Segue o convite para o lançamento, no dia 8 de agosto, às 19h00, da 3ª edição do meu livro sobre Hannah Arendt.
Abraço.
Celso Lafer
Mostrando postagens com marcador Hannah Arendt. Mostrar todas as postagens
Mostrando postagens com marcador Hannah Arendt. Mostrar todas as postagens
terça-feira, 31 de julho de 2018
sexta-feira, 11 de julho de 2014
Fidel Castro e Hannah Arendt em Princeton - Rafael Rojas (El Pais)
La noche que Hannah Arendt escuchó a Fidel Castro
El líder cubano dictó una conferencia magistral en la Universidad de Princeton en 1959
Los archivos de la Universidad de Princeton guardan una historia que ayuda a comprender la deriva totalitaria de la Revolución Cubana y la difícil lectura que hizo Occidente de ese fenómeno latinoamericano y caribeño. En abril de 1959, el primer ministro de la nueva Cuba, Fidel Castro, y su delegación se desviaron de su itinerario de Washington a Nueva York en una primera visita a Estados Unidos, organizada por la American Society of Newspapers Editors, y pasaron un par de días en la Universidad de Princeton.
La visita de Castro a Princeton fue facilitada por varios profesores e instituciones de la Universidad: el historiador Roland T. Ely, estudioso de la economía cubana y autor de los clásicos La economía cubana entre las dos Isabeles (1960) y Cuando reinaba su majestad el azúcar (1963); el embajador Paul D. Taylor, presidente de la American Whig Cliosophic Society, que extendió la invitación a los cubanos, y la Woodrow Wilson School, cuyo programa de Civilización americana había organizado por esos mismos días de abril de 1959 un seminario titulado The United States and the revolutionary spirit.
Castro pronunció la conferencia magistral de ese seminario, el lunes 20 de abril de 1959, en la noche. Según las notas que tomó el embajador Taylor, el premier cubano comenzó disculpándose de tener que hablar ante un grupo de expertos y propuso que lo escucharan como a un revolucionario práctico, como a alguien que no estudiaba sino que producía una revolución. Al decir de Castro, la Revolución Cubana había derribado dos mitos de la historia latinoamericana del siglo XX: que era posible vencer a un Ejército profesional, poseedor de armas modernas, y que también era posible revolucionar al pueblo cuando este no estaba hambriento.
La segunda observación es interesante, a la luz del relato oficial de la historia cubana, que, en el último medio siglo, ha insistido en presentar la sociedad de la isla, anterior a 1959, bajo el triple flagelo del “hambre, la miseria y la explotación”. Curiosamente, en abril de 1959, Fidel Castro decía a los profesores y estudiantes de Princeton que una de las originalidades de su revolución era que había triunfado en un país latinoamericano con un relativo bienestar social. La cubana, según aquel Castro, había sido más una revolución política y moral contra una dictadura corrupta que una rebelión de clases, de pobres contra ricos. Por eso había sido apoyada por el “95% del pueblo”, generando un fenómeno de “unanimidad de opinión”, inédito en la historia de Cuba.
Este análisis permitía a Fidel Castro sumarse al debate sobre Estados Unidos y el “espíritu revolucionario”, entre historiadores, filósofos, sociólogos y economistas de Princeton. El tema central en aquel seminario y en buena parte del pensamiento filosófico e histórico, en Estados Unidos durante la Guerra Fría, era el paralelo entre las revoluciones norteamericana, francesa y rusa, como modelos contrapuestos de cambio social. Según las notas de Taylor, en su conferencia Fidel Castro sostuvo que la cubana se inscribía más en la tradición de 1776 que de 1789 o 1917 porque no alentaba el choque de clases. Tampoco proponía la confrontación con Estados Unidos, ya que preservaba la distancia del comunismo y sugería una defensa de los intereses nacionales de Cuba que Washington podía aceptar porque se enmarcaba en su propia tradición independentista.
Uno de los profesores que intervino en ese seminario y que, probablemente, escuchó a Fidel Castro aquella noche del 20 de abril de 1959 fue la filósofa alemana Hannah Arendt. Justo en 1959, la autora de Los orígenes del totalitarismo (1951) y La condición humana (1958) había sido contratada como profesora en Princeton y comenzaba a investigar la historia de las revoluciones francesa y norteamericana. La ponencia que Arendt presentó en el seminario fue el punto de partida de su ensayo On revolution (1963). En los agradecimientos de este libro, Arendt comentaba que la idea del volumen había surgido durante aquel seminario sobre “Estados Unidos y el espíritu revolucionario”, organizado por el programa de Civilización americana de la Woodrow Wilson School de Princeton.
