Why do you think the two warriors started to talk?
What did they learn about each other as they talked?
Why couldn’t they continue fighting the next day?
For Those Who Cannot Speak: The Criminal Futility of War by Michael Walsh The Futility of War by Ernest McIvor and Chris Mundy Spinning Tales, Weaving Hope: Stories of Peace, Justice & the Environment edited by Ed Brody and Jay Goldspinner Peace Tales: World Folktales to Talk About by Margaret Read MacDonald The Golden Axe and Other Folktales of Compassion and Greed by Ruth Stotter Story Solutions: Using Tales to Build Character & Teach Bully Prevention, Drug Prevention, & Conflict Resolution by Kevin Strauss
Taking a Stand and Peacemaking
Hi, I’m Dan Keding. I’m going to tell you a story I wrote called The Two Warriors.
Once, a long time ago, there was a war and during this war, there was a great battle. Two armies came together. They fought from the time the sun rose in the east until the sun died in the West. And at the end of the battle, there were only two warriors left. Two enemies. They were covered in the blood and gore of war. And they were so tired, they could barely lift their swords to strike at each other ’til one man raised his shield and said, “Wait! It will do us no honor to keep fighting like this. I say we sleep here in the battleground. And tomorrow, when the sun is reborn in the sky, we’ll finish this. And only one of us will go home.”
And the other man agreed. And so, they sheathed their great swords, took off their dented helmets, unstrapped their shields and they lay down among their dead comrades. But they were so weary, the weariness that comes with too much death, that they couldn’t sleep. And, finally, one man said, “Back in my village, I have a son who plays the wooden sword. When he grows up, he wants to be like me.” He was quiet for a moment.
And the other man said, “I have a daughter, and at night, when I kiss her good night and I look in her eyes, I see the youth of my wife.”
And the two men started to tell stories… back and forth, stories of their families, their villages, their people. The stories they learned as children at their grandparents’ knees. And, finally, they looked up and the sun was rising. And the two warriors stood and they put on their helmets, strapped on their shields, and they took those swords now dyed brown with the dried blood of yesterday’s slaughter.
And these two men stared at each other. And without hesitation, both men sheathed their swords, turned their backs on each other, and they both walked home. My grandmother always told me, “You can never hate someone once you’ve heard their story.”
What drew the teller to Stan? What lessons did Dan learn from Stan?
From a Name to a Number: A Holocaust Survivor’s Autobiography by Alter Wiener Displaced Persons: Growing Up American After the Holocaust by Joseph Berger
Education and Life Lessons
Family and Childhood
Hi, my name is Dan Keding and I’m going to tell you the story about Stan, a Holocaust survivor.
In between sixth and seventh grade, my family moved from the south side of Chicago to the north side. And I remember the day we arrived at the new apartment building we were going to be living in – one of those U-shaped apartment buildings with a courtyard. Well, we pulled up behind the moving van and, as I got out of the car, this enormous shadow covered me. And a voice boomed out and said, “Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Stan.”
And this great, huge hand that could palm a bowling ball came out of that shadow and he pumped my arm. And I was looking at the biggest human I had ever seen in my life. Stan was six foot six at least; 300 lbs. of muscle. He had a big, floppy hat on and a crooked grin and he walked with a slight limp.
And he held court inside our courtyard. There was always a lawn chair there. And pretty soon, that summer, there were two lawn chairs. Stan and I became friends and every day, we would sit there and he would tell me stories.
He was a Polish Jew who had come to America after the war and he told me stories of Poland, the old legends. He told me Jewish folk tales. He told me stories of the war where he’d fought in the Resistance in Poland.
We’d go for walks sometimes. And even the adult bullies would walk off the sidewalk and smile kind of sheepishly as Stan would say, “How ya doin?”
And they’d go, “Okay,” ’cause his shoulders took up most of the sidewalk.
He was a sweet and kind man… gentle. One day, he turned to me and said, “You know, Dan, you’re gonna be a big man when you grow up. You know what’s important, don’cha?”
Well, I had been watching Errol Flynn for years, you know. I knew what was important. “Honor,” I said.
And he looked at me and said, “Honor? (spit) Honor is a luxury. Honor is stupid!” He says, “If a man curses you… a man dishonors you, you walk away. They’re less a man than you! The only things worth fighting for are family and friends.” That was a lesson I needed to hear.
Well, one day we were talking and Stan, he turned to me and said, “It is so hot out today.”
And it was July, and I said, “Oh, you’re right!” We were both soaked in the sun and he took off his floppy hat, which I’d never seen him do before. He took a big, huge bandanna and started to wipe his head, which was totally devoid of any hair and was covered in surgical scars.
As he put his hat back on, I turned to him and said, “What happened to you?”
He said, “During the war, we ambushed a Nazi patrol and there were more of them than we thought. I was wounded. That’s why I limp. And before I could take my own life, as we often did in the Resistance, I was captured. Because I’m a Jew, they sent me to a concentration camp, Dan. Because I’m so big and so strong, they experimented on me.”
The doctors at the camp had opened his skull dozens of times to see how the human brain worked. But, you know, they couldn’t find the gentleness and the beauty of his.
One day, he turned me and said, “Dan, let’s go for a…” And he slumped in his chair. I panicked and I ran up the steps of the apartment building, knocked on the door where his, his wife and he lived.
And I said, huh, huh, I said, “Huh, huh, is… it’s Stan! He’s had a heart attack. He’s had a stroke!”
She said, “Shh… stop.” So, I did. She said, “It’s what they did to him, Daniel. You haven’t seen it before. Once, twice, even three times a day, Stan passes out. Just go downstairs, sit down next to him. And when he wakes up, he’ll start a sentence from where he left off.”
This is kind of spooky for a boy going into seventh grade, but I did as I was told. And I went downstairs and sat in that lawn chair. And after about five minutes, those huge shoulders squared up and the head came up and he said, “walk around the neighborhood and see what’s happening.”
I said, “Sure, Stan, let’s go.”
One day, my stepdad was changing a tire. He couldn’t get the last lug nut off. Uh, and Stan walked over and said, “Hey, Herm. What’s, what’s the problem?”
And my stepfather said, “I can’t get the lug nut off this last one. They must have put in on too tight with those pneumatic tools they use now.”
Stan says, “I can get it off.”
And my stepdad handed him the tire iron. And Stan looked at the tire iron as if it was some kind of strange, foreign instrument. And he put it down on the grass, reached over with two fingers, grabbed the lug nut and went (clk) and took it off and handed it to my stepfather. He told that story for the rest of his life.
When school started, I went to the Catholic school. Mom always said, “Dan, you have to go to the Catholic school because I can’t impose you on people who are paid with taxes.” I thought that was cruel of her but it was true.
One day I said to Stan, “Stan, why don’t you come to school, tell your stories?”
And Stan got this look of mock horror on his face. He said, “Oh, no, Dan! I went into that Catholic church one time and I saw what they did to the last Jew they got their hands on.” And then he started laughing at the top of his voice and his laughter rolled out of the courtyard and into the street.
It was late autumn and I was coming home from school when I saw an ambulance pulling away from the apartment building. Jenny, who lived in the basement, she was standing there and I said, “What happened?” And she told me that it was Stan.
We didn’t have garages or workrooms or basements even. When we built things, we built them in the kitchen because that’s where the linoleum was and you could clean it up. Stan was building a bookcase and he slipped and the saw went through his wrist. And before he’d get to the phone, call for help, he had one of his spells and he bled to death on the kitchen floor.
And I stood there at the curb and I wanted to hate someone so badly. But all the men who had hurt my friend were dead.
At the funeral, his wife told me not to forget his stories and I promised her I wouldn’t. And then she grabbed the lapel of my coat. She looked me in the eye and she said, “You know, Dan, the Nazis killed my husband but he was so strong, it took him 20 years to die.”
Gene travelled by van across the country to see the land of his people. Along his journey, he had the experience of meeting a southern white couple on a backcountry dirt road and an old black man in Sparta, Georgia who fought with First Nation men during the Korean War.
For a print friendly version of the transcript, click here: Sparta-GA
How do we break up the biases we have about other people?
Can travel be a way to open or confirm our ideas about other people?
Where would you like to travel? How would you keep an open mind about the people you meet along the way?
On the Road by Jack Kerouac
The Smooth Traveler: Avoiding Cross-Cultural Mistakes at Home and Abroad by Susan O’Halloran
African American/Black History
Education and Life Lessons
First Nations/Native Americans
Living and Traveling Abroad
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
Gunalchéesh! My name is Gene Tagaban.
My name is Guy Yaaw. I’m of the Takdeintaan clan, the Raven, Freshwater Salmon clan from Hoonah, Alaska. I’m the child of a Wooshketann, Eagle, Shark clan Káawu huna in Juneau, Alaska.
I am Cherokee, Tlingit and Filipino. I’m a Cherotlingipino. I’d like to tell the story about an adventure of mine when I was a young man. I bought a van and I was going to drive across the country. And see what that land where I came from, my Indian people, was like.
Many people were exploring Europe and going over there but there’s so much richness here just in our backyard. So I was driving through Louisiana, me and my girlfriend. And so we stopped one night on a side road, dirt road and it was dark out. We were gonna camp there for the night. As we are just gettin’ ready to camp, a truck pulls up. Pulls in front of us. Turned around. And the headlights are shining right into our van. I’m thinking to myself, “Oh! What the heck’s going on here?”
And the only thing that could run through my mind was just these things I hear that’s going on in the south in the back country in Deliverance. We were kind of freaked out and they pulled up right next to us. I rolled down my window. And they said, “How y’all doin’?”
“Oh, we’re doin’ good.”
“Now where are y’all from?”
I told ’em, “I’m originally from Alaska.”
“Who are you people?”
And I said,” Guy Yaaw (then speaks about his people in his native language).
And they looked at me and said, “Now what kind of foreign language is that?”
“Oh, that’s my Tlingit language. I’m a Native American from this country. That language I just spoke to you was from Alaska.
“Alaska! You guys from Alaska?”
I said, “Yes, I am!”
“Now what y’all doin’ way down here. Did you guys get lost?”
I said, “No, we’re just driving around seeing this country.” And we started to strike up a conversation.
And he asked me, “How do y’all say… fire?”
He said, “Now did you hear that… fire. Now right here you say… fire to say… fire. You know, you’re some interesting folks! Now we don’t get many people like you around here much often. You know what? We’re having a… a gathering here that’s coming up here in a couple of days. You sure are welcome to come if you’d like to come. You can meet my kin, my folks that’s back there in the swamps a little bit. You’ll be more than welcome!”
I said, “Ah, thank you for the invitation but I think we’re gonna move on and keep traveling. I think we’re gonna make our way up… around Georgia. See, I’m part Cherokee and my people come from that area.”
“Well, all I want to tell you is that stay away from Sparta, Georgia there. I’ve been to Sparta. A lot of black folk there, you know. You good people. I don’t want you to get in trouble now. Ah, it’s good to meet you.”
“It sounds good to me too. I’ll tell you what! A couple of days later, we are in Sparta, Georgia and we were hungry. So we went to go get a couple of sandwiches and across the street was a basketball court and playin’ basketball there – a bunch of youngsters playing ball and they’re all black. And we sat there to go watch them play basketball. So we’re sitting there eatin’ our sandwiches and they’re arguing back and forth because they need an extra player.
And so they looked at me. They came up to me and said, “Heh! You right there! You play ball?”
I go, “Who? Me?’
“Yeah, we’re talking to you. You play ball?”
I said, “Do I play ball?” Now, I tell you what! Indians love basketball! So I said, “Yeah, I play ball!”
And so we went out there. They brought me out there. We started playing hoops back and forth. And we were playing basketball all afternoon and then they asked me, “Excuse me. Where are you from?”
I said, “From Alaska.”
And they asked me, “Are you an Indian?”
I said, “Yeah, I am!”
“Can we touch you?”
“You want to touch me?” I said, “Sure.”
So they felt my skin and they felt my hair and they told me… they said, “Hey, wait here, wait here!” And so they ran off but they brought back all their family, their relatives – aunties, uncles, cousins. They wanted to meet us Native American people because they’ve only heard about us in movies, books, magazines, museums. They never met a real live native person before. They said, “We gotta take you…we got Uncle Leroy who’d love to meet you.”
And so we went to Uncle’s Leroy’s house and Uncle Leroy, when we walked in, he was like this skinny black man. I mean he was so black, he was like purple. Long white hair, long white beard and he had square glasses tinted blue. Yes, and he was skinny, about as skinny as a broom pole when he came shuffling up to us, looked at me, “My Indian brothers!” You see, Uncle Leroy was in the Korean War and in the Korean War, Uncle Leroy was this young black man and he was scared and there were bombs and guns goin’ off. And so he was runnin’ around. But at the same time he was runnin’ around, there are a couple of Indians in a foxhole and they’re smokin’ their tobacco, saying their prayer. “Oh, Creator, take care of us. I swear here on this here foreign land, watch over us and we promise we’ll live a good life. Send us a sign that you hear what we’re talkin’ about. You hear our prayers!” And they’re smoking their tobacco! And just as they’re praying, suddenly Uncle Leroy jumps into their foxhole and those two Indians look at this black man and they go, “Ah, the creator! Thank you for sending us this good luck charm of a black man. We promise we’ll take care of this young man here in a good way.” And so they did.
They kept that promise and they took care of Uncle Leroy. And they taught Uncle Leroy about spirit, honor, culture, tradition, prayer, brotherhood. And they took care of Uncle Leroy and Uncle Leroy felt that. He owed those Indian brothers of his. So I went to his house. He told us the stories of brotherhood, took care of us while we were in his home. So the next morning we jumped in the van and we headed off. And as we were driving off, I heard Uncle Leroy, “My Indian brothers!”
During WWII the Navajo Code Talkers created a code that was never broken. The Navaho were forced off their reservations into boarding schools where they were told not to speak their language or practice their culture. But when WWII started, the United States military reached out to the Navajo to help them create a code using their previously forbidden language.
Why did the U.S. switch its policy toward the Navajo’s native language?
The Navajo were not allowed to speak of their role in WWII until 1968. What effect do you think it had that those fighting alongside American Indians during the War were unaware of their critical contribution?
The First and Only Memoir by One of the Original Navajo Code Talkers by Chester Nez and Judith Schiess Avila
Code Talk: A Novel About the Navajo Marine of World War Two by Joseph Bruchac
First Nations/Native Americans
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
Gunalchéesh! My name is Gene Tagaban. My Tlingit name is Guy Yaaw. I’m of the Takdeintaan clan. The Raven, Fresh Water Sockeye clan from Hoonah, Alaska. I’m a child of a Wooshkeetaan, Eagle, Shark clan Káawu huna in Juneau, Alaska and I’m a Tlingit, Cherokee and Filipino. And I tell people I’m a Cherotlingipino. It’s good to be here.
Ah, you know our elders are precious. In fact, we often refer to them as our, our precious objects. I mean… but they’re more than that, our elders, and we hold them in reverence and honor. I had the opportunity to travel around the country with a man; his name is Andrew Osano from Cochiti Pueblo, USA.
