Somber.

In sixth grade, I read Elie Wiesel's, Night. I remember getting goosebumps as I read the words that recounted horrifying events I could barely fathom in my 11 year old mind. In middle school and my freshman year of high school, I would come to revisit the text several times, all the while the goosebumps would appear once again as the familiar, yet newly enlightening, heart wrenching story unfolded. But of course, like the third party I was, I was viewing something from the outside, I was placed at a distance in which I could only empathize to a certain extent.

However, there was that one specific phrase that stood out to me the multiple times I would read it, a line that that always echoed in my head from time to time as I've contemplated about Germany. It wasn't until visiting the Sachsenhausen concentration camp that I realized the magnitude of that single sentence, the actual weight of a single simple description.

Roughly, I remember the line as: And up above, the sky remained a magnificent blue.

And walking through that vast plot of land with the sound of the wind passing through the trees, the lonely interruption of gravel crunching beneath tourists' feet, that line repeatedly rehearsed itself in my head. Seeing the blue sky with friendly scattered clouds made me somewhat angry. And while I don't mean to sound like a righteous, all-knowing American, (and this may sound like a broken record) but I couldn't believe that such a thing had taken place where I was standing, that something so horrifying could exist beneath such a forgiving sky. It was hard to accept the brilliant day when you are treading the same path that so many victims of an inhumane crime had tread, most of them up until their final point in life.

I found myself having to recollect my breath and emotions several times. It is here that so many have made movies, written countless of texts and literature on in an attempt to preserve a significant part of mankind's history, and yet the feelings are completely different when you're actually within the walls of the scene of the crime. It is barren. It is heavy. And while tons of tourist groups surrounds you, desolation sets into your bones.

It was sobering. A feeling that I was a bit relieved to encounter. Here was the bit of truth I was waiting to unearth on this excursion. This brought blood and air to these stories I had only read and seen film productions on, the ghosts of the past looming in front of me.

Adam, the tour guide, brought up something that just can't be repeated enough, "There is no conclusion," especially to such a chapter like this, or any other narratives within history with similar (or perhaps even different, but nonetheless) tragedies or outcomes, that to simply let things gather dust as a way to brush it under the rug is begging for history to continuously repeat itself. (And history will prove that it's still prevailing, with incidents like in Cambodia, Rwanda, Darfur...)

And while I am still working through my thoughts and this overwhelming feeling, I'll admit that it's given me a surge of motivation, this feel to be more active within the humanities; it's reassured me that my initial desire to be involved with the social sciences is still blazing somewhere within me. And by no way am I attempting to turn this post into a motivational speech, but it's hard to walk away from seeing blood stains from actual victims years ago and let apathy take over.