Tuesday 04 February 2025
During the Spring 2024 semester, I began creating new content for the revised draft of my Katyn manuscript. Originally, this piece was to be a blog intended for my “Professor….” Series. While drafting it, I quickly realized it was becoming a long, very complicated essay exploring cynicism, supposedly, mine. By the way, I am NOT a cynic!
I considered what I had written in that preliminary draft more appropriate for the Katyn revision, not here as a blog. Once completed, I added this piece to what I had initially called THE AFTERWARD, the last chapter of my newly revised Katyn manuscript. I had planned to use this piece as a “preface” to explain why I still cared about Katyn as a writing subject after experiencing bouts of severe writer’s block and other obstacles.
I also added to the first draft of THE AFTERWARD another classroom experience about a student’s worry that I was teaching the war class far too long, to the detriment of my mental health. I will share that piece here next week.
After King Arthur and I reviewed and edited THE AFTERWARD, we both decided this piece didn’t work as well as a manuscript chapter. So, I am returning it here, where I originally intended to publish it.
I have made some editorial changes for clarity.
—
“Professor, are you cynical?” Andromeda Savant, my student, wanted to know. She posed this question during my first, introductory remarks on slain Russian journalist, Anna Politkovskaya. The other students in the war class immediately studied her with their eyes, wondering, perhaps, why she may have considered me a cynic, or why did she ask such a question here, now.
To me, her question was more like a shock of recognition. I’ve been accused sometimes by worried loved ones, I think unfairly and groundlessly, of being a cynic. At certain times, I did consider myself one, if only temporarily, conditionally, and even lazily. I know that I am a skeptic, one who poses hard, demanding questions about life and art, one who feels unconvinced by quick, simplistic answers about existential meaning or literary interpretation.
I chuckled, not in a condescending way but in gratitude for being asked such a question. Andromeda also smiled, acknowledging that I understood her motivation for asking and knowing the answer. The other students looked more stupefied. This moment was the beginning of a debate between two old spirits. My laughter lasted longer than it should have; however, it wasn’t mean-spirited. “With whom have you been talking?” I began, still giggling. “You’re not the first person to accuse me of being a cynic. I’m not, but the way; I’m a skeptic” I said, while reliving those moments when others questioned my philosophy on life.
“How should I explain?” I mused aloud, pausing for what seemed an eternity.
I didn’t know where or how to begin assuring Andromeda that I wasn’t a cynic. Throughout the years, my judgmental critics have reproached me: “Why don’t you teach ‘nice’ books? Or ‘happy’ books?” My response: “They’re not real” or “they’re insincere” or “life isn’t always that way.” I even heard people accuse me (wrongly): “Why are you so negative?” Or, “Why is it so important to you those books be real?”
While gathering my thoughts to convince my student that I wasn’t a cynic, I recalled an argument I had with a fellow teaching colleague. “Evil exists in the world. Tragedy happens all the time. I don’t pretend not to see it,” I heard my past self say.
Sometimes, those lines worked; however, when my colleague remained unpersuaded, I said: “Have you lost a spouse and child, like Emerson (the nineteenth century American public intellectual)? No? I have… two babies… at the same time. I find Emerson’s ‘Experience,’ an essay about losing his son, to be outrageous. It’s unforgivable. Really… this is what he says about Waldo, and I quote… ‘In the death of my son, now more than two years ago, I seem to have lost a beautiful estate, — no more. I cannot get it nearer to me.’ I get it. Emerson felt responsible for uplifting and motivating a young nation; however, what he said about Waldo… doesn’t sound like Emerson, the Optimist; he sounds cynical. How dare he call his child’s death, ‘experience’? No. I cannot accept that… from him. From anyone. The sacrifice of his ‘beautiful boy’ to remain the spokesman of American Optimism is too much for me to bear.”
Yes, I probably sound like a Dostoevsky character. And I’ve read Emerson’s journals and poems about the death of Waldo. Emerson sounds different there, a little. He sounds more human; he sounds like a grieving father… occasionally. In contrast, to paraphrase Dostoevsky, the suffering of one child is proof enough that God doesn’t exist. I am unsure if Emerson would ever go so far to imply that! If this makes me an asshole, curmudgeon, a “negative” person, then fine. I am one. Nonetheless, being called a “cynic” would be an insult. I consider Waldo’s very real death and memory to be more important than faux optimism.
