Tuesday 11 February 2025
Like last week’s blog entry, today’s blog started out as a rough draft for this blog site. As the writing became longer and more complicated, I convinced myself that it should go into my Katyn memoir manuscript. In fact, I wrote this piece as a culmination of a series of conversations I had with a student from my war class. Back in 15 April 2024, I wrote a blog here, entitled: “Professor, How Much Longer?” narrating the first dialogue I had with this student. A student horrified by the God-awful crimes against humanity the Nazis perpetrated during the Holocaust asked me: “How much longer? How much longer can you, Professor, teach this war class?” She worried about my mental health.
However, that story wasn’t finished. During office hours she requested to review her last major assignment, she resumed her question of: “How much longer?” posing it in several different ways. I immediately began drafting the scene. I needed to find a resolution to this dilemma as a teaching professor but more importantly as an empathetic human being. Indeed, why should I continue to teach this course, the war class suddenly became, in my mind, why do I still care… or to be more precise… why do I still give a shit about…. Katyn.
I immediately transferred this blog draft, placing it in my new, revised Katyn manuscript. This piece was to be a larger sequence of chapters addressing cynicism. For several reasons, King Arthur and I decided that this piece was too much of a tangent in my Katyn manuscript. So, once again, like last week’s blog, I have returned this week’s blog to the blog site, the intended place of publication.
There is some minor editing for clarity.
…
As the current teaching semester comes to an end, and, with it, my reflections upon my teaching practice and course content commence, I wonder if my address on cynicism persuaded not only last term’s student, Andromeda, but my most recent term’s student, Chen Jinggu. Like Andromeda, her spoken eloquence immediately stood out from her classmates; however, requesting office hours before the Final Exam, Jinggu doubted her writing abilities because her best friend had labelled her as “being a softie… wearing her heart on her sleeve… acting like a cry-baby” whenever she shared her thoughts on the war class material.
Before this meeting, Jinggu participated regularly during class discussions; however, her comments were more often self-reflections than answers or questions. Unafraid to disclose her emotions, she would say what her fellow classmates likely were too insecure to voice their emotions publicly: “I don’t understand how human beings can do this… the atrocities we are studying about… how could one human do this to other human being?” Her eyes… red and tear-filled… refused to shed her empathy, but her voice did. Throughout the semester’s class meetings and emails, she expressed shock, outrage, and helplessness. One instance, she confessed, “At times, I stopped listening to you. I feel bad. I mean… those Nazis committed terrible things, and I had enough of hearing about them. What about you? You’ve had enough, right?” “Professor! Why must it be you always to teach this material?”
Was Jinggu right? She and I had this discussion many times. Each time she reiterated this question, not only did I feel the presence of her cynical best friend but also the closeness of an abyssal, existential menace. Likely the first time in her life, she stared into the abyss, and the abyss began staring back. Not only disillusionment but sheer terror deluged her consciousness, and her best friend inadvertently was pushing her deeper into these existential waters. Each time I tried resolving her dilemma—in other words, her friend’s withering, sarcastic undermining of Jinguu’s empathy—I convinced her that her empathy is a good thing, but the influence of her friend was strong.
Jinggu felt guilty, not because she asked me such a personal, non-academic question, but for the reason she felt incompetent, unable to help those suffering while she only felt empathy. “What good am I accomplishing while feeling these emotions? Am I just wasting my energy?” she conceded, repeating the scorn of her best friend’s cynicism. Her eyes… I saw in them the reflection of the undulations of the abyss. Her emotional resistance kept her afloat, but for how long? While listening as Jinggu echoed her friend’s poisonous rhetoric, I felt the Abyss staring into me.
This scheduled office hour with Jinggu was for 30 minutes; however, I sensed the session would last longer. This meeting was too important—Jinggu’s very soul was at stake, not some mere college paper assignment—and I recognized that I needed to dive deeper within myself than before to argue that empathy isn’t a weakness or embarrassment and that my duty to teach this subject matter is my moral imperative. I also realized I needed to use fewer academic, jargonistic words. “Have a real conversation with Jinggu, not some pretentious consultation,” I said to myself.
“First, why do you… and to the point, your friend… think empathy is something to be ashamed about? The world is what it is now because we don’t care. We allow others to bully us to think empathy is a weakness. You might think, ‘What’s the point of crying for war crime victims when I’m sitting in a classroom, far removed from them, both in time and distance, and once class is over, I go to the coffeeshop and buy a latte, while checking my social media accounts?’ Your friend mocks you, and she’s convinced she’s right and you’re wrong… that she’s more sophisticated, wise to how the world really works… that Evil is stronger than Good… that those who empathize are stupid pushovers. If you think she’s right and you’re wrong, then why don’t you become a cynic, like the rest of them? What’s holding you back from becoming one? I’ll tell you… something—and maybe you can’t think of the word for it or can’t think of how to explain it—is holding you back; your friend hasn’t entirely persuaded you. You see something else.”
