This is the third in my series of posts with journal entries I wrote last fall, on the dates indicated, concerning Robert J. Lifton’s The Nazi Doctors. Today’s entry begins with some reflections on a work by Alain Badiou, which I soon connect up with my continued reflections on Lifton’s study of “medicalized killing and the psychology of genocide,” the subtitle of his book.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Badiou, Petit panthéon portratif [Little Portrait Galley] (Paris: La Fabrique editions, 2008), “Ouverture,” pp. 7-8 [my translation]:
If philosophy serves for something, it is to remove the chalice of sad passions [in the preceding sentence he has said that he holds “that death should not interest us, nor depression”], to teach us that pity is not a loyal feeling, nor complaint a reason to have reason, nor the victim that from which we should start to think. On one hand, as the Platonic gesture establishes once and for all, it is of truth, declined as necessary as beauty or the good, from which every licit passion originates and every creation of universal aim. On the other hand, as Rousseau knew, the human animal is essentially good, and when he is not, it is by some exterior cause that constrains him, a cause that must be detected, combatted, and destroyed as possible, without the least hesitation.
It seems to me that Badiou could be used here as a commentary on the following, from Lifton’s The Nazi Doctors, p. 238, concerning the “prisoner doctors” at Auschwitz:
As Henri Q. explained, “We suffered and [acted] within the limits of the possible. . . . Doctors did provide some comfort, I believe. There was the comfort for the patient, the fact that he was not alone, that someone understood and was trying to help to do something for him–and that was already a lot. . . . We were a group, not just the [individual] doctors of our block.” He could then conclude . . . that he and his friends “remained doctors . . . in spite of everything.”
Helping children could greatly contribute to the prisoner doctors’ struggle to maintain a healing identity. Dr. Henri Q., for instance, told of the impact of a nine-year-old boy from a Jewish ghetto in Poland, who [was helped to survive the war and Auschwitz]. . . . He spoke even more intensely of a still younger, Russian child (“a rare think in the camp”) whom he once took to the infirmary: “I walked in front of all the blocks, and you could feel all the men, ten thousand men, who were looking at this child. I was very proud to walk with him. . . . as if I were walking with the president of the Republic. There is only one president and there was only one child.”
Viewed through the lens of Badiou’s comment, such prisoner doctors at Auschwitz proved themselves to be philosophers. And the philosophical reality was revealed to them–in and as their own form, described by Dr. Henri Q., of “resistance.” Philosophically, that reality was the presidency of that simple child.