There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. A man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down.
Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.
In existential mathematics that experience takes the form of two basic equations: The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.
Milan Kundera, Slowness
Kundera, man. This guy just knows how to pierce into and extend a metaphor.
The question his thoughts inspire in me today is this: when we travel from the present moment to our memories–or an imagined future–does the speed of life around us change? How do we move from our imaginations to our current surroundings? Slowly or with speed?
Slowness By Jill Szoo Wilson
A breeze blows through my window proclaims, "I wants to write," as it lifts the pages of my notepad– the crinkling sound of paper– no– the sound of pages running across a sidewalk though no footsteps follow behind.
Free, the pages tumble twist into a roll– double back salto tucked with a triple twist– a pigeon holds up a sign, "7 out of 10."
It had to be the pigeon. No one else was paying attention.
The fluttering of the notebook page pulls me back into the moment– how many sounds have I forgotten to hear?
Do I hear the past more loudly than today? How many hours echo through a chamber of disparate chatter?
A dog is barking, a squirrel's claws are tapping the inside of my ceramic pot, I'm humming a song that was sung to me once, the pigeon is bored– he flys away.
In the fall of 2006, Eva Mozes Kor, Holocaust survivor and Mengele twin, received an unexpected invitation that would set her on a new path in her journey to advocate for forgiveness as a human right. Dr. Joan Lescinski, president of Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College in Terre Haute, Indiana, invited Eva to a private lunch. Eva, ever curious, arrived dressed in her favorite bright blue suit, eager to learn more. Little did she know, this would be the beginning of an incredible journey, one that would shape not only her legacy but also the conversation around emotional healing and forgiveness on a global scale.
Eva Mozes Kor. Jill Szoo Wilson took this photo at an NBC studio in Indiana.
A Life-Changing Invitation
As Eva stepped onto the campus, the vibrant fall colors of the trees created a beautiful backdrop for the day ahead. Dr. Lescinski explained that the board of directors had voted to honor Eva with an honorary doctorate for her work in forgiveness and had chosen her to be the commencement speaker in May 2008. It was a rare and deeply meaningful recognition, one that both humbled and surprised Eva, knowing the weight of the responsibility that lay ahead of her.
But this honor would not come quickly. The process took almost a year and a half to prepare. During this time, Eva decided to dive deeper into the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR), especially since the declaration did not address the emotional pain inflicted on survivors and victims of atrocities.
The Idea of an Addendum
Eva, alongside Kiel Majewski, researched the UDHR and realized that while the declaration addressed the physical and civil rights of individuals, it failed to address the emotional trauma that people, especially victims of genocide, carry for most of their lives. This led Eva to propose an addendum to the UDHR, one that would acknowledge the human right to live free of emotional pain inflicted by others and by life itself.
A Legacy of Resilience: Saint Mother Theodore Guerin
As Eva prepared for her speech, she reflected on the perseverance and strength of those who built the foundation of the institution she was addressing. One such person was Saint Mother Theodore Guerin, the founder of Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College. Guerin’s own journey, filled with adversity and relentless determination, resonated deeply with Eva.
Saint Mother Theodore Guerin, a French nun, traveled across the Atlantic Ocean in 1840 to establish what would later become Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College in Terre Haute, Indiana. She was part of a group of Sisters of Providence sent by the Superior General of the Congregation of the Sisters of Providence in France to open a mission in the United States.
She and her fellow sisters arrived in the United States at a time when the country was still relatively young, and the area around Terre Haute was largely undeveloped. Despite facing numerous challenges, including language barriers, limited resources, and harsh conditions, Mother Theodore Guerin persevered and founded the college in 1840. Her vision and determination to provide education for women in the midwestern United States became a reality, and Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College was established.
Eva often reflected on how one person’s determination could spark lasting change. Guerin’s commitment to education, even in the face of hardship, was the very kind of perseverance Eva hoped to embody in her own work. As Guerin had never given up on her dream, Eva refused to give up on her vision for a world where emotional healing was recognized as a fundamental human right.
Eva’s Commencement Speech
In May 2008, Eva arrived at the commencement ceremony, accompanied by her son Dr. Alex Kor and her husband, Marius Kor (“Mickey”). The ceremony felt like another survival test, but Eva was resolute. She stood before the graduates, faculty, and board members, prepared to speak from her heart.
