I suppose I should write some kind of warning about the nature of this post because most my followers that click here probably expect to see more cat pictures, or the latest "Ho in Hockey" adventures, or what Coach Lance has said this time. The warning should be like the one at the short movie displayed at the entrance into Auschwitz - the largest Nazi Death Camp in Poland. The warning states no one under the age of 14 should be allowed to view the movie, and you might want to consider that because I posted a few pictures from that very place.

I confess that I didn't even watch the movie. Visiting this horrible place was enough emotional turmoil for me, and I won't do it again.
In life, I choose to focus on the positives, even when it is hard to find. That is why I'm the least politico in my family. When Bush won the last election, I shamefully just sort of tuned out, and tuned back in when I heard Obama's speeches about Change. I've never seen realistic war movies like
Platoon or
Saving Private Ryan, even though I know they are fictional. I prefer movies like
Kill Bill, where the violence is so absurd, there's no way it can be real. As much as I try to avoid it, I do know it's important to know what horrors are going on in the world so that I can feel damn lucky about my own life and stand up for what I believe in.

I guess that is why I found myself alone, on a two-hour bus ride from Krakow to the town of Oświęcim, dreading the actual arrival to my destination. Proud of my decision not to join a huge tour bus that gives each attendee a little lunch bag on their way to a spot where over one million Jews and Poles were murdered, I rode the local bus in silence. At each stop, I intently searched the faces of the locals returning home from a hard day's work. I wanted to see if the elderly had a brow-line wrinkle which embedded the town's horrible history in its fold. I wanted to tell them all that I was sorry for their loss. But I stared out the window and prepared myself instead.

I knew I would be moved emotionally at this place, but I didn't think I'd cry, even though I heard it happens often. Afterall, the horror took place over 60 years ago and I don't know anyone personally who was killed. I thought crying is for the people who lost someone - maybe a grandmother, or a distant cousin. I was wrong.
I also didn't join a tour group at the museum but chose to wonder around on my own, reading the signs, and taking pictures. I avoided the large groups and entered the buildings on exhibition only when they were not crowded. I didn't speak to anyone. The gruesome details unfolded, just like the movies we've all seen, and worse. At times, it was hard to believe that it happened - that humans can be that cruel to their own race - like flying a huge jet into a building full of people, on purpose. But it happened.
I was feeling very sick to my stomach, but didn't cry when I stared at the millions of empty Zyklon B gas cans.

Or visited one of the crematoriums.

I didn't cry when I saw the ton of hair removed from the female victims that the Nazis were selling to the textile businesses.

Or the gallows in the courtyard (recreated) that is the site of the biggest public execution when 12 people were hanged.

I didn't cry looking at the torture room, the standing cells, or the room where the victims undressed before they were put to death, which is making me sick again as I write.

But while walking down a long hallway in one of the cell blocks, with victims' photographs plastered on the wall from end to end, I paused at this one, and that's when I lost it. Who was she? What would she have become? Who put this flower there? Did they know her? Do they miss her? I am sure she was loved.

People are capable of doing horrible things to each other, it's important to remember, even though I'd prefer to forget.