[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 145 (1999), Part 5]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages 6771-6772]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]




                   HOLOCAUST COMMEMORATION AND KOSOVO

                                 ______
                                 

                       HON. JANICE D. SCHAKOWSKY

                              of illinois

                    in the house of representatives

                        Thursday, April 15, 1999

  Ms. SCHAKOWSKY. Mr. Speaker, my remarks today come at a time of great 
significance to the Jewish community and the international community. 
This week we observed the days of remembrance, a commemoration of the 
Holocaust and a tribute to those who lost their lives.
  The Holocaust was a time of such incredible horror that it is often 
not taught to the young and some, because of how disturbing it can be, 
choose not to speak of it. I accept it as my duty to educate others 
about the atrocities of the past so that they may never again occur. 
The Holocaust was a disgraceful chapter in the history of humankind. 
The fact that the world stood by and watched, is something that I will 
never understand. What I will do, what the world must do, is to promise 
that these crimes against humanity will never again be tolerated.
  Today, our responsibility is again subject to a test. With the crisis 
in Kosovo, and the all too familiar images of families being packed 
into boxcars, bodies being discovered, and orphaned children crying, 
the Jewish community is painfully reminded of the suffering we have 
sworn to prevent.
  I would also like to take this opportunity to commend the people of 
Israel for realizing the relationship between the suffering in Kosovo 
and the suffering in the history of the Jews. In the first ten days of 
Operation Allied Forces, Israeli citizens donated over one million 
dollars toward refugee relief efforts in the Balkans. Field hospitals 
set up by Israel have already helped to successfully deliver 7 babies 
born to Kosovar refugees. In Israel on Monday, 17 families of Kosovar 
refugees--the first of hundreds yet to come--arrived to a warm welcome 
led by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and his wife Sara.
  Among those that arrived on Monday were Lamia Jaka, the daughter of 
righteous gentiles Dervish and Servet Kurkut of Kosovo, and her husband 
Vlaznim. Lamia's parents saved both Jews and religious texts during the 
Holocaust. David Berkowitz of Neveh Ilan, whose mother was saved by 
Lamia's parents who hid her at their home, was on hand for a tearful 
reunion.
  These acts are very important to me. They say that the lessons of the 
Holocaust need to be taught forever. I am thankful for the opportunity 
I have to commemorate the lives lost in the Holocaust and for the 
opportunity I have in facing the crisis in Kosovo to honor human life 
by acting to preserve it.
  I was touched by the remarks Eli Wiesel delivered this week at the 
White House which are included below. I would urge my colleagues to 
take the time to read them because they serve as testimony to our 
necessary involvement in the NATO operation taking place in Kosovo.

       Mr. Wiesel. Mr. President, Mrs. Clinton, members of 
     Congress, Ambassador Holbrooke, Excellencies, friends: Fifty-
     four years ago to the day, a young Jewish boy from a small 
     town in the Carpathian Mountains woke up, not far from 
     Goethe's beloved Weimar, in a place of eternal infamy called 
     Buchenwald. He was finally free, but there was no joy in his 
     heart. He thought there never would be again.
       Liberated a day earlier by American soldiers, he remembers 
     their rage at what they saw. And even if he lives to be a 
     very old man, he will always be grateful to them for that 
     rage, and also for their compassion. Though he did not 
     understand their language, their eyes told him what he needed 
     to know--that they, too, would remember, and bear witness.
       And now, I stand before you, Mr. President--Commander-in-
     Chief of the army that freed me, and tens of thousands of 
     others--and I am filled with a profound and abiding gratitude 
     to the American people.
       Gratitude is a word that I cherish. Gratitude is what 
     defines the humanity of the human being. And I am grateful to 
     you, Hillary--or Mrs. Clinton--for what you said, and for 
     what you are doing for children in the world, for the 
     homeless, for the victims of injustice, the victims of 
     destiny and society. And I thank all of you for being here.
       We are on the threshold of a new century, a new millennium. 
     What will the legacy of this vanishing century be? How will 
     it be remembered in the new millennium? Surely it will be 
     judged, and judged severely, in both moral and metaphysical 
     terms. These failures have cast a dark shadow over humanity: 
     two World Wars, countless civil wars, the senseless chain of 
     assassinations--Gandhi, the Kennedys, Martin Luther King, 
     Sadat, Rabin--bloodbaths in Cambodia and Nigeria, India 
     and Pakistan, Ireland and Rwanda, Eritrea and Ethiopia, 
     Sarajevo and Kosovo; the inhumanity in the gulag and the 
     tragedy of Hiroshima. And, on a different level, of 
     course, Auschwitz and Treblinka. So much violence, so much 
     indifference.
       What is indifference? Etymologically, the word means ``no 
     difference.'' A strange and unnatural state in which the 
     lines blur between light and darkness, dusk and dawn,

