//politics//
Fall 2019
Fall 2019
A Museum and a Zookeeper
Exploring Nationalism and the Meaning of a College Education
Yona Benjamin
The Polish zookeeper couldn’t stop laughing. I looked back at his wife and small daughter in the backseat, who giggled as we zoomed down Köpenicker Strasse in the dusty Volkswagen. ‘Polski or Deutsch!?’ I cackled, waving my hands in feigned wonder. They laughed harder. The answer to that question— ‘Polski or Deutsch?’—and why it was so funny, took me months to understand. I now realize that the answer lies at the center of the three months I spent in Europe in the summer of 2019 and, perhaps, of my college education as a whole.
Köpenicker Strasse runs through the Berlin neighborhoods of Mitte and Kreuzberg. I biked along it almost everyday during my twelve day stint in Berlin at the end of this past summer. The street’s various stretches are lined with shops, houses, and beautiful copper beech trees. Nicolaus Copernicus was born on February 19, 1473 in Torun, Royal Prussia, Kingdom of Poland. He is best remembered today as an early proponent of the heliocentric model of our universe, and a key figure in the dawning of Western modernity. His “Copernican Revolution” has influenced astronomy, theology, philosophy and much more. But in my life, he is now just a street name—or rather, a mistaken street name. Köpenicker Strasse is not named after Copernicus. But when we first drove in, I, and everyone who came with me to Berlin from Wroclaw, Poland, thought that it was.
Seventy-four years ago, Wroclaw (where our trip began) was burning down, surrounded by Soviet troops on their long march to Berlin. Tens of thousands of civilians in the city died. One can still see plaques marking where buildings, or sometimes whole blocks, were shelled to the ground. The city was then called Breslau and it was a part of Germany. Today, its street names are Polish, its inhabitants are Polish. I ate pierogi there, not spaetzle. Being in Wroclaw in 2019 was a lesson in how quickly borders can change, and with them, social realities. I wondered if I was only thinking this way because I am an overeducated, American elite, more concerned with historical narratives and ideas than with daily life. Still, Sylvester, the Polish zookeeper, laughed.
I guess we should get back to the mistakenly identified Copernicus Street. Like Wroclaw/Breslau, I wondered of Copernicus, ‘Polski or Deutsch?’, was he Polish or German? To pick one nationality for either the gorgeous city or the iconic astronomer is not a simple task. Copernicus was born in Torun, in a largely German-speaking area which was then, and is now, subservient to the Polish central government (then a kingdom, now a teetering democracy.) Lots has happened since then. The Protestant Reformation, the collapse of the Polish monarchy, the Holocaust, Communism. Today, Torun is largely Polish speaking, and its German inhabitants, like Wroclaw’s, are largely a thing of the past. But does that make Copernicus Polish? He definitely spoke Polish, lived much of his life amongst Polish speakers, and was descended from Polish speakers. But he also registered himself as a German when he went to study in Krakow. This registry may have been administrative, rather than an identity statement; despite this self-registration, Copernicus may not have considered himself a German. While it may seem as if we will never be able to determine Copernicus’ nationality, Sylvester seemed to be certain.
‘Bullshit! Sylvester shouted, slamming his fist on the steering wheel, jokingly enraged by the question. ‘Jonasz!’ (the Polonization of my name, pronounced “Yonash”) he shouted ‘is bullshit, tak?’ ‘Tak (yes),’ I grinned, ‘to jest (it is) bullshit.’
What Sylvester knew, and what he assumed I knew as well, was that Copernicus, just like Wroclaw, was neither Polish nor German, and that any effort to prove that he or the city were essentially one or the other, was, as Sylvester so eloquently put it, ‘bullshit'. We both knew that the concepts of ‘Polish’ and ‘German’ are both modern inventions, indicative of contemporary political attitudes, and not of the lived realities in the past. The debate over what Copernicus ‘was’ would have made no sense to him, and should therefore not make much sense to us. He spoke German, he spoke Polish, he was a subject of German-speaking nobles and of the King of Poland. But he was neither Polish nor German. The debate over Wroclaw is similar. Many of the buildings in Wroclaw were built by German citizens, many were built by Polish ones. Most people there now are Polish speakers, but the city? The city just is.
