Thursday, 20 August 2015

Unrepentant for life?


What if such a man (or woman) exists among us? A man who is simply unrepentant. He does not see a need to apologize. He just can't believe that he has done anything wrong. He is blind to his own faults. He can't accept that he has hurt others, destroyed their character, marginalized his colleagues, betrayed his friends, and scapegoated those who trusted him.

He views the world in binary terms, that is, in black and white, and what is black is the world and what is white is him and no one else. And if right is as right does, and wrong is as wrong does, then he is always right and is always doing what is right even when many would persistently beg to differ and differ most persistently.

If anything, he suffers from a myopia of the most vexing kind and that is the inability to examine his own heart. Somehow, he sees not. His reflection in the social mirror is missing something crucial for one to be humane, understanding, forgiving, self-reproaching, self-correcting, kind and compassionate.

What is shown to him when he looks in the mirror is not his own flaws as a human being but the many flaws of others, innumerable and endless even. So innumerable in fact that his self-protective mirror conveniently shields his own broken image from sight; very much like an insidious conspiracy of self in favor of self. And if love covers a multitude of sins, then pride - in his case - uncovers many but it is the sins of others and never his to renounce. Never his to disavow, to make amends.

This is a man who holds himself up in the highest esteem and it is perched so high that even he himself finds it impossible to reach. Alas, this same conspiracy has mutated into one where self takes over self and reigns undisputed.

Does such a man (or woman) exist then? Does he or she walk among us? Or is this just a character made up in fictions, fairy tales and science-fantasy? But if truth (or reality) is stranger than fiction, can anyone then say with an admittedly contrite heart that such a person actually exists and he thrives in certain circumstances of life. Some of them even live to a ripe old age, insulated from penury, sickness and blame.

And apart from certified psychopaths, or the mentally disturbed, how does clinical psychiatrists or the DSM-V characterize this peculiar personality type? 
Here is a confession by a successful law professor for your digest:

“Remorse is alien to me. I have a penchant for deceit. I am generally free of entangling and irrational emotions. I am strategic and canny, intelligent and confident…Yet I am not motivated or constrained by the same things that most good people are…(As a child), I envisioned the people in my life as robots that turned off when I wasn’t directly interacting with them…I have never killed anyone, but I have certainly wanted to. I may have a disorder, but I am not crazy. In a world filled with gloomy, mediocre nothings populating a go-nowhere rat race, people are attracted to my exceptionalism like moths to a flame.” (“Confession of a Sociopath” - M.E. Thomas).

Now, to be fair, none of us are spared corruption. Even for those who do not subscribe to the religiously-loaded concept of the original sin, history has shown us what we are capable of. The combustible mix of extreme religion and self-preservation has exposed us to the most horrid chapters in history. Wars fought for land, prestige and   power have been our heritage since the beginning of time. Our struggles are tainted by blood, slavery and massacres. On a personal scale, we are at times ruled by deceit, lust, envy, hatred, arrogance, apathy, revenge, sadism, recklessness, indolence and pride.

No one can whitewash our history of human savagery unless we start all over with a Noah-like annihilation of sorts and a self-administered amnesia jab to leave our sordid past behind for good. Good luck hoping the second time over will be better. But my point is not about the savagery of humanity - that much is undeniable. My point is about our redemption - for as insane is our cruelty, equally empowering is our indomitable conscience and free-will to save us from a point of no return.

With every evil raised to the fort, the good in us also rises to meet the challenge. And such good and evil can co-exist in one lifetime with good ultimately triumph. However, this Manichean struggle of good versus evil will be endless because love's prodigal is hate, and light's blind spot is darkness.

Yet, are there those who simply defy this human leaning towards eventual redemption? And if the arc of history is bent towards justice, then for this rare group, is it bent towards impenitence, unforgiveness, and bitterness?

It is said that one should judge not lest ye be judged. But what if such a person exists regardless of whether he is being judged or not? Worse still, what if it is our silence or goodwill or compassion that we unwittingly extend over and over again to them that aids them in perpetuating their agenda? In the same way that I dread that such people should exist and thrive in the world that I live in, my fear is that the far-sobering reality is never held a hostage to my wishful thinking or religiously-manicured sensibilities.

