When I was a little girl I was a writer. Words- those I read and those I wrote- shaped my youth, my sense of self. By fourth grade I was writing poetry and penning complicated stories (starring me and my friends) full of mystery, drama, and sometimes romance too. When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my unhesitating response was that I wanted to be a writer. Of course. What else could I have said?
Life got in my way. One boyfriend, and then another. High school and college classes where it was all I could do to finish the assigned readings and writing, let alone write the kinds of things that meant something to me. Parties, part-time jobs, and road trips further conspired to keep me from the very words that used to be at the core of my identity. I was no longer a writer- just someone who used to write. A husband, two children, and a job teaching middle school English ended that childhood dream- that childhood assumption- that some day other people would read the words I wrote.
Or so I thought.
One of the most powerful lessons of my summer adventure was how quickly life can change. I learned a wealth of information, was exposed to foreign ideas, participated in conversation and debate about what it means to be human, and what it means to live life to its fullest potential. There are dozens of cliches out there- Life turns on a dime. Take nothing for granted. Live every day as though it were your last. I no longer want routine, inertia, and indecision to shape my days. I want to wake up every morning enthusiastic about the hours awaiting me- not exhausted before I even open my eyes. I want to do the things that make me feel the most alive- the most me. I want to write.
Maybe it's just a little blog that no one will even read. I'm okay with that, for now. Modest goals are a good starting point, and just reminding myself of the power of words and language is enough. Who knows? Maybe they'll even lead me back to me.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Stories
It rained in Auschwitz that day. A fitting tribute- tears from Mother Nature for a land already saturated with grief, loss, despair, and death. Sometimes a rainstorm is just a rainstorm, but it's impossible to ignore the meaning, the symbolism in everyday things when viewed through the lens of the Holocaust.
I've hesitated to try to describe my visit to Auschwitz. Even the word "visit" seems insincere. We visit neighbors, family, friends. We visit zoos, hospitals, parks. We visit when we chat, gossip, connect with other people. It's a word that conjures positive associations- not the reality of time spent in the acres that witnessed unprecedented human misery, suffering, murder.
Somehow any words I could use to describe the camp would be weak and insufficient. How could mere words possibly capture the vast weight and silence that blanket the land and buildings?
So I won't try.
It's all about the stories anyway. I used to hear the numbers- six million, eleven million- and shake my head with sorrow over those lost voices, lost stories. Now, though, I know those numbers are merely starting points. For every person who died the most sorrowful of deaths there is another person who survived- and that person has a story too. What of the children of Holocaust survivors? Their stories of childhood shaped by loss, fear, and uncertainty must be counted. What of the stories of all the friends, acquaintances, lovers whose lives were touched, however briefly, by the people who survived, died, or were affected by the Holocaust? Shouldn't their stories count too?
One of our tour guides made a statement that I can't forget. Six million people weren't murdered in the Holocaust. One person was murdered, and it happened six million times. Voices are not statistics, and remembrance is about individuals, not numbers.
I've hesitated to try to describe my visit to Auschwitz. Even the word "visit" seems insincere. We visit neighbors, family, friends. We visit zoos, hospitals, parks. We visit when we chat, gossip, connect with other people. It's a word that conjures positive associations- not the reality of time spent in the acres that witnessed unprecedented human misery, suffering, murder.
Somehow any words I could use to describe the camp would be weak and insufficient. How could mere words possibly capture the vast weight and silence that blanket the land and buildings?
So I won't try.
It's all about the stories anyway. I used to hear the numbers- six million, eleven million- and shake my head with sorrow over those lost voices, lost stories. Now, though, I know those numbers are merely starting points. For every person who died the most sorrowful of deaths there is another person who survived- and that person has a story too. What of the children of Holocaust survivors? Their stories of childhood shaped by loss, fear, and uncertainty must be counted. What of the stories of all the friends, acquaintances, lovers whose lives were touched, however briefly, by the people who survived, died, or were affected by the Holocaust? Shouldn't their stories count too?
One of our tour guides made a statement that I can't forget. Six million people weren't murdered in the Holocaust. One person was murdered, and it happened six million times. Voices are not statistics, and remembrance is about individuals, not numbers.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Belzec
Belzec is horrifying in its stark beauty. A landscape where nearly half a million people were murdered should not be peaceful, lovely. The juxtaposition of beauty and death is perhaps what makes the memorial there as striking and powerful as it is. Acres of black rock cover the hillside as it slopes toward forest, marred only by the long path cut through the center of the hill that leads to a place of remembrance. The staircases that surround it are lined with the names of towns from which the transports originated and the victims lived their brief lives.
On the wall leading to the memorial are metal letters with this statement-
This is the site of the murder
Of about 500,000 victims
Of the Belzec death camp
Established for the purpose of killing
The Jews of Europe, whose lives were brutally taken
Between February and December 1942
By Nazi Germany
Earth do not cover my blood
Let there be no resting
Place for my outcry!
