Being from a Romanian immigrant family, my history has always been important to me.
My family’s roots have been a motivator for me to pursue higher education and to seek opportunities my parents never had.
Yet, as the first American-born person in my family, my appreciation for my birthplace — Chicago — is equally important. While walking down the streets of Chicago, admiring its architecture and monuments, I’ve always been captivated by its life and vibrancy. I’m grateful to be able to experience it.
Nevertheless, revisiting our roots became a yearly tradition as we saved enough money to fly to Romania. One year, on the way, we took a detour to Germany. After arriving in Frankfurt, my family and I began brainstorming ideas for places to go. The typical spots came up: the Heidelberg castles, Munich and the like.
But I was intrigued by my uncle’s recommendation: the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site. After some convincing, we hit the road.
Being young, my only knowledge and connection to the Holocaust came through textbooks and videos. I was unsure what to expect.
As I walked through the entrance gates and onto a branching trail, I was met with a feeling of desolation and also morbid curiosity. My eyes darted from one side of the trail to the other. Trees were planted in front of an outline of the foundation of the barracks where prisoners were once housed.
I reached a narrow cobblestone path leading through a forest to the crematorium. Hesitantly, I entered.
Inside, I stood silent. I couldn’t help but envision a pile of prisoners’ bodies next to the brick ovens. One by one, the bodies would have been picked up, placed into the ovens and cremated.
As I stood there, I began to realize the significance the camp held — and though I might have read about the Holocaust in a textbook, seeing a concentration camp in person brought a greater understanding of the tragedies that occurred there — and a deeper appreciation for living a safe, secure and privileged life in Chicago.
While visiting the camp, my uncle said, “What a sad place. They should’ve torn it down years ago.”
I stood there wondering whether society would be better off had Dachau been demolished. Its destruction would be a deliberate action to erase a dark period in history.
Yet I didn’t feel satisfied with this answer. If we didn’t have the opportunity to see this place with our own eyes, how could we begin to comprehend its weightiness?
It was through this experience that I realized the greater importance of historic monuments and the meaning behind them — that, without the preservation of this monument of Dachau and others like it, we would lose a crucial connection to the past.
Now, as I walk down the streets of Chicago, admiring the city’s architecture and monuments, I think more about the history these spots hold.
And, as I get older, I hope others — especially the younger generation — can continue to value these tangible connections to the past as time goes on.
