A Visit to the Neuengamme Concentration Camp in Hamburg, Germany

"Your suffering, your struggle and your death should not be in vain"

(One of my more memorable side trips in Hamburg. I wrote this as an assignment during my monthlong course for InWent-International Institute of Journalism in 2009)

Sunlight peeked out of wispy-thin clouds in a vast azure sky the day we went to Neuengamme. The bus ride was a little long (longer than usual, at least), but the green fields and charming suburban houses on the outskirts of Hamburg made the journey bearable, even fun. The group was in good spirits: a field trip to a visit a historical landmark was a welcome change of pace after days of lectures inside the Elsa Brandstrom house.

But the mood quickly shifted when we arrived at our destination. Raucous laughter and idle chatter among the Summer Academy participants were replaced by a hushed reverence as soon as we stepped into the box-shaped building in one corner of a small grassy field. It was the museum that housed a list of the victims of the concentration camp Neuengamme during World War 2. The names were written on gigantic scrolls that hung floor to ceiling around the four walls. The museum guide announced that not all who perished in the concentration camp were on the list: it was impossible to track down and identify everyone who suffered and died after passing through the horrors of Neuengamme.

The memorial was meant to look like a furnace chimney. You figure out why

Almost 100,000 people were held at the concentration camp from 1938 until the end of the war in 1945. They were held mostly for their religious and political beliefs: Jehovah’s Witnesses, Jews, communists, dissidents, homosexuals and other minorities the Nazi deemed “undesirable.” Forced to undergo hard labor in the most punishing conditions, about 55,000 inmates never made it out of there alive.

My familiarity with the events of World War Two, particularly the Holocaust, are limited to films like “Schindler’s List,” television shows, books and online material. The information is both fascinating and sickening: there are no words to describe the incredibly heinous acts committed by the Nazis, particularly the Schutzstaffel or SS, against their fellow human beings. But to actually see the place were those crimes were perpetrated, to walk in the same grounds where thousands of people were whipped and beaten and perhaps even shot to death, to actually be in the midst of all that pain and anguish all those years ago, I couldn’t help but be overcome by a wave of sadness. We learned history from the books at school, but absolutely nothing can prepare us when history (especially of the unbearable, horrific kind) is right there in front of us.

A sculpture meant to symbolize the loss of all hope 

Outside, a tall monument stood next to a sculpture shaped like a human lying on the ground. Its body twisted in an odd angle and shape, the sculpture represents the suffering of the inmates of the concentration camp. Our guide said the artist captures the exact moment when the person loses all hope and surrenders his or herself to his fate. It is a heartbreaking sight, and it is an image that will remain with me for years to come.

We took a quick tour of the victims’ exhibition in one of the buildings on the grounds. Their stories might be different, but they all shared the experience of being subjected to one of the worst atrocities committed by man the world has ever seen. Seeing their living conditions, what they wore and how they were treated only intensified the feeling of loss and despair. The sun was still shining brightly as we turned our back on Neuengamme, but a cloud of grief hung over our collective heads. It was a difficult visit, but one that anyone needs to make in any attempt to understand one of the darkest chapters ever in human history.

We Talked About Books That Brief Ride Home

 We talked about books that brief ride home. From the passenger seat, you spoke of your fascination with a title about finance or economics. I wasn’t sure, I can’t remember. I was too busy concentrating on the road and stealing glances at your profile hunched over your phone. My heart is beating strangely as I remember it now: your excited drawl, your thin legs protruding from the slightly sunken seat, and the way your hair fell down one side of your forehead. I found myself memorizing those little details without meaning to, perhaps as someone making his way through a maze instinctively looks back and remembers where he came from.

“What about you?” you asked. “What are you reading?”

Panicked, I searched the air in front of me for the book on my nightstand. Something about a young German soldier recruited at the beginning of World War 2, and a young, blind French girl living with her great uncle and an elderly househelp, who had just died four or five chapters ago, in the walled French city of Saint Malo.

