This year, I appreciatively accepted the chance to go on an event called March of the Living, a meeting of 11,000 people from 40 different countries who march on Holocaust Memorial Day from Auschwitz I to Auschwitz Birkenau. The walk was one of emotion and sadness, but also joy, as thousands of people, including survivors and relatives of survivors, moved as one to remember all those who had been lost to the deeds of the Nazis during the last century. The March itself began in the centre of Auschwitz I. Under the harsh and eerie brick bunkers, crowds of people gathered to begin the March. They were all wearing the symbolic bright blue jackets of the March and an array of different flags protruded from the crowd. The camp was packed, each person trying to visualise the agony and despair that had occurred here decades ago. As the March began, you could see the sheer number of people that had come and the variety of different places they were from, that there was not one path or area of the camp that was empty. As we left, my friend turned to me and told me that the 11,000 people here could be gassed in one day when the three camps that make up Auschwitz were operational.
The March moved out of Auschwitz I, the first camp built out of the three that make up Auschwitz. Above the heads of the Marchers, the notorious entrance sign watched us pass, a grim reminder of the sickening humour of the Nazis. We looked up at this sign, which translates as ‘Work will set you free’, and thought how much untenable hope this must have brought to people who had nothing left. The walk between the two camps took roughly an hour, and ended in the centre of Auschwitz Birkenau, in front of a stage which had been erected for the occasion.
We entered Birkenau which is the largest camp, and the site where around 1.3 million men, women and children were executed, some within a matter of hours after their arrival. Underneath the infamous watchtower and gate, we were greeted by thousands of paddles of wood, which had been placed by the event’s participants everywhere from the railway track to the barbed wire fencing. We had been given our own paddles as we entered the camp and told to write something meaningful on them. Some had names written on them, while others contained simple messages of sadness and condolence. The paddles flooded the landscape, emerging out of every crevice and crack, every patch of grass and around every wired fence. The sight of these little squares of wood everywhere was extremely powerful; each one stood as a single reminder of each of the lives lost. Many had put names of people who had been murdered and as we walked past reading them we saw the variety of uncountable people, ages and birthplaces that gave us a small glimpse of the number of deceased. As we moved on past the gate, an old man was bending down to place one in some rocks; he had dedicated his paddle to his little sister, who had not been as lucky as him.
The crowd slowly progressed to the stage where they were beginning the ceremony. The stage had been set up inbetween the remains of two gas chambers that had been blown up by the Nazis when they heard that the war would soon be over. Speakers from different countries came to talk about what the day meant for them. A particularly emphatic speech came from a French Minister, who, after the recent attack on a Jewish family in Toulouse, stressed how important remembering the Holocaust was, and how we had to stop the world from falling back into the same pattern. Many were reduced to tears, as the politician defiantly stated that we must all ensure that something this terrible can never happen again; a sentiment that was echoed throughout the entire day.
Several liberators were alsohonoured at the ceremony, where we were shown a short video illustrating what they had experienced on their approach to the camps. One American liberator spoke about how he had driven up to one of the camps to see a stick figure standing at the entrance. As he approached he saw that the figure was a young woman, only a silhouette of herself, deeply malnourished and barely able to stand. The camp she had been in was soon liberated and a few years later, after getting to know each other well, the soldier proposed to her. The two have been happily married since, what they must see as a small spark of happiness that emerged from the shattering darkness that the Second World War had reaped.
The March of the Living is an incredible experience that reveals a small glimpse of the pain and suffering that occurred. Yet, the March is as meaningful as it is controversial. Many of the traditions and conventions that have emerged through the years have put into question what the March should mean. One such custom is that participants are asked to bring with them badges and stickers from their country of origin to share with the other international groups. On the face of it, the activity seems harmless, as each person comes back with a range of mementos about the people they have met, and it is a good way to emphasise to the school kids (that make up the majority of the March) just how remembering the Holocaust should be an activity that crosses all borders and nationalities.
Unfortunately, though, the sharing of badges quickly turns the March into some odd, bartering market. With everyone wanting something to remember from the trip, huge groups of kids begin chatting happily and swapping their badges. Soon, the location and date are soon forgotten. Chatting and asking where people are from, swapping a badge or telling them you already have their type; makes you quickly lose track of the solemnity of the occasion. In one instance I found myself jovially chatting to some school kids from Brazil, giving them a badge and laughing about how they’d already been given badges from Britain. As I looked up, I realised we were outside Block 11, the infamous ‘prison within the prison’ where prisoners were taken to be incarcerated, tortured and starved. It hit me how much death and suffering had occurred in a place where we were making idle conversation. Something felt far from right about what we were doing.
The truth is that the March is an event that faces a difficult juxtaposition. Whilst accepting the terrible losses of the Holocaust, it tries to promote the event as one of positivity as well as sadness. The fact that we stood and walked in the place of those that had fallen is not just an act of remembrance, but for many an act of defiance and redemption. Many think that such joyfulness is one of the only ways to let the deceased six million know that the Nazis did not win. The problem of the March is how to marry the solemnity with the happiness without leaving a bitter taste inthe mouth of the participant.
Did it succeed? For me, the March of the Living was a powerful and moving experience, one that I will never regret nor forget. While there still are some serious questions concerning the nature of the March, it nonetheless manages to provide a spiritual and emotional way to connect with an event that is quickly becoming ‘just something from the history books’. When you see, first hand, the thousands of wooden paddles and hear testimonies of the survivors who are returning courageously to a place they wished they had never visited at all, you realise the importance of the march.
They are bringing meaning to an indescribable memory. They are helping young people see and connect to an event which is all too easy to be passively apathetic about. The march manages to meaningfully commemorate the death of six million lives, a task which is far from simple. With the number of living survivors dwindling, and younger generations finding it harder and harder to relate to the Holocaust, the March of the Living can only become more important in providing such an insightful experience.