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Este blog trata basicamente de ideias, se possível inteligentes, para pessoas inteligentes. Ele também se ocupa de ideias aplicadas à política, em especial à política econômica. Ele constitui uma tentativa de manter um pensamento crítico e independente sobre livros, sobre questões culturais em geral, focando numa discussão bem informada sobre temas de relações internacionais e de política externa do Brasil. Para meus livros e ensaios ver o website: www.pralmeida.org.

Mostrando postagens com marcador nazismo. Mostrar todas as postagens
Mostrando postagens com marcador nazismo. Mostrar todas as postagens

quarta-feira, 22 de fevereiro de 2017

Stefan Zweig: o escritor que sonhava de um mundo sem fronteiras - BBC

Vou fazer, como Diretor do Instituto de Pesquisa de Relações Internacionais, IPRI-Funag-MRE, um encontro, "Stefan Zweig e o Brasil", com a apresentação de seus livros, ideias, inspirações e sentimentos, com a participação do ex-chanceler Celso Lafer, que introduziu um dos livros publicados, "A Unidade Espiritual do Mundo" (uma conferência que Zweig fez no Rio de Janeiro, em 1936, quando de sua primeira passagem pelo Brasil), de Israel Beloch, o organizador da obra, e de Kristina Michahelles, tradutora de Zweig e diretora da Casa Stefan Zweig de Petrópolis. Será feito no Instituto Rio Branco, em Brasília, no dia 21 de março, às 15hs, com o patrocínio da Embaixada da Áustria. Sejam todos bem-vindos...
Eu me permitiria agregar, em relação à matéria abaixo, que a melhor biografia de Stefan Zweig, NO PLANO UNIVERSAL, é, sem dúvida alguma, a de Alberto Dines: Morte no Paraíso. Busquem nos sebos...
Paulo Roberto de Almeida


 Zweig: the writer who dreamed of a world without borders
The exiled author killed himself in despair over Nazism. But before he did, he said Brazil had become what he hoped Europe could be, writes Benjamin Ramm.

