Agog.

Out from the darkness.

Budapest, Hungary – I'm welcomed by Jewish wedding music. 

Joyous. Upbeat.

It's soon replaced by marching boots.

A single heartbeat.

Hallways alternate between light and shadow as old reels unfurl with stories that fall softly from downcast eyes. By numbers, one in 10 Holocaust victims was Hungarian.

Silence.

Faintly, another wedding. You leave with a whisper of hope.

Budapest's Holocaust Memorial Center does a fantastic job of storytelling through sound.

And it opens into the most beautiful synagogue I've seen.

A Hard Cell.

A building with its own headline.

Budapest, Hungary – For decades, 60 Andrássy Avenue was the last place you’d want to find yourself.

Now, it’s a popular tourist attraction.

The House of Terror Museum is set in the former headquarters of both the pro-Nazi Arrow Cross and the communist secret police. It’s a symbolic address in the minds of generations of Hungarians.

The museum, though, is almost cinematic.

A Russian tank crouches in the lobby, metaphorically leaking oil as abrasive rock riffs fill the courtyard. The soundscape whisks you through a series of sets and period pieces. An eerie standup bass gives way to light strings.

Then, a black car appears, suddenly lit behind a curtain – as you imagine it would have in the middle of the night.

As a monument to those punished by two of the country’s recent totalitarian regimes, I find it almost too glossy, too much of a modern art piece. That feeling only ends, temporarily, after I slowly descend into the basement.

It’s where political opponents would vanish into cold stone cells, knuckled under fists of fury. There, in the shallow air, my imagination can finally sketch out their horrors.

If you ended up in there, you may have ended there.

Rebirth in Ruins.

Wonderland.

Budapest, Hungary – Last night is painted onto people’s faces.

The Jewish Quarter has become party central.

As they stumble along, I wonder how many revellers think of what happened on these streets 80 years ago. They’ll have passed various memorials and the Dohány Street Synagogue, which is the largest outside Israel. More than 2,000 victims of the Arrow Cross are buried in the courtyard.

It’s sobering.

And yet, I’ve come to visit Szimpla Kert, a former stove factory now brimming with greenery. It’s the last of the original ‘ruin bars’ and a distinctly Budapestian experience. Twenty-five years ago, people began reclaiming buildings abandoned since the war, giving them – and the community around them – new life. 

They were filled with mismatched furniture and cheap beer. And, as importantly, with people. 

Bathed in disco light.

Today, a flea market fills the entrance and sun streams through colour-blocked sheets flapping gently over the courtyard. Pink flamingos and gnomes wink behind plants sprouting from disco balls. It's wild.

In one room, a cracked tub serves as a bench, set beside haphazardly strewn stools, mottled with spray paint.

Each space is its own tattooed warren covered in scribbles that tell the stories of years of wild nights. Of loves longed-for. And of anarchy, which seems to align with the feeling of the place. 

But lighter.

Ruin bars have breathed new life into forgotten spaces, making the area one of the trendiest in Budapest. The sands of time are stacked on top of each other.

Still, as I leave, I step across one of 32 bronze strips embedded into the pavement – and back into history. 

They mark the locations of the old ghetto walls.

Soles, Departed.

Budapest, Hungary – Sixty pairs of iron shoes of all sizes line a stretch of the Danube.

Several are filled with red flowers.

Others bear ribbons or have the remains of burnt-out candles interspersed between them. Stickers about the ongoing crisis in Gaza have been affixed to a low wall. 

It’s a sombre memorial commemorating thousands of Jews killed by the fascist Arrow Cross during the final years of the Second World War. 

Their shoes held value, so they were told to take them off before being shot, falling into the river.

Naturally, tourists crouch, posing for beauty shots amidst the footwear. Anything for the ‘gram.’ 

I’m starting to wonder if social media is ruining travel. Or, maybe, just respect in general.

Run to the Hills.

Braşov's brutalist train station, opened in 1962.

Braşov, Romania – As we pull out of Bucharest, the sun shimmers over bright yellow fields.

Blocks of canola carry on for miles. It’s a crop mandated by the European Union, replacing what had traditionally been potato farms.

The train glides effortlessly past small villages with rusted roofs and passes under a bridge spray painted with a blue swastika. 

It's particularly unsettling as these rails, and this train company, actively contributed to the Holocaust.

