Etty Hillesum (1914–1943) was a Dutch Jewish writer whose diaries, written during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands, offer an intimate and profound reflection on life, memory, and personal resilience. She was a woman of extraordinary intellectual independence, defying traditional gender roles with her deeply introspective and philosophical approach to existence. Unlike many of her contemporaries, she did not see strength and vulnerability as opposites but rather as two facets of a deeply engaged and examined life. Her writings reveal an unwavering commitment to self-inquiry, a refusal to be consumed by hatred, and an ability to find meaning even in the darkest of times. Hillesum’s diaries (1941-1943), written in the face of the Holocaust, document not only the external horrors she witnessed but also her profound internal journey, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

While reflecting on the themes of architecture and memory, I was unexpectedly drawn back to a book I first read 14 years ago, in 2011, during my final year of classical studies in Italy. My high school background was far from technical, rooted in Latin and Greek literature, and we were used to see the world through the lens of strong figures, regardless of their profession. Today I am an architect, fully immersed in the practice, yet I recognise that the questions I carry with me, about memory, identity, and place, still resonate with the passages I underlined in Hillesum’s diary all those years ago.

Selected quotes from An Interrupted Life and Letters From Westerbork 1941-1943

I want something, and I don’t know what. Once again, I feel an overwhelming restlessness and a desperate urge to search, everything in my mind is tense

That discontent has returned, that restless searching, that feeling of emptiness within things, the sense that life is not finding its fulfilment but is just an aimless turmoil […] but we must stay connected to the present world, and we must find our place within this reality. We cannot live solely on external truths; doing so, we risk burying our heads in the sand

Either everything is accidental, or nothing is. If I believed the first, I could not live, yet I am still not convinced of the second

The source of everything must be life itself, never another person. Many, especially women, draw their strength from others: men are their source, not life itself. It seems to me an incredibly distorted and unnatural attitude

You are not chaotic at all. You just remember a time when you thought chaos was more brilliant than discipline

It is typical that I always want to be desired by men, that our femininity must always be the supreme confirmation of our being, when in fact, this is an entirely primitive notion

The aversion I sometimes feel toward people I usually care for is incomprehensible. It is a negative, destructive, and critical attitude

When I feel unwell, I should immediately stop the machine of my thoughts, but instead, it starts racing, throwing everything into disarray

I imagine some people pray with their eyes turned toward the sky: they seek God outside themselves. Others lower their heads, hiding them in their hands, I believe they search for God within

And yet, I always desire the same level of intensity, even though I know from my own experience that such a thing does not exist. The moment I sense a temporary drop in another person, I flee. Clearly, this stems from a sense of inferiority, something like: if I cannot draw them into a state of constant longing for me, then I prefer nothing at all. It’s maddeningly illogical, and I must stop it. I wouldn’t even know what to do if someone longed for me endlessly; it would give me a sense of oppression, boredom, and constraint

Fear of life in every aspect. Complete surrender. Lack of self-confidence. Aversion. Fear

Why do people keep themselves so ridiculously busy? Are they not deceiving themselves? In the background, one always senses this uncertainty

Suddenly, I remembered that deeply meaningful dream. For a few minutes, I tried to recall it with all my strength, almost greedily. I felt that even that dream was a part of my personality to which I had a right, something I could not afford to lose, that I had to know it if I wanted to finally feel like a complete and harmonious person

Rebellion, aversion, passion, discussions, social justice, class struggle, we have already lived through all of this once. To start over again is pointless. It becomes a cliché. Of course, every country prays for its own victory once more, all the old slogans are back, but now that we are experiencing this for the second time, it would be ridiculous and meaningless if we allowed ourselves to be swept up in agitation or passion again

Hillesum’s reflections on identity and the struggle between passivity and action remain strikingly relevant today. Though she lived in an era of extreme historical upheaval, her internal dialogues and philosophical approach to life transcend time. As I return to her words, I see them not just as personal musings but as a testament to the enduring power of writing as a form of resistance, self-discovery, and memory-making.