The Homosexual Holocaust Memorial was just inside the park across the street from the Jewish Memorial in Berlin. It didn't list names or death dates, it had no photos of those persecuted or what they went through. No. Instead it was a message of tolerance and hope.
A stone block stood with glass screen and, inside, a monitor playing a silent video on repeat. Two young men kissing in a bar. The two blurred figures in the foreground watching come into focus. Two old men who turn to each other, smile, and kiss. Cut to a scene of two middle aged women kissing on a sidewalk, they part to look at each other and exchange muted words and you can see behind them a young boy staring wide-eyed. They look at him, then each other, and smile and shrug. Cut to two young girls kissing passionately on an empty subway train. They stop suddenly when the doors open and watch cautiously for who will enter. When they see it is an old woman- not likely to cause a fuss- they laugh and go back to kissing. Cut to two boys in a high school corridor stairway kissing passionately, a bit afraid, stopping to check that no one can see- finally parting and rushing up the stairs to class. Cut back to the two young men in the bar.
A simple video speaking so much more than words could. Telling of the struggle for acceptance and fear of persecution people still face today, to commemorate their terrible fate seventy years ago and to provide a lesson of tolerance to the future. It will catch on- it's only a matter of time. Discrimination just makes no sense to me... I'd like to think that in today's society with so much potential to be progressive, things will work themselves out. In fact, it's hard for me to understand that we are still dealing with a stupid thing like this... really- it's stupid. Judging people based on their race? Or their religion? Or their sexuality? Really?! In 2012, the world of instantaneous access to the education and information of the world and we are still dealing with this... it's asinine.
I try to keep great hope for the future, but in the face of a terrifyingly horrific past, it's hard.
I meditated on the thought of acceptance and tolerance as I walked slowly away from the monument. I would like to be a model of tolerance- I catch my every judgement and reprimand myself and rationalize the diversity in the world. I am in no way claiming that I don't judge people. I most certainly do. Everyone does. I think it's a natural animal habit. For example (and this may seem like a stretch, but go with me for a moment):
Rats cannot vomit. Because of this, if they eat something poisonous or spoiled, their bodies have no protection or method of self-preservation. If they get sick they must simply wait to get better- or die.
If they survive, not knowing whether what they ate was poisonous or simply a singular occurrence, they will forever generalize that the item is something to be avoided. If an apple makes a rat sick, that rat will likely never eat apple again.
On a social level, if a prey-type animal comes across an unknown species which then attacks it, this prey animal will then generalize the new creature as a predator and will fight to the last breath to avoid it in the future.
Consider pigeons and people. They live in very close contact with each other, and some people go out of their way to show goodwill to the birds, providing food on a daily basis. I, myself, love birds. I know many other people who love birds and would never think of being cruel. I would love to pet a pigeon after tossing it the crumbs of my lunch.
However, pigeons are so often chased and attacked by people that it is essentially ingrained into them as instinct to be afraid and to flee from contact, even when proffered delicious and plentiful food by a gentle hand.
So we, as humans, apply these generalizations and stereotypes to the world around us and to each other as a form of self-preservation. Sometimes they suit us well. If you go to a deep part of the jungle and are told a nearby tribe practices cannibalism, then you catch sight of a person who resembles members of that tribe, you are very wise to avoid them at all costs without stopping to get to know whether or not they, specifically, are dangerous.
However, if you establish that these tribe members are brown-skinned and therefore ignorantly assume that every brown-skinned person is a cannibal, this is foolish beyond words.
If you were once swindled by a Bulgarian man, you cannot simply assume that all Bulgarians are swindlers. If generalizations are based in ignorance, they become farces. And the tighter you cling to your farces in the face of clarifying evidence, the more detached from society you become, and the less worthy you are of respect.
I take offense when I hear people talk about how terrible they think the Muslim religion is. I never keep my mouth shut about it if they bring it up to me in conversation. "It is not the religion that is violent, it is a small extremist faction of overly zealous and misguided individuals who are, in fact, not supported by the religious leaders of Islam, that are causing problems. And similar problems have been caused by other small misguided factions of other religions as well. Perhaps I am not entirely informed, but through my history lessons I seem to have noticed that more people have been killed in the name of Christianity since its conception that any other religion... Islam and this terrible extremist group are simply the focus of the world's attention right now. But Islam itself, fundamentally, is not a murderous or bloodthirsty religion." I am quick to defend it. If someone insists, however, of attacking the faith of the Muslims, then I will very quickly urge them to simply attack faith itself. Because arguing over whose religion is more bloodthirsty is like arguing over whose chainsaw is sharpest. I say become aware that each side is wielding a CHAINSAW, a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands!