Now Andrew was a medicine man or, you might say, Andrew was a holy man. But when you’re from the Pueblo or the reservation, things just move slower. And I was telling Andrew, “We’re going to New York.” I said, “Andrew, when we get to New York, everyone’s going to be moving really fast. And so you need to just move just a little bit faster than you’re used to.”
He goes, “Oh! OK, OK, OK!” And so when we’re flying into New York, he’s looking out the window and his perspective on it was, “Oh, look at that! New York City! All the buildings looked like headstones. Interesting, eh!”
So I’m walkin’ through New York with Andrew Osano and we go to the top of the Empire State Building. And it was a time when Hale-Bopp, the comet, was going through. And so Andrew, he takes those binoculars and instead of looking at New York City, he looks up into the sky, “The comet! Oh! Ah!” And he starts to say some prayers, singing a song and everybody around him starts looking at Andrew Osano, Cochiti Pueblo, USA, medicine man, holy man.
A few years later after that, I drove to Cochiti Pueblo to see Andrew and he goes, “Oh! Oh, Raven T! Oh, it’s good to see you. I need a ride. Ah! We go see my uncle.” And so we’re driving to another pueblo, to see his uncle. And as we’re going through certain areas, Andrew stops, closes his eyes sings and says prayers. “Spirits all along this road,” he says. So we pulled up to a small house. He goes, “My uncle lives here. My uncle, he is a Navajo Code Talker.”
“Navajo Code Talker? Ah!”
“Come in, let’s visit.” We walked in and there’s a small Indian man there, wrinkled skin, dark. And I look into his eyes and they’re just deep, dark brown.
We share a little bit of coffee and I ask him, “Navajo Code Talker! What was it like?”
And he goes, “Oh! You see, I grew up out here, out here, taking care of the land, taking care of our animals, livin’ on the land. And then the government comes in and tells us we can’t speak our language, sing our songs, practice our culture. They took us to schools to teach us a new way.
And then World War II came along. And they called on our services. You see, they wanted us to fight and defend our country but they wanted us to use our language to create a code. Our language that was forbidden! Our language that they told us that we can no longer speak! They wanted us to create a code to help them win the war. Many of the Navajo people enlisted.
And they wanted us to go through basic training. You see, they didn’t think that we could make it through basic training. They thought that maybe we were too fragile. But once we got out there during basics… ah, we scored the highest on everything!”
“Well, this is simple,” we said, “because this is our life. We live out here.” So we went out there. And we developed a code through our language. Nobody broke that code! And for 20 years after the war was over, we were taught never to reveal what we did. And we kept that commitment.
I asked him, “When you came back, what did you do to heal?”
And he goes, “Ah! You know, not like nowadays. Those young men, they come back, they’re on a plane. They close the eyes. They wake up. They’re back in the city.
Back then, we had time to jump on a boat, a ship and we were together. A brotherhood to take care of each other, to talk, to hold each other, to cry. And then when I got back to our reservation, you see, amongst our people, we are not home yet. We are just spirits until we go through a ceremony and then… we become whole again. That’s what’s missin’ in this country nowadays is that ceremony.”
You see, we just sat and had coffee, ate some cookies and just shared stories. And it was an honor for me to sit there amongst a true hero of this country. For if it was not for the Navajo code, we may never have won that war. Huh…! Helps me appreciate who we are as a people. Navajo Code Talkers! Huh!
Gene tells of an afternoon he spent with Rachel, a Holocaust survivor, in Omaha, Nebraska. Rachel, an elderly woman, asks Gene, “Tell me about your people?” Gene tells her of the 1835 Indian Removal Act and how his Cherokee ancestors were forced to leave their homes and walk for 800 miles through the winter months; many died. Rachel replies, “Your people, my people – same.” Later, Gene goes to the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. and while being overcome with emotion, is comforted by an African American woman
What do you think of Rachel’s statement: “My revenge: I am going to live a happy life – no one can take that from me.” What might this type of revenge give her that other types of revenge would not?
How do we learn about and stay emotionally present to all the genocide in the past and in the world today? What gives us the strength to look at the worst in humankind?
What can stop “ugly history” from repeating itself? How can we support those who have been through the worst imaginable horrors and those who are willing to speak about and learn from it?
Trail of Tears: The Rise and Fall of the Cherokee Nation by John Ehle
Holocaust Museum in Washington by Jeshajaho Weinberg
Education and Life Lessons
First Nations/Native Americans
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
Gunalchéesh! My name is Gene Tagaban. My Tlingit name is Guy Yaaw. I’m of the Takdeintaan clan. The Raven, Fresh Water Sockeye clan from Hoonah, Alaska. I’m a child of a Wooshkeetaan, Eagle, Shark clan Káawu hoonah in Juneau, Alaska and I’m a Tlingit, Cherokee and Filopino. I’m a Cherotlingopino and it’s wonderful to be here to share stories with you. I’d like to share a story about an experience I had. Oftentimes, we have these moments in our lives that are just pivotal. They make a shift within your being, your spirit and out to your soul.
So I was traveling to an event, another storytelling event in Omaha, NE. You know, at first I didn’t want to go really to Omaha, NE. I’m from Juneau, Alaska – mountains, water! Omaha, NE? Flat, corn. But I was going there for a storytelling festival and I was being housed by a wonderful family so I got there. And the next morning, she asked me (our host), “Every Thursday we always take Rachel out to the market. Would you like to go?”
I said, “Sure, I’ll go.”
“Now I want to tell you this. Rachel is a survivor of Auschwitz, the holocaust.”
I thought to myself, “Wow!”
“Yes, I’d love to meet Rachel!” And so when we took a… pick up Rachel and Rachel is this elderly lady. She came, maybe, up to my shoulder. She had sunglasses on and she walked up to me. She didn’t say much, just looked at me. I opened the door for her and she hopped in and we sat in the back seat.
She said, “I want to go to the market to get apples. I want to make some pie. One of the only things I have left is the recipe from my momma – Apple Pie. They were bakers, you know!”
And so we went to the market to get apples and she was very meticulous about her apples. They couldn’t be too big or too small. She went through them. I carried the bag for her as she placed them in. She didn’t say a word to me. She looked at the apples, put ‘em in the bag. I closed ‘em and she just looked up at me. So on our way back out to the parking lot, we’re going to the car and next to the car was a Hummer. And as we were walking up to the car, Rachel stopped and she just started weeping. And I was going, “Are you okay?”
She goes, “Oh, no, no, no! Those cars! Those cars, they remind me of the cars, those trucks, the vehicles that they took the children to the camps away in! No, no, no! I can’t go over there! No, no, no, no, no, no, no!”
And so I waited on the sidewalk with Rachel as we pulled around and we picked her up. And we went to the house and she prepared the dough. And it was sitting there waiting to rise and Rachel came up to me. She goes, “You’re Indian, aren’t you?”
I said, “Yes.”
“Come, walk with me. Let’s go walk through the garden!” And so she grabbed me by the arm and we started strolling through the garden. And she says, “Now, tell me! Tell me about your people.”
And so I told her, I told her, “In 1835 was the Indian Removal Act and my Cherokee people were forced from their homes to walk on a trail 800 miles during winter. Women, children, elders! Many of ‘em died! Many of ‘em died! And they were put onto a land that was foreign to them. And throughout the Indian country, this was what was going on. They were taking the native people from their lands, the Indian people from their lands. And sometimes they put ‘em in cargo holds on trains and taking ‘em to other places. Many souls were lost.”
And Rachel, she just looked up and she goes, “Huhh! Your people, my people – same! Same!”
As we were walking through the garden, Rachel spotted this beautiful red tomato. And she goes, “Now get that tomato for me!” And I got that tomato and she goes, “Ah, now we need something to cut it!”
I said, “Oh, look at…! I’m going to take this tomato up to the house and I’m going to show it to one…”
And she goes, “No! This is just for you and me! You see, sometimes you have to keep something for yourself!” And so I sat there, and Rachel and I, we ate this red tomato… together… just me and her. That was the best tomato I have ever eaten in my life! She told me, she goes, “You know, me… my revenge… my revenge for what happened to my people, my family is I’m going to live a happy life! That… that cannot be taken away from me! Huh!
So couple days later I was in Washington D.C. and I went to, to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. And, and as I walked through the Holocaust Memorial Museum, I just walked through and I saw the images, the pictures, the cargo holds. But what really got me was the piles of clothes, the piles of eyeglasses and the piles of shoes, especially the children’s shoes!
And when I walked out of that museum, I stood on the sidewalk and I started to cry; I just started to weep. And there was an old black woman who stopped and she handed me a handkerchief and she grabbed my head! She just held me as I wept on the sidewalk!
I took that handkerchief, wiped off my face and when I opened my eyes and looked around, she was gone! I looked down the street, both ways. I looked behind me; she wasn’t in the museum! And I looked around. That’s when I know that we have angels around us all the time!
Issues within the same religious group or ethnicity are complex and rarely discussed. Laura grew up on a street in Brooklyn with many kinds of Jews – Orthodox, Conservative, Sephardic, cultural and so forth. As different as they were, they had one thing in common: no one talked about World War II and the Holocaust. Two young children (one from an Orthodox family and Laura from a Conservative background) find a way to memorialize the unspoken through a make believe graveyard. In doing so, they strike up an unlikely and forbidden friendship.
As a child, what games did you play with other children?
When you were growing up did you play with children from other races, gender or culture? What was the best part of getting to know others?
When challenges in life and even deaths go unspoken how does that still affect the children?
God, Faith & Identity from the Ashes: Reflections of Children and Grandchildren of Holocaust Survivors by Menachem Z. Rosensaft and Elie Wiesel
Education and Life Lessons
Family and Childhood
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
Hi, my name is Laura Simms. I grew up in Brooklyn, New York. I was born after World War II. Everyone on my street, in Brooklyn was Jewish. It was after the Holocaust, which was a huge conflagration, a genocide, the murder of millions people.
People in my neighborhood spoke seven languages, they had different customs, they wore different clothing. There were Conservative Jews, like my family. Those were Jews who went to synagogue once in a while and on the holidays, ate Kosher food. There were Orthodox Jews. They were seriously religious. They wanted nothing to do with Hebrew. They spoke the language from their old country of Yiddish. They wore medieval clothing. I was fascinated by them. There were Reformed Jews. Those were the more political Jews. Everything had to happen in English. And then there were Sephardic Jews from the Middle Eastern countries like Spain and Greece. They, they had different languages and different food. It was very exotic.
The one thing that everyone had in common was that everyone in my neighborhood spoke Yiddish. Oh, and then there was one other thing that everyone had in common. No one spoke about the war that had just happened. But I was a child and as a child, you feel everything.
My father was the neighborhood dentist, and in the back of our house, in the kitchen, that was the place where he was responsible for making important announcements. One afternoon, coming in at lunchtime, my father said, “Lohala, we have new neighbors. Next door, there’s an Orthodox family from Poland. They have a daughter just your age. Her name is Leahala, just like your Hebrew name.” At birth, I was given my name Laura and also a Hebrew name, Leah. I got, as usual, very excited. My father, as usual, tried to dampen my excitement. I think it was something about, “Don’t get too happy. You’ll be disappointed.” But he said, of course, “Don’t get excited. She won’t be your friend. They’re Orthodox. they don’t think we’re real Jews.” Now, I accepted it, the way I accepted everything as a child. Kind of taking it in, thinking about it and somewhat forgetting about it.
Next to my house, right, actually, under my bedroom window, was a small alleyway of dirt. Nothing ever grew there. The sun didn’t shine. It was where I had my secret graveyard. I loved to bury things. I had pieces of dolls’ clothing, my mother’s single sock, an earring. I stole little plastic toys from my father’s dental office. My favorite things to bury, actually, were Chinese food and pieces of pizza that were not kosher. We had strict Jewish dietary laws. My father didn’t allow those foods but when he wasn’t home, my mother would bring it in and say, “Don’t tell your father.” So, I would bury a piece of pizza in a wax paper and then I’d cover it with dirt and put little stones on, like I’d see my parents and grandparents in the graveyard do. I would leap over it or I would throw make believe salt over my shoulders and sing pieces of Hebrew prayers. “Adon olam, asber malak.”
I had a favorite doll of all my dolls. This one was crippled on the left side, one eye hanging out, was completely bald. I dressed her in rags and sometimes even put dirt on her. Her name was Lefty Louie, strangely named for my father. I would put the doll against the wall and then I would tell stories about the history of this lost abandoned, destroyed, unwanted object that I had saved, buried, sanctified, made holy.
One afternoon, suddenly, the window from the next-door house opened. I looked up. And there was a little face. I knew who it was it was. Leahala. She held up her hand. She had a wadded sock. She threw it. I caught it. I buried it. And then, when I was covering it up with dirt, putting little stones around it, she called out in a high-pitched voice, “Kaddosh, Kaddosh, Kaddosh.” Holy, holy, holy. We became best friends. We buried something every day. Our funerals were fabulous. But our entire friendship occurred with me on the ground and her at the window.
And Saturdays, the holy days, the Shabbats, when everybody in the neighborhood promenaded up and down our street in their best clothes, they would talk to each other politely in Yiddish, regardless of what they said about each other in their own languages at the kitchen table. And when my parents would meet Leahala’s parents, Leahala and I would look at each other, turn our backs, pretend we didn’t know each other. Our friendship was a secret. In fact, we had a secret mission; perhaps even a bit of secret to ourselves. When I looked back at it, I realized we were little priestesses; digging; burying; sanctifying; telling stories. We were burying all the dead whose stories were unspoken in our neighborhood. It wasn’t only Jews in the Holocaust. There were Christians, there were gay people, there were political activists and poets, they were gypsies, anyone considered different.
Then, we both turned 12 and our friendship just disappeared. Leahala went to Yeshiva, an all-Hebrew girls school. My mother told me that she was already betrothed to the rabbi’s son. That at her wedding, she would have her hair shaved, she would wear a wig, she would wear long sleeves in August. It’s unbelievable to me. I was obsessed with my hair. My hair hung low, long, curly down my back so I could dance to Elvis Presley and gyrate on my back porch. My skirts were getting shorter. I wasn’t devoted to religion. I gave up burying the dead. I was devoted to rock and roll.
But I grew up. I moved. Israel on the news, often. And I went back to my neighborhood. I had lived in an old farmhouse, the largest house on the street. It was gone. And there were five, three story buildings, with four families in each. My entire neighborhood had become Orthodox. It was like a shtetl, small village in eastern Europe. And the graveyard, I couldn’t find it anymore. It was buried. And I would look into the faces of people walking down the street. They never looked directly at me. After all I was not really a Jew. But I looked for Leahala. I could barely remember what she looked like.
But then one night, when the sun was going down, I was in an airport in London, about to come back home. And there were a group of religious Jews in their black medieval hats with fur and long, black coats of silk. And they were praying, rocking back and forth, facing the sun that was going down. And beside them were two African Muslim young men on prayer rugs. And I stared out the window at the sun. And it dawned on me.
