First of all, I have surpassed 7,000 blog views! Thank you all so much for supporting me and following me on this journey - I'm so thankful for my readers and for having an audience to write to and share information with.
I also want to congratulate Geraldine King, fellow MRHer, on winning the Alan M. Schwartz March of Remembrance and Hope Reflection Prize for 2011. Leading up to our August retreat (which you can read about here), we were invited to put together some sort of reflection on our MRH journey. Four participants pursued this - there were three essays, and one (amazing) video. I've included Geraldine's essay below:
The Blood Remembers
In my First Nation language, my son’s name means “One Who Brings Light into Darkness”. His name was passed on to him by an Elder after my son fasted, alone, for two days in the forest. This name is incredibly fitting as he has brought indelible light to my life which before him had seen intense periods of darkness. In my culture, ones’ traditional name is given to us by our spiritual ancestors – those who have gone on to the “happy hunting grounds”, as some might say. The single most important aspect of a traditional name is that it tells us who we are and what our purpose is on Earth. My son received his name at the young age of ten; I waited thirty-one years for mine – the same year that I was chosen to participate in the March of Remembrance and Hope (MRH).
In essence, the names given to us are meant to act as an inspiration to our own lives. These names instill a sense of purpose, hope and recognition in us and our communities. In other words, we are expected to live up to our names to honour our ancestors, our families, our communities and most importantly, ourselves. This cultural belief resonated with me throughout the MRH and influenced my interactions with staff, other participants, survivors, educators and guides. As a result, throughout the journey I felt incredible and deep sorrow whenever I encountered stories of Jewish identities and names being stripped from people throughout, and as a result of, the Holocaust. Those who died; those who were torn away from their families; and those who were forced to change their names in order to avoid persecution lost their identities, which is an enormous tragedy in and of itself.
At Auschwitz, there is a wall adorned with photos that were taken of Holocaust victims upon their arrivals at the concentration camp(s). I took the time to read as many names as possible, wondering why their parents (or perhaps grandparents, other family members, religious leaders, and so on) gave them that particular name. Was it after a great-uncle who used to make everyone laugh? Or perhaps they were given a name that had immense religious or cultural importance. What meaning did ones’ name have to his or her identity? Why did they choose certain names for their own children? These thoughts circled my mind as I grappled with the intense grief that overcame me after having stepped foot in the first building at Auschwitz. A huge part of me wanted to recite each name aloud so these peoples’ spirits would be heard on this Earth once more and further memorialized – so that their identities were not drowned in a sea of statistical oblivion.
Many years ago, I was an understudy in a theatrical production entitled “The Blood Remembers”. The story was based on the lives of seven generations of First Nations daughters; starting with a woman living in pre-colonial times, and ending with a woman struggling in modern-day, post-colonial society. My own mother played the role of a woman living at the infancy of the Indian residential school era. Her role was spoken in Ojibwe, and there was a point when her characters’ children were forcefully taken away by ‘Indian agents’. At that moment in the play, my mother cried hysterically and displayed such gripping emotion that despite speaking in a language that most did not understand, her mourning made me sob as well as most audience and cast members. Afterwards, I was struck with awe - in part due to her brilliant performance, but also because she genuinely and clearly felt the pain and sorrow of her ancestors. Although she was not born during the era that she portrayed, her grandparents were alive then and their children were likely stolen from them based on a perceived racial superiority. My mother’s blood and by proxy my blood was passed down from generation to generation. What this means is that despite never having experienced firsthand the pain, injustice and horrors of another, we are the descendants of human atrocities and therefore inherit the multi-faceted impacts of our ancestors’ experiences. The MRH has inspired me to ensure that future generations remember and avoid injustices, but more importantly, to infuse new memories of hope, inspiration and justice.
I was forever transformed within moments of being at Auschwitz. My spirit will never be the same – it had felt emotions and depths of sorrow that surpassed what I could have previously imagined and experienced. What my eyes have seen cannot be unseen. What my soul has felt cannot be unfelt. What my ears have heard cannot be unheard. At the same time, the atrocity of the Holocaust cannot be taken back; however, the memories of survivors, and those who perished, will live on. I will ensure that I never forget what happened during the Holocaust; that the world never forgets; and most importantly, that my son is able to create new memories for future generations of this world’s inhabitants.
My traditional name is “Rhythm of the Water Woman”. My Elder told me that I was given this name by my ancestors because my spirit inhabits the tumultuous space between the water and the horizon, and that it dances with the tempo of the waves. I interpret this to mean that my purpose on this Earth is to withstand adversity – regardless of whether that adversity stems from ideological and systemic oppression, or is entrenched in ignorance and intolerance. Consequently, The March of Remembrance of Hope helps me to honour my own destiny on Earth. I will always remember what I have learned throughout this journey; the people I have met; the stories I have heard; the tears I have cried. My blood does not forget.
