29.9.09
26.9.09
25.9.09
Caritas
In my philosophy class, we've been discussing ethical egoism, which is basically the moral theory that we should base our decisions on our own self-interest, because our self-interest should be our highest good. Part of one of the definitions we've used in class says that we "have no unchosen obligation to help other people." Generally, the theory suggests that you should help people only when it's in your own interest.
I'm glad that most people don't think this way.
For much of my trip, I relied on the kindness of strangers. This was especially true in Belgium, where I stayed with my cousins' cousins-- the relationship is distant enough that they certainly had no familial obligation to help me, especially while hosting other relatives. Yet host me they did.
And more than host me. A. went out of her way to pick me up at the train station, about an hour from her house, before she had ever met me. On the way home, we saw a young woman at a bus stop, arm outstretched and thumb up.
Most people, even those who are generally charitable, would be likely to agree that there is no moral obligation to pick up hitchhikers, especially hitchhikers who can just wait an hour or so for the bus to arrive.
A. pulled over, let the young woman in, and asked where she was headed. I don't know how long she was in the car, but I bet it was more than two miles, the recommended distance of charitable companionship in the New Testament. It was certainly longer than a comfortable walk, and as I mentioned, it might have been an hour or so before the next bus.
A. believes in helping people, believes in it as a basic and practical way. She is unlikely to receive direct benefit from many of these actions-- certainly not from picking up someone who just needed a ride to the next bus stop (this is rural Belgium, so that can be quite a distance.) The world would be a cold, sad place without people like her.
I'm glad that most people don't think this way.
For much of my trip, I relied on the kindness of strangers. This was especially true in Belgium, where I stayed with my cousins' cousins-- the relationship is distant enough that they certainly had no familial obligation to help me, especially while hosting other relatives. Yet host me they did.
And more than host me. A. went out of her way to pick me up at the train station, about an hour from her house, before she had ever met me. On the way home, we saw a young woman at a bus stop, arm outstretched and thumb up.
Most people, even those who are generally charitable, would be likely to agree that there is no moral obligation to pick up hitchhikers, especially hitchhikers who can just wait an hour or so for the bus to arrive.
A. pulled over, let the young woman in, and asked where she was headed. I don't know how long she was in the car, but I bet it was more than two miles, the recommended distance of charitable companionship in the New Testament. It was certainly longer than a comfortable walk, and as I mentioned, it might have been an hour or so before the next bus.
A. believes in helping people, believes in it as a basic and practical way. She is unlikely to receive direct benefit from many of these actions-- certainly not from picking up someone who just needed a ride to the next bus stop (this is rural Belgium, so that can be quite a distance.) The world would be a cold, sad place without people like her.
24.9.09
22.9.09
19.9.09
A Witness of Absence
My grad-student brother recently went to a conference on Jewish American and Holocaust literature. One of the major discussions among practitioners and critics in the form is about how to be a witness to the holocaust, how to stand as a witness of one of the most horrendous atrocities of history, how to speak of the murder of more than six million men, women, children.
The strongest witness, all agree, is the witness who is no longer here. Who witnesses exactly by not being here.
Berlin, it is said, is a city of memorials. There are many, but the most haunting for me is a witness of absence. It stands in the Bebelplatz, across from Humboldt University, on the spot where, in 1933, the Nazis encouraged students to burn more than 20,ooo books.
And so now there is, under the earth, this empty room, lined with empty bookshelves: A reminder of what was, and now is gone.
14.9.09
Sleeping
Despite the fact that I have no classes before 10am, I haven't been getting nearly enough sleep in the last week, which leads my thoughts back to happy memories of better days during the summer... carefree days when I could sleep as much as I wanted.
These days are mostly a fiction, a trick of the mind, a mirage brought on by the aforementioned lack of sleep... with three days or less to see most places I visited, I didn't sleep much at a lot of the stops.
A specific memory comes to mind: my first night in Sofia, I stayed up until four am trying to help a friend figure out whether it was feasible for him to board a train to Istanbul-- I had my doubts, but he loved the idea, and when I went back upstairs to the room he stayed awake for the rest of the night, researching timetables and talking to the hostel's night clerk.
The last days of the trip, though, were fairly restful... we had all been traveling for weeks, and it was so hot in Serbia that there was almost no point in going out during the day-- so we'd sleep until noon, then loaf around, reading and watching movies, and then go out only in the evenings when the sun was low in the sky.
Moving through timezones did some damage to my internal clock, but I find that these lines are far less disruptive than the personal timezones of the hosts I stayed with-- the routine of a place has power more power to shift a sleep schedule than such an arbitrary thing as the rising or setting of the sun.
These days are mostly a fiction, a trick of the mind, a mirage brought on by the aforementioned lack of sleep... with three days or less to see most places I visited, I didn't sleep much at a lot of the stops.
A specific memory comes to mind: my first night in Sofia, I stayed up until four am trying to help a friend figure out whether it was feasible for him to board a train to Istanbul-- I had my doubts, but he loved the idea, and when I went back upstairs to the room he stayed awake for the rest of the night, researching timetables and talking to the hostel's night clerk.
The last days of the trip, though, were fairly restful... we had all been traveling for weeks, and it was so hot in Serbia that there was almost no point in going out during the day-- so we'd sleep until noon, then loaf around, reading and watching movies, and then go out only in the evenings when the sun was low in the sky.
Moving through timezones did some damage to my internal clock, but I find that these lines are far less disruptive than the personal timezones of the hosts I stayed with-- the routine of a place has power more power to shift a sleep schedule than such an arbitrary thing as the rising or setting of the sun.
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