…And there was no one left to speak for me

“In Germany they first came for the Communists,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant.

Then they came for me —
and by that time no one was left to speak up.”

-Pastor Martin Niemoller

I am watching Hotel Rwanda right now. I had to pause it for a minute and write. In this particular scene, the western soldiers came only to rescue the foreign nationals, mostly whites. Several things stuck out to me: (1)when a black British journalist tried to pass, he was immediately stopped, and had to show his passport before boarding the bus. (2) If the foreign nationals all banded together, and refused to go, what would have happened? I immediately thought of the quote above by Pastor Martin Niemoller, and I thought to myself, “Who am I not speaking for?” “What am I willing to die for?”

It is so easy just to be a spectator, and use words. It is even harder to be a participant, and create change. A Hindu belief, I believe, states that we are reincarnated in so many different forms, that becoming a human being is so rare, that we should cherish LIFE. So, to much is given, much is expected, as they say. There is so much to do:

The Congo

Sudan

India

Somalia

New Orleans

Urban America

Israel/Palestine

Rural America

You

Me …

For the love of Movies…

My high school, Tilden High in Brooklyn, was your typical underfunded, overcrowded urban public school. However, I have say, that school made me love movies. I don’t mean the typical mediocre, run of the mill plot, type movie, but loving the art of making movies, loving the story behind the story. Learning about people like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin—silent movie gods, was exciting. How back then, the censors were so strict, couples on screen could only kiss for three seconds, tops. Making movies was an art form– the plot, the symbolism.

This weekend I remembered my days in film class. My teacher, whose name I no longer remember, taught me all this. This frail man who drank coffee as if it was water, opened my eyes to the beauty of movies, and I never looked at the screen the same. I became a critic and never allowed for bad acting or a bad plot again.

I have been watching Turner Classic Movies (TCM) all weekend, classics, oooh sweet classics: Citizen Kane, Shop Around The Corner and others. Those movies took me back to that little classroom in an underfunded, overcrowded urban public school and I thank you teacher coffee drinker.