There exists almost a mysticism and romanticism in the popular imagination around those that have survived genocide. We imagine that these survivors of unspeakable trauma and human suffering have gained some morsel of wisdom and truth that can only be found in horror. And it is true that out of the Holocaust emerged powerful thinkers and artists- Viktor Frankl, Elie Weisel, Primo Levi, and Nelly Sachs are a few names that come to mind. But less spoken of is the entire generation of survivors, shells of their previous selves, broken by trauma and loneliness, who never fully recovered.
Though the Holocaust is already fading into history, and the generation that survived its horrors is mostly gone, its memory still shapes and hurts the Jewish experience today in a way that is hard to describe. Words like “generational trauma” capture some, but not all, of the strange reality of trying to live a normal life while carrying this memory.
Jesse Eisenberg’s film A Real Pain explores this dynamic, following two cousins as they join a Holocaust memorial tour through Poland. They visit the site of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, as well as the preserved gas chambers and mound of ashes at Majdanek. The first cousin, David, played by Eisenberg, is awkward and high strung, and suffers from obsessive anxiety. Still, he tries to live a normal life. He has a loving wife and a kid he is proud of, and a desk job at an advertising firm that pays the bills and keeps him intellectually stimulated. The second cousin, Kenji, played by Kieran Culkin, is confident and cheery on the surface, but is later revealed to be unemployed. He smokes weed all day, suffers from severe depression, and self-destructively alienates everyone in his life.
On the tour, Kenji and David meet a group of fellow Jews all at different stages in their life, each grappling with the passed down memory of the Holocaust in different ways. Among the tour group is a convert, Eloge, whose path is different from the rest of them. He explains to the group how he was born in Rwanda, and survived the Rwandan genocide. He later found refuge in Canada where, with his life savings sewn into his jacket, he began to rebuild his life.
He tells them how he found a connection with the diaspora Jewish community in Winnipeg. There, he “felt at peace for the first time since the war,” and recounts that after converting, “the more I learn, and the more people I meet… the more I know I made the right decision.” Eloge represents the Viktor Frankls of the world: those who managed to survive the unspeakable with their souls and spirit intact, strengthened and infused with purpose from their suffering. In this way, Eloge, a survivor of a more recent genocide, serves as a time capsule into the past, into the generation of authors, artists, and survivors who were grappling with what they had only recently experienced in a way that gave them deep meaning and purpose.
Interestingly, despite being a convert (or perhaps because of it), Eloge is the only practicing Jew in the group. David expresses amazement at this fact, wondering how Eloge can find beauty and meaning in something that he always found to be “arbitrary and mechanical and archaic.” Eloge responds by telling him that practicing Shabbat gives him a chance to slow down from the hectic nature of daily life, and to meditate on and find beauty in the everyday. Out of the darkness of genocide Eloge has found a common language with Jewish tradition to express his desire to live. This contrast between the religious Eloge and the secular David brings up so many questions for me that I don’t know how to answer, especially since I find David’s character so relatable in his aversion to religious customs.
Why does David, a descendant of a holocaust survivor, see only archaic customs and meaningless dogma in Judaism while Eloge, a direct survivor of genocide, can find such beauty and meaning? Are we secular Jews missing something? By not practicing our religion are we dishonoring those that died because they were Jewish? Do we owe it to the generations that came before to continue our traditions? How are we supposed to carry the legacy and trauma of genocide while also trying to live a normal life? Perhaps these questions are the “real pain” Eisenberg wanted to convey through the movie.
Though trauma and pain can create beautiful and purpose-driven people like Eloge, the truth is that for a lot of people, trauma is just trauma. Kenji, an unemployed weed-smoking drifter, represents this group. Unable to suppress the darkness like David, nor find meaning and beauty in it like Eloge, Kenji wanders through life aimlessly, feeling some sense of obligation towards his grandmother, and guilt at his own failure.
We shouldn’t hold ourselves to the unrealistic expectation that we should somehow find meaning in our trauma. Trauma is not a beautiful thing and it should not be romanticized. Yes, Judaism is deepened and strengthened by our reflections of the Holocaust but the reality is that in addition to the six million lives lost, it has inflicted a real pain on all the generations after it.
At the end of the movie, David sees how his judgement and anger at Kenji’s failure is unproductive, and is only widening the divide between the two. He realizes the best thing he can do for Kenji is to just love him, and to embrace him in his struggle. He understands how Kenji doesn’t owe it to his grandmother to be successful, and the reality is that just because he didn’t experience a genocide doesn’t mean his life is any easier or he has any obligation to be happier. So too, perhaps, should we let go of the damaging belief that we owe it to our past to live a productive and meaningful life. Yes, we should aim to live a purposeful life, but even if we can’t, at least not now, the best we can do is try, and hold close to and love those around us who are struggling to.