Wednesday evening found me sitting in Lahiere's, eating dinner and chatting with two close friends, several Nobel laureates, Princeton professors, President Tilghman and the man we had been waiting half a year to see: Elie Wiesel, the author of "Night," survivor of the Auschwitz and Buchenwald concentration camps, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, teacher, writer and defender of the oppressed. As officers of The Humanity Project, my friends and I had the unique privilege of truly spending an evening with Elie Wiesel.
Our dinner conversation dealt mainly with current issues of injustice, humanity and Princeton: Sudan, Hurricane Katrina, the tsunami, Haiti, various pockets of crises in Africa and even the Frist filibuster. Elie Wiesel's honest and simple views surprised me, if only because they stood in stark contrast to the odd blend of cynicism and idealism that characterizes our campus.
Early in the conversation, Elie Wiesel asked, "What do the Princeton students care about?" The implication was that he was referring to the great gamut of humanitarian need crying for redress; what do Princeton students care about the poor, the beaten, the nobodies? I suppressed the urge to quip, "Not much." Besides wanting to avoid attention, I was also preoccupied with a disturbing observation: The faculty at the table seemed reluctant to speak. Why was that? Did they want to avoid speaking on behalf of a population they had never been a part of? Were they unfamiliar and out-of-touch with student sentiment? Perhaps they simply felt uncomfortable voicing my own perspective: that Princeton students only give and do as much as they feel comfortable with. Regardless, I am certain that it was not because they wanted to avoid bragging.
I wanted to hear a professor (or even President Tilghman) offer the first opinion, but someone else at the table directed the conversational spotlight at us. "Well, we have some students here: What do you think?"
How would you, dear Princetonian, have answered that question?
I forget how we responded (it was something dreadfully polite), but this is what I wish I had said:
"Dear professors, President Tilghman and our guest of honor: I believe that we, the students of Princeton University, do not care about much besides our own self-interest. I believe that it is a shame that the greatest example of student activism in the past four years has been the Frist filibuster. I believe that, on this campus, compassion must be stylish if it is to be had at all. I believe that none of us feel that we do what we 'ought' to do, none of us are where we 'ought' to be and that none of us honestly thinks that this will change. I believe that I am also guilty and responsible for all of the above. I believe that there are pockets of individuals committed to striving against this status quo, and I believe that there are about 15 to 20 of them. I believe that the student was sincere when he told me, in response to a documentary on Darfur, 'Who cares about all this sh*t? This sh*t happens all the time.' I believe that the sources of genocide and apathy and all things truly horrid reside somewhere within my own soul."
Elie Wiesel has a light and whispery voice; his demeanor is soft and inviting. It was hard to believe that he had once made President Clinton blush, publicly reminding him of his failure to act in the Rwandan genocide. While we were discussing this story, I took advantage of a pause in the conversation to ask, "Is shame the most effective motivator?"
He said, "Yes. When I was young, I thought it would be moral ethics. But I was naive. Yes, it is shame."
How shall we approach this campus? Must we resort to shame? How will you, dear Princetonian, answer these questions? I would like to think that we have enough sense to recognize our own tendencies towards self-centeredness. I hope that we will be honest and simple, as I am trying to be with you now, and submit ourselves to one another for accountability.
Later that evening, Elie Wiesel said, "Of all the people in the world who had the right to give up on humanity, I will not. Of all the people who had the right to give up on God, I will not. Though my faith is a wounded faith, it is not dead." I hope that you have not given up on me. I have not given up on you.
David Chen graduated in 2005. He is a former officer of The Humanity Project.
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