I have never been one to shy away from emotion, until this past winter vacation. A friend and I booked a flight with a stopover in Amsterdam on our way to Israel, and the only thought that flashed in my mind was “euro-trip.” As we stumbled off the plane at Schiphol airport, my mind raced a mile a minute. I had it all perfectly planned out down to the very last details of our stopover. We had our mapquest printouts clutched in our hands, and we were determined to see as much as we possibly could: Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Rijksmuseum, and even a scandalous trip to the Heineken factory. Of course, while we were in Amsterdam I was going to visit the annex of Anne Frank, but there was so much to do, and so little time. Adrenaline was coursing through me.
We walked through the winding streets of Amsterdam for about an hour trying to find the first stop on our itinerary, the Anne Frank House. As we passed by countless dingy bars and even a brothel or two, we remained unfazed by the irony of our surroundings and our desired destination.
But for some reason, when we arrived I was surprised. I had a distorted image of how I thought the Anne Frank House would look. But in front of me stood a slight narrow building that was obscurely hidden on the side of a cathedral.
As we entered the dimly lit building, we followed the crowd. We entered room after room, and climbed flight after flight of stairs until we reached the actual annex. The rooms contained either video segments of heart-wrenching pictures or different Holocaust memorabilia.
By the look of the tall blond European-looking people around me, it took about a second to realize that my friend and I were the only Jews in the museum. And it may have been a figment of my imagination, but I am pretty sure that everyone around me knew it too. But the physical appearances were not the pinnacle moment for me. As I looked around, I realized that I was emotionally isolated.
Like the people around me, this was the first time I had ever been in a place that was an authentic historical landmark and tribute to the Holocaust. I have never gone to Poland, and having very few family members who were in the Holocaust, it is not something spoken about frequently in my family. Yet, many of the people around me were having immense emotional reactions: there were friends hugging friends and numerous disbelief stricken faces. Many of these people have probably never even spoken to a Jew, yet something about Anne’s story and the tragedy that befell upon the Jews in the Holocaust clearly struck a cord.
We finally reached the small and gloomy annex. As I watched the scene unfold around me, I was waiting for my eyes to fill with tears. As the only Jews there, I expected a feeling of immediate connection to the atrocity of the Holocaust. At the very least, if I could not cry for what happened to the Jewish people, I awaited a feeling of sadness as I read the optimistic quotes of one special young girl whose life was cut way too short.
My anticipation quickly flared into anger. What was wrong with me? One answer that I tried pushing to the back-burner slowly became unavoidable as it inched towards the forefront of my thoughts: Have I become apathetic?
As I absentmindedly traveled through the last rooms of museum I began to wonder if the phenomenon that I was experiencing was perhaps indicative of a greater problem. Have I become too overexposed to the gruesome details and pictures, so much so that an annex emblematic of our greatest demise has turned into just an attic? The Holocaust has become so engrained in my education that perhaps I no longer grasp its magnitude.
I think my experience served as an important wake-up call. This year marks seventy years since the death of Anne Frank. Seventy years is long enough to make you forget, but it is not long enough to erase the impact of the Holocaust. The world might forget about the Holocaust, but the hatred continues. If the Jews forget, or become apathetic, then who will make sure history does not repeat itself?
Only one month ago, on a go a train passing by Auschwitz, someone accessed the speaker and announced that the Jews have arrived at their final destination. Apathy presents a grave danger for the Jews of the past, present, and future. The only thing more dangerous than hatred itself is the apathy of its victims. If we are silenced, then who is going stand up for the Jews on that train?
I think the optimistic outlook Anne Frank had on the good of humanity needs to continue to be actualized. If Anne has taught me anything, it is that mankind has the immense power to do good and influence others. It is the decisions that are made once our surroundings are internalized that reflect inner strength and identity. If there is no longer empathy, it leaves a perilous gap for Anne’s belief of “Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart” to fall to the wayside.