I became an American citizen today

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I become an American citizen today.

I wake up with strange feelings. How will this change me?

I go to the gym at 5:00 a.m.; normal day. The usual people around me: are they citizens, I wonder? Do they know that I am not? Does it matter? Will they see me differently tomorrow? They already are “my morning people,” and our community or early-risers and gym-goers is already formed.

It strikes me that I’ve never felt odd because I was not a citizen here. I was just that, a free human being, most often embraced by others, and embraced as the person I was, beyond any citizenship. A free human because the source of genuine freedom is not a government, but Love, divine Love, most often experienced through the others. What more can I get in a few hours when I become a citizen?

My wife has to stop by work before the oath ceremony, so she has already left. There are so many things I need to finish today: papers to grade, an essay to write… I may become a citizen today, but I have worked and lived as a full member of this community for years. Will this ceremony change anything?

Over 650 people become citizens today in my city. Very difficult parking, and I’m not particularly known for my patience. After a 40 minutes journey that would normally take me 20 minutes, I am in the middle of them… Have you seen people crying when they become citizens?

Over 650 people…

What connects me with them?

I sit next to my wife and some friends, and we speak Romanian. The people in front of us speak Spanish. Behind us, German and Arabic. To our right, French. My fellow immigrants. All of us, the soon-to-become citizens, are in the rows in the middle of the arena; in the stands, families and friends. Their joy is overwhelming. And my phone starts beeping: colleagues from work, students, friends… All of them rejoicing in my becoming an American. Their embrace melts me. And I remember Markus, Fr. Zosima’s brother, from Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov: What have I done to deserve such love? Why would you love me? I’m just a man born in a small town in Transylvania, who used to love playing soccer on the streets and who once ordered a “pig sandwich” because he did not know the word “ham.”

Who am I?

I am a son, a brother, a husband, a father, a friend, the same I was yesterday and the same I will be tomorrow. But I am also someone who is considered a fellow by all of these people around me. I am overwhelmed by their love, and I love them back.

I rise to take the oath.

“I hereby declare, on oath…”

I became an American citizen today.

It is not freedom that I gained, but responsibility. May I wear it with humility.

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Student tears

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Source: http://www.reusableart.com/schoolroom.html.

 

I think I see tears in her eyes.

She’s probably in her late thirties, and she participates in the Convocation for freshmen at her college.

I don’t think I have seen her before. She may be in one of my classes in the future. Or, who knows, she may have taken philosophy some other place. Still, I can’t get over the fact that I think I saw tears in her eyes. At Convocation…

Perhaps it is her first experience in college. It’s not easy to come back to school after so many years. It’s not easy to see that everyone around you is truly dedicated to you, especially after years in which you may have dedicated yourself to others.

Perhaps she has had a difficult life, trying to navigate having a family and having a desire to pursue an education. Or she may have come to school with no such desire, but rather out of a need for a better job.

It does not matter.

Here, now, I think I see tears in her eyes.

I know there will be moments during this semester when I may no longer find resources for dedication–students’ lack of care and of interest, regardless of the reasons one may have for it (being overwhelmed, not loving the field of study etc), is a good friend with despondency. And the semester is long; such things always happen. But I need to remember these tears. I cannot become passive in the presence of these tears.

Give me one student tear out of love for education, and millions of teachers will come back to life.

 

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The Sunday Walk to Golgotha

In his The Sacred and the Profane, Mircea Eliade speaks of the break in the space that is brought about by that which connects individuals with the divine (see here a video in which I speak about this). For the majority of peoples, the place of worship provides this separation. It is the Center of the World, from which humans take their own being. And so, Eliade says, “the religious man sought to live as near as possible to the center of the world” (43). The Center of the World, the place of worship, “is precisely the place where a break in plane occurs, where space becomes sacred, hence pre-eminently real” (45). Thus, in traditional villages, the church is placed in the middle, and all the other houses are built around it. The reality of each one of the villagers, their being, but also the being of their own dwellings,  depends on the communication (perhaps communion) with the divine.

