"Mom, what did Hitler do?"
The question hung heavy on my heart. I thought about the best way to answer my five-year-old son. We had just traversed a steep crag in the Alps and landed at The Eagle's Nest–a building constructed by the Nazis in 1937. It was a haven for Hitler and had been used to conduct military business and hold social events during the war. I was curious, yes. But admittedly, it felt weird being there. There was something deeply unsettling about the whole scene.
You can only reach this relic of the Third Reich by taking a chartered bus ride up a steep mountain or embarking on a strenuous hike. It was difficult to get to. (This was by design.) When we finally arrived, I felt nauseous. I wasn't motion sick from the switchbacks. It repulsed me to imagine what took place where I was standing. The discussions. The plans. Cavalier laughter and celebration. The Eagle's Nest is furnished with polished brass, Venetian mirrors, and green leather decor. When I saw the red Italian marble fireplace Mussolini gifted his twisted friends, acid in my stomach churned hot. It was reminiscent of the fire I felt in my gut when I stood in front of an oven at Mauthausen. In one place, there were parties. In the other, screams. Thinking about both made me want to hurl.
I needed some fresh air.
Outside, I stood in the clouds and looked into the beautiful, broken world below. Reece clutched my hand. In that moment, I told my son what I always do—the truth. "Remember when we learned in history this year that Hitler was the leader of Germany during World War II?" He looked up, "Yes! When the Allies fought the Axis powers!" "That's right, Reece. Hitler was a powerful man who convinced a lot of people to do some very bad things. They took away freedom from thousands of Jews and then hurt and killed many of them. He did things that no one should ever do to another human. He used his influence to convince others to do it too."
As the child of a military officer, my son is no stranger to discourse on geopolitics and war. He was discussing happenings in China, Russia, and Ukraine at the dinner table by age four. Like his dad, Reece loves history. There are many lessons I pray he learns but never repeats.
I want my kids to know their goodness, but I need them to understand the full scope of their power and potential so they can choose how to use it. In all of us, there is the potential to do irreparable harm. We are most vulnerable to acting in ways that hurt others when we think we are above engaging in destructive behavior.
Most people who do "bad" things—horrific things, even—have convinced themselves that their actions are acceptable. Possibly even good. Important. Hitler believed deep in his soul that he was doing the world a favor, and he charismatically rallied thousands around the same sick delusion. His followers thought they were helping. We all usually do. But too often, we're blind to our deceptions. This myopia makes us dangerous.
As I parent, my language matters. A lot. In our home, I try to redirect absolutes whenever I can. In most situations in our lives, "always" and "never" don't lead to great places. They amplify emotion. These terms can also leave us susceptible to unfounded absolution. When we decide, "I would NEVER do….!" or "That would NEVER happen to me!" we increase our vulnerability to those very possibilities. If we look at someone like Hitler and proclaim, "I'm NOTHING like him!" we disavow our own potential to harm. The minute we start seeing people split into polarized groups of good and evil, we will always count ourselves as one of the "good guys." In doing so, we become less judicious about keeping our aggressive impulses in check.
Studying psychology helps us decode history. To make sense of human behavior, we need to understand the power of position and the influence of the crowd.
A title doesn't give anyone carte blanche to show force however they please. It's a call to serve, not flex. Unfortunately, that's not always how leadership always plays out. Position imbues people with power. Without checks and balances, individuals can abuse influence. When a leader starts looking through a lens of the righteous "us" and the wicked "them," things can devolve quickly.
I'm raising leaders, but my kids need to understand smart followership, too. Humans are sheep. To stay safe, we must be critical and conscious about where we get direction. Who are we following? Where are they taking us? No one is immune to the influence of the crowd. Too often, we underestimate our tendency to be swayed. Research has demonstrated that even in the face of obvious "right" responses, we will often bend and conform to group norms, even if they are misguided. Most people would rather be wrong with everyone else than correct in isolation. It makes sense. No one wants to be ostracized. Instinctually, we know we might get picked off if we're not part of the pack. We're wired to want to blend in and deeply desire to belong.
Most harm in our society is carried out not by a few people committing acutely heinous acts but by swaths of people being passively complicit in oppression. It starts early. I still remember sitting at the school lunch table as someone teased the girl next to me for picking her nose. Across from us, another student was bullied for her body size. I've always been characteristically bold, but I said nothing as we unwrapped our sandwiches that day. I may have been popular, but my behavior definitely wasn't cool. It haunts me still. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but as a quiet bystander, I was choosing a side. We're either for or against. When I didn't stand up for the girl who was defenseless, I was, in some ways, participating in her injury.
Thankfully, I don't sit at school lunch tables anymore, but my view from The Eagle's Nest prompted me to think about where my passivity may still contribute to other people's pain. In this mad human race, maybe the line isn't "good" and "bad" but "protector" and "persecutor." I want to raise my children to protect. Always. They also need to be aware that participating in acts of aggression can sometimes happen through their complacency. Inaction is a choice. Silence is too. Sometimes these acts are the most painful of all. If you could have saved me, why didn't you? Our hands aren't clean if we stand idly by and watch others commit atrocities.
I've lived in Germany for nearly a year. It's a beautiful country. For a million reasons, I love it here. As I drive through the streets, I can't help but think, "What was it like here during the war?" Traveling through the mountains, my mind often wanders to those who tried to escape. Desperate. Determined. Walking through local villages I wonder where the hiding places were. Where did the terrified wait and the brave tuck them away? Often, I think about everyone who looked the other way. Did they consciously choose to be unaware? Were they blind? Scared? I'm not sure. But I don't think they were monsters. They were farmers and bakers. Fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. Friends and neighbors. I'm uncomfortably conscious they were, in many ways, not dissimilar to me. Facing that truth is troublesome. I'm letting that distress mobilize me to examine my own behavior. It motivates me to do all I can to raise courageous childre. I need them to be bold humans who aren't afraid to defiantly fight for what is right, even (especially) when they hold the minority opinion.
When talking about the Holocaust, we often proclaim, "Never Again!" Yet, since 1945 genocide has continued around the world. Bangladesh. Cambodia. Bosnia and Herzegovina. Rwanda. It's happening in Sudan right now. Meanwhile, antisemitism is rampant in America. Hearing about history isn't enough to stop cycles from repeating. Information alone doesn't translate to change. To make a shift, we must start with self-awareness and follow with action.
Take a long, honest look in the mirror (and raise your kids to do the same).
Then, choose.
Who will you be?
What will you do? For whom?
You don't get to be Switzerland—there is no neutral.
Step up.
Speak out.
Leverage what you have for those who have not.
The world needs you.
Do better.
Do good (as much of it as you can).
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Thank you. Just excellent.