The soldier couldn’t understand what anyone could achieve by killing that woman. He couldn’t. He couldn’t understand the disregard for human life. In the past hours since he had been sitting there, he had experienced more death in this tiny office than he ever cared to.
It is with a strict conviction that each day I can lift my head with a sense of pride. I know that there will be salvation from the horror of existence here. Each time a new group of women are interned here, they bring new strength. The purple triangles arbitrarily stitched to their filthy uniforms become a beacon of hope.
The triangles are supposed to be a means of segregation. Rather, they have become a way of identification and unity for us. Like the Jews are forced to wear the Star of David, we bear the insignia of the purple triangle. Unlike the Jews who are shamed by their stars, the triangles return to us pride and strength. When we catch a glimpse of the new women in the camp wearing the purple triangle, it relieves us with a moment of euphoria. It’s like being reunited with a sister. When we speak to them, they bring news of what happens outside here. Hearing that Witnesses still practice, underground and in secret, feeds us. It feeds us with a hope, and reminds us that although we may be broken, beaten and condemned to death; we must carry on.
He sat back and wondered when the last time he spoke with God was. He didn’t know if he ever really had. A seed of guilt had planted itself in the back of his mind because he saw no need to even attempt to pray here. The question of whether prayers fell on deaf ears troubled him. It was easier to discard the idea of God then come to realise the futility of a prayer. He knew this woman would object to his absolute lack of confidence.