En su libro, Arendt sostenía que el enlace histórico entre la revolución y la guerra, dos fenómenos, a su juicio, radicalmente distintos, había distorsionado los objetivos básicos de la tradición revolucionaria moderna, que eran la libertad y la felicidad. La ventaja que, a su entender, conservaba la revolución de 1776 en Estados Unidos sobre la francesa y la rusa era que, al enfrentar la “cuestión social” de la igualdad por medio del derecho constitucional, había logrado aquellos objetivos históricos. El jacobinismo y el bolchevismo, en cambio, producían una desconexión entre justicia y ley —lo que Ferenc Feher conceptualizará luego como “revolución congelada”— que alentaba el despotismo y dilapidaba el legado moral o el “tesoro perdido” de la revolución.
A pesar de haber escrito su libro entre 1959 y 1963, en Nueva York, una ciudad donde se debatió intensamente la radicalización comunista de la Revolución Cubana, Arendt no hizo alusiones a Cuba o a Fidel Castro. De hecho, la filósofa solo se refería a América Latina una vez en su ensayo y lo hacía para colocar la experiencia de las revoluciones del Tercer Mundo, en el siglo XX, más en la tradición francesa y rusa que en la norteamericana. Podría elaborarse un argumento similar al de Susan Buck-Morss en relación con la falta de alusiones a la revolución haitiana en la Fenomenología del espíritu de Hegel, pero es muy probable que en aquel silencio hubiera tanto prejuicio colonial como rechazo al totalitarismo comunista, aún en una región tan dominada e intervenida por los imperios atlánticos como el Caribe.
En otros momentos de su libro, Arendt hablaba de las “dictaduras de un solo partido” y de los regímenes burocráticos de la Unión Soviética y Europa del Este como nuevas formas de tiranía. En 1963, esa parecía ser la elección racional de los dirigentes cubanos, por lo que las palabras de Fidel Castro, aquella noche en Princeton, debieron sonarle, cuatro años después, como un perfecto embuste. Según aquel Castro, la diferencia entre la Revolución Cubana y la francesa y la rusa era que, en estas, “un pequeño grupo había tomado el poder por la fuerza e instaurado una nueva forma de terror”, mientras que en aquella un pueblo entero se había movilizado por “odio a una dictadura”.
Rafael Rojas es historiador cubano. Su último libro es Los derechos del alma. Ensayos sobre la querella liberal-conservadora en Hispanoamérica (Taurus, 2014).
segunda-feira, 8 de julho de 2013
Hannah Arendt: Eichmann in Jerusalem, a debate over a report and a movie
Navigated from Misreading 'Eichmann in Jerusalem' - NYTimes.com | shared via feedly mobile
The movie “Hannah Arendt,” which opened in New York in May, has unleashed emotional commentary that mirrors the fierce debate Arendt herself ignited over half a century ago, when she covered the trial of the notorious war criminal Adolf Eichmann. One of the pre-eminent political thinkers of the 20th century, Arendt, who died in 1975 at the age of 69, was a Jew arrested by the German police in 1933, forced into exile and later imprisoned in an internment camp. She escaped and fled to the United States in 1941, where she wrote the seminal books “The Origins of Totalitarianism” and “The Human Condition.”
When Arendt heard that Eichmann was to be put on trial, she knew she had to attend. It would be, she wrote, her last opportunity to see a major Nazi “in the flesh.” Writing in The New Yorker, she expressed shock that Eichmann was not a monster, but “terribly and terrifyingly normal.” Her reports for the magazine were compiled into a book, “Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil,” published in 1963.
The poet Robert Lowell proclaimed Arendt’s portrayal of Eichmann a “masterpiece,” a “terrifying expressionist invention applied with a force no imitator could rival.” Others excoriated Arendt as a self-hating Jew. Lionel Abel charged that Eichmann “comes off so much better in her book than do his victims.” Nearly every major literary and philosophical figure in New York chose sides in what the writer Irving Howe called a “civil war” among New York intellectuals — a war, he later predicted, that might “die down, simmer,” but will perennially “erupt again.” So it has.
This time, a new critical consensus is emerging, one that at first glimpse might seem to resolve the debates of a half century ago. This new consensus holds that Arendt was right in her general claim that many evildoers are normal people but was wrong about Eichmann in particular. As Christopher R. Browning summed it up recently in The New York Review of Books, “Arendt grasped an important concept but not the right example.”
The many responses to the film — a feature by the German directorMargarethe von Trotta — have restated this conventional wisdom in some form.
