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1943 & Hope⏳
In 1943, we became prisoners of war. I sought answers, I begged for clarity, but all I could do was accept my fate. Shattering rocks with axes under the eyes of our CAPOs became routine. Hope lingered, yet it blinded me from seeing the cruel truth that I was a prisoner.
That hope slowly faded, replaced by the harsh reality that escape attempts always ended in failure. I convinced myself not to follow those who tried, believing they would be caught.
But then, one day, I met a man different from the rest. He laughed, smiled, and found joy in this place. It was absurd, but my curiosity made me seek out the reason behind his constant happiness.
One cold night, I found him gazing at the sky, his smile unbroken. I couldn’t hold back my frustration any longer. “What are you smiling for, you crazy man?” I snapped. “We are prisoners, there is no help coming for us. You are supposed to be sad, broken. Don’t you see the reality around us?
He turned to me, and with a smile that softened my rage, he asked, “Have you lost your hope?” His words struck deep, and I responded, “Isn’t hope just a delusion, keeping us blind to the fact that we are prisoners?” I tried to pull him into my hopeless reality with my pity face.
But he only smiled more. "I once thought hope was a teaser, a player of man. But my hope became my will, and my will, my reality. Hope gives me the strength to strive, even in the face of hell. It’s not about denying reality, it’s about changing it."
His words shook me. For the first time, hope took root within me, not as an illusion, but as something grounded. Another year passed, and on September 2, 1945, the gates of the camp unexpectedly opened. No one moved, frozen by disbelief.
But my friend stood, stretched his hand towards freedom, and ran. I watched, waiting for him to be shot. But instead, I heard the shout: "The war is over!" In that moment, we all followed, running towards the freedom we had once thought was impossible.
© Sage
That hope slowly faded, replaced by the harsh reality that escape attempts always ended in failure. I convinced myself not to follow those who tried, believing they would be caught.
But then, one day, I met a man different from the rest. He laughed, smiled, and found joy in this place. It was absurd, but my curiosity made me seek out the reason behind his constant happiness.
One cold night, I found him gazing at the sky, his smile unbroken. I couldn’t hold back my frustration any longer. “What are you smiling for, you crazy man?” I snapped. “We are prisoners, there is no help coming for us. You are supposed to be sad, broken. Don’t you see the reality around us?
He turned to me, and with a smile that softened my rage, he asked, “Have you lost your hope?” His words struck deep, and I responded, “Isn’t hope just a delusion, keeping us blind to the fact that we are prisoners?” I tried to pull him into my hopeless reality with my pity face.
But he only smiled more. "I once thought hope was a teaser, a player of man. But my hope became my will, and my will, my reality. Hope gives me the strength to strive, even in the face of hell. It’s not about denying reality, it’s about changing it."
His words shook me. For the first time, hope took root within me, not as an illusion, but as something grounded. Another year passed, and on September 2, 1945, the gates of the camp unexpectedly opened. No one moved, frozen by disbelief.
But my friend stood, stretched his hand towards freedom, and ran. I watched, waiting for him to be shot. But instead, I heard the shout: "The war is over!" In that moment, we all followed, running towards the freedom we had once thought was impossible.
© Sage