Jinggu listened. “Before this class, did you hear others speak about the Rape of Nanking, Unit 731, the comfort women… you have because your ancestors lived through those horrors… but did you hear about them in your other classrooms? No, but you heard them here… don’t get me wrong… I’m not congratulating myself… I’m stating a fact. And how did you feel when we studied those events? Did you feel acknowledged? That someone like me who isn’t Chinese or Asian teaches these war crimes… how did you feel? And why should I teach those histories? You wrote your Journal Assignment about the Memorial Hall of the Victims in Nanjing Massacre by Japanese Invaders. Why? Yes, these are sad stories, yes, we should cry… but why? Why am I impressed by your eloquence… your choice of writing about Nanking? Because you’re still human,” I declared.
Jinggu nodded. “You’re still human. The world’s moral and political toxins haven’t debilitated you… yet. It hasn’t made you unhuman. However, you’re not confident enough to resist the… contagion of cynicism. By crying, you show your humanity. And sometimes the only thing you can do when confronted with tragedy is cry. Again, tell me why crying is wrong? I would worry if you didn’t cry. I would worry if you didn’t say those things you say in class,” I insisted.
“Professor, but I feel guilty that I only cry. I am ashamed that I go out, having fun while people, like the ones Goya draws about or the others we studied…. I feel like a bad person,” Jinggu confessed. I hoped she said something like this because I’ve waited a long time to bring in Charlotte Delbo, the French Resistance member whom the Nazis transported to Auschwitz. “One moment. Let me find it on my smartphone; I need to get the quote. Here, listen. Charlotte Delbo was in Auschwitz… I always intended to teach her memoir, but what you just said reminded me of Delbo’s poem, “Prayer to the Living To Forgive Them for Being Alive”:
You who are passing by….
I beg you
do something
learn a dance step
something to justify your existence
something that gives you the right
to be dressed in your skin in your body hair
learn to walk and laugh
because it would be too senseless
after all
for so many to have died
while you live
doing nothing with your life.
Jinggu sobbed uncontrollably.
“You’re not a bad person. Delbo wants you to go out. There’s nothing wrong with being alive during such awful suffering and evil. The authoritarians, war criminals… they want you to feel guilty… you do their jobs for them… keeping yourself in place by not dancing, drinking a latte, laughing. By not speaking out. By not crying. Crying doesn’t make you vulnerable or weak; it shows strength. You cry for those who were murdered, tortured, but laugh for them, too. Don’t dehumanize them by treating them like… they didn’t matter. We cry at funerals, but we also laugh, telling funny stories about our loved ones. In a way, they live on through us when we do things with our lives. Your joys, in a metaphysical sense, become theirs. I am a happy person; my life is blessed with my wife, children, and dearest friends. I enjoy learning, traveling, and seeking new experiences. I love music. This course material is frightening, but my buoys, my life supports are strong. I am not drowning in the abyss,” I maintained.
Still weeping, Jinggu whimpered, “When you read those Nazi P.O.W. transcripts in class… how Luftwaffe pilots purposely targeted women with baby strollers… how they enjoyed shooting them… they actually said ‘enjoyed’… I thought of my mother. How she would do anything to save me. Save me. Save me.” Her tears exhausted her.
“I know. Your mother loves you; you love her. That’s a good thing. She willingly would die to protect you. Those fucking Nazis thought they were more powerful… their fucking bullshit Übermensch shit. Listen, it might not always feel like it, but Good is strong but delicate. You did read the Manicheans in your previous course; Evil is formidable,” I replied.
I paused, imagining looking at all the cynics I encountered during my Katyn odyssey and said to them: “If what I say makes me a heretic, worthier men have been burned for less. I’m unafraid of Hell; instead, a different punishment worries me. Throughout my 12 years of Catholic school, not one… not even a lay teacher… taught me about the Holocaust, or Hitler’s other 5 million murdered, the Gulag, Katyn… all of it. You failed me; the education I received from you sinned against me. I’m livid! Primo Levi… what? You don’t know him? Ugh. In the Preface to his If This Is a Man, he wrote this untitled poem:
You who live safe
In your warm houses,
You who find, returning in the evening,
Hot food and friendly faces:
Consider if this is a man
Who works in the mud
Who does not know peace
Who fights for a scrap of bread
Who dies because of a yes or a no.
