Why I Protest
Our history, our literature, and our responsibility
My maternal grandparents arrived in the United States with my uncle, then an infant, in 1937, escaping a world of violence, curfews and concentrations camps for one in which, only a few years later, Japanese Americans were interned en masse. The incarceration of thousands of innocent people by the United States government was described as military necessity. Decades later, this injustice was covered so briefly in my public school curriculum that three of the five classmates I asked about it had no recollection of learning about it at all. I learned more after reading Jamie Ford’s novel Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, in which a Japanese American family is interned in Minidoka, Idaho.
Also glossed over in my grade school history classes were the United State’s strict immigration limits for Jewish refugees in the late 1930s and early 40s. I learned the story of the hundreds of Jewish refugees who arrived by sea on the St. Lewis and were denied entry into this country when I read Janis Cooke Newman’s A Master Plan for Rescue and looked into the history that inspired the novel. Here again, literature helped fill the holes in my grade school rush through 20th century history. The St. Lewis was forced to return to Europe, where hundreds of the passengers were killed. Again, national security concerns were cited as justification.
I mention these histories by way of saying that the United State’s current immigration policies — and the grotesque decision that separated children from their parents — are not without precedent. Not only have we experienced unjust and racist policies before, we have battled them. Civil rights activist Fred Korematsu, who was convicted for violating military orders when he refused to go to the Japanese internment camp, fought his conviction all the way to the Supreme Court. He lost this battle, but forty years later, the case was reopened and the conviction was overturned. When I think about Korematsu’s story, I feel anger because even this small measure of justice required decades to obtain, but also this perspective: Change requires dedication, effort, and time. Change is something that may not happen immediately, even when there is dire need for it, but we must fight for it, regardless. Otherwise, it will not happen at all.
A few months ago, I was at Bolerium Books, and my friend and a co-owner of the shop, showed me the documents he was cataloguing: Among them was a leaflet from 1938 titled “Gala New Year’s Eve Ball for the Benefit of Political Refugees from Nazi terror.” He pointed to the sponsors, directing my attention to a name I instantly recognized: Albert Einstein. Confronted with the atrocities of his era, Einstein acted.
I feel a similar gratitude each time I see individuals stand up to the unethical policies of the current administration. When I go online, I see the calls made to congress, the donations made to legal and humanitarian organizations, the people who take to the streets to say this is wrong, and each of these acts inspires me. Each is also a record, much like the leaflet containing Einstein’s name, that we did not silently accept the atrocities of our time.
In his memoir, my grandfather writes:
It was a tragic spectacle to observe the atrophy of the previously vigorous intellectual life in Vienna outside of the university — a consequence of propaganda, pressure and fear.
Propaganda, pressure and fear are alive and well in my day, too, but recently, I’ve found myself thinking more and more of Aharon Appelfeld’s novel, Badenheim 1939, which is set at a resort. “Every year in Badenheim was a celebration, and this year was no exception,” we are told, only this year, the Jewish guests are registered by the “esteemed Sanitation Department.” The stark contrast between the harsh reality of the situation and the ease of the vacationers is a lesson in the danger and impossibility of escapism. We might not recognize or choose to recognize the menace around us, but there is no avoiding its consequence.
From the United States, my grandfather helped others find safety here, including the mathematician Kurt Gődel. My grandfather did not arrive in this country and then turn away from others who needed help. When my grandchildren read about this time, I want them to know that we were not silent either. My parents brought me to marches and demonstrations. Now my husband and I bring our children.
I sometimes think of resistance as a body, one we make larger and stronger with our presence. My family will continue to demonstrate. We will continue to support organizations working to help immigrants and refugees. We are paying attention. We are listening, and we vote. We will not get caught up in our daily routines, or the false luxury of our own private Badenheim. No, we say to the un-American and inhumane activities of this administration. You cannot do that, not in our name.
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