Pope Benedict XVI: Sheiser’s Return How symbols seem to soothe even the deepest of aches Brandon Ferguson, OP Contributor Pope Benedict the Sullen recently visited Auschwitz where he imparted this divine bit of wisdom: “In a place like this, words fail; in the end, there can be only a dread silence, a silence which itself is a heartfelt cry to God: Why, Lord, did you remain silent? How could you tolerate all this?” Yes Lord...why? So, we have a German pontiff visiting the most infa- mous of all the Nazi death camps to remind Christians to never forget when God let millions of Jews, Gypsies, gays, guys and girls die at the hands of fascist bastards seeking to purify the Aryan race. It was the Pope’s third visit to Auschwitz; his first was in 1983 with Polish Pope John Paul II. As a 14-year-old, Pope Benedict XVI was a mem- ber of Hitler’s Junior Nazi Jamboree. His parents strongly opposed Hitler, as did all Germans. ..after the war. This is a huge visit, filled with contradictions and ironies, none more so than the following symbol of soci- ety’s ineptitude: God’s earthly messenger reneged on an amazing opportunity to apologize to Jews as a German. However, by simply being there, as a German pope at the site of the worst non-biblical Jewish atrocity in history, he has already accomplished what he intended. He’s creat- ed a symbol; a lasting image that further diminishes our knowledge of what happened by creating a new version of what’s happening—like a rainbow from the rain clouds, God now smiles favourably, even forgivingly, down upon Auschwitz. Before I join the ranks of my other Other Press col- leagues and awkwardly wax poetic about all the things wrong with the world, let me first impart a story with a minor moral to it. A few years ago, I was invincible. Cars ran me down, cops laid me out, falls felt funny and haymakers never hit their mark. It could have been the drugs, it should have been the death wish, but for some damn reason nothing ever knocked me down. This was, however, not always the case. This invincibility that ripped me from invisibility was borne from the death of my dad. On that suddenly drizzly day, I left the world of wondrously naive reality and entered one of cold empty symbolism. It had rained for eight straight days, from death to funeral, and cleared up only one hour before the service. The service was administered by a kind pastor who never met my pop’s voice, in a church we had never visited out- side of Christmas. I presented a eulogy filled with words that lyrically explained him without physically embracing him. My mother, sister, and I sat in the front row as ptayers were read, tears were wept, and a video tribute was shown. Triangle sandwiches and refreshments were served afterwards. A few years back, my sister and I got drunk. Our mom was away and so the party was instantly underway. It was a strange time in our lives: a time when I would bring Zig Zags and rolls of toilet paper to a friend’s house and he would return the favour with stolen CDs and razor blades. Somehow, one reflective night on day two of our three-day kitchen party, we got it in our heads that branding was cool. Hold the blade under the flame and let the pain soothe what burnt us away. Razor blades are straight. A single line, an inch and a half long, it can measure years by rail and miles by map. Millimeters thick, it makes perfect rails for miniature trains. Feeling loco, with no particular motive, my sis and I warmed the blade until it emanated red. Holding it steady with needle nosed pliers, we proceeded to burn a symbol into our skin. After the flesh had sizzled and the skin had split, we wiped away the brown stain of char to reveal three horizontal lines intersected by a single vertical one. It was our family. It was our bond. Three new lives painfully bound by one. It’s stupid, really, the symbolism of these self-inflicted scars, but it remains the most important moment in a sib- ling rivalry turned revelry, in a relationship where the one person I hated the most has become the one person I am closest to. To this day, my father has no grave. There is no place to visit him, no plot to place flowers upon. Instead, his timeline is tattooed on my arm and my family is burned into my skin. While the scars and chars of inflicted pain will eventu- ally fade and go away, the lessons learned and memories will always remain. It’s just somehow comfort- ing to have something tangible to feel, something real to touch. So when I consider the Pope, so fraught with opportunity to mock and despise him, I’m surprised at how empty my attack would be. Sure, there hasn’t been a single Jewish soul saved or resurrected like the Lord’s son from the glum despair of what was the largest acknowledged tragedy of the last opnewseditor@gmail.com 100 years, so what exactly has this visit accomplished? However, maybe there’s no need for more than symbolic lip service. The Pope, God’s earthly right hand man (even if voted in by mere mortals to serve until death or the equally tragic unpopularity ends his reign) has taken it upon himself to stand with God in a most evil place. The ramifications of the act are obscure; the symbolism is not. God does not agree with the systematic execution of a race. People with faith pay notice. In a world where doctrines upon doctrines are debated upon, poured over, and signed without ever taking a step towards their intended purpose (see the litany of well- intentioned endeavors that have yet to take a step in the right direction, from the Sudan to Kyoto, here), this frumpy old man who has given his life over to a higher purpose took frail if calculated steps through the mud of Auschwitz, a dreadful place he may have been forced to serve in had he been born only four years later in life. The pictures are ridiculous; a white robed man followed by an army of black bishops mucking around behind him. It’s as incredulous as the image of a short dark-featured man with a soul patch moustache leading an Aryan army into murderous infamy. But these sorts of things happen, and sometimes you do goofy things that mean nothing but symbolize everything you’re willing to do to move on from tragedy. The scars are hideous; three white lines cut across by a single white sear marking the connection to our father and the affection between mother, son, and daughter. It’s as horrible as the day he died, though far less painful. But these sorts of things happen all the time, and sometimes it takes a symbol to unite those who walk dazed and bruised through this tragic world. Sometimes, seemingly empty actions can fill in so much time and space, because it’s not always about the symbols sometimes; it’s about that which they symbolize.