In what seems like an instant, green hills shrug from the ground, producing two-tone forests stippled with evergreens and beech. Shortly thereafter, the train winces as we begin our climb into the Carpathian Mountains.

Dark, craggy peaks cut into the skyline. Thin cloud settles into crevices as though someone has exhaled a cigarette. Rains are coming.

Despite the country's reputation for rail delays, we pull into Braşov exactly on time. Bells announce our arrival with the chime of a few notes of the operetta, Crai Nou.

And the rains hold off just long enough for me to make the 45-minute walk to the old town.

Stumbling Blocks.

Prague, Czechia – Taking an evening stroll, I trace tic-tac-toe boards of grey and white cobblestones.

Squares give way to crosses, then to diamonds and stars.

Three brass squares shimmer like gold teeth in the day's shrugging light. 

Inscribed with names of the building's former inhabitants, they're among 400 stumbling stones in the city – and 75,000 across Europe – commemorating individuals removed by the Nazis, never to return.

The stones are part of a decentralized Holocaust memorial that's not without controversy. But tonight, nobody else seems to take the time to look up or down.

There's another bar to visit.

Whispers.

Ramp from main guard tower, Birkenau.

Oświeçim, Poland – A whisper. A comment.

(Withheld.)

I've long read the stories, seen the movies and imagined the terror in my mind. For once, the movies haven't exaggerated.

The pages of history books I studied in university unfold before me in full colour and in three dimensions. But here, the pages are so massive, so physically real. Five hundred acres real and scarred by seemingly endless brick foundations, left hollow.

Like I'm feeling.

Over five years, more than 1.3 million people were sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau, 85 per cent of whom were murdered with incomprehensible brutality. Our tour lasts longer than most victims spent here. The hollows remain as a physical black mark on history, whispering to us to remember.

Inside, a display case holds two tonnes of human hair. Two tonnes.

Pathway to the crematoria, Birkenau.

The whispers grow louder with each crunch of gravel as we move past the unloading ramp, still stitched together by miles of railroad track and barbed wire. An eerie peace is found in groves of mature trees swaying around a small pond.

It's shattered when we're told this is where ash from Crematoria IV was unceremoniously dumped – graves, rather than groves. More whispers.

We fall even further into silence as a man rocks on his heels, breaking into a heartbreaking song of prayer in Yiddish over the haunting, shattered rubble of the former Crematoria II. Blown up in 1945 by the fleeing Nazis, it's a contorted mound of jagged steel and concrete: destruction, destroyed. 

Otherwise, it's the silence that whispers of the horrors that took place here.

Right under our feet.

Interlude.

Auschwitz-Birkenau.

visitation stones  – oświeçim, poland

I step onto the same white stones
into which you’ve tucked
small notes of reminder:
despair in 21 languages.

Even with time, I’m cautious
to not turn right,
although, for many,
memory has already calcified.

I want to chip away at each
so recollection doesn’t become
just another stone
kicked down the road.

But there are too many
for one to pick up. 

A Front Seat to History.

Kraków, Poland – The city's history reaches back much farther than the past 80 years.

And much has happened since.

Yet, its prominent role in the Second World War remains front and centre for many, and I find myself visiting the Oskar Schindler Enamel Factory museum and wandering through Ghetto Heroes Square, where 70 iron and bronze chairs stand as stark monuments to those who never came home from the Holocaust.

The chairs convey the lack of humanity and conjure images of people being separated from their worldly possessions and sent to their deaths, which took place in this square.

Gate 3 in background (March 1943).

To this day, Podgórze, the district on the bank of the Vistula River that became the Kraków Ghetto, is noticeably different than much of the rest of the city: blackened by soot and by history.

Some buildings, long abandoned, still lean into the darkness.

Two sections of the original ghetto wall remain, rounded at the top and intended to remind inhabitants of being in a cemetery. Some sections had been constructed of actual pillaged headstones.

In an additional act of cruelty, the wall wasn't built when the ghetto was established, but on Pesach, the Jewish holiday of freedom.

Location of former Gate 3 (July 2023).

Podgórze is a remarkable, living time capsule. Most of the 320 buildings that comprised the former ghetto still stand and, apart from some cosmetic upgrades, look the very same as they do in history books.

