The chilling phrase ”Camp Auschwitz – Work brings freedom,” emblazoned on a hoodie worn by Keith Packer during the January 6th Capitol riot, serves as a stark reminder of the enduring presence of antisemitism and the trivialization of the Holocaust. Packer’s attire, complete with a skull and SS references, underscored his extremist views. While his imprisonment was for his participation in the insurrection, not his clothing, the symbolism of his chosen slogan cannot be ignored. Eighty years after the liberation of Auschwitz, the cynical inscription ”Arbeit macht frei,” originally placed at the entrance of Dachau and later adopted by Auschwitz, has become a chilling symbol of the Holocaust and the systematic extermination of six million Jews. While Auschwitz has become shorthand for this genocide, it represents only a part of the horrific truth.
Auschwitz first gained wider recognition in Swedish media in April 1945, when historian Hugo Valentin condemned Nazi sympathizers and exposed the horrors of the ”death factories” and ”human slaughterhouses.” Valentin highlighted the gassing of Jews at Auschwitz and identified Nazism’s core as a complete disregard for human dignity. Valentin had previously raised alarms about the Nazi massacres as early as 1942, accurately reporting on the mass executions on the Eastern Front. It’s crucial to remember that a significant portion of Holocaust victims perished before Auschwitz-Birkenau became fully operational as a death camp in 1942-1943, primarily by bullets rather than gas. Valentin’s call to confront the horrific truth of Nazi atrocities resonates today, particularly in light of attempts to erase his name from a research center.
Holocaust remembrance today faces a stark contrast between solemn commemorations and a harsh political reality. Author Daniel Pedersen, in his work ”Night and Ashes,” critiques the growing disconnect between official remembrance rhetoric and political practice. He warns against ”Holocaust reverence” transforming into empty rituals, focusing on performative grief rather than genuine engagement with the past. True remembrance, Pedersen argues, requires understanding the Holocaust not as an act of inexplicable evil, but as the result of ordinary people murdering other ordinary people – a horrifying reality that can, and therefore might, happen again. Sacralizing the Holocaust removes it from human responsibility, obscuring the fact that Auschwitz was created, maintained, and operated by people.
As Holocaust survivors dwindle, literature becomes increasingly crucial in preserving their stories and understanding the insidious mechanisms of normalization and dehumanization that paved the way for genocide. József Debreczeni’s novel ”Cold Crematorium,” highlighted by Pedersen, offers a chilling depiction of how language strips individuals of their humanity within the camp setting. The systematic removal of clothing, possessions, hair, and names erases identities, even in the eyes of the victims themselves, as exemplified by a prisoner referring to his former self in the past tense: ”I was called Farkas. Doctor Farkas.” This dehumanization, achieved through language and action, becomes a precursor to the ultimate act of extermination.
Hugo Valentin, with remarkable foresight, identified Nazism as a ”revolution of nihilism” fueled by an animalistic view of inter-group conflict. He warned against the dangerous ”liberation from all ’humanitarian nonsense,'” a phrase that resonates with today’s dismissive rhetoric against human rights and social justice, often labeled as ”woke” or politically correct. Valentin’s insights underline the cyclical nature of intolerance and the recurring use of dehumanizing language to justify oppression. His warnings about the dangers of dismissing human rights concerns as mere sentimentality remain chillingly relevant.
Remembering the Holocaust presents a delicate balance. Attempts to use it as a lens for contemporary issues risk trivializing its unique horrors. However, the early stages of the Holocaust reveal timeless mechanisms that demand attention. The use of dehumanizing language, such as labeling people as ”aliens” or ”pests,” echoes the rhetoric that preceded the Holocaust. The mockery and threats directed at a bishop’s plea for compassion illustrate the dangers of such rhetoric in our own time. We stand at a crossroads, between the blatant antisemitism displayed on a pardoned extremist’s hoodie and the formalized pronouncements of official remembrance ceremonies. Imre Kertész’s words remind us that any depiction of the world that doesn’t consider the profound ethical consequences of Auschwitz and the fragility of humanism is mere kitsch. The Holocaust is not a closed historical event; it is a living, and still dangerous, experience.
