Fascist Train Ride?

I approached the dusty station before the sunrise. The gates were locked, but a mass of people had already gathered-- men and women sitting separately in the dirt with an assortment of makeshift bags and luggage; baskets of fruit, vegetables, peanuts, a few chickens gripped at the ankles (if chickens have ankles).
The sun came up slowly, shedding a grim and reluctant light over the scene before me. The Train came into view between the station bars. This was no silver bullet. The cars visible did not shine or sparkle in the morning light. They were rusted, busted metal tombs with sliding doors and one small window a piece. Storage cars. Cattle cars.
The guards called us to attention. In an instant two lines formed at the gate-- one for men, the other for women. Visions of the Holocaust swept through my mind. Was I to be deloused as well? Was my destination Nampula or Auschwitz? I no longer knew.
Hasn't man advanced sufficiently such that he no longer subjects his fellow man to such harrowing mass transit? Don't they see the parallels? And what's more, I had PAID to be treated like cattle, like a prisoner of war, like so many victims of genocide and Nazism. Oh Capitalism! Fiend of Fiends! Thief in the Night! Have you no scruples? No respect for history, for human dignity?

Of course I was mistaken.
My head and unsettled stomach had leapt far ahead of my eyes and reason. The passenger cars sat plainly behind the storage cars, previously obscured from view by the whitewashed walls of the station. While still far from comfortable, they had benches and windows. And my faith in humanity soared...