I’m reading an extraordinary book at the moment, Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl . I can’t believe I’ve not come across this before but I’m thrilled that I have this opportunity to read it. Frankel was a psychotherapist, and this is the story of his time in Auschwitz and other camps and his subsequent development of logotherapy based on that which he learned about human nature in his three years before liberation by the Americans. He writes from the perspective of a psychiatrist observing human suffering and asking what is it that we do to retain our freedom and hope in order to survive, (or die with dignity) in such appalling circumstances?
This from the preface by GW Allport:
in the concentration camp every circumstance conspires to make the prisoner lose his hold. All the familiar goals in life are snatched away. What alone remains is, “the last of human ‘freedoms’” – the ability to “choose one’s attitude in a given set of circumstances.”
Frankl’s depiction of events centres on the psychological experience, the dreams, the meaning that he developed within and observed in others. It is sobering for me living in a gluttonous society, grumbling about the credit crunch and the difficulty of finding time to exercise when I have nothing but plenty and security from harm. How is it that we manage to lose touch with these inner resources. This passage sums up a typical day for Frankl:
I shall never forget how I was roused one night by a fellow prisoner, who threw himself about in his sleep, obviously having a horrible nightmare…I wanted to wake the poor man. Suddenly I drew back the hand that was ready to shake him, frightened at the thing I was about to do. At that moment I became intensely conscious of the fact that no dream, no matter how horrible, could be as bad as the reality of the camp which surrounded us, and to which I was about to recall him.
This in the week after I watched Louis Theroux’s, Law and Disorder in Johannesburg, an examination into the private security firms hired by individuals in a city where the police can’t keep on top of the brutal crime.
Watching Louis in his flak jacket like a kid with his hand always a moment from the flames, it was hard to feel anything but relief that it was all a million miles away. The townships foul and disgusting as disgusting and dangerous a habit as you can imagine, are filled with people trying to lead a normal life just like I am. The nightmarish reality for them is that life is cheap as chips.
Constant victims of crime and with absolutely no faith in the police’s abilities or willingness to help them, they routinely take the law into their own hands. Louis was there shortly after a mob had captured and executed a suspect by burning him to death. The private security firms here, small affairs run by brutal ‘realists’ who thrashed petty criminals to deter them were in as much danger from retribution from the rage of ‘the community’ as a criminal. Meanwhile, rich whites paid firms that rode around in SUVs – “An African solution to an African problem.” One happy customer declared.
The level of crime and its brutality was terrifying. Whole apartment blocks were hijacked and the poor tenants forced to pay their rent to pirates until the security firms could ‘save’ them. No doubt aware of the marvellous viewer tension he would create, Louis snuck into what seemed like an abandoned building, the place stinking of shit and god knows what, not a light flickering within. It was classic horror; no lights and no idea what might be round the corner waiting to pounce. Inside he found normal people who considered this a ‘good place’ and had lived there with no utilities for four years. Outisde he watched as security guards doled out beatings on one street corner while turning a blind eye on another where a drug dealer plied his wares. Better the devil you know, they reasoned for if they had arrested him, another would have take his place instantly so what would have been the point?
The most haunting image was the grimace of an unspeakable monster who happily mimed what he would do and has done to people when he breaks into their homes to force money out of them. He was brilliant at his job and had found his calling.
The parts of Johannesburg we saw were bedlam, a world full of despair. Everywhere there was blank eyed acceptance - this is what things are like here. no one could save them.
I couldn’t help myself; a few days later one of my baby yoga mums, a white South African living and working here, nodded when I asked if she’d seen this programme.
“I wish I hadn’t.” she said, her baby lying across her outstretched legs. She has plans to visit her parents in Johannesburg after Christmas. “It’s nice where they live but I couldn’t live there. I couldn’t just come out with the baby like you do here and even driving around, what if someone pulled me over and asked me to give up the car, what would I do with her?” She nodded at her sleeping daughter.
Later, I took the dog out. It was a bright, golden afternoon. The park was pretty much deserted. I thought about the space I had. I thought about how far from desperate my life was. For once I didn’t take it for granted that I felt safe in my bed at night, felt safe in the streets. It just doesn’t cross my mind that anything will happen to me.
“You know what, Twiggy?” I said to her, “We live in bloody paradise.”
If she could have spoken, I know she would have said, “But I knew that all along.”
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