“It’s called All the Light We Cannot See,” I finally said, telling you as much about the plot.

Was I convincing? I didn’t want you to think I was making it up. I really was reading that book at the moment. Do you look down upon literary fiction, preferring the more cerebral, more practical benefits of academic non-fiction? I prayed my voice sounded casual, nonchalant but not dismissive, enough to mask the deep uncertainty and hopelessly juvenile feelings of inadequacy.

Which was weird because the years were on my side, insofar as I had more of it compared to you. I was supposed to be the one playing the self-assured, disinterested character in this charade, and yet swimming in my head were all of these thoughts of trying to impress without making it obvious. I was an awkward, acne-scarred 14-year-old doing his best impression of a dignified, put-together thirtysomething.

“We turn right here,” you said. “It’s a one-way street, and my place is on the left.”

The minutes were galloping stallions, as if life itself hinged on how fast they got to the finish line. Carefully I maneuvered the car to the side. This can’t be it. It wasn’t even 20 minutes since I made the offer to drive you home. Where was the goddamned traffic? Why wasn’t there a stalled bus blocking our view?

“Thanks again,” you said, as you looped one arm around your leather satchel, and shifting ever so slightly in your seat to signal that this ride had come to an end.

“Very welcome,” I managed to say. I reached for the hand you extended for a friendly shake. A thousand words were trying to push themselves out of my lips, but all I could manage was a toothless grin.

You opened the door and climbed out. There was a piece of paper on your seat and you reached for it, thinking it was something that fell out of your pocket.

“It’s just a parking receipt,” I said, mentally kicking myself for being so damned messy. I snuck a quick glance at the back seat, where stray dog hairs waited for the next person’s back to stick themselves into.

“Oh okay. Well, good night!” you exclaimed as you closed the passenger door and walked to your building.

I drove away lost in my own thoughts about how the evening went. That somehow, I didn't seem too eager, too creepy, too boring, too ambivalent or too obnoxious. And that somehow, in that brief ride home, through all the messed-up words, you understood what I was trying to say.

The Watterson Principle, or a Note on Ambition

Dicasalarin Cove, Baler, Aurora province

I’ve been thinking a lot about ambition these past few months. It started late last year during a conversation with a good friend, let’s call him M. He’s been working for years at a big company (I won’t mention his real name or the company because it’d be too obvious). He got a job offer from another big company that’s sort of related to what he’s doing now, although in this new one he’d be senior management and would be heading an entire team.

M passed on the offer, partly because the pay wasn’t that much better than the one he has now, but mostly because he was too attached to his current job and he couldn’t see himself building up his career again in a relatively new industry and environment. 

In subsequent conversations with M, I gathered that his future plans involved retiring with a piece of land outside the city where he could build a modest-size house with a garden and to go on the occasional trip out of the country with friends. He’s not exactly close to retirement age yet but he’s already got things figured out and that’s what he’s working towards now. 

Neuschwanstein Castle, Germany

Compare that with M’s colleague, let’s call him N. For years, M and N worked alongside each other. But this year, N abruptly left his cushy job because he was looking for something more. I can’t say anything else because the personalities and institutions involved are fairly well-known, even for those not in our shared circles of acquaintances, but let’s just say this new endeavor is vastly different from his current occupation and involves actual power and a much wider sphere of influence. 

I know people want different things out of life, but I had to wonder about the circumstances in each of M and N’s lives that led them to pursue wildly different tracks. Why is one content to coast through with just the bare minimum, while the other feels like he wants the sky and the stars? Inevitably, these thoughts led to an internal dialogue about what I want to happen in my own life. 

I’ve wanted to be a writer for as far back as I can remember. I still have my old journals from when I was nine or ten years old where I would write stuff that happened to me throughout the day. There was even the occasional short story there (or what passes for a short story for a fifth or sixth-grader).

