Here are the more serious musing I've had over the course of the
last month.
Week of September 16, 2019
We had the chance to go on the most
thought-provoking excursion we've had so far. Yesterday we visited some of the
memorials for those lost in World War II, including Jewish people, Soviet
soldiers and even German soldiers. We also visited some of the cemeteries
around the city, for both soldiers and civilians. The visits sparked a lot of
interesting discussions, especially because we've had the chance to study
ethics and we are knowingly entering a profession that requires us to think
deeply about why we fight, who and what we strive to protect, and what lines we
choose to draw when it comes to our decisions as warfighters.
As a city of under 100,000
people, it's mind-boggling to hear that 165,000 people died here during World
War II. The second memorial we went to honored those who died in the woods
outside the city when they were left to die without food or shelter. Although
the woods are lush and beautiful today, 100,000 people froze to death there.
The grass must have been completely eaten or frozen, and people ate as much of
the tree bark as they could reach. Perhaps most disturbingly, the estimate of
deaths is the result of weighing the ash left behind by the Nazi forces as they
tried to hide the extent of their crimes when Soviet forces were advancing.
While looking back as I walked away from the monument and thought about the
horrors under the beauty of the forest, I couldn’t help but think of Stalin. I
credit myself having with having a vivid imagination and for a moment I could
almost picture his figure standing on the steps near the obelisk that honors
those lost. I have trouble understanding how a person can be capable of such
evil. We heard a lot about the systemic killing of people and I know that many
of the individuals who were making higher-level decisions were removed from the
actual scenes of the crime (at least physically or geographically) but they
were still responsible for creating plans to kill millions. Humans are capable
of a great deal of cruelty, and there has been true evil in this world. That is
terrifying and fascinating.
We were also told that
although the monuments across the city are incredibly important, a large
portion of the younger generation doesn’t know very much about the history or
the memorials. This was very surprising because, as I have noted earlier, this
place is soaked in history. For a country that has been so affected by events
like World War II, I would expect that an understanding of that history
persists, but maybe this new world is one that watches part of that legacy
fade. I also believe that if people are uneducated about history, history is
bound to repeat itself. I am not implying that something as atrocious as the
war crimes of World War II will happen again, but I think it is important to
understand the horrors of the past in order to recognize warning signs in the
present.
One of the most
striking things that Janis, our tour guide, mentioned to us was that for many
people conditions under the Nazi and Soviet occupations were comparable in
their brutality. Some Latvians greeted Nazi tanks with flowers when they
entered Daugavpils because they saw German forces are liberators (and may or
may not have followed the extent of their ideology). The memorial for Soviet
soldiers lost during World War II is only a five minute walk from the memorial
for German soldiers who fought in the war. It should be mentioned that the SS
officers were not recognized and ought to be forgotten, but many of the German
soldiers were Latvians conscripted into the German Army. Many families had sons
who were soldiers in different forces, some were forced to fight for the
Germans while another might be forced to fight for the Soviet forces.
Disturbingly, Stalin would often knowingly send Latvian forces, or recruits, to
fight against other Latvians on the German side, so there were times that
people who knew each other or grew up with one another were forced to fight to
the death. It's incredibly difficult for me to understand that the might of the
Soviet system rests upon such an unethical foundation, but somehow people were
able to separate the Soviet system from its early leadership. Some people in
Latvia legitimately miss the Soviet Union's system.
*This interesting experience also included an excerpt on getting
slapped on the way home, but that’s something I’d rather not have on the
internet, so talk to me in person about it in case you want to know what
happened. Again, I’m perfectly fine and all is well.
Week of September 23, 2019
My primary
interesting experience this week has to do with religion, so I apologize in
advance if I step on anyone's toes. This Saturday we traveled to the Aglona
Basilica, one of the most famous Catholic churches in Eastern Europe. Students
of years past have called it more of a palace than a church, and that sentiment
truly fits when you walk through its ornate and elaborate interior. The
Basilica is the center of a mass migration for Catholics every year on August 15th. Up to 120,000
people gather on the lawn for the services on that day, and they travel on foot
for days to weeks beforehand as part of the journey.
The inside of the
Basilica stretches like a cavern, and every intricate detail has been
hand-painted. The columns only look to be marble, and you can see on close inspection
that they're actually only painted to look that way. From far away, the
decadence is mind-boggling. Up close, you can see that there was a great deal
of ingenuity used when restoring the church for Pope John Paul II's visit there
in 1993.