During her speech, Eva took a moment to reflect on her past, on the unimaginable horrors she endured as a ten-year-old girl in Auschwitz. Separated from her parents and two older sisters, Eva, along with her twin sister Miriam, was thrust into an environment of unspeakable cruelty. She shared the vivid memories of being shoved into filthy, overcrowded barracks, deprived of food, and subjected to the terrifying medical experiments led by Dr. Josef Mengele. But she also spoke of her defiance, the way she managed to survive after Mengele’s chilling prediction that she would be dead within two weeks following his lethal injection. Against all odds, Eva lived, and in the process, she learned the profound strength that kept her going (Kor, Surviving the Angel of Death).
Below is an excerpt from her speech:
You have come a long way, and so have I. Sixty four years ago at this time, I was a ten-year-old little girl, huddled with my twin sister, Miriam, in our filthy bunk beds crawling with lice and rats. We were starved for food, starved for human kindness, and starved for the love of the mothers and fathers we once had. We did know then that there was a United States of America. But I knew nothing about the state of Indiana, Terre Haute, Indiana, Saint-Mary-of-the-Woods-College, nor did I dream of receiving an honorary doctorate. In those days I dreamed of food and freedom, so all my energies focused on living one more day and surviving one more experiment [. . .] We arrived in Auschwitz in the Spring of 1944. Within 30 minutes we were ripped apart from my parents and two older sisters. Only my twin sister and I survived Auschwitz. I defied Mengele who said that I would be dead in two weeks after he injected me with a deadly germ, I defied Auschwitz, a factory of death, because I never gave up on myself nor on my dreams.
As she spoke to the graduates, she drew a powerful parallel between her survival and their own journeys. She reminded them that, like herself, they had persevered through challenges. The graduates had worked hard, faced their own struggles, and overcome personal obstacles to reach this moment of triumph. Eva’s words connected their achievements in the classroom to her own perseverance in the face of unspeakable violence. Both, she emphasized, were the result of relentless strength, the kind of resilience that endures and thrives even in the face of overwhelming adversity.
The Power of Forgiveness
Eva then shared a life lesson that she held dear: “Forgive your worst enemy, and forgive everybody who has hurt you. It will heal your soul and set you free.” Her journey to forgiveness, which began on January 27, 1995, was pivotal not only in her own healing but in her advocacy for others to release emotional pain through forgiveness (Kor, CANDLES Foundation).
As part of her speech, Eva called upon the students, faculty, and staff at Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College to sign an addendum to the UDHR, which would advocate for the right to emotional healing through forgiveness. This proposed addendum would be sent to the United Nations, the President of the United States, and the Helsinki Human Rights Commission. Eva felt confident that Saint Mother Theodore Guerin, the founder of the college, was smiling down in approval of this effort.
The Addendum to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights
Eva’s proposed addendum stated the following:
Right to Freedom from Emotional Pain: Every person has the human right to live free from the emotional pain and burden imposed by others, society, or life itself.
Forgiveness as a Path to Freedom: Forgiveness is a viable option for achieving that freedom and the human right to emotional well-being.
Personal and Universal: Forgiveness is a personal act of self-healing, a right that every person must claim for themselves. Each person has the right to forgive in their own time and on their own terms.
The Power of the Addendum: This addendum would serve as a beacon for anyone who has endured pain, offering them the right to transcend their suffering by choosing forgiveness.
Conclusion: A Call for Healing
As the panel of faculty and students signed the addendum, Eva felt a sense of hope. It was not just a symbolic gesture; it was a call to action for everyone who has suffered. Eva’s speech was not only about her own personal forgiveness but also about empowering others to take control of their emotional freedom.
“I did not want to carry the burden of hatred with me. I wanted to live and not just survive.” – Eva Mozes Kor
The event and the addendum were a culmination of Eva’s belief that emotional healing, through the act of forgiveness, was just as vital as any civil or political right. She challenged everyone to embrace forgiveness, not only to heal themselves but to contribute to a world that acknowledges the emotional scars we carry and the universal right to find peace.