I know a lot of atheists who would abolish religion. I believe this is ludicrous. People have always believed in gods and people will always believe in gods because existence is confusing and miraculous (especially in the face of new scientific discoveries about the universe and the understanding of all the odds pitted against us.)
If I may continue my chainsaw metaphor:
To use a chainsaw as a weapon (no matter who wields it and for what purpose) is a terrible thing.
Chainsaws were invented for a different reason, to clear forests, and they have evolved to sculpt ice and wood. So can religion be a means to remove the forests of confusion and apprehension and doubt and fear. So also can religion be a means of creating beauty and harmony in the world.
But use with caution, I advise; for, to be overly lusty in the demolition of the forests in the world and you risk damaging the balance of everything. And religion in the hands of someone uneducated in its power and potential can be (and is) incomprehensibly dangerous.
Basically what I'm saying is that we should get all the lead religious figures in the world together to make ice sculptures...
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Backpacker Psychology
Fact: Dirty clothes are automatically deemed less dirty and therefore re-wearable if properly folded before being shoved back into the backpack.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Try the Wine in Hungary
I went to Budapest looking for hummus. And wine. Lots of wine.
Basically, being entirely uninformed about the world and lacking every form of culture, when I travel, I talk to people who have travelled before me and ask them "where should I go?" and more importantly, " what should I do there?"
The result of this is a very long and jumbled list written by many hands on many scraps of paper found in various pockets and purses. My list has things on it along the lines of:
"Check out the Black Forest near Heidleberg in Germany."
"See the Avenue de Massena in Nice, France."
"Figure out how to pronounce Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch if you go to Wales."
"Try currywurst in Berlin."
And
"Try the wine in Hungary."
Well, I'm hoping to check out Heidleberg in a few days. I saw ALL of Nice thanks to my wonderful cousin, Leila. I am, unfortunately, not going to Great Britain, though I keep asking everyone who says they are from or have been there whether or not they can say that town's name- I haven't given up yet!- And I tried currywurst in Berlin. And it was incredible. So good. So so good.
So naturally, when I realized I'd be in the vicinity of Hungary, I thought to myself, 'Self, this is a wonderful time to try the wine.'
So really I went to Budapest looking for wine.
On the train ride to Budapest from Prague (it feels so weird to type that sentence in non-fictional first person...) I was seated in a booth with five other people. I passed out almost immediately from my sleepless Prague-adventures, and woke some hours later to a nearly empty cabin. I apologized to everyone left in case I had made a fool of myself, drooling, snoring, whathaveyou. The boy and the girl smiled and assured me I was a perfect lady while I slept. Thank goodness for that.
The girl was very nice, though very quiet. She told us finally that she was from the Czech Republic and was off to visit her boyfriend in his town for the first time. They'd been dating for a few months at school, but she'd never visited him at home before. She was nervous. I told her she'd be fine and wished her well. She left at the next stop.
The boy left in the cabin with me had just turned twenty and was born in Australia, but had been living in California for the last ten years. He told me he was named after Elvis Costello. "So your name is Elvis?" "No, Declan," he said. "Elvis Costello's real name is Declan." "Gotcha. Wouldn't have guessed that. I have a friend named after Dylan Thomas... his name is Dylan Thomas..." Needless to say we got along very well. We talked the whole rest of the ride. He was off to Budapest as a little vacation from Prague, where he was studying for the year. He talked about how vicious koalas are and that he likes sometimes to tell people he used to ride his pet kangaroo to school when he was a boy. "Just like I tell everyone about my pet beaver and how he gnawed through every single wooden house we made for him!" "Exactly!"