That sometimes, sadly, history creates a gap that maybe, at another time, would not exist but that remains. Getting wider between the Leahala and Leah. But that place, we all pray to, regardless. And that underneath it all, my friendship with Leahala, always exists. And whenever I tell the story about her, there it is. Palpable and real. And I pray all the time that people only bury as we did. And that the constant burial of the dead from wars and racism, that should come to an end.
Laura befriends and, then, adopts a former child soldier from Sierra Leone. Years later, Ishmael Beah goes on to become a best-selling author. One day, while speaking on a panel together, she and her grown son hear of the genocide in Rwanda. A woman from Rwanda tells of a child who makes a difficult choice when he finds himself in the same room with the man who murdered his parents. Laura’s son, Ishmael, understands and applauds the child’s choice. He is glad the child will not have to define himself as a murderer and can keep in touch with the place within that Ishmael has once again found – the place within that is untouched by war, murderous alternatives and biases of any sort.
What surprised you the most about the story Laura and Ishmael heard about Rwanda?
Do you think it is fair to have children fighting in wars?
Most people want to know what are causes of war. What do you think are the causes of Peace?
A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah
Making Peace in Times of War by Pema Chodron
The Trauma of Everyday Life by Mark Epstein MD
A Human Being Died That Night: A South African Story of Forgiveness by Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela
The Way of Council by Jack Zimmerman
African American/Black History
Family and Childhood
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
Hi, I’m Laura Simms. In 1996, I was a facilitator at a UNICEF conference at the United Nations called Young Voices. There were 57 young people from 23 third world countries. They were there, actually, to create what later became a Children’s Bill of Rights. My very first day, I met two young boys; thin, wearing cotton shorts and T-shirts, who came from Sierra Leone, West Africa. I literally went home because it was mid-November, was snowing, they had never been in cold weather, and gave them my winter coats. The interesting thing is, of course, that years passed and I got these two boys out of the war in Africa. One of them became my son and reminded me often that first year that he would never wear a women’s winter coat again.
It was an amazing 10 days. And a lot of what happened during those 10 days was, these kids listening to each other’s stories. And these boys were so gentle, so sweet that I had met outside of UNICEF that day, who wore my coats, wrapped up, they told horrendous stories of having been child soldiers. Learning to be murderers. Believing that these murderers would take revenge on the death of their parents, who they had both seen killed, including family members and friends. A terrible civil war occurred in Sierra Leone.
So many things about Ishmael. One is that Ishmael wrote an amazing memoir. The publishers thought, well, a few people will like this but actually it became a bestseller A Long Way Gone. Twenty million copies sold. Everybody wanted to read this book. About a child’s experience in war. And Ishmael and I were invited to give a talk together (which in those years we did a lot) at a journalism school and university. And then, we were on a panel and one of the other panelists was a woman from Rwanda. Let me back up a minute, because people were always asking me how could you do this? How could you have a child who has murdered be your child, live in your house? But I’m a storyteller and I’ve been meditating for over 25 years. And I really understood, something I believed, that inside each of us there is a place that is untarnished by violence, untarnished by circumstances. And if we come back to that place, that’s the place at which we can transform. And that, basically, everybody is good. And I knew from Ishmael, at least, that he’d had enough violence to last ten lifetimes. The last thing he wanted to do was to be engaged with any conflict at all. And he was peaceful. He grew up in a traditional storytelling culture.
The woman from Rwanda. After Ishmael and I spoke, she spoke and, of course, she spoke about stories. It was her job in Rwanda, after the terrible genocide, to listen to young people’s stories. And she told a tale, true tale, that was harrowing but haunting. It was a story about a Tutsi boy who was caught in a horrible massacre. And his body along with the bodies of his family and all his neighbors were thrown into a ravine, assumed dead. And that night, he awoke under the bodies. Shocked. And made his way up out this sea…of misery and blood. He was a kid, so, what did he do? He wandered back to his house. He washed himself and he got under the sheets on his parents’ bed and went to sleep. In the middle of the night, a man came in, set his machete down next to the bed. He washed. Also seeking comfort, he climbed into the bed. He hadn’t seen the boy. But they both slept deeply and in the middle of the night seeking comfort, they rolled into each other’s arms and slept in the safety of embrace.
She described how early in the morning, the boy told her, he woke up and he was face to face with the man who had killed his family. And at first he thought, “I should kill him.” But he had enough violence and he had slept in that man’s arms as if that man was his parent. So, he got up out of the bed and wandered out into the bush, where he was eventually found and saved.
Ishmael and I listened to the story. And seated in the lobby of our hotel that night, we talked about. How it had moved us both. And Ishmael said, “That’s the place isn’t it? That, that’s that place. That untarnished place.”
And I said, “Yes, it was really remarkable to hear the story. Most people would probably say that boy should have killed that man.”
And Ishmael said, “No. If he had killed the man. He would have been a murderer as well.”
Those years, every so often, Ishmael and I would talk about that story. And then one morning, he got up, and knocked on my bedroom door. And he said, “It’s still there. It’s still there.”
And I said, “What? What is still there?”
And he said, “I know we heard that story. I know we were talking about this but I thought that place inside of me was gone. That the war had taken it away. So, but I woke up, I felt it. I felt the joy. It’s still there. That place is still there.”
I understood. He would more than survive. Which he did, going on to write the book To Marry As A Child. And for me it changed everything. I understood the goal of my story telling. That place where, regardless of race, of violence, of learned habits, of bias. That place exists in all of us. And sometimes, I weep for the world. But knowing that I can do something about it completely cheers me up.
Judy Sima tells the story of her mother, Elsa Mosbach. She relates the events leading to Elsa’s escape from Germany during WWII, her encounter with the Gestapo following Kristallnacht or the Night of the Broken Glass, and how she used her father’s WWI medals to gain her father’s release from Buchenwald Concentration Camp.
Hi, I’m Judy Sima. My mother’s name was Elsa Mosbach. She was born January 5th, 1912. This is her story and I’d like to share it with you as she may have told it.
I stood on the deck of the old German steamship looking back. As we pulled away from the busy Lisbon, Portugal Harbor, tears were streaming down my cheeks and there was a lump the size of an apple in my throat. And I felt as if my heart would break even though my husband’s warm, protective arms were wrapped around me. There was no one to wave goodbye to us. We left our families behind in Nazi Germany and I didn’t know if I’d ever see my mother or my father or my younger brother again.
It was summer of 1941. I was 29 years old and I had never been more than a couple of days journey from my hometown and here I was on a ship bound for America. And I didn’t even know a word of English. My husband, Paul, and I left our home in Cologne at the beginning of the summer. We couldn’t take much with us. Nothing of value. So, I packed our suitcases full of clothing and knickknacks and photo albums. We said goodbye to our parents. I was a seamstress and I made myself all new dresses and even hats to match. We said goodbye to our parents. And we boarded the train bound for Portugal. It was a long trip and it took many days. It was a very difficult trip.
The ship we were on was called the Nyassa. It was built in 1906 and carried over 2,000 passengers, most of them are immigrants like us. We traveled for a long time and I was seasick for most of that 10-day journey. But I didn’t care. I was just glad to be out of Germany. You see, we were Jews. German Jews. Jews had been in Germany since the middle ages. My parents, my grandparents, my great grandparents, were born in Germany. My father earned medals fighting on the side of Germany during the Great War of 1912, 1914 to 1918. He was proud of those medals. My husband and I couldn’t wait to raise our children in Germany. We thought of ourselves as Germans first and Jews second.
But when Adolf Hitler came to power in 19, 1933 he put an end to all of that. Laws were passed that took away our ability to earn a living, our right to own property, our citizenship, and our dignity. Jewish children couldn’t go to school with Christian children. And Christian doctors could not treat Jewish patients. We couldn’t even go to public places like the movies or the theatre or a beach or a park. We, things, every day, friends and neighbors disappeared and we never saw them again. And the words “Sarah” and “Israel” were stamped on our passports identifying us as Jews. We knew we had to leave but it wasn’t easy.
We had to put our names in a lottery and when our number came up, we would be allowed to apply for exit visa. And once we had that exit visa, we would have to find a country that was willing to take us in. We wanted to go to America, so, we had to find someone who could sign an affidavit proving that they had enough money in the bank to support us, if we couldn’t earn a living, if we couldn’t take care of ourselves. It took us five years and during that time came the most terrifying nights of our lives.
November 9th and 10th, 1938, Kristallnacht. Crystal Night in English sounds pretty but it means in German, the night of the broken glass. German thugs and hoodlums went on a rampage and they destroyed over seventy-five hundred Jewish businesses, schools, cemeteries, and hospitals. Hundreds of synagogues were burned down to the ground as the police and fire stood… firefighters stood by to make sure that only the Jewish buildings were destroyed. A hundred Jews were murdered and thirty thousand more were rounded up and sent to forced labor camps and concentration camps. My husband and I, we huddled in our small apartment, listening to the screams and the gunshots and the breaking glass and the police sirens.
And then, in the middle of the night, the phone rang. It was my mother. She was hysterical. The Nazis had made her and my father and the Jews of our village watch their synagogue burn down to the ground. And then, they took my papa away. I said, “But they’re making is mistake. Papa was a war hero,” and I promised my mother that I would come as soon as I could to my hometown and find papa and bring him home.
Early the next morning, after Kristallnacht, after Crystal Night, I boarded the train and headed for my hometown of Beuthen, Germany, which was near the Polish border. And all the time I thought about my papa. He was big and strong. He was my hero and a German hero too. Kaiser Wilhelm himself had given him the medals. And as a little girl, I used to wear them around our apartment. When I got off the train, at first, I didn’t notice anything unusual, but as I walked toward my neighborhood, I began to see the devastation. There was the kosher butcher; there was nothing but a gaping hole. The same with Mr. Rubenstein’s dress shop and the bakery where I used to get cookies from Mrs. Goldberg. And now the cookies were all trampled underground. And then I came to a huge pile of smoldering rubble. Our beautiful synagogue with the twin columns and the beautiful ornate arch and the Spanish mosaics was gone. Simply gone.
When I reached my street, I could see my papa’s shoe store. The glass was broken. Counters were overturned, shoes were strewn everywhere, and on the walls, in bright yellow paint were the words “Jude, Jude, Jude,” Jew, Jew, Jew. I climbed the stairs to our apartment above the, above the shoe store and let myself in. My beautiful Mutti, my mother, was huddled in the corner, a glazed look in her eyes. I put my arms around her and said, “Mutti, I will find papa and I will bring him home. I will bring him home.”
And then I went to their bedroom and pulled out the top drawer of my father’s dresser. And there were the two boxes just where I knew they would be. Inside was the Hindenberg Cross and the Iron Cross. I put the, I put the medals in my pocket. And then I straightened my shoulders, and put on a fresh coat of lipstick, adjusted my hat, and I walked down the stairs, and marched the three blocks to the Gestapo office. I pulled open the heavy wooden door. There at the end of the hall, stood a soldier at attention and as I came closer, he clicked his heels and raised his hand and said, “Heil, Hitler.”
I said, “There’s been a mistake. They took my papa last night. Please, I must see the Commandant.” The soldier looked at me up and down, but I didn’t waver. I just stared him straight in the eye until he finally opened the door behind me and let me into the Commandant’s office.
The Commandant was writing on some papers; he didn’t even look up. I said, “There’s been a mistake. Last night they took my papa, George Lachmann. He’s a good German soldier. He won these medals. Kaiser Wilhelm gave him these medals himself.”
The Commandant didn’t even look up he just said, “Rouse, rouse,” out, out.
I said, “But I’ve got money. I’ve got money.” I took money out of my pockets and I threw them at him.
Finally, he looked up and he said, “He’s been sent to Buchenwald but I’ll see what I can do. Come back in a week.”
I left the Gestapo office but was afraid to go home. I came back day after day and waited. And I don’t know how many days I waited. And finally, just when I was about to give up hope, the door to the Gestapo office opened and out came my papa. He was stooped over, he’d lost weight, he was haggard, he hadn’t shaved in days, his clothes were torn, he had a bruise on his face. But he was safe. At least, for now.
Soon we’ll be docked in New York City. So, I got up early and took my shower and came back and put on one of the new dresses I have made. The lavender, rayon dress with white box pleats that flared out at the bottom. My husband whistled. I looked fabulous. I was going to be very fashionable in my new country. We went down to breakfast but I couldn’t eat. I had just butterflies in my stomach because I was so nervous. We went down to the third-class passenger deck and people were milling around. And the sun was blazing down on the blue-black sea. And off of the distance, off in the horizon, we could see the tops of tall buildings. And then suddenly, someone pointed and shouted. And there, coming out of the sea, was a tiny gold flame. And as we got closer, we could see that flame was held aloft in a silvery green torch held by a magnificent woman with a crown of seven spikes, a green rock gown that flowed to the pedestal below. The Statue of Liberty. Everyone cheered. The fog horns blew and the seagulls welcomed us with their piercing calls. I looked at my husband, the tears in his eyes matched the ones that were streaming down my cheeks. We didn’t know then that we would never see our parents again. But we were free. We had escaped. We were truly free. And we were ready to begin a new life in America.
Searching for a resource for Japanese American experiences in World War II relocation camps? Alton Chung tells the true story of his journey and encounter with an 89 year old former internee who made her first visit after 66 years. This personal and challenging story is food for thought for all of us.
Alton Chung relates the true story of his journey to the Minidoka Relocation Camp site at Hunt, Idaho and of his encounter there with an 89 year old former internee. She was 23 years old when she left this Japanese American incarceration camp and this was her first visit back to the site after 66 years.
Touring the old camp evokes emotions and thoughts of loved ones and life at Minidoka during World War II. The internee shares personal memories of that time and how the internment affected her life. The story provides a view of relocation camps that allows us to experience the difficulties encountered and, hopefully, encourages us to think differently about others.
Create a webquest (an online scavenger hunt) for students to uncover information about incarceration camps
Visit a WWII museum
Write journal prompts for students to respond to daily.
Watch the video now
Explore our many other RaceBridges videos for
Asian American Month or any other time of the year.
A Short Video Story
by Anne Shimojima
Have you ever wondered what life would be like if the government had imprisoned your entire family? For Anne Shimojima, this was the experience of her grandparents and their children. In this touching story, Anne tells of what life was like behind the barbed wire fences and the inadequate housing. Looking past what is unspoken, Anne reveals details of life for Japanese Americans in incarceration camps during WWII.
Curious as to her family’s experiences in incarceration camps during WWII, storyteller Anne Shimojima explains how she uncovered details to her family’s past. For whatever reason, many Japanese Americans do no talk about their experiences during this time. Anne was able to dig into her family history and speak with relatives who then shared details of what life was like in these camps.
Armed with a deeper and more personal understanding of what her grandparents had endured in the incarceration camp, Anne reveals a hidden world when she is able to describe the camp itself. She explains how she was brought closer to her grandparents and better understands the indignities they suffered, the sacrifices they made, and the hopes they had for future generations.
Invite grandparents of students to come to class and share a story from their life
Explore geneology or create a family tree
Watch videos or read literature the helps students to better understand historical events..
Watch the video now
Explore our many other RaceBridges Studio videos and lessons
Tell of a time someone helped you when you were treated unfairly.
What are the injustices in American society today?
Sayin’ Somethin’ Stories from the National Association of Black Storytellers, Copyright 2006.
