Unparalleled tragedies, unforgettable legacies

The word 'Holocaust' carries a weight that few other terms in human history can match. Derived from the Greek 'holokauston' — 'holos' (whole) and 'kaustos' (burnt) — it originally described a sacrificial offering consumed entirely by fire. In ancient times, this term was used in religious contexts, where an animal was offered to a deity and burned entirely on an altar. Today, however, it stands as a chilling reminder of humanity's darkest hour: the systematic extermination of six million Jews by Nazi Germany during World War II.

• Also read: Remembering Amrita and her legacy

From 1941 to 1945, the world witnessed an unprecedented atrocity. The Holocaust wasn't merely a war crime; it was a meticulously planned, state-sponsored genocide. Concentration camps, gas chambers, and mass shootings became the horrifying tools of a regime, determined to eradicate an entire people. The term 'Holocaust' now encapsulates not just death, but the systematic destruction of culture, identity, and hope.

The modern usage of 'Holocaust' has become synonymous with genocide, symbolising extreme devastation, suffering, and loss of life. It's also used more broadly to describe similar events of mass extermination, albeit with a lower 'h' (holocaust). While both these terms relate to destruction and mass killing, 'Holocaust' remains a specific historical term with unique and profound connotations.

But should we limit this powerful term to a single event, no matter how monumental? Consider the tragedy that unfolded during India's Partition — a cataclysm that claimed nearly two million lives and uprooted millions of people in one of the largest mass migrations in history. Some argue that the term 'Holocaust' shouldn't apply here, citing the lack of state involvement. This argument, however, crumbles under scrutiny.

The British government’s failure to prepare for the massive population transfers was nothing short of criminal negligence. Their paralysis in the face of mounting unrest, and the withdrawal of troops created a perfect storm of chaos. The fledgling governments of India and Pakistan, still finding their footing, were overwhelmed. In many cases, local authorities were either complicit or impotent in the face of the violence.

Let's examine the state's role more closely. The British administration was woefully unprepared for the scale of unrest that followed the Partition. In many areas, the colonial administration was paralysed, and British troops were either withdrawn or ineffective in controlling the violence. The newly independent governments of India and Pakistan were equally unprepared. Both states were still being established, with limited control over large parts of their territory.

There were instances where local police and military forces were either complicit in the violence or failed to intervene. The state machinery was often overwhelmed by the scale of communal violence, leading to a breakdown in law and order. This wasn't just a failure of the state — it was an abdication of the most fundamental responsibility of governance: protecting its citizens.

Given these stark realities, how can we not apply the term 'Holocaust' to both these catastrophes? To do otherwise would be to diminish the suffering of millions and ignore the systemic failures that allowed such atrocities to occur. The Holocaust in Nazi Germany and the tragedy of Partition share a common thread of state failure, whether through active participation or catastrophic negligence.

These twin tragedies have left an indelible mark on our collective consciousness, inspiring countless works of art and literature. Two poems, in particular, stand as powerful testaments to the human capacity for cruelty and resilience: Paul Celan’s (1920-1970) ‘Death Fugue’ and Amrita Pritam’s (1919-2005) ‘Ajj Aakhan Waris Shah Nu’.

Paul's ‘Death Fugue’ is a haunting masterpiece that plunges the readers into the nightmarish world of the concentration camps. Written in 1945, it uses complex imagery and a musical structure to evoke the horrors of the Holocaust. Through its mesmerising rhythm and stark imagery, the poet, a Holocaust survivor, forces us to confront the unthinkable.

The recurring motif of ‘black milk’ — a perverse inversion of life-giving sustenance — serves as a chilling metaphor for the poisonous ideology that consumed millions of lives. This phrase recurs throughout the poem, symbolising the toxic sustenance that the prisoners consume, both literally and metaphorically, as the camp's horrors slowly destroy them.

Paul's juxtaposition of high culture with barbarity — the camp commandant who ‘writes to his Germany’ while ordering deaths — lays bare the moral bankruptcy of a society that could produce both Goethe and genocide. The poem introduces two central figures: the Nazi officer who plays with his 'snakes' and commands the prisoners, and the mysterious 'Margarete' (an allusion to Goethe's 'Faust') with golden hair, contrasting with 'Shulamith,' a symbol of Jewish suffering with ashen hair.