The point of all of this (oh yes, there is a point) is that it was Declan who told me about the hummus. He said to me that there was a bar, called the Hummus Bar, where they served all sorts of reasonably priced and fantastically delicious hummus. Suddenly I was craving mashed up chickpeas with a consuming passion. (I hadn't eaten since the day before... I should probably mention that.) He had a little sketchy map he took from his pocket with the Hummus Bar starred. It was one of his must-go places while in Budapest. I suddenly and viciously agreed with him and snapped a picture of his map so that I would have a copy to follow. Hours later when we got to the hot and sticky station which smelt of spices and bread and sweat (Welcome to Central Europe!) we exchanged hugs and encouragement to keep in touch and we parted ways. I went first to exchange some money, then to find out when the train to Krakow left that night. I was very excited to be in Hungary, but I did NOT want to spend the night there by myself. The train to Poland left at 20.05 and would go all through the night and drop me at the Krakow station at around 7am. The reservation ticket was 3€. What? Done! I had my reservation, I had just over four hours, and I had all of Hungary's wine and hummus calling out to me from the horizon!
I just had to find it.
Now, remember this and never forget my dedication, I hadn't eaten since the day before and it was now closing in on four in the afternoon. I was on a mission, though. A hummus-finding mission. So when I got lost- did I stop and eat at one of the hundreds of delicious smelling cafes along my road? Nope. When the temperature broke 96*F and I sweated out my entire body's weight twice a minute lugging my fifty seven pound backpack an unspeakably heavy guitar, did I give up and eat at some lesser, non-hummus-selling competitor? (For surely they must all be competitors, such was the grandeur I'd allotted to this mythical bar of hummus) No. I pressed on and sucked down my gallon of convenience store water. Dedication, I tell you!
So I got lost. Well, that's not entirely accurate. I went to the little star on my Aussie friend's map. It took me over an hour to get there with no breaks. I went right to where it specified. I found no hummus. Nothing. I sat on a stoop, sweaty and half-delirious from exhaustion and could have cried. In a last ditch effort (which I realize now should definitely have been an effort before ditches were even discussed) I checked my book about Europe which I have downloaded on my handy dandy iPod. I looked under the section called Hungary, the chapter called Budapest, and the heading called Food and found, to my squealing delight that the Hummus Bar and its address were listed. It was only a few blocks from where I was (a few looooong blocks... and by a few I definitely mean many). I'd gone so far already. Might as well. I was gross and I was puffing, but I was determined! It would be hummus or it would be DEATH!
I eventually found the corner where the bar should have been. NOTICE HERE HOW I WROTE THE WORDS "SHOULD HAVE BEEN"
I found a Starbucks. I found a Violin Pub- oh how freaking spiffy. But no hummus. Not a single chickpea rolling like a tiny tumbleweed down the pavement.
I walked down the street. Just to the end, I thought, and if it's not there then it was an elaborate hoax devised by the Let's Go Europe travel writers and my new terrible friend Declan and all of the rest of Australia as well. I was walking down the sidewalk, desperate, when a voice called out behind me "Play us a song!"
That happens ALL the time, wherever I am, because of the guitar. Normally I keep walking, but something, probably delirium, made me swing around. I found the source of the call. He was an amiable looking middle aged man in a group of other jovial middle aged men.
"Buy me a drink!" I called back.
"Well... What do you want to drink?"
"WINE!" I replied, hustling over. I dropped my things by their table. "Buy me wine..." I collapsed breathless into the stool they'd pulled over for me. They laughed and ordered me a glass of sweet red. I guzzled half in one go. Then we cheered together and I went at the second half.
Oh
My
Goodness
Hungarian wine is... It's like... It's like...
I'm sorry, I can't go on. It's too beautiful.
So as I caught my breath and pulled out my guitar and while I tuned it up I learned more about them. They were all German ("Well except him over there. He's Swiss. We don't talk about him..." motioning to a quiet guy in the corner laughing) and in town for a Stag Party. I gave the bachelor a hearty kiss on the cheek as a sending off gift. The boys roared with laughter and he got beet red in the face and chuckled along. I played for them. Somewhere after the second song they asked for a sing-along. I started "Good Riddance (Time of your Life)" by Green Day. Most of the guys were clueless, but one of them, my music connoisseur, started mumbling along through the first verse and caught on for the chorus. Soon everyone was joining in. We had a jolly good shout in the side-street making everyone slightly annoyed, but also slightly jealous, I'm sure, of the drunks at that table. I think this was the point when they bought me a second glass of wine and the waiter started taking videos of our antics, thoroughly enjoying himself. I realized partway through the last few choruses that my right hand was bleeding. I'd caught a hangnail and my strings were getting sticky. 'Heck yeah!' I told the guys when we'd finished the song. 'Now I'm freaking hardcore!'