Andromeda, this precocious undergraduate who had detected something “cynical” in me was simply incorrect; I am not a cynic. Nonetheless, when I chuckled again, the entire class frowned, utterly shocked about what was happening. “See,” I imagined hearing my detractors from the past telling me; “even your students think you’re too pessimistic.” Sure, I study, teach, and write about dark and depressing topics. However, I do balance that heaviness with hopeful and affirming texts—yes, literature of war can offer glimmers of hope.
The other students were still worried about what exactly was happening. Not Andromeda. She remained calm, awaiting my reply. For some hidden, personal reason, she needed to know how I viewed the world. I think, too, she had a shock of recognition, a meeting of similar minds with me. Did she see in me a kindred spirit who also asked difficult questions, who also answered those difficult questions with difficult answers? Did she depend upon my reply, my self-defense of not being a cynic to settle her own personal existential crisis? For other professors, they may have shied away from answering publicly such a bold but such a serious question; on the contrary, I respected her more for being fearlessly inquisitive.
Andromeda’s conundrum reflected the very essence of my class: “The (In)Humanity of War,” the name of my course, the one I christened it with. In other words, she seemed to be asking, “So which is it, Professor? Inhumanity or Humanity?” She seemed also to be saying, “You can’t have it both ways, Professor. War can’t both dehumanize and humanize. On the first day, you told us to remember only one lesson from this class: the word ‘dehumanize.’ I am confused. How can crimes against humanity ‘dignify’ mankind—another of your so-called d-words—and not dehumanize us?” She certainly was exhibiting another “d-word”: “distrustful.” What was her distrust of humanity showing me? My answer could very well validate her own cynicism. “If he’s one, then I am justified to be one, too,” I speculated Andromeda convincing herself. “What did she (mis)hear or (mis)understand coming out of my mouth to make her think I am a cynic?” I fretted.
Cruelty, bloodlust, rape, torture, destruction, extermination… the inhumanity of war. Are we sadistic, narcissistic, and petty? After all, mankind’s history is in essence the history of war. Did she verify my first day’s rhetorical question: “Is there a time period when peace lasted for a considerable time, when no war, anywhere, was deteriorating humanity?” Was she unable to answer it? Did her lack of an answer convince her that I was a cynic, thereby bestowing upon herself the right to be one, too? Did I inadvertently create a cynic? In my war class, was I painting that portrait of inhumanity, thus affirming her cynical accusation?
Our first course primary text, Francisco Goya’s The Disasters of War, could be seen to corroborate her claim that I was a cynic. Goya sketches famine, gang rape, mutilation (of both the living and the dead), murders of civilians (both unarmed and armed)—including children—and Goya is unsparing. Eighty plates! most of which illustrate war crimes in the process of being perpetrated.
“Is Goya standing, let’s say… over there (I walk toward a spot in the classroom) while drawing the scene? Is he an eyewitness? Is he just standing there, doing nothing but drawing? Not helping the women being raped, the children being murdered? We have no trustworthy evidence he did observe actual scenes like this one, but….” I said during our Goya unit.
“Goya isn’t satisfied with one scene of a particular war crime. No, he gives you at least 7… maybe more?… rape scenes; he draws—I lost count right now—11 (and counting) civilian killings; shall I add up the number of torture scenes? Moreover, Goya’s sarcastic plate titles demoralize (another d-word); for example: Plate 39—heroic feat! With dead men! “This sketch presents mutilated men hanging and impaled from a tree. Are we sure that some body parts there don’t belong to a woman? Where’s the heroism? “How many individuals do you see here? (pause) Don’t assume that head goes with that headless and limbless corpse. The arms, too. How many victims do you see,” I whisper to the students.