Recognizing the anachronism, I hold up historical photographs on my phone to match my surroundings. Rounded balconies? Check. V-shaped building at a split intersection? Check.

As the backdrops have not changed, I'm easily able to identify key landmarks and the locations of the four former gates. A choppy black-and-white reel plays in my mind.

And ghosts whisper a chill into my veins.

Memorial Day.

Washington D.C. – Cicadas rub wings to their legs, adding a sonic electricity to the lush gardens serving as feather boas to the grand dames of historic houses surrounding historic Dupont Circle.

It’s a liveliness lost for most of a day spent reflective, awed and as silent as the marble and stone memorials dotting the city. Emerging at an angle from the earth, the Vietnam Memorial reads like the black pages of a phone book. Such gravitas: so many names and so much youth lost in the jungles of a country where I made very different memories.

Later, bells ring out over Arlington National Cemetery, which gleams like a perfectly arranged smile in the early morning light. A single red bouquet breaks up the repetition, like having something stuck between its teeth.

Changing of the guard has taken place here since 1937, and sentinels’ boots now clack with precision in the pin-drop silence facing the tomb of the unknown soldier.

Lincoln, Martin Luther King, FDR, Jefferson. The National Korean War Monument, with its ghost-like sculptures of faces haggard by war, seem to seep through the foliage. It’s one of the most evocative memorials I’ve experienced.

Finally, the Holocaust Museum and the Air and Space Museum.

I’ve taken more than 41,000 steps today and have still seen more memorials than I’ve taken steps.

No doubt I’ll remember both tomorrow.

Day 39: A Red Mark.

Kigali, Rwanda – Crouched on reddish- black volcanic rock, a long, jagged row of homes and businesses that line the road from Gisenyi bear a red ‘X’ like a modern-day scarlet letter. The mark indicates the structures will be destroyed for being too close to the road. Though owners receive compensation from the government, they are still often forced to relocate.

I have seen this throughout the country and it reflects Rwanda’s infrastructure development, particularly roads, in the face of little formalized land ownership.

Passing through the northern province, even more letters are stencilled on signs and onto the facings of most buildings. The words they form, however, reflect a slogan introduced by the region’s popular governor. Like scars beginning to heal, they remind passersby of the genocide, but speak of hope for the future.

Loosely paraphrased, the phrase asks people for peace, forgiveness and to fight genocide from the roots up. That this message has been branded throughout this region is particularly significant given that it was home to former President Habyarimana and many of the genocide’s organizers. It is also where the war continued the longest.

In most instances, the word ‘Jenocide’ is singled out in red.

Day 27: A Word on Language.

Kitabi, Rwanda – At any one time here, the lyrical tones of a variety of languages are carried on the breeze. With everyone talking on a mobile phone, it can be a real symphony.

Many educated Rwandans are at least bilingual and often speak three or four languages, at least passably. Persistent chatter on the street is generally in Kinyarwanda, but the government implemented a policy this past year that made English the working language. Meetings, however, often dissolve into the national tongue.

I imagine the transition will be interesting – and likely challenging – in the short term, given that the policy is not being phased in. It’s already in place. Imagine waking up one morning and suddenly finding out that all of your work had to be done in a different language – one you understood little of. All of a sudden, school curricula are in English. Signs, advertisements, newspapers, overhauled.

Though it may handicap the nation in the near future, the President believes the change will help Rwanda better position itself on the global stage in the long run. English is also central to the country’s desire to join the Commonwealth.

Kiswahili – the language of much of East and Central Africa – has now also been made mandatory in schools.

Given France’s extensive historical involvement in the country, many Rwandans also speak French (though there are areas in which you may be thought less of if you do because of disgust with the former colonial power). Rwanda was once part of ‘La Francophonie’, the association of French-speaking nations, but diplomatic relations have chilled with France because of its colonial past and its role in the genocide.

On an interesting note, Kinyarwanda is blessed with a couple idiosyncrasies that can be somewhat confusing if you’re not prepared for them. For reasons I do not understand, the ‘k’ sound is often pronounced as “ch” and an ‘l’ can be pronounced as ‘r’. As an example, Kigali (where I’m headed back to tomorrow) is often pronounced “Chigari”. To add another wrinkle, ‘b’ can be pronounced as ‘v’, leaving the oral form of Kitabi as “Chitavi”.

Confused yet?

National Heroes Day.

