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1.1 million people. That is how many lives historians predict were taken in Auschwitz, the most notorious concentration camp in the Holocaust. I remember learning about it in school. I was devastated, but curious. Curious enough to consider going to see it one day. Would it be too hard? Can I handle it? I decided to take the leap. I went, but the most unexpected part was what happened after my visit. It was something I was not ready for. “What was it like?”, my friends back in the States would ask. The questions came pouring in. “Did you enjoy the tour?”, asked one. “I’ve always wanted to go to Auschwitz, should I do it?”, asked another. Why was everyone pestering me so much? What word would I even use to describe a visit to one of the darkest locations in history? Should I use the word “enjoyed”? I think back to the other people I saw during the tour. I saw a group of women on a girl’s trip standing under the withering sign at the gate of the camp. They were taking a selfie, smiling. A mother told her two children to pose on the train track. Posing, they smiled. They were enjoying it. I did not feel the same. Informative? As my friends and I walked from building to building on the dusty paths of the camp, we read everything. I learned things about Auschwitz that I never knew. There were many informational plaques that were set up in wooden, heated lit up rooms that were once dark, damp and cold. One of the plaques read that if we were to take a minute of silence for every member of the Holocaust, we would be silent for seven years. It was a very informative day, but what would one expect from a historical sight? Harrowing? Depressing? These words wouldn’t be lies. I think back to the cement building with chipped blue paint, almost decaying in front of me. It looked normal on the outside, but here the victims were brought when they arrived at the camp. I saw hair on the ground from when they were shaved head to toe by someone they’ve never met. I think of walking towards the back of the camp, the one spot with trees and shade. I heard screaming. It was all too real. I can’t use those words. Auschwitz is where we honor many victims of the Holocaust. They want us to remember them. Harrowing and depressing won’t encourage people to visit and remember. After countless questions, my mind went through almost every word in the dictionary before I could find one I needed to share. I needed a word that would sum up my experience without making light of the things that happened there. A word that might draw people to visit. Grateful. It was an unbearably cold day. I almost didn’t go because of it, but I had already bought my ticket. I was upset because I thought it was going to ruin my experience. Grumbling as I walked through the black gates, I threw my hands in my pockets and pulled my hood over my head to warm my ears. It got eerily quiet as snow started falling over the camp. My mood changed. I have a coat, hat and gloves to warm me. They didn’t. I had a car with a heater I could escape to if I got too cold. They didn’t. I was suddenly glad it was cold. It made the experience real and I could feel a speck of what the victims went through. As I walked from tiny shacks that were once filled with hundreds of people at a time, to the deep dusty trenches that were dug at hours upon hours, I felt grateful for the bravery of the human lives that were forced to be there. It was a bravery I’ve never needed to have. Gratitude was the last thing I expected to feel that day, but that is why everyone should go and remember.