March of the Living
We are revenge, incarnate
Destined to walk, to listen, to remember, to pass on
We are revenge incarnate
We march, hands intertwined with those of strangers along with brothers
Fingers braided tight as bread, seamlessly converting visitors into natives
Heads held high, along with fists, along with flags
Chanting, stamping, singing, stomping
Shoulders sagging under the weight of a burden called blessing
Looking around, the implausible existence of us glows deep inside of me; pride
Elderly hands clenching youth, seizing vitality
Lifelines deteriorating with age; memories fading, bartered for hollow rage
Will you offer us a hand? Every gift, regardless of size, fuels our future.
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Thank you.
The air sits heavy in our chests as we take in every breath
Teenagers should never know how it feels to inhale death
We march, listening to words spoken in foreign tongues with a resident message
Our eyes shut tight as we open our mouths wide to cry out the prayers of our people
We sing songs in our ancestors’ language with an identical strain of mourning and celebration coursing through our proudly-pumping veins
Anthems bearing such heavy burdens that our lungs might collapse under their weight
Dust floats into our chests like the synthetic smoke that filled the sky
Together, we stride, linked by arms, and heritage, and tragedy, and history
Flags of every color and country wave in support, in remembrance, in grieving, in appreciation
Tears fall from downcast eyes as the names of fallen children ring in and out of our ears
Our footsteps stain this dirt proudly, boldly declaring retribution
We are still here.
The poem was written by Eva Schottenstein, a 17-year-old from Bexley, Ohio, who participated in the 2015 March of the Living with the BBYO joint Delegation from Cleveland & Columbus.