In the German weekly Der Spiegel, Elke Schmitter argued that new evidence shows Eichmann’s “performance in Jerusalem was a successful deception” — that Arendt apparently missed the true Eichmann, a fanatical anti-Semite. In a review in The New Republic, Saul Austerlitzwrote that Arendt’s “book makes for good philosophy, but shoddy history.” David Owen, a professor of social and political philosophy at the University of Southampton, recently faulted the movie for not grasping that “while Arendt’s thesis concerning the banality of evil is a fundamental insight for moral philosophy, she is almost certainly wrong about Eichmann.” In an essay in the Times in May, Fred Kaplan wrote that “Arendt misread Eichmann, but she did hit on something broader about how ordinary people become brutal killers.”
Behind this consensus is new scholarship on Eichmann’s writings and reflections from the 1950s, when he was living among a fraternity of former Nazis in Argentina, before Israeli agents captured him and spirited him out of the country and to Israel. Eichmann’s writings include an unpublished memoir, “The Others Spoke, Now Will I Speak,” and an interview conducted over many months with a Nazi journalist and war criminal, Willem Sassen, which were not released until long after the trial. Eichmann’s justification of his actions to Sassen is considered more genuine than his testimony before judges in Jerusalem. In recent decades, scholars have argued that the Sassen interviews show that Arendt was simply wrong in her judgment of Eichmann because she did not have all the facts.
These facts, however, are not new. An excerpt from the Sassen interviews was published in Life magazine in 1960. Arendt read them and even wrote that “whether writing his memoirs in Argentina or in Jerusalem,” Eichmann always sounded and spoke the same. “The longer one listened to him, the more obvious it became that his inability to speak was closely connected with an inability to think, namely, to think from the standpoint of someone else.” His evil acts were motivated by thoughtlessness that was neither stupidity nor bureaucratic obedience, but a staggering inability to see the world beyond Nazi clichés.
In his 2006 book “Becoming Eichmann,” the historian David Cesaranifinds common ground with Arendt, writing, “as much as we may want Eichmann to be a psychotic individual and thus unlike us, he was not.” But Cesarani also uses the latest documents to argue what so many of Arendt’s detractors have expressed: “It is a myth that Eichmann unthinkingly followed orders, as Hannah Arendt argued.” Similarly, in her 2011 book “The Eichmann Trial,” the historian Deborah E. Lipstadt claims that Eichmann’s newly discovered memoir “reveals the degree to which Arendt was wrong about Eichmann. It is permeated with expressions of support for and full comprehension of Nazi ideology. He was no clerk.”
The problem with this conclusion is that Arendt never wrote that Eichmann simply followed orders. She never portrayed him, in Cesarani’s words, as a “dull-witted clerk or a robotic bureaucrat.” Indeed she rejected the idea that Eichmann was simply following orders. She emphasized that Eichmann took enormous pride in his initiative in deporting Jews and also in his willingness to disobey orders to do so, especially Himmler’s clear orders — offered in 1944 in the hope of leniency amid impending defeat — to “take good care of the Jews, act as their nursemaid.” In direct disobedience, Eichmann organized death marches of Hungarian Jews; as Arendt writes, he “sabotaged” Himmler’s orders. As the war ground to an end, as Arendt saw, Eichmann, against Himmler, remained loyal to Hitler’s idea of the Nazi movement and did “his best to make the Final Solution final.”
When Eichmann agreed at trial that he would have killed his own father if ordered to —but only if his father actually had been a traitor. Arendt pointed to this condition to show that Eichmann acted not simply from orders but also from conviction. To say that Arendt denied that Eichmann was a committed Nazi or that she saw Eichmann as a “clerk” is false.
The widespread misperception that Arendt saw Eichmann as merely following orders emerged largely from a conflation of her conclusions with those of Stanley Milgram, the Yale psychologist who conducted a series of controversial experiments in the early 1960s. Milgram was inspired by the Eichmann trial to ask test subjects to assist researchers in training students by administering what they thought were potentially lethal shocks to students who answered incorrectly. The test subjects largely did as they were instructed. Milgram invoked Arendt when he concluded that his experiments showed most people would follow orders to do things they thought wrong. But Arendt rejected the “naïve belief that temptation and coercion are really the same thing,” and with it Milgram’s claim that obedience carried with it no responsibility. Instead, Arendt insisted, “obedience and support are the same.” That is why she argued that Eichmann should be put to death.