The Autobiography of Malcom X, Random House Publishing
African American/Black History
Education and Life Lessons
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
Hi, I’m Jay O’Callahan. Ruth Hill has given me permission to tell this story written by her husband Brother Blue, who is also Dr. Hugh Morgan Hill. I’m going to read this story called “Miss No Name,” and this is about the time World War II, Brother Blue is an Army officer about to go overseas. And I’m going to read it to try to capture some of the, some of the cadence and the beauty of his words.
Miss No-Name, blue-eyed soul sister wrapped in snow. What’s your name? I’m Brother Blue, that’s my name. I’m a street cat. I like it like that. What’s your name? What’s your name inside? Your name? I got a story for you, a poem, a song, a dance, I do all over the world. I’m telling stories in the street to heal the broken world. To heal broken hearts, broken hands, broken bodies, all over the world. What’s your name, Miss No Name? I want to know your name inside. Your name.”
Once upon a time ago, long ago, a song ago, when I was a young man in the United States Army, I fell in love with you, Miss No Name. What’s your name? Long ago, a song ago, a blues ago, we got the news that we were going overseas. So, I went home, said hello to my folks, and I went back to my unit down South.
This was a sad time, bad time, this was time of segregation in the southern states of America the Beautiful. One morning, I woke up and thought, “What if I have to die, now? This is a beautiful day to die for America the Beautiful.” America the Beautiful did not think black soldiers could be brave warriors. I am, I always will be a black soldier. Early in the morning in the Southland, just before we’re to go overseas, I saw a wild bird. And I thought, “This is a day to die, to die for America the Beautiful. So, I bathed. I prayed. I put on my officer’s uniform and walked under the bus station, where it was against the law in the Southland for white people and black people to sit together on the bus. In those sad days, those bad days, black people had to sit in the back of the bus, white people in the front of the bus.
So, I walked to the bus station. The bus is waiting for me. I looked up at the sky; this is a lovely day to die for America the Beautiful. Bus is waiting for me. I looked up at the blue sky. I heard that voice, “This is a day to die.” So, I’ve got on the bus. Black people in the back only two seats empty, right behind the driver. “Whoo, haaa. They’re waiting for me. This is a lovely day to die, die.”
So, I sat down right behind the bus driver. The bus driver, he looked in the mirror. I saw his eyes were blue and they were burning in the mine, they were daggers. But he could see my eyes in the mirror and he saw something, the eyes of a crazy man, ready to die. Don’t want nobody to grab a crazy man who’s died to fear. So, I’m waiting for the military police, civilian police. And then, oooh, haaa, here comes a lady on the bus. A lady on the bus. She’s like music in the early morning. She got skin like snow, blue sky in her eye, golden fire in her hair and she sits down beside me. I don’t know why. Why does the sun, why does the sun shine in the morning? I don’t know why. Young man got up. He was sittin’ behind. A gallant son of the South, most courteous. He said to this lady sitting beside me, “You don’t have to sit beside this…” (I’m not going to say that word. I can’t say that word.)
And the sweet lady beside me, she said most sweetly, softly, softly, “No. This is perfectly all right.”
Well, my heart began to dance and shout but I couldn’t let it out. Something inside me was falling in love with this lady, this sweet lady. The bus is now making a sound. It’s moving, its coughin’, it’s lurching and crying and moaning and groaning. And we’re going through the South. And I’m waiting. I’m waiting. Military police. Civilian police. Ever stop, waiting, waiting.
Finally, the sweet lady, I don’t know her name, she got up and she got off the bus. She smiled at me without looking at me, for something inside both of us was past skin, past color. Past all. All names. I wanted to say, “Sweet lady, what’s your name?” I wanted to say, “Thank you, sweet lady. Thank you for seeing me, beyond color, beyond visible. You taught me something, sweet lady. You taught me, you can’t judge a person by the way they look. Up till the bright moment, I didn’t believe a person, white like snow, could make a move for a man of my color. I didn’t believe it could happen. But then you came along like a song. You opened my eyes so I could see past the skin we’re wrapped in.”
Oh, Miss No Name, I’m a wandering storyteller. I went to war overseas. I didn’t die. Many of my brothers did. Now I’m a wanderer, like a leaf in the wind, a fool for love. Traveling around this round, where you awaken me. You opened my eyes. I could see past the color we’re born in, past the accident of the birth, past the body we wear…past the given name.
Miss No Name, I know your name. Inside your name, it’s something like Love, something like Truth, something like Beauty, something like God. I can’t speak it, I’m trying to live it. I pray someday, before I fly from this world, as I travel through the streets, the subways, the prisons, the broken fields, broken city, I can make a move for somebody that don’t look like me. Like you did for Brother Blue, long, long ago.
Talking about World War ll was hard for Carol’s father. As a recipient of three Purple Hearts, he shares his story of anti-Semitism at boot camp, his sense of Jewish identity with a stranger in Paris and how he mentally stayed strong and survived the front lines by wearing “blinders.”
Why do you think Carol’s father, and soldiers today may not want to talk about their experience during war? Should we respect their silence or encourage them to talk?
Carol’s father talked about wearing “blinders” to get through the hard times. Have you ever had a time in your life when in order to move ahead, you had to “wear blinders?”
The Red Cross volunteer handed out Mezuzahs and Crosses to the injured soldiers. What comfort was she hoping to bring them from these objects?
Carol’s father shares that his Sargent asked him to take off his helmet so he could see his horns. Many commentators say that this myth of Jews having horns started with a mistranslation in the Bible. Why do you think rumors and anti-Semitic myths are perpetuated today?
St. Lo was flattened in one night and the writer Samuel Becker described it as “The Capital of the Ruins.” Besides the physical city being destroyed, what other type of ruins exists from war?
The Complete Short Prose of Samuel Beckett by Samuel Beckett
Hello, my name is Carol Kaufman-Kerman. My dad didn’t talk much about being in World War II growing up. I mean, when I was a child I actually thought it was because he was invincible. I just… I saw the scars but I wanted him to be my superhero, my superman. And I felt so protected behind his fortified walls. Now I think, he also enjoyed me adoring him, looking up to him, but at what price. He had this knobby, sunken scar on his left shoulder. He said that that’s where they had removed a lot of the shrapnel. But he told me that they couldn’t get it all until they would be still some left in his body forever and I thought well that’s a heck of a souvenir.
My whole life I remember my dad saying, “Talk to me in my good ear, my good ear, Carol.”
Well, sometime during the war, his first, second or third injury, he had lost the hearing in his ear. Now as far as his emotional scars, those were harder to see. He had gotten three purple medals for being injured three times and he kept these medals in a box, in a drawer, in a room that hardly anybody ever used. I asked him once, “Dad, did you ever encounter anti-Semitism during the war?”
“I don’t know. Not rea… yeah, there was this one time at Fort Benning, Georgia. My commanding sergeant said, ‘Jew boy, take off your helmet. I want to see your horns.’ But, you know, he was from Arkansas and he had never met a Jewish person. It wasn’t really his fault.”
And I said Dad, “What about sensing your Jewish identity, feeling it over in Europe. I mean you were fighting Hitler. He exterminated six million Jews.”
That’s when he told me about his bold escape going AWOL, absence without leave.”
“Wait, Dad. AWOL, isn’t that illegal? Why did you do that?”
He said, “Well, to tell you the truth, Carol, I had been released from a hospital in Paris. They were scheduling me to go back out onto the frontlines. I didn’t know if I’d ever live to see Paris. It was Rosh Hashana and the first place I went was Rothschild’s Synagogue. It was closed but the Shammas was there. The Shammas is the person that takes care of the synagogue and he let me in and you know it felt good. I was missing family and he was there for me.”
Well, many years later, after I’d been married, my father told my husband and I both, he said, “You know, I remember when I was in a bunker. There were shells and fire all around and my buddy was sitting next to me. We were just inches apart. And I looked back over at him and his head was blown off.”
I looked at my father. I mean he said it so nonchalantly. But you know he would have had to have been holding back details and emotions.
He said, “Carol, this is the way I survived World War II. I just had to put on my blinders and keep ’em on. There was a time my captain and I, we were lying next to each other on our bellies and I had the radio strapped on my back. It was my job to radio back to our artillery the captain’s orders of where to aim the fire. And I believed that as long as I had that radio strapped to my back that I would be okay. You had to think like that, Carol, or else you’d crack.”
Well, about two and a half, three years ago, my dad and I were talking and he said, “Carol, I remember when I was in a hospital in France. We were four men and five legs.”
And that image just seared into my mind and I realized how impenetrable his blinders had to have been. I mean it was easier for him to talk about the good times, like the time that he was on a hospital train. There was a Red Cross volunteer. She was a famous actress from England. She was Alfred Hitchcock’s first icy blonde. Her name was Madeleine Carroll. And she was beautiful. Now she had made a radical change in his… in her career. She actually had stopped acting after her sister was killed in the London Blitz. And she just wanted to help the wounded soldiers.
My father said that he had seen all her movies and that he was madly in love with her. So, can you imagine, she’s walking down the aisle. I mean my mom… my father must have thought it was an apparition. It was an angel from heaven or something. She had in one hand crosses and she had in the other hand mezuzahs. A mezuzah is a casing with a Jewish prayer inside. And she came walking down; she stopped where my father was. She took a mezuzah and gave it to him and then she kissed him on the forehead. Oh, my gosh! He must have thought he died and went to heaven. He told me, he said, “I needed family and she was there.”
Well, now my dad fights a different kind of battle. He has prostate cancer. He’s softer now, more gentle. His blinders don’t work anymore and he can’t protect his fortress. His fortress that had kept our family so safe with his belief that if we all stayed inside the fortress, nothing could penetrate and hurt us.
Well, those weren’t on anymore, the blinders or the fortress. and last November my husband and I went to Normandy. We went and we saw all the things that he had lived through.
We would call him every single day and we’d compare the sights we had seen with what he saw. And we said, “Dad, today we went to see the beaches of, of D-Day. We saw the bunkers, the German bunkers. And my husband even called him from the American Cemetery. “Dad, tomorrow we’re going to go to St. Lo, the place where you got injured the second time.”
Now St. Lo was taken over by the Germans and totally destroyed. In fact, the writer Samuel Becker describes it as “The Capital of the Ruins.” It was that decimated and devastated.
When we got to St. Lo, we went right to the information tourist office and we asked, “Are there any World War II memorials?”
She told us that they were all closed for the season. We told her all about my father and how he had been injured in St. Lo. And she said, “Come back at five o’clock. I’m going to take you there myself.”
And so, we did. We came back at five and she introduced us to this small, little, French elderly man. His name was Mr. Letribot. And he introduced himself and said, “I am the curator of the World War II memorial. I would like to take you there myself.”
It was beautiful. It was in a 12th century chapel, La Chapelle de la Madeleine. He told us that it was the first time in his life he had ever had a piece of gum, given to him by an American soldier. It was the first time he ever had an Americ… eh, had a cigarette too. Also given to him by a soldier. And we told him about my father. He told us about the 29th. We had learned a little bit about how the 29th American Military Division had come in and they had liberated St. Lo during that July of 1944. And we told them how my father was in the 28th and they came in afterwards to relieve them. He smiled. He said, “It was your father’s division that had liberated my sister’s village not far from here. What your father did for us.”
And it made me think, “Did my… was my father ever thanked by anybody or soldiers ever thanked?”
And I looked over at my husband and there he was dialing my father in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. He said, “Stanley, we’re here in a World War II memorial and there’s someone that would like to talk to you.”
Monsieur Letribot got on the phone and he said, “Thank you so much for what you did for me and for my people. You came all the way over from America and you didn’t even know me. Thank you.”
And my father, oh, my father said, “You’re welcome. It was my pleasure. I did what I thought was right. Nobody has ever thanked me before.”
68 years later this conversation took place, 68 years after my father left France. Inside of a chapel whose walls are adorned with the military… American military flags with American medals with the… with the pictures of photographs of American fallen soldiers. And here was a liberated Frenchman saying, “Thank you” to a Jewish American soldier. And my father, well, he wore no blinders to protect his feelings… and he cried.
Nancy tells an excerpt from “A Window of Beauty,” a story inspired by the experiences of a young girl, her remarkable teacher and their secret art classes in the Terezin Concentration Camp in Czechoslovakia during World War II. It is a tale of courage, friendship and the power of artistic expression to sustain hope and light the way during the darkest of times.
The story of Friedl and Rutie tells of the deep relationship between teacher and student. One child described the experience of being in Friedl’s secret art classes in the concentration camp at Terezin: “Friedl. We called her Friedl. Everything was forgotten for a couple of hours. We forgot all the troubles we had.” What was Friedl’s legacy as a teacher? What memorable teacher in your own life was a rescuer or a life changer for you?
How does a human being survive a tragedy such as the Holocaust?
In what way is artistic expression – the creation of poetry, art or music and so forth – a form of resistance against oppression? How does it compare to the uprising of the Jews in the Warsaw ghetto during WWII?
I Never Saw Another Butterfly: Children’s Drawings and Poems from Terezin Concentration Camp, 1942-1944, 2nd edition, 1993.
Fireflies in the Dark: The Story of Friedl Dicker Brandeis and the Children of Terezin by Susan Goldman Rubin,
Art, Music and Education as Strategies for Survival: Theresienstadt 1941 – 1945 edited by Anne. D. Dutlinger
Education and Life Lessons
Family and Childhood
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
Hi, my name is Nancy Shapiro-Pikelny. When I was 11 years old, I received this book as a gift. It’s a collection of poetry and art that was done in the concentration camp Terezin. It was created in defiance of Nazi brutality. The name of the book, I Never Saw Another Butterfly. It was created by children, secretly and courageously. Now in that book there was only a brief mention of a drawing teacher, nothing more. And for years, I wondered who was this brave teacher and who were her students? I recently discovered a story of one student, a girl whose nickname was a Zuti, little rabbit. A name that was lovingly given to her by her friends because of her enormous buck teeth. Her real name was Rutie Shaffner. The Nazi sent Rutie Shaffner to the concentration camp in Terezin. And she was put in building L-410, room 28, along with many other girls her age. And there, the children suffered from disease and starvation. But Rutie’s life was lifted up out of the horror of the Holocaust through art, because of her teacher an artist. A woman named Friedl Dicker Brandeis. I want to tell you a story, an excerpt from a story that I call, “A Window Of Beauty,” that I created by gathering remnants of history and also by imagining the missing pieces. Imagining all of the lost threads, in the winter of 1944, in the concentration camp in Terezin, Czechoslovakia.
One day Rutie Shaffner decided to go on a hunt to find any art materials that her teacher Friedl could possibly use in their secret art classes. She began her hunt at the first light of dawn. She went into an alley and found a box and she grabbed it away from a rat that was chewing on the corner of it. And in that alley, there was charcoal and string and wire. She filled the box and then she headed out from the alley when she saw, in the distance, a group of Nazi soldiers crossing the street, coming in her direction. She didn’t know what to do, so she slipped into the doorway of a building. She crouched down low. Her heart was pounding. What if they see me? What if they find me here? Well, the building seemed empty and so Rutie dared to go inside. And in that building, Rutie made a wonderful discovery – paper. Paper! Stacks of ledger paper, office paper that had been left in that abandoned building. Rutie filled the box. And when the soldiers had gone, she ran all the way to her building L-410, room 28, up those three flights of stairs and she brought that box of treasures to Friedl. And from the odds and ends in that box, Friedl was able to teach those children the art of collage making. Rutie cut the shapes, and she tore them, pasted it on that ledger paper, and when she had finished, Rutie had created the sunrise in Terezin.