Consider if this is a woman,
Without hair and without name
With no more strength to remember,
Her eyes empty and her womb cold
Like a frog in winter.
Meditate that this came about:
I commend these words to you.
Carve them in your hearts
At home, in the streets,
Going to bed, rising;
Repeat them to your children,
Or may house fall apart,
May illness impede you,
May your children turn their faces from you.
Levi’s curse shall not damn me. I confront Evil’s horrors because my soul is at stake; my children’s—and by extension, my students’—respect for me is at stake. I say that this indeed came about…this horror; otherwise, a more insidious sickness will kill me: soul sickness. I don’t choose nothingness, like so many have. By acknowledging Evil exists doesn’t mean Goodness is dead; at the same time, I can’t pretend that justice always will prevail; it doesn’t. Just look at the Katyn Massacres—no serious war crimes tribunal, Russia’s “Anti-Katyn” campaign, the European Court of Human Rights and its insistence on a legal technicality which denied justice for those Katyn Families…. No, I will spare Jinggu this lesson; she’s not ready for it. But you, you deserve to hear it! Lennon-Mc Cartney… fantasy music; yes, love is all you need, but they haven’t earned the experience to sing about that insight.” I had enough of yelling silently to all the Cynics in my life.
Jinggu sat there, ready to hear the next installment of my argument.
“It’s true; Goodness is delicate, beautiful… like a spider’s web, but it easily falls apart,” I resumed. “You can destroy Goodness, but like that spider’s web, it still clings on your hands. It’s hard to remove it completely but it’s there. And what does the spider do? Rebuild the web. Does the spider give up? No,” I affirmed.
And this time, I glared at the visions of those Cynics in my mind, their spongy, spineless cynical expressions: “All you did was snicker and revile. You’re not worth my rage.
“Jinggu, you may not understand everything I just told you. Like certain books or works of art, we may not be ready for them. You need to experience things… read other books first before reading the truly difficult ones. You may need to mature; maybe, in 5, 10 years, you’ll revisit this moment, and think differently than you do now. Education doesn’t stop when you receive your diploma. This is your last humanities course in college; promise me, don’t stop reading after this class,” I pleaded, hoping she comprehended what I said. I was too exhausted to continue; I didn’t know what else to say. What did Jinggu fathom from this tutorial?
A week later, Jinggu prefaced her final exam, writing: “This class brings me pain and joy at the same time; I will never forget how much I have ‘suffered’ and ‘gained.’ Even though I have told you this before, and I understand that teaching these materials is a part of your life and that you feel a duty to continue teaching them, I still wanted you to know that, as someone who sometimes easily empathizes, I could feel that every lecture contains your tears and energy. I sincerely hope that it will not exhaust you or dry you out, whether physically or mentally, one day. Being a professor is not easy, especially with the content you teach. As a student, I can find peace from talks and learn from the quotes you give. But you are playing a role that is constantly giving. I understand that sometimes it is consuming. I guess I am trying to say that taking a break sometimes may not be so bad. It might even be beneficial on some level. For example, when you are on a diet, sometimes a cheat day can help your body lose weight faster.”
Sigh. I don’t know what to make out of Jinggu’s recommendation.
Is she giving in, slowly but doubtlessly, to her friend’s cynicism? Reading this note again, I sense her empathy but it’s more of a warning of things to come if I continue my current path: self-harm. During my lectures on Japanese war crimes, I do talk about Iris Chang, her commitment to teaching the world about the Rape of Nanking; moreover, I do talk about Chang’s nervous breakdown and depression. Speculation that her journalism, book projects, and research on other Japanese war crimes contributed to her mental healthcare crisis and suicide is a topic I am sensitive to. I didn’t teach Jinggu this history for the first time; she knew about Chang long before taking my class.
And she didn’t need to remind me either. Did she worry that my own intense dedication to Katyn would also fracture me, sap my energy to make me more vulnerable to the abyss? On the other hand, Jinggu only knows my public, professional self: to Jinggu, I am Professor Paliwoda, not Danny, Dan, or Daniel. There is more to me than just this war class, or even Katyn itself. I have people to remember, and I have people who care for me.
…
This piece was once a part of my Katyn manuscript’s AFTERWARD. I thought by adding this piece there that I would answer the question: “Has writing about Katyn for such a long time hurt me in some way? Did it turn me into a pessimistic person? Yes, doing so hurt me, but doing so didn’t corrupt me into a cynic.