The wine (Oh that Hungarian wine!) went straight to my head. Remember that not having eaten bit? Also remember that dedication I told you never to forget? Well that dedication ends the moment someone says the words "We'll buy" and I am not part of that we.
My connoisseur friend offered first, and everyone else shouted in agreement (and pointed to the Swiss friend) saying "We" (point point) "will buy you something to eat! Pick anything!" I grabbed for a menu and suddenly realized I was far too exhausted to actually read any of the words on it. I passed it to my pretty friend to my left and told him to pick something that looks Hungarian. "I don't think anything on this menu is Hungarian..." he said, flipping the pages. "Hamburger it is!" I replied. Oh! Those Hungarian hamburgers!
I ate mine with gusto, a little bit tipsy, and I tried to be a lady, but it's hard when your burger is slowly disintegrating in your hands and pushing itself out of various gaps you hadn't noticed in the bun... While I Zoidberg'd my burger, my connoisseur friend fiddled with the guitar, playing a heartfelt German song that got everyone to laughing hysterics, and then some American songs. 'God Bless Texas' got everyone singing along, although my drunk friend to my right wasn't so much going for singing the words and screaming them in a garbled attempt at a southern accent.
I played a few more after the burger, including my favourite performance of 'Fly Away' to date. They were all singing along with me- it was so wonderful. I said to them "Okay boys, the chorus goes 'fly away'- you'll get it, are you ready?!" then I played enthusiastically and at the end we had some people harmonizing, others attempting to harmonize, and still other just yelling 'fly away!' at the tips of their lungs. It was beautiful.
The waiter brought us papers with the name of their pub and its domain name on Facebook, saying he'd post his photos for us on there. I got some pictures of the wine and then we took some fantastic group shots (you can see my drunk friend having problems with gravity in some of them, I think). I had to leave to start my long walk back to the station to catch my train, and the boys had to do a lot of stripper related things, but I entrusted my most responsible friend with my card so we could stalk each other on Facebook, and then, with lots of hugs and cheek kisses, we parted ways. How gloriously unexpected.
When I finally got back to the station (after stopping for ice cream since I hadn't spent any money on dinner) I got into my little bunk on the train thoroughly dizzy with wine, laughter, sugar, dehydration, and exhaustion. And that, my friends, is exactly the way you should go to bed while on vacation.
(I find myself craving hummus after writing this... oh dear)
And for posterity, in no particular order or reference to any one group photo:
My music connoisseur friend: White button up shirt
My pretty friend: white polo with thin horizontal stripes
My drunk friend: fighting with gravity in khaki shorts
My soon-to-be-groom friend: brown t-shirt with a yellow circle in the middle
My Swiss friend: long sleeved shirt with thin stripes black and white
And finally, My most responsible friend: hiding in the back row, tall with glasses
The others did not sing loud enough to earn typed classifications. : ) Just kidding. They are all my smiley friends.
Basically, being entirely uninformed about the world and lacking every form of culture, when I travel, I talk to people who have travelled before me and ask them "where should I go?" and more importantly, " what should I do there?"
The result of this is a very long and jumbled list written by many hands on many scraps of paper found in various pockets and purses. My list has things on it along the lines of:
"Check out the Black Forest near Heidleberg in Germany."
"See the Avenue de Massena in Nice, France."
"Figure out how to pronounce Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch if you go to Wales."
"Try currywurst in Berlin."
And
"Try the wine in Hungary."
Well, I'm hoping to check out Heidleberg in a few days. I saw ALL of Nice thanks to my wonderful cousin, Leila. I am, unfortunately, not going to Great Britain, though I keep asking everyone who says they are from or have been there whether or not they can say that town's name- I haven't given up yet!- And I tried currywurst in Berlin. And it was incredible. So good. So so good.
So naturally, when I realized I'd be in the vicinity of Hungary, I thought to myself, 'Self, this is a wonderful time to try the wine.'
So really I went to Budapest looking for wine.
On the train ride to Budapest from Prague (it feels so weird to type that sentence in non-fictional first person...) I was seated in a booth with five other people. I passed out almost immediately from my sleepless Prague-adventures, and woke some hours later to a nearly empty cabin. I apologized to everyone left in case I had made a fool of myself, drooling, snoring, whathaveyou. The boy and the girl smiled and assured me I was a perfect lady while I slept. Thank goodness for that.