Seventy-five years ago, in February 1942, Europe’s most popular author committed suicide in a bungalow in the Brazilian town of Petrópolis, 10,000 km (6,200 miles) from his birthplace in Vienna. In the year before his death, Stefan Zweig completed two contrasting studies – The World of Yesterday: Memoirs of a European, an elegy for a civilisation now consumed by war, and Brazil: Land of the Future, an optimistic portrait of a new world. The story of these two books, and of the refugee who wrote them, offers a guide to the trap of nationalism and the trauma of exile.
Austria-Hungry provided Zweig with a template of cultural plurality in the face of nationalism
Zweig was born in 1881 into a prosperous and cultured Jewish family in Vienna, capital of the multi-ethnic Habsburg empire, where Austrians, Hungarians, Slavs and Jews, among many others, co-existed. Their ruler was the polyglot Franz-Joseph I, who decreed at the start of his reign in 1867 that “All races of the empire have equal rights, and every race has an inviolable right to the preservation and use of its own nationality and language”.
Franz-Joseph was a stiff-necked autocrat, and his reign should not be romanticised, but it provided Zweig with a template of cultural plurality at a time when Europe was consuming itself in nationalism. His biographer George Prochnik notes that Zweig called for the foundation of an international university, with branches in every major European capital and a rotating exchange programme that would expose young people to other ethnicities and religions.
(Credit: Alamy)
Before settling in Brazil, Zweig lived for a while in Ossining, New York – where he was photographed in 1941 (Credit: Alamy)
Zweig began to write The World of Yesterday after leaving Austria in 1934, anticipating the Nazification of his homeland. He completed the first draft in New York in summer 1941, and posted the final version, typed by his second wife Lotte Altmann, to his publisher the day before their joint suicide. By then, the Habsburg empire had “vanished without trace”, he writes, and Vienna was “demoted to the status of a German provincial town”. Zweig became stateless: “So I belong nowhere now, I am a stranger or at the most a guest everywhere”.
(Credit: Emma Bridget Byrne)
Zweig settled in Petrópolis, just north of Rio de Janeiro – the town was named after Pedro II, the last emperor of Brazil (Credit: Emma Bridget Byrne)
Zweig’s memoir is illuminating in its portrait of the disorienting nature of exile. In the cities in which Zweig had been celebrated, his books were now burnt; the golden era of “security and prosperity and comfort” had given way to revolution, economic instability and nationalism, “the ultimate pestilence that has poisoned the flower of our European culture”. Time itself was ruptured: “all the bridges are broken between today, yesterday and the day before yesterday”.
Without a trace
One of Zweig’s greatest anxieties was the loss of his linguistic home. He expressed “a secret and tormenting shame” that Nazi ideology was “conceived and drafted in the German language”. Like the poet Paul Celan, who committed suicide in Paris, Zweig felt that the language of Schiller, Goethe and Rilke had been occupied by Nazism, and irredeemably deformed. After moving to England, he felt “imprisoned in a language, which I cannot use”.
Zweig writes of a time you could visit India and the US without a passport or visa
In The World of Yesterday, Zweig describes the ease of borderless travel prior to 1914 – of visiting India and the US without the need for a passport or visa – a situation inconceivable to the interwar generation. Now he, like all refugees, faced the humiliation of negotiating an unwieldy bureaucracy. Zweig described his intense “Bureauphobia” as immigration officials demanded ever more proof of identity, and he joked to a fellow refugee that his job description was “Formerly writer, now expert in visas”.
(Credit: Alamy)
Zweig was among Europe’s most popular writers during the 1920s and ‘30s and film-makers adapted his works – his novel Fear became Roberto Rossellini’s La Paura (Credit: Alamy)
As Hitler’s forces spread across Europe, Zweig moved from his lodging in Bath in the UK to Ossining, New York. There he was almost unknown to all but his fellow refugees, who lacked his connections and material comforts, and frequently appealed to his legendary generosity. Zweig never felt at home in the US – he regarded Americanisation as the second destruction of European culture, after World War One – and hoped to return to Brazil, which enchanted him during a lecture tour in 1936.
(Credit: Alamy)
Perhaps Zweig’s best-known novel was Letter from an Unknown Woman, which became a film by Max Ophüls in 1948, starring Joan Fontaine and Louis Jourdan (Credit: Alamy)
