Time here in Budapest is a passing afternoon. One of those lazy Sunday afternoons of breathing in goodness, warm sunshine, long uninterrupted thoughts both light and deep...the sun stretches on forever and when evening finally creeps behind you in cool shadows, you feel full and altogether right.
All of a sudden evening has tapped me on the shoulder and I am in the midst of midterms and renewing my tram pass and registering for Calvin classes again…and I am feeling a bit dazed and wondering just how my October afternoons slipped away so quickly. This month has been so good and full of trips and learning and it felt like it would just linger forever…but here we are. It’s almost November.
I can’t imagine life outside of Budapest very well anymore. I’ve become a part of its constant throbbing, whizzing, tapping rhythmic days…riding the trams and metros, greeting the deskies each morning with a Jo reggelt kivanok, cooking communal dinners of rice and veggies, swallowing bitter black espresso instead of sipping filtered “American” coffee each morning. I can’t believe that soon I’ll be talking about all these experiences in the past tense, missing all these distinct things as much as I now miss peanut butter and harvest time, thanksgiving, the morning news, and all of you.
For now, I’m just going to enjoy today. It is clear and bright outside and I plan to go for a run along the river.
Cheers to you and this day, wherever you are in the world.
10.29.2008
BRAIDS
The sign in the glass case read:
Texture and net made of hair of women who were killed in gas chambers.
I almost threw up.
What human did this? (Surely it could not have been a human...)
In front of us was the net and a blanket. To our right was a deep glass case that held two tons of human hair.
The guards shaved the corpses’ heads and sold their hair to textile factories for profit--over twelve million tons during the span of a few years. Mouth drops open in disgust: Some people in Germany and around Europe still own blankets, mattresses, and rugs made with this hair.
I looked to my right again.
Some of the hair was still in braids.
Texture and net made of hair of women who were killed in gas chambers.
I almost threw up.
What human did this? (Surely it could not have been a human...)
In front of us was the net and a blanket. To our right was a deep glass case that held two tons of human hair.
The guards shaved the corpses’ heads and sold their hair to textile factories for profit--over twelve million tons during the span of a few years. Mouth drops open in disgust: Some people in Germany and around Europe still own blankets, mattresses, and rugs made with this hair.
I looked to my right again.
Some of the hair was still in braids.
STORIES
We all know the story of Anne Frank. Most of us have heard the name of Corrie ten Boom. Elie Wiesel. Their stories have become the emblems of Holocaust suffering, death, and survival. The rest of the world has been forced to acknowledge the distinctly human face they've emblazoned on that distant and arbitrary number six million.
If there's one thought I've been pressed with the past few weeks of museum visits, Holocaust Lit class, trips to Krakow and Prague, it is this: stories are important.
There are those big ones of people like Anne Frank and Elie Wiesel that echo around the world and find their place on every bookshelf and in every high school classroom; but equally important are the stories and testimonies of ordinary individuals here and there and everywhere.
Sometimes I lament the lost art of oral storytelling so vibrant in other cultures around the world; I think one of the most sacred things in this depraved world is the gathering of friends and strangers to communally pray, lament, share stories, and listen. Stories root our identity; they cause us to recognize the human in ourselves and each other--and so fiercely combat fatal prejudice and indifference more than any army or legislation could.
I think of the million other stories of the Holocaust that have never been written down or heard or lamented, and I regard them as equally worthwhile and significant. I hope that we have our ears open and our hearts attuned to unheard stories around the world, in this decade and every other that has ever been or will be.
Elie Wiesel published his memoirs because he says, "to remain silent and indifferent is the greatest sin of all." Let us encourage each other to share stories and to listen well. It is one of the most distinctly human things we can do.
If there's one thought I've been pressed with the past few weeks of museum visits, Holocaust Lit class, trips to Krakow and Prague, it is this: stories are important.
There are those big ones of people like Anne Frank and Elie Wiesel that echo around the world and find their place on every bookshelf and in every high school classroom; but equally important are the stories and testimonies of ordinary individuals here and there and everywhere.
Sometimes I lament the lost art of oral storytelling so vibrant in other cultures around the world; I think one of the most sacred things in this depraved world is the gathering of friends and strangers to communally pray, lament, share stories, and listen. Stories root our identity; they cause us to recognize the human in ourselves and each other--and so fiercely combat fatal prejudice and indifference more than any army or legislation could.
I think of the million other stories of the Holocaust that have never been written down or heard or lamented, and I regard them as equally worthwhile and significant. I hope that we have our ears open and our hearts attuned to unheard stories around the world, in this decade and every other that has ever been or will be.
Elie Wiesel published his memoirs because he says, "to remain silent and indifferent is the greatest sin of all." Let us encourage each other to share stories and to listen well. It is one of the most distinctly human things we can do.
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