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The Jewish museum

by Simon Longstaff

There is at least one event in history that no amount of time should ever cause us to forget and whose relevance is permanent. It is recorded in the Jewish Museum, in Sydney, a place where each of us can confront the best and the worst in humanity. The darkest side of human nature is revealed in a chronicle of events leading from Hitler's rise to the cold, brutal extermination of millions of our fellow human beings.

Here, you see pictures of people being hounded into the confines of the Warsaw Ghetto. There, you watch film of a survivor reliving the horror of being left for dead in a mass grave. In another place, the images of women and children – their bodies broken in the service of a barbaric science. The descent into the abyss finally ends in a room dominated by Elza Pollak's clay sculpture of children's shoes abandoned outside the doors of the gas chambers.

Beyond all of this is the testimony of survivors who share their stories with visitors to the museum. It is impossible to imagine what it must be like to relive such a past. But to meet such a person, hear their story and touch their hand is to know that the images are real – that the rags of the prisoner once wrapped a person of flesh and blood.

Moving through that part of the museum dealing with holocaust and genocide, one might be forgiven for thinking that evil is an inevitable part of the human condition. However, this would be to misunderstand, entirely, the point of this haunting and extraordinary place. For, in the midst of the darkness one finds other stories – like that of Janusz Korczak – a Jewish physician and educator who chose to share the fate of orphans sent to the gas chambers of Treblinka rather than accept the Nazi's offer of freedom and the Righteous Gentiles – who risked their lives in order to save as many Jews as possible.

Stories, such as these, tell us that there is nothing inevitable about the way we respond to the world in which we live. They tell us that it is possible to choose and to choose well. They tell us that if people could be brave and good in the face of such overwhelming odds, then we can too – especially when the things we stand to lose may be of such insignificance when compared to our life or liberty. Why, then, is it so hard to speak out against what we feel to be wrong?

It might be that our choices only seem to be important in extreme circumstances of life and death. After all, the world won't be shaken to its core if someone takes a 'sickie'; or filches a ream of photocopy paper from the storeroom; or harasses a secretary; ignores a conflict of interest; or insults the religious sensibilities of a colleague. On the other hand, we know that people are capable of turning a blind eye to some truly awful acts. We've all heard stories of passengers looking away while another is beaten by thugs; or of communities deaf to the cries for help from a neighbour's house.

It is perfectly understandable that people be afraid of getting involved – of being drawn into a situation where they might become the target of attack or suffer the acute anxiety associated with standing out from the crowd. The trouble is that if we wait to find the exact point on the spectrum of right and wrong where it is appropriate to stand up and be counted, then we may stand in silence until it is too late to do anything. This is not to suggest that we should become fanatical and intolerant do-gooders. Rather, it is to draw attention to the costs of failing to act when we encounter things that trouble our conscience.

The need to be true to ourselves arises in a host of ordinary ways. For example, there are countless workplaces, within Australia, where a majority of employees hate "the ways things are done around here". Ask and they will identify the problems. Better still, they will outline the solutions. Yet, they do nothing! Why? Because, “It's the system”. Because, “We can't make a difference.” Because, “Anybody who puts their head up gets it chopped off”. Because, “That's the way we do things around here”.

The same message comes from the people who run these organisations. They, too, would like things to be different – but without cost or risk. They may know that someone in the organisation is rotten to the core, but if he is a 'good producer' then he is more than likely to survive. They may know that certain industry practices are unconscionable – but if to change them would threaten profits, then they will be preserved.

When Hitler began, he was considered something of a joke. By the time he finished, half the world was in ruins. It beggars belief that nobody knew what he was up to. Instead, it is far more likely that most of those who saw what was happening and disapproved, failed to speak out. Perhaps, if people had been encouraged to believe that each of us can make a difference – even when the stakes seem low – then the outcome would have been different. Perhaps not.

At a time when our community is being polarised by those who would exploit the politics of hatred and exclusion, every person should visit the Jewish Museum. There are lessons there that we can not afford to forget. Edmund Burke captured one of the most important thus, “All that is needed for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing”. A proper respect for others has never required our silence or acquiescence.

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