Brazil: Land of the Future is a lyrical celebration of a nation whose beauty and generosity profoundly impressed Zweig. He was surprised and humbled by the country, and admonished himself for his ignorance and “European arrogance”. Zweig outlines Brazil’s history, economy, culture and geography, but the real insight of the book comes from the perspective he gains about his own continent.
There is no colour-bar, no segregation, no arrogant classification – Zweig
Brazil becomes, in Zweig’s description, everything he would like Europe to be: sensual, intellectual, tranquil and averse to militarism and materialism. (He even claims that Brazilians lack the European passion for sport – a bizarre assertion, even in 1941). Brazil is free of Europe’s “race fanatics”, its “frenzied scenes and mad ecstasies of hero-worship”, its “foolish nationalism and imperialism”, its “suicidal fury”.
(Credit: Fox Searchlight)
Wes Anderson paid tribute to Zweig in the end credits of The Grand Budapest Hotel, a film which Anderson says the writer inspired (Credit: Fox Searchlight)
In its cadences and colours, Brazil was radically different from Zweig’s repressed image of Habsburg Vienna, but the beauty of its hybrid identity seemed to vindicate his outlook. In Brazil, the descendants of African, Portuguese, German, Italian, Syrian and Japanese immigrants mixed freely: “all these different races live in fullest harmony with each other”. Brazil teaches ‘civilised’ Europe how to be civilised: “Whereas our old world is more than ever ruled by the insane attempt to breed people racially pure, like race-horses and dogs, the Brazilian nation for centuries has been built upon the principle of a free and unsuppressed miscegenation... It is moving to see children of all colours – chocolate, milk, and coffee – come out of their schools arm-in-arm… There is no colour-bar, no segregation, no arrogant classification... for who here would boast of absolute racial purity?”
This paean proved hugely popular with the public, and thousands of Brazilians attended Zweig’s lectures, while his daily itinerary was printed in every major newspaper. But the book was lambasted by critics: Prochnik notes that, for three days in a row, Brazil’s leading newspaper published withering reviews, accusing Zweig of ignoring the country’s industrial and modernist innovations.
(Credit: Wikipedia/Eduardo P)
Zweig’s writing in praise of Brazil made him popular there – several locations are even named after him (Credit: Wikipedia/Eduardo P)
More controversial was Zweig’s fulsome praise for Brazil’s dictator, Getúlio Vargas. In 1937, Vargas had declared the Estado Novo (New State), inspired by authoritarian rule in Portugal and Italy. Vargas shut down Brazil’s congress and imprisoned left-wing intellectuals, some of whom assumed that Zweig had been paid for his praise, or at least offered a visa. Vargas’ government had curtailed Jewish immigration on racial grounds – but made an exception for Zweig, due to his fame.
This troubling episode reveals Zweig’s political naivety. A pacifist and conciliator by nature, Zweig feared inciting hostility at a crucial moment (Vargas finally sided with the Allies in January 1942). Seeking seclusion, Stefan and Lotte ensconced themselves in the elegant former German settlement of Petrópolis, 40 miles (64 km) outside Rio.
Zweig believed in a world beyond borders, but he became defined by them
“It is Paradise”, wrote Zweig of the lush Alpine landscape, which “seems to be translated from the Austrian into a tropical language”. Zweig sought to forget his old books and friendships, and seek “inner freedom”. But at Carnival in Rio, he learned of Nazi advances in the Middle East and Asia, and a sense of doom descended. Zweig felt he could never be free, or free from fear. “Do you honestly believe that the Nazis will not come here?” he wrote. “Nothing can stop them now.”
Zweig believed in a world beyond borders, but he became defined by them: “My inner crisis consists in that I am not able to identify myself with the me of my passport, the self of exile”. This haunted Zweig (“We are just ghosts – or memories”), and he wrote in his suicide note of being “exhausted by long years of homeless wandering”. Stefan and Lotte shared this resignation: “We have no present and no future… We decided, bound in love, not to leave each other”.
In Petrópolis, I visited Zweig’s bungalow, which now serves as an “active museum”, according to Tristan Strobl, who works there on national service as an Austrian Holocaust Memorial Servant. He showed me an interactive display of all the refugees that came to Brazil between 1933 and 1945, highlighting their contributions. “This period was such a loss for the intellectual life of Europe”, says Tristan, “but for Brazil and the other countries that received these exiles, it was hugely positive”. The darkest decade of the old world brought light to the new.