A view of Prague Castle from Charles Bridge

I was lucky enough to get into one of the best universities in the country and graduate from a course that I actually liked. It took me a few years to get into my groove, so to speak. I went through a few other jobs, most of which were only tangentially related to what I studied in college (and one that wasn’t—hey, I needed to eat). But eventually, I settled into a job that was the Holy Grail for most working professionals—one that I liked and one I thought I was actually good at. 

It’s been about 12 years and I’m still at it. Writing was all I ever wanted to do and how lucky am I that I get to do it for a living. It’s not perfect, and I have to make professional compromises from time to time, but generally, I wake up in the morning still looking forward to go to work. How many of us can get to say that?

The fulfillment of an ambition, even one as simple as getting to do a job you actually love—that, to me, is the definition of success. Yet somehow, society has led us to believe that there are other, loftier goals we should aspire to. A house or three, a new car, annual trips abroad, overflowing money in the bank—those are all benchmarks of success, and most of us toil in hopes of getting one or all of those and more one day. They’re not bad, of course, but are they really the best, most foolproof ways of telling us how far we’ve come? Who says we can’t live and work towards our own definition of success? Why can’t we set our own targets and live our lives in pursuit of our own goals?

Burano, Italy

I’ve never heard anyone express all of this quite as eloquently and as succinctly as Bill Watterson. In a speech in front of the graduating class of 1990 of Kenyon College, Ohio, the creator of the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes said: 

“Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement. In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and excess as the good life, a person happy doing his own work is usually considered an eccentric, if not a subversive. Ambition is only understood if it's to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success. Someone who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue other interests and activities is considered a flake. A person who abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered not to be living up to his potential—as if a job title and salary are the sole measure of human worth.

“You'll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you're doing. There are a million ways to sell yourself out, and I guarantee you'll hear about them.

“To invent your own life's meaning is not easy, but it's still allowed, and I think you'll be happier for the trouble.”

Dusk in Vienna, Austria

That last sentence basically sums it all up and has become a mantra of sorts for me, and I suspect, for many other people. Don’t get me wrong—the fact that I’m finding fulfillment in my current profession doesn’t mean I’ve stopped setting other goals for myself. I’d love to interview my writer heroes, work on an intensive journalistic piece, and even write and publish a book someday. Contentment shouldn’t be confused with complacency.

But for now, as I celebrate another turn around the sun, I’m happy to say that things are going great. There’s room for improvement, as always, but I choose to be grateful for what I have right now that makes life worth living. I’m inventing my own life’s meaning, and, just as Mr. Watterson surmised, I’m happier for the trouble.  

PPF in Europe - Part Fourteen: This is Goodbye

26 October 2018

11:35 a.m.

Onboard SQ345 from Zurich to Singapore

It's not every day you get to see a view like this

The climb up Mount Titlis was unforgettable, for sure, but when I look back at our time in Switzerland, the memory that sticks out the most is our last night in Lucerne.

We wanted to find a nice restaurant or coffee shop where we could say goodbye to Europe properly. I think it was Alex or Love who suggested that we just buy drinks and snacks from the local Billa (or whatever supermarket was still open) and find a spot by the river. We rode the No. 4 bus from our hotel to the main train station, walked up to the Old Town and managed to buy what we needed from a grocery store just minutes before it closed.

Afterwards, we walked over to a bridge by the lake, with a view of Chapel Bridge and a bright full moon. There, while some of us guzzled the local beer (Eichhof!), some had iced coffee, and all of us munched on peanuts and potato chips, we started reminiscing about the trip--all the cities we visited, the food that we ate and the people we met. Almost everybody said Switzerland was their number one country, if only for the Mount Titlis experience, when we got to spend a few hours playing in the snow and in freezing weather.

Hello from 10,000 feet up

Cecille said she likes Lucerne because it's soulful. Branden was torn between Prague and Venice. Mark said Prague was his number one, until we got to Venice and met the Almariegos and he fell in love with Burano. I think Toni will always remember Bled. The others argued about how to rank the places we've been to--is it by country? By city? By place? Or by experience? That went on for almost two hours, I think.