Kiel Majewski worked as the Director of Research at the CANDLES Holocaust Museum and Education Center. His role involved conducting research related to the Holocaust, specifically focusing on the Mengele Twins and other aspects of the museum’s mission.
The difficult thing about forgiveness is how many times you have to do it.
You know the drill: you write a letter you’ll never send, trek to a place that used to mean something but now just stirs up hurt, and try to reclaim it as a spot you’re still allowed to love. You even hold a makeshift burning ceremony, tossing whatever’s left of what once mattered into the flickering flame of a windblown match—hoping, of course, that this will somehow make it all magically disappear and let you move on.
You call up your friends, your sister, your therapist, and maybe even your pastor—basically anyone who’ll listen—as you try to untangle the emotional mess someone left behind in your soul. Eventually, you convince yourself that you’ve talked it to death, done all the emotional gymnastics to understand, grieve, and accept. You think you’ve untangled the knot, and now—at last—you’re free! The sadness, pain, and the emotional bleed that’s been trickling down the back of your heart for weeks (or was it months? Years?) is all but gone. You’ve forgiven! Or at least, you really, really hope so.
Then one morning, it happens. You’re just going about your business when a song starts playing, and out of nowhere, your brain decides to remount a lavish production bringing the entire drama back from the dead. Or maybe you read a poetic passage that seems like it was written specifically to stir up the pain you thought you’d dealt with. But the most delightful moment? You’re just trying to get ready for the day, doing your makeup, and suddenly you feel that old, uninvited heat creeping up your neck—something the blush can’t hide. It colors your thoughts with a fiery red, and before you know it, you’re back in that moment, imagining all the things you should’ve said, how you could’ve responded, and how maybe—just maybe—you should’ve thrown something through their window. But you didn’t, because you’d already committed to forgiving them. Now you’re left with the regret of not throwing things within a timeframe that would have been appropriate in relation to when that person was a jerk. Missed opportunities, am I right?
So, you missed the chance to throw things. You’ve ridden the high of the moral high ground to its natural end. Now, you’re faced, once more, with a choice: can I forgive them again? Or is this the end of the line for me when it comes to freedom from the jail cell they constructed for me?
Here’s what I think – we often view forgiveness wrongly. We think it’s a choice we make when, really, it’s an attitude of the heart. We think it’s an extending of the hand to a fellow human being, or even a hand over our own hearts, but really it’s a lifting of the hand to God. A lifting of the hand and a bowing of the knee.
Sometimes forgiveness is sitting on a rock at the edge of a trail and remembering that I do not have the power to dissolve my own pain the moment I want it gone. Instead, it’s a prayer, “Lord, here I am again with these memories. Here I am again with a chasm in the center of my softest internal space feeling so angry I can barely hear the birds singing in the trees above my head. I can’t forgive today and I hope you will forgive me for that.“
I know that rock well. But I also know God well enough to understand that when I bring my chasm to Him, He breathes water into it. Hear me out: imagine an empty gorge and then imagine it filling with crystal clear water. The depths still exist but God’s mercy grants me the space to swim. To be bouyant even in the midst of the depths below me. He allows me to sit with my pain while also knowing I won’t drown.
Forgiveness is swimming with the memories in your mind while trusting in God’s all-encompassing buoyancy to get you to the other side of the divide. It’s choosing to stop treading water and, instead, turning over on your back to float. To look up at the sky, feel the coolness of the trickles as they ripple below your body, and to whisper, “Well, this hurts but it’s also really beautiful here. God, I trust you.”
Nothing is ever just one thing.
Forgiveness can feel scary, daunting, and nearly impossible. It can also be empowering, joyful, and freeing.
One thing it isn’t is easy.
In the next few weeks, I’ll be writing a lot about Holocaust survivor and Mengele Twin, Eva Mozes Kor. Walking with and learning from her gave me a treasure trove of questions and ideas on all kinds of topics. First and foremost, forgiveness. What you’ll see in my writing is that I deeply respected her, loved her, and was ever-amused by her resilient and feisty spirit! You’ll also see that we didn’t always agree on what forgiveness is or how to achieve it, but we always listened, laughed, and learned with one another.