The world is the way it is because it can't be anything else. 
I can surely wish that I am wrong about the existence of such people but I can't wish that if I am wrong (that is, they do exist), they would be redeemable. The glaring reality of this rapacious world just doesn't offer me that luxury. In other words, my idealism can only inspire me from within to hope for the best in mankind, but that will not change the existence of such rare breed of people whose deathbed's regret is that they have not done enough to crush their enemies, exterminate their opposition, exploit the ones who love them unconditionally, or amass enough power and wealth at the expense of those they deemed dimwitted enough to part with their life's savings, devotion and trust.

For such people, the tolls and trails of the misfortune, misery and suffering they leave behind is just not long enough.  And if Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amin, Kim Jong II and Pol Pot, to name just a few, are historical tyrants to go by, then I guess the only hope I have is twofold: First, that their murderous exploits in this world would be short-lived; and second, that I should always guard my own heart, for out of it flows the issues of life - both good and evil. Cheerz.

Sunday, 16 August 2015

The unscrupulous God I serve - a lamentation.


In Surprised by Joy, CS Lewis wrote these words about his struggles just before conversion, "In reading Chesterton, as in reading McDonald, I did not know what I was letting myself in for. A young man who wishes to remain a sound atheist cannot be too careful of his reading. There are traps everywhere - "Bibles laid open, millions of surprises," as Herbert says, "fine nets and stratagems." God is, if I may say it, very unscrupulous." 
Indeed, and to borrow that adjective for metaphorical effect, even as a believer, God to me is unscrupulous, that is, He doesn't play by our rules.
The game He plays with me masks the trap He lays for me. He plants a thought that germinates but yet in its path of growth, He hides Himself from view. If faith is that which I behold, where evidence falls short and hope is in the unseen, then doesn't this up the stake of my existential angst for that elusive blessed assurance? If a fool says in his heart there is no god, then I have been a half-wit on countless occasions toying with the idea of a neither-here-nor-there divinity.
For CS Lewis, God entrapped him. He set the dragnet in the direction of his going in and coming out, and ambushed him in his own game of chess-moves and check-mate. For me, God played a different game. It was a game to test my faith, to stretch it even. He knows my heart will not let Him go and He takes this opportunity to plant little crumbs that lead me up the garden path whose gardener is on what seems like an eternal sabbatical. My Eden lacks a tangible host. And if without faith it is impossible to please God, then I have repeatedly been a disappointment to Him.
John Calvin once said that "to prevent anyone from taking refuge in the pretense of ignorance, God himself has implanted in all men a certain understanding of his divine majesty." Alas, I find no refuge in this "pretense of ignorance" since this implanted understanding still leaves me helplessly clueless about Him. I therefore lament that I am always lagging behind this divine majesty like a strayed photon trying to play catch up with the inflationary expansion of the Universe from the time of the Big Bang.
Is there a way to understand this divine designer who deliberately engineered the bar so high that I can never see beyond the walls of His silence? At best I can only hear some muffled assurances and the faint cry of Calvary and with that, I am supposed to be content with the cold conviction of a weary heart.
When Anselm said "Credo ut intelligam" ("I believe so that I may understand") and "fides quaerens intellectum" ("faith seeking understanding"), I see before me my faith stretching to breaking point as I hold on to His coattails and plead for clues to this divine paradoxygen, that is, between Augustine's restless heart seeking the divine as the source of his life-giving breath and Socrates' endless search for answers that always fall short of full understanding. 