Janis walked
us through the history of the building, and he mentioned two things that were
particularly noteworthy to me. The first was that for decades upon decades
before the World Wars, many noble or wealthy figures were buried in the tombs
beneath the main cathedral, but looters broke into the tombs and stole many of
the valuables, like the jewelry the deceased were wearing. Efforts were also
made to hide or save art from the church during World War II. I took a step
back and thought about how heart-breaking it must have been to be an art
historian (or even an art enthusiast) during this time. I think there is
something sacred in the way that art can explain the anguish, experience and
history of a culture in a way that words sometimes fail. To have people
actively steal or destroy this art gives me the sense that they were working to
destroy that culture, and trying to burn things down with the hope of crafting
a new, false future. I remember one of the first actions Hitler took as he
gained power in Germany was increasingly censoring the media in order to create
a narrative in his image, and I think a similar line of thinking would have
been used to justify the theft or destruction of art during this time.
Secondly, Janis told us
that during the Cold War, the Soviet Union burned a mass collection of ancient
religious texts collected by the church (they had been taken and burned to
power the local train station). The only ones that remained had been hidden in
one of the bell towers and were rediscovered during the church's restoration
after the fall of the Soviet Union. It's terrifying to think that there (once
again) was a thought-out plan to demolish key artifacts that gave an insight
into the region's history. It seems as though the Soviet Union was literally
trying to create a nation in their image, and would willingly distort history
by destroying the artifacts that would've been used to piece it together. I
can't understand that. I think we're raised as Americans to value difference in
opinion and acceptance, but book burning is an egregious and malevolent act.
Spreading disinformation by destroying evidence of the past makes my blood
boil. Alas, the church is fully intact and still a great center for the
community of believers.
I grew up as something of an altar girl. I went to Sunday
school for years on end and helped in services. Throughout all that time,
however, I don't think I ever found that same sense of calm or belonging that
draws people to religion, especially Catholicism. I always kind of wondered why
I was there, and I don't think I was educated enough in the scripture to really
understand what I was being told to accept. When I stood in front of one of the
altars in the basilica in Aglona, I felt that same distance course through me
again. In churches, I almost always feel as though I am at odds with something,
like there is a part of me that will forever be an outsider to this sense of
community.
There are
a lot of reasons my religion has ceased to be a part of my identity, and it has
been a bit strange to go to these amazing religious sites but not be able to
appreciate their grandeur fully. I don't think religion will play a role in my
life anytime soon, but in moments like that, I wish it did. I've seen myself as
an outsider for most of my life (being a precocious kid will often do that to
you, and I'm sorry if it seems as though I'm bragging, I can assure you that I
am not). I've always wanted to be part of something bigger than myself, because
for a while it felt like I was sort of drifting on my own, and often by my own
choice. I think that for a lot of people religion is one of those things that
binds them to a sense of belonging, but I've never been able to feel that way
myself, and sometimes it saddens me. On the other hand, the people at the
Academy and my own efforts to grow mentally and emotionally have helped me fill
that gap. It is still odd to think I could've been in the house of an
all-powerful being, but might be too closed-minded or lost to give him the
recognition he may very well warrant in my everyday life. Or maybe my
forever-questioning instinct is right, and all we will ever have is our short
time on this dying planet.
My
apologies for being morbid, I can assure you I am actually doing quite fine.
Week of September 30, 2019
I've written about
babushkas, but I can assure every reader that they are truly inescapable here
and my conclusions this week differ a bit from what I wrote last.
In a world that
teaches women to value youth and beauty so much, and often makes one identity
seem incomplete without the other, it feels quite odd to constantly see
reminders of aging. As a woman of eastern European descent, I can't help but
feel that every time I look at a babushka, I'm getting a look into my own
future. I find it difficult to imagine what it must be like as a woman who
grows up in a culture that is so closely centered upon and aware of aging,
especially as a woman. My perception may of course be skewed by the fact that I
only really grew up with my central family, so I didn't receive very much
exposure to the lives and experiences of older people. In Daugavpils, reminders
of life as an elderly woman are inescapable. I have had many moments during
which I can see my mother or father in the faces of the people on these
streets.
