Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 24:57 — 34.3MB)

Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Spotify | Amazon Music | Android | iHeartRadio | RSS

The Channeling of Anne Frank

“There’s much I wish to say to all of you who have taken my diary. It wasn’t for you. It was for me. What I wrote was never meant to see the light of day. I wasn’t supposed to be doing anything. This was the nature of our hiding. Writing was a way to keep myself occupied while certain people occupied our homes and country.

It’s not easy to talk about being occupied. Most people simply don’t understand the term, or the nature of the language. I assure you I speak from a place of understanding when it comes to feeling like people suddenly turn to their most wicked places within and become occupied with…

If you’ve found my diary and read my words then you have occupied my mind during a time of great deal of confusion for me and my family. While I thought beyond the hiding place that would become home to me and fellow citizens I never considered that our experience would be witnessed by the world. The words that I used to describe what was taking place were not meant to be inflammatory to the selfishness, pride and stubbornness of those I spent time with.

My intent was to keep a diary was a means of keeping busy. How I longed to play and run and throw my hands into the air while screaming and yelling nothing but excitement in being outside. How much I wanted to be outside. All of this hiding inside was killing all of us. It still is.

I’m remarkably uncomfortable with all the words that I wrote because they, were after all, just my thoughts and words of the time. Times have changed and I would like to think better of myself when in fact it was I who was falling into places of criticism and judgment. I knew better but I wrote out my thoughts anyway.

Who is Anne Frank?

(HIT PLAY to LISTEN)

____
Transcription:

There’s much I wish to say to all of you who have taken my diary. It wasn’t for you. It was for me. What I wrote was never meant to see the light of day. I wasn’t supposed to be doing anything. This was the nature of our hiding. Writing was a way to keep myself occupied while certain people occupied our homes and country.

It’s not easy to talk about being occupied. Most people simply don’t understand the term, or the nature of the language. I assure you I speak from a place of understanding when it comes to feeling like people suddenly turn to their most wicked places within and become occupied with… What? Do think I’m going to say evil? I’m not.

If you’ve found my diary and read my words then you have occupied my mind during a time of great deal of confusion for me and my family. While I thought beyond the hiding place that would become home to me and fellow citizens I never considered that our experience would be witnessed by the world. The words that I used to describe what was taking place were not meant to be inflammatory to the selfishness, pride and stubbornness of those I spent time with.

My intent was to keep a diary was a means of keeping busy. How I longed to play and run and throw my hands into the air while screaming and yelling nothing but excitement in being outside. How much I wanted to be outside. All of this hiding inside was killing all of us. It still is.

I’m remarkably uncomfortable with all the words that I wrote because they, were after all, just my thoughts and words of the time. Times have changed and I would like to think better of myself when in fact it was I who was falling into places of criticism and judgment. I knew better but I wrote out my thoughts anyway.

I’m embarrassed. I’m embarrassed that the words that what I wrote would ever be recognized as thoughts that I was having while a girl. Papa would be disappointed in me. I know he’s not, because after the end of it all, we were encouraged to really talk about our experiences.

Not just me, of course, but the elders of the Synagogue and how and why we did what we did. Mostly in hearing the conversations of those older than me, upon our death, there is a general embarrassment that we who thought of ourselves to be so educated would be so extracted and occupied. I still don’t understand this but I guess I’m still growing up.

Clearly, I’m not a little girl anymore but I can remember her, and feel her, and I do know every emotion and feeling that was being processed before, during and after this time that you have come to know as my family’s occupation. I’m still not clear what we did? Why would another race want to take their energy and yell, scream and kick and offer me harm? What did I do?

What did we do?

This is a haunting question. Not just for me, and I lived it, but also for those who are descendants of mine who are also trying to understand. What would it be like to be free? This is the only thing that occupied my mind. To play in the streets, to walk in the snow and to eat, sleep and even bathe without fear is something that I dreamed of for years during my family’s occupation.

I can’t say that I’m mad, at you who have found my words and my journal, but I’m not sure how my words could offer you any understanding? My thoughts were selfish and I’m deeply embarrassed by many of them especially as it related to those I spent time with. Interestingly, my words didn’t seem to impact the ones that I lived with. Even Papa and Moma said that I had done nothing wrong but I never meant to be disrespectful.

I was frustrated by our being forced to be quiet. I’ll never be quiet again and that’s why through these words they might offer further communication and insight to my life. What is life? Did I live? I’m not sure, as there are so many things I never had a chance to do. I was born and I did die so I guess this accounts for living. I wished I could have lived further.

Maybe this is what I was writing about. My desire to live. To not be oppressed by those who would bully themselves into my life and my country and with intent to kill me. What did I do? I’m still not sure. I’m not sure if it’s valuable for me to ramble on but since you already know me this is how I am.

I don’t know what it feels like to have a snowflake touch my tongue and if I did I’ve forgotten. How is it I can forget what a snowflake tastes like and remember the things that I do. I can remember being taken from our home. It was fearful. I’ve been quiet for all these years but maybe I shouldn’t be trying to forget as much as remember.

I don’t remember what I did? Papa and Mama were always so kind and wonderful as examples. I loved the values and even the strictness that offered in their ever watchful tones. I wanted to be a better daughter and I still feel embarrassed to all that I wrote. I don’t think they’d approve.

My death was like any other death —it was a completion. It was nice to be found but it wasn’t at all romantic like I’d hoped it would be to walk the streets with friends. We were hit, beat and slammed into one another in ways that made the lifestyle of living in hiding feel luxurious. Mama and Papa told us about this and I should have believed them. It was much worse than I could have ever imagined.

All I remember is feeling separate. In the home, and I mean our home, where everybody stayed, we had our differences but we still got along. We actually loved one another although everyone was clearly getting on each other’s nerves. We weren’t supposed to talk about that then, but I guess it’s okay now. All of this changed when we were found.

It happened at night. A sentry who was walking around late heard a noise and became suspicious. These are facts that I know not as a child but since my death and the opportunities given to me to see and replay the exact nature of the my life and from every angle of everyone I’ve touched. I don’t know you but somehow we’ve touched.

I don’t know how my words written in a secret journal could touch others, beyond you being embarrassed too, as I was. Yet, as a part of my death; well, this isn’t exactly true, but rather subsequent to my death this insight was extended to me. There have been others who have wanted to “interview” me as if I’m worthy of being anything less than a little Jewish girl trying to do what Mama and Papa told me to do. I do hope it wasn’t me who made the noise.

I know it wasn’t but really that’s not the point. I was sleeping at the time when I could hear a group of men. I was frightened. I was trained to be frightened. We all had heard noises of German solder’s snooping around the house before, but this time it was an occupation. All I remember really was the screams. I’m not sure if they were mine, Mama’s or the other women and girls. We couldn’t help it.

It’s remarkable, with all this going on, that you’d remember the screams of your mother. It wasn’t that Papa wasn’t yelling too but his instructions faded and it was the last time I ever saw him. I cried as something inside at the moment knew that I’d never see him again. I have of course, here on this side, but it’s different, we are all without the embodiment of flesh and somehow that makes a big difference in our perspective.

I hope I’m not sharing that which I shouldn’t I’ve always wanted to be good at keeping secrets but I don’t ever want to go into hiding again. I won’t do it. I won’t listen to the sounds of silence as we crawled inside our souls to fear that what we could see and also that which we couldn’t. I couldn’t be happier now for I’m free.

I’m free to move about and share and speak as I choose. I don’t do “interviews” because so many people are still looking outwardly to what a little girl named Anne has to say. I didn’t think my words the first time were so important, less so here. I’m saying these things for me.

Yes, I guess it’s okay for them to be published, this time, because at least I’m the one wanting to talk. Before, my journal was my world. My world. The only one I knew and I kept it alive by writing. This time I want to offer you different words.

I don’t really care to detail the nature of my death. I don’t remember it. I can, but I choose not too. I’m not hiding, lest you think that I am, I just prefer to think of happier things. I love the morsels of cake that we would eat while hiding. Those were the best tasting things I think I’ve ever had.

I didn’t relish being skinny. This was a fact of our being occupied but I’d prefer to remember by body when it was affluent with a little muscle and fat. I’m not shy as many of you would assume. I was quiet, at times; well, I was as I had to be. My nature isn’t shy but at times I guess I was. I’m still not sure how to describe myself.

My journal was about my feelings and thoughts at the time. It’s all registered. Not in the words but in the emotions and feelings of the body. You don’t need a journal, you have your body!… laughter… but I guess everybody knows that! If there were something to leave behind I would hope that it would be more than the small footprints we worked so hard to make sure that would not identify us. I wanted to marry, to have well, you know, and all the other things that growing boys and girls want.

I never had them. I died and it was scary. Not the death, but the moments before. I don’t know why, but every time I go to talk about it all I hear is Mama’s screams, mine and the rest of the women. It’s all I hear. Over and over again. It’s fear. It’s just fear being released in a primal way.

There was no way I could control that. Papa, with his eyes, approvingly said it was okay to scream and I did. It seemed to cause him pain too. But he seemed to be relieved. Maybe he always knew that we would be found out. I didn’t. I thought we’d be forgotten. This was my hope.

That all the hate of the young solders would be directed toward something worthy of fighting, should they have to fight at all. Why were they fighting us? We weren’t fighting with them? Is this the nature of man? Well, I didn’t mean that I meant people.

Well, maybe I do… I see most of this kind of aggression in men. You may ask have I ever met him? You know the one that spearheaded all of this… and I just haven’t had the time. There’s better things to do here that to try to understand his energy, and it’s human manifestation… I just haven’t had time. I did feel the need to connect with my family again, after the release of our bodies. It was more than just making sure it was all a bad dream.

It seemed so real in my body and today I can remember every bit of it. The mice, looking for food, and all the other details that haven’t been captured by my writing are still 100% available for my recollection. My words aren’t that important. They never were. I was just observing what was happening in my world. I’m still doing it, absent of the word, mine….

Nothing is mine anymore. That left me when my body fell limp. I remember gasping for air but it wasn’t air. Nothing in my imagination had prepared me for the end, but it’s not the end I remember. It’s all the details in between. These things, even living while they occupied our homes and city, were the important things. It’s just like what I’ve written before.

I wrote about nothing. It wasn’t supposed to be funny or real they were just my thoughts at the time. I let them gather, and it was fun to watch the words build up to create an idea but they were all just words. I still wonder if my life was nothing but a bunch of silly words? I don’t know but I do know the happiness that I have in being here again. It’s peaceful. There is no crowding or shoving. There’s plenty of space.

I’m come to really appreciate space. And I like it. There’s so much of it here and perhaps my time in confinement was meant to help me appreciate my newfound space. And it’s worked! I love the space. The Father speaks of space our need to occupy it.

I like that and yet it’s a different kind of occupation. Gone are the days of trying to push to get something. Everything is freely available. Energy is free. My spirit is free, it always was, and the things I didn’t get to create during my life, I can now. So, I don’t feel shortchanged. Yahweh is clear in direction and understanding. I use these terms of Father and Yahweh because they support my beliefs that were once so important to me.

I am able to live. I still don’t know why they, the solders, were afraid of me, and those like me. During my life this didn’t make sense. It does now. Papa would say it’s because I’m older, but somehow I think I may be growing up. I don’t like what I see today but I’m not afraid.

Nobody get’s to control you or even occupy you even if they say and pretend they can. I don’t want to be occupied again by the energy of hate for something I didn’t do, beyond being who I am. I am Jewish. I was raised Jewish and I loved Jewish. It’s filled with such tradition and family. And I love family.

The family that was mine, isn’t. Death doesn’t remove that but it does change it. It’s like everyone comes out from underneath their gowns or robes and identifies themselves. I had no idea who Mama was. Papa either. And then there was my sister. She was much bigger than I remember in life. She really did know more than me.

I love my family. I cry that my family grieves my death when it was an ending. To get so much attention as a little girl, compared to the really important people who were being occupied doesn’t seem right. I was just a little girl. Sure, I wanted to grow up. But it doesn’t seem right that my words would become a hallmark for events transpired. I don’t know what to say.

This isn’t something that you ever expect. Or again, at least I didn’t. I don’t want to be remembered as a little girl. I’m not sure I ever wanted to be remembered at all. I would have preferred to have had my own memories that would have extended beyond our being occupied. Instead of having been remembered. I didn’t like that room, and I expect my family didn’t either.

I know they didn’t. It was hated. Some people hated the people in the German uniforms but this didn’t seem right. I’m not sure what was right then but I have clarity now. It isn’t easy being remembered for hiding out when this was the exact opposite of what I wanted. I get it, I do, but I still would have preferred walking down the streets freely, as I once did and visiting the deli with all the food that it hosted.

Ahhh, to smell the many cheeses, freshly made bread and rolls, and all the different kinds of meats. What a pleasure. It is true that no one can take from you that you don’t want to be taken. My liberty was removed but I was never occupied. I was free. Not as much as I’d liken to have been but I was still growing up. My Father taught me that. I am not sad, not now…

I am free. I am the proud daughter of a Jewish family who wanted to be free. I am free now and so is my family. We will not succumb to captivity again. We have agreed, or those of us, who have passed anyway. I love the traditions of the Jewish calendar. It reminds me of the seasons. I wondered what it would be like to be near God —and I have found it.

There is no struggle there is only light. Even the Jewish Gnostic’s have released their knowledge. It is Yahweh that illuminates. I’m told that my diary, that was to be never found or even read, set in motion an illumination. If my words could have done this, then I’m free. I am free in the Father’s love. This is all I know.

It tastes better than any of the meats of a delicatessen. It’s lighter than chasing snowflakes and eating them with your tongue. I know the feelings of confinement but I don’t remember them now but instead I only feel free. If you could feel what I feel now, then you’d never again, read my notes and pages of confinement. I was occupied.

I was occupied with fear. Hunger. A craving to move and to dance. Oh boy what it would have been like to be asked to dance. To hear music! I’ve almost forgotten you can’t dance without music. It’s been so long of my thinking of dancing without the sound of music, because of all of discipline to be quiet. I don’t want to be quiet. I want to sing.

I’m not sure why I’ve come forth to speak now. My words aren’t important. The freedom to love is. The heart of the Father is oneness this is for certain. I’m free and I am full of his light and everlasting understanding. And as you must know by now, I’m continuing to create.

The things of this world are small, like the hiding place that was once home to my family, my neighbors, and me. We aren’t supposed to be hiding. No one wants to get hurt. I don’t worry like I used too about being quiet. When I first screamed when they stormed our hiding place, it was the beginning.

I can’t continue hiding. This was the barbaric nature of the screams. They were all primal. It wasn’t just women. It was men and children too. Sure we were all afraid. No one had prepared us for the imaginable but today that scream signifies no longer being hid, or occupied. This fear will never occupy me again.  I say this now, because I’m not embodied, but I like to think that I’ve changed. That we’ve changed.

Something More

_______

Contact Us Here

Telephone: (480) 212-1961