On my recent trip to Israel, I was brought through an impactful event. I had visited The Jewish Holocaust Museum, urged specifically to visit the children’s memorial museum. The experience I had was indeed compelling, powerful and equally haunting.  

Upon entry of the museum, it was gloomy and silent. Amidst the morose music playing, I walked along the narrow unlit columns, unguided and aimless. The passageway twisted and turned and a few thoughts passed my mind. Could I turn back? Who would I meet here? Where is this ending?

As the music grew louder, I found myself walking towards a beautiful pitch-black dome. A thousand little lights sparkled like floating gems, perhaps, for every Jewish child murdered. A projection of photos of Jewish children was on the central display, while a voice announced their names and ages, one by one. The track never finished.

Among other things in Israel, I had witnessed armed female soldiers patrolling, and the intolerance between two religions forced to live in the same land. The threat of danger felt real. I had emerged, more thankful and thoughtful of the social fabric in Singapore. Stepping out of school, many friends belonged to other races, and boys were now freshly enlisted into the army. Confronted by thoughts of how our societies could differ so, with such different daily circumstances and interactions, I felt blessed, for the serenity and security we had in our little land. It was a moment of thanks unlike the thanklessness I had often felt.

I contemplated the beauty of the museum. The feelings I had then, must have been how those children had felt too: Lost, just under far more unfathomably despairing circumstances. It could only strike me as surreal. Once more, I felt glad for the place that we lived in.