The problem with survival is that there are other people in the world. If we were simply dropped off in the middle of this jungle called life, with a go-bag, some water, and a means to make fire, we would most certainly get through life with stressful stories but hardly any trauma. For example, if I had to wrestle a bear to the ground because he took my last piece of food, I would come out of that fight banged up but not traumatized. Nearly dead, yes, but with scratches on my arms that would eventually heal. Bears are not the problem. It is people. Wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Eva Mozes Kor and Jill Szoo Wilson met for the first time in Springfield, Missouri, in 2013.
When people get involved, survival shifts. We move from survival as an instinct (wrestling bears for food because we have to eat) to survival despite our instincts, fighting human perpetrators because the violence they bring is not just something we recover from; it is something we live with, long after the battle is over. This is where justice comes in. As humans, we have a strong need for justice. Our first instinct is not usually forgiveness, but rather to seek an equally proportional measure of punishment for those who have wronged us. “An eye for an eye,” right?
I have heard it said that forgiveness is about taking someone off your hook and putting them onto God’s hook. I believe that to be true. But for the sake of this article, let us focus on the hook itself. How can we find peace if we are still holding someone in contempt in a court of our own? How can we find peace when we are the judge, jury, and executioner?
This brings us to forgiveness, a concept that can feel both impossible and liberating. It is not about erasing the past; it is about freeing ourselves from its hold. I began to understand this through my time with Holocaust survivor and Mengele Twin Eva Mozes Kor. In her words and actions, Eva taught me that forgiveness is not an act of excusing the wrongs done to us; it is about choosing to free ourselves from the weight of anger and resentment, allowing us to heal and move forward.
Eva spent her life sharing a powerful message: forgiveness can free us from the pain of the past. But forgiveness is not a simple act, nor is it always possible in the heat of survival. In candid reflections, she discussed how complex and difficult it is to find peace, not just for oneself but for future generations.
Eva was often criticized by fellow survivors for her approach to forgiveness, which she saw as a conscious decision to move beyond the traditional idea of simply “forgive and forget.” For Eva, forgiveness was not about erasing the past or excusing the wrongs committed; it was about choosing to release the grip that hatred and resentment held on her, giving herself the freedom to heal.
She also emphasized that forgiveness cannot be rushed. It is not something one can jump into in the heat of battle or while still fighting for survival. Only after we feel safe, after the danger has passed, can we even begin to consider forgiveness. This understanding was central to Eva’s belief that forgiveness is a long, deliberate process that only becomes possible when we feel secure. For her, the journey did not even begin until four decades after liberation from the camps (Kor). That delay is a testament to the time it takes to heal and to reclaim one’s sense of safety before forgiveness becomes possible.
Psychological research on trauma supports Eva’s view that forgiveness is often a complex and gradual process, particularly when individuals are still grappling with the effects of trauma. Dr. Bessel van der Kolk explains that “trauma robs you of the capacity to forgive, because forgiveness requires a sense of safety, and trauma creates a world where safety is impossible” (The Body Keeps the Score, 2014). This aligns with Eva’s belief that forgiveness only becomes possible when the individual feels secure enough to step away from the “battlefield mentality” of survival.
Similarly, Dr. Judith Herman emphasizes the critical role safety plays in the recovery process. She asserts that trauma survivors must first find safety and regain a sense of control before they can begin processing and healing their wounds (Trauma and Recovery, 1992). Only after this foundational stage can they consider forgiveness, not as an immediate reaction but as part of a longer journey toward reclaiming their emotional well-being and sense of power.
Survival First: The Battlefield Mentality
Eva’s message begins with a clear understanding of human nature. She explains that the survival instinct is innate: “We are all born to maintain life at any cost.” This survival instinct shapes our actions in profound ways, particularly when our lives are at risk.
For example, she argued that forgiving someone who is pointing a gun at your head would make no sense, because you would be dead before you could even say the words. The instinct to protect oneself overrides any consideration of forgiveness in that moment. Eva called this the “battlefield mentality.” In this context, forgiveness is impossible until the threat has passed, the battle is over, and we feel secure again. Only then can we begin to consider forgiveness.
This aligns with the fight-or-flight response, first described by Dr. Walter Cannon (Bodily Changes in Pain, Hunger, Fear and Rage, 1915). Cannon’s research explains how the body’s instinctive reaction to danger prioritizes survival over all other actions, including the cognitive decision to forgive. Only once the immediate threat has passed and we feel safe can we process our emotions and consider forgiveness.