While the debate over Copernicus or the abstract discussion of the spirit of Wroclaw are relatively innocuous, these types of questions and the realities they posit are quite dangerous. Understanding these ideas in relation to European politics caused me to consider my own education, and the politics of my own community back in America. I was lucky enough to work for a month in and around POLIN: The Museum of the History of Polish Jews. The name is important, and is intended to stress that the subjects of the museum are themselves Poles, rather than mere residents of Polish lands. It is important for many people to stress the Polishness of Jews, who might otherwise be told that they do not belong in Poland. My boss was fond of the term ‘Jews and other Poles’, a term coined by Gershon Hundert to describe the residents of the region. However, as I studied the museum’s exhibitions (which I greatly admired), and began to internalize the vibrancy that the curators brought forth, I realized that I could no longer believe in the title. I do not mean to say that Jews and Poles were more distinct than one might assume. Rather, to speak of any type of Pole is an anachronism. Poles, whether Jewish or not, were not a well defined group for much of history, such that I don’t really believe in the concept anymore. After spending hours a day at the museum, I realized that the edifice of national identities as portrayed and, though complicated, ultimately bolstered by POLIN was smoke and mirrors. I do not mean to blame the curators of POLIN for supporting this characterization. We find ourselves thrown into a world full of national identities, and much of the way we make sense of politics, culture, and history is through references to nations and nationhood. Museums are educational institutions, and they need to meet their audiences at the starting point of everyday understanding. The problem is that if we peer behind the curtain, the entire discourse of nation and nationhood that POLIN participates in is exposed to be a house of cards.
I learned about the local Muslim populations of Poland and Belarus, which thrived in the region for hundreds of years. I learned about how cities like Wroclaw had, over the course of centuries, been ruled and populated by Bohemians, Moravians, Poles, Germans, and Silesians. Wroclaw had been and still was home to Protestants, Catholics, Orthodox Christians, and Jews. These stories, and so many more, made me realize that the simplistic edifice of national identity is not just a helpful placeholder, or a reference point to orient ourselves in a complex world. It is a lie, and a dangerous one at that.
When we claim that a place is of one nation or another, we do not only conceal the dynamic, complicated history of the place, and the people who made their lives there; we also make claims about who is and is not welcome in that place, about who can live their life there now. Living last summer in a place that is historically multi-ethnic (although which, due to a century of genocide and expulsion, is now more monolithic,) I was reminded that it is less so national unity and historic belonging which makes a place of a people, but more so gas chambers and deportations. The reason why so much of the European and global map is filled with ethnically homogeneous states is not because authentic homelands exist, but because the minorities in those places were either murdered or expelled.
Walking through the museum day after day, and realizing how people of many different tongues and faiths were all part of one another’s stories was at times disorienting. The paradigms and narratives I recognized about what constituted European life and history were challenged. I emerged from it, however, more sensitive to historical traumas, and more aware of the common bonds that hide behind national borders.
Teachers, religious leaders, adults, often told me as a child that college was an amazing place, but that hiding behind intellectual inquiry was the threatening spectre of disillusionment. If one learned too much, if one looked too closely at the things that mattered, they would cease to matter anymore. I was taught to be afraid of turning my education into a dissection exercise, thereby murdering the things I hoped to study.
I have found this true in some ways. I am perhaps less zealous about certain topics now that my college years are coming to a close. I am perhaps more generally pessimistic about notions of ultimate truth, absolute goodness, or the necessity of certain types of social practices and institutions. However, I think this has all made me not just a happier person, but a better one. The tearing down of ideologies and assumptions is not a merely destructive exercise. It is still Bildung in the German sense, education understood as a building process. We augment and displace previously held notions not in order to be merely left with nothing, but to be left with a more accurate, modest, and fair reading of what remains. So, while my studies have left me with a disdain for many things I once felt good, it has not left me with a sense that nothing can ever be worthwhile.
I never truly realized all this until I went to Poland. By tearing down the Potemkin Villages of nationalism and nationhood, I was not left with a sense of political nihilism, or alienated from the social world, nor devoid of any notions of belonging. Instead, I gained a better understanding of what had occurred in the places I lived in, and a greater sensitivity to how and why they could happen again. My ‘disillusionment’ with the ‘nation’ was rather an introduction to being a better person, allowing me to more fairly and honestly move through political debates. The destruction of the edifice was indeed the construction of a wiser person. So too with my critical liberal arts education.
My experience in Europe was coupled with, and indeed heightened by a growing sense of fear that nationalism is gaining ground. This summer, ‘national conservatism’ came onto the scene in American politics, fueled by the idea that nations are real, and fundamental, rather than detrimental, to the happiness of humans within political life. Further, I find myself confused and saddened in my Jewish communities at home, who edify Zionism, at the expense of what I see as more pressing moral and political concerns. However, I am not an alienated Jew, my disdain for Jewish nationalism has not led me to be disaffected or lost. Rather, I find as if I am on firmer ground, with clearer purpose and resolve. In discarding the albatross of nationalism in general and Zionism in particular, I was able to become what I see as a more fair and caring person. While this faces me with challenges in my home communities, I have the urge to move forward. I know that history—in all its complexity and depth—is on my side.
