Politics and Policy Archive
Welcome to Politics and Policy where you will find the latest thoughts and reflections by CLAL faculty and associates on the important political and public policy questions facing us as Jews and as Americans.
To access the Politics and Policy Archive, click here.
Reprinted from:
 To
subscribe to the Forward call 1-800-266-0773 |
Letter from Riga:
Cold Light Is Cast On Dark History Of a Baltic Nation
By Libby Garland
The end of November is the
coldest, darkest time of the year in Riga, Latvia. Gone are the outdoor cafes and 11 p.m.
sunlight of my last visit in June. Instead, two soldiers in camouflage uniforms blow on
their frozen hands as they patrol the newly restored Freedom Monument — "For
Fatherland and Freedom" — that was erected where a statue of Peter the Great
once stood.
But the chill in the air is
matched by the warmth of the reception that I receive by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
On my previous, and first, visit to Latvia, I came to see a German friend give a klezmer
concert at an international gathering of Latvian Holocaust survivors. The article I wrote
about the event for the Forward caught the eye of someone in the Latvian government; the
Ministry arranged for me to return , to attend a conference, "The Issues of the
Research into the Holocaust," and see a small exhibit on Latvian Jewish history.
At Riga's petite new airport,
I am met by a tall, solemn driver from the Ministry, who ferries me in his black Volvo to
my hotel, a restored 15th-century convent that now houses visiting diplomats and
businessmen. Inside the entrance stands a sign, the kind with movable white letters:
"Welcome Mrs Garland from USA." The Ministry staff even provides tickets to
"Carmen," sung in Latvian at the imposing National Opera, which
was founded during Latvia's first independence.
The warm welcome reflects the
fact that Latvia, population 2.4 million, is often bypassed by the international media
(notwithstanding the November incident in which a teenage girl protesting the war in
Afghanistan slapped Prince Charles with a carnation after he visited the Freedom
Monument). The government, however, would like to smooth its path into the European Union
and NATO by showing the world that its 10-year makeover from former Soviet republic into
modern Western European democracy has been successful.
But to do this, it must prove
that it has come to grips with the country's tangled past.
November is a month of two
anniversaries in Latvia, one celebratory, the other grim. In November 1918, Latvia
declared its first, short-lived independence. In November 1941, the Nazis marched
thousands of Latvian Jews into the nearby forest of Rumbala and shot them en masse. The
conference that the Ministry has arranged for me to attend is dedicated to the 60th
anniversary of the Rumbala shootings.
The bloody history of the
Holocaust here, buried during the Soviet era, is just beginning to be exhumed. Only 1,000
of Latvia's 90,000 Jews survived. Approximately 75% of Latvian Jewish Holocaust victims
remain unidentified, according to Professor Ruven Ferber, director of Latvia University's
new Center for Judaic Studies, which is co-sponsoring the conference.
"The Wallenberg of our
age," he tells me, referring to the Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg who rescued
scores of Jews from the Nazis, "will be a patient researcher going through thousands
of files to save these victims' names."
But Latvia's dilemmas are not
just about memorializing the past. "History has left some problems for us,"
concedes Janis Kahanovics, Deputy Head of the Latvian Naturalization Board, the government
agency that implements Latvia's citizenship laws.
Latvia is home to a
multiethnic, multilingual population that includes Latvians, Russians, Ukrainians,
Belorussians, Poles and Jews. The fierce crosscurrents of the 20th century — wars,
occupations and independence movements — have kept changing the rules governing who
is enfranchised and who is expelled, who is permitted to speak his native language in
public and who is not, and, sometimes, who lives and who dies.
In 1994, the fledgling
Latvian Parliament decided that the only people to be granted automatic citizenship in
addition to ethnic Latvians were "historical minorities," meaning those who
resided in Latvia before the Soviet occupation of June 1940, and their descendants.
The third of the population
not considered "historical," mostly Russians who migrated to Latvia during the
postwar Soviet era, was barred from national belonging. Since 1994, the government has
liberalized naturalization requirements and worked toward creating a more integrated
society. Even so, a quarter of the population remains non-citizens, including almost 4,000
of Latvia's 10,000 Jews. In diplomatic circles, Latvia has been criticized on this score,
especially by Russia.
In this charged political
climate, the history of the Holocaust raises particularly painful questions about Latvia's
track record with ethnic minorities. To what extent did Latvian patriots collaborate in
the Nazi persecution of Jews? How deep does anti-Semitism run here? Does the persecution
of Latvians under the Soviets compare to Jewish victimization by the Nazis?
The conference has an
atmosphere of gravity. It is held in the central auditorium of Latvia University, founded,
like the National Opera, during the nation's first independence. The speakers, Latvians
and foreign guests alike, are formal and serious. The history presented here is a
combination of detective work and a kind of scholarly census-taking. Who was shot? Where
and when were they shot? By whom? And who was deported where? Translators seated in little
soundproof boxes render speakers' words into English and Russian for the audience, and a
multilingual hum emanates from the headphones around the room.
During a break in the
conference, I meet with Armands Gutmanis, Deputy State Secretary at the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs. Regarding me through stylish glasses, radiating intellectual
thoughtfulness, he speaks about his commitment to seeing Latvia confront its Holocaust-era
history. He tells me about Latvia's Historians' Commission, which is co-sponsoring the
conference, and which he has played a crucial role in assembling.
Established in 1998 and
comprised of 12 Latvian and 12 foreign members, the Commission is charged with fostering
research about both Nazi- and Soviet-era crimes against humanity. These historical
parameters have proven controversial, even making for minor diplomatic incidents. Russia,
unwilling to define Soviet rule as "occupation," Mr. Gutmanis tells me, balked
at participating. Israel, meanwhile, objected to considering Soviet and Nazi occupation
under the same conceptual umbrella. Nevertheless, the work continues.
Mr. Gutmanis also had a hand
in creating the historical exhibit "Latvia's Jewish Community: History, Tragedy,
Revival," which I peruse when I return to the conference. Mounted on 20 beautifully
designed panels displayed in the conference auditorium, the exhibit makes it clear that
Latvian Jewish history is about more than the Holocaust. Photographs and documents give a
kaleidoscopic sense of the bustling Jewish culture and economy that flourished here. But
even this rich record of Jewish life is, like Latvia's recent history, a story of wartime
losses and reclamation. Some of the exhibit's contents come from the extensive holdings of
the Latvian state archives, which were spirited away to Moscow when the Nazis marched in
and were returned intact to Riga after the war.
Indeed, despite all the
newness that marks at least the wealthier segments of Riga as an up-and-coming West
European capital — the tasteful renovations in government buildings, the Internet
cafés and cell phones, the teen fashions that could come straight from the streets of
Manhattan — sometimes it seems like the weight of history is inescapable here.
The Saturday after the
conference, I discover a small cabaret around the corner from my hotel. It is called
"Austrumu Robeza," meaning "Eastern Border." The theme is Retro Bunker
Kitsch: The ceilings are done in camouflage colors, and busts of 20th-century dictators
gaze out of niches in the wall. The audience is young, hip and Russian-speaking. The show
this evening: three young women performing Soviet tunes interspersed with comic routines
in what I gather is a mix of satire and nostalgia. My entry ticket features a graphic of a
swastika and sickle inside a red star; my coat-check tag is a bullet casing on a metal
ring.
As I walk back to my hotel
after the show, I realize that something about the juxtaposition of conference and cabaret
appeals to me. It strikes me, on the whole, as a good sign that however saturated Riga is
with its troubled past, there is room for dark humor as well as solemnity.
To view other articles by Libby Garland, click here.
To join the conversation at Politics and Policy Talk, click here.
To access the Politics and Policy Archive, click here.
To receive the Politics and Policy column by email on a regular basis, complete the box below:
