On the day my family arrived at Auschwitz, our personhood was stripped from us. I remember lining up in an open area of the camp and placing my shoes and all my clothes in front of me. That pile at my feet was my last connection to my previous life. My two sisters, both in their early twenties, were suffering a similar fate elsewhere in the camp. Their heads were shaved of their beautiful long hair, and they were given rags to wear. Our names were replaced with numbers. Just a few months before, we had been living such normal lives. I went to school, did my chores and homework, and played as much soccer as I could. My sister, Oli, practiced piano as she trained to be a music teacher. My sister Lily wanted to be a pharmacist. At the end of the day, when my father arrived home after closing up his shop in the town square, we would all have dinner together, starting with my mother’s soup and fresh bread.
I’m just a speck of dust in the crowd, nobody considers me a human being. I don’t have a name. I am just number 12,900.
Resist the temptation to tire of the news of the suffering of Syrian refugees. The discarded of this war appear in such numbers that their personhood can easily escape us.