SILENCE AND SPEECH. HOLOCAUST[1] SURVIVORS IN ARGENTINA By Diana Wang[2]

“Forgive me, forgive me” I heard my mother´s torn voice on the telephone that Monday morning “I did´nt know that this was going to happen, I do not know why they hate us, once again.  I did not know… Forgive me that I brought you to this country -- I did not know”. Not being able to understand what was going on, I waited until she calmed down and then I found out: “They destroyed the AMIA.[3] They want to kill us. Again.”

Why Argentina. We came from Poland to Argentina in 1947. This was not our first choice – it was the last one left to us, when it became impossible to enter Israel or the US. In the devastation of post-war Europe, we had desperately searched for visas, in the end, only getting one to Paraguay – a name that evoked exotic fruits and unknown images. The ship stopped in the port of Buenos Aires, a city which brought to mind brothels and crime. It was also the home of a former friend, someone from our home town, a place lost to us now. So we stayed. First illegally, then officially recognized, we established ourselves here in the hope of starting a new life. We did not know then that the entrance of Jews was forbidden. We did not know that while we were not allowed to enter, Peron’s government was actively seeking the immigration of Nazis. We did not know a lot of things that later became impossible not to know.

The turning point. For my family, a survivor family like many others, the destruction of the AMIA building in 1994 – 47 years after our immigration- became a turning point. The normal life we had been living until then, helped along by “forgetting” what happened during the Holocaust, completely changed. The past came back with powerful force. 

Although it wasn’t the same for every survivor family, many had kept a protective silence in the fifty years after the Holocaust. An incomplete silence, indeed, a fragmented silence that leaked frequent unexplained contents, but a silence that was spilled over and could no longer be contained in 1994.[4]

THE YEARS OF SILENCE

It is difficult to know the exact number of Jews that came to Argentina between 1945 and 1950. Many immigrated illegally, with no official records of their entry. We do know that they followed different paths of integration into the Argentine Jewish community. Some chose to hide their identities, as did the Spanish and Portuguese Jews after the Inquisition mingling in with the rest of society (today, some of their children are searching for any information that might link them to their pasts and reconstruct the enigma of their origins). Others chose a more subtle way – they did not deny being Jewish, but, they also didn’t display their Jewish identity or participate in the activities of any Jewish institution. And others lived openly as Jews and were involved in different aspects of community life.  

No single thread. These different experiences in Argentina can also be found wherever survivors went to live after the Holocaust. It is important to note that the Jews, before and after the Holocaust, were not a monolithic or homogeneous group. Not every Jew in Europe had been involved in the same way in community life. Many survivors had to overcome a crisis in faith, asking themselves where was God during the Holocaust. Some of them, not being able to find an adequate answer, distanced themselves from religion. Others chose not to participate or get involved in Jewish activities, believing that if they did not live like Jews, their children would be protected. Throughout the world, Jewish communities also held their own trials, prompted by accusations against certain survivors on charges of collaboration. Many of those accusations were false, but the ordeal of the trials and having to prove their innocence also led many survivors to distrust the Jewish communities as places of protection.

Argentina, land of diversity. There are certain specificities that make Argentina distinct from other places – and influenced the way survivors lived in this society and why their silence lasted longer than in others. Although Argentina belongs geographically to Latin America, its culture has always been more European. The Jewish community here is the largest in the region and has enormous political and cultural diversity -- Argentine Jews are religious and secular, include people from the left and the right, Zionists and non-Zionists, Yiddishists and Hebrewists, Sephardic and Ashkenazi, just to name a few.  While this might be true of any large cosmopolitan Jewish community, there are certain facts that distinguishes the Argentine Jewish experience from others: the enormous power of the Catholic Church, the repression and terror suffered during the Dirty War (the military dictatorship which lasted from 1976-1983) and the two major anti-Jewish attacks – the 1992 bombing of the Israeli Embassy and the 1994 bombing of the AMIA building, only two years later.

Anti-Semitism. Argentina is a predominantly Catholic society and for centuries, Christian Argentines have been listening to anti-Jewish sermons delivered in every small parish. We Jews were viewed with mistrust and suspicion, though not always openly. The anti-Semitic attacks were mostly verbal, but there were places we couldn’t enter and certain high posts we could never attain. Most Argentines are descendants of Italians and Spaniards, who immigrated here in massive waves at the end of the 19^th century, along with many Jews. On the most part, non-Jewish Argentines are tolerant and friendly towards Jews; however, there is anti-Semitism, in what I would call a latent form, not always conscious. Today, there still exist pockets of anti-Semitism, with a strong presence in the police and the military – the “protective” forces of society. 

