I guess I took the invitation to heart because I could feel my resistance on the 45 minute bus ride over. I looked out the window and noticed all the various people walking, the buildings being constructed, the Hebrew signs that I continually try to learn how to pronounce. Then every so often I remembered where we were going and my heart sank. It's not that I didn't want to go there, I simply wasn't sure what to expect. But that was the intention when I started this trip - no expectations.
We started at the Children's Memorial. This building on the Yad Vashem campus was small, with what look like unfinished pillars standing outside. Once inside we are led through a dark circular room. The only lights were small candles behind glass reflected in hundreds of mirrors. And as we walked, names of children, their ages and their country of origin were spoken. The mirrors reflected the lights at least a hundred fold. This was the most moving part of the visit here for me. The metaphor of all these lights extinguished and all the lights that could have been was overwhelming. Each name spoken was a life that was lost too soon, and many lives that could have been if these children had lived to marry and have children of their own.
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| outside Children's Memorial at Yad Vashem |
Then we explored the main museum. It is a tunnel like triangular structure that weaves you into and out of various rooms. It begins with the first World War and explains how the rise of Hitler came to be, and how the people of Germany were ripe for such a charismatic leader. Then it continues on through the various ways Hitler began his systematic profiling, oppression and eventual elimination of the Jews (and gays, gypsies, and handicapped - although these groups were not nearly as spoken for in this exhibit). The exhibits consisted of lots of panels to read; videos of survivors telling their stories; footage of everything from Nazi marches to the horrific images of bulldozed piles of bodies in the camps. There were artifacts of books, sacred objects that were burned and stolen, shoes, furniture, diaries, pictures, instruments the Germans used to measure if a person was Aryan (by nose length, hair color, and skin tone); writings from camp prisoners; maps and documents listing populations. It was completely overwhelming. By the time I was half way through I was complete saturated. I wasn't moved like I have been with other experiences on this trip. Perhaps I was too prepared for this visit. Perhaps the main exhibit was too heady for me. One of the last areas that was emotional was the Hall of Names. A large circular room that is one big 25 foot book shelf from floor to ceiling. On the shelves are binders with a number on each. Each binder represents a person and inside are documents and pictures that have been provided to the museum to archive. And there is still space on the shelves. The shear volume of space touched me, knowing that each one was a life story and each one had been carefully collected and stored.
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| Yad Vashem (no pictures are allowed inside) |
This is what we must be very mindful of doing ourselves. Even by demonizing Hitler, we make him "other." When we make anyone "other" we risk losing our own humanity in the process. We risk a slope that justifies everything from dismissing and name calling to out right rude and inconsiderate treatment to seeking blame and making someone or an entire group responsible for problems that we all must pay attention to.
One of the most repeated part of the stories that was told in this exhibit is how the German Jews couldn't believe this was coming. They were so integrated into German society there was no way they could imagine and entire country turning on them. Not everyone turned them in, but no trust in friendship was ever the same.
In silence we left the museum, road the bus back to the college and ate lunch. There was much to process and unpack in our meeting later. And as the afternoon continued, a few of us went to the Western Wall to pray and heal.
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| Western Wall |
In the setting sun, the Wall was immense. Huge blocks at the bottom tell of the origins of the Wall in the 1st century. The only part of the second temple left after the Romans destroyed it, this place is one of the most holy sites. And unlike some of the Christian sites, we know for sure the Wall is standing where it was when it was built over 2,000 years ago (and over 4,000 years ago too because the first temple was built on the same site).
People from all over the world come to pray here. Women and men's sections are separate. Israeli soldiers in uniform were praying. Women of every age, color and shape were praying. I approached the Wall with my head covered in a scarf in respect for the holiness of this place. As I touched the Wall an excitement came over me. Emotions that I had experienced at other times on this trip were different now. The smooth wall from thousands of years of touching, met my hand. I leaned my forehead on the Wall and prayers immediately flowed. I placed prayers from friends and family in the cracks, knowing that all these prayers will eventually be buried at the Mount of Olives. I prayed with every fiber in me, with all the prayers that were given to me before I left; and all the prayers in the little Pilgrimage Prayer Book I created. I could hear the soft, whispered Hebrew prayers of the women around me. I opened my heart wider and let my space include their prayers too. I concluded by asking God, Allah, Spirit to hear all the prayers of everyone and to hear the prayers that had not been spoken but are always in our hearts. That is the beauty of prayer - even if we forget something or someone, God knows our hearts.
May God hear all your prayers and bless us with the kind of love, compassion and tolerance that will allow us to see and learn from every teacher, past and present, so that we might remember and live in greater peace.
