Monday, May 16, 2005

Longing for leadership

Today’s news blown up, bloated: The Bavarian premier and right-wing challenger for German chancellor, Edmund Stoiber, speaks at an election meeting, his nagging, barking voice leaks from the radio, painting the decay of Germany in darkest colors. Pape Benoît pushes beatification of his predecessor to satisfy the demands of the masses on St. Peter’s square. It looks like personality cult to me, glorifying a man instead of the god. Lea Rosh wants to bury the molar of a Holocaust victim into the new Holocaust memorial in Berlin, the plan has been rejected by the Jewish community. Lea Rosh has been an excellent (and ironic) journalist once, asking critical and necessary questions to politicians and society. She has grown into a zealot. She separates Holocaust victims into classes: Jews are first-class victims; Sinti and Romanies, homosexuals, communists are second-class victims. She is not Jewish but makes the Jewish her passion. She even teaches Paul Spiegel, president of the Central Council of Jews in Germany, what Jewish is.

Things are hypertrophic. Not just a word but a torrent of words. Not a sound but a hubbub of voices. Not the suffering of people but templates of attitude and good will. We know what is best for you, they say. I do not believe you anymore, the kid says, you talked about danger and heavy waters but opening the door I feel just a breeze of wind. You may be right but I do not listen to you any longer.

It may listen to the voices that speak more clearly. Germany may not be susceptible to temptation more than other nations. But walking along the streets, waiting in line at the groceries, talking to the worker at the punching machine in my company, I hear the whisper, the underground grudge, the unspoken. Like a sudden lull in the wind. Wind comes up again, the sound of footsteps, stomping feet. La foule s‘approche. Protesters with painted faces holding banners against Bush and Abu Ghraib and Israel’s cracking down on Palestinians. They sing, jolly, serious people. They forget about Putin and Chechnya, the dictators in Darfur, Zimbabwe, North Corea. First-class and second-class rogues? A pothole-riddled road, windows closed, panes pasted with newspapers. Hey, I say, Bush is a mole who makes 1984 and Fahrenheit 451 bloody real and scares democracy to death. Ever read Arthur Miller? There may be a different story, a different country. But the guy next to me would not listen, he talks his head off, he loves his wife and his kids and donates to charity. Bush is just a crash test dummy for his resentment and his bad feelings, against America and the West and everything unknown. Americans are superficial and prudish. The grudge gets louder, leaves cover. French are rude and stab the tires of your car. Foreigners take your job and rob you. It is an ordinary day, nothing uncommon.

Tell us what to do, they say, we hug you, kiss you. Twigs and roots, the maze of voices muddle our minds.

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