terça-feira, 3 de fevereiro de 2015

O lado dark de Winston Churchill, um velhaco imperialista, que salvou a Europa do nazismo...

O lado dark do grande (talvez cinzento) imperialista Wiston Churchill, que não apenas refletia os preconceitos de sua época, mas tinha um zelo especial pelas glórias do império britânico. O fato dele ter sido decisivo na resistência a Hitler, quando vários líderes britânicos queriam entrar em algum tipo de compromisso ou entendimento com o mostro nazista, oferece uma espécie de contraponto a todos os seus erros, seu racismo e seu imperialismo teimoso. Não compensa, talvez, mas no que nos concerne, foi um nobre gesto, tremendamente custoso para o seu povo. A resistência contra tiranos é, em si, um dever moral.
Paulo Roberto de Almeida 

The dark side of Winston Churchill’s legacy no one should forget

The Washington Post, February 3, 2015, at 3:30 AM
There's no Western statesmen — at least in the English-speaking world — more routinely lionized than Winston Churchill. Last Friday marked a half century since his funeral, an occasion that itself led to numerous commemorations and paeans to the British Bulldog, whose moral courage and patriotism helped steer his nation through World War II.
Churchill, after all, has been posthumously voted by his countrymen as the greatest Briton. The presence (and absence) of his bust in the White House was enough to create political scandal on both sides of the pond. The allure of his name is so strong that it launches a thousand quotations, many of which are apocryphal. At its core, Churchill's myth serves as a ready-made metaphor for boldness and leadership, no matter how vacuous the context in which said metaphor is deployed.
For example, former British Prime Minister Tony Blair earned comparisons to Churchill after dragging his country into the much-maligned 2003 Iraq war. So too Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, whose tough stance on Iran's nuclear ambitions has been cast by some in Churchill's heroic mold — the Israeli premier's uncompromising resolve a foil to the supposed "appeasement" tendencies of President Obama.
In the West, Churchill is a freedom fighter, the man who grimly withstood Nazism and helped save Western liberal democracy. It's a civilizational legacy that has been polished and placed on a mantle for decades. Churchill "launched the lifeboats," declared Time magazine, on the cover of its Jan. 2, 1950 issue that hailed the British leader as the "man of the half century."
But there's another side to Churchill's politics and career that should not be forgotten amid the endless parade of eulogies.  To many outside the West, he remains a grotesque racist and a stubborn imperialist, forever on the wrong side of history.
Churchill's detractors point to his well-documented bigotry, articulated often with shocking callousness and contempt. "I hate Indians," he once trumpeted. "They are a beastly people with a beastly religion."
He referred to Palestinians as "barbaric hordes who ate little but camel dung." When quashing insurgents in Sudan in the earlier days of his imperial career, Churchill boasted of killing three "savages." Contemplating restive populations in northwest Asia, he infamously lamented the "squeamishness" of his colleagues, who were not in "favor of using poisoned gas against uncivilized tribes."
Remembering British wartime PM Winston Churchill(1:45)
Britain marked 50 years since Prime Minister’s Winston Churchill's funeral was held in 1965. His funeral was the world's largest at the time, attended by leaders from more than 100 countries. (Reuters)
At this point, you may say, so what? Churchill's attitudes were hardly unique for the age in which he expounded them. All great men have flaws and contradictions — some of America's founding fathers, those paragons of liberty, were slave owners. One of Churchill's biographers, cited by my colleague Karla Adam, insists that his failings were ultimately "unimportant, all of them, compared to the centrality of the point of Winston Churchill, which is that he saved [Britain] from being invaded by the Nazis."
But that should not obscure the dangers of his worldview. Churchill's racism was wrapped up in his Tory zeal for empire, one which irked his wartime ally, U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt. As a junior member of parliament, Churchill had cheered on Britain's plan for more conquests, insisting that its "Aryan stock is bound to triumph." It's strange to celebrate his bravado in the face of Hitler's war machine and not consider his wider thinking on other parts of the world. After all, these are places that, just like Europe and the West, still live with the legacy of Churchill's and Britain's actions at the time.
India, Britain's most important colonial possession, most animated Churchill. He despised the Indian independence movement and its spiritual leader, Mahatma Gandhi, whom he described as "half-naked" and labeled a "seditious fakir," or holy man. Most notoriously, Churchill presided over the hideous 1943 famine in Bengal, where some 3 million Indians perished, largely as a result of British imperial mismanagement. Churchill was both indifferent to the Indian plight and even mocked the millions suffering, chuckling over the culling of a population that bred "like rabbits."
Leopold Amery, Churchill's own Secretary of State for India, likened his boss's understanding of India's problems to King George III's apathy for the Americas. Amery vented in his private diaries, writing "on the subject of India, Winston is not quite sane" and that he didn't "see much difference between [Churchill's] outlook and Hitler's."
When Churchill did apply his attention to the subcontinent, it had other dire effects. As the Indian writer Pankaj Mishra explains in the New Yorker, Churchill was one of a coterie of imperial rulers who worked to create sectarian fissures within India's independence movement between Indian Hindus and Muslims, which led to the brutal partition of India when the former colony finally did win its freedom in 1947. Millions died or were displaced in an orgy of bloodshed that still echoes in the region's tense politics to this day. (India, it should be noted, was far from the only corner of the British empire victim to such divide-and-rule tactics.)
"The rival nationalisms and politicized religions the British Empire brought into being now clash in an enlarged geopolitical arena," writes Mishra, gesturing to the spread and growth of political Islam in parts of South Asia and the Middle East. "And the human costs of imperial overreaching seem unlikely to attain a final tally for many more decades."
When measuring up Churchill's legacy, that tally must be taken into account.
Ishaan Tharoor writes about foreign affairs for The Washington Post. He previously was a senior editor at TIME, based first in Hong Kong and later in New York.

