Never Again

I am walking toward the tall wall of seemingly endless rows of barbed wire. I see each step of mine, the foot of a child, exposed, frail and swollen. My fingers graze the fence as I begin a frantic climb. Advancing upward, my hands are shaking as each new grasp cuts abrasions into my skin, widening and deepening with each fresh slice. My head gets light, and blood drips from my palms as I clamp down to muffle screams of pain. I hear shouting in the direction of the guard tower, followed by a gunshot. Then, another. My body freezes, my muscles are shocked. As I fall, everything turns black. Abruptly, I wake up. This is always where I wake up.

Today is International Holocaust Remembrance Day, memorialized as such by the United Nations General Assembly in 2005, approximately 24 years after I was born. Before 2005, I remembered the Holocaust in the ways many other Jews of my generation have; from recurring childhood dreams, to the shaking tattooed arms of elders, and comprehensive Hebrew school history lessons. