Hollow and helpless. A feeling of emptiness and sorrow invades my body. “United States Holocaust Memorial Museum” is printed on the wall, my eyes reading the title attempting to comprehend and absorb each letter. My family strolls along as I stand paralyzed, petrified that an event this volatile is even plausible. The building produces a new sense—a sense visiting Smithsonians and other memorials failed to provide. This museum reminds me of the facts and stories of tragic WWII years, turning the information taught to me to reality.

Hollow and helpless. Glancing to my right I see the first exhibit—“Daniel’s Story.” Curious as to what lies inside, I walk over. In shock, I recognize this is a representation of the horrors Jewish citizens, specifically children, endured. Attempting to race through it, my parents vaguely glance at each journal entry and move along. Caught in the moment, I read every piece, putting myself in his shoes as his once normal childhood turns into torturous ruin. Appalled at the tragedy, I could not stop asking myself, what if it was me?

Hollow and helpless. Continuing to the next exhibit, I feel daunted and disturbed. The shoes, the unforgettable, indescribable scent of the ownerless shoes. The train car, a single step in and a cold eerie storm overtook my body, churning my stomach, making the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. The wall of names, seemingly endless, organizes the victims by country, remembering the event by the forgotten, not by the evil.

Hollow and helpless. The memories of the fallen will never fade. The freedom to oppose the ideology of the government means the prevention of another catastrophe of this magnitude. This freedom confidently insures no feeling of emptiness and sorrow will invade another individual's body, the feeling of being hollow and helpless.