Soren Kierkegaard once said that "faith is genuine only when it carries a whiff of risk, a leap into the absurd." I have myself dived into the absurd and sought His truth in the ocean of muddled dogmatism only to find the undertow of understanding quickened to draw me away from Him. Imagine the endless matrix-like corridor that stretches even further every time you thought you were just inches away from the exit.
What faith comes undone with reason and what full understanding is withheld with earnest seeking? Is God being unscrupulous by dropping hints for me to gather and yet the gathering only pieces it incomplete and the full picture is always beyond me? How blissful is the believer who rests on his self-consoling bed of roses and frazzles not his mind with its torn and what it exposes?
Apostle Paul once said that he sees the glass but darkly and in this state of fleshly discontentment, he finds his blessed assurance. I seek the same assurance and I know that I will have to accept this fleshly discontentment of a glass not just occluded but half-filled.
And if the "safest road to Hell is", as CS Lewis puts it, "the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts," then the road to Heaven is a conscious and deliberate one, with exactitude and a stubborn attitude, and its slope is anything but gentle, with me trudging through the cold cobblestone of faith, negotiating the sharp bends overlooking a steep drop, and where the only signpost that greets me come in three monotones: "Trust and Obey".
Sometimes I feel like a clown in the play of life whose consternation is to find a fire breaking out at the backstage, and in my panic, I rush forward to disrupt the play with a painted face and contrarian smile shouting to the audience to flee for their life only to be laughed at because they think that it is all part of the script (to borrow Kierkegaard's analogy).
Like Nietzsche's mad man entering the marketplace, yelling at the throng of atheists, "I seek God! I seek God!" only to be greeted by mocking laughter  with this rejoinder, "Is he hiding or on holiday?" Are atheists laughing at my clumsy attempt to hang my theological garb on a sky hook and expecting it to stay up for all eternity? Is the idea of a divine Creator a laughable phenomenon for our post-modernistic sensibilities? Is this the ultimate divine comedy?
Is God not just unscrupulous but wickedly humorous then? Is He taking pleasure in changing the script midstream - and at every ironic bend - so as to angst up the show at the expense of my restless soul? Is He waiting for the final curtail call at the end before He wow the audience for the last time? Obviously I am bursting at the seams with questions that are strung on a precarious tightrope between vacillation and desperation.

Alas, cursed is my limited understanding. For who am I to know the mind of God? Even if it were all a divine comedy with God having the last laugh, the joke would still fly pass me, stiff. I will not get it because of the density of my head, the vacuity of my soul, and the impurity of my heart.
Maybe Reinhold Niebuhr has got a point when he said, "What is funny about us is precisely that we take ourselves too seriously." And if necessity is the mother of invention, then comedy is the father of tragedy. For the tragedy that is faith makes for the necessity that is comedy.
I therefore need to keep an open mind and a bubbly sense of levity when I take faith to be my journey's wedded companion for good and for bad at the altar of belief. Because, if John Wesley would have his way, then "a sour religion is the devil's religion," and for me, it would be a boring one. So instead of being too serious about it, I ought to have been less?
If so, I'd better cheer up as it's going to be a fun ride through impenetrable valleys, elusive terrains and muddy waters. In other words, it is a series of tragic comedy masquerading the splendor of faith when all is hopefully unraveled. I guess the last laugh then is reserved for the divine scriptwriter of life?
And while the atheists laughed at Nietzsche's madman, little did they know that he was a prophet. And he wipes the smirk off their faces with this retort, "We are murderers (of God). Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?" Good luck to that. The idea of man governing man governing a godless world is as misguided and self-defeating an ideology as that of Ayn Rand's rational ego and her virtues of selfishness. 
So, in all my inadequacy, I humbly serve the divine Author with a cheerful heart and hope unceasing. Maybe my perceived delusions are what keep me sane? As for the irreconcilable chasm of understanding, I trust that the one who leaves the crumbs behind also embodies the bread of life when the end finally draws nigh. Cheerz.

Thursday, 13 August 2015

Happiness is having the right kind of sadness.