I've come to a
turning point, of sorts. I knew my experiences in this country would be
reminiscent of the time I'd spent in Poland with my family, but it seems like
the way I see this place is starting to change. There are moments during which
I truly feel like I've been caught in some alternate universe in which my
parents never left Poland and I'm just another twenty-something year old woman
roaming these streets. I look like the women here, and I can see the physical
similarities between the people here and my family. I could fit right in, at
least on the outside. But on the inside, there have been moments during which
I've never felt so different. Many of the young women here, such as my speaking
partner, have told me they want to travel or live in America. They have big
ideas of what America is like, but I know what the American experience actually
is. I do find it strange that if a few decisions had been made differently by
my parents and the people who influenced them, I would be hoping to do the
exact same thing. I'd probably spend most of my young adulthood thinking about
going abroad. My speaking partner went so far as to say that you're not
considered a real Latvian unless you've worked in England, because all the
young people are leaving to look for jobs elsewhere.
Being here can
sometimes feel like glancing into a lopsided destiny; this is a reflection of
who I could've been, and I can see how different I actually from that vision. I
think that's been incredibly impactful for me.
This trip has also
made me acutely aware of the privileges I've been granted as an American. I
will confess that for many years as a first generation American, I feared that
for many people American patriotism bled into nationalism. I think a lot of my
anxiety in this arena came from the idea that I've always been both an American
and a woman of Polish descent, and buying into one identity too much might felt
like it might come at the expense of losing parts of the other. When I grew up,
I was always caught in this paradox: I've never fully lived in Poland, my
knowledge of the history of the country is minimal at best and I get a massive
lump in my throat whenever I have to talk to a stranger in Polish, but I'm not
completely an American, either. My upbringing has been fundamentally different
from many of my peers. I mean, I just started listening to Elton John this
year. If that doesn't give you a glimpse into the lack of American culture I
was exposed to (I am well aware that he is British), then I'm not quite sure
what will. But these past few weeks have shown me that I'm more of an American
than I would've ever expected. Especially after thinking so deeply about the
history of the war memorials near Daugavpils, I've never been this excited to
have the chance to serve my country. And I think a lot of that is because I see
America as my country, regardless of my confusion regarding my identity in the
past.
Week of October 7, 2019
This week
has given me a particular insight into the strength and capability of the human
will. The two primary experiences that exposed me to reflecting on this were
learning about the push for scientific revolution during World War II (and the
development of nuclear weapons) and visiting the KGB Museum in Vilnius,
Lithuania. One of the biggest lessons I’ve seen in these contexts is that the
human mind is capable of great innovation when situations dictate a need for
it, but those evolutions can be twisted by hateful, destructive or distrustful
doctrine.
Our political science
class this week focused on the documentary “The Bomb”, produced by the BBC in
2017. One of the earliest themes that emerged was the idea of mass scientific
revolution in America as a response to fears of Nazi forces acquiring nuclear
weapons. The Manhattan Project became the largest government science project
and it was birthed from fear. After the discovery of nuclear fission in
Germany, the very idea that the Nazis might be able to weaponize such a
powerful force made development of nuclear weapons practically inevitable.
Contributions from individual scientists who foresaw these risks while the rest
of the world had no idea of their existence changed the very fabric of
humanity. That might seem like an obvious statement, but I think it warrants a
great deal of thought and reflection, especially by people from my generation.
I think we fail to acknowledge that everything from diplomacy, to war, to
culture and the average citizen’s thinking adapted to somehow come to terms
with the idea that total and complete destruction of the world could always be
a day away. The collective scientific strides of a few people brought on some
of the most advanced technology the world has ever known, and a much different
group was responsible for its use (and the restraint of said use) on a global
scale.
The visit to the KGB
Museum in Vilnius offers a graver perspective into this idea of the strength of
human will and its corruption. The museum is located in the KGB’s secret prison
during the time of the Soviet Union (which was also used by the Nazis during
their occupation of Lithuania during World War II), and thousands of people
were questioned, tortured and imprisoned there. Just over a thousand people
were taken to a separate section of the prison and murdered. To say that the
place has a haunted, and haunting history, would be a massive
understatement.
I had great difficulty
understanding how people could be so cruel to one another while maintaining
this mechanical sense of what they were doing. For example, when one of the
prisoners was brought into the specially designated killing room, one guard would
push or distract the prisoner while the other executed him; this distraction
was used to minimize the likelihood that the prisoner would fight back.
Additionally, the blood from the room was cleaned before the new victim entered
to both minimize resistance and diminish any signs of what was to come. For
some of the prisoners who died here even a small sign of imminent death could
have acted as a sign that their suffering was coming to a close. Instead, there
were specific measures to disorient the prisoner throughout the end of his or
her life. Additionally, the KGB were specifically instructed to keep prisoners
alive for as long as possible. When tortured, people were brought to the brink
of death but if interrogators believed they could retrieve more information,
they perpetuated this extremely sense of isolation and powerlessness in extreme
prison conditions.
