Travel is often inspiring. Inspiring for the beauty or majesty of a sight, or the history of a place and how connected you can feel to the past when you see it.
Travel can also sometimes be humbling and leave you at a loss for words. Such is Oradour.
Oradour is a tiny village not unlike many that I've passed through countless times on past journeys. This village though, was in Nazi occupied France and a few days after the D-Day invasion, perhaps in reprisal for the disappearance of an SS officer, was obliterated in a matter of hours. All the inhabitants, some 600 people - men, women and children were killed and their bodies burned then their entire village was set ablaze.
You're honestly at a loss for words to describe it. Placards on the walls state the several locations where all the towns men were rounded up and shot. The women and children were herded into the church where they were gassed then shot. All were burned to further remove their identities and diminish any hope of grieving for individuals by their countrymen. The French left Oradour essentially untouched, now for nearly 70 years as a testament to the horror of war. Cars sit where they were parked that day. Bicycles lean against the wall, undisturbed. Durable items, like sewing machines and cast iron ovens are still in the homes they were placed in. The bakers sign still hangs above his shop.
As mentioned earlier, it was a humbling and saddening place to be. We are grateful to have gone and left with a greater sense of humanity and our role in being actively engaged in good causes. The world has seen much of pain and suffering and needs no more.
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