What The World Saw But Stood Silent For.

A shiver crawls up your spine as you gaze at the black and white faces of Holocaust survivors.  Tears spill as you read through the historical events sparked by racism and social Darwinism, and wonder as a simple screen asks, “Post election, are you optimistic that the country can come together and find common ground?”. We wonder, what defines optimistic? What defines common ground? How could we possibly find it?

The Museum of Tolerance, opened to the public in Los Angeles in 1993, runs all these questions through your head and more. It examines the harsh racism and prejudice that the world has faced over the course of time and history, and has a strong central focus on the Holocaust. Federico Mayor, former Director of UNESCO, detailed the importance of the museum in 1993. He stated, “…it is crucial for all of us to give new meaning to the word ‘tolerance’ and understand that our ability to value each and every person is the ethical basis for peace…A peaceful future depends on our everyday acts and gestures. Let us educate for tolerance in our…communities…and, most of all, in our hearts and minds.”

I visited the Museum on the 3rd of January on a last-minute trip to LA. Out of five choices I had, I chose the Museum of Tolerance because I believed I had more to learn about the racism and prejudice our world has faced than I already knew. Upon reading the reviews, I took a deep breath and decided that, although the museum was often described as “enlightening, but emotionally-draining”, I would go and take on whatever thoughts and emotions I would be presented with. I was nervous for what I would see, but both my mom and I were ready for anything.

We arrived, paid for our entry to the Holocaust exhibit and Tolerancenter, then went through a security metal detector to ensure we did not have anything that could potentially harm. We made our way down a spiral ramp, and on the walls were the pictures, and small details of the lives of various Holocaust survivors. Their smiles were almost haunting to gaze at, and each detail we read gave us only a small glimpse of the hardships they faced during World War II. We felt the angst building up within us already, as a new question ran through our heads. This time, a simple why? Why did anyone let all of this happen? Why were they forced to be put through so much?

As we reached the end of this gallery of faces, a quote painted on the wall let us breathe for a second – a quote by Elie Wiesel, reading “when you listen to a witness, you become a witness.”

We were then faced with two options, to either enter the Tolerancenter, or explore the Holocaust exhibit first. We decided to enter the Tolerancenter, as both my mother and I agreed it would be easier on our emotions to go through first. On the ground was a projection reading ‘Our World Today’ in bold, white letters. As we looked up, we were then surrounded by televisions of all sizes in a small hallway, all blasting different news channels covering the upcoming inauguration, Trump’s plans for office, and any other relevant, political news stories. As I took a second to carefully read all the headlines, I began to wonder why it was important to see it all at once. It was overwhelming to see so many opinions being fired off all at the same time, but it occurred to me that that was exactly the point. We’re exposed to so much in the media, especially around the time of an election, that it can become overwhelming and even annoying to have to sit through. My mom walked along with me, equally eyeing all the bold headlines and serious faces.

As we passed all the televisions, we were then face to face with two doors: one lit up a bright red with the word “Prejudiced” above it, the other lit up green with “Unprejudiced” above it, however a projection on that door advised us to “think…now use [the] other door”. I looked at my mom, who stood at the green door with a confused glance.
“Which door do you want to go through?” I asked her, trying to see what she was thinking. She explained to me that although she would like to believe she could go through the green door, all of us have hidden prejudices. That’s why we have to use the red one.

On the other side of the red door, we were exposed to more screens. As we walked through the exhibition, we faced images of inspiring quotes and people, warning us of the importance of peace and how we should treat each other. My mom was deeply moved by a video playing of Martin Luther King Jr., talking passionately and emotionally as images of the segregation and unfair treatment of his people, our American people, appeared on screen. I was brought to tears as I began to imagine how difficult it must have been to deal with such unjust treatment on a daily basis, and on such an overbearing scale. Sure, once in a while I’m told things I wish I hadn’t heard, even now more than ever, but I know it will never, ever compare to what people faced then, and what others face now.

On the opposite wall of the video was a timeline of sorts, that highlighted important events in history that shaped the country we have today. Different events lined this wall as I walked beside it with my camera. I read about the immigration of the first people to this country, to the Civil Rights Movement in the 1950’s and 60’s. My thoughts lingered on one of the first pivotal moments of our history. If immigrants were the first people in this country, and are the very foundation of our being, why are we trying so hard to keep them out? Why do we see these people as criminals for wanting to have a better life?