Well, the snows of winter eventually melted. And in the spring the Nazis needed to make a plan – how to fool the International Red Cross. You see, the Red Cross was coming to Terezin in the summer for an inspection. And so, the Nazis needed to make that concentration camp look beautiful for one day – the day of the inspection. And so, the Nazis ordered the Jews to paint the fronts of buildings, to clean up the garbage in the alleys, to build a playground. A playground that would be used for that one day only. The day of the inspection. And the last part of the Nazi plan, so that the Red Cross would not see the overcrowded conditions and Terezin, the Nazis increased the number of transports to the east to the gas chambers of Auschwitz.
It was on a Thursday that they posted the next list. And among the 2,000 Jews on that list was Rutie Shaffner, little Zuti, little rabbit. She was only 13 years old. Now nobody, none of the people on the list, knew what it meant to be sent on a transport to the east. And so, they hurried to find anything that they could take with them on the train. A spoon, a tin cup, or a prayer book, a ragged blanket. And there was tremendous commotion and fear as the Nazis called out names and numbers and pushed the Jews into the cattle cars. And there stood little Rutie in that crowd. And she remembered her friends up in room 28. How they had loved her and protected her for the last few years.
She was trembling when she heard Friedl calling her name. And she looked up and saw that Friedl was making her way through the crowd. Friedl came up to her and said, “O,h Rutie, I came to say goodbye and I’m glad I found you. And I want you to take this with you on the train. One of the last drawings you did as my student. Look what a wonderful artist you have become, Rutie.” And when she heard that her face broke wide open into a huge smile those buck teeth in full view.
“No, Friedl, I want you to have the drawing. You keep it.” And Friedl did. Friedl and the girls of room 28 never saw Rutie Shaffner again. She was taken to the gas chambers of Auschwitz where she died on May 18th, 1944.
Now in September of that year, Friedl asked a friend of hers to help her fill suitcases with the many drawings collages and paintings from the children that she had saved for the past two years. They filled those suitcases, carried them up to the attic above room 28, and hid them there. In the following month on October 6th, 1944 the Nazis sent Friedl and hundreds and hundreds of children, and women, and men on cattle cars bound for the gas chambers of Auschwitz. Their lives ended there but their story did not. Because when the war was over, those suitcases filled with all their artwork… they were discovered, and taken to the Jewish museum in Prague and eventually published some of that artwork was published in this book. Now in the latest edition of this book, there appears Rutie’s sunrise collage. In Hebrew, we say zekher tzadik livrakha, may their memories be for a blessing. And I hope that we can make their lives a blessing by telling these stories about real people who had names and faces and a love for beauty and creativity. People like Friedl and Rutie.
In 1965, there was a war between India and Pakistan and Bilal wanted to know “Why is there all this hate?” This is the true story of a special gift Dr. Bilal Ahmed, a Pakistani Muslim, received from his father when he was thirteen. He offered his story as a gift to storyteller, Noa Baum, to shape and retell and, now, having told it to you, she hopes you will pass it on.
How important was the father’s gift to his 13-year old son? How many years before the son really understood the conversation?
The child did not want to go into the dim, old-smelling room. As a metaphor, the room can stand for how difficult is it to tackle issues of social justice and bring them into the light. How important is it to talk about difficult subjects? What are the risks? What are the rewards?
How important is it for each person to demonstrate leadership in the social action arena? What keeps us from acting?
Hi, my name is Noa Baum. I grew up in Israel. I grew up surrounded by conflict and war, always longing for peace. Today I use storytelling to build bridges for peace. And I often lead interfaith workshops between Jews, Muslims, and Christians. At one of these workshops in Rochester, New York, a Muslim man from Pakistan, Dr. Bilal Ahmed, told me this story about a gift he received from his father. He gave me the story to shape and retell and I offer it here to you.
Bilal grew up in Lahore and Pakistan. When he was a little boy, there was a war between Pakistan and India. And he asked his father, “Why is there all this hate between Muslims and Hindus?” His father said, “When you’re older, I’ll tell you.”
A few years later, Bilal turned 13. They went to visit his uncle’s house in the north. Bilal loved those visits. He loved his uncle’s house. It was… there was this great, big fountain right in the middle and all the doors opened to that fountain, and they would eat there on little stools around the fountain. There was a kitchen on one side, there were the stairway leading to the second story on the other. And the most wonderful thing about that house was the great banyan tree in the back of the house, where he would climb with his cousins. He was just about to run off to climb on the tree, when his father said, “Come, Bilal. It’s time to answer your question.” What question? But instead of answering, his father took him by the hand and led him up the stairs, along the open balcony corridor overlooking the courtyard below. And he stopped at the very last room below. Bilal couldn’t believe it. It was the attic room. It was the only room in the house that was ever locked. It was the ghost room.
“Aaah, Baba, I want to go play.”
“You’ll play later. There’s something I need to show you.” And so his father let him in. And the room was musty and dark, only a few rays of sunlight filtered in through the slits of the wooden shutters. Everything was covered with dust. Old furniture, his grandfather’s helmet and musket from the World War, and a humongous trunk not far from the window, which his father now opened and took out a big, leather bound book. “Come Bilal. Look at this. This is our Bahi, the book of our family history. It is passed on through the generations, from the oldest son to the oldest son. That is why it is here. In your grandfath… in, in your uncle’s house. He is my oldest brother. I want you to open it and look at it.”
Bilal had never seen anything so old in his life. It had hundreds of pages. He opened it. There on one of the very first pages, he saw his name. Bilal Ahmed Sahai, next to his brother Jamal and his sister Sarah! His mother, Naeema Cheema Sahi. His father, Ghulam Sahi. “Hey that’s us!”
“Yes, that’s us. That’s our family. Keep looking.” And so, he turned the pages. Every page had about 10 names. Uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents, people that he knew, people that he heard about. And he kept turning the pages, turning the page… and there was a name, “Singh Gurmeet Singh Sahi. That’s not a Muslim name.”
“No, that is a Sikh name.
“Yes, they are your family too. Keep looking.” And so he kept turning the pages. Soon the paper was so old it was almost disintegrating in his hands.
And then, “Anil? What kind of name is that?”
His father said, “That’s the Hindu name.”
“Yes, they are your family too. Keep looking.”
And so, he kept turning the pages and soon it was no longer paper but parchment. And after a while, he couldn’t even recognize the letters or the language. He looked up at his father, “I don’t understand what does this mean?”
His father said, “You asked about the hate, remember? And I wanted you to see this. I wanted you to see that God lives in everything. And I don’t want you ever to let anyone tell you to hate another. Because you can see they are all here. Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, Christians, Jews. They’re all your family.”
Well, Bilal was 13 years old. All he could think about was getting up and playing on the tree with his cousins. And the years passed, Bilal left Pakistan. He became a doctor. He settled in Rochester, New York with his wife and three children. And about two years after his father passed away, he heard about the National Geographic’s genome project. Where they, they can map the travels and migrations of your family through the generations, across the world, according to your DNA. And they can also tell you who in the world is most closely, genetically, related to you. There are specific markers to specific population groups and if your markers matched those of someone else, then you are most closely genetically related to that person and they give them your email.
Bilal wanted to honor his father’s memory. He knew his father was always interested in genealogy. And so he sent in a little swab from the inside of his cheek in a little glass vial, with a number on it. No name, no name at all. And after a while the results arrived and there was a map of the entire world mapping the travels of his family. Like each and every human on this planet, they too began in Africa. And after thousands of years, migrated north, to the north part of Ukraine, Denmark, Poland. About 5000 years ago to the northern part of India and about a thousand years ago settled in what today is called Pakistan.
And then the emails began to arrive from his genetic relations. He got an email from somebody called David Barry Baum, someone called L. Frieburg, Clayton Schultz, Maurice Krasnow, Ed Leviten. It appears that according to the DNA results, the closest genetic relations of Dr. Bilal Ahmed, the Pakistani Muslim, are Jews from a small village in Poland. And it was then that he remembered. He turned to his 13-year-old daughter and he said, “You know, when I was about your age, my father took me to my uncle’s house. And he showed me our Bahi, the book of our family history.” He’s been telling the story ever since. Bilal has been telling the story, because he doesn’t want his children ever to forget his father’s words. “Don’t you ever let anyone tell you to hate another because you can see they’re all here. They are all your family.”
The true story of a Vietnamese teenager who makes it to America after a harrowing boat journey and refugee camp. At a commemorative storytelling event honoring Vietnamese Americans, Sue witnesses the transformative power of story as this young man shares his American immigrant story. The community of listeners that storytelling creates makes a new country feel like home.
America and Canada represent a moral ideal for some people in other parts of the world. What is that ideal?
Even in miserable surroundings people seek friendship; what does this say about our human need for connection? Neal and Tom were friends, yet Neal had no idea of his friend’s torment. How do we choose what to share and what to keep private from our friends?
Why had Neal had not told Tom’s story before the storytelling workshop? How did it help him to share his story?
The Vietnamese 1.5 Generation: Stories of War, Revolution, Flight and New Beginnings by Sucheng Chan
Family and Childhood
Living and Traveling Abroad
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
Hi, my name is Suzanne O’Halloran and I started to learn what home could mean to people on a whole other level when I was involved in an oral history project in 2005. April, 2005 was the thirtieth anniversary of the fall of Saigon, the end of the Vietnam War. And I was hired by the Society of the Divine Word to collect stories from some of their brothers and priests… about 25 folks who had escaped from Vietnam after the war. Well, the story gathering was gonna happen in the day and then in the evening, we were gonna have a public concert… part of our Just Stories-Storytelling Festival. Now, the first man I interviewed, his name was Neil. When Neil was 16 years old, his family helped him escape from Vietnam. But, unfortunately, he wound up, he ended up, in a not so nice refugee camp that wasn’t run by the U.N. Neil said that the guards were mean. I mean, they could just throw you in the blockade, no due process whatsoever. Neil, every night in a platform tent with 27 other people, like, lined up like sardines. And they would just get a little bit of food… like a bowl of rice, maybe a little fish, couple of vegetables and that had to last for several days. And most of all, you had to be really careful that nobody stole your food. But Neil made a friend, a boy a couple years older than him named Tom.
Tom had escaped Vietnam when he was 14 years old. And Tom and Neil met in a Bible study class. And as they got to know each other, Tom slowly told his story to Neil. Now, Tom escaped as well, in the bottom of a boat; 64 people hiding at the bottom of a boat. And this captain put fishing tackle, you can imagine all the smelly things, on top of them to hide ‘em. And they motored out this channel and they stopped. And everybody was so scared. They figured they must have paid off some guards, ‘cause they kept on going. Now, they got out to sea and things were going pretty well. It was just a day or two trip over to Thailand. And then the motor died. And there they sat for two days. Now they hadn’t brought food. People escaped with what they had on their backs. Now luckily the captain was bringing some hot sauce to a friend of his in Thailand. And they had that case of hot sauce. So each day, a couple a times a day, they’d lined up to get just one little dollop of this hot sauce to lick and that was it. No water, nothing!
Well, finally, they saw a ship. They were so excited! “We’re over here! We’re over here!” But when that ship came closer, they discovered it was pirates. We think of pirates like, you know, Peter Pan or something. It just means pirates at sea. And those men just hopped on board and they took… if people have watches, if they had any money on them, any food, and they even took that motor in case they could fix it. But worse than that, they stabbed all the people so there would be no witnesses and threw them overboard. So Tom found himself in the middle of the ocean. Now, he had the presence of mind, there he was stabbed and bleeding, to take off his pants; kind of like these pajama kind of pants so they had cloth to them. So he blew air in either and tied a knot in either end of the legs and used it like an inner tube to hang on. Now, he doesn’t know for sure ’cause he was in and out of consciousness but he knows he went through a night so he was probably hanging there for a day.
And then another day went by and he was having to fight off fish. And finally he thought, “This is it. I’m giving up.” And he let go, he started sinking down to the bottom. And he heard this voice inside him say, “No. It’s not your time.” So he kind of bobbed back up just as he saw this big, red, plastic gas can floating by. So Tom climbed up on that and he hung there for a whole other day. And then another ship came by and this time, thank God, it wasn’t pirates. It was Thai fisherman. But Thai fisherman had been told that if they picked up any more Vietnamese refugees, they would be in some big trouble. They would lose their license.
But what are you going to do if you see a kid hanging on a gas can in the middle of the ocean? Thank God, they did the right thing. They stopped and picked up Neil. (Tom) Now, he had hypothermia by then. They tried to warm him up and he were trying to tell them there were 63 other people. And they went around, they motored around, they couldn’t find. It seemed Neil (Tom) was the only survivor. So they got him as close to shore as they dare because they didn’t want to lose their license. They put him back in the water and Tom, I’m saying Tom, swam back to land. And all kinds of stories but he finally made his way to the same horrible refugee camp.
Now, when they got there, they’d be questioned. “Are you a Communist? Are you a spy?” Because, of course, he showed up with no ID on him. And how you got sponsored if you got out to another country, depended on how you answered these questions and, of course, with this kinda refugee camp, if you had a little money to grease the wheels. And Tom had neither so he had been there for 4 years already when Neil met him.
There’s this one day, right before Bible study and they were sitting there talking. And, well, Tom was really down but that wasn’t unusual. You can imagine, in this kinda refugee camp, people got very depressed. And Tom excused himself to go to the bathroom. Now the bathroom at this refugee camp was just a hole in the ground with little trees around it for a little bit of privacy. Well, Bible study started. Tom didn’t show up. Neil got worried. He went looking for his friend. And he found him. Tom had hung himself. He just despaired of ever getting out of that refugee camp.
And Neil said to me, “Well, they burned his body and sent his ashes back to Vietnam. He finally made it back home. He was caught in limbo all those years; he couldn’t go home, he couldn’t go forward. And Neil said to me, “When Tom died, it was like a part of me died.” And then he looked right at me and said, “I’ve never told anybody that story before. I have never spoken of Tom before!”
Now, this was my first interview, and like 25 more to go! And I heard these incredible stories of escape and family sacrifice, and idealism and loss. So we got an idea. That night was supposed to be the professional storytelling concert. So I asked some of these brothers and priests if they would be willing to share their stories. So that night the professional tellers did their marvelous, usual wonderful job and then these brothers got up and shared their stories. And I’m telling ya, they stole the show! There wasn’t a dry eye in the place. They got a standing ovation. And afterwards, Neil came up to me and said, “You know, it was very painful to share these stories today but important. I have been here for almost 20 years but because of the way this audience, these people, listened to our stories, I feel like I’ve finally arrived in America. I feel like I’m finally home.” And that is the power of sharing and listening to each other’s stories.