[[Page 6772]]

     crime and punishment, cruelty and compassion, good and evil.
       What are its courses and inescapable consequences? Is it a 
     philosophy? Is there a philosophy of indifference 
     conceivable? Can one possibly view indifference as a virtue? 
     Is it necessary at times to practice it simply to keep one's 
     sanity, live normally, enjoy a fine meal and a glass of wine, 
     as the world around us experiences harrowing upheavals?
       Of course, indifference can be tempting--more than that, 
     seductive. It is so much easier to look away from victims. It 
     is so much easier to avoid such rude interruptions to our 
     work, our dreams, our hopes. It is, after all, awkward, 
     troublesome, to be involved in another person's pain and 
     despair. Yet, for the person who is indifferent, his or her 
     neighbors are of no consequence. And, therefore, their lives 
     are meaningless. Their hidden or even visible anguish is of 
     no interest. Indifference reduces the other to an 
     abstraction.
       Over there, behind the black gates of Auschwitz, the most 
     tragic of all prisoners were the ``Muselmanner,'' as they 
     were called. Wrapped in their torn blankets, they would sit 
     or lie on the ground, staring vacantly into space, unaware of 
     who or where they were, strangers to their surroundings. They 
     no longer felt pain, hunger, thirst. They feared nothing. 
     They felt nothing. They were dead and did not know it.
       Rooted in our tradition, some of us felt that to be 
     abandoned by humanity then was not the ultimate. We felt that 
     to be abandoned by God was worse than to be punished by Him. 
     Better an unjust God than an indifferent one. For us to be 
     ignored by God was harsher punishment than to be a victim of 
     His anger. Man can live far from God--not outside God. God is 
     wherever we are. Even in suffering? Even in suffering.
       In a way, to be indifferent to that suffering is what makes 
     the human being inhuman. Indifference, after all, is more 
     dangerous than anger and hatred. Anger can at times be 
     creative. One writes a great poem, a great symphony, have 
     done something special for the sake of humanity because one 
     is angry at the injustice that one witnesses. But 
     indifference is never creative. Even hatred at times may 
     elicit a response. You fight it. You denounce it. You disarm 
     it. Indifference elicits no response. Indifference is not a 
     response.
       Indifference is not a beginning, it is an end. And, 
     therefore, indifference is always the friend of the enemy, 
     for its benefits the aggressor--never his victim, whose pain 
     is magnified when he or she feels forgotten. The political 
     prisoner in his cell, the hungry children, the homeless 
     refugees--not to respond to their plight, not to relieve 
     their solitude by offering them a spark of hope is to exile 
     them from human memory. And in denying their humanity we 
     betray our own.
       Indifference, then, is not only a sin, it is a punishment. 
     And this is one of the most important lessons of this 
     outgoing century's wide-ranging experiments in good and evil.
       In the place that I come from society was composed of three 
     simple categories: the killers, the victims, and the 
     bystanders. During the darkest of times, inside the ghettoes 
     and death camps--and I'm glad that Mrs. Clinton mentioned 
     that we are now commemorating that event, that period, 
     that we are now in the Days of Remembrance--but then, we 
     felt abandoned, forgotten. All of us did.
       And our only miserable consolation was that we believed 
     that Auschwitz and Treblinka were closely guarded secrets; 
     that the leaders of the free world did not know what was 
     going on behind those black gates and barbed wire; that they 
     had no knowledge of the war against the Jews that Hitler's 
     armies and their accomplices waged as part of the war against 
     the Allies.
       If they knew, we thought, surely those leaders would have 
     moved heaven and earth to intervene. They would have spoken 
     out with great outrage and conviction. They would have bombed 
     the railways leading to Birkenau, just the railways, just 
     once.
       And now we knew, we learned, we discovered that the 
     Pentagon knew, the State Department knew. And the illustrious 
     occupant of the White House then, who was a great leader--and 