sábado, 31 de janeiro de 2015

Portugal e seus judeus sefarditas: 500 anos de atraso e de injusticas

Demorou (mais ou menos 500 anos) mas chegou a reparação: Portugal começa a oferecer dupla cidadania a todos os que puderem provar ascendência judeo-sefardita, ou seja, os descendentes daqueles que foram expulsos numa das ações mais estúpidas já perpetradas, junto com a Espanha vizinha, contra seus próprios interesses nacionais.
Sem deixar de cometer um crime contra uma de suas comunidades mais brilhantes, os dois reinos ibéricos se condenaram a um atraso monumental, ao se privarem dos melhores cérebros que poderiam ter em todas as áreas do conhecimento humano. Poderiam ter sido dois países razoavelmente desenvolvidos, e escolheram o atraso, o retrocesso científico, a carolice esterilizante, a estreiteza mental.
Os que retornarem agora serão provavelmente os menos preparados dos sefarditas que ainda existem espalhados pelo mundo, aqueles que na verdade buscam um passaporte europeu por diversas razões econômicas, não necessariamente os melhores dessa comunidade menos "nobelizável" que os judeus askenazis.
Os nazistas cometeriam o mesmo erro, a mesma estupidez fundamental quase 450 anos depois, por vezes nas mesmas condições de humilhação: não se podia vender propriedades e bens e levar consigo a fortuna resultante; ouro, apenas sob forma de algumas joias pessoais (como aneis ou relógios de uso pessoal), e neste caso do hitlerismo monstruoso sem qualquer possibilidade de "conversão", como ainda foi oferecida aos judeus ibéricos. Muitos morreram, outros foram obrigados a se converter, muitos preferiram partir, sem quase nada consigo.

Dirigentes estúpidos são capazes de condenar seus países ao atraso, inclusive aqueles que no Brasil dos anos 1930 e 40, por exemplo, proibiam o ingresso de judeus que buscavam desesperadamente fugir do nazismo. 
Paulo Roberto de Almeida

quarta-feira, 22 de outubro de 2014

Eleicoes 2014: Confederacao Israelita do Brasil repudia declaracoes "nazistas" de Lula

Apenas transcrevendo:

Conib repudia declarações de Lula comparando Aécio e PSDB aos nazistas

A Confederação Israelita do Brasil, representante da comunidade judaica brasileira e entidade apartidária, vem a público repudiar as declarações do ex-presidente Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, comparando ações do candidato presidencial Aécio Neves e seu partido, o PSDB, a “agressões nazistas”.

A Conib, com trajetória de inquebrantável compromisso com a democracia e o debate intenso de ideias, rejeita a banalização de um episódio trágico para a Humanidade, como o nazismo, responsável pelo Holocausto, com a morte de 6 milhões de judeus, e o assassinato de dezenas de milhões de outros inocentes, como ciganos, negros, homossexuais, comunistas, entre outros.

Entendemos o calor da campanha eleitoral e a intensidade da di sputa, mas conclamamos à manutenção de padrões que sirvam à causa da democracia, e não ao aprofundamento de divisões em nossa sociedade. Defendemos enfaticamente o direito à crítica, inata ao processo democrático, mas temos a convicção de que comparar adversários de um embate eminentemente político e ideológico a nazistas distorce a História e corrói nossa democracia.

domingo, 10 de agosto de 2014

Raoul Wallenberg, salvador de judeus: em tempos obscuros, surgem homens dignos...

Schindler sueco' desafiou nazistas e salvou judeus da morte há 70 anos
09/08/2014  Folha.Mundo.