I was in the national library recently browsing through some books about happiness. Honestly, I didn’t expect any advice out of the ordinary. I have read numerous books about happiness myself. I know nurturing relationships figures prominently in all the books. Some of them advocated keeping oneself healthy and others talked about enjoying what you have. Still others talked about having personal goals that play to one’s strength and engaging in the flow of the moment. Most of the advice shun the blind 
accumulation of material possession as the source of happiness. This is most understandable.
But what caught my attention that day in the library was this phrase about happiness which I don't think I have heard often enough. It reads, "Happiness is having the right kind of sadness.”
Mm...now that was to me quite refreshing. The right kind of sadness, I mused. The juxtaposition between "happiness” and “sadness” had a compelling contrarian logic that somehow caused
me to reflect deeply after I had left the library. What is the right kind of sadness? How is happiness about being sad in a right way? Is there a right way of experiencing sadness that translates into happiness?
I guess if my reflection had taken me anywhere, it would be the resilient optimism of confronting raw reality. For me, this is the kind of sadness that doesn’t paralyze or disable. In fact, it does the opposite. It allows me to wear two lenses at the same time, that is, reality and hope. Acknowledging my everyday reality is what keeps me grounded and staying focus on hope is what uplifts our spirit.
Without either, I am just happy for happy’s sake. It is no different from someone who goes bingeing on alcohol just so that he can forget about his pain or worries. Or someone who escapes from home just so that she can avoid the consequences of her choices. Or someone who attends a how-to-be-happy seminar and feels all charged up only to have his bubble bust when he returns to the unsparing reality of his life.
To me, the right kind of sadness confronts life and everything ugly about it. It is fully aware that growth comes with pain, uncertainty is a fact of life, full control is an illusion, mistakes are lesson to be learned (not a death sentence), death affirms life and not devalues it, time is the quiet healer and not a sadist, hope is not lost when loss happens, and the feelings of joy and sorrow are merely the flip 
side of the same coin (more importantly, both are transient).
I guess the right kind of sadness turns pain into purpose, monotony into meaning and disappointment into hope. It is forward looking because it rejects the time-stopping mindset to wallow in my own misery and self-pity. Personally, I believe that if I move forward in life, I will learn that failure and success become merely an innkeeper's rest where I stay for a night or two and then continue on with my journey. 
I should therefore not be paralyzed (by failure) or feel a false sense of security or invulnerability (by success). It is also about not being too obsessive or complacent with my present state of experience that I mistake what is impermanent (be it arising from failure or success) for what is permanent.
I recall a saying that life is like a giant eraser in the sky. I take that to mean that all my accomplishments can be wiped out just as completely as all my pain. Depending on them, and putting all my eggs in one basket, only keeps my
focus narrow and my perspective closed.
So, happiness is having the right attitude towards sadness. And it is an attitude that is not consumed or crippled by a momentary victory or defeat. It is an attitude that accepts sadness as part and parcel but also views it as empowered by hope. Most of all, it is an attitude that does not shun sadness but embrace it as opportunities for growth. It is therefore not a dead-end or sink-hole mentality but a forward-moving one.
Postscript: I always wonder, how truly happy is an unbroken heart? How enduring is the happiness of an unfractured soul? Where is the happiness in a life that is forever shielded, protected and immune from harm, challenges and pain - even if good fortune should favor such a life to be sustained? What is happiness to one who has no need to overcome or to wait patiently for hope or to yearn earnestly for recovery or to travail in the furnace of a trial or to stand alone for what is right even when everyone has bailed or to struggle for the sake of undying love or to remain faithful to the end or to have faith when all is lost or to hang on to the future after surviving a tragic past? What kind of happiness will it be for such a bubbled life? And when will happiness for a life of such insularity break to reveal how tenuous or precarious its foundation has been, or will it ever break? And if it should break, will a heart that has broken into a million pieces be able to find happiness? And if found, how different will this newfound happiness be? How resilient will it be? How enduring then? And if happiness is having the right kind of sadness, then maybe such sadness or brokenness is not to be avoided at all cost. On the contrary, it is to be embraced. And to be embraced when one has finally come to terms with it. Food for thought? Cheerz.

Sunday, 9 August 2015

SG50: How do you save 50 children from Hitler?


How do you save 50 children from Hitler? Simple. You just follow the ordinary life of a couple in America. Their names? Ms Eleanor Shirley Jacobs and Gilbert J. Kraus. The husband, Gill, was a successful lawyer and his wife, Eleanor, was a homemaker.  They married in their twenties and had two children, Steven (b. 1926) and Ellen (b. 1930). They were Jews and came from prominent Jewish family. They were also physically matching. Gill was described as handsome, intelligent and urbane and Eleanor had “doe eyes, porcelain skin, and a charming wit.”  

