The Other Girl in Red
I watched Schindlers List on February 23, 1997 when NBC aired the film uninterrupted and commercial-free, a rare event in network television. I remember being motionless as the final credits rolled—Holocaust survivors honouring Oscar Schindler's resting place with flowers, as mournful strains of violin captured the weight of their collective memory. To a 17 year old me, the film was an examination of the brutality of the world, yet I also felt solace because what I was watching was the past. Something that was so morally reprehensible, unjustifiable, universally condemnable that as a species we had acknowledged the wrong and vowed not to repeat it. This was a review of history, not a prophecy of the future. In that, there was some reprieve.
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