Milena Moser about the brutal events: No more words

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For many years I lived, we all lived, in this constant feeling: “This can’t be, this couldn’t really happen?” The world situation is spiraling deeper and deeper into unimaginable dimensions of horror; reality as such is no longer recognizable.

I can not do it anymore. I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t process this anymore. I see these images that are beyond my imagination, constantly being replaced by new, even worse images and films until layer upon layer of horror forms.

I remember looking at a coffee table book about the Holocaust as a child. My parents belonged to a generation that barely survived World War II, but was even more passionate about the slogan “Never again war!” believed. Moreover, we did not have any banned books. So I sat down on the carpet and turned the page, and it took me a long time to realize what the picture was. My eyes refused to convey what I was seeing. My child’s soul could not accept this. What was it, this disordered pattern, this disordered heap—what?

It was a mountain of emaciated, naked corpses. Bodies were discarded like trash, discarded, abused. Barely recognizable as the people they once were, who once lived, loved, worked, danced. Among the people who beat her like that, among her neighbors.

How was this possible?

I couldn’t understand it. It went beyond my imagination, my little world shattered into a thousand pieces. This is how I feel now. And, frankly, not just now and not just in the last few weeks. This confusion, this helplessness accumulated and intensified over the years. Now it threatens to overwhelm me, and I curl up like a bug in fear.

Victor remembers the moment when he lost his innocence, his faith in goodness, in his country. He was fourteen years old when he walked into the Tlatelolco massacre on his way to visit a school friend in Mexico City and was forced to flee from shooting soldiers. “You were like me,” he says. “Poor indigenous people like me.” Until that day, he unquestioningly believed in his country, in the army of his country, about which he learned only good things at school. And now he had to run from their weapons, hide, fearing for his life.

“The next day was the worst. How to continue to live?

How to continue living. With these fragments where there once was confidence.

I look at Victor, who is clearly living very well and enjoying life. How?

On the other hand, why not?

“That day broke me, but it also made me stronger.” Experienced. We are living. One breath at a time. One step forward, two steps to the side. To draw a picture. Stroking the cat. Fry tomatoes and peppers. Hanging laundry. Write the text. Life.

Source: Blick