The fortified churches of Transylvania provide plenty of examples for this. See below the fortified church of Biertan (I found the photo on Wikipedia):

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“The centrality of the church does not appear everywhere,” a friend of mine recently told me. “In my region, in Moldova, churches are built on a hill. When you go to church on Sunday morning, you go up the hill, just as you walk to Golgotha. You don’t just go to the church, but you are ascending there, you make an effort to be there. Those walks with my grandma when I was a child are more memorable to me than what happened during the service.”

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The Village Luca (found on the website Viata Foto)

It is, of course, a different manifestation of the same attitude toward the sacred. We still have the break in space, but this time with a new aspect. The sacred is not only separated; now it also requires a journey. The same road was taken for burials, since cemeteries were also placed on the hill. It may be a suggestion that our lives are such journeys to Golgotha, the final destination. But it may be more than that–a delicate understanding of Christianity that gives us a Kingdom which is already present but still not fully yet here, and thus a walk to Golgotha, to death, on every Sunday of the resurrection.

 

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Healing Responsibility

 

“I do not understand why people talk about the past: who hurt you, why they hurt you, what kind of guilt they may have, or how you feel about it. All this does not matter; what matter is what you do now. If my child is sick, I am not worried about whether it was right for him to get sick, but rather what I have to do to make him better.”

I no longer remember who said this to me–it may have been during a confession. It suggests a state of presence. If I am to fully respond to what is given to me now, I cannot be also attached to why I am where I am and why the other is where he or she is.

However, should not the torturer face justice? Should not the torturer go to prison for the crimes he has committed? If we answer from the same perspective of the lines above, the answer cannot be either yes or no. Rather, the question itself is not to be asked. Of course, society should ask it and give an answer to it. But it is not a question that I, a person, can ask.

The brother of the prodigal son is upset when their father rejoices that his younger son returned. The older brother believes that it is not just to not make him suffer; it is not just to celebrate with the fattened calf and put a ring on his finger and a robe on him. The older brother is a man of the past. And I think that many of us, at a moment or other in this life, feel like the older son.

I recently read of a monk, Fr. Evghenie Hulea, who was imprisoned by the communists when they took power in Romania. Fr. Hulea was sent to the Canal, a labor camp, where many intellectuals, priests, peasants, or students lost their lives. The fact that he was a monk brought upon him mocking and tortures. Still, anytime he was mocked, he answered with an open heart, “God bless you, my child!”

It is the kind of forgiveness that the father of the prodigal son has. It does not matter where the son was, what he did, and why he came back. He now faces him, and if he does, the father is responsible for the son’s well being. Not a moral responsibility, but a healing one, which stems out of love. The prodigal son may leave again. He may take the robe and the ring, sell them, and drink the money with his friends, mocking the weakness of the father who killed the fattened calf without even thinking. Still, the father, who is always present, will have the same answer if the son ever comes back (and even if he does not): “God bless you, my child!”

_________________

P.S. For a more academic discussion on healing responsibility, see Two types of responsibility in Crime and Punishment

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Filling all things…

Today is the Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit fills all things.

If there is any place on this earth where I cannot be because I hate someone, because I feel I am not respected, because I am afraid, because I feel I am worthy of more, because I cannot forgive, because I simply dislike it, because I am not understood, because I have higher dreams, or because that place is immoral, am I filled with the Holy Spirit?

Am I filled with the Holy Spirit if I cannot be someplace because…

Still, today the Holy Spirit fills all things. How great anonymity is!

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Smiles in an absurd world

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In Pray for Brother Alexander, which recently came out in English (see here from Punctum Books), philosopher Constantin Noica recounts one of the irrational moments that took place while he was imprisoned. He was around 50 years old, sharing the cell with a young man, Alec, an athlete, who was part of the national volleyball team. While Alec was in East Berlin for a tournament, a friend told him to go to the other side. He didn’t like it, so he came back. Received well at the beginning, he finally ended up in prison, something that the young man could not make sense of. “It is of no importance” (23), Noica says. The conversation ends between them because Noica is taken to interrogations. He returns to the cell obviously beaten. The young man asks him, “They have beaten you, haven’t they?” (24). Noica confirms, and the young man says, “But it is of no importance, I know” (24). “That’s what I wanted to say: they beat me without a reason.”