In the book, 50 children, written by their grandson-in-law, Steven Pressman, their daring rescue of 50 Jewish children from Vienna during the Anschluss (the annexation of Austria by Nazi Germany in 1938) was  well documented.  It started off with a meeting with a good friend named Louis Levine who canvassed the idea to Gill. Gill and Eleanor then made the decision to carry out the plan. They knew full well the risk involved and how they might leave their own children orphans should anything happen to them. Yet their collective will overcame the reservation and fear.  They knew that it had to be done.

The decision was in fact made without much fanfare. There was no visitation from heaven. No divine sign. No travailing or fasting of sorts. No nation-wide publicity. It was just the desire to do what is right that was compelling enough for Gill and Eleanor to embark on this perilous journey to rescue 50 young strangers from the clutches of imminent extermination.

Of course, the plan did not go as smoothly as they wanted it to. Obstacles in the way of immigration procedures, visa approvals, finding sponsors for the children when they arrive in America, and even bearing with the negative voices of naysayers reared their ugly heads. Many prominent members of society and government, including some Jewish leaders themselves, discouraged Gill and Eleanor from embarking on the insane mission. Some of them insisted that they will surely fail.

In addition, the American immigration restriction was tightened after WWI so as to protect jobs from immigrants. The Great Depression only made it worse. Other reasons were more paranoia than economic. One protesters who represented a group of WWI widows urged Congress “not to let in thousands of motherless, embittered, persecuted children of undesirable foreigners who would grow up to become potential leaders of a revolt against the American government.” It is therefore not surprising that a poll taken in the late 1930s found that “60 percent of Americans held a low opinion of Jews, regarding them as greedy, dishonest and pushy.” All this only made it even harder for Gill and Eleanor.

Of course, amidst the discouragement and procedural obstacles, there were some who encouraged the couple to go ahead with it. Gill had the full support of the national Jewish fraternal organization called Brith Sholom. The plan to rescue the children was in fact mooted by them. The latter had set up a children’s summer camp in Collegeville in readiness to receive the children. Most of the expenses would also be paid by Brith Sholom.

With their blessing, Gill and his doctor friend, Robert Schless, left for Vienna in April 1939. Initially the plan was to leave Eleanor behind to take care of the children. However, when the emotional stress of selecting the children from amongst the hundreds who came hoping to be rescued proved too much for Gill, he telephoned Eleanor for help. She came in after about a month later.

By that time, the situation was already quite unbearable for Jews in Vienna. Here’s a little background. When Austria voted “yes” to Hitler’s rule in April 1938 (a year before Gill arrived), the Nazi machination immediately put into effect Hitler’s dream of a Juden-free Germany and Austria. In fact, the fate of the Jews in Austria was even worse than the fate of the Jews in Germany.

One magazine reported that “in Austria, the full force of the sadistic Nazi attack has come overnight.” Raids were carried out regularly by the Hitler Youth organization. The Jewish shopkeepers were terrorized. Flags displaying the swastikas were everywhere. And within a few days of annexation, nearly one hundred suicides were reported. By the end of April 1938, the numbers climbed up to two thousand.

The whitewashing Aryanization process was so complete that the ranks of Jewish doctors, businessmen and lawyers were wiped out in the city. Their businesses were either taken over by the Germans or they were forced to declare bankruptcy. And matters went rapidly downhill when on 7 November 1938 a seventeen year old Jew whose parents were arrested by the Nazi guards shot a junior German official at the German embassy in Paris. The bullets went through the official’s abdomen and he died thereafter.

In the pocket of the assassin was a postcard that reads: “May God forgive me. The heart bleeds when I hear of your tragedy and that of the 12,000 Jews. I must protest so that the whole world hears my protest, and that I will do.” The Jews in Germany and Vienna faced the full brunt of the murder and the infamous Night of Broken Glass (known as Kristallnacht) turned the city into a carnival of self-gratuitous violence against them.