The girl was very nice, though very quiet. She told us finally that she was from the Czech Republic and was off to visit her boyfriend in his town for the first time. They'd been dating for a few months at school, but she'd never visited him at home before. She was nervous. I told her she'd be fine and wished her well. She left at the next stop.
The boy left in the cabin with me had just turned twenty and was born in Australia, but had been living in California for the last ten years. He told me he was named after Elvis Costello. "So your name is Elvis?" "No, Declan," he said. "Elvis Costello's real name is Declan." "Gotcha. Wouldn't have guessed that. I have a friend named after Dylan Thomas... his name is Dylan Thomas..." Needless to say we got along very well. We talked the whole rest of the ride. He was off to Budapest as a little vacation from Prague, where he was studying for the year. He talked about how vicious koalas are and that he likes sometimes to tell people he used to ride his pet kangaroo to school when he was a boy. "Just like I tell everyone about my pet beaver and how he gnawed through every single wooden house we made for him!" "Exactly!"
The point of all of this (oh yes, there is a point) is that it was Declan who told me about the hummus. He said to me that there was a bar, called the Hummus Bar, where they served all sorts of reasonably priced and fantastically delicious hummus. Suddenly I was craving mashed up chickpeas with a consuming passion. (I hadn't eaten since the day before... I should probably mention that.) He had a little sketchy map he took from his pocket with the Hummus Bar starred. It was one of his must-go places while in Budapest. I suddenly and viciously agreed with him and snapped a picture of his map so that I would have a copy to follow. Hours later when we got to the hot and sticky station which smelt of spices and bread and sweat (Welcome to Central Europe!) we exchanged hugs and encouragement to keep in touch and we parted ways. I went first to exchange some money, then to find out when the train to Krakow left that night. I was very excited to be in Hungary, but I did NOT want to spend the night there by myself. The train to Poland left at 20.05 and would go all through the night and drop me at the Krakow station at around 7am. The reservation ticket was 3€. What? Done! I had my reservation, I had just over four hours, and I had all of Hungary's wine and hummus calling out to me from the horizon!
I just had to find it.
Now, remember this and never forget my dedication, I hadn't eaten since the day before and it was now closing in on four in the afternoon. I was on a mission, though. A hummus-finding mission. So when I got lost- did I stop and eat at one of the hundreds of delicious smelling cafes along my road? Nope. When the temperature broke 96*F and I sweated out my entire body's weight twice a minute lugging my fifty seven pound backpack an unspeakably heavy guitar, did I give up and eat at some lesser, non-hummus-selling competitor? (For surely they must all be competitors, such was the grandeur I'd allotted to this mythical bar of hummus) No. I pressed on and sucked down my gallon of convenience store water. Dedication, I tell you!
So I got lost. Well, that's not entirely accurate. I went to the little star on my Aussie friend's map. It took me over an hour to get there with no breaks. I went right to where it specified. I found no hummus. Nothing. I sat on a stoop, sweaty and half-delirious from exhaustion and could have cried. In a last ditch effort (which I realize now should definitely have been an effort before ditches were even discussed) I checked my book about Europe which I have downloaded on my handy dandy iPod. I looked under the section called Hungary, the chapter called Budapest, and the heading called Food and found, to my squealing delight that the Hummus Bar and its address were listed. It was only a few blocks from where I was (a few looooong blocks... and by a few I definitely mean many). I'd gone so far already. Might as well. I was gross and I was puffing, but I was determined! It would be hummus or it would be DEATH!
I eventually found the corner where the bar should have been. NOTICE HERE HOW I WROTE THE WORDS "SHOULD HAVE BEEN"
I found a Starbucks. I found a Violin Pub- oh how freaking spiffy. But no hummus. Not a single chickpea rolling like a tiny tumbleweed down the pavement.
I walked down the street. Just to the end, I thought, and if it's not there then it was an elaborate hoax devised by the Let's Go Europe travel writers and my new terrible friend Declan and all of the rest of Australia as well. I was walking down the sidewalk, desperate, when a voice called out behind me "Play us a song!"
That happens ALL the time, wherever I am, because of the guitar. Normally I keep walking, but something, probably delirium, made me swing around. I found the source of the call. He was an amiable looking middle aged man in a group of other jovial middle aged men.