The idea of being beaten without reason is scary. It goes against any notion of justice we may have, but it also places you at the mercy of forces over which you have no control, and this must produce fear. Indeed, the young man in the cell gets worried—perhaps his pride of a sportsman, as Noica suggests, is offended by the idea of being hit without being able to react, but it may also be a natural reaction when faced with the irrationality of beings who have power over you. Noica tries to clarify the situation and he says, “I was beaten because I did no want to take a cigarette” (24).

Of course, there is nothing logical about this either, and the young man responds naturally, “are you mocking me?” In fact, Noica was not mocking him. The interrogators wanted to know to whom he gave a book he received from the West—if I am not mistaken, it was Emil Cioran’s Histoire et Utopie, History and Utopia. Believing that if he gives them “a cloud of names” (24), as he says, he would confuse them, he writes down on paper 80-100 names. Noica then realizes his mistake: he assumed rationality from the part of his interrogators. Who would pay attention to so many names that have seen a book, he asked? The communists, apparently, would, and his interrogator writes down carefully all the names he had mentioned. And then he offers Noica a cigarette. Perhaps out of self-disappointment, perhaps because he wanted to show himself and to the investigator that he is not completely defeated and that he is not someone who just gives up his friends because of pressure, he refuses the cigarette.

“Take it or I dislocate you jaw” (25) the officer yells at him. Noica refuses, and the blow comes. To the young man’s surprise, this is when Noica took the cigarette. “But I would have never done this… After he hit me? Never….” (26).

The young man does not accept giving in when faced with lack of rationality. Any kind of craziness in the world must be rejected, he seems to believe, because it is just subhuman to accept it—one would give up one’s own moral dignity. This attitude is shared by many at the beginning of their incarceration. They keep themselves proud before their accusers; it is important for them to show that they have not been broken. They find in this the remaining of their human dignity. With time, many came to believe that this attitude is childish, stemming from innocence. We may liken this difference to the one between the attitudes young and older people have at times toward morality. For the young, things are often black and white. The old see this as resulting from their innocence: when you are young, untried by the sufferings of life, and unconnected with people for whom you feel responsible, you afford to be an idealist. Slowly, you start asking yourself whether your actions make sense in a world in which the suffering of those close to you makes no sense.

Coming back to Alec, the young man in the cell, he changes his tone, perhaps wanting to avoid offending Noica: “You know why you took the cigarette? Because you felt like smoking.” (26).

And Noica says, “My young sportsman is not stupid at all. In a way, he was right. The slaps I god had brought me to reality: nothing made any sense in that moment. I could smoke a cigarette” (26). Nothing has any importance in an absurd story. As Samuel Beckett may say, there is no point to wait for Godot. Within an absurd story, the question whether it is rational or not to oppose communism does no longer make sense. Should one then be pragmatic and follow one’s own interest, giving up one’s ideals? If we answer this way, we reject the line of dissidents who, often sacrificing their lives, opposed the regime. If we go the other way, we claim that we somehow can fix the world, and that there is an importance in refusing an absurd world.

*

The day of “liberation”:

“With the coat on my arm and with a small bundle of laundry, I come before the commander, who hands me a banknote, the equivalent of around ten bus tickets. I look at the prison commander before I come out of the door. We are both caught in a smile, and I remember William Blake’s verses:

There is a smile of Love

And there is a smile of Deceit,

And there is a smile of smiles

In which these two smiles meet.”

 

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"There was no other choice"

Coming back from a conference at #BASEES (http://www.baseesconference.org.uk/programme.pdf). Part of one of the talks was based on this story.