Linda’s grandmother lived in what her sisters and she called “The Plastic Palace.” Her grandmother covered everything with plastic. Everything … chairs, tables, lampshades … and, of course, her living room couch, including the throw pillows. Plastic is fun, right? But who would suspect that it could also set off a painful memory of the Vietnam War for Linda’s father?
For a print friendly version of the transcript, click here: Plastic-Glory
What intrigues you about the home of your grandparents or other older people? What do you smell, taste, hear, or touch when you visit their homes?
How does the description of food add to the visual image of the dining room scene?
Were you surprised at the twist near the end of the story? How did her father’s reaction to the popping sound affect you?
Do you know someone who has fought overseas in a war? Have you ever talked with them about their experiences? If you could, what would you ask?
The term ‘shell shock’ has been changed to ‘post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). What do you know about it?
The Things They Cannot Say: Stories Soldiers Won’t Tell You about What They’ve Seen, Done or Failed to Do in War by Kevin Sites
Once a Warrior–Always a Warrior: Navigating the Transition from Combat to Home–Including Combat Stress, PTSD, and MTBI by Charles Hoge
What It Is Like To Go To War by Karl Marlantes
African American/Black History
Family and Childhood
Living and Traveling Abroad
Hi, I’m Linda Gorham and I remember my grandmother’s obsession with plastic. She covered everything with it: furniture, accessories. Now, I know this was universal. I meet a lot of people tell me that their family covered things with plastic. When I was young though, back in the 60’s, actually, I thought it was a black thing. But I learned that it’s pretty universal. I loved visiting my grandparents’ house because there was no dust. There was no dirt. There was no stain in her house, at least not under the plastic, you know what I mean.
But when I would go there, well, I would go on plastic hunts to discover all the ways that she had used plastic. It was really, really cool. In the living room, there were white lamps, you know. Regular lamps with big white shades? Those white shades were covered in plastic, of course. In the hall closet there were wooden hangers, all of those wooden hangers were covered with a plastic bag from the cleaners. I remember the hallway to my grandparents’ house. It was a long hallway that started at the foyer and it went all the way back to the kitchen. And covering that hallway was a gray hallway rug but to protect the rug it was covered in plastic. You see where I’m going with this, right?
In the dining room, there were dining room chairs. They were gorgeous and they had cushions on them that were kind of paisley. But to protect the cushions, they were covered in plastic. You know something cool about plastic cover,s dining room chairs when you sit down on them? They exhale. Aah. then, when you get up they inhale. Ooh. It’s kind of cool jumping up and down on them. Aah. Ooh. Aah. Ooh.
But the thing I remember that was the most fun, was the living room couch in my grandparents’ house. Yes, it was covered in plastic but this part I will never know how this happened, the pillows, throw pillows, they were covered in plastic too. But…I figured out a way to jump on that couch and to make a loud noise like POP. And I called it the ultimate, plastic, couch fart. I loved making the ultimate, plastic, couch fart. I love saying the ultimate, plastic, couch fart. My grandmother didn’t approve. But that’s another story.
Well, when I was about 12 or so, my father, who was in the military, announced that he was being transferred. No actually, when I think about it, I was probably more like eight. And so, we moved from New Jersey, where he was stationed, up to Alaska, and then to Fort Benning, Georgia – two transfers. And then while we were in Georgia, my father said to me that he was being, well, not transferred. He used the word I had never heard before – deployed. He was being sent to Vietnam and while he was gone, he told my mother and my two sisters that I had at that point, he said, “You’re all going to go back and live with my parents,” he said. My grandparents, his parents, my grandparents. And the next thing I knew, my father was shipped off to Vietnam and I was back in the plastic palace. That’s what I called it.
Now, I was a little bit older – that’s when I was about 12. But my sisters, well, they didn’t really remember all the plastic stuff so I took them on a hunt, you know, to show them that the things; the, the chairs and the, the plastic on the hangers and all the things that my grandmother covered in plastic. The best thing was that couch because you know what I taught them. How to make the ultimate, plastic, couch fart. My youngest sister, Carol loves being able to say “fart” out loud. But I was older, and truthfully, I was the only one who really understood where my father went. And I guess, it’s also fair to say, I was the only one of the children who realized that he may not come back or he may not come back the same. So, plastic took on a different, it just it was different for me. I wasn’t interested in all the other things that Gail and Carol liked.
I remember before my father left, he gave me a plastic globe and he showed all of us where Vietnam was. And I remember sitting in my room, at night, trying to put my finger approximately on New Jersey and try to stretch my thumb to Vietnam. It was a long way away. But somehow, just touching that plastic globe made me feel closer to my father.
I can remember every night, at 6 o’clock, my mother and I would sit on the living room couch, our bodies stuck to the plastic, and our eyes glued to the television set. Because every day at 6 o’clock, on the news, we’d watch. We’d watch to see if my father’s unit had been in battle. And we watched those names of fallen soldiers scroll down the screen. More names after more names after more names; too many names.
I can remember the day that my father came home. The doorbell rang his special code, three rings. And my sisters and I screamed, “Daddy’s home!” And we went running and slipping down that long hallway runner and into his arms. I think, and I don’t really remember, but I, re, kind of think he picked all of us up at the same time. And there was so much laughter and joy and tears in that foyer. It must’ve lasted forever. But I remember when he finally put us down, and did all the kissing and hugging, he, he walked down the hallway runner hung, his coat up in the closet. And then he walked over to the dining room table ’cause there was lots of food on that table. macaroni and cheese. My grandmother made the best macaroni and cheese in the world! I didn’t know back then, the most fattening macaroni and cheese in the world. But hey, who cared. And a whole stack of steaks. My father sat down on those plastic cover dining room chair cushions. And cushions, exhaled. Aah. Daddy’s home.
We had so much fun that day! At the dining room table, we ate, we talked, we laughed. And when Gail and Carol were finished eating, I remember, they excused themselves, which is a good thing to do, you know, and went into the living room. Now I wasn’t going to go over there where that couch was… you know, what I’m saying? And it wasn’t long before we heard it. POP, the ultimate plastic couch fart. I started to laugh and a few other people did too. But I looked at my father. He had jumped up from his seat. His eyes had just grown in size and his head was gyrating from side to side and his whole body was shaking. And I was scared for him. And I was scared for me. I learned a new word that day, shellshock. And I learned that, well, my father had come home from the war, but, unexpectedly, the war had come home with my father.
Now, I don’t remember how long we had to be quiet around him. It was weeks or months. I don’t remember but he did recover. That’s the good news. But I will tell you that, that night after everybody went to sleep, I helped my grandmother take the plastic off that living room couch and those dining room chairs. Because at my grandmother’s house, even though plastic used to be cool, now, plastic took a back seat when it came all too real.
At age 16, in 1855, Jane’s great-grandfather sailed from Long Island, N.Y. around the Horn to San Francisco where he was stranded! He took a job with Wells Fargo as a treasure agent in the Sacramento-Shasta Mining District…the home of the Shasta Indian Nation. In 1860 he rode the first leg east for the Pony Express. He was also a member of San Francisco’s Vigilance Committee, a group of 6000 men, committed to establishing “law and order.” How do we seek understanding of both the pride and the discomfort our ancestor’s stories?
How did the varieties of available transportation and the movement of people in the mid-1800s contribute to the ‘opening of the West’? Martin Luther King said, “The arc of moral history is long, but it bends toward justice.” How does that quote fit with the opening of the West? How has social media changed the way we learn about how people are being oppressed today?
If you were to create tableaux or pictures from this story, how might you picture the Shasta Nation? the miners? the Vigilance Committee? the U.S. Army? the Pony Express? How might you depict each group’s point of view and predicament?
Because Brinck is a member of Jane’s family, when she tells this story to her grandchildren, what should she tell them? Why?
A biography of Jane’s Great Grandfather: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elbert_Adrian_Brinckerhoff
Website – About the Shasta Nation Territory: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shasta-Trinty_National_Forest and www.fs.usda.gov/stnf
First Nations/Native Americans
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Hello, I’m Jane Stenson. I’d like to tell you an excerpt from a story, “Another Way West.” It’s a story about my great-grandfather. His name, his long name was Elbert Adrian Brinkerhoff. Everybody called him Brink. He was really short. He was a very slight kid but really short. I mean, he was probably about my height, about 5’2” or 5’3”. And he loved horses. Well, actually, what he liked to do, was to race horses. He lived for school to be over at the end of the day. And then he would jump on his horse, he would race out to the general store, pick up the family’s mail, and race home.
In 1855, he graduated from a school where his father was Headmaster and he was all set to go to college. But what happened was that a letter came. And following that letter, came the author of the letter, a Captain Joseph Hamilton. And he is, his clipper ship was in New York Harbor but he was a war friend of Brink’s father. So, they invited him out to Long Island, to their house. And he began to talk about the clipper ship, about how beautiful it was, about the white sails on the ship, and how fast it was. It went faster than anything else that was out there. And about how much money you could make in the around the world cargo trade. So, the more he talked, the more interested Brink became. And when Captain Hamilton invited Brink to go along with him on this around the world cargo trade, and that he would teach bring all about how to make money in the cargo trade, it was very easy for Bring to defer college and decide to go around the world.
So, they left New York Harbor. They went south, ah, east, southeast all the way down and around the big bump in South America, and all the way down and around under Cape Horn, all the way up the west side of South America, Central America, up to San Francisco. And in San Francisco, when they offloaded all that cargo, Brink found out it was just ordinary things. Things, which in 1855, would be important to the people that were settling out there. Eggs, whiskey, cotton cloth. And things that were important to the miners like picks and shovels and boots. Soon as the cargo was offloaded, Captain Hamilton, now this was unexpected, but Captain Hamilton got a cargo all the way back to New York. Brink didn’t get to go around the world. In fact, he was stranded in San Francisco.
Well, he had skills; horses, he was educated, for the time, and he was amili… amiable. He was a good kid. So, he went, with his letter of introduction, to Wells Fargo and he got himself a job. He was a Treasury Agent. And it was a perfect job for him because it was all about riding his horse through his territory, which was San Francisco up to Sacramento, and then out beyond Sacramento into the Shasta mining district.
Well, he delivered the mail. Yeah. So, he put on his slouch hat and his bright, red shirt and he’d jump on his horse and he’d whack and he’d bang on the door of a claim. And somebody inside the claim of the gold mine would know that there was a letter. And then, in those days, if he was delivering the mail, it was the recipient of the letter who paid the bill. So, they would offer not cash because those miners didn’t have a lot of cash. What they had were vials of gold. He might get half an ounce of gold for delivering one letter. That’s probably about $300 in today’s, today’s money. Or, or he delivered newspapers that were five or six months old. And the miners will pay anywhere from 8 to $150 for those letters.
And then a letter would be there. Somebody would climb up the ladder from inside the claim and they would pay the pony man. Brink would hand over the letter and then he jumped back on his horse, three blasts on his horn, and a way he was down the trail, down the creek bed, wherever he was to go on to the next house. He liked that job.
And in fact, as Treasury Agent, he got to know where everything was. Where people lived in that, in that whole area between San Francisco and Sacramento and up into the Shasta area. He got to know which claims were mining gold, which claims were beginning to dry up and he got to know about the Shasta Indians. Where they lived, how they were moving, if they were moving, what they were doing, and that was part of his job. Part of his job was to keep track of those things for Wells Fargo.
Well, this was 1855, 1856 when he had this job. And when the Gold Rush had started in 1849, miners began to pour into California followed by the settlers. And those miners’ white tents sprang up all over the Shasta district, like some sort of non-native invasive species. And the miners, they were interested in the gold. They panned for the gold. They found gold inside of caves and they gouged inside the caves. And the fish went belly up and the land that the… the game on the land went scarce. Well, that was the Shasta Indians way of life. That was their food. And the Shasta Indians began to realize with more and more people coming in, that they were losing not just their food source, they were losing their entire way of life.
In, in 1849, as the gold rush started, there were 290 people in Sacramento. And just in 1856, when Brink got this job, there were 400,000 people in Sacramento. Four hundred thousand people interested in becoming rich. Rich with gold. Rich with owning land. And the Indian began to understand that he was losing. He was losing again and again. Some of the Indians began to raid. Some of the Indians began to massacre. There were problems. And the government, which was represented by the U.S. Army at that time, decided that they needed to protect the Indian. And that the Indian needed to be moved out of the Shasta District and on to a reservation.
They hired Treasury Agents to do that job. Brink was a member of the Vigilance Committee in San Francisco. That was a group of men, six thousand strong, who were committed to law and order in California. And that’s what they wanted to do. So, he took that job, that extra job, extra work for him, because he knew where the Shasta Indians were. He gathered them. He collected them. And he marched them to Nomlaki, which was a piece of land where nobody wanted to settle. It was poor. Nothing grew there. It was bad land. But he marched those Indians, with friends, with other people, to that military reservation that was quickly and poorly constructed. I don’t know how he felt about what he did because in his journal he simply documented that he had participated in that…march.
I do know that he liked his job as a Treasury Agent because he wrote about it. And he wrote about the people that he met and he, and how he likes delivering the mail and keeping track of all the things that were going on. He wrote about how beautiful the land was in the Shasta nation. About the hunting and the fishing that he did on his days off. But about his participation for the few days of the, the Indian march to Nomlaki, he simply documented that he had participated in that.
Well, I have to tell you that he went back to his regular job after that. And he was honored by Wells Fargo for the good job that he did as a Treasury Agent. They asked him if he would be interested in riding the first leg of the Pony Express East. Well, he said yes. And so, he carried, in 1860, he carried his mail pouch of 56 letters from San Francisco up to Sacramento, and then he handed the mail pouch off to the Overland rider, who would take all those letters to um, to the east coast. At that time, the people who wrote the letters were the ones who paid $5 for each letter going east.
Well, I have to say, in thinking about my great-grandfather Brink, the family stories that have come down to us, are all about his participation in the Pony Express and what an adventure it was and how romantic it was. And how great it was that he got to do that and I believe that.
Do we talk about his role as a member of the Vigilance Committee and his role in dislocating the Indians from their, from their nation, from their land? No. I had to look that information up. It was not information that was handed down in the family stories. Now, at the time that he did that, he was 18 years old. And he was probably not as wise then as he became later on in his life. That he moved 300 people from their land to a reservation is not praiseworthy by any standard. Yet it’s part of a lot of white family histories in this country.
Dr. Martin Luther King said that, “The arc of moral history is long. But that it bends toward truth.”
This is the true story of storyteller, Laura Simms, telling a deeply traumatized boy – an ex- child soldier from Sierra Leone, West Africa – a story in a taxicab in New York City. The story within this story relieves his misery and, in the process, Laura discovers the power of the tale and the boy’s innate and potent resilience.
For a print friendly version of the transcript, click here: Sudden-Story
Would you have tried to keep the young man from Sierra Leone with you?
Why was a story and this particular story helpful to the young man who was about to get on a plane to go back to his war-torn country?
Did you expect the ending to the story? Why was this young man able to go on to have a family, an education and career success? How do you think he was able to rise above his experience as a child soldier?
