Day 7, Gabriella, Ranting and Rolling

Not Again

The first time I experienced war was when I was 9 months old, hefted in my mothers grasp while we made our way, under cover of darkness, to the Austrian border. The Russian tanks had rolled in and parked their menacing green treads in front of our apartment in the heart of Budapest. Hungarians were fairly adamant that they were not enthralled at the idea of living under Soviet rule and left the country in droves.

I wailed my little heart out during that hushed trek across farmers fields and my mother liked to recall what the leader said to her,” You leave that brat by the side of the road or go back.”

We struck out on our own the following night and bribed our way across the frontier with the watch from my mother’s arm. My memories of this are non-existent except for the feelings in my stomache and the nightmares I had as a child, of running through cobblestone streets, being chased by shadowy figures and waking up screaming.

I was raised in a house where war, both the Holocaust and the Hungarian revolt, were part and parcel of dinner conversation.

“You are so lucky Gabi. I had nothing to eat. If I saw a carrot growing in the dirt I had to hide it or I would be shot.” My dad would cock his finger at my face.

I studied the Holocaust in my 40’s, became a docent at the Holocaust Education Centre and wrote for various publications. I even wrote a one woman show about growing up under the umbrella of Holocaust survival guilt. I was lucky, he was right. But lately I feel like my luck is running out.

How on this earth of fellow human beings can the playbook that Hitler and all his cronies throughout the ages repeat, narcissistic line after line, become an acceptable form of leadership…again? I see the same old black and white scenario unwinding with the same mindless hordes chanting and defending evil. I am bone tired of this story.

The singling out of ‘another’, be it Jews, Latinos, Women or those who choose to love outside the social norm is a common tactic that elevates the haters into the ‘better ideal human’ or as Hitler called it, The Aryan Super Race.

Stomping out freedom of speech, shackling the press, belittling the intellectuals and schools of higher learning are all the point by point guide on how to be a dictator. Holding military parades on one’s own birthday is a savage show of might that mirrors regimes, South Korea and Russia come to mind, that until recently were not to be admired but reviled.

What the hell happened??

So, I watch ‘friends’ drift away in the euphoria of false gods and I am stunned every time a long haired, hippy type espouses the creed of the oppressor. So, this is how it happened! I can see the past unravelling in sepia tones. There is no longer a Right and a Left, but rather two groups duking it out. Guns and gatherings, slogans, propaganda and lies permeate the air we breathe. Create chaos, watch the little monkeys scatter and run for their lives while the ruling party bathes in champagne.

In Budapest the Gestapo danced the night away under crystal chandeliers, eating imported pate and fucking the blonde Hungarian girls who were too hungry to care. Or perhaps, as I see now, so deluded with the stench of power that they just wanted some of it to rub off on their perfect bodies.

The President of the United States bragged about his fat friends making 20 BILLION dollars in a single day when he manipulated the market down. The feasting at the table perched on the backs of the disenfranchised is obscene to the point that I am now drenched with hate. Hate is not a good thing to carry in my vessel. I know this, so I meditate, garden, dance and assure my raw heart that this too shall change but I also know, from my years of sucking at the tit of battle, that it can take a long time. The changes that come with destruction are integrated into the fabric of our world. Our garments are becoming tattered in the howling winds.

Perhaps now my luck has run out. My entitled existence, sandwiched between war and now, spanned almost 70 years. A pretty good run I guess if I don’t think about the rest of humanity, including, my 12-year-old brash granddaughter and the future that awaits her.

Shall we dance?