Job 16:18
The metal has rusted and orange streaks falls from the words as if they are crying. Perhaps they are. One more testament to the acts of horror humans are capable of waging on one another.
On the wall leading to the memorial are metal letters with this statement-
This is the site of the murder
Of about 500,000 victims
Of the Belzec death camp
Established for the purpose of killing
The Jews of Europe, whose lives were brutally taken
Between February and December 1942
By Nazi Germany
Earth do not cover my blood
Let there be no resting
Place for my outcry!
Job 16:18
The metal has rusted and orange streaks falls from the words as if they are crying. Perhaps they are. One more testament to the acts of horror humans are capable of waging on one another.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Majdanek
Majdanek
The path toward Majdanek is filled with scenes from a painting you might find in the waiting room of an office in which you have something to fear-pastoral fields, grazing cows, handmade fences- designed to calm your nerves before you face the grim look in the doctor's eyes as he delivers the news that will divide your life into before and after.
How appropriate.
Majdanek is the only death camp that was intact when liberated by Allied forces. The Nazis knew the Russian forces would arrive soon, but they underestimated the speed at which they were moving. There was time to destroy documents, but the guard towers, barbed-wire fences, barracks, gas chambers, and crematorium remained to testify to the horrors suffered by thousands upon thousands of both those who lived and those who were murdered there.
Really, the shoes say it all.
Column after column of mesh cages hold countless pairs of shoes. Shoes belonging to men, women, children. Sturdy boots, dancing shoes, tiny sandals- all now nearly the same shade of gray that signifies the number of years passed since their owners danced in the rain, held hands, gossiped, worshiped, loved, hoped, wept, lived. Each pair belonged to a face, a name, a person. Now, simply another anonymous testimony.
One shoe caught my eye- a red sandal that looks a little something like a pair I owned once. I'll never know the name of the woman who wore it. But I also know I'll never forget her.
The path toward Majdanek is filled with scenes from a painting you might find in the waiting room of an office in which you have something to fear-pastoral fields, grazing cows, handmade fences- designed to calm your nerves before you face the grim look in the doctor's eyes as he delivers the news that will divide your life into before and after.
How appropriate.
Majdanek is the only death camp that was intact when liberated by Allied forces. The Nazis knew the Russian forces would arrive soon, but they underestimated the speed at which they were moving. There was time to destroy documents, but the guard towers, barbed-wire fences, barracks, gas chambers, and crematorium remained to testify to the horrors suffered by thousands upon thousands of both those who lived and those who were murdered there.
Really, the shoes say it all.
Column after column of mesh cages hold countless pairs of shoes. Shoes belonging to men, women, children. Sturdy boots, dancing shoes, tiny sandals- all now nearly the same shade of gray that signifies the number of years passed since their owners danced in the rain, held hands, gossiped, worshiped, loved, hoped, wept, lived. Each pair belonged to a face, a name, a person. Now, simply another anonymous testimony.
One shoe caught my eye- a red sandal that looks a little something like a pair I owned once. I'll never know the name of the woman who wore it. But I also know I'll never forget her.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
German Remembrance
I have been to Berlin before, but it was a long time ago. A time when I was too young, too inexperienced, too full of midwestern naïveté to see the echoes of history that lurked among the glass and steel. Then, my eyes were wide with the profound differentness of it, and I confess to spending more time worrying about what was happening at home than breathing in the moments that were happening there.
I viewed the city with different eyes this time, although I believe that Berlin has also, in many ways, become a different city as well.
Every year students ask me what Germans think about the Holocaust today, but I never have an answer for them. I knew only what I knew- which wasn't much. I recalled being moved to tears at a small museum near Brandenburg Gate filled with pictures drawn and painted by the children of Theresienstadt- children who were likely already orphaned as they waited (please, God, unknowingly) for their own cattle car ride toward ash and smoke. I dimly recall a memorial or two, but my visit then wasn't marked by Holocaust remembrance, and my long term memory simply didn't note anything else.
This year when the inevitable question is asked, I will have an answer. Germany has chosen to embrace their history, sorrow and all, rather than relegate it to a place where people can only whisper about it behind palms cupped to hold the words close to their source.
Today in the very center of Berlin, just a block or so away from the site of Hitler's final bunker, holds the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. A sea of gray stiles, row upon row, stretches away from the eye- an unmistakable reminder. The Jewish Museum resides down the street- a testament to the history and culture of the Jewish population that was virtually decimated under Nazi reign. Memorials and plaques are around corner after corner after corner- proof that Germans, too, have a stake in owning and preserving the history- however heartbreaking- of all the people who called Germany home.
I viewed the city with different eyes this time, although I believe that Berlin has also, in many ways, become a different city as well.
