day at Dachau. Even
the smallest room like the alcove off the
Catholic chapel at Mauthausen would have
been sufficient. Early in the morning, I had lit
all the candles I could reach in the Ark shaped
Jewish memorial at Dachau whose Menorah
in a stunning reversal looms above the wall of
the Convent and is as visible there as the Cross
is in Auschwitz. Within the memorial there is
no place to sit except the floor, and when waves
of tourists stomped through noisily, I had to leave and later in the afternoon it was locked. At the end of the afternoon, I sat quietly in the Chapel Heilig Blut grateful for the silence. Later at Vespers, the Nuns sang like angels and I was deeply moved by the service deliberately enriched by the Psalms and Old Testament texts in order to move closer to the Jewish spirit. I was as comforted as I had been in my dream when the Mother Superior from Auschwitz had taken my face in her hands.

"There is no Temple here, nor Wailing Wall,
nor sanctuary because there's no one left to
do it," Michael answered gently reminding me
that on the Shabbas we'd spent in the Jewish
synagogue in Krakow no more than 15 men,
all but two over 70, had gathered for services.
There we realized more than we ever had what
it had meant for 6 million to have been killed. It
meant also that no one was left .

I didn't know until I spent some days at Dachau that I was wishing that the Nuns at Auschwitz would open their doors or their Chapel to all visitors and pilgrims so that, at the least, we might all have a place to silently recollect ourselves or pray. The obvious had become vividly clear to me. There are no Jews left in Poland, [ or Germany, or Austria for that matter] to provide the ongoing physical and spiritual presence to memorialize the Shoah. Perhaps at some time, there will be internationally maintained sanctuaries for all people but they do not exist now. It has fallen to the Catholics, then, to maintain the heart
and the sacred.

The last day we had an meeting with Sister
Maria with whom we had been corresponding
about our stay. After a short exchange, she
asked where we had been. I listed the names
Ravensbruck, Sachsenhausen, Buchenwald,
The Warsaw Ghetto, Treblinka, Majdanek,
Sobibor, Auschwitz, Birkenau, Mauthausen,
Dachau. "Oh," she said, writing them down
while chanting them softly, "I once heard such a list in the Jewish liturgy. I will recite it to my
sisters."

Then I began speaking what I had been afraid,
of speaking since the first night there when I’d
also had a dream. After all, I remembered, it
was the Church which had burned witches at
the stake. "1 had a dream when I arrived here," I said. "In it, I was instructed to ask you something which you may not be able to give me permission to do, nor may your Mother Superior. But I can't do it without your permission. So I must ask."

She waited quietly. I took the small embroidered blue suede pouch out of my pocket and the brown leather pouch they had given us with the keys to the Convent. "In my dream, ------- 
Sister Maria looked at me very kindly and then,
after a short silence, she replied gently, "Will
you show me where you will bury this bundle,
so I can pray there each day?"

When we finished the interview, Sister Maria
asked if we could pray together, each in our
own language. I said the small prayer in Hebrew
which I had been taught; Michael prayed in
English and she prayed in German. She prayed
for us. I understood enough to be able to decipher that.

After this meeting, I walked through the Camp
for the last time knowing I would not go through a Camp soon again, if ever. It was when I was lighting some candles at the ovens when a tour of German boys of high school age entered the crematorium. Like all other tourists they chatted and shuffled as their teacher lectured them on the ways and means of extermination. I would have stopped lighting the candles if I could, but I couldn't stop. And in that moment I realized I had become part of the display. I felt violated by their presence and this intrusion into the absolute privacy and intimacy of grief. These were my dead they were learning about and the chasm between mourning and curiosity, loomed very large.

These can not, must not be museums, I thought
to myself and proceeded to the next candle, as
if I were performing a sacred rite. Then something happened; the boys became silent. I then sat down to meditate on the stone floor before the ovens. Michael joined me. The boys continued to be still. They left in similar silence. Other tourists came through, saw us, stood quietly, tiptoed or spoke in whispers. Something changed radically as we were able for a short time to convert that space of horror into a place of prayer.

Later sitting on the earth among the trees, once again on a site of a mass grave, I asked for the last time, if there was any wisdom which wanted to come through me. And I heard the words, 'Never again," but they had a different meaning. "Never again for anyone" was what was meant. Whatever it was that caused such a break from the human spirit, it must never happen again. No one ever again must be drawn into committing such evil and brutality, no one must be permitted to have such crimes upon their souls, nor can anyone be allowed to suffer it again. Never again for the victimizer and the victim; never again for
Jews and everyone else. "Do what you can to
find the sources of this suffering which so many,
not only Jews experienced. Look everywhere in
history, in others and in yourself, and address
it as best you can. Never again, for anyone,"
it repeated and I found myself reeling also with
the understanding of the suffering which occurs
from an alliance with evil.

So, what do I want from these Nuns? I thought later. As a Jewish woman what do I want from the Church? I want them to say Kaddish, I found myself thinking. I want them to say Kaddish for my dead.

And I want them to take me, my people, my dead into their hearts so we can be each other's. I knew that I wanted these Karmels to remain in the Camps. And I knew that I must not claim that suffering any longer as a sign by which Jews identified themselves and set themselves apart. I had to set aside the idea of the Shoah belonging only to my people. Then I knew that I very much wanted the Nuns to remain and to continue to pray that all souls be released from or transcend their suffering. Because I could not remain there, I was grateful that they were there, as one of the sisters put it, "for our entire lives."

And I realized also that I wanted to offer them comfort as well, for they have the hardest job. It is not only their people who died there, it is their people who were the Nazis as well - and the latter must be the greater agony. We walked back through the guardhouse which is the entrance into the courtyard of the Convent built upon the quarry where the priests, in particular, had been given the hardest work. I was so glad to be married to a Catholic man. It is good for Jews and Catholics to be like a married couple, both separate and distinct, but together in spirit.

Michael and I sat together for the last time in the chapel next to the garden which was where the SS whorehouse had been. I thought of lines from the prayers of my husband's eleven year old daughter, Nicole Isaacson Hill and her friend, Lily Rajan: "Heal my heart and the hearts of all dead and living. Heal the sore and hurting patches of bodies and people. Please change the dirt that many are buried in to flowers trees and vegetables. Please feed the hungry with these fruits of life and death." In that moment, on this last day sitting in the Chapel, I realized that in these places of abject suffering, I had learned to pray. And it also came to me that there had been some humble visions and small miracles, through
which despite the mind and soul shattering grief and pain, I had experienced a consistent awareness of the Divine Presence in the universe.

I remembered a story which had been told at our wedding about an Abbot and Rabbi. During the yearly meeting between the Abbot and Rabbi to discuss theology and sacred texts, the Abbot had complained that all the parishioners were leaving and no one was attending services any more. "Is there anything you can say to help us?" the priest asked. "Nothing," the Rabbi answered shaking his
head with sadness. "Nothing but this: The Messiah is among you."

Astonished and incredulous, the Abbot brought this confusing statement back to his community. The few monks unwilling to challenge the rabbi, began to act as though it were true, treating each other With the kindness and compassion which they would have extended to the Messiah. Soon people in the community began to perceive the atmosphere of holiness which permeated the monastery and returned to worship. Accordingly the sacred community was restored.

Was this in the back of my mind, when one of the Nuns at Dachau asked me if I would speak to all of them when I returned. "Everyone wants to turn their backs on the suffering which occurred here and sometimes we also want to turn our backs and forget," she confessed.

"But," I said to her, 'I think the Shechina is
among you.'