     I say it with some anguish and pain, because, today is 
     exactly 54 years marking his death--Franklin Delano Roosevelt 
     denied on April the 12th, 1945, so he is very much present to 
     me and to us.
       No doubt, he was a great leader. He mobilized the American 
     people and the world, going into battle, brining hundreds and 
     thousands of valiant and brave soldiers in America to fight 
     fascism, to fight dictatorship, to fight Hitler. And so many 
     of the young people fell in battle. And, nevertheless, his 
     image in Jewish history--I must say it--his image in Jewish 
     history is flawed.
       The depressing tale of the St. Louis is a case in point. 
     Sixty years ago, its human cargo--maybe 1,000 Jews--was 
     turned back to Nazi Germany. And that happened after the 
     Kristallnacht, after the first state sponsored pogrom, with 
     hundreds of Jewish shops destroyed, synagogues burned, 
     thousands of people put in concentration camps. And that 
     ship, which was already on the shores of the United States, 
     was sent back.
       I don't understand. Roosevelt was a good man, with a heart. 
     He understood those who needed help. Why didn't he allow 
     these refugees to disembark? A thousand people--in America, a 
     great country, the greatest democracy, the most generous of 
     all new nations in modern history. What happened? I don't 
     understand. Why the indifference, on the highest level, to 
     the suffering of the victims?
       But then, there were human beings who were sensitive to our 
     tragedy. Those non-Jews, those Christians, that we called the 
     ``Righteous Gentiles,'' whose selfless acts of heroism saved 
     the honor of their faith. Why were they so few? Why was there 
     a greater effort to save SS murderes after the war than to 
     save their victims during the war?
       Why did some of America's largest corporations continue to 
     do business with Hitler's Germany until 1942? It has been 
     suggested, and it was documented, that the Wehrmacht could 
     not have conducted its invasion of France without oil 
     obtained from American sources. How is one to explain their 
     indifference?
       And yet, my friends, good things have also happened on this 
     traumatic century: the defeat of Nazism, the collapse of 
     communism, the rebirth of Israel on its ancestral soil, the 
     demise of apartheid, Israel's peace treaty with Eqypt, the 
     peace accord in Ireland. And let us remember the meeting, 
     filled with drama and emotion, between Rabin and Arafat that 
     you, Mr. President, convened in this very place. I was here 
     and I will never forget it.
       And then, of course, the joint decision of the United 
     States and NATO to intervene in Kosovo and save those 
     victims, those refugees, those who were uprooted by a man 
     whom I believe that because of his crimes, should be charged 
     with crimes against humanity. But this time, the world was 
     not silent. This time, we do respond. This time, we 
     intervene.
       Does it mean that we have learned from the past? Does it 
     mean that society has changed? Has the human being become 
     less indifferent and more human? Have we really learned from 
     our experiences? Are we less insensitive to the plight of 
     victims of ethnic cleansing and other forms of injustices in 
     places near and far? Is today's justified intervention in 
     Kosovo, led by you, Mr. President, a lasting warning that 
     never again will the deportation, the terrorization of 
     children and their parents be allowed anywhere in the world? 
     Will it discourage other dictators in other lands to do the 
     same?
       What about the children? Oh, we see them on television, we 
     read about them in the papers, and we do so with a broken 
     heart. Their fate is always the most tragic, inevitably. When 
     adults wage war, children perish. We see their faces, their 
     eyes. Do we hear their pleas? Do we feel their pain, their 
     agony? Every minute one of them dies of disease, violence, 
     famine. Some of them--so many of them--could be saved.
       And so, once again, I think of the young Jewish boy from 
     the Carpathian Mountains. He has accompanied the old man I 
     have become throughout these years of quest and struggle. And 
     together we walk towards the new millennium, carried by 
     profound fear and extraordinary hope. (Applause.)
       I conclude on that.

       

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