After voting on a poll that asked whether or not I was optimistic for our country’s future with a new President, it was time to finally enter the Holocaust exhibit. With my mother standing closely, we ventured into the darker part of the museum. Before we officially started the tour, we were directed to pick up a small card with the name and face of a child we did not recognize. My mom and I received a different child, so we individually inserted our cards into a machine (which it ejected back after a few seconds) where it displayed a small snippet of my child’s life. I learned of Stella Klingerova, a young Jewish girl who attended school and lived in Prague. I carried this small bit of information with me as I ventured off to the tour. I had the card with her picture on it clutched dearly as I listened.

The exhibit was dark, both figuratively and literally, as it was automatically guided by dim light and sound through different, small ‘stages’ as I’d like to call them. Each stop was a step further into the chronology of the Holocaust, and what led up to such a horrendous way of thinking and the actions of many. I thought of Stella throughout every stop, who must have been so confused and lost as to what was going on around her. I could only imagine what a young girl like her must have felt to be exposed to such unbelievable anti-antisemitism. About halfway through the exhibit, I was allowed another update on Stella via another machine. This time, I learned she was deported to a ghetto in 1942. At this time, she was around thirteen or fourteen years old, which sparked a new sense of guilt and sadness within me. I had no idea, at the time, what Stella’s fate would eventually be. Regardless, the fact that she was only one or two years younger than me made me feel sick.

We saw a Nazi uniform up close, barbed wire fences, and even a bit of hair recovered from one of the death camps. I remember hearing my mom softly call my name to come look at it as I was taking pictures. I was curious as to what she would call me over for, and the second I saw the auburn, slashed braided hair sitting in a glass case, I felt all the emotions boil in my blood. Why…why…why?

As morbid as it sounds, we walked through a replica gas chamber. The walls were lined with projections, all the same video. They were testimonies of the survivors, explanations on how life was in the death camps and all the morbid thoughts that crossed their minds. The room was considerably colder than the rest of the museum, which added on to the eerie feeling of being in there in the first place. In rooms like this, thousands were wrongfully murdered, daily. In rooms like this, lives were stripped from unknowing innocents.

In rooms like this, the very people that Hitler was convinced were the source of Germany’s problems, had their lives taken within minutes.

My mom stood in the room a little while longer while I composed myself. One of the testimonies I remember hearing was about a man addressing a group inside a camp with him who were planning to escape. He told them, as they tried to convince him to join them, that he’d rather stay in the camp and not hold the others back. He cared more about their escape than he did his own.

Finally, it was time to see the final ‘installment’, if you will, of our children’s story during World War II. I was nervous and shaky as I inserted my card, and held my breath as it took it in, read the card, and kept it. I was not going to get Stella back, I thought, all I’ll have is the printout of her story with her fate revealed at the end.
I read through the printout, which re-told everything I had read about her while on the tour. As my eyes passed over each word, my hands grew shakier and shakier. I didn’t want to reach the end to find out what happened. I wanted, so desperately, to read the bold letters after all these paragraphs and know that Stella ended up okay. Maybe she ended up with her family, maybe she made it out alive miraculously. Maybe she grew up to be a successful woman, a survivor, who shared her story of her life in the ghetto and at Auschwitz so that people could properly fathom what the world stood silent for.

But she didn’t. She was fourteen. She was young. She was innocent. And she was killed.

I stood in the middle of the printout area with a stunned look on my face. I could see my mom making the same expression as she read, which only gave me the idea that her child had not made it either. The only words that I could speak were, “she was fourteen. I’m older than that. She was fourteen.”

I couldn’t think about much more as we exited the museum. The recurring question in my head bounced back and forth against the walls, going to and fro but never quite leaving my mind. My head felt numb and my emotions felt as if they were stripped from me for a short time afterwards. It all felt surreal, that our society and world allowed this to go on for so long until it was too late. The Holocaust is not an instance that happened 200 years ago, not even 100. There are still people who justify these actions, and there are even people who go as far to say that this was all fabrication. Propaganda, to use their own words.
Hell, people still wear Nazi armbands to peaceful marches.

What I learned from the Museum of Tolerance is that I have to watch what I say. Words can be the most powerful weapon we have, and if not used carefully, they can have devastating consequences. If we do not learn to love, and tolerate those who are different, it is only a matter of time until we as humans tear each other apart. If we attack each other for a different opinion, or scoff at the idea of something new, we are only taking a step back in the progress we’ve already made as a country. Yes, we no longer have slavery. Yes, we no longer segregate based on color. But why stop moving forward when there are many miles to go?

We must learn to love our brothers and our sisters, our beautiful black, brown, white, green, red, rainbow siblings, and tolerate our differences. Each person has a story to tell us, and it is up to us to build each other up to amplify their voices so they are heard. The longer we wait to love and accept, the longer it will take to let our country live in harmony.