The next area was a small amphitheater. Survivors told their stories on large TV screens. Tiny alcoves with soft benches lay around the outside of the room. Cables with rings and clips held thousands of photographs. Tens of thousands? Some were blurry, taken with inexpensive cameras. Wedding pictures. Blank stares. Joyous expressions. Some were looking past the camera at the photographer with so much love in their eyes. Old men in their very best clothes. Young ones playing with simple toys. Messy hair. Patched pants. Blank stares. Some of the photographs were copies. Some were the actual photographs with the owners’ handwriting on the back. Som
eone’s birthday. Someone’s new coat. Someone at age four. 
I wanted to see every face. My eyes were so blurred with a veil of tears that I could barely see at all. I sat alone in one of the corners. Alone with images of people just like Imaculee and just like Asha and just like Ali and Saniyo and Isha [our Somali Bantu friends] and just like the Jews and the Gypsies and the American Indians and like the women in Afghanistan under the Taliban and like the victims of genocide in Darfur, and those in refugee camps all over… And I was overwhelmed, Heidi. For a while I couldn’t breath. That was the room that affected me the most. Until I went upstairs. I thought I was overloaded then I walked up the stairs to a simple area devoted to the children.
eone’s birthday. Someone’s new coat. Someone at age four. 
I wanted to see every face. My eyes were so blurred with a veil of tears that I could barely see at all. I sat alone in one of the corners. Alone with images of people just like Imaculee and just like Asha and just like Ali and Saniyo and Isha [our Somali Bantu friends] and just like the Jews and the Gypsies and the American Indians and like the women in Afghanistan under the Taliban and like the victims of genocide in Darfur, and those in refugee camps all over… And I was overwhelmed, Heidi. For a while I couldn’t breath. That was the room that affected me the most. Until I went upstairs. I thought I was overloaded then I walked up the stairs to a simple area devoted to the children.
1 comment:
I cn kind of understand what you're describing. When we visited the Holocaust Museum, in Washington DC, it was such a sensory overload. It became very real to me when we walked through a Rail car used to carry Jews to Auschwitz. But that was nothing compared to when we walked into a room with bin after bin of personal items collected there. There was a hug bin full of leather shoes. Just simple shoes. But THAT was the moment I'll never forget. That was the moment I realized that the victims were real people, and not just characters from a historical novel or textbook. I can still smell the leather.
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