Throughout the night, seven thousands Jewish shops were burnt down and the Jews were thrown out of their houses. Many were arrested and sent to prisons or concentration camps in train- and bus-loads. And a fine of $400 million (one billion reichsmarks) was imposed on the collective Jewish population of Germany and Austria in compensation for the death of just one junior German official. This is what I call forcing the hand of justice to serve the heart of injustice.

Here is one account by a rescued child on how she was treated during that time as narrated in the book: “Elizabeth Zinger was five years old and had recently started kindergarten. Sitting quietly in her classroom one morning, the little girl raised her hand, trying to get her teacher’s attention so that she could request permission to go to the bathroom. The teacher, however, continued to ignore her, even as it became obvious why she wished to be excused. Finally, Elizabeth could not wait any longer, and she wet herself. Her teacher shot her a scolding look, and grabbed the frightened girl by the collar of her blouse, pulling her out of her chair and in front of the rest of the class. “You see. This is what the Juden do. They make in their pants,” the teacher announced to the other students, after which she shoved the sobbing girl back into her seat. “After that horrendous experiences, my mother didn’t send me back to school.”” Now, back to the rescue attempt.

Although thousands of children came for the interview, only 54 were selected. Gill and Eleanor selected more than their quota just in case. Eleanor recalled that the parents who came to the interview were incredibly calm and strong for their children. One child who refused to go with the American couple was told sternly by her mother that “if you leave, your life will be saved, and then I will have a better chance of saving my own life.” Another parent told her child that she was merely going on a holiday in America. Alas, the parents knew that this would be the last time they will see their children. Other children wanted to take their younger siblings with them but their parents firmly censured them as this would jeopardize their chances of being selected. There was an age limit and children below five were excluded from the rescue plan. They were too young to satisfy the conditions for the long journey. It is ironic that the fate of their life depended on the date of their birth.

The interview and selection process took weeks to complete. After that, the next part of the plan was to bring the children from Vienna’s train station (known as Kultusgemeinde) to Berlin and then on board a ship in Hamburg. Transit via three locations was what separated the children from death and freedom. 

At Kultusgemeinde, Eleanor recalled that a few of the children presented her with little flower bouquets and “some of the parents then stepped forward, offering words of grateful appreciation for taking their children to safety.” Unfortunately, one of the children, namely, Heinrich Steinberger (5 years old), could not make it because he had fallen ill on that day. Three years later, he was murdered at the Sobibor death camp.

After the kind words of appreciation, the children quickly occupied themselves with games and songs, and Eleanor wrote that “this entire party filled me with absolute misery.” Just before the children left, the parents and children presented Eleanor with a gift. It was a porcelain depicting two female figures, kneeling and facing each other. Along with the sculpture was an endearing message which reads:


In memory of a Mother-Day
in hard times never to be forgotten,
of the day on which you have taken upon
yourself with motherly love
the care for Jewish children

When the children boarded the train, words of comfort were heard by many as parents hugged their children in tears and said their final goodbyes. One mother said to her child, “Be a good girl and listen to your foster parents and make sure you get a good education. Before you know it, we’ll be there, and we’ll all be reunited, and I’ll see you in America.”

One strange thing that Eleanor noted was that the parents were not allowed to wave to their children before departure. Eleanor was told that “Jews were not allowed to give Nazi salute. The parents risked being arrested if they raised their arms to wave good-bye.”

As the train slowly moved forward and the platform receded from view, Eleanor and the children peered out of the window and she observed that “the parents stood in completely orderly and quiet fashion. Their eyes were fixed on the faces of their children. Their mouths were smiling. But their eyes were red and strained. No one waved. It was the most heartbreaking show of dignity and bravery I had ever witnessed.”  

When the train left the station, the children found it difficult to sleep. Most of them played until two in the morning before they dozed off. Obviously, they were not used to sleeping in a moving train without their parents by their side. Eleanor however could not sleep that night, not a wink. She could not get the image of the parents’ faces at the train station out of her mind. She wrote, “Their eyes haunted me. I prayed that God might comfort each parent who had returned home to watch an empty bed.”