I write about these
details because, as I have noted in some of my previous reflections, it can be
easy to dismiss these actions as those of a corrupted few, but it is important
to remember that these were real people making these decisions. As noted in the
Zimbardo Prison Experiment, the combination of isolation and authority can lead
to unforeseen brutality, but I also find it interesting that these guards had
to have been convinced that preserving the Soviet Union and its domineering
role in Lithuania was so imperative that fundamental moral boundaries should
and could be crossed. Someone had to convince the guards and officers that
their mission was right and just, and I’m not quite sure how or when such an
indoctrination can even begin. One of the most moving exhibits in the museum
was a wall showing pictures of the bodies of victims of the KGB during
Lithuania’s first years of resistance and call for independence; these bodies
had deliberately been placed in public areas like streets or city centers so
that the KGB could monitor people’s reactions (to know who to keep tabs on) and
allow fear to quite literally spread like a disease. Nearly half of the
dissenters seeking independence during the time the exhibit showcased were
young adults. The new generation after these killings grew up in a world where
such violence dictated everything because it showed who truly held power in the
county.
There is a Polish proverb that goes something
like “a German will tell you he will shoot you, but a Russian will shoot you
behind your back and lie about it”, I apologize if that may not be the exact
wording or translation but the sentiment stands nonetheless. I have internally
acknowledged that I come from a biased perspective in studying Russian culture
and language. My parents and family have had with experiences during the Soviet
Union’s era, and for that reason have cautioned me in regards to trusting
Russian people. As much as I have tried to combat and address this bias, I find
it immensely difficult not to get caught in evidence of the evil acts of some
of these Russian groups. Needless to say, these actions do not represent each
individual Russian person, but they still acted as the extension of the Soviet
state into states like Lithuania. I have trouble understanding how this level
of brutality and desire to seek control can permeate so deeply that even the
actions we think of as unthinkable, were committed without regard to
individual, moral consequence. Vladimir Putin’s past involvement with the KGB
extends this anxiety and has made me think a lot about when or whether this
culture can be completely eradicated within Russian politics.
I will admit that I
cried during my visit to the museum. One of the exhibits showcased the waves of
resistance to Soviet influence and presence in Lithuania from World War II to
the fall of the Soviet Union, and rallying against the state was one of the
principal offenses that citizens could be targeted for. This manhunt must have
left the population with an epidemic of paranoia; people recognized they were
living in a system that limited their rights and watched what they said, but
acting outside the unwritten guidelines prescribed by authorities would mean
automatically making oneself a target for the KGB. Worse yet, one would be
making their entire family or friends a target for torture, interrogation, or
receipt of threats.
While this in its
entirety is moving, what truly made me emotional was the idea that I think that
most Americans take the freedom that is so inherent in our system for granted.
I have grown tired of failing to recognize my privileges as an American. It
feels like much of the Soviet Union’s legacy involved instilling that fear in
authority, and that is something that Americans don’t ever have to think. The
idea of an intelligence agency stalking individuals believed to be opponents to
the state and punishing them in order to instill fear and obedience on a wide
scale is horrifying, and as much as I’d like to talk to my friends about what
I’ve seen, I’m not sure how receptive many of them would be. I think that part
of that stems from the idea that the impact of this system really starts to
settle when you see its effects in person (i.e. when the history in textbooks
stares you blatantly in the face), but I also think that a lot of people I know
would rather focus on pettier problems rather than take the time to contemplate
these histories.
In my opinion we’ve
been socialized to focus on the short-term, to think of ourselves first and
foremost, and few of us actively take the initiative to reflect when they
aren’t mandated to. It can be easier to think this way, to be focused on every
small detail that frustrates or inconveniences us, to become cynical in the
face of routine or relative isolation, but I have personally found it endlessly
more enriching to start considering these hard questions. To be completely
honest, it would be fairly impossible to spend a semester here without being
unsettled by the bloody, scarred history that has bound this region, and I am
sadly thankful for it. Most people I know wouldn’t be able to place Latvia on a
map, but I know this place has taught me things that no textbook could.
Thanks for reading, and if there's anything you saw that you want
to chat about, you know how and where to find me. Hope all is well, wherever
you are.
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