Tag: documentary

  • “Notes from Dachau and Anne Frank’s House”

    June 18, 2008 – Centennial, CO – Donald L. Vasicek, award-winning writer/
    filmmaker for the Sand Creek Massacre documentary film recently traveled to
    Europe.  Amongst his stops was Dachau, a Nazi concentration camp about nine
    miles or fifteen kilometers northwest of Munich.  Vasicek, known for his campaign
    to educate others about American native people, nevertheless, was stunned by
    what he saw and experienced at Dachau and in Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam.
    Part of his notes are as follows:

    ENTRY TO DACHU
    ENTRY TO DACHU

    “To escape from Dachau, one had to sprint across an eight-foot wide
    strip of grass.  The grass was nurtured there for prisoners.  It encircled
    the interior of the camp.  If one stepped on the grass, they were shot.  If
    one made it past  the grass to a v-shaped cement moat that also surrounded
    the interior of the camp, they had to scamper down into the moat, up the other
    side of it to barbed wire that was spread on up-sloping ground.  An, at least
    ten-foot high electric fence with barbed wire curled on top of it like large circles
    drawn with barbed spikes on it, was the last barrier to escape from a place
    where an estimated 50,000 human beings were murdered.
    ENTRY (ORIGINAL)TO DACHU
    ENTRY (ORIGINAL)TO DACHU

    “As I toured the camp and listened to the tour guide’s description of the camp,
    what was there, and what is presently there and why, I felt like I had stepped
    into the past.  All of the books I had read,  all of the movies and documentary films
    I had seen, all of what I had learned about that horrific time, came to the surface there.  I got a
    dose of reality.  I could feel the terror, the pain, and the sorrow.  I constantly
    asked myself, how could anyone create such a horrifying place?  I was stunned
    to realize how real Dachau had been, how much hate had been generated to mask
    the reality of breathing human beings.

    “When I walked up to the crematorium, I traced the steps of prisoners who could
    no longer work or work, like women, children, elders, the sick, prisoners who were gay,
    prisoners who were gypsies and other “throwaways”, as Nazis often called them.

    “The first room was the room where prisoners had to strip themselves naked.  Then, they
    walked to the next room, which had a lower ceiling than the rooms in the rest of the building
    and no windows.  They were told they were going to take showers, but instead, poison
    pellets were dropped into the room in two hinged box-like containers in one wall that
    were filled with the pellets from outside of the building.”

    Think about that.  Just think about that.

    “The next room was the crematorium.  I stood in front of the ovens as the tour guide
    explained that towards the end of the war (World War II), the Nazis escalated the job, or
    as they called, the final solution.  They backlogged at Dachau.  The tour guide showed us
    how bodies were piled up, both inside and outside of the crematorium waiting to be
    burned.  Pictures taken at the time were prominent there.

    I stepped back from the photos.  I realized that anywhere I stepped, I stepped where
    Nazis and people condemned to death by ignorance had either once stood, or lay.  I
    know I am unique, different, because there is no one else who is me.  I just don’t like
    the idea that killing is a solution to solving problems.  Genocide is ignorance based on
    fear.  And according to some, fear is the second most powerful human emotion next to love.

    The tour guide mentioned that the German people, as recent as 1999, had decided to
    “come out” with their horrific past.  German children are now required to study World War II
    Nazism and come to the camps to learn.  The tour guide said the reason the German people
    had waited so long to “come out” was because of their shame for the
    terror  and devastation the Nazis had perpetuated on millions of others.”

    It is time, now, for the American people to do the same thing.  We must come out
    of our shame and stop genocide in America.  That is the very least we can
    do for the native people of America.  Our children must learn about native people,
    their cultures, their history, and who they are as human beings so that they can relate
    to them as human beings.

    No one is better than anyone else regardless of achievements, social standing, religion ,
    culture, race and/or material wealth. We are one because  we are human.  We are a collectiveness
    consciousness.  When we hurt someone, we  damage that consciousness.  This, in turn, causes
    all human beings to lose some of the positive energy this kind of
    consciousness brings to each one of us. 

    If one isn’t convinced, walk in the hidden recesses of a building next to Princes Gracht Canal
    in Amsterdam where thirteen year-old Anne Frank hid from the Nazis with her family for three
    years until they were betrayed and sent to camps. Walk in the rooms.
    I did.  Guess what?  Anne Frank was a talented girl, a writer, a young person with
    dreams and goals.  A Jewish girl who loved her family more than anything else
    in her world.  A human being.

    Princes Gracht Canal - Amsterdam
    Princes Gracht Canal – Amsterdam

    Feel her there.  Feel the terror.  Anne Frank, at age sixteen, died from typhoid in a concentration
    camp because of ignorance fueled by fear.  Genocide in its finest form.

