Remembering the past

Today our journey started at Yad Vashem, Israel's holocaust memorial. It is set in a beautiful hillside in Jerusalem and the aroma of rosemary, a herb representing remembrance, fills the air. We are shown round the museum by a guide called Debbie, whose parents went onto the Kinder transport to Britain and survived the war. 

Our first stop was to the Children's hall of remembrance, a truly moving place, where the light of five candles are reflected with mirrors around the room. The effect is like a million stars sparkling. As we passed through, the names of the children were read aloud, a seemingly never ending list of names. 

We then went into the main museum which followed the story of  6 million Jews who were led to their death. Our guide brought this number to life with stories of individuals who were victims of the holocaust, some who died and some who survived the horrors. 

As we made our way through room after room packed to capacity with people, we soon got very tired and as I found a little seat away from the crowd, I reflected on how I was getting a little glimpse of how these people must have felt as they were pushed into cattle carts and traveled to their deaths. 

The most harrowing moment for me was when we entered the final room. Around the room stood box files of evidence about what had happened to the 4 and a half million individuals who were killed.  But also around the room there lay empty shelves waiting for the story of the other one and a half million people who were killed. Each of those people had a story. They had a family, friends, hopes and dreams. I then considered this song: 

I have a maker, he formed my heart, 

before even time began, my life was in his hands.

I have a father, he calls me his own.

He'll never leave me, no matter where I go. 

He knows my name, he knows my every thought

He sees each tear that falls and hears me when I call.