In the history of postwar German writing, for the first 15 or 20

W. G. Sebald, the German-born writer who bore the heavy burden of memory, once said: “In the history of postwar German writing, for the first 15 or 20 years, people avoided mentioning political persecution—the incarceration and systematic extermination of whole peoples and groups in society. Then, from 1965, this became a preoccupation of writers—not always in an acceptable form.” These words are not simply the reflection of a literary critic; they are the cry of a man who looked into the abyss of history and saw both silence and speech, both forgetting and remembering. They remind us that literature itself can be complicit in silence, or it can become the voice of conscience.

The meaning of Sebald’s words lies in the recognition of a great silence that followed the Second World War. In the rubble of Germany, many turned their faces away from the horrors of the Holocaust, from the incarceration of millions, from the extermination of Jews, Roma, political dissidents, and others. For nearly two decades, writers hesitated to put these truths into words. Perhaps it was shame, perhaps fear, perhaps the need to rebuild. But the silence was heavy, and in that silence lay the danger of forgetting. Sebald points to this as a wound: a society that could not yet bear to look upon itself.

Yet silence cannot endure forever. Around 1965, as a new generation came of age—children who had not fought in the war but who bore its legacy—literature began to awaken. Young writers demanded to speak of what had been suppressed. They wrote of guilt, of complicity, of the inescapable stain of history. Some did so clumsily, others provocatively, and, as Sebald said, “not always in an acceptable form.” Yet even imperfect speech was better than silence, for to name what is unspeakable is the first step toward truth.

History offers us a parallel in ancient Athens after the Peloponnesian War. For a time, the people lived under the Thirty Tyrants, who slaughtered their opponents and ruled through fear. When democracy was restored, the Athenians passed an amnesty law forbidding mention of the crimes committed, hoping to preserve unity. Silence was chosen over remembrance. But as time went on, playwrights and philosophers could not remain mute. They began to weave the pain into their tragedies and dialogues, understanding that a society that buries its wounds risks poisoning its future. Sebald’s insight echoes this: the duty of writers is to break the silence, however painful.

We see in Sebald’s observation a truth about the nature of memory. The first instinct of human beings after catastrophe is to avert the eyes. But when silence reigns, the past festers in shadow. Only when artists, poets, and historians dare to confront it does healing begin. This is why he emphasizes the shift after 1965: when German writers chose to wrestle with the ghosts of persecution, they opened the path for society to reckon with itself, however haltingly.

For us, the lesson is both solemn and urgent. We must never allow silence to swallow the voices of the oppressed, the imprisoned, the exterminated. Wherever there is political persecution, wherever whole peoples are threatened, it is the sacred duty of witnesses to speak, to write, to preserve memory against the eroding tides of forgetfulness. To avoid speaking is to aid the persecutor; to write, even imperfectly, is to honor the dead and warn the living.

Practical action lies before us: read the works that dare to confront the darkness—Primo Levi, Elie Wiesel, Paul Celan, and Sebald himself. Teach their words to the next generation, so that memory is not lost. When you see injustice in your own day, resist the temptation of silence. Write, speak, testify, even if your words are “not always in an acceptable form.” For silence strengthens oppression, but speech—even broken, even flawed—keeps the flame of truth alive.

Thus let Sebald’s warning live in our hearts: the silence after atrocity is as dangerous as the atrocity itself. A society that does not remember will repeat its crimes. A writer who does not bear witness betrays his calling. And we, as heirs of history, must ensure that the voices of the persecuted are never lost in the darkness, but carried forward as light for those yet to come.