The next morning, at 7:52 am, the train arrived at Berlin. After resting in community buildings prepared for them, the children made their way to the American Embassy for medical checkup, further interviews and bureaucratic registration. By this time, the feeling of homesickness hits home for the children, especially the young ones. Most of them were crying and asking for their parents. They looked weary, worried and lost. Eleanor tried to cheer them up but she could only provide token consolation.

During the interview, one of the incidents stood out for Eleanor. It concerned an eight-year-old named Charlotte Berg. She had long blond hair and bright blue eyes. She had a face of an angel. When she was asked to write her name, she broke down. This poignant moment is best described by the author in the book:-

“Charlotte took the pen but suddenly began to sob. Eleanor leaned in close and heard the girl mumble something but was unable to make out the words.

“What’s the matter?” Follmer (the interviewer) asked Charlotte. “Don’t cry . Raise your head. We can’t hear you.” But the little girl, her chin down, continued to cry into her lap.

Finally, she lifted her head and managed to speak clearly enough that everyone in the office could hear. “Muss ich Sara schreiben?”  she asked as the tears continued to stream down her face. At first, Eleanor did not understand what the girl was saying.

The name on her German passport was listed as Charlotte Sara Berg. But Sara was not her middle name. In an effort to easily identify Jews, one of Hitler’s edicts required Jewish females to list Sara as a middle name if their first names were not recognizably Jewish. Males were required to use Israel as their middle name.

Once everyone understood what the young girl was asking – “Must I write Sara?” – Follmer buried his face in his hands for a few seconds. He then looked back up at the pretty little blond-haired, blue-eyed girl sitting across from him with tears streaming down her cheeks. She was still clutching the pen in her hand.

“Schreibe Charlotte,” he told her, speaking as soothingly as he could. Write Charlotte. “You will always keep your name where you are going,” he said. “You will never have to write Sara again.””

After they had completed the examination, the children were transported by buses to the Hamburg train station. Their last stop. From there, they were brought to the dock, and one by one, they boarded the SS Harding. The trans-Atlantic passage took about 10 days from Hamburg to New York harbor. The SS Harding sailed past the Statute of Liberty and the children were filled with excitement as they alighted from the ship to start their new life in America. They were housed in Collegeville, Pennsylvania, before they were placed in suitable homes set up by their new foster and adoptive parents.


Most of the children adjusted well to their new life. They got married and had children of their own. Some of them even lived to a ripe old age and saw their children married off with their own children.

Gil died in August 1975 at the age of seventy seven and Eleanor died in August 1989 at the age of eighty-five. And the Nazi’s Final Solution took the lives of one and a half million children. These are of course cold, impersonal statistics for the history reader, but for every child rescued from the death grip of the Nazi extermination machines by the dedicated efforts of Gill and Eleanor, they will forever be grateful and indebted. There were in fact many of these heroic stories of strangers risking their lives to save the Jewish children from certain death. Their deeds were largely anonymous at that time as their motivation was about the rescued lives and not about fame and recognition (Sir Nicholas George Winton [19 May 1909 to 1 July 2015] was one illuminating exemplar of what humanity is capable of. This British humanitarian organized the rescue of 669 children, mostly Jewish, from Czechoslovakia in an operation called Czech Kindertransport. The world only got to know about it 40 years later in 1988. He was dubbed the "British Schindler").

They have indeed made a difference to those lives they had saved and one holocaust survivor, Tom Lantos, who was elected to the United States Congress, recounted a story where he would ask, “How can one know the moment when the night has ended and dawn has come?” The reply was this: “The moment when you know that the night has turned to day is when you see the face of a stranger and recognize him as your brother.” 

I guess this is the common bond that holds humanity together, that is, this bond that treats everyone, regardless of race, language and religion, as their very own. This is the blessed tie that binds us all. And this is what I have learnt this National Day, SG50. Enjoy Singapore, you’ve come so far! Cheerz.