"Buy me a drink!" I called back.
"Well... What do you want to drink?"
"WINE!" I replied, hustling over. I dropped my things by their table. "Buy me wine..." I collapsed breathless into the stool they'd pulled over for me. They laughed and ordered me a glass of sweet red. I guzzled half in one go. Then we cheered together and I went at the second half.
Oh
My
Goodness
Hungarian wine is... It's like... It's like...
I'm sorry, I can't go on. It's too beautiful.
So as I caught my breath and pulled out my guitar and while I tuned it up I learned more about them. They were all German ("Well except him over there. He's Swiss. We don't talk about him..." motioning to a quiet guy in the corner laughing) and in town for a Stag Party. I gave the bachelor a hearty kiss on the cheek as a sending off gift. The boys roared with laughter and he got beet red in the face and chuckled along. I played for them. Somewhere after the second song they asked for a sing-along. I started "Good Riddance (Time of your Life)" by Green Day. Most of the guys were clueless, but one of them, my music connoisseur, started mumbling along through the first verse and caught on for the chorus. Soon everyone was joining in. We had a jolly good shout in the side-street making everyone slightly annoyed, but also slightly jealous, I'm sure, of the drunks at that table. I think this was the point when they bought me a second glass of wine and the waiter started taking videos of our antics, thoroughly enjoying himself. I realized partway through the last few choruses that my right hand was bleeding. I'd caught a hangnail and my strings were getting sticky. 'Heck yeah!' I told the guys when we'd finished the song. 'Now I'm freaking hardcore!'
The wine (Oh that Hungarian wine!) went straight to my head. Remember that not having eaten bit? Also remember that dedication I told you never to forget? Well that dedication ends the moment someone says the words "We'll buy" and I am not part of that we.
My connoisseur friend offered first, and everyone else shouted in agreement (and pointed to the Swiss friend) saying "We" (point point) "will buy you something to eat! Pick anything!" I grabbed for a menu and suddenly realized I was far too exhausted to actually read any of the words on it. I passed it to my pretty friend to my left and told him to pick something that looks Hungarian. "I don't think anything on this menu is Hungarian..." he said, flipping the pages. "Hamburger it is!" I replied. Oh! Those Hungarian hamburgers!
I ate mine with gusto, a little bit tipsy, and I tried to be a lady, but it's hard when your burger is slowly disintegrating in your hands and pushing itself out of various gaps you hadn't noticed in the bun... While I Zoidberg'd my burger, my connoisseur friend fiddled with the guitar, playing a heartfelt German song that got everyone to laughing hysterics, and then some American songs. 'God Bless Texas' got everyone singing along, although my drunk friend to my right wasn't so much going for singing the words and screaming them in a garbled attempt at a southern accent.
I played a few more after the burger, including my favourite performance of 'Fly Away' to date. They were all singing along with me- it was so wonderful. I said to them "Okay boys, the chorus goes 'fly away'- you'll get it, are you ready?!" then I played enthusiastically and at the end we had some people harmonizing, others attempting to harmonize, and still other just yelling 'fly away!' at the tips of their lungs. It was beautiful.
The waiter brought us papers with the name of their pub and its domain name on Facebook, saying he'd post his photos for us on there. I got some pictures of the wine and then we took some fantastic group shots (you can see my drunk friend having problems with gravity in some of them, I think). I had to leave to start my long walk back to the station to catch my train, and the boys had to do a lot of stripper related things, but I entrusted my most responsible friend with my card so we could stalk each other on Facebook, and then, with lots of hugs and cheek kisses, we parted ways. How gloriously unexpected.
When I finally got back to the station (after stopping for ice cream since I hadn't spent any money on dinner) I got into my little bunk on the train thoroughly dizzy with wine, laughter, sugar, dehydration, and exhaustion. And that, my friends, is exactly the way you should go to bed while on vacation.
(I find myself craving hummus after writing this... oh dear)
And for posterity, in no particular order or reference to any one group photo:
My music connoisseur friend: White button up shirt
My pretty friend: white polo with thin horizontal stripes
My drunk friend: fighting with gravity in khaki shorts
My soon-to-be-groom friend: brown t-shirt with a yellow circle in the middle
My Swiss friend: long sleeved shirt with thin stripes black and white
And finally, My most responsible friend: hiding in the back row, tall with glasses
The others did not sing loud enough to earn typed classifications. : ) Just kidding. They are all my smiley friends.