Forgiveness After the Battle: When We Are Safe
Eva believed that for Holocaust survivors living in Israel, or those still coping with the immediate concerns of survival, forgiveness was often out of reach. Many survivors continue to face the realities of their trauma, and for some, the environment in which they live, still grappling with insecurity and violence, means they are not yet able to move beyond the pain. The challenges they face are not just historical; they are still navigating a present shaped by fear, uncertainty, and the need for protection. Eva recognized this complexity and believed that forgiveness could not be forced while survivors are still in a state of ongoing defense, where survival is still their top priority.
Historical context supports Eva’s view. The post-war period in Israel, for example, was one where many survivors faced not only the trauma of their past but also the pressures of rebuilding in a country still fighting for its survival. In such an environment, the idea of forgiveness or reconciliation often took a back seat to the immediate needs for safety and security. Scholars like Hannah Arendt (The Human Condition, 1958) and Natan P. Lasky (Holocaust and Memory, 2001) note that forgiveness in the face of unresolved trauma and ongoing conflict is incredibly difficult, if not impossible, because the wounds remain fresh and the environment does not offer the conditions for healing.
Eva also pointed to the cycle of pain that continues when survivors, unable to forgive, pass on their hatred and distrust. Survivors who choose not to forgive often reject anything related to their oppressors, such as avoiding German products, refusing to visit Germany, or not trusting Germans. This perpetuates the pain and prevents healing. Eva challenged them: “Do you want your children and grandchildren to carry and feel your pain for the rest of their lives, or would you like to give them another inheritance?”
The Inheritance of Forgiveness
Eva reflected on her own family, explaining how her two children responded differently to her philosophy of forgiveness. One embraced it, while the other did not. Despite the differences, Eva believed forgiveness was a choice that could be discovered later in life, even if not immediately embraced. She always said, “I forgive in my name only.” For Eva, forgiveness was a personal decision, one that could not be imposed on others. She recognized that each person must find their own path to healing, and that path may look different for everyone.
She urged survivors of any trauma, whether Holocaust survivors or survivors of child abuse, neglect, or molestation, to consider the possibility of forgiveness. Eva shared how the deep pain caused by betrayal can linger long after the event, but also how releasing that pain is possible. Her advice for those suffering from trauma was simple: imagine how it would feel if the pain had never occurred. Then, shift your perspective and ask, “How would you feel if you could overcome that pain by forgiving those who caused it?”
The Letter of Forgiveness: A Path Toward Freedom
For those struggling to forgive, Eva had a practical suggestion: write a letter to the person who caused the pain. The letter did not need to be sent; it was a personal act of release. Writing a letter of forgiveness allows the survivor to work through the pain, step by step, with the intention of breaking free from its grip.
Research in expressive writing supports Eva’s approach. Dr. James Pennebaker has found that writing about traumatic experiences can significantly reduce stress and improve emotional well-being (Opening Up by Writing It Down, 2016). In his studies, he demonstrated that individuals who write about their emotions and trauma often experience greater emotional clarity and a decrease in physical symptoms related to stress. This form of writing helps individuals process difficult emotions in a controlled, private way, which can be especially beneficial for survivors of trauma who may find it difficult to talk about their pain.
Eva reassured her audience: “What can this silly letter accomplish? Try it, what can you lose? Only your pain. And if you don’t like how it feels without that pain, you can always take it back, but you will not miss it.” This simple act, she believed, could free people from the constant burden of past trauma and open the door to healing. Studies have shown that writing can lead to emotional relief, helping individuals feel lighter and less burdened by their past. By putting the pain into words, survivors can begin to regain control over their emotions and take steps toward freedom.
A Call to Action
Eva’s message is about reclaiming your freedom. She taught me that forgiveness is not about excusing the past; it is about letting go of the weight that keeps you from moving forward. Traveling with her through Poland, Hungary, and Romania from 2013 to 2017, I saw how forgiveness gave her the power to heal, to find peace where pain once lived.
