There will be a time when the existence of man shall be questioned and held accountable for the horrors inflicted on several innocent souls, but until that day of reckoning comes, our conscience beckons, reminding us of the need for humanity and compassion.
Today, with my 49th post on this blog, I am not going to relate to you a funny anecdote but go full circle to the beginnings of this blog, the reason the "why" arose. Life relates to us several tales, some etch into our memories, others drive the adrenalin up, and eventually fizz away into nothingness. A fizz is what bubbled into the intertwined deliberations - the random ramblings that evolved over the past two years and more. But in public interest am not going to walk down memory lane and reminisce. Instead, I'll celebrate this pre-golden jubilee post for myself, by giving it the post it deserved - something that has been etched in memory for more than 9 years and was renewed this month during my visit to Munich, and never had the potential of fading away.
Political correctness has not been my forte, so before I start, my apologies to anyone who might be offended in any way with what I talk about. Dachau - one of the first concentration camps in Germany, was established near Munich, which Steffi - my friend whose place I crashed at, drove me down to, on a chilly autumn morning. Whatever experts may say, I refuse to believe that global warming caused that day to be especially cold - it felt like winter had set in - the nose numb. Drooling. Everyone taking out their taschnetucher (paper napkin) and blowing their noses in. The ears about to drop off, the lips parched - not for lack of moisture, but the moisture on them being frozen into icicles. I dare not imagine what a tongue would have gone through had it been on a popsicle that day! We could not make an early start since last night had been rather tiring and the beers did not help with the alarm either. Surprisingly for 11:30, the fog is still very thick - a dense grey set in the outskirts, visibility low. In the car it didn't cross either of our minds what that gloomy weather meant for us. We simply drove on, reached, and made our way to the audio guides section.
This has been my second visit to a concentration camp, the first one being Mauthausen, on the outskirts of Vienna. I will not advertise. I will not coax you into going there. I won't elaborate on what I saw either. However, what I will tell you is the chill that ran down my spine, when I saw the line of 24 barracks in continuation that seemed to disappear into the horizon with no end in sight. I will tell you about the design that won an award - and how that death seemed less painful than what would have been inflicted. The more we glorify or condemn something, the more renowned something becomes, the faster it loses impact. Dachau was different. No cafes, no restaurants. No souvenir shop, or marketing gimmick. The grey abode stood there, amidst civilisation - people going in to work everyday, letting it drift into history - unnoticed, uncelebrated.
I won't elaborate on my conversations with Steffi either, for they were wonderful - and any attempt on my part to reiterate them to you would simply not do justice to the ideas we discussed, the perspectives we got. By afternoon, the chill had grown into a windy storm, as the breeze grew wilder, edging us on to the next exhibit in line. What was supposed to be a 2-3 hour trip took longer - we were engrossed - not in the horrors - but in something more abstract - the feeling - the empathy was prominent - the sympathy lingering. Exiting the museum, we entered the barracks - the bunk beds - reminds you of "Life is Beautiful" - the movie, but not so much the horrors - we could not help but think that in probably in another hour we would be home, sipping on hot cocoa or coffee, while not 60 years ago here lay men, awaiting - not death, but the morning horn for headcount, shivering, unaware what came with the next sunrise.
If you expect from me an elaboration on what I saw, a condemnation of Hitler's tyranny, this is not the intent of this post. It is just one elaboration - an attempt at it - to tell you that it isn't a Romantic's idea to experience pain and suffering when going to such a place, but a common man's compassion that brings him to realise the need for love amongst humans. It might seem all too far fetched, preachy and exaggerated - more like a work of drama, but the presence, the gravel under your feet echoes into your head - without permission - of the untold horrors.
Five o'clock in the evening approaches and we make our way as the last tourists to leave the premises - happy to get out of the depressing state the camp put us in, content to be able to get in the car, switch the heater on and warm ourselves, happy that in today's times we feel secure. But as Steffi sped on to the highway, I cleared the fog from the window with my jacket, looked into the distance as the tin sheets shattered in the strong wind but the trees lining the camp stood still - the silence echoing in history - "never again", disappearing round the curb to join the evening commuters into Munich.