The Dirty War. During the military dictatorship we suffered from 1976 to 1983, a high percentage of the “disappeareds”[5] were Jewish.  According to the CONADEP report, Nunca Más,[6] out of the estimated 30,000 disappeared, more than 10% were Jewish – while we make up less than 1% of the population.

Fela is slim, small and sings the old Hungarian songs of her childhood in Budapest with a sweet musicality. She survived Auschwitz, or, as she says, “kept on living”. She came to Argentina in 1948, married, raised three children, a boy and two girls. In August 1976, her older daughter, who was getting ready for her wedding, did not come home one night from the university.  These were the years of the military dictatorship, making every hour that passed without her unbearable.  Fela began to phone everyone she could.  Nobody knew what happened to her daughter. What followed was the same thing that many mothers had to undergo back then: frantic searches in police stations, different military offices, harassment and mistreatment from officials, no explanations for where their children were, no news. Fela joined the first group that formed, which later became the Madres de Plaza de Mayo (Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo). Her own life had no importance any more: she had to find her daughter. After some weeks she miraculously succeeded. She had the luck that many other mothers lacked. As she says, “luck helped once again as it did back then,” meaning the Holocaust.  But Fela does not want to tell this story (Fela is not her actual name, I promised to keep her identity a  secret). “I won´t tell it,” she says, “because you never know what the future may bring, and I do not want to endanger my daughter´s and my grandchildrens´ lives.”

  Jews, as prisoners, suffered additional torture, humiliation and pain[7]. This  reconfirmed the survivors´ fear that exposing themselves as Jews would put their offspring in danger. Indeed, some survivors had the cruel misfortune of losing their children, who to this day remain disappeared. We cannot know for certain how many because, like Fela, they would not make this information public. I know personally of about ten cases, so I can only suppose that there must be more.

THE BREAKING OF THE SILENCE

Jews reach the street: AMIA. The attacks to two major Jewish institutions and the impunity that followed and still continues, made the Jewish community in Argentina visible and public in a way it had never been before[8]. The AMIA building was home to the community center and the heart of Jewish social life. The blow was so great that all of us, regardless of our former caution, went out to demonstrate publicly and declare our opposition and indignation. Never before had Jews been so visible in Argentina. Never before had the existence of anti-Jewish feeling been more of a reality for Jews. Never before had so many non-Jewish Argentines been able to express their rejection of this type of attack. The word, judío, Jew, was said in a new way, for the first time. Until then, Jews were referred to as israelitas, paisanos, hebreos, rusos – anything but judíos, which incidentally, can also be used as an insult in Spanish.  Jews were now called judíos, Jews, with no other euphemism. We came to light, to expose ourselves as Jews, to be heard as Jews, maybe for the first time, to be known as Jews.

Our institutions also  acquired a visible place, though they did so unwillingly: in order to prevent another attack with a car bomb, huge cement blocks have been put in front of every Jewish building. Our places are pointed out, clearly, as a sombre re-edition of the star with the word Jüde.

Spielberg´s validation. But the AMIA attack was not the only crucial factor in the breaking of the silence. Steven Spielberg’s film, “Schindler’s List,” also allowed the survivors to step forward, after having tried so hard to protect themselves from their own memories. That film was, for many, the legitimization of their experience, and after it came out, they were able to talk – almost fifteen years after survivors in the US and Israel. So, here, as in other places, Spielberg´s film validated the existence of Holocaust survivors and let them come out of their closets of silence.

New ears. At the same time, society showed a progressive interest in knowing about our experiences. We were, and are, invited to schools and other institutions, both Jewish and non-Jewish. Survivors today have a strong presence in society. There are different groups and organizations in which they assemble[9] and take on the responsibility of sharing their experiences and reflections and teaching lessons in Jewish and non-Jewish places.[10]

Today, new problems. Argentina is now undergoing its fourth year of economic recession. This deep crisis practically destroyed the middle classes and many survivors face new challenges and grieves. The devalued currency, few job opportunities, the overwhelming medical expenses, higher utility costs, result in nearly one in three survivors seeking economic help. They are able to cover their basic need thanks to the Tzedahkah Foundation in Buenos Aires that distributes money raised by several Jewish local and international organizations. On the other hand, survivors, as most elderly in Argentina, see their children and grand children leaving the country, and having to live through the separation from their loved ones once again. According to estimates, about 200 children and grandchildren of Holocaust survivors are among the 20,000 Jews who fled Argentina in the past two years.

The next generations. Today, Holocaust survivors know that the fate of memory is in our hands, in the hands of our children and grandchildren, wherever they had to go. As in other latitudes, some of the descendants in Argentina, have assumed our place in this golden chain with the hope of leaving an ethic and humanistic message.