On the other hand, I taught Andromeda and her fellow classmates about Chiune Sugihara, Irena Sendler, Raoul Wallenberg, and the thousands of other Righteous Among the Nations who, at great risk to themselves, rescued European Jews from the Holocaust. Some recognized and unrecognized Righteous Gentiles died protecting those the Nazis wished to exterminate. Does teaching students these lessons make me cynical? I think I must remind Andromeda that we did read Irene Gut’s memoir, In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer, a validation that decent humans resist an inhumane world…. And proof that I am not cynical.
And if Andromeda had forgotten about the numerous people Irene Gut saved, then I need to help her to remember the Nobel Prize for Peace recipients whose acceptance speeches we also read: Leymah Roberta Gbowee, Dmitry Muratov, and Médecins Sans Frontières, also known as Doctors Without Borders. They made moral stands facing war crimes. Also, not cynics, like me.
I forgot; did she write her Paper One on Gut or Gbowee? She chose the humaneness found in war, not the cynicism of war to write about. Moreover, I do remember she selected the quote from Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner: “War doesn’t negate decency. It demands it, even more than in times of peace” to support her argument about her primary text, Gut or Gbowee. Her Paper One wasn’t at all cynical.
And then there was Anna Politkovskaya. Like Marie Colvin, Almigdad Mojalli and so many other slain war journalists who died exposing war atrocities and supporting the innocent victims and sharing their stories, Politkovskaya was a defender of humanity during war. Do reporters publishing articles on war crimes and then readers reading those news pieces become cynics because they acknowledge atrocities, confirming mankind’s evil, or do they become “tragic optimists”—to borrow a phrase from Viktor Frankl—because they “say yes to life in spite of all that”?
I think not only did Politkovskaya (and Goya, believe it or not) say yes to life in spite of all that, I, too, say it, in spite of all that. Politkovskaya and her fallen comrades died defending the truth, humanizing the oppressed, and unmasking the war criminals. In A Small Corner of Hell: Dispatches from Chechnya, she writes, “So I want you to know the truth. Then you’ll be free of cynicism. And of the sticky swamp of racism that our society has been sliding into.” Her journalism accuses her fellow Russians of being unneighborly, apathetic, passive, complicit, even cynical; nonetheless, her journalism also implores her fellow Russians to be unlike Putin, which means: DON”T BE CYNICAL!. She attempted to save their souls. Her words hurt but they healed, too.
Andromeda’s interest in my world outlook didn’t come out of nowhere.
“Politkovskaya is a personal hero. I taught her journalism, life, and murder since my West Point days—a long time. Until last year, I felt I never gave her justice in my classrooms; I felt clumsy while teaching her importance, sensing that I didn’t convince my students she was still relevant. Previous students only read excerpts… good ones but bits and pieces. I gave up. I stopped teaching her work and felt guilty. When Putin launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, I decided to bring her back to my classrooms. Her story explains Putin, and if you want to understand today’s Russia, you need to read Politkovskaya. I decided I needed to give her the full treatment in the war course: an entire book, not bits and pieces… at least 3 class lessons, these fancy presentation slides… everything. And I hope you see my admiration for her in my lectures,” I began answering Andromeda’s question.
“But I’m not answering your question. Let me guess, the reason you asked whether I’m cynical was… in an earlier slide, I described Politkovskaya as my hero… that she was an idealist, humanitarian, and truth seeker. All praiseworthy qualities! Then I asked the class how they would describe her. Again, all good things. But then, I asked, “Was Anna Politkovskaya foolish, incautious, or irresponsible?” And let me guess, at that moment, you thought, ‘How could he talk from both sides of his mouth? How could he say she’s his hero and then say she’s… stupid… in essence… but he’s being polite, calling her foolish instead, right?” I posited.
Andromeda smiled with great expectation.
