Au Ciel de Paris and other (more serious) thoughts

Last tonight, to commemorate the departure of two people in the department and to celebrate Christmas, my department had a very smart dinner out in a restaurant called 'Au Ciel de Paris' on the top of the Tour Montparnasse, the highest (and ugliest) building in Paris. Can you believe that someone actually granted planning permission for this monstrosity?





I expected amazing food and even better views but, unfortunately, I got neither. There was so much fog out that we saw nothing from the 56th floor, and the food was decidedly mediocre. But I did have some lovely chats with my colleagues, and I realised how attached I had become to the company. I will really miss these people.

One of the people I spoke with is Austrian and, knowing that I am Jewish, he started talking about the Holocaust. He expressed a mixture of remorse, sadness and embarassment. I was so touched that he had visited Israel, that he mourned the loss of so many. It wasn't necessary to bring it up, particularly not on a festive event -and I appreciated his thoughfulness and gentle handling of the issue. He told me a lot about the politics surrounding the judgement of war criminals in Austria. Apparently for 10 years after the end of WWII many people involved were stripped of their right to vote. However once this restriction was lifted, suddenly this group represented a significant proportion of the population, a proportion to which the parties pandered in order to gain a majority, hence the difficulty of bringing people to trial. I didn't know that.

I have to be honest though: I didn't quite know how to respond. I tried my best to thank him and tell him that I was honoured by what he had said. I find that Germans and Austrians are always so knowledgeable about Israel and so sensitive to the issue - but he wouldn't hear of it.

It's not the first time that I have been in this situation and it is a hard one to handle. There is something to apologise for, of course, but it is not he who needs to apologise. Neither is it for me, really, to accept an apology. I don't have the right to do that on behalf of others. But I made sure I told him that I appreciate his thoughtfulness.

All we can do is appreciate moderation, appreciate the sentiment and try to do our part. Yet, if I am honest, with all the persecution in the world I'm not at all sure that I do my part. I think doing one's part starts with caring, with taking an interest. Following the news though it's not always comforting or fun. Knowledge is the start of empathy. Am I informed enough? How much do I really go out of my way to effect even the smallest change in the face of atrocities I hear about? These are questions that I ask myself frequently. I want to do more. Where to start? I don't have the answer, but perhaps with small acts of kindness day-by-day.

I once knew a man who was very active in the world of war crimes tribunals, government and academia. He had lofty ideals and the talent to effect change. He gave speeches, worked at the White House, had the best of contacts, set up charities, the list goes on. And yet, of all the people I have met, he disrespected and degraded me the most. A hero in one capacity, in every way visible to the outward world; a coward in the personal sphere, in which kindness does not advance one's career prospects.

My conclusion? I guess I don't have one. I learnt that overt activism does not trump small gestures from people who seek no recognition for their actions. George Eliot, perhaps my favourite author, expressed what I feel far better:

'Her full nature... had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive, for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts, and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life and rest in unvisited tombs.' (Finale, Middlemarch).