He was the last. Truly the last.
Such yellowness was bitter and blinding
Like the sun’s tear shattered on stone.
That was his true colour.
And how easily he climbed, and how high,
Certainly, climbing, he wanted
To kiss the last of my world.
I have been here seven weeks,
‘Ghettoized’.
Who loved me have found me,
Daisies call to me,
And the branches also of the white chestnut in the yard.
But I haven’t seen a butterfly here.
That last one was the last one.
There are no butterflies, here, in the ghetto.
-Pavel Friedman
Imagine for a moment being this young boy,writing this poem, in a concentration camp during the Holocaust. Your world turned upside down, and you realise that the beauties of your once home no longer begin in this new world.
I was struck by the stories of the people depicted on these walls, the humanness of their story. As I looked at some of their belongings which they once held, there was a constant reminder and knowledge that I, too, could have been on these walls. The exhibition made clear the different roles that people take in times of othering, violence and chaos. Perpetrator, victim, bystander, defender.
South Africa finds itself at an important precipice as we confront the painful consequences of our countries own violent history and at the same time face the ever-present violence betted on others, in particular non-South African’s. An attack on non-South Africa’s can soon become an attack on all who are perceived as outsiders.
We must also begin to ask ourselves, never again? And what role will I take up?