Auschwitz- (Graphic... Read with Care)
Every now and then I caught sight of a bullet hole in the brick wall of a building and the realization of the magnitude of the place hit me like an overcrowded freight train to the chest. The storm outside did nothing for my nerves: lightning flashed down just outside and thunder immediately and deafeningly shook the buildings. Sheets of water washed over the camp, turning dirt paths to sticky mud and setting ominous tones. My stomach was in knots for hours- I felt nauseated and faint.
I tried to find a message in the place. A little note of "it's okay because..."
But there was nothing. There's nothing there but pain and anguish and murder.
Upon entering Auschwitz, I was struck by how normal everything looked. The only hint of the monstrous history from afar was the lingering barbed-wire fence. They lined the walkway to the museum with blown up photos of famous world leaders paying tribute to the monument. Political leaders, spiritual leaders, infidels- all humbled before the shrines to the masses of the murdered. 'Good,' I thought to myself. 'They should all come here. They should ALL see what happens when leaders turn blind-eyes.' I felt so sick. Why- WHY did it take so long for major world powers to step in?! Why did the United States stand back for YEARS while people were slaughtered?
Through the main gate with its mocking message of "Arbeit macht frei" ("Work brings Freedom"), where the prisoners were marched to their daily deadly toil, rows of brick buildings stand. Inside the buildings are sheets of records, refurnished rooms, clothes, shoes, torture devices, and murals with stories of daily life and death in Auschwitz. But the most painful to see were the pictures. Row upon row of the mug shots of the prisoners, deportation dates and death dates (often within mere months of each other) printed along the bottom. Hundreds and hundreds of faces staring blankly- dazed, beaten, and confused. Heads shaved, lips bloodied, they stare out from their frames pleading for justice. Justice? What does that word even MEAN in a crime like this? Down every hallway, faces. In every room, faces. In this camp ALONE over 1.2 million people- let me say that again- one point two MILLION people- were killed. One million two hundred thousand faces watching you walk through their final moments, asking you why it had to happen...
One room describing the selection process had photos taken at the trains with captions nonchalantly pointing out "before selection" on a picture of the haggard crowds by the trains, "after selection" on a picture of confiscated luggage piled beside the now-empty walkways beside the trains, and one "on the way to death"
On the way to death. A dozen children in frame, one too little to walk being carried by a grandmother. Two little boys in the front bravely leading a third who is sulking. They look curiously at the camera. They think they're going for a shower. "On the way to death..." I wanted to vomit. I swallowed sharply and moved on. I had to move on.
That was nowhere near the worst of it. The buildings where they convicted people of criminally contacting the outside world or obtaining food were sentenced to death by starvation and locked in windowless rooms where many simply suffocated. The building where evil doctors did experiments on sterilization and genetics, mutilating and murdering countless women and twins. The wall where prisoners- men, women, and children- were stripped and shot. It had been torn down but reassembled by the museum, riddled with bullet holes and now lit by candles and laden with memorial stones and flowers.
The gas chamber and the ovens.
They never mention the fingernail scratches on the walls of the gas chamber.
They never mention the soot thick on the walls and ceiling of the ovens.
"This chamber was designed for up to one thousand people," I overheard a tour guide say of the gas chamber we stood in. One thousand people, crammed like sardines into THIS room where they were soon painfully poisoned, then burned to ash, eliminating all record of their very existence. After a few years, the Nazis stopped even recording their arrival. They just went straight from the train to oblivion...
Those faces, I think, will be following me and begging explanation I cannot provide for my whole life. They're there behind my eyelids. And when I look at the faces of all the strangers I'm surrounded by out here, I see them flash from their pink healthy selves, to gaunt tortured mugshots of themselves, then back again- little reminders of the sheer humanity of the victims. It could have been someone just like that man, that woman, their little baby. It could have been all of us, here, on this train, thinking we're just being relocated, not knowing the horrors in store at our destination.
I took a train away from Poland last night. I arrived in Vienna, Austria this morning- and I don't want to go exploring. Everything here is tainted now. I left a bag on the train with my money in it. I desperately sought help and it was generously given and I got my bag back and I was so grateful- but the man who helped me showed such blatant and shocking racism toward the Polish people who ran my last train, all I could think about was the camp and the halls and the rows and rows of Polish faces, murdered by people like him, people with hatred and discrimination in their hearts.