Would I mollify her misgivings? Would my self-defense rectify her suspicions? “I am not a cynic. I love life. I believe art, even the bleakest, most despairing work of art, and we’ve studied some in this class, is life-affirming. If an artist were truly cynical, why bother creating art? The artist who paints or writes horrible scenes for its own sake is a cynic. Goya isn’t a cynic. He sketched those pieces to warn us… to save us from destroying ourselves. Wasn’t he performing a good deed… something a cynic would never do? Did we listen? That’s a different question. Some people heeded his lessons. Many more didn’t. Is that the number of people who listened enough? Enough for you? Enough for me? Saving the world is more than a catchphrase. And you’re not the first to try. Goya tried. Did he succeed? Remember he didn’t dare publish his sketches during his lifetime. Do you think he enjoyed drawing those rape, torture scenes? Do you think he enjoyed showing us war crimes? Of course, not; he worried about our humanity, our future. Did I teach them to watch you squirm, even cry? No. Remember when you took your antiquities literature course, and you studied Cassandra? What happened to her? Right, the gods cursed her, and her fellow Greeks didn’t believe her prophecies. And some have called Politkovskaya a modern-day Cassandra,” I pleaded.
“And maybe some of you thought, ‘Who gives a shit about Politkovskaya? She’s dead. She allowed herself to get killed. Putin’s men already warned her… she said it herself in A Small Corner of Hell… FSB and military agents put her through a mock execution. And not for the last time… the Russians and Chechens intimidated her thereafter. She wrote about it. She was poisoned… barely survived. By the way, maybe you’re the cynic, not me. She could have gone into exile. She was going to be a grandmother.’ And you probably would be right to argue that. ‘Politkovskaya, think of yourself, your family. Journalism… fighting Putin… from inside Russia isn’t worth dying for,’ you might say. Any American or British university school of journalism would consider landing her as a great prize. She could have become a cable TV news bureau chief stationed in London or Berlin or New York. But she chose to resist,” I contended.
Andromeda’s smile persevered.
“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Politkovskaya was damned if she stayed in Russia, writing on Putin’s war and corruption; Politkovskaya was damned if she left Russia. She was damned for staying because her life was in danger. She was damned if she went into exile because she would have felt like a fraud. How could she have rallied the Russian people to resist Putin if she chose safety? They couldn’t run away. How would they view her if she did? To be a true hero, you must lead from the front, not the back. She wouldn’t have been able to live with herself if she had fled abroad. She would have given into cynicism, her true worst enemy. You can call her romantic and naïve, but she didn’t betray herself or her values. Cynics don’t fight for anything; they just complain,” I insisted.
Andromeda’s smile endured.
“Politkovskaya had every right to be angry with her Russian readers. Does being angry make her a cynic? No. She could have chosen to stop reporting from Chechnya, stop instigating Putin, stop demanding the truth… But she didn’t stop warring with Putin. She felt she needed to save the Russians who were seduced by Putin’s lies. Even while incensed by and disappointed with her Russian audience, she didn’t stop writing for them. What was the point of writing more articles and books? Someone was reading them, and not just Western university students taking a war class. Russians were reading her journalism—but how many? … doesn’t matter how many—there were those Russian who did read her work; her primary audience was them, not us. Even when she was disappointed with them, she still fought for them, hoping to save their souls. She isn’t a cynic… and for those and other reasons, I am not one, too,” I urged.
Andromeda’s smile broadened.
“Politkovskaya didn’t look away; I don’t either. She had this deep moral conviction, one that many of us don’t understand. And when we don’t understand something, we criticize, discredit, ridicule, or ignore it. Who’s now cynical? In one sense, she failed; she was executed by cynics—and I mean Putin and his henchmen—who felt intimidated by her stature; she was silenced. On the other hand, here we are… in this classroom…almost twenty years later… after her murder… reading and talking about Politkovskaya. And we’re praising her efforts, and maybe you, too, will consider her your new hero. We’re keeping her name alive. I consider that a victory over cynicism; she won,” I stressed.
I think Andromeda recognized that I wasn’t a cynic; however, Reader, you might think, “what does anything I just said to Andromeda relevant to my Katyn project?” It is. Cynicism is Evil’s accessory to ultimate meaninglessness. Succumbing to cynicism makes the slip into the abyss—and thus drowning in it—much easier, and for Evil to disintegrate Good. For over 15 years working on Katyn, I resisted cynicism’s pull toward its heart of darkness. When I encounter cynicism, I feel another pull—not only the moral obligation to be intelligent but the moral obligation to resist cynicism.
And in that original version of my Katyn manuscript’s THE AFTERWARD, I then wrote about a cynic who disparaged my efforts to write a book about the Katyn Massacres.