Em julho de 1944, o sueco Raoul Wallenberg tinha 31 anos e uma missão na cabeça: salvar da deportação nazista estimados 100 mil judeus-húngaros que ainda viviam em Budapeste.
Naquele mês, ele chegava à Embaixada da Suécia na capital da Hungria.
Até essa data, o alemão Adolf Eichmann (1906-1962), oficial nazista em Budapeste, já havia enviado cerca de 400 mil pessoas ao campo de extermínio de Auschwitz-Birkenau, na Polônia.
Formado em arquitetura pela Universidade de Michigan (EUA) e vindo de uma família conhecida como "os Rockefellers da Suécia", Wallenberg contou com mais do que um clã influente para adquirir imunidade diplomática sueca e, com ela, agir numa Budapeste convulsionada pela ocupação alemã.
A ajuda extra veio do presidente americano Franklin Roosevelt, que nos derradeiros seis meses da guerra criou a organização "War Refugee Board", à qual o governo sueco aderiu.
A Suécia era neutra na Segunda Guerra Mundial; assim, na condição de diplomata (embora não de carreira), Wallenberg pôde emitir passaportes provisórios ("shutz-passes") e alugar prédios que, pintados de amarelo, serviriam de moradia e de "território seguro", garantindo a sobrevivência para milhares de perseguidos.
Por sua atitude, Wallenberg passou a ser chamado de "Schindler sueco", uma referência ao industrial alemão Oskar Schindler (1908-1974), famoso mundialmente por ter salvado cerca de 1.200 judeus do Holocausto, a maioria empregados de suas fábricas.
No último dia 9 de julho, em memória aos 70 anos da chegada de Wallenberg a Budapeste, o Congresso americano lhe concedeu postumamente a Medalha de Ouro. A honraria foi recebida por sua irmã, Nina Lagergren.
Inimigos nada cordiais, Wallenberg e Eichmann possivelmente discutiram as deportações de judeus num jantar na casa do diplomata sueco Lars Berg, no fim de 1944.
Berg relembrou o diálogo áspero que ambos teriam tido em entrevista publicada pela "The New York Times Magazine" em 1980. "Foi um jantar especialmente civilizado para uma época brutal. Tomamos brandy, ninguém falou alto, mas era possível ver o fogo da artilharia russa através da janela [o Exército Vermelho começava o cerco a Budapeste para expulsar os nazistas]."
Nesse encontro, Wallenberg teria afrontado Eichmann e dito: "Veja, você tem que enfrentar isso. Perdeu a guerra. Por que não desistir agora?"
Eichmann teria respondido que o fim até poderia estar próximo, mas continuaria a fazer seu trabalho, mesmo que fosse morto.
Então, sempre de acordo com o relato de Berg, Eichmann e Wallenberg se encararam. "Não pense que você é imune só porque é um 'diplomata neutro'", teria dito o alemão.
Coincidência ou não, alguns dias depois, o carro diplomático de Wallenberg, sem a sua presença, foi esmagado por um caminhão.
Presidente do instituto que leva o nome de Raoul Wallenberg, o empresário argentino de origem armênia Eduardo Eurnekian, 81, que administra 52 aeroportos e é dono de bancos e vinícolas, diz não ter dúvidas de que Eichmann tinha conhecimento das atividades de Wallenberg.
Eurnekian o define como "brilhante, charmoso, falante e cheio de imaginação", além de ter sido "um dos principais salvadores que a humanidade já teve".
Seis meses após a chegada de Wallenberg a Budapeste, o Exército Vermelho concluiu a ocupação da cidade, em 17 de janeiro de 1945.
Como os soviéticos eram aliados dos americanos, ele foi ao encontro do general russo Malinovsky.
Quando essa reunião ocorreu, a diplomacia soviética enviou telegrama aos suecos dizendo que Wallenberg estava a salvo, mas ele nunca mais foi visto.
A mãe de Wallenberg procurou a embaixada soviética em Estocolmo, capital sueca, em 1945, com um pedido de esclarecimentos sobre seu paradeiro. Como resposta, ouviu que ele "estava bem de saúde, num local seguro, em Moscou".
A diplomacia sueca não fez muito empenho em afrontar a União Soviética, pois Wallenberg não era, de fato, um diplomata de carreira. E, à época, ninguém queria confusão com os soviéticos.
Em 1947, um informe da chancelaria em Moscou disse que Wallenberg tinha morrido depois de sofrer um ataque cardíaco.
Logo depois, no mesmo ano, um encarregado de negócios estrangeiros soviético respondeu à questão do paradeiro de Wallenberg de modo diferente: "Ele não é uma pessoa conhecida na União Soviética".
Surgiram, então, rumores de que ele tinha morrido numa escaramuça de rua durante a tomada de Budapeste.
Em 1957, vários prisioneiros foram libertados e, entre eles, houve quem confirmasse ter visto Wallenberg num 'gulag' (campo de trabalhos forçados) soviético, afirmando que se referiam a ele como "o prisioneiro número 7".
Presidente do instituto, Eurnekian acredita na possibilidade de o ditador soviético Josef Stálin (1878-1953) ter inferido que a operação de resgate dos judeus-húngaros poderia ser apenas um disfarce para Wallenberg, pois havia a suspeita de ele ser um espião a serviço dos EUA.
Hoje é sabido que Wallenberg tinha contato com agentes do Escritório de Serviços Estraégicos (OSS, na sigla em inglês), o serviço de segurança americano durante a Segunda Guerra, que foi o predecessor da CIA.
Especula-se que ele tenha sido cooptado ainda bem jovem, quando estudava na Universidade de Michigan.
"O sumiço de Wallenberg é um capítulo da história que permanece em aberto, e a verdade ainda pode emergir com a abertura de arquivos da burocracia moscovita", afirma Eurnekian.
O instituto que ele dirige oferece recompensa de € 500 mil (aproximadamente R$ 1,53 milhão) para quem der informações que ajudem a esclarecer o paradeiro de Wallenberg. 