Kitabi, Rwanda – While I didn’t personally have an opportunity to participate in any of the many ceremonies taking place around the country today, it is National Heroes Day in Rwanda. This holiday is similar to Remembrance Day in Canada except that it’s held mostly in honour of four heroes (or group of heroes).

I spoke to a number of Rwandans who expressed that they would be spending the day thinking of Fred Rudahigwa, who was the leader of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) until he was killed during the first day of fighting in 1990. He was succeeded by current President Paul Kagame. They will also remember Agathe Uwiligiyimana, the country’s Prime Minister during the early days of the genocide. Uwiligiyimana’s assassination also led to the deaths of 10 Belgian UNAMIR soldiers sent to protect her.

Students of Nyange Secondary School are also being remembered for their courage and solidarity. Three years after the genocide, they refused demands from insurgents who had just returned from then-Zaire to separate according to Hutu and Tutsi lines. In the end, two of the three girls killed were Hutu.

The fourth hero remembered is King Charles Rudahigwa Mutara III, who is believed to have been murdered by his Belgian doctor when he expressed opposition to Belgian colonial policies.

Day Eight: Back to Kigali.

Kigali, Rwanda – Though I’ve only been there for about 12 hours since I landed in this country a week ago, I began my day at my ‘home away from home’ in Kitabi. Shortly after breakfast, though, it was back on the road for the three-hour return to Kigali, where we have a day of meetings with the National University of Rwanda, followed by two days in Kibuye, on the country’s western border with DR Congo.

As I have not seen much blue sky since arriving, it was a particularly nice treat to awaken to a clear backdrop to one of the most stunning natural scenes I’ve seen in my life this morning. The mountain air in Kitabi was thin like the clouds framing the plots of tea that cling to the hills falling away from my front door. I breathed it all in deeply to take with me on our commute to the country’s capital.

Regardless of the time or where we go, Rwanda’s roadways are constantly lined by people on bicycles or on foot, generally carrying something on their heads – suitcases, briefcases, bedrolls, bundles of sticks, yellow jerry cans of water or large foliage that makes them look as though they have Sideshow Bob’s hair. A quick cut to the horn gets those who have strayed onto the pavement to correct their steps.

Heavily laden trucks wheeze exhaust like chain smokers in an attempt to make it up the many steep hills; so slow are they that pedestrians pass them. At any point on the road, you can count on a bus passing in the other direction at least every two minutes. Essentially large minivans, they’re on time here, and full.

Enroute, we passed several more groups of pink jumpsuit-clad prisoners who were off to work the fields under the watchful eye of heavily armed guards. Others manned a biogas facility. Strangely, yet others were found sitting in a small roadside cemetery – it made me wonder if this was an added element to their restitution. It’s striking how many prisoners you see, particularly when you consider how little crime there is in the country now. It’s a bit of a reminder.

Pulling into Kigali in the early afternoon, we were greeted by the familiar red clay brick houses that line the city’s hills like jagged teeth. The rest of the day was spent doing what one learns to do a lot of here: waiting. We sat for more than two hours for a scheduled meeting with a high-ranking official who did not materialize. Alas, this is not uncommon.

Remembering the Past.

Kigali, Rwanda – “Children, you may have been our National heroes,” the plaque reads at the Kigali Genocide Memorial. Behind it, light streams through large yellow picture windows of young children who perished during the massacres. Beneath each, a name and thumbnail biographical sketch that reads something like this:

Age: 3
Description: Mummy’s boy
Favourite pastime: Playing with friends
Favourite food: Chocolate
Last memory: Watching mum die
How killed: Stabbed in the eye. Or, Hacked with a machete in mother’s arms. Or, Grenade thrown in their shower.

I really hope my children are being given a big hug right now.

Elsewhere, cases of skulls, many in pieces, lie perfectly arranged. Like many say the genocide was. In other cases, femurs. Clubs, hoes and machetes. And bloodstained Superman sheets. And rosaries. How can there be a God in the Hell these people endured? Picture after picture, testimonial after testimonial. A toddler’s sandal. The very chain and lock that was wrapped around an entire family thrown into a mass grave.

Not to mention the memorial is built on a mass grave that is the final resting place for 150,000 people. Humankind is capable of atrocities I am simply unable to comprehend.

 

Of course, it is also capable of tremendous compassion and healing.

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