Every year students ask me what Germans think about the Holocaust today, but I never have an answer for them. I knew only what I knew- which wasn't much. I recalled being moved to tears at a small museum near Brandenburg Gate filled with pictures drawn and painted by the children of Theresienstadt- children who were likely already orphaned as they waited (please, God, unknowingly) for their own cattle car ride toward ash and smoke. I dimly recall a memorial or two, but my visit then wasn't marked by Holocaust remembrance, and my long term memory simply didn't note anything else.
This year when the inevitable question is asked, I will have an answer. Germany has chosen to embrace their history, sorrow and all, rather than relegate it to a place where people can only whisper about it behind palms cupped to hold the words close to their source.
Today in the very center of Berlin, just a block or so away from the site of Hitler's final bunker, holds the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. A sea of gray stiles, row upon row, stretches away from the eye- an unmistakable reminder. The Jewish Museum resides down the street- a testament to the history and culture of the Jewish population that was virtually decimated under Nazi reign. Memorials and plaques are around corner after corner after corner- proof that Germans, too, have a stake in owning and preserving the history- however heartbreaking- of all the people who called Germany home.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Bergen Belsen
Bergen Belsen concentration camp was the first site authentic to the Holocaust my group visited. The grounds are quite lovely- wooded, quiet, miles from the nearest community. If one wasn't aware of the history of the place it would seem an innocuous, peaceful area for a nice nature walk. In part, this is because of the decision not to rebuild the structures that were destroyed by the British in order to wipe out disease upon the liberation of the camp.
The museum was built directly adjacent to the camp footprint. A large balcony, however, hovers over the Bergen Belsen grounds without touching the earth. In the tradition of their culture it is unacceptable to build on a Jewish cemetery, and so the sanctity of the site is being preserved in order to honor the thousands upon thousands of both of known and nameless victims buried in mass graves there.
Knowing the horrendous events of the camp doesn't prepare a person for the first glimpse of the mass graves. Each one is surrounded by a low stone wall- a retaining wall, of sorts- with a stone marker simply indicating the approximate numbers of bodies buried there. "Hier ruhen 2500 Toten" or "Hier ruhen 5000 Toten." The hush holds a different weight- a different silence- than other cemeteries, for this one contains only the graves, unmarked by personal information, of murder victims. No one who died in peace surrounded by the people who love them rest there. Only those whose last moments were fear, pain, loss.
The camp is not only symbolic of devastation, however. I learned that it also served as a camp for displaced Jews after the war. Then, it was a place of life rather than death. A place of celebration- weddings were performed and consummated. Babies were born (over a thousand of them!. Hopes were realized. Plans were made. Lives were rebuilt.
As I was having my own moment of silence in front of the symbolic markers placed in the cemetery by the families of some of the victims, a butterfly landed on my backpack. She stayed there for several minutes as I composed myself, and then fluttered away...maybe to comfort another person who needed a simple moment of beauty. She was a good reminder that life, after all, has a way of moving forward, of continuing on, of persevering- even in the most impossible of circumstances.
The museum was built directly adjacent to the camp footprint. A large balcony, however, hovers over the Bergen Belsen grounds without touching the earth. In the tradition of their culture it is unacceptable to build on a Jewish cemetery, and so the sanctity of the site is being preserved in order to honor the thousands upon thousands of both of known and nameless victims buried in mass graves there.
Knowing the horrendous events of the camp doesn't prepare a person for the first glimpse of the mass graves. Each one is surrounded by a low stone wall- a retaining wall, of sorts- with a stone marker simply indicating the approximate numbers of bodies buried there. "Hier ruhen 2500 Toten" or "Hier ruhen 5000 Toten." The hush holds a different weight- a different silence- than other cemeteries, for this one contains only the graves, unmarked by personal information, of murder victims. No one who died in peace surrounded by the people who love them rest there. Only those whose last moments were fear, pain, loss.
The camp is not only symbolic of devastation, however. I learned that it also served as a camp for displaced Jews after the war. Then, it was a place of life rather than death. A place of celebration- weddings were performed and consummated. Babies were born (over a thousand of them!. Hopes were realized. Plans were made. Lives were rebuilt.
As I was having my own moment of silence in front of the symbolic markers placed in the cemetery by the families of some of the victims, a butterfly landed on my backpack. She stayed there for several minutes as I composed myself, and then fluttered away...maybe to comfort another person who needed a simple moment of beauty. She was a good reminder that life, after all, has a way of moving forward, of continuing on, of persevering- even in the most impossible of circumstances.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Musings from Israel
My last day in Israel today. I have been woefully remiss in updating my blog, but perhaps you'll forgive my fragmented thoughts.
