"What Must Be Said" by Gunter Grass

Why do I stay silent, conceal for too long
What is obvious and has been
Practiced in war games, at the end of which we as survivors
Are at best footnotes.
It is the alleged right to the first strike
That could annihilate the Iranian people--
Subjugated by a loud-mouth
And guided to organized jubilation--
Because in their sphere of power,
It is suspected, a nuclear bomb is being built.
Yet why do I forbid myself
To name that other country
In which, for years, even if secretly,
There has been a growing nuclear potential at hand
But beyond control, because not accessible to inspections?
The universal concealment of these facts,
To which my silence subordinated itself,
I sense as an incriminating lie
And coercion--the punishment is promised
As soon as it is ignored;
The verdict of "anti-Semitism" is familiar.
Now, though, because in my country
Which time and again has sought and confronted
Its very own crimes
That is without comparison
In turn on a purely commercial basis, if also
With nimble lips calling it a reparation, declares
A further U-boat should be delivered to Israel,
Whose specialty consists of guiding all-destroying warheads to where the existence
Of a single atomic bomb is unproven,
But fear wishes to be of conclusive evidence,
I say what must be said.
But why have I stayed silent until now?
Because I thought my origin,
Afflicted by a stain never to be expunged
Forbade this fact as pronounced truth
To be told to the nation of Israel, to which I am bound
And wish to stay bound.
Why do I say only now,
Aged and with my last ink,
The nuclear power Israel endangers
The already fragile world peace?
Because it must be said
What even tomorrow may be too late to say;
Also because we--as Germans burdened enough--
Could become suppliers to a crime
That is foreseeable, wherefore our complicity
Could not be redeemed through any of the usual excuses.
And granted: I am silent no longer
Because I am tired of the West's hypocrisy;
In addition to which it is to be hoped
That this will free many from silence,
Appeal to the perpetrator of the recognizable danger
To renounce violence and
Likewise insist
That an unhindered and permanent control
Of the Israeli nuclear potential
And the Iranian nuclear sites
Be authorized through an international agency
By the governments of both countries.
Only this way are all, the Israelis and Palestinians,
Even more, all people, that in this
Region occupied by mania
Live cheek by jowl among enemies,
And also us, to be helped.

Discomfort Revelry

Music is traditionally made up of melodies and harmonies; thirds and diminished triads and ostinatos. Lately, though, my friends have been ignoring tradition. They have been pushing the boundaries of music in a way that is both confusing and exciting.

In recent weeks I have been asked to become a more active audience member, sitting behind or above the performers to change my perspective: to become more intimate with the music.  I have attended a sound installation in which the building in which it was performed was also an instrument. I have seen a pianist and a dancer perform silence and discovered silence does not exist. I have watched a life-size chess game in which the location of the pieces dictated the notes being played.  I have listened to the sounds of vegetables.

These performances are theatrical. Sometimes I don’t understand them, or get the point, but they always make me think. These pieces toe the line between music and performance art, which is where the confusion and excitement comes in.

All these performances were written by musicians, so I want to call them music. But if my friends in the theatre department had written any of these I would call them theatre. So what am I to do? I, who like so many in our society, want things to be compartmentalized and categorized in neat little boxes with color-coded tabs.

The answer? I should allow myself to revel in my discomfort.

We should push boundaries and wonder why we differentiate between genres and types of art. We should ask ourselves why a musical chess game hasn’t been played before. We should start to recognize the music in a construction site.

Art—all art—touches the soul in a way arbitrary explanations cannot. There is a reason we are moved by painting, sculpture, music, theatre, movement, images. There is a reason we say, “Words can’t describe it. You just have to experience it for yourself.” The spiritual level and questioning reached through performance, either as participant or observer, is the closest to heaven we will find on earth.

I am grateful to be surrounded by people willing to question and to push. It is a privilege to attend their masterpieces. They force me to reevaluate my own artistic choices, challenging me to think more creatively, to look at things in a new way. It is slowly seeping into all my choices, “creative” or otherwise. And I couldn’t be more pleased.