Lately I have been reading about the hollocaust. It is sad to read about how cruel the Nazis were. Not just to the Jews but to Gypsies, Smugglers, the Homeless, and the Poor. It effected even those who werent inside the consentration camps. So little food, so little of everything.
Hollocaust books always make me think about how cruel man is, and how tons of people are stuck not knowing how the 'real world' is and how something like the Hollocaust would kill of so many of us from our inexperience. We are so used to have everything we need/want there. We wouldnt survive in the consentration camps like they did. We dont have enough skill to know how to survive in such harsh conditions. And realy, how many of us would go against one another if it meant saving our own lives? Would it be more than it was during the Hollocaust?
Characters in books I have read have almost all admited at one point or another that they couldnt believe that they thought just having to wear things to show that they were a Jew was horrible, and having Jewish owned shops burned down, and being mocked by others was bad. When the harshness of the Consentration camps, Work camps, and even the Death camps was unbearable and unimaginable before it. Having their loved ones deported, knowing that they might not ever see them again. Knowing that they might just be shot or tortured at a Death camp. Things like that make you think...Are my problems realy that bad?
Referring to the question above, you cant exactly compare yourselves to them. They found out what that pain was like, luckily we dont have to (or havent had to, yet) and that makes it so we dont have to exactly question if our problems are bad or realy worth getting upset over. Because we dont know that pain, so the pain we have now or have experienced is still very painful to us. If we were to experience something like the Hollocaust, I am sure we would admit to ourselves how we were foolish or ignorant to have been so upset about the small problems. But, for now, we dont have to admit that, we dont understand it yet to be sincere in admitting it.
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The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves. Until one day there are none.
Inverno houra Roselia
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And this, And this, And this, And it means Nothing.