by Lucy Hamann
After I stepped into Auschwitz, it felt as though this era of history had been paused, not erased, and not forgotten, but suspended. Frozen in time while the rest of the world moves forward. Driving into the camp, I noticed life continuing outside its gates. People were gardening in their yards, dogs napped on patios, and neighbors walked to work, only five minutes away from the entrance to Auschwitz-Birkenau. I couldn’t imagine waking up every day so close to a place marked by such destruction and trying to go about life as normal. The guilt would eat me alive.
Outside the camp, the world moves on. Inside, time stands still. The buildings are preserved, but they did not just feel intact; they felt active, alive. I could almost sense movement. Hear footsteps. Feel the presence of people who once lived, suffered, and died there. The energy was overwhelming. I expected to cry. I expected to feel lightheaded or overtaken with emotion. Instead, I just felt numb. It was too much to process all at once. Millions murdered, families torn apart, and identities erased. The weight of what happened there pressed down on me like something physical. And even now, writing this a day later, I’m only beginning to process what I witnessed.
The Holocaust feels like distant history in textbooks, but standing there reminded me that it’s far closer than we want to believe. My visit was meant to be educational, a moment to learn from the past and promise that our generation will never let it happen again. But I left with a heavier truth: we are letting things happen again. It’s easy to say “never again.” But in the face of power, politics, and fear, what does that promise really mean? I couldn’t stop thinking about my own country, America, and how we speak about war, refugees, and immigration today. I don’t pretend to have all the answers. None of us do. And that’s what scares me the most.
Misinformation spreads quickly. Compassion is complicated. And even with all my passion, I sometimes feel… courageless. But maybe acknowledging that fear is a first step. Auschwitz reminded me that history doesn’t just live in the past. It breathes, it lingers, and it warns. The question is whether we’re brave enough to listen.