The insight of “Eichmann in Jerusalem” is not that Eichmann was just following orders, but that Eichmann was a “joiner.” In his own words, Eichmann feared “to live a leaderless and difficult individual life,” in which “I would receive no directives from anybody.” Arendt insisted that Eichmann’s professed fidelity to the Nazi cause “did not mean merely to stress the extent to which he was under orders, and ready to obey them; he meant to show what an ‘idealist’ he had always been.” An “idealist,” as she used the word, is an ideologue, someone who will sacrifice his own moral convictions when they come in conflict with the “idea” of the movement that gives life meaning. Evil was transformed from a Satanic temptation into a test of self-sacrifice, and Eichmann justified the evil he knowingly committed as a heroic burden demanded by his idealism.
The best treatment of Eichmann’s writing in Argentina is by the German scholar Bettina Stangneth. In her 2011 book “Eichmann vor Jerusalem” (not available in English), Stangneth showed that Sassen was a Holocaust denier who attempted to get Eichmann to deny the Holocaust, which Eichmann did not. On the contrary, Eichmann boasted of his accomplishments, worried that he hadn’t done enough, and justified his role. Stangneth also revealed that Eichmann dreamed of returning to Germany and putting himself on trial, even drafting an open letter to the West German chancellor Konrad Adenauer to propose just that. His hope was that the royalties from his book, written with Sassen, would support his family for what he imagined would be a short stay in jail.
Stangneth concludes that Eichmann’s manifest anti-Semitism was based neither on religious hatred nor a conspiratorial belief in Jewish world domination. He denied the “blood libel” (the false accusation that Jews had killed Christian children and used their blood in rituals) and rejected as a forgery the “Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” the notorious anti-Semitic tract (and a czarist forgery). Eichmann justified genocide and the extermination of the Jews by appealing to the “fatherland morality that beat within him.” He spoke of the “necessity of a total war” and relied on his oath to Hitler and the Nazi flag, a bond he calls “the highest duty.” Eichmann was an anti-Semite because Nazism was incomprehensible without anti-Semitism.
Arendt famously insists Eichmann “had no motives at all” and that he “never realized what he was doing.” But she did not mean that he wasn’t aware of the Holocaust or the Final Solution. She knew that once the Führer decided on physical liquidation, Eichmann embraced that decision. What she meant was that he acted thoughtlessly and dutifully, not as a robotic bureaucrat, but as part of a movement, as someone convinced that he was sacrificing an easy morality for a higher good.
“What stuck in the minds” of men like Eichmann, Arendt wrote, was not a rational or coherent ideology. It was “simply the notion of being involved in something historic, grandiose, unique.” Eichmann described how difficult it was for him to participate in the Final Solution, but took pride in having done so. He added: “if I had known then the horrors that would later happen to the Germans, it would have been easier for me to watch the Jewish executions. At heart I am a very sensitive man.” In a terrifying act of self-deception, Eichmann believed his inhuman acts were marks of virtue.
Though von Trotta’s film is not a documentary, it does incorporate archival footage of the trial. The director has said that the footage was essential because it let the viewer encounter Eichmann directly. The movie cuts to Arendt, played by Barbara Sukowa, and captures the shock on her face, as Eichmann utters cliché after cliché. It makes visible how and why Arendt concluded that evil in the modern world is done neither by monsters nor by bureaucrats, but by joiners.
That evil, Arendt argued, originates in the neediness of lonely, alienated bourgeois people who live lives so devoid of higher meaning that they give themselves fully to movements. It is the meaning Eichmann finds as part of the Nazi movement that leads him to do anything and sacrifice everything. Such joiners are not stupid; they are not robots. But they are thoughtless in the sense that they abandon their independence, their capacity to think for themselves, and instead commit themselves absolutely to the fictional truth of the movement. It is futile to reason with them. They inhabit an echo chamber, having no interest in learning what others believe. It is this thoughtless commitment that permits idealists to imagine themselves as heroes and makes them willing to employ technological implements of violence in the name of saving the world.
Perhaps Arendt has been so violently misunderstood because her thinking is both provocative and demanding. Her blessing, and her curse was a facility for quotable aphorisms that, like Nietzsche’s, require whole books to reveal their unconventional meaning. It is easy to cite the “banality of evil.” It is much more difficult to make sense of what Arendt actually meant.
At a time when confidence in American institutions is at an all-time low, Arendt’s insistence that we see Eichmann as a terrifyingly normal “déclassé son of a solid middle-class family” who was radicalized by an idealistic anti-state movement should resonate even more urgently today. That is ever more reason to free Arendt’s book, once again, from the tyranny of the conventional wisdom.
Roger Berkowitz is associate professor of political studies and human rights, and academic director of the Hannah Arendt Center for Politics and the Humanities, at Bard College.
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