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Mar 16, 2004 The other night I went to sleep in our new home. The children were in bed and my wife and I settled down for the night. Unfortunately, sleep did not come easy for me but soon I was in a troubled but deep slumber. It was then that I found myself transported to an auditorium. Where it was I didn't know. Why I was there, I didn't know. I quickly lost count of the number of seats that filled this vast space, all facing the stage. And sitting on the stage was a single chair. Without knowing how, I knew that the chair was meant for me. As I walked to the sole chair on the stage, the auditorium started to fill with people. All sorts. Fire fighters, policemen, businesswomen, soldiers. They sat and didn't say a word. All those faces, staring at me, polite and patient. Once the auditorium was filled a sole figure stood up and asked me a question. "Have you forgotten us?", this man asked me. I silently shook my head 'no' and nodded for him to continue. "We were all killed. Some that day, some later. Some died trying to save those of us trapped in a building destroyed by madmen in an airplane. Some died later fighting those same people who believed as they did." He sat back down as another stood at the other side of the auditorium. "Por que? Why? All that we wanted to accomplish is now gone. Those innocent and not so innocent died on that train with me. The children that we will never see grow or the parents that will never have their children to hold again or even the young, with nothing but the love of their futures that they will never see again, are all gone. Will you remember us?" He sat down. And another rose in his place, and spoke of all that will be missed, and another rose and spoke of duty and honor and how they had volunteered to go where they were needed and another rose and spoke of just wanting to go to work one day and to have all that torn away, and another rose and another rose and another rose... I sat there and cried. Tears flowed freely and unchecked as I heard all their stories of love lost and sacrafices made. And they all asked the one question at the end, "Will they be remembered?" I tried to explain that, yes they would all be remembered but that change came slowly. I tried to explain appeasement to them, my voice though, fell on deaf ears. They didn't want to hear about politics, or policies, foreign or domestic, they knew all too well the results of politics. They knew all to well the results of fanaticism. "Why can't you debate with a fanatic?", one person asked me. "Why?", I asked. "Because the only way to prove their point is for them to kill you.", came the answer. I wanted to scream at them, saying I was just one man, I lived a simple life with my wife and sons, I went to work every day and did well, I spent the weekends playing with my children and talking to my wife, I just wanted to support my family and do the best that I could do. As one voice, they all cried out that they too, wanted just what I had, that they too were just one man, were just one woman, all that they ever wanted was to spend the weekends with their families and to love and be loved by them. I lowered my head and cried some more. Sobbing, I wanted to tell them that they would be remembered, that their lives had meaning and that their deaths had meaning as well. That they would be remembered, that they would not be forgotten in the halls of politics and policies and treaties and appeasements. I would remind people. I would do my best to remind people over and over again that terrorism is just a mall bomb away, it is just one anthrax- filled letter away, it is just one train bomb away. I would remind people that this war would not be won by closing our boarders or our minds, it would not be won by appeasement. They slowly rose from their seats and started walking towards the exits. All silent. All patient. All understanding. I dried my tears, the best that I could and watched them leave, and made a promise to myself that for as long as I was alive, I wouldn't forget them. And if there is a God then we won't, and in the halls of politics and policies, the people that inhabit these lofty places won't either. ------------ About the author: Mike Russell is a Ninja/fighter pilot/ astronaut with x-ray vision who likes to make up stuff about the author when his wife isn’t looking. Email Michael F Russell: mikerussellus@yahoo.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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