The poem's repetitive structure mirrors the relentless, mechanical nature of the prisoners' existence and the inescapability of their fate. It vividly depicts the dehumanisation of the prisoners, reducing them to mere tools of labour and objects of cruelty. The poem reflects the indelible trauma of the Holocaust with its nightmarish imagery, leaving a lasting impression on the reader.

Amrita's ‘Ajj Aakhaan Waris Shah Nu’ is no less powerful in evoking suffering. It stands as one of the most poignant literary responses to the Partition, expressing grief, loss, and despair over the communal violence and human suffering that accompanied the division of the subcontinent. By invoking Waris Shah, the beloved 18th-century Sufi poet and author of 'Heer Ranjha,' Amrita creates a devastating contrast between Punjab's rich cultural heritage and the bloodshed of the Partition.

The poem begins by directly appealing to Waris Shah, asking him to speak again from his grave. Amrita mourns that the land of Punjab, which Waris Shah once immortalised with tales of love, is now drenched in blood and torn apart by hatred. She contrasts the Punjab of Waris Shah's time, a land of love and harmony, with the Punjab of 1947, ravaged by violence and communal strife.

Her personification of Punjab, as a wounded mother weeping for her children, is a gut-wrenching reminder of the human cost of political decisions. The poem vividly depicts the horror of the Partition: homes set ablaze, women assaulted, and the once serene land turned into a battlefield. Amrita's plea for Waris Shah to ‘speak from his grave’ is not just poetic license — it's a desperate cry for the return of compassion and humanity in a world gone mad.

While these poems arise from different contexts, their similarities are striking and instructive. Both give voice to collective trauma, serving as testimonies to the shared pain of their communities. They employ powerful cultural symbols — Paul with his references to Shulamith and Margarete, Amrita with her invocation of Waris Shah—to underscore the cultural devastation wrought by these tragedies. Their use of vivid imagery — Paul's ‘black milk’ and Amrita’s ‘poisoned wind’ — sears these horrors into our imagination.

Both poems are deeply concerned with the suffering of humanity. Paul’s poem addresses the horrors of the Holocaust, depicting the dehumanisation and mass murder of Jewish people. At the same time, Amrita laments the violence, displacement, and communal strife during the Partition. Both are elegiac in tone, lamenting what has been lost. Paul mourns the destruction of Jewish lives and culture, while Amrita grieves the destruction of the social and cultural fabric of Punjab.

Yet, their differences are equally illuminating. Paul's poem, with its fugue-like structure, mirrors the relentless, mechanised nature of the Holocaust. Amtita's more direct, emotional appeal reflects the deeply personal nature of Partition's violence. 'Death Fugue' is steeped in Jewish and European cultural references, reflecting the Holocaust's impact on Jewish communities. In contrast, Amrita draws from Punjabi culture and history, particularly the Sufi tradition, to address the consequences of Partition.

Paul's language is highly abstract, often ambiguous, and deeply symbolic, reflecting the unspeakable horror of the Holocaust. Amrita’s language is more straightforward and emotional, reflecting her deep personal connection to the events of Partition and her cultural roots in Punjab. While Paul's poem primarily focuses on the dehumanisation of the Holocaust victims, emphasising the loss of life and identity, Amrita’s poem, while mourning the loss of life, strongly emphasises the cultural and moral decay, lamenting how a land, once known for its rich culture and love, has been torn apart by hatred.

In 'Death Fugue,' the voice is that of the collective victims of the Holocaust, almost as if the poem speaks for all who suffered. In 'Ajj Aakhaan Waris Shah Nu,' the voice is more personal and direct, with Amrita calling upon Waris Shah as a witness and lamenting the tragedy more intimately. These distinctions highlight the unique horrors of each event, reminding us that while suffering may be universal, its manifestations are profoundly shaped by context.

In conclusion, these poems stand as towering achievements of human expression in the face of unspeakable horror. They challenge us to confront the darkest chapters of our history, to bear witness to suffering, and to reaffirm our commitment to compassion and humanity. By applying the term 'Holocaust' to both the Nazi genocide and the horrors of Partition, we acknowledge the magnitude of these tragedies and honour the memory of those who suffered.

These events and the inspired art serve as eternal reminders of the consequences of hatred, civilisation's fragility, and the human spirit's enduring power. As we face the challenges of our time, let us heed the warnings embedded in these poems and strive to build a world where such atrocities are unthinkable. Through their words, Paul and Amrita compel us to remember, to reflect, and, most importantly, to ensure that history does not repeat its darkest chapters.

— The writer is an author and a literary translator