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Billy Bragg, the legendary English folk singer, opens his new protest song about Minneapolis, “City of Heroes,” by making an analogy to the Holocaust. “The ghost of Martin Niemöller / Haunts the halls of history / When they came for the communists / He said ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’”
Bragg is referring to the German Lutheran pastor Martin Niemöller. Niemöller was antisemitic and initially supported the Nazis, but then as Nazis seized churches, he finally spoke out against them and was arrested and sent to a concentration camp. After the war, he wrote the famous “First They Came” poem in which he lamented his own silence when the Nazis came for vulnerable groups to which he didn’t belong, leaving no one to speak for him.
In his song, Bragg pivots from Niemöller to the heroes of Minneapolis, who in his telling, speak up right from the beginning for immigrants, refugees and 5-year-olds. Because whereas “In Dachau, Martin Niemöller / Suffered for his complicity / But in this city of heroes / We learn the lessons of history.”
Before I get into the latest argument about the Holocaust — a predictable one involving Gov. Tim Walz and the legacy of Anne Frank — take a minute and think about what Bragg is doing with history. Analogies are arguments. We, the Minnesotans, are in the position of the Lutheran pastor, but unlike him can make a choice to stand up for people right from the beginning even if they aren’t people with whom we identify directly. The analogy, then, is not saying that the current situation is the same as Nazi Germany, but that the types of choices and actions are at least very similar, and so history (and poetry) can be our guide.
The recent kerfuffle about Anne Frank came after Walz said, “We have got children in Minnesota hiding in their houses, afraid to go outside. Many of us grew up reading that story of Anne Frank. Somebody’s going to write that children’s story about Minnesota.” Republicans and their allies at the U.S. Holocaust Museum protested. This wasn’t the first time Republicans have gotten mad at Walz for comparing them to the Nazis. I’m tempted to just say “a hit dog will holler,” as I, too, think about the Gestapo when I see President Donald Trump’s secret police marauding through Minnesota. (Note: If the masked agents keep their identities secret, they are secret police.)
To be sure, I’ve gotten angry at plenty of ill-advised Holocaust metaphors over the years, such as when anti-vaxxers marched wearing yellow stars in order to compare vaccine mandates with being treated like Jews in Nazi Germany. What’s more, it can be too easy to focus on horrors in the histories of other places, ignoring our own blood-soaked past. So as we encounter these analogies again and again, my advice as a historian is for you to think hard about the work these analogies are doing.