Her words often echoed in my mind as I confronted my own pain. “What would my life be like if I could forgive?” I realized that forgiveness is not just about releasing anger or resentment; it is about letting go of fear and the weight of trying to fix things I cannot control. I spent so much time feeling responsible for making everything right, but I realized that I cannot be in charge of justice across the world. What I can do is release my obligation to correct things beyond my reach. Forgiveness became the key to letting go of that burden, and in doing so, I was able to reclaim peace for myself.
June Hunt defines forgiveness as “a deliberate choice to release feelings of resentment or vengeance toward a person or group who has harmed you” (How to Forgive… When You Don’t Feel Like It, 2008). Hunt emphasizes that forgiveness is not about condoning the offense but choosing to release the hold that the hurt has over your life. This aligns with Eva’s perspective, where forgiveness is an act of personal freedom, not an act of excusing past wrongs. For Eva, forgiveness was about freeing herself from the weight of past pain, and choosing peace over the perpetuation of hurt.
Through her example, I understood that forgiveness is a choice, a choice that lets you take back the power lost to fear, anger, and the constant desire to control outcomes. It is not an easy choice, but it is one worth making. Because in the end, forgiveness is a powerful act of reclaiming your life, of releasing the past’s grip on your soul and embracing the peace you deserve. It is not about excusing the wrongs or forgetting the pain; it is about choosing to rise above them, to break free from the chains of resentment and fear, and to step forward into a future unburdened by what you cannot change.
From 2013 to 2017, I traveled with Holocaust survivor and Mengele Twin Eva Mozes Kor, following her story across Poland, Hungary, and Romania. I wanted to learn, not just from her words, but from the places themselves. I walked the dirt roads where she grew up in Romania, stood on the concrete where her family waited to be shoved into cattle cars in Șimleu Silvaniei, and pressed my hand against the cold stone of Block 10 in Auschwitz, where Dr. Mengele once looked down at her and said, “It’s a shame she’s so young. She only has a couple weeks to live.”
Eva never told me what to think. She never tied things up neatly. She only asked me to look, to listen, to understand: survival, real survival, was never just about strength. It was in the details. The ability to step over a dead body and keep moving, because stopping meant risking your own. The skill of slipping a potato from the commissary without getting caught. The discipline to dissociate, not from the rats that scurried over her at night, but from the fear of them, because sleep was necessary, and fear could not be allowed to strip her of the strength sleep afforded her.
It’s easy to imagine survival as something straightforward, a matter of strength or willpower. But in Auschwitz, survival was a negotiation, a constant weighing of the impossible.
“What would you do to survive? You can’t really know until your life is actually in danger. It was easy to die here. Survival took every ounce of strength you could muster.”
Standing in the humid summer breeze at Auschwitz-Birkenau, I contemplated Eva Kor’s words.
It is easy to die. It is difficult to live. Life is fragile. We come from the dust and to the dust we return. Beginnings and endings are consistently marked by celebration, comedy, tragedy, and pathos. Middles are different. The middle of a thing is where the human spirit grows. Middles churn with questions, collide with conflicting purposes, strain toward progress, and wrestle with the weight of stagnation.
Birkenau was an epicenter where middles and endings met. Survival was not simply a contest won by the fittest. It was a succession of choices; choices that rang in the soul of each individual, like the sound of a train dragging its way through the countryside on tracks of steel. Some survived by cultivating their minds to be like the birds that flew above the blood and mire. Some survived by making themselves useful. Some survived by climbing into a trough of human waste to escape the eye of the enemy. Because even here, in filth, there was something worth grasping, something worth staying alive for.
Latrines: A Place of Filth and Refuge
The Nazis allowed prisoners two visits to the latrines per day, one in the morning, one in the evening. That was it. The rest of the time, men, women, and children had to relieve themselves wherever they stood. The ground they walked on bore witness to their labor, their suffering, and the last remnants of their dignity.
The air of Birkenau was thick with an unholy stench: human waste, rancid sweat, the sharp tang of blood, and the sickly-sweet rot of decay. It clung to the skin, crawled into the lungs, and settled deep in the gut like a living thing, an inescapable reminder that suffering here had a scent. And with every breath, sickness followed. Dysentery oozed through the camp, rotting stomachs from the inside out, turning each bite of watery broth into a calculated risk, each swallow a step closer to collapse.