A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah
Folktales from Around the World by Jane Yolen
Website – The Children Bill of Rights, 1996 http://www.newciv.org/ncn/cbor.html
African American/Black History
Education and Life Lessons
Living and Traveling Abroad
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
name is Laura Simms. I’m from New York and this story takes place in New York, in 1996.
I was hired by UNICEF and Norwegian Peoples Aid to be a facilitator for a conference called Young Voices. And there were 53 kids from 23 third world countries there to create a Children’s Bill of Rights. So, my job, of course, as a storyteller was to listen to stories and help kids tell stories. And I heard stories that, literally, changed my life.
So, I became really close to two boys from Sierra Leone, West Africa, who, on meeting them, their voices were gentle and sweet. They were skinny. It was snowing out and they’re wearing summer clothes. When I heard their stories, it was something else. They were ex-child soldiers. They had committed atrocities. It was an amazing experience. And one boy, Aluzin Bah, fantastically, beautiful boy asked me to keep him in New York. And I was up every night, “Could I keep him in New York? How could I send a child back to war?”
I thought about if it was 50 years ago and I was in the Holocaust and somebody brought me out and then sent me back. At any rate, UNICEF heard about this. The boy told me, “Don’t tell anybody,” but he was 15, so, he told everybody. And ha ha. So, I, um, was told, “No conditions could I keep him in New York.” Actually, both boys, I’m still very close to. And the other boy Ishmael is now my adopted son.
We were in the last day of the conference. In the morning, the kids were getting ready to get on the bus to go to JFK. And Aluzin was furious with me for not letting him stay, suddenly began to sob. But it wasn’t just sobbing, it was a kind of, almost like, an earthquake in his heart. And I begged someone at UNICEF to just let me take him to JFK on my own, in a taxicab. And, of course, he didn’t trust me. So, I was side by side with a tall, Norwegian, sort of Viking, humanitarian. So, the three of us were in the taxi. And Aluzin was crying. And I thought to myself, “If he can’t get on the plane, he can’t go back to war in this way because it would make him in danger.” So finally, when he was heaving and heaving, I just said, “Aluzin, I’ll do everything I can. Everything. To stay in touch with you, to see if I could get you out of Sierra Leone. But I have to take you back. Tell me what can I do for you now? I can’t keep you here. What can I? You can’t go on a plane, traumatized.”
And he stopped crying. And he looked at me and he said, “Tell me a story.”
It was as if every story that I knew just sort of flooded out of my body. And I was…”What do you, what do you do?”
You have like five minutes. It has to be a story that means something. And then a story just arrived up the back of my legs and I had no idea if this was appropriate or not but I thought, just go for it. And I tell this story.
It’s about a boy, a poor boy who had no money. It’s a story from Morocco. And he went to market place he saw everything in the market. He wanted everything. He couldn’t have anything. But in the middle of the market, there was a magician performing a magic act. The magician had a magic finger. Anything he touched, turned to gold. Everybody came, applauded, left. But the boy was like, Wha! The magician said, “Ha, ha, ha, ha. You like my magic.”
And the boy said, “Yeah.”
Magician said, “Do you want some gold?”
The boy said, “Yeah.”
A little mouse came by, the magician touched it, turned to gold. He said, “Here.”
The boy said, “No, I want more.”
The magician looked. There was a huge table with, with plates and brass objects he turned to gold. He said, “Here.”
The boy said, “I want more.”
“Oh.” The magician said, “Come with me.” He took him. There was a field filled with cows. He turned all the cows to gold. “Here.”
The boy said, “No! I want more.”
The magician said, “What do you want?”
The boy said, “I want a magic finger.”
Shuli, my Viking guard, said, “Why did you tell that story?”
Honestly, I wasn’t sure I knew. But Aluzin said, “I know. Because that’s what I want.” And I knew, that if this boy survived, he would more than survive. He would live because he wanted his own life force.
We got to JFK. He got on the plane. He went back to Sierra Leone. I called him every Friday morning, as I could, until the rebels attacked and it was hard to reach him. And then I called him again.
And I’ll tell you one tiny incident more, which is so beautiful about these kids. It was one Tuesday, I called him, was actually my birthday, and, selfishly, what I really wanted to do was have a cappuccino and get back into bed. So I, with my cappuccino, did get into bed and did make the call and I wasn’t going to tell him it was my birthday. I thought how lucky I am.
And when I called and, you know, there were two phones in Freetown through Sierratel, and I would say, “Aluzin Bah.” And everybody would call out Aluzin!”
And then I would hear people calling, “Hello, hello.” Hundreds of people waiting just in case somebody might call them. And he got on the phone. He said, “Laura, how are you?”
And I blurted out, “It’s my birthday!” And Aluzin, crying and laughing, called out to hundreds of people and said, “It’s Laura’s birthday!” And in the middle of the war, all these people sang “Happy Birthday.” And I realized that it would have been the most selfish thing if I hadn’t told him and given them the opportunity for joy.
Then the story… I’ll just tell you the great thing. That Aluzin graduated from college this year. He’s working in a bank so he could bring his childhood sweetheart to Montreal, where he lives. And he’s working for the benefit of children. And to me that’s a great story.
Loren travels to North Ireland and is continually asked, “Are you Catholic or Protestant?” By the way that question is asked and answered, layers of cultural assumptions are revealed.
For a print friendly version of the transcript, click here: In-Belfast
What is the fundamental assumption contained in asking, “Are you Catholic or Protestant?”
What is the function of the joke in the context of the story and in relation to the larger issue of identity?
How and why do people need to shed the assumptions of culture to “wage peace” or reconcile after loss?
Lost Lives by David McKittrick, Seamus Kelters, Brian Feeley and Chris Thornton
Religion, Identity and Politics in Northern Ireland: Boundaries of Belonging and Belief by Claire Mitchell and Aldershot Ashgate – Helping People Forgive, David W. Augsburger
Education and Life Lessons
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
This is Loren Niemi.
In 2005 and 2007, every time I go to Belfast, and I’ve been to Belfast a couple of times, it’s always the same thing. I’m always introduced the same way. I’m introduced as, “This is our American friend.” And the first time it happened, I was kind of curious about why, or why that particular greeting. And they said, “Well, it’s a way of sidestepping the dance.” And I realized that, when upon observation, that in fact, in every conversation in Belfast, the first few minutes, there’s this gentle probing. No one really wants to ask directly. But there’s this little probing about, where do you live or where did you go to school? Or, you know, and it’s all about geography. What they really want to know is, are you Catholic or Protestant? And geography tells you whether you’re Catholic or Protestant, most of the time. And what they really want to know is, not only are you Catholic or Protestant, but, but where you are in relationship to the history and the nuance of the troubles?
Thirty-seven years of war based on religion and, as they say, 10 years of waging peace. And that’s what they call it, “waging peace.” And still no government they trust. And every conversation is about the same thing. It all begins the same way. Are you Catholic or Protestant? Now, me, I’m standing there and I’m looking at the city. And what I’m seeing is a city that pretty much looks the same regardless of where you are. And people who very much look the same, you know. They sound the same. They, they do the same jobs. They, they wear the same clothes. I cannot tell the difference between Protestant and Catholic.
But it’s interesting. I’m looking at a street. And on each side of the street, there are three story brick, row houses. Now, in some neighborhoods, it’s real clear because there are murals on the walls, right. Bobby Sands and the Hunger Strikers. Well, that’s an IRA, Catholic neighborhood. Or the end of a row of flats, you, you get, um, the Provos with their rifles and their masks. And you go, oh, this is a Protestant neighborhood. But most of the time it’s more subtle. You have to look at things like the curbs. Orange curbs in the Protestant neighborhoods and, and green curbs in the Papist neighborhoods, you know. And what I mean, is one side of the street is orange and the other side of the street is green. And these are not wide streets. So, sometimes when I would be asked, directly, eventually someone would say, “”Well, are you Catholic are or you Protestant?”
You know, I would say, “I’m Buddhist.”
And one guy he looks at me and there’s a pause. And then he says, “Well, would that be a Catholic Buddhist or Protestant Buddhist?” And we would laugh and it would be funny. It would be funny…except for the suffering and the death. Because that’s what I had come to Belfast for was to, you know, work on the reconciliation. To work on hearing the stories of suffering and death. And it made no difference whether you are Catholic or Protestant. There was suffering and death on both sides.
And when you hear the stories, when they all come out, when you’ve got a roomful of people and you get down to, “How did you survive? What did you do?” You know, we find the common humanity. Every story might begin, or every introduction, might begin with, “Are you a Protestant or a Catholic?” But if there’s any hope for the future, if there’s any hope for reconciliation, it can’t end there.
This is a true story written by Mako Nakagawa and told by Alton with her permission. A young girl wonders about the difference between “hakujin” (white people) and “nihonjin” (Japanese people) while in an internment camp in WWII. She speculates as to why hakujin do not onara (a euphemism for “passing gas”).
For a print friendly version of the transcript, click here:Onara
You have been ordered to move out of your house in two weeks and can only take one suitcase weighing 50 pounds. You will be gone for an unknown period of time for an unknown destination. There are no stores where you are going, no Internet or cell phone or cable service, and very little electricity. What will you take with you?
Meals in the camps were served in large mess halls like the cafeteria in your school. What would be the advantages and disadvantages of serving meals in this way? How would you feel about eating in a cafeteria for all of your meals for the next year?
The incarceration (internment) camps were surrounded by guard towers, barbed wire fences, and soldiers with rifles. Do you think such measures were necessary? Why were they implemented? How would you feel if you had to live under those conditions? How do you think it would change you?
Farewell to Manzanar by Jeanne Wakatsuki
Years of Infamy: The Untold Story of America’s Concentration Camps by Michi Weglyn.
Education and Life Lessons
Hello. My name is Alton Takiyama-Chung. The story I have for you is called “Onara.” It was written by a woman by the name of Mako Nakagawa. It is with her permission that I can tell it. It’s in a collection of stories that I call “Kodomo No Tame Ni.” (For the Sake of the Children) Now, “Onara.”
For the first five years of my life, I grew up in Seattle and I was surrounded by friends and family, mostly Japanese people. See, we were Nipponjin, Japanese people, and I didn’t know much about white people or know very many of them. We called them Hakujin. And I knew there were differences between us Nipponjin and the Hakujin. I mean, they were foreign, “strange,” and very large!
Most of what I knew about Hakujins came from magazines or movies. I mean, they were filled with Hakujin people. But even as a child I knew that the Hakujins were the ones with the power. That became very evident when they came and took my dad and threw him in jail, after Pearl Harbor. And again when they took me and the rest of my family and put us in Camp Harmony in Puyallup, Washington in 1942. Later in Minidoka, Idaho and Crystal City, Texas.
All the teachers and all the guards were all Hakujins. We learned to be wary of them. One day about a dozen of us second graders were all gathered together making a sound of onara. Oh, we were having a wonderful time, making all these wonderful sounds using our hands and our fingers and our lips. We knew if the adults caught us, we would be in big trouble, but it was so much fun being naughty.
Each kid had a different sound and we critiqued each sound. we tried to imagine what kind of person would make that kind of sound. And then, Akira made what we considered to be, hands down, the best onara sound ever. We fell on the ground laughing, our sides were hurting. You know, “onara?” (Sound made through blowing in hands that sounds like gas.) “Onara!” And then one kid said, “How come the Hakujin don’t onara? Huh?”
Hmm. Half of us thought they did. Half of us thought they didn’t. I always wondered what it would be like, not to onara. One person said, “No no, no, they have to, they are human beings!”
“Oh yeah, if they did, wouldn’t they have an English word for it?”
“Yeah . . Hmm.” Since none of us could come up with an English word for onara, we concluded the Hakujins didn’t do it. Then my friend Janet said she thought she heard one coming from her teacher, but she wasn’t sure because her teacher moved her chair at the same time. Hmm, inconclusive. I mean, who could we ask?
The only Hakujins we knew were our teachers and the guards, and we didn’t think it was a really good idea to ask them anything. It seemed strange to me that they wouldn’t have an English word for onara. I knew there were differences between us, but we weren’t that different. I decided to ask my mom, see what she thought. My mom, she looked at me, and then she smiled and said she had no idea. I don’t think she wanted to know the Hakujins that well.
Anyway, one day, again, I was playing with my best friend Janet, and the whole idea came up again. We finally concluded that onara was the result of what you ate. Logical! And we knew that the Hakujins ate differently than us. Therefore, the Hakujin food must not produce onara. But when I was in camp, I ate a lot of Hakujin food and I still onara. I never discovered the non-onara-producing Hakujin diet, but I did discover the meanings for certain key phrases, such as “angel whispers,” “breaking wind,” and “cutting the cheese!” Hakujins did do it! That’s when I realized, maybe we’re not so different after all.
Solly Ganor, a Lithuanian Jew, was a boy when Germany invaded his country in1940. He was eventually sent to Dachau and was rescued by members of the 100th Battalion/442nd Regimental Combat Team, the all-Japanese American unit. Fifty years later he once again meets the man who saved him.
What if an environmental disaster occurred in Canada and forced millions of Canadians south across the border into the US. Would you open your house to take in some refugees who have nothing? What would you give up to share with them?
What if an environmental disaster occurred in Mexico and forced millions of Mexicans across the border into the US, would you open your house to some refugees who had nothing? Would your behavior be different than your reaction to the Canadian refugees? Why?
People who lived through WWII are passing away. In a few years, there will no longer be any eyewitnesses to the events of recent history. How do we know what happened in Civil War, in Medieval Europe, at the building of the Pyramids in Egypt? How is history preserved? How does the past affect our present and future?
If you and your family were sent to an incarceration camp, would you volunteer to fight for the U.S.? Would you serve, if drafted into the Military? Would you remained loyal to the U.S.?
Light One Candle: A Survivor’s Tale by Solly Ganor
Visas and Virtue, Visual Communications, Cedar Grove Production, 26 minutes, 1997, (1997 Academy Award, Best Live Action Short Film)
Okage Sama De (I am what I am because of you.) A DVD by Alton Chung
Stereotypes and Discrimination
Taking A Stand and Peacemaking
Hello. My name is Alton Takiyama-Chung. The story I am going to tell you right now is called, “A Twice Saved Life.” It’s from a large collection of stories which I created and called, “Okage Sama De.” (“I Am What I Am Because Of You”) and now, “A Twice Saved Life.”
We, Jews, have a saying, “To save one life, is if to save the entire world.” Kaunas, Lithuania. Just a dot on a map for most Americans. But for me, it is where I grew up. I was 11 years old when Hitler invaded Poland from the West in September of 1939. Two weeks later, Russia invaded Poland from the east. And over the next several months, Polish Jews began streaming across the border into Lithuania. In December of that year, like many other Jewish children in Lithuania, I decided to give my Hanukkah gelt, my Hanukkah money, to the refugees who had nothing. And then, ah, wouldn’t you know it, the new Laurel and Hardy film came in town and I just had to see it!
I decided to go see my aunt who ran a gourmet grocery store in downtown Kaunas. When I walked into the store, there was an elegantly dressed man with strange, slanted eyes. I had never seen a Japanese man before! Well, I told my aunt what I needed. And the man laughed and reached into his pocket, and said, “Here, here. Take it. Take the money. Take, take it.”