All the while, I kept thinking about the genuinely unique experience we all shared. Most people travel to places with their families or maybe one or two friends, but hardly anybody gets to go on a massive Europe tour with eight other people they consider as friends. Even rarer is the fact that somehow, miraculously, we all got along, with hardly any major conflict or even petty bickering.

It's been said that one of the best ways to get to know people is to travel with them; you'll end up either hating them or loving them even more. I think it's the latter for me. It was a chance to reinforce some of the things that I adore about the members of this little group:

With Portia, it was her always-prepared attitude and her propensity to offer help to anyone, anywhere and at anytime. I've traveled with her before and I already knew this about her. She's always ready to lend a hand whether it's reminding everybody about what documents to bring or offering to split a sandwich with somebody. She also probably gets the award for most photographs taken during the whole trip.

Portia hanging out at her villa in Salzburg

With Alex, it was his effortless humor and how he can almost always lift everybody's spirits, even when our tongues were hanging out of our mouths from sheer exhaustion at having to lug our heavy suitcases from one city to the next. He's probably one of the funniest people I know and it's amazing to me that he doesn't even have to try hard at it. (I'll still always blame him, though, for giving me stomach cramps from laughing way too hard at his "songs").

Alex poses in the cobblestoned streets of Salzburg

With Susan, it was her gung-ho attitude and motherly instincts. Traveling is hard, especially in a multi-city, multi-country trip, but I barely heard any complaints from her throughout our time together. She very kindly cooked for us during the times when we chose to stay in our apartment instead of eating out. She can always sniff out a bargain and she also never runs out of stories to tell, all of which are always fascinating.

Susan says Prague is all hers

With Cecille, it was her wide-eyed explorer spirit, caring ways and witty banter. Cecille was always game with a funny comment, usually in tandem with Alex, which always cracked me up. She's a romantic at heart, and it was through her eyes that I felt a newfound appreciation for all the places I've visited before. She also took on tasks for the group that hardly anyone else likely wanted to do. I liked also that she shared her best moments on the trip with her family back home, first and foremost.

Cecille feels her cheeks on Mt Titlis, Switzerland

With Branden, it was his state of near-constant excitement and incredibly chill demeanor throughout our trip. He reminded me of a little kid the way he expressed eagerness for each new place that we visited. He's incredibly self-aware and was probably the best at getting along with everybody else in the group. If Portia wins at taking the most pictures, Branden probably gets the medal for most pictures of himself taken during our trip (which isn't a bad thing, especially when people think you look better than Alden Richards!)

Branden looks away from the camera in Germany

With Love, it was her free spirit, honesty and lack of pretensions. Everybody knows her as being funny, loud and always exuding a sunny personality. In Europe, I got to know her emotional side (both of us became teary-eyed as we walked inside the old concentration camp in Dachau), as well as her loving, empathetic side (she constantly spoke with her husband and daughter throughout our trip). She's also a great listener and follower; you didn't need to tell her twice about things like what time to get up or where we'll all meet at a certain time. Thanks to her, we all have video reminders of all of the places we've visited.

Love's happy on the way up Mt. Titlis

With Toni, it was her relentlessly good mood and unshakeable disposition. Everybody loves Toni. She gets teased a lot, but I think that's because she makes everyone around her feel comfortable and valuable. She chatted with our hosts Evan and Jasmin in Salzburg and was always ready with her pack of Chinese medicines for everything from migraines and upset stomach to itchy skin and a bad back. We all supported her quest to collect Starbucks tumblers from all the countries we visited. She deserves to be happy.

Toni's radiant in Prague

And with Mark, it was his overall graciousness, kindness and leadership. Mark was always ready with a joke or a laugh and it was him who came up with the TWO GOLDEN RULES for this trip. I think those two rules helped set the tone for the whole time we were together. He deferred to suggestions from everybody but was also steadfast with his decisions. He wanted to "imprint" on all the places we went to, which I thought was better than simply taking a picture and checking it off a list. I think he holds this group together, even if he doesn't acknowledge or admit to it.

