About the Term Exile Paul Mendes-Flohr Writing in 1937 from the Danish town of Svenborg, where he had lived shortly after having fled Nazi Germany some four years earlier, Bertolt Brecht wrote a poem that opened with an ironic protest, “Immer fand ich den Namen falsch, den man uns gab: Emigranten”: I always found the name false which they gave us: Emigrants. That means those who leave their country. But we Did not leave, of our own free will Choosing another land. Nor did we enter Into a land, to stay there, if possible for ever. Merely, we fled. We are driven out, banned. Not a home, but an exile, shall the land be that took us in. Restlessly we wait thus, as near as we can to the frontier Awaiting the day of return, every smallest alteration Observing beyond the boundary, zealously asking Every arrival, forgetting nothing and giving up nothing And also not forgiving anything which happened, forgiving nothing. Ah, the silence of the Sound does not decieve us! We hear the shrieks From their camp even here. Yes, we ourselves Are almost like rumours of crimes, which escaped Over the frontier. Every one of us Who with torn shoes walks through the crowd Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own. Critical Inquiry 46 (Winter 2020) © 2020 by The University of Chicago. 00093-1896/20/4602-0004$10.00. All rights reserved.