Köpenicker Strasse runs through the Berlin neighborhoods of Mitte and Kreuzberg. I biked along it almost everyday during my twelve day stint in Berlin at the end of this past summer. The street’s various stretches are lined with shops, houses, and beautiful copper beech trees. Nicolaus Copernicus was born on February 19, 1473 in Torun, Royal Prussia, Kingdom of Poland. He is best remembered today as an early proponent of the heliocentric model of our universe, and a key figure in the dawning of Western modernity. His “Copernican Revolution” has influenced astronomy, theology, philosophy and much more. But in my life, he is now just a street name—or rather, a mistaken street name. Köpenicker Strasse is not named after Copernicus. But when we first drove in, I, and everyone who came with me to Berlin from Wroclaw, Poland, thought that it was.
Seventy-four years ago, Wroclaw (where our trip began) was burning down, surrounded by Soviet troops on their long march to Berlin. Tens of thousands of civilians in the city died. One can still see plaques marking where buildings, or sometimes whole blocks, were shelled to the ground. The city was then called Breslau and it was a part of Germany. Today, its street names are Polish, its inhabitants are Polish. I ate pierogi there, not spaetzle. Being in Wroclaw in 2019 was a lesson in how quickly borders can change, and with them, social realities. I wondered if I was only thinking this way because I am an overeducated, American elite, more concerned with historical narratives and ideas than with daily life. Still, Sylvester, the Polish zookeeper, laughed.
I guess we should get back to the mistakenly identified Copernicus Street. Like Wroclaw/Breslau, I wondered of Copernicus, ‘Polski or Deutsch?’, was he Polish or German? To pick one nationality for either the gorgeous city or the iconic astronomer is not a simple task. Copernicus was born in Torun, in a largely German-speaking area which was then, and is now, subservient to the Polish central government (then a kingdom, now a teetering democracy.) Lots has happened since then. The Protestant Reformation, the collapse of the Polish monarchy, the Holocaust, Communism. Today, Torun is largely Polish speaking, and its German inhabitants, like Wroclaw’s, are largely a thing of the past. But does that make Copernicus Polish? He definitely spoke Polish, lived much of his life amongst Polish speakers, and was descended from Polish speakers. But he also registered himself as a German when he went to study in Krakow. This registry may have been administrative, rather than an identity statement; despite this self-registration, Copernicus may not have considered himself a German. While it may seem as if we will never be able to determine Copernicus’ nationality, Sylvester seemed to be certain.
‘Bullshit! Sylvester shouted, slamming his fist on the steering wheel, jokingly enraged by the question. ‘Jonasz!’ (the Polonization of my name, pronounced “Yonash”) he shouted ‘is bullshit, tak?’ ‘Tak (yes),’ I grinned, ‘to jest (it is) bullshit.’
What Sylvester knew, and what he assumed I knew as well, was that Copernicus, just like Wroclaw, was neither Polish nor German, and that any effort to prove that he or the city were essentially one or the other, was, as Sylvester so eloquently put it, ‘bullshit'. We both knew that the concepts of ‘Polish’ and ‘German’ are both modern inventions, indicative of contemporary political attitudes, and not of the lived realities in the past. The debate over what Copernicus ‘was’ would have made no sense to him, and should therefore not make much sense to us. He spoke German, he spoke Polish, he was a subject of German-speaking nobles and of the King of Poland. But he was neither Polish nor German. The debate over Wroclaw is similar. Many of the buildings in Wroclaw were built by German citizens, many were built by Polish ones. Most people there now are Polish speakers, but the city? The city just is.
While the debate over Copernicus or the abstract discussion of the spirit of Wroclaw are relatively innocuous, these types of questions and the realities they posit are quite dangerous. Understanding these ideas in relation to European politics caused me to consider my own education, and the politics of my own community back in America. I was lucky enough to work for a month in and around POLIN: The Museum of the History of Polish Jews. The name is important, and is intended to stress that the subjects of the museum are themselves Poles, rather than mere residents of Polish lands. It is important for many people to stress the Polishness of Jews, who might otherwise be told that they do not belong in Poland. My boss was fond of the term ‘Jews and other Poles’, a term coined by Gershon Hundert to describe the residents of the region. However, as I studied the museum’s exhibitions (which I greatly admired), and began to internalize the vibrancy that the curators brought forth, I realized that I could no longer believe in the title. I do not mean to say that Jews and Poles were more distinct than one might assume. Rather, to speak of any type of Pole is an anachronism. Poles, whether Jewish or not, were not a well defined group for much of history, such that I don’t really believe in the concept anymore. After spending hours a day at the museum, I realized that the edifice of national identities as portrayed and, though complicated, ultimately bolstered by POLIN was smoke and mirrors. I do not mean to blame the curators of POLIN for supporting this characterization. We find ourselves thrown into a world full of national identities, and much of the way we make sense of politics, culture, and history is through references to nations and nationhood. Museums are educational institutions, and they need to meet their audiences at the starting point of everyday understanding. The problem is that if we peer behind the curtain, the entire discourse of nation and nationhood that POLIN participates in is exposed to be a house of cards.