quinta-feira, 26 de junho de 2014

Jean Guehenno: diario da ocupacao alema na Franca, 1940-1944

O eterno dilema dos intelectuais em face das ditaduras: colaborar, resistir, se opor ativamente, abertamente, clandestinamente?
O autor deste blog já viveu em tempos sombrios, igualmente, alguns mais, outros, semprescescrevendo, na resistência às ditaduras, e publicando por todos os canais disponíveis...
Paulo Roberto de Almeida 


During World War II, Jean Guéhenno kept a private journal in which he described his life in Nazi-occupied Paris. It was recently translated from French into English by David Ball.

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If Jean Guéhenno had never existed, France would surely have had to invent him. A model writer and intellectual who neither collaborated nor accommodated the enemy, he refused to publish a single word as long as his country was under Nazi control. A leading essayist of the Popular Front, regularly skewered by the far right, he vowed, as of July 1940, to confine his thoughts and feelings to a private journal. It is a mystery why “Diary of the Dark Years, 1940-1944,” first published in 1947 and still a standard reference in France, is only now appearing in English in a fine translation by David Ball. Is there something about our own political climate that allows us finally to hear Guéhenno’s voice clearly?
The son of a poor shoemaker and a veteran of World War I, Guéhenno (pronounced gay-AY-no) rose against all odds to the pinnacle of academic respectability. He was 50 and a teacher when he started keeping his diary, and he brought to his reflections on the occupation qualities missing in the younger generation of Resistance intellectuals: midlife melancholy and a fierce skepticism that didn’t preclude taking sides. Guéhenno was a left-wing Gaullist of the first hour, one of the few French who heard Gen. Charles de Gaulle’s June 18, 1940, call to resistance on the BBC, and rejoiced in “a voice with some pride in it at last.” In October 1940, when the French newspaper L’Oeuvre asked people to understand Marshal Philippe Pétain’s pact of collaboration with Hitler, Guéhenno wrote: “I’m just too proud and stupid: I think I have already understood. And I think of myself as an old, untuned guitar.” 