Jerusalem was so much more than I expected. The city is architecturally fascinating, with the low modern brick buildings interspersed with an occasional building that dates back to who knows when. The city itself is busy, busy, busy- except on Shabbat when it folds into itself like origami. Then, the stillness is absolute. Even the elevator runs in a continual loop, stopping at every floor to spare riders the work of having to push the button. When Shabbat ends, however, it fills with energy- life fairly exploding from the streets which were silent only moments before. It's like an impromptu party to which no one was invited, but everyone spontaneously arrives at the same time anyway.
Old Jerusalem is a wonderful, mysterious, chaotic maze. Cobblestone streets and alleys filled with people, cars, and vendors vocally celebrating the wares they sell. The shop roofs nearly meet overhead, blocking the sun and adding to the sense of drama...and claustrophobia. Toys, scarves, jewelry, bras, carvings, trinkets, and nearly everything else are carefully arranged to attract the attention of passersby. The historical significance of the sites there is truly too big for me to comprehend just yet. I need some time and space to mull it over- the Wailing Wall, King Herod's castle, the site of the Last Supper, King David's tomb. Walking through the same streets as those ancient heroes and villains it is impossible not to feel the weight of human history.
That weight continues south toward the Dead Sea. The Beaudoin communities lining the highway are a visible reminder that for some, life hasn't changed much in the past two thousand years or so. Masada rises out of the landscape of the Judean desert- its plateau an easy clue that it is not simply another mountain. The outline of the Roman siege walls are still visible from the roof, and the mind turns toward what those last hours of life must have been for the thousand Jews seeking refuge there- ultimately choosing death over capture and enslavement. Then, it was a place of choiceless choices and death. Now it holds a gift shop and cable cars. The juxtaposition of modern life versus ancient history.
The Dead Sea area holds all the trappings of resort life. The McDonald's arches visible from the shore seem at odds with the ancient lands- as it absolutely is. The water itself so buoyant it is impossible to sink- the salt leaving an oily sheen on the surface of the water and a sharp sting on any small cuts on the skin. The site of the Dead Sea Scrolls now holding giggling tourists, beach umbrellas, and cocktails.
More than anything else, the city of Jerusalem and the country of Israel are profound reminders of the absolute determination of life to continue to move forward and march on. Its more current history as a safe harbor for persecuted Jews only continues the tradition of the lands on which people have lived full, bountiful lives of meaning and hope. I am profoundly grateful for my opportunity to enjoy its history and people- however briefly.
Jerusalem was so much more than I expected. The city is architecturally fascinating, with the low modern brick buildings interspersed with an occasional building that dates back to who knows when. The city itself is busy, busy, busy- except on Shabbat when it folds into itself like origami. Then, the stillness is absolute. Even the elevator runs in a continual loop, stopping at every floor to spare riders the work of having to push the button. When Shabbat ends, however, it fills with energy- life fairly exploding from the streets which were silent only moments before. It's like an impromptu party to which no one was invited, but everyone spontaneously arrives at the same time anyway.
Old Jerusalem is a wonderful, mysterious, chaotic maze. Cobblestone streets and alleys filled with people, cars, and vendors vocally celebrating the wares they sell. The shop roofs nearly meet overhead, blocking the sun and adding to the sense of drama...and claustrophobia. Toys, scarves, jewelry, bras, carvings, trinkets, and nearly everything else are carefully arranged to attract the attention of passersby. The historical significance of the sites there is truly too big for me to comprehend just yet. I need some time and space to mull it over- the Wailing Wall, King Herod's castle, the site of the Last Supper, King David's tomb. Walking through the same streets as those ancient heroes and villains it is impossible not to feel the weight of human history.
That weight continues south toward the Dead Sea. The Beaudoin communities lining the highway are a visible reminder that for some, life hasn't changed much in the past two thousand years or so. Masada rises out of the landscape of the Judean desert- its plateau an easy clue that it is not simply another mountain. The outline of the Roman siege walls are still visible from the roof, and the mind turns toward what those last hours of life must have been for the thousand Jews seeking refuge there- ultimately choosing death over capture and enslavement. Then, it was a place of choiceless choices and death. Now it holds a gift shop and cable cars. The juxtaposition of modern life versus ancient history.
The Dead Sea area holds all the trappings of resort life. The McDonald's arches visible from the shore seem at odds with the ancient lands- as it absolutely is. The water itself so buoyant it is impossible to sink- the salt leaving an oily sheen on the surface of the water and a sharp sting on any small cuts on the skin. The site of the Dead Sea Scrolls now holding giggling tourists, beach umbrellas, and cocktails.
More than anything else, the city of Jerusalem and the country of Israel are profound reminders of the absolute determination of life to continue to move forward and march on. Its more current history as a safe harbor for persecuted Jews only continues the tradition of the lands on which people have lived full, bountiful lives of meaning and hope. I am profoundly grateful for my opportunity to enjoy its history and people- however briefly.
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