(Matthew Zing) I think that this is the most interesting, or at least the most difficult aspect of Europe to understand and relate to: the fact that not but sixty years ago, World War Two was raging on here in Holland. How could we possibly know what that must feel like, us being from such a inexperienced country, relatively speaking? How could we know what it is like to have grandparents, or mothers and fathers, that realized and survived the Nazi occupation of their country, the carpet bombing of their city? I think that I never thought about the proximity of the war to our own generation for precisely the fact that the United States, save Hawaii, were unaffected by it, never touched by a holocaust or an invasion by a foreign army. But here, there is the very house Anne Frank hid for her life (I almost cried), German bunkers, scorched clock towers and completely rebuilt cities. What do we have at home that could remind us of such a past besides vague stories from veterans, stories that seem to come from an alien world, a time detached? In the states, the war comes off as legendary, almost mythological, and I certainly don’t mean in a entirely positive sense. But there is a deafening truth behind these stories that we might never be able to understand. They are not stories but actualities that define the lives of millions. I feel lucky, as if I’ve grown up among various advantages. Yet guilty as well, as if my life might be incomplete, and it scares me to think, that to be whole, I need horror, trauma and death. But these are the things, that without, our lives would lack in beauty. Read the rest of this entry »