A new Netflix film draws attention to a "lost prophet."
I didn't plan on watching Soviet
Communism die, but I did. The child of Polish and Slovak immigrants, I had
traveled to my ancestral homelands a few times before I left to study for a year,
1988-89. I didn't know in advance that I'd be attending meetings with Jacek
Kuron, the "godfather of the Polish opposition," or marching in the
street chanting "Soviets go home," or running from riot police and
being tear gassed and shot with water canons. On November 9, 1989, the Berlin
Wall fell.
I returned to the States. Before
shouting slogans at communism's riot police, I had previously been a Peace
Corps volunteer, a nurse's aide, a volunteer with the Sisters of Charity, an
inner city teacher, and a door-to-door canvasser. I'd had ample opportunity to
consider how one "saves the world," or to be less grandiose, how one
attempts to right wrongs.
I'd learn to distrust what I dubbed "virtue
celebrities." My rule: the more a person in our group became known for his
"compassion," the less reliable that person was in the trenches. You
can't predict in advance who the hero will be once you are in a foxhole.
Chances are it won't be the person whose face is Velcroed to reporters'
cameras.
In the all-night strategy sessions
debating how to right wrongs, two moments stand out. The first moment occurred
one night in Nepal when we were sitting around the Momo Cave, a dingy
hole-in-the-wall where men drank raksi, a foul moonshine. A beautiful
young Peace Corps volunteer, accompanying herself on guitar, began singing a
song written by Donovan about Saint Francis of Assisi.
"If you want your dream to be
Take your time, go slowly
Do few things but do them well
Heartfelt work grows purely."
I thought, my God, that's it. We all
wanted to "save the world," to perform some grand gesture. We couldn't
bring clean water to every Nepali village, but we could teach one kid to read.
In Poland, we used to say, "Everybody wants to die for Poland, but who is
willing to live for Poland?" Who was willing to do the thankless,
anonymous, unglamorous day-to-day work?
The second moment occurred in a living room in Bloomington, Indiana, when I found myself sitting face to face with Lech Walesa. Walesa was the son of a man imprisoned and ultimately killed by Nazis. Walesa was himself a former auto mechanic, shipyard electrician, TIME man of the year, Nobel Peace Prize winner, and Polish president. By the time I met Walesa in 1998, the Soviet Union was an historical fossil and Poland was doing better and better everyday. I asked Walesa how Poland had avoided the traps so many other post-revolutionary populations had fallen into. He didn't hesitate. He immediately and thoroughly credited Christianity for Poland's revolutionary and post-revolutionary successes.