By JanetheWriter
Today marks the first anniversary of my visit to Oświęcim, the Polish shetl town in which the Nazis built the Auschwitz concentration camp. Sometimes, still, when I close my eyes, I see the infamous "Arbeit Macht Frei" entry gate and the iconic low brick building that marks the entrance to Birkenau, the neighboring extermination camp. On that long, long day last year, I walked the railroad tracks, stood in the barracks and in the crematoria. I gazed into the glassy water of the pond whose dark depths still cradle the bones and ashes of those whose lives were snuffed out there. I saw their tallitot, their tefillin. I saw their shoes, their eyeglasses, their hair. I saw the canisters of Zyklon B used to kill them. Their names--known and unknown--are indelibly etched in my heart. I know these people. I am a witness to their history--to my history.

Fast forward from July 1, 2007 to March 19, 2008, the fifth anniversary of the United States' invasion of Iraq. Sadly, whether my eyes are open or closed, my mind's eye shows me nothing of this atrocity. I don't see the brave souls who are fighting there, nor those who anxiously await their return. I don't see the tanks or those hunkered down inside them. I don't see the guns or those who use them. I don't see the desert bivouacs or those who live in them. I don't see the maimed bodies or the tortured minds, nor hear their anguished cries at night. I don't see the roadside bombings or the faces of those they kill. I don't see the flag-draped coffins--more than 4100 to date--as they glide off the transport planes. I don't see the funerals. I don't hear the gloomy notes of Taps. I don't know these people. I don't know their names. I am not a witness to their history--to my history.

I want to see these people. I want to know them. I want to learn their names. I want to be a witness to their history--to my history. But more than that, I want them to come home. My mind steps back a generation--to a different time, a different place, a different war. When I close my eyes, I do see them. I see them alight from overflowing transport planes, grinning and waving. I see them descend the metal staircase to the cheering crowd nearby. I see them on the tarmac, entangled in yellow ribbons, confetti, balloons and, finally, awash in long-saved hugs and kisses, safe in the arms of those who love them the most. After that, I don't want to see them--or future generations of them--ever again.

It is up to us then, as our conscience dictates, to demonstrate, to letter write, to vote, speaking truth to power.  It is up to us then, as our tradition demands, to beat our swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning hooks. It is up to us then, to work toward the prophetic ideal. Then and only then will our soldiers--and we--go forth in peace, knowing war no more.

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