And yet, there was an odd paradox: working in the latrines was considered one of the best jobs in the camp.
Imagine a world where standing in human waste meant protection. In Auschwitz, it did.
The Paradox of the Latrine Workers
The latrines were a guard-free zone. And so, in this rancid, airless place, there was something invaluable: privacy.
For those assigned to the latrines, the absence of guards offered a rare and fragile freedom. In the stench and shadows, prisoners bartered stolen scraps, exchanged whispered news, and conspired in low voices. Some sought fleeting moments of physical intimacy, an urgent defiance against a world that had stripped them of choice. In a place built to erase them, the latrines became one of the few spaces where prisoners could still claim their own existence.
Here, in the thick of filth, they remembered they were still human.
The Work of the Scheisskommando
Their job was simple: lift the heavy concrete slabs covering the waste pits, lower themselves inside, and scoop out the accumulated filth.
If you’ve ever gagged while cleaning out your refrigerator after leaving leftovers for too long, imagine standing waist-deep in a sea of decay. The air was thick, humid, and alive with flies. The stench coated everything, clinging to their skin and settling into the creases of their clothes like an unshakable second skin.
But for those who had this job, it was a lifeline. They weren’t being worked to death in the fields. They weren’t being lined up for random executions. They weren’t subjected to the relentless gaze of the SS officers who delighted in tormenting prisoners for sport.
The latrines, for all their horrors, offered something rare in Auschwitz: predictability.
A Dignity That Refused to Die
Powerlessness is a disease that seeps into the soul. Strip away respect, dignity, and basic rights, and two things happen: the perpetrator swells with power, and the victim shrinks.
Allowing prisoners to stand ankle-deep in their own filth was not just a byproduct of poor sanitation, it was an act of control. The SS guards didn’t have to lift their legs and urinate on the prisoners to show their dominance. They merely had to stand still while the prisoners did it to themselves.
But in the darkest places, even where dignity was supposed to die, the will to live persisted. The latrine workers of Auschwitz-Birkenau found ways to carve out a space for themselves, to steal back fragments of their humanity, to keep moving forward when everything around them said they should fall.
Consider if you will, a woman falling from the sky into the deep ocean. She is surrounded by foreign creatures, disoriented by the sounds and weight of the water. She is not a fish. She has no gills. The water is her enemy. It presses on her lungs, reminding her with each second that this place does not belong to her.
She has a choice. She can panic and sink, or she can swim.
This is the paradox of survival. This is the choice of the Scheisskommando.
The Final Question
Eva Mozes Kor once asked a group of people this question as we stood inside a latrine at Birkenau:
“How many of you could survive here? What would you do to survive?”
Survival in the death camps was never about dignity. The prisoners carried that within them, untouchable even in the face of brutality. What was at stake was something else entirely. Life in exchange for one more day. Hopelessness held at bay for a sliver of hope. The certainty of an ending deferred, just long enough to stay in the middle a little longer.
We like to think we know ourselves. That in the face of unspeakable horror, we would know what to do. That we would have a plan. A way to resist. A way to bring order to chaos.
But the truth is, we don’t know.
We can’t know.
Not until we’re the ones at the edge of the pit, staring into the void.
Not until survival is no longer a question, but the only thing left.
This sonnet is inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s famous quote, “There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion,” from his short story “Ligeia.” In Poe’s tale, the beauty of the mysterious woman Ligeia is entwined with an otherworldly, unsettling strangeness, thus highlighting the idea that beauty often thrives in imperfection.
The sonnet explores this concept, celebrating the beauty found in things that are off-center, crooked, and flawed. It suggests that it is the very strangeness of these things that makes them remarkable and worthy of our time and attention.
There is no beauty forged in flawless light— It twists where shadows linger at the seam. A crooked branch may catch the morning right And cast the roots of wonder into dream.
A freckled rose, off-center in its bloom, Will hold the gaze far longer than the best. The stars are never silent in their room; They flicker strange and waken eyes at rest.
The pearl was born from pressure, pain, and grit. The sea’s rough hand gave shape to something rare. So let the world tell tales of perfect wit— I’ll choose the crooked with a bend that’s fair.
For beauty, true, is never fully tamed— Its strangeness is the reason it is named.
Necessary Whispers 