How can one not be sensitive to their plight? Human suffering anywhere concerns men and women everywhere. Human rights are being violated on every continent. There is so much injustice and suffering crying out for our attention: victims of hunger, of racism and political persecution – in Chile, for instance, or in Ethiopia – writers and poets, prisoners in so many lands governed by the Left and by the Right. And Nelson Mandela’s interminable imprisonment. As is the denial of solidarity and its leader Lech Walesa’s right to dissent. To me, Andrei Sakharov’s isolation is as much a disgrace as Joseph Begun’s imprisonment and Ida Nudel’s exile. Apartheid is, in my view, as abhorrent as anti-Semitism. It would be unnatural for me not to make Jewish priorities my own: Israel, Soviet Jewry, Jews in Arab land… But others are important to me. For I belong to a traumatized generation, one that experienced the abandonment and solitude of our people. Of course, since I am a Jew profoundly rooted in my people’s memory and tradition, my first response is to Jewish fears, Jewish needs, Jewish crises. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must – at that moment – become the center of the universe. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. And that is why I swore never to be silent whenever wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. Because if we forget, we are guilty, we are accomplices.Īnd then I explain to him how naïve we were, that the world did know and remained silent. That I have tried to keep memory alive, that I have tried to fight those who would forget. “Tell me,” he asks, “what have you done with my future, what have you done with your life?” And I tell him that I have tried. Who would allow such crimes to be committed? How could the world remain silent?”Īnd now the boy is turning to me. I remember he asked his father: “Can this be true? This is the twentieth century, not the Middle Ages. The fiery altar upon which the history of our people and the future of mankind were meant to be sacrificed. I remember his bewilderment, I remember his anguish. A young Jewish boy discovered the Kingdom of Night. I remember: it happened yesterday, or eternities ago. This honor belongs to all the survivors and their children and, through us to the Jewish people with whose destiny I have always identified. The presence of my teachers, my friends, my companions… The presence of my parents, that of my little sister. I always do – and at this moment more than ever. No one may speak for the dead, no one may interpret their mutilated dreams and visions. I know your choice transcends my person.ĭo I have the right to represent the multitudes who have perished? Do I have the right to accept this great honor on their behalf? I do not. And it is with a profound sense of humility that I accept the honor – the highest there is – that you have chosen to bestow upon me. I am moved, deeply moved by your words, Chairman Aarvik. Thank you, above all, for helping humankind make peace its most urgent and noble aspiration. Thank you for building bridges between people and generations. Then - thank you, Chairman Aarvik, for the depth of your eloquence. At special occasions, one is duty-bound to recite the following prayer: “Barukh shehekhyanu vekiymanu vehigianu lazman haze” – “Blessed be Thou for having sustained us until this day.” This is what the Jewish tradition commands us to do. Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, Your Excellencies, Chairman Aarvik, members of the Nobel Committee, ladies and gentlemen: By Elie Wiesel in Oslo on December 10, 1986
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