I said, “Oh no, no, no! You a stranger. You’re not family. I cannot take money from you.”
“Well, for the holidays, why don’t you consider me to be your uncle?”
I took the coin. “Uh…Uncle…uh…my name is Solly Ganor.”
“And my name is Chiune Sugihara.” Chiune Sugihara. He was the Consul for the Empire of Japan to Kaunas.
Well, time went on. In June 1941, Germany invaded Lithuania. Eventually, my family was split up and I was sent to Bavaria, southern Germany, to a little town outside of Munich, called Dachau. I witnessed many…horrible,…terrible things… But I survived.
In 1945, the SS guards wrestled us out of our barracks and made us march off into the frozen night. And we marched…And we marched…And we marched. For six days and nights we marched. I was weak. I was exhausted and I collapsed into a snow bank by the side of the road where the guards just left me to die. I was drifting away and then I felt someone grab hold of me and pull me out of the snow bank. And I opened my eyes and stared into this face with strange, slanted eyes. And I remembered Sugihara had strange, slanted eyes. There were four of them. They were dressed in khaki uniforms and they were tired and unshaven and dirty. And although they were speaking English, I knew that they were Japanese. I thought to myself, “Oh, these Japanese soldiers are now here to kill me.” By then, I didn’t care. “Go ahead! Kill me! Just get it over with!”
They looked at me and said, “No! We’re not going to kill you! We are Americans.”
“Oh, no, no, no! You are Japanese! You’re here to kill me!” We went back and forth.
And finally, this Japanese man, fell down on his knees, weeping. “You’re free, boy! We are Japanese Americans. You’re free!” I stared into this Japanese man’s eyes. They were kind and gentle like Sugihara’s. It was only then that I believed.
His name was Clarence Matsumura and he was attached to the 522nd Artillery Battalion, which was part of 442nd Regimental Combat Team. The all Japanese American unit. They were amongst the first to discover and begin liberating the complex of camps around Dachau. I found it ironic that Clarence and his kinsmen had volunteered to fight and die for the United States for many of them had their families locked up in “American Relocation” centers.
Well, after the war, I moved to Israel. I didn’t talk very much about my experiences except to other people who were survivors of the camps. Ever since my liberation, I had not been able to cry. Psychiatrists told me that the trauma of the holocaust had just dried up all my tears. That I was now an emotional amputee; I would never cry again.
In 1992, I received a phone call from a man by the name of Eric Saul. He was a historian from San Francisco. He said that he was here in Israel with a group of Japanese American men who were there at the liberation of Dachau. They had come from Hawaii and California to Israel to be honored by the Knesset. Would I meet them?
Well, I arrived at the hotel and there was this group of old Japanese men. They were all gray haired, in their 70’s. They asked me to read an account that I had written when I had first met the members of their battalion. And as I began reading my account, we were joined by another Japanese man – gray hair, glasses. And when I got to the point where these Japanese men were pulling me out of the snow bank, I looked up at the newcomer. And there were tears in his eyes. I stopped reading. I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t speak. After years of suppressing the insuppressible, this tidal wave of emotion is erupted through me. And I began to weep. The little boy that I had hidden away all those years had come out of hiding. And it was he who was weeping.
All these old men gathered around me to comfort me. “Uh…Don’t be ashamed. You are among friends now.” It was the voice of the newcomer. “Solly, this is Clarence Matsumura.” I looked at this man, the newcomer, – gray hair, glasses. How could this be? I couldn’t tell. And then he smiled. Oh… Nothing could change that smile! We fell into each other’s arms and the years melted away. I was weak and he held me up…just as he had done 47 years ago on the road to Waakirchen just south of a little town called Dachau.
An American family gathers for a reunion with laughter, memories, and good ol’ corn beef and cabbage. Suddenly, the father kneels before his family and sobs apologetically, “Your country has betrayed you.” With the launch of Executive Order 9066, the unconstitutional mass incarceration of over 110,00 citizens of Japanese ancestry begins. Now this American family, deemed the “enemy race”, must ask, “What will happen next?”
For a print friendly version of the transcript, click here:Grandpas-Story
What did it mean that the Japanese boy was the second son and there was “nothing for him in Japan?”
Robert’s Grandfather aligned himself with the U.S. Navy as a cook and received an honorable discharge. Later, he cries before his family and apologizes that he has left them with “No country.” Is that true? Why or why not?
What sort of values and biases does America show towards its citizens during WWII? What does the redress movement signify?
Okay, so the great story about my grandfather. Well, my father has told me stories about his family, and I never knew my grandparents or my grandfather that well. In fact, I didn’t know my grandfather at all. So he told me one night that they were having the family come over. They haven’t seen all the younger brothers and sisters in a long time, and Jack, my father, is waiting, watching the clock kind of nervously. He’s got to get there before 8’o clock, because there is a curfew. And so the family is coming up the stairs, he’s grabbing the suitcase, the one suitcase they are allowed to bring, and his father—“Pops” he called him—is chugging up the stairs and grandma, she is of course coming up the stairs, too, and we’re helping everyone up. All of a sudden, all the family is there. The older brothers and sisters: Mari and Alice and Charlie, Emmy and Betty, Tom and Margie’s there, and everyone is there. Jack’s greeting them, he has been waiting, watching the clock, and he’s got the favorite dish there, the favorite meal that Pops Nakajiro my grandfather loved, it’s corned beef and cabbage, a real American meal. And here this Japanese-American family is sitting down together and all the sudden all the stories started coming out.
They grew up in a ghetto. They grew up in a waterfront, navy town ghetto of Vallejo, California where grandpa had his barber shop, and so the family is recounting playing as kids, playing baseball in the open field and swimming in that dirty old sewage of the bay, and they’re just reminiscing because they haven’t been together in so many years. And they are really very happy just to be together as a family and they don’t know what’s going to be happening next because well it’s a very difficult time and, in fact, they’ve been given notice that they’re going to be locked up in these concentration camps because they are Americans, but they happen to be the wrong race at the wrong time: Japanese-Americans. So, here they are celebrating as this family, the stew is ready to be served, and there is laughter filling the air, and little Tommy turns and says “Where’s Pops?” and they see grandpa, Pops, there sitting on the floor and he is kneeling there, his head is down and they say “Pops is crying? Why is he crying?” They all gather around, he finally lifts his head up and he’s sobbing. And here’s a man who came to this country as a teenager, he worked the whaling ships in Alaska, he went turtle hunting in Galapagos, an immigrant working his way up. He was a cook in the US navy on the USS Bennington and, in fact, he told his kids he was a hero because he saved the captain’s life when the boiler room blew up. So, he was honorably discharged, a US navy cook.
And when this small Japanese man, at that time he was sixty years old, a white haired man, lifted up his face was streaming with tears, he said, “You know, I came in to this country, I’m a good citizen, I wish all of you to be good citizens. You are Americans, when I came here to give you a country, but I am Japan, I am Japanese, and I always will be Japanese. But you, your country has betrayed you, and now you have no family, you have no country, and for this I apologize,” and he bowed to his family in apology, and it was just dead silent. And they’d seen this man who had been a stern authority figure for the family for all their lives suddenly break down in tears. For the rest of the evening it was very quiet, the curfew was in place, and for the days that followed, they were preparing to be shipped off to these concentration camps in America. So what followed after that period was being transferred on trains and going in to the camps, of course with the stress of having lost everything and Pops, grandpa, he lost his barber shop, had to sell all his equipment and Shizuko had to pack up everything in only one suitcase, and so that’s all they had. This is very stressful for this old man, who also had diabetes, and so when they’re in these hot trains with thousands and thousands of Japanese Americans, all sealed up, it’s hot and they’re going down the valley in this spring time heat. So, Nakajiro, my grandfather, gets a stroke; it’s too much stress, he is in a coma. So the officials say, “Okay, drop him off in the next city.” So, they stop and they take him off, the elders ask if they want to go with him to be with him, see how he fares. But the officials say, “Sorry, you guys get back on to the train. We got to leave him here.”
So, he was abandoned there in this hospital, they don’t know where or what city it was, the windows are all boarded up, and off they go off to the deserts of Arizona. And for the weeks that followed they had no clue where he was, didn’t know if he lived. In fact they heard where he was, and they were trying to write letters to him, no word back. Finally, he did make it back to the camp and he was half paralyzed and can hardly speak, but of course he thought the family had abandoned him. The letters they had written, no one had delivered them to him. They were by his bed side, but here’s a man who had suffered a stroke, who was half paralyzed, and all his family letters are right there bundled up, but no one had bothered to take care of him that way. So, he ends up living just a few more months and then, eventually from all the trauma and the stroke, he dies, and he is cremated and Shizuko my grandmother takes the ashes and places them in a small cigar box and places them under his bed.
The story goes, “Oyasumi nasai” “Good night.” every night she’d say that to this box of ashes that was once my grandfather and places them under his bed. So they’re there for a few more years. Eventually the older ones actually got out, the West Coast restriction allowed them not to be in the West Coast, but they can leave the concentration camp by going to Chicago and going to the East Coast. So they set up, establish themselves, and slowly they are able to get the family out of the camps. The years pass by and people have their own way of surviving and carrying on, and it’s 48 years later. Jack, my father, has become a doctor. He was really proud of his college years before it got interrupted, he was a boxer at the time, and so he thought maybe I’ll go down to the library and look at the year book. So, Dolores and he went down to the library of the college, and there’s no evidence. Of course, there’s no evidence because it’s the spring of 1942, and Jack was hauled off to the concentration camp, so he never got his leather jacket. Well, the librarian happened to overhear this and she said, “Let’s see what we can do about this.”
So, that spring in the year of 1990 at the San Francisco State sports award banquet they said, “Forty-eight years later and an unjust constitutional law that locked up Americans of Japanese ancestry should not be a deterrent for a man to receive his just award. So, Jack Kikuchi come up and receive your letter jacket.” So here’s this man, 78 years old goes up, the oldest man ever to receive his varsity jacket. So with standing applause, here it is San Francisco State, all the students and faculty, all the many races, giving him a standing ovation. And I always hold that picture in combination with what happened 48 years before that where Nakajiro is bowing before his family, apologizing and saying, “Sorry, I didn’t give you a future. I am sorry I didn’t give you a country,” but here it is 48 years later and you know he is successful, Uncle Charlie ends up writing a book, the first book about the experience in the concentration camps. Auntie Alice ends up working for Japan Airlines, which played a very important role in healing the relationship between Japan and America. So, in my mind I paint this pantheon of uncles and aunties in the face of that man who felt so ashamed, then bowing to their father and saying, “You did give us a country, you did give us a future. Arigato gozaimasu. Thank you.”
In this story a Jewish girl and her friend sneak away from the forced walk of the Nazis toward… they don’t really know. They hide in a haystack and a farmer helps them until the drums toll. In the face of this innocence, what motivates the Nazi soldier? What compels the farmer to help? What does this story say about the capacity of human beings for good and evil?
My great aunt Helen was in Budapest in 1944 when the Nazis rounded her up to take her to a concentration camp. The Jews of Budapest were forced to march the Austrian border to catch the train that took them to the camps. This is my great aunt’s story, told in her words and in the way she told it.
They take us. Hitler take us. And I have boots and I have shoes. Saved my life. The lakes, they freeze but without shoes it is not enough. They take us. They say tomorrow all the Jews we take. And I have boots and I have shoes. And we walk and walk and walk. There were so many of us. People was dying with something terrible. And they take us into like a woods. And me and another girl, we run away. There was over there a soldier. He don’t see us. What do we do now? Well, we go and we go and we go. Even with boots my foot was bloody from the walking.
We come to a farm. With a farm with a house and a field. And the house was straw. Nobody there. We want to go in. We go in, we dig a little hole in the straw to rest. What will be with us will be. So quiet we was. And then we sleep. And then I hear, “Oh, oh, oh! What you doing here?” It was the farmer.
I say, “We escaped from the ghetto.”
He say, “You hungry?”
We say, “Yeah, very hungry.” And he go away and he bring us hot milk and cake.
He say, “Tonight you come to my barn and wash up.” And we go. His wife and kids, they look on us. She make a barrel of hot water. We bath, wash our hair and little bits of clothes. And they feed us. And then he say, “Follow me back to the house in the field but not right away. You watch where I go.” We stayed there two days. And they feed us. And in Europe when there’s news in a little town, they have like a drum and they bang it; boom, boom, boom. And we hear the boom, boom, boom. And the farmer he come to us and say, “Ah, kids…you gonna have to go. The Nazis say they’re gonna kill anyone who helps the Jews. Tonight, when it’s dark, you have to go.”
So we go. But we don’t know where to go so we go back to the line leading to the trains. And we walk and walk and walk. They take us to…I don’t know where they take us. And they put us on the box trains. No windows, no nothing. They put us in that. And people was dying with something terrible. We had no food, no water. We was screaming, “Wasser! Wasser! Little Wasser!” And once we stopped and an old German, he come to the train with a bucket. But a German soldier knocked the bucket out of his hand and beat the man. We would look out of little holes. What was we looking for? And we go here and they don’t want us and we go there and finally they take us to Belsen.
In Belsen, they put us in terrible barracks. Like a living room, maybe 200 people. You had to stand like this, one to another. And when somebody die, you happy…you happy…you have more space. They give us a little soup, a piece bread. And you hide piece bread. You hide it. For when you go to sleep because everybody’s stealing. Everybody grabbing because everybody want to live. The girl who was hiding with me, she died. It was like you had to want to live.
It was so terrible… I, I look back now, I can’t believe it was me… They died and died. I was so sick and yet still they made me to walk around and take the dead over to what was, was like a barn, and drop them there. And some, I swear to God, still breathing. They made us take them to that barn and drop them there.
Helen was in Bergen-Belsen. It was Anne Frank’s concentration camp and she died of typhoid fever. My great aunt would have died of it too. She was delirious when the British entered the camp. And so when she came to, all she knew was that she was on a bed, being fed by people who were wearing white, and speaking a language that she didn’t understand. She said, “I thought I was in Heaven.” And it was three days before someone who could speak Hungarian told her she was alive in a British hospital. And she said, “To tell you the truth, I didn’t believe her.”
What if the U.S. went to war with your country of origin? Anne Shimojima tells of the difficult days following the attack on Pearl Harbor, when her Japanese-American family were forced to evacuate their home. Could it happen to you?
Imagine that your family had to leave its home in ten days. You can only take what you can carry. You may never return. What will you take and why? What will you have to leave behind that will break your heart to leave?
What can we learn from the experience of the Japanese-Americans at this time when Muslim-Americans face so much prejudice?
Being an American citizen gives us certain rights. If you lost your rights as the Japanese-Americans did in World War II, what are some of the actions you could take in response?
Densho: The Japanese American Legacy Project – The Densho Digital Archive contains 400 videotaped histories (fully transcribed, indexed, and searchable by keyword) and over 10,700 historic photos, documents, and newspapers. www.densho.org/
Personal Justice Denied; Report of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians. The Civil Liberties Public Education Fund and University of Washington Press, 1997. Available at: books.google.com and