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Whilst the Generals Keep Dying...

Invasion day +59 We do not seem to be catching up too quickly with the mail box here at Hoggy but the letters keep coming and with power and insight as in today's letter from Germany.


It is hard not to feel a sense of justice in the reported death yesterday of yet more Russian generals, how many can they lose and still function as an army? They are lives lost and this is not for rejoicing. But the generals do know they can stop the war. But maybe they have stopped caring. Perhaps if they keep dying the remainder might start caring a bit more and see their interests a little differently. We can but hope.


It is a short blog today and a slightly sad one but we will return with more uplifting stories tomorrow. To bring hope.




Today's Letters


From Ulrike Neuhoff, Germany


Dear Hoggy,


The war in Ukraine, Putin’s cruel actions, the Russian atrocities - it is almost unbearable that we have to witness this and can do so very little, almost nothing about it.


Maxim Kireev, a blogger, is very pessimistic when it comes to the Russian society. It’s a very small minority that cares about the war, about the brutality of Putin’s regime but the majority of the Russians just follow their daily routines and don't give a … says Kireev.

My greatest fear is that Putin is going to get the rest of Europe involved. We seem to be standing at the brink to WW III.


I keep thinking about Brecht’s poem To those who follow in our wake. Are we the ones who have not yet received or processed the terrible news?

We always seem to hold on to our plans, routines, our daily life as long as possible even when next to us the world of our neighbour is exploding.


Keep up the good work, you are so determined to do what you can from where you are and I feel it is so very valuable for those involved.


Thank you Hoggy for the opportunity to write.


Ulrike,


Dear Ulrike,


Your words echo the thoughts many of us here may well be having, where we have time to think beyond our own daily routines and the traumas of the time. It is beyond our wish to see what is happening as an endgame scenario for the human race. It must not be. We are greater than this.


But the war is hitting us here. We are, or have been, reliant upon Ukraine for our food supply. Sadly also upon Russia until now. But both sources ae no more, or at least shortly will not be. And of course Germany is dependent still on the blood stained oil that flows from Russia, as perhaps we all are as consumers of Germany's products. This will end soon too.


And yet the war has been removed to the deep inside-pages of the newspapers, our own self-obsessed woes with our government, the daily struggles of the haves and the have nots, the threat of poverty.


We have grown weary with war. But they who remain cannot grow weary. Nor must they. For they are the keepers of the door, the sacrificial lambs for whom, one day, we shall need to atone.


I was in Bonn a few years ago where I saw Samuel Beckett's 'Endgame'. In German, at The Little Theatre. Brecht reminds me of this. I dismissed it then for its doom-laden message but not for its art. I am trying to dismiss it now. But it is hard to.


'It will be the end and there I'll be, wondering what can have brought it on and wondering... why it was so long coming.


'Infinite emptiness will be all around you, all the resurrected dead of all the ages wouldn't fill it, and there you'll be like a little bit of grit in the middle of the steppe.'


Maybe we are all bits of grit in the middle of the steppe?


But it is our steppe and we must make of it what we will. While we still can.


And try hard not to think of its as the Endspeil.


We attach Brecht and with thanks.


There will be better times.


Hoggy.


To Those Who Follow In Our Wake


Bertolt Brecht, with all due thanks to Scott Horton and Harpers Magazine.


I Truly, I live in dark times! An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead Points to insensitivity. He who laughs Has not yet received The terrible news.

What times are these, in which A conversation about trees is almost a crime For in doing so we maintain our silence about so much wrongdoing! And he who walks quietly across the street, Passes out of the reach of his friends Who are in danger?

It is true: I work for a living But, believe me, that is a coincidence. Nothing That I do gives me the right to eat my fill. By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold, I am lost.)

They tell me: eat and drink. Be glad to be among the haves! But how can I eat and drink When I take what I eat from the starving And those who thirst do not have my glass of water? And yet I eat and drink.

I would happily be wise. The old books teach us what wisdom is: To retreat from the strife of the world To live out the brief time that is your lot Without fear To make your way without violence To repay evil with good — The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires, But to forget them. But I cannot heed this: Truly I live in dark times!


II


I came into the cities in a time of disorder As hunger reigned. I came among men in a time of turmoil And I rose up with them. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

I ate my food between slaughters. I laid down to sleep among murderers. I tended to love with abandon. I looked upon nature with impatience. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

In my time streets led into a swamp. My language betrayed me to the slaughterer. There was little I could do. But without me The rulers sat more securely, or so I hoped. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

The powers were so limited. The goal Lay far in the distance It could clearly be seen although even I Could hardly hope to reach it. And so passed The time given to me on earth.



III


You, who shall resurface following the flood In which we have perished, Contemplate — When you speak of our weaknesses, Also the dark time That you have escaped.

For we went forth, changing our country more frequently than our shoes Through the class warfare, despairing That there was only injustice and no outrage.

And yet we knew: Even the hatred of squalor Distorts one’s features. Even anger against injustice Makes the voice grow hoarse. We Who wished to lay the foundation for gentleness Could not ourselves be gentle.

But you, when at last the time comes That man can aid his fellow man, Should think upon us With leniency.


Bertolt Brecht, An die Nachgeborenen first published in Svendborger Gedichte (1939) in: Gesammelte Werke, vol. 4, pp. 722-25 (1967) (S.H. transl.) Scott Horton 15th January 2008

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