The book is indeed a very poignant life story of a young girl named Anne Frank. The book is a detailed sketch, in Anne’s own words, of the toughest two years of her life spent in hiding at the time of World War II because she was a Jew. She bares, in her writing, her fight with her own self, her innermost feelings, her conflicts (both within and without).
Her account of war, where she questions the validity of war is heart-rending. The reader can sense the despair behind those words:
“ ‘…What’s the point of the war? Why, oh, why can’t people live together peacefully? Why all this destruction?’
The question is understandable, but so far no one has come up with a satisfactory answer. Why is England manufacturing bigger and better aeroplanes and bombs and at the same time churning out new homes for reconstruction? Why are millions spent on the war each day; while not a penny is available for medical science, artists or the poor? Why do people have to starve when mountains of food are rotting away in other parts of the world? Oh, why are people so crazy?”
I was here reminded of the famous poem ‘The Man He Killed’ by Thomas hardy. I quote him:
Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.
Another issue on which I fully agree with Anne is that the common man is also responsible. It is a general practice with us that we very nonchalantly blame the politicians for all the wrong that is being done. But we mustn’t forget that we, as people, have equal responsibility if not more. Anne is completely right when she writes that war happens because people have a destructive urge in them – an urge to murder and kill.
Anne Frank’s optimism towards the end of the book, that they’ll be freed, makes her death all the more tragic. They (Anne Frank with her family members and others (eight in total) were taken to different concentration c amps. Out of the eight only Anne’s father Otto Frank survived. They were arrested on August 4, 1944. Anne died in late February or early March 1945 and the camp where she was, was liberated by the British troops on April 12, 1945. This is the irony of life!
The past stood witness to my present uncertainty while future was evasive. And it is this uncertainty of the present and the evasiveness of times to come that gives birth to poetry and poetic words. The standstill time stays put, the moment doesn't pass, yet the day is gone. In gathering these moments the life is gone. What gives us a reason to wrap up these bits into one whole is our dreams, the reason to live. Dreams, even while staying silent, speak volumes. Give words to your dreams and they come alive!