The world today resembles my grandmother’s much more than my parents’

Disturbingly:

…Not that I was alone in this regard. Theodor Adorno decreed after the war that “to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric”; 15 years later he made an exception for those who had lived through it. Nothing had changed in the culture he was describing. What changed was his understanding that witnesses possess a seemingly unimpeachable answer to most arguments, including his: “I was there.” That is an exercise not in logic or persuasion, but of authority – one of the few places it persists in modern culture. Even if that witness’s recollections are mistaken, even if they are influenced by preconceived ideas, we give that person special consideration. Rightly, and sometimes wrongly, a witness tells us things no one else can, and that no one else dares. And my grandmother was daring – only she regarded her daring as common sense. 

To read the news, or walk down to Yonge and Bloor (or Bathurst and Sheppard) on some Sunday afternoons in Toronto, is to watch embryonic versions of the types that made my grandmother’s life so full of history. Once again they are transgressing society’s limits, seeing what Canadians will tolerate and against whom we’ll tolerate it. In a way I did not foresee, the world today resembles my grandmother’s much more than my parents’. She would be the ideal interlocutor. But to the many questions I would ask her – for example, when precisely did you no longer find yourself at home in the country where you were born? – I have no sense of what she would pick out of her thoughts and memories as a response….

Now when I think back to my grandmother’s stories, it is not as an adult armoured with so-called experience and education. It is as the child of eight or nine, listening for the first time, at about the same age my grandmother was when she experienced this history herself. Both of us too young to make any sense of the experience. 

All the subsequent listening, recording, teaching, writing, remembering: They were, as I imagined, a battle, but now I see they were not against some notion of collective amnesia or falsification of history, but against helplessness of that first encounter.

While alive, my grandmother represented, among many other things to me, the idea that a person can contain and disseminate a witness’s idiosyncratic, fragile and irreplaceable knowledge. I believed this because she had done this herself, in her person. I thought I could take on some part of this. It took only a few years of her absence to show me that this was an illusion.

Source: The world today resembles my grandmother’s much more than my parents’