David Ball
That untuned guitar had pretty good pitch. As the anti-Semitic persecutions, the deportations of Jews and the arrests and executions of Communists intensified, Guéhenno tended to conflate their suffering in nationalist rhetoric: “The Germans’ repressive methods are such that there is not one Frenchman who will not feel his debt to the Jews and the Communists, jailed and shot for us. They are the veritable sacrificial victims of the people.” But as early as May 15, 1941, he saw that the two victims were not the same, and he understood who was accountable: “Yesterday, in the name of the laws of France, 5,000 Jews were taken away to concentration camps,” he wrote. When a friend is deported, he confesses, “I do not feel free to write everything down here.” The summer of 1944 brings hope from the Allies, but with it comes the fear of failure and loss of life. On June 10, 1944, in the aftermath of D-Day, he takes out his old hiking maps from Normandy to follow the Allied advance: “After the anguish of servitude, now the anxiety of combat.”
Guéhenno notes with characteristic modesty that he was able to maintain his silence as a writer only because his tenure as a professor guaranteed him a living. He prepared students for the rigorous entrance exam to the École Normale Supérieure and taught in the vocational high schools. He writes beautifully about his students, the “hypercritical young intellectuals,” the future Resistance fighters, the snitches and collaborators. He marvels at their fate: A former Egyptologist becomes the head logger in a forest near Grenoble, France; another joins the armed resistance in the mountains; still another asks Guéhenno to broadcast on German controlled Radio Paris until “I set the poor boy straight without any further ado.”
His diary became an important outlet for rage and disbelief. By January 1942 it was clear to him that Germany was going to lose the war, but that certain failure would only escalate the occupiers’ brutality. Guéhenno took solace in his work on a biography of Jean-Jacques Rousseau: “Experiencing as I do the life of my hero day after day, I am sometimes as curious about the next day as he might have been himself.” Abrupt transitions in his writing mimic the tensions of everyday life — Rousseau in one paragraph, the arrest and execution of the ethnographer Boris Vildé and six other intellectuals at Mont Valérien in the next. Guéhenno, who distributed the clandestine literary journal Les Lettres Françaises and kept the compromising pages of his diary in his apartment, might well have met with a similar fate.
Another milestone in the diary comes in 1943 when his students are drafted into compulsory work service in Germany; many escape to Spain or join resistance groups. Nor was Guéhenno exempt from the repression. That same year he was demoted by the Vichy education minister to the rank of a beginning instructor, assigned to teach 17 hours of class a week rather than the usual six and faced with supervising hundreds of students. “Stammering with fatigue,” he wondered how he would have time to keep his diary going. But he cheered up whenever he contemplated how many of the authors in his curriculum were bona fide revolutionaries: “Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot, Danton, Robespierre, Chénier, Hugo, Michelet ..., I have nothing to discuss but suspects.” He liked to end his class sessions by shouting “Et la liberté!”
Mr. Ball, who has succeeded in giving Guéhenno’s grand diction the emotional charge it has in the original French, has provided extensive notes, as well as a biographical dictionary, so that no reference is left obscure.
It is hard today to imagine a world in which the written word meant so much that one writer’s refusal to publish made him a national example of moral probity. Of course not every French writer of the Resistance agreed with Guéhenno’s position. His friend Jean Paulhan believed it was essential to keep literary institutions going, even if it meant dealing with Fascists while secretly pursuing Resistance activity.
But Guéhenno was clear. In November 1940, after only six months of occupation, he described life in occupied France as a prison sentence of indeterminate length. To keep hope alive, writers needed to turn inward and “paint on the walls” of their cells. He added, “whether our cell is full of light or not depends on us alone.” Four years later, he published an excerpt from his diaries with the underground Éditions de Minuit, using the title “In the Prison” and the pseudonym Cévennes. On Aug. 25, with church bells ringing, flags flying and the tanks of General Leclerc’s Second Armored Division rolled up to the doors of Notre-Dame, Jean Guéhenno was finally ready to end his literary exile: “Freedom — France is beginning again.”