I'm in Vienna, Austria, home of concertos and operas and Mozart, and yet all I can hear are the echoes of cries sixty five years past.
I want to go home.
I tried to find a message in the place. A little note of "it's okay because..."
But there was nothing. There's nothing there but pain and anguish and murder.
Upon entering Auschwitz, I was struck by how normal everything looked. The only hint of the monstrous history from afar was the lingering barbed-wire fence. They lined the walkway to the museum with blown up photos of famous world leaders paying tribute to the monument. Political leaders, spiritual leaders, infidels- all humbled before the shrines to the masses of the murdered. 'Good,' I thought to myself. 'They should all come here. They should ALL see what happens when leaders turn blind-eyes.' I felt so sick. Why- WHY did it take so long for major world powers to step in?! Why did the United States stand back for YEARS while people were slaughtered?
Through the main gate with its mocking message of "Arbeit macht frei" ("Work brings Freedom"), where the prisoners were marched to their daily deadly toil, rows of brick buildings stand. Inside the buildings are sheets of records, refurnished rooms, clothes, shoes, torture devices, and murals with stories of daily life and death in Auschwitz. But the most painful to see were the pictures. Row upon row of the mug shots of the prisoners, deportation dates and death dates (often within mere months of each other) printed along the bottom. Hundreds and hundreds of faces staring blankly- dazed, beaten, and confused. Heads shaved, lips bloodied, they stare out from their frames pleading for justice. Justice? What does that word even MEAN in a crime like this? Down every hallway, faces. In every room, faces. In this camp ALONE over 1.2 million people- let me say that again- one point two MILLION people- were killed. One million two hundred thousand faces watching you walk through their final moments, asking you why it had to happen...
One room describing the selection process had photos taken at the trains with captions nonchalantly pointing out "before selection" on a picture of the haggard crowds by the trains, "after selection" on a picture of confiscated luggage piled beside the now-empty walkways beside the trains, and one "on the way to death"
On the way to death. A dozen children in frame, one too little to walk being carried by a grandmother. Two little boys in the front bravely leading a third who is sulking. They look curiously at the camera. They think they're going for a shower. "On the way to death..." I wanted to vomit. I swallowed sharply and moved on. I had to move on.
That was nowhere near the worst of it. The buildings where they convicted people of criminally contacting the outside world or obtaining food were sentenced to death by starvation and locked in windowless rooms where many simply suffocated. The building where evil doctors did experiments on sterilization and genetics, mutilating and murdering countless women and twins. The wall where prisoners- men, women, and children- were stripped and shot. It had been torn down but reassembled by the museum, riddled with bullet holes and now lit by candles and laden with memorial stones and flowers.
The gas chamber and the ovens.
They never mention the fingernail scratches on the walls of the gas chamber.
They never mention the soot thick on the walls and ceiling of the ovens.
"This chamber was designed for up to one thousand people," I overheard a tour guide say of the gas chamber we stood in. One thousand people, crammed like sardines into THIS room where they were soon painfully poisoned, then burned to ash, eliminating all record of their very existence. After a few years, the Nazis stopped even recording their arrival. They just went straight from the train to oblivion...
Those faces, I think, will be following me and begging explanation I cannot provide for my whole life. They're there behind my eyelids. And when I look at the faces of all the strangers I'm surrounded by out here, I see them flash from their pink healthy selves, to gaunt tortured mugshots of themselves, then back again- little reminders of the sheer humanity of the victims. It could have been someone just like that man, that woman, their little baby. It could have been all of us, here, on this train, thinking we're just being relocated, not knowing the horrors in store at our destination.
I took a train away from Poland last night. I arrived in Vienna, Austria this morning- and I don't want to go exploring. Everything here is tainted now. I left a bag on the train with my money in it. I desperately sought help and it was generously given and I got my bag back and I was so grateful- but the man who helped me showed such blatant and shocking racism toward the Polish people who ran my last train, all I could think about was the camp and the halls and the rows and rows of Polish faces, murdered by people like him, people with hatred and discrimination in their hearts.
I'm in Vienna, Austria, home of concertos and operas and Mozart, and yet all I can hear are the echoes of cries sixty five years past.
I want to go home.
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