Majdanek

When my feet hit the floor and it caved a little, the creak echoing through the long room, the same creak that so many suffering feet had passed over, a little deeper now that my weight had landed. When I made a sour face at the smell that did not seem to leave my throat, it was the same, though to a much lower degree, smell that had passed through so many noses gasping for freedom. When I entered the art exhibition called ‘Shrine,’ I walked through the cycle of light to darkness, whether that be life to death or suffering to freedom, I was a spectator of something so many had experienced. So many heroes. The reality that took place at this camp is something I am trying so very hard to accept.

I want to remember and never forget. I want to shed tears so these survivors, whether alive, passed on, or murdered can have water. I want to feel anger so that the Nazi soldiers can know that they have affected many more than their sufferers. I want to feel frustration so they know their wrath goes far beyond Poland, Europe, and the people living today. But, all I feel is removed, conflicted.

I wasn’t expecting this. I told my friends and family as I left that I was prepared to cry and that I intended never to forget the sadness I thought I would feel. This has certainly been an emotional journey thus far, with new sights and perspectives jumping out of every corner because of Tsipy’s constant yearning for us to understand. But I cannot put into words what I feel or form questions to help me feel something I can define in words.

I’ve accepted that this event in history is something that I will never understand, even if I walk on the rows of wood in the barracks once again and the creaks get louder, and I’ve learned from each story that these are words that should not be forgotten.