The radio, the camera, the cassette, and the photos look familiar in so many ways: although we were on the other side of the Wall, my family was stationed in West Germany in the 1970's.
One of the reasons it is so terribly important to me that people acknowledge this moment in history is simple: as a child, I could not fathom why people were shot for trying to cross over to "our" side of the Wall. Nor could I make sense of the fact that there were soldiers stationed on the other side of the border--a border that my father also stood at--with clear orders to do this.
It seemed beyond reason that something this barbaric could exist in the modern age, in a world that was supposed to be civilized.
I'd often think about what it would be like to live on the other side. There was solace in the fact that my father, and those who served with him, was there to maintain the safety and freedom to which we were (and are still) so accustomed.
There was even greater solace in the fact that sometimes...just sometimes...men and women and children crossed over safely. And that someone was there to care for the lucky few who made it to the other side.
This is history which must not be forgotten.
How fortunate we are. How many things we have to be thankful for. How much we must remember.