    Then, there is the Sand Creek Massacre.  I’ve been at the site several times.  Sat in the grass
    by Sand Creek, camera in hand, alone, recording sounds, the sun warm on my back.  I felt like
    others were there.  You know, invisible, but there.  Perhaps apparitions, if I looked hard enough.
    On November 29, 1964, there were over five-hundred Cheyenne lodges there, perhaps a thousand
    or so Cheyenne people, seven-hundred soldiers, their horses, their equipment, their canons,
    their guns, their sabers, and Indian dogs and horses.  Their ignorance.  Their fear.  Their  hate.
    And there was murder there.  Rape. Mutilations.  Carnage.

    There is a prominent person who has done work at the Sand Creek Massacre Site.  I asked
    her if she ever “felt” anything while she was there doing her work.  She said, “No, not really, but I’ll
    never go out to the site at night.”  I asked her why.  She said, “I don’t know why, I just won’t go.”

    You might want to check it out, see how it makes you feel.  Perhaps it can remove you,
    even for a moment, from your reality and plunge you in the depths of losing sight of who
    human beings, all human beings really are, human beings, just like you and me.

    ####

    Contact:

    Donald L. Vasicek
    Olympus Films+, LLC

    The Zen of Writing


    dvasicek@earthlink.net
    303-903-2103

  • Thoughts from the Producer, Donald L. Vasicek

    When I walk at Sand Creek today, I step carefully.

    My size ten and a halves sink into the sand. Where there is grass or plants, Canadian thistle or tamarisk or sage or some other one of the numerous types of grass and plants at Sand Creek, it catches my clod hoppers, just before they sink into the sand.

    Stepping beside the gnarled and stately cottonwood trees, roots feel hard under my Reeboks. The roots catch my feet, perhaps, like guardian angels, but yet, possibly parts of human remains. I know not where to take the next step, or how.

    I fear that I will step on someone who died here, whose remains are permanent parts of the sand, the grass, and the trees. I wonder if I am walking in the buffalo wallow where this woman died. I step carefully because I feel the people who died here reaching out for me and I can’t see or hear them. I don’t know how to help them. I feel their presence, their fear, their terror, their disbelief, their helplessness to save their children, their husbands and wives, their disabled relatives, their parents and their grandparents.

    Just like when I sat on a curb at Ground Zero in Manhattan two weeks after 9/11, I grieve for them. I grieve for myself. I grieve because I am alive and they died agonizing deaths. I grieve because I am helpless to give something to these victims to neutralize their agony, perhaps even, to reverse their deaths.

    I turn and scan the horizon. It appears like it is overlooking the Sand Creek Massacre Site. Somehow, it makes me feel better, at the least, for the moment. Then, I have to move forward. I look down and wonder, where should I place my foot next?

    ~Donald L. Vasicek, Writer/Filmmaker, Olympus Films+, LLC

  • Witness Account

    The Sand Creek Massacre Witness Account:

    One Story of Horror At Sand Creek Duncan Kerr, the scout, found the body of One Eye lying near the camp.

    “Some of the boys had scalped him, ” Kerr wrote, “but they either did not understand how to take a scalp, or their knives were very dull, for they had commenced to take the scalp off at the top of the head, and torn a strip down to the middle of the neck.”

    A short distance beyond, he found One Eye’s wife sitting alone in a buffalo wallow: “I went up to her and laid my hand on her head. She looked up quietly, and recognizing me said; ‘How de do Dunk, me heap dry. Gib me some water.’

    I asked in the Cheyenne language, if she was seriously hurt. She replied by throwing the blanket back and showing me aghastly wound in her side, through which the entrails were protruding. The wound must have been caused by a fragment of a shell.  I gave her a drink of water, and left my canteen. As I turned to leave, she took my hand to detain me, and begged me to shoot her with my gun….But I could not do it, for I had known her a long time; a lively, sprightly, mischievous, little thing, that fairly worshipped her Chief One Eye.

    This is the squaw that One Eye brought into Ft. Lyon with him and was on our trip after the captives. When she saw I would not kill her she covered up her head and began singing her death song again….I had not gone very far, when I met a soldier.  I pointed her out to him, and told him I had just shot and wounded an Indian and had fired my last shot; that the Indian was badly wounded, and could not help himself, and I wanted him to creep up behind the Indian and shoot him in the back of the head. The fellow crept up close behind her and shot her dead….
    -“Sand Creek: Tragedy and Symbol Pt. 1” G.L.Roberts, 1984

    Sand Creek
    Sand Creek in southeastern Colorado