Mark's "wow" face in Prague

So that's our big Europe trip. It wasn't perfect, we could've gone to other places or done other things, but just as I expected, it was one laugh trip after another and about as much fun as I've ever had in any of my travels. Whether this turns out to be a more regular thing, who knows? But what I know for sure is that wherever we go, what's important is we're all there together.

Possibly the last selfie we took on our last night together in Lucerne

*****

PPF in Europe 2018 - Part Thirteen: Crossing Another Border

23 October 2018
10:40 p.m.
Ibis Budget Hotel

Yeah that church in Milan, what's the name again?

A quick stop in Milan for one night--pizza and the Duomo in the afternoon, a stroll along Corso Buenos Aires with a gelato--and we soldiered on to the final stop of this trip. Lucerneis another repeat visit for me. I can still remember how much I loved it the first time I came here--the calm lake, the nearly perfectly preserved Old Town, and the chill (and chilly!) laidback air.

What I don't remember is how expensive everything is here. And because this is the last leg, everybody's feeling the pinch. The hotel we booked i also the least, er, impressive. But at least we have a trip up tp Mount Titlis to look forward to tomorrow.

Susan window shopping at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele

Gotta have my gelato 

Kapelbrücke, or Chapel Bridge, in Lucerne

We walked around for a bit after dinner at the main train station this evening. The air is only starting to get fingertips-numbing cold, but most of us like it. Sure beats armpit-waterfalls heat in Manila.

The Chapel Bridge is still there and the Old Town looks and feels familiar. Cecille said she thinks the city is soulful and I'm inclined to agree. I'm happy we decided to stay here instead of in Zurich.

A clock tower in Lucerne's Old Town

Next: This is Goodbye

PPF in Europe 2018 - Part Twelve: Happiness is a Vaporetto Ride Away

22 October 2018

12:25 a.m.

Venice AirBnB

I fell in love with Burano, and I was there for only a couple of hours 

I think whether people enjoy a trip or not largely depends on their personality. If everything goes according to plan and you get to see and experience some pretty amazing things, but you're a perpetually dissatisfied nitpicker and ingrate, then you're never going to be happy traveling no matter what you do. 

On the other hand, a generally joyful and optimistic person can always take away the very best from any experience, even if flights are delayed, train rides are missed or the weather is uncooperative. 

Mark taking the very best picture he can of a church bell tower and a modern glass sculpture in Murano

We paid 5 euros (I think) to watch a master glass sculptor work his magic and turn a blob of glass...

...into this. And he repeated the process several times

Murano is Venice with about 80 percent less tourists

I think that's pretty much how I feel about Venice. People who see the city as one gigantic tourist trap now worth the effort and aggravation will leave it surly and spent (in more ways than one). But those who choose to see beyond the thick mass of tourists and confusing maze of alleys, streets and transport system will be rewarded with something far more precious than the overpriced food, drinks and souvenirs--a truly unique dot on the map that will never be replicated anywhere else on earth,

Venetians must be used to the constant invasion from nosy strangers from different corners of the globe, and yet I've found that most of them are still generally cheerful and altogether lovely people. That's another reason why I'll always have a soft spot for Venezia.

Burano exuded a different kind of charm, and one that I really liked. 

Here's a picture of me taking a picture of Mark, who's taking a picture of Love, who's taking a picture of Portia

And a generic picture of the four of us

I don't know exactly what I was trying to accomplish here

I'm trying to lay off caffeine, but Italian coffee is still the best in the world for me and I couldn't hep drinking a cup or three

Mark and I twinning (our hats, at least)

Pizza and pasta dinner at the Almariegos

Grazie mille Venezia. Arrivederci!

Next: Crossing Another Border