Postcard, Budapest, Hungary
Leslie Aigner: Postcard sent from Auschwitz camp when I was ordered to write home. I addressed it to a gentile friend. I did not want to give out any family
Leslie Aigner: Postcard sent from Auschwitz camp when I was ordered to write home. I addressed it to a gentile friend. I did not want to give out any family
Imam Abdulah Polovina: In this photo you can see an old traditional handmade coffee bean grinder and the traditional coffee called “dzezva” for making Bosnian
Emmanuel Turaturanye: My family my Pride Daddy was killed on 9 April 1994 I carry this picture because it keeps his memory and spirit alive in me.
Les Aigner: My mother Anna asking my dad Gyrela, if he ever received the food package that she has sent him This postcard was sent to a town named
Saron Khut: In 1980 my mother, my sister and I escaped Cambodia carrying only a few things, as we walked to the Lumpook refugee camp in Thailand.
Imam Abdulah Polovina: This is the opening part of the holy Qur’an that I brought with me from Bosnia and Herzegovina where it shows my birth
Imam Abdulah Polovina: This is the photo of an old collection of Mawlid poems and recitations. The term Mawlid is part of the daily vocabulary of the Muslim population
Sivheng Ung: My mother’s silver ceremony bowl. This kind of silver bowl, my mom used it to collect blessing water or for special occasions such as weddings
Emmanuel Turaturanye: My father preached that Easter Sunday, April 3, 1994 The genocide started that Thursday, April 7. My family was killed the following day,
Dijana Ihas: This is the photo of my viola that my parents bought for me when I was 14 years young. I carried this instrument first, for 7 hours
Evelyn Banko: My parents and I were already in Riya, Latvia on October 5, 1938 when all German passports held by Jews became invalid and had to be sent to […]
Evelyn Banko: When the Nazis occupied Austria in 1936, my parents hoped they would be able to leave Vienna for a safer country.
Twenty-one-year-old Samir Mustafic was in the small orchard behind his home in Bosnia when Serbian bombs rained down upon his family’s property.
Chanpone Sinlapasai was born in Laos during a bloody civil war, and narrowly escaped to the US with her family at just four years old.
His left arm lay dangling from his body. The angle was alarming–entirely unnatural. His midsection was in shreds, ripped apart by Serbian shrapnel that had punctured