Witnessing - Melissa Dodson

You guys. I still have hundreds of photos from my trip to sort through. HUNDREDS.

Traveling through Poland and Israel, I gripped my camera like it was an extension of my own arm. I held onto that camera the way most people hold onto their cell phones. Trading in the deft swipe of an unlock screen for the satisfying click twist of the lens cap popping off and back on. I peered into dark corners waiting for my eyes to adjust within the shadows, unsure of what - or whom - I might find there. I climbed trees, pulled spider webs from my hair, scaled large stones, and very literally laid flat out on the ground, on solid dirt and earth and ash. I lay my cheek on the cold hard steel of a railroad track that had once served as a one way trip to hell. Arching for just the right angle. For just the right shadow. For just the right sighing breath of the shutter snap.

Some days my aim and click were intentional, carefully framing for the best shot. Other days it was as if my camera had a life of its own, it took off down winding paths away from the group with me just running to catch up. Some nights, back in the hotel room I'd download the photos onto my laptop and I'd sit and stare, as if seeing them for the first time. Who took these pictures? Surely it wasn't me, I don't remember taking them. I don't even remember having my camera with me. Was I even there today? Was that today or was it yesterday? I don't know. I don't know if I want to know. It is so big. So much. So much.

At the end of each day there were several hundred photos waiting to be downloaded. To make room for more. A clean slate the next day. A fresh eye to witness the horrors of the past. To see and hear and feel. To witness. Because that's what we can do, now. Witness.

I'd hoped to, in some miniscule way that might not even ever make a difference or a dent (only maybe it will?), to capture *something*. Some glimpse into this past which was not so long past. Some hint of the horror, one that we cannot ever forget and cannot ever allow to happen again. There are no words for most of what we saw or where we stood. There are overwhelming emotions and the inability to process the horrors which took place on the very ground upon which we stood.

And so now, within the comfort of my couch with my safe cozy blanket, I look through the photos each day. A few at a time. I see faces looking back at me through the light of a shadow or in the way the sun hit the clouds or through the barbed wire. I allow myself to feel the emotion and magnanimity of being there and hearing and seeing and feeling. Witnessing.