The philosopher T. W. Adorno caused a major stir when he wrote after the Second World War:
“Cultural criticism finds itself faced with the ultimate stage in the dialectic of culture and barbarism: to write a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric. And this also corrodes the knowledge that explains why today it has become impossible to write poems.”
These words by Adorno are part of a debate that, for decades —at least in the West— revolved around how such a thing could have been possible, and what its consequences were. I ask myself, like Adorno, what will become of the world after Gaza? What will happen to culture, to art, now that we live in the age of artificial intelligence and techno-feudal lords? Another difference is that Auschwitz was liberated by the Red Army, and there doesn’t seem to be any prospect of liberation for the people of Gaza.
One of the most discussed issues of the past century was to what extent those who did not directly participate in the genocide were ignorant or responsible —because the Nazis carried it out in secret. In Gaza, despite the accomplished goal of murdering as many journalists as possible, we can still see a little of what is happening on our phone screens. Over time, we will probably discover more horrors that, for now, have been covered up.
What does it do to our collective psyche to witness horror while consuming the justifications (“but Hamas… but the right to self-defense… but…”) that continue to fuel the slaughter? How do younger generations experience this modern-day update of the classic scheme of demonizing an entire group based on specific crimes to justify genocide? I wonder whether the general deterioration of mental health has something to do with it, as Charles Eisenstein suggests when he says that snipers are lucky ones —because by seeing through the scope how their victim’s head explodes, they can put a face to what haunts their nightmares. Unlike the rest of the country, who suffer from anxiety, addictions, suicide, domestic violence, or other similar ailments that often afflict the perpetrators.
Whatever comes after Gaza —unlike in Adorno’s time— I don’t believe it will be a debate among European or Western philosophers. The Palestinians are paying the price for the genocide Europe committed last century. Instead of taking responsibility, Europe took on guilt, and as a result, has endorsed every decision made by the Jewish European settlers who emigrated to Palestine. We Europeans are part of the massacre, not mere spectators.
During the Trojan War, Homer wrote poetry about slaughter. Later, history no longer produced poetry, but horror —both in ancient accounts like the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, and in modern ones like the rape of Nanking, the Holocaust, or the Armenian genocide. That something may be part of the human condition does not mean individual responsibility for crimes can be dissolved. I suppose that, thanks to American and European support, Israeli war criminals feel they can proceed with impunity. Perhaps, like Pol Pot or the Young Turks, they will get away with it and never face a tribunal. Even so, the questions about human civilization and barbarism will remain. And so will the shame for our shared humanity and the mourning for such savagery. And, as Adorno later acknowledged, poetry will still have a role in the future.