I learned about the local Muslim populations of Poland and Belarus, which thrived in the region for hundreds of years. I learned about how cities like Wroclaw had, over the course of centuries, been ruled and populated by Bohemians, Moravians, Poles, Germans, and Silesians. Wroclaw had been and still was home to Protestants, Catholics, Orthodox Christians, and Jews. These stories, and so many more, made me realize that the simplistic edifice of national identity is not just a helpful placeholder, or a reference point to orient ourselves in a complex world. It is a lie, and a dangerous one at that.
When we claim that a place is of one nation or another, we do not only conceal the dynamic, complicated history of the place, and the people who made their lives there; we also make claims about who is and is not welcome in that place, about who can live their life there now. Living last summer in a place that is historically multi-ethnic (although which, due to a century of genocide and expulsion, is now more monolithic,) I was reminded that it is less so national unity and historic belonging which makes a place of a people, but more so gas chambers and deportations. The reason why so much of the European and global map is filled with ethnically homogeneous states is not because authentic homelands exist, but because the minorities in those places were either murdered or expelled.
Walking through the museum day after day, and realizing how people of many different tongues and faiths were all part of one another’s stories was at times disorienting. The paradigms and narratives I recognized about what constituted European life and history were challenged. I emerged from it, however, more sensitive to historical traumas, and more aware of the common bonds that hide behind national borders.
Teachers, religious leaders, adults, often told me as a child that college was an amazing place, but that hiding behind intellectual inquiry was the threatening spectre of disillusionment. If one learned too much, if one looked too closely at the things that mattered, they would cease to matter anymore. I was taught to be afraid of turning my education into a dissection exercise, thereby murdering the things I hoped to study.
I have found this true in some ways. I am perhaps less zealous about certain topics now that my college years are coming to a close. I am perhaps more generally pessimistic about notions of ultimate truth, absolute goodness, or the necessity of certain types of social practices and institutions. However, I think this has all made me not just a happier person, but a better one. The tearing down of ideologies and assumptions is not a merely destructive exercise. It is still Bildung in the German sense, education understood as a building process. We augment and displace previously held notions not in order to be merely left with nothing, but to be left with a more accurate, modest, and fair reading of what remains. So, while my studies have left me with a disdain for many things I once felt good, it has not left me with a sense that nothing can ever be worthwhile.
I never truly realized all this until I went to Poland. By tearing down the Potemkin Villages of nationalism and nationhood, I was not left with a sense of political nihilism, or alienated from the social world, nor devoid of any notions of belonging. Instead, I gained a better understanding of what had occurred in the places I lived in, and a greater sensitivity to how and why they could happen again. My ‘disillusionment’ with the ‘nation’ was rather an introduction to being a better person, allowing me to more fairly and honestly move through political debates. The destruction of the edifice was indeed the construction of a wiser person. So too with my critical liberal arts education.
My experience in Europe was coupled with, and indeed heightened by a growing sense of fear that nationalism is gaining ground. This summer, ‘national conservatism’ came onto the scene in American politics, fueled by the idea that nations are real, and fundamental, rather than detrimental, to the happiness of humans within political life. Further, I find myself confused and saddened in my Jewish communities at home, who edify Zionism, at the expense of what I see as more pressing moral and political concerns. However, I am not an alienated Jew, my disdain for Jewish nationalism has not led me to be disaffected or lost. Rather, I find as if I am on firmer ground, with clearer purpose and resolve. In discarding the albatross of nationalism in general and Zionism in particular, I was able to become what I see as a more fair and caring person. While this faces me with challenges in my home communities, I have the urge to move forward. I know that history—in all its complexity and depth—is on my side.
//YONA BENJAMIN is a senior at Jewish Theological Seminary and the School of General Studies and serves as Editor-in-Chief of The Current. He can be reached at ynb2001@columbia.edu.
Photo Courtesy of Turystyka
Photo Courtesy of Turystyka