There was a world-changing event that ended before the first baby boomer was born, yet had impact on every one of us yet to come: World War II. And the most gruesome of all the scenes from that war are scenes from the Nazi death camp in Poland called Auschwitz. BoomerCafé co-founder and executive editor Greg Dobbs went there several times for ABC News, and recently wrote this column about what sticks with him the most.
It might surprise you, but after sympathetic stories in the media recently, all related to the 70th anniversary of the liberation of the Nazi death camp Auschwitz, there’s still more to say. The anniversary has passed, the world has moved on… but still, because the import of Auschwitz and all it symbolizes shouldn’t be revived only on a ten-year anniversary, there’s more to say.
There are two little words, in fact, that speak volumes about why we should keep talking about Auschwitz, and Nazi Germany, and the Holocaust. Two words, immortalized by the aging author and archivist of the Holocaust, Eli Wiesel, in his own firsthand Auschwitz account called “Night.” The two weighty words are, “Never forget.”
I wasn’t even born when the dark dust of Europe’s Jews rained from the sky, yet I’ll never forget the cold chill I’ve felt walking through Auschwitz, which I’ve done three times as a reporter, once with Wiesel himself. Not just because I knew what had happened there— more than a million hapless humans gassed until they were gone; thousands subjected to sadistic and unscientific tests by the merciless Dr. Mengele; tens of thousands starving and suffering as slaves for the Nazi war machine.
No, the chill that ran through me on each visit was borne from my effort to even slightly imagine what it actually felt like to be there which, for all of us who weren’t, is impossible. But I tried anyway. I tried to imagine being imprisoned there. And waging a struggle not to die. Arguably, death was the less frightening fate; the supreme struggle was to survive. A struggle not to starve. Not to collapse. Not to freeze. Not to surrender.
And simple though it sounds, not to lose your shoes.
Shoes, I’ve been told, were an inmate’s salvation. The margin between death and life was so thin, it was defined in the precarious existence of every inmate by his shoes. If he could keep his shoes, he might tolerate the bitter, bleak, dark, dismal climate of the camp. If his shoes were worn through, or lost, or stolen, it was a death sentence as sure as the ultimate abuse bestowed on those who went straight from their train to their execution.
Never forget. The words are easy to utter, more difficult to uphold. Just look around the world since World War II and see how forgetful mankind has been. In conflicts I’ve covered from Zimbabwe to Afghanistan, from the Sahara to Northern Ireland, man kept forgetting the meaning of humanity. In a way, the incitements aren’t even important: power, greed, territory, nationalism, and maybe more than ever before, racism and religion. For whatever reason, man forgot.
A piece of me pretends that today, with global dependencies between nations and instantaneous links between peoples, we would no longer let these things motivate us to subjugate and brutalize our fellow man. But then the other piece kicks in. I think of Ukraine, where indiscriminate shells rain down and innocent citizens’ lives are shattered. Or Syria, where whole neighborhoods have crumbled, turning whole populations into wretched refugees. Or Nigeria, where fanatics have forgotten that life has any value at all. Or even Paris, where both Muslims and Jews reportedly now live in fear for their safety, and their families’.
Of the recent anniversary observance at Auschwitz, one survivor said, “We do not want our past to be our children’s future.” But somehow it could be, if “never forget” continues to be forgotten.
That’s why there’s more to say. And why we should keep saying it.