Tavi's Corner

Eugenia and Gheorghe Hasu. Photo from Ioana Hasu’s collection, used with permission.

Let me tell you a story. After fighting as a soldier for his own country, a young man returns home. There is nothing special about him; he did what was required of him, like many others who lived through or died in WWII. He was wounded and decorated–again, like many others. When he comes back home, he wants to establish a family, so he goes from village to village thinking that he may fall in love. And he does. One of his friends recounts, “he chose as wife a 16 years old girl, small, who just entered the traditional winter meetings. She was happy, so happy that she forgot to cry when the wedding chariot took her to his place.”

It is a love story: the two young people build together a life, they have a first child, and…

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Noica’s Pray for Brother Alexander

 

 

This is just a short note to let everyone know that Constantin Noica’s Pray for Brother Alexander came out today. To my mind, it is a wonderful book in which you discover a kind spirit. On the publisher’s website, you can read an excerpt from the book.  You can also find the book on Amazon (see link here).

Here’s the description of the book from the publisher’s website (see link here):

Constantin Noica’s (1909–1987) Pray for Brother Alexander is a meditation on responsibility, freedom, and forgiveness. On the surface, the book describes events and people from Noica’s life during his time in a political communist prison in Romania. However, the volume is not a historical account only, but rather an honest introspection into how a human being may keep sanity when everything around him makes no sense.

Unlike his famous Romanian contemporaries, scholar Mircea Eliade, dramatist Eugène Ionescu, and philosopher Emil Cioran, who lived abroad, Constantin Noica did not leave communist Romania. Considered an “anti-revolutionary” thinker, Noica was placed under house arrest in Câmpulung-Muscel between 1949 and 1958. In 1958, he was sentenced to 25 years in prison. He was released after 6 years, and Pray for Brother Alexander covers his experiences during this time. In his writings, Noica rekindles universal themes of philosophy, but he deals with them in a profoundly original manner, based on the culture in which he lived and for which he also suffered persecution.

The volume will be of great of interest to scholars and students in history of philosophy and continental philosophy, but also to people interested in the recent history of Eastern Europe and the political persecution that took place after WWII in those countries.

 

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Knowledge of a culture through dancing

I recently participated in a Round Table on Cultural Discourse(s), Romania, and Eastern Europe Paradigm. The event was organized by the Center for East European and Russian/Eurasian Studies at the University of Chicago. This is part of my contribution.

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A couple of years ago, a colleague of mine, Dana Munteanu, and I had an idea: to translate Constantin Noica’s The Romanian Sense of Being into English. Since Noica is “guilty” for my life—I wanted to study philosophy after I began reading his work—I found this idea particularly appealing, so I contacted Gabriel Liiceanu, the director of Humanitas Press, which has published Noica’s work in Romanian. Liiceanu gave us his agreement, but he also warned us with these words: “The project has a courage that borders craziness; one cannot imagine something more difficult, something that is almost untranslatable. How do you want to translate into English the inner depths of the Romanian language?”

Two years have passed since that conversation, and I have to say that Liiceanu was right. The project of translating into English a wok that attempts to explore the sense of being of a people does indeed border craziness. But this also raises some questions: is there something that Romanian studies can offer to the world? If indeed it can offer something, and I believe so, how is this communicable?

Certainly, these questions can be asked about any translation project, regardless of the language of origin (in the meantime, another work written by Noica, Pray for Brother Alexander, has been published at punctum books). However, this particular work raises deeper problems because it is not directly about universal philosophical problems, which would offer a common philosophical language, but it is rather about knowing the Romanian soul itself, the Romanian expression of being in the world. Implicitly, the question becomes, how can one know the soul of a people?

It is still philosophy that offers us two paths of knowledge. In Plato, for example, one has two attitudes. One of them seems to be objective and claims to provide definitions. To know something, one must be able to define it, to extract its essence which applies to all other things belonging to the same “genre” as the one thing that is defined. But in the Meno, a dialogue that Noica loves, Plato suggests that there is also a different type of knowledge, which takes place in relationships.

Allow me to give you an example that has to do with the Romanian culture. A few years ago, I heard Ion Ungureanu, a former minister of culture of the Republic of Moldova, speak about Eminescu, perhaps the most important Romanian poet. Ungureanu said that Eminescu is loved in Bessarabia with the love that a mother has for her child, a love that cannot understand when someone says that the child is evil or that the child is dead because the connection between her and her child goes beyond any characteristics that may be attributed to him. It is not that these things are true or false; rather, this love does not work with such notions. Love itself is the truth, and the only thing the mother can understand is that the child is hers and that her life is essentially connected with his. She cannot be without him. Bessarabians love Eminescu with the same love a mother has, Ungureanu said. Bessarabians cannot consider whether Eminescu died of a sexual disease or whether he lost his mind during the late years of his life. Eminescu is one due to whom we have remained who we are, and we would not be ourselves without him.

The distinction between the two types of knowledge that I attempted to describe here stems from the difference between the two objects of knowledge. In the first case, knowledge was expressible in propositions and knew individuals as members of their species. In the second case, knowledge is the expression of a relationship, and such relationships one has with a person.

It seems to me that working in Romanian studies presupposes a dialogue between these two types of knowledge. We often begin with propositional knowledge. We discover trends and features of culture, changes in behaviors, modifications in discourses that have to do with different rapports that people have to a political power etc. But then we also need to see that there is a Romanian soul, a complicated one, like any other soul, with many aspects and faces, a soul that can never be known propositionally. To allow others to have a relationship with it, we need to bring it forward. I believe that Cristian Mungiu’s movie that we will watch later today is such an attempt. Bringing forward Romanian music is another example. Translations of the work of Romanian writers and philosophers contribute to this as well, regardless of their difficulty and, at times, of their mistakes. What they bring is the possibility of beginning a relationship, and when one begins this relationship, one will want to know more and more about the person they love.

I will just say a few more words about this second knowledge, the personal one. I believe that knowledge of a people begins with assuming who we are. I don’t think that one has to be Romanian to know a Romanian, just as I don’t think that one must be Russian to understand Dostoevsky. I am not saying, however, that my knowledge of Dostoevsky is the same with the knowledge a Russian or someone else may have of him. But this is perfectly fine. It is my personal knowledge of him—not in a relativist sense, but rather in a truly personal one—just as no one else will know my mother the way I know her. This means to me that one can know the Romanian “soul” by accepting who one is, a unique person that belongs to a unique people. Once I know where I come from—once I know what type of person I am—I can have a relationship and know in relationship who someone else is.

I am fully aware that such knowledge is difficult to express. But this is precisely the point, since it takes place outside definitions. Knowing the way of being in the world of another is dancing with him or her. To me, Romanian studies is an invitation to dance. It is often a painful experience (and if you knew me, you’d known what I’m talking about). Nevertheless, this dance will bring you closer to the soul of the person you are dancing with, and, paradoxically, to your own soul. Romanian studies, East-European studies, or any studies that have to do with the culture of a people is such a dance that brings you closer to the soul of another and, implicitly, to your own soul.

 

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Come and see "indescribable beauty"

Tavi's Corner

It is Holy Week for Orthodox Christians–a week of indescribable beauty. A week of sadness, but also of incredible joy. For the entire week, every day, every hour, and every minute are governed by the Sunday of the Resurrection. Betrayal, despair, weakness, cross, but Resurrection! In fact, betrayal, despair, weakness, cross, and Resurrection!
Fr. George Calciu, in his sixth homily to the youth:
I speak to you about death as your single possibility to be victorious. For without resurrection both life and death become nonsense, absurd. The love of God, however, is the guarantee of our resurrection; and the Resurrection is the foundation of our faith in God and in Jesus Christ, His Son. It is the sublime and glorious occasion of a vital affirmation, an invitation to an amnesty of the past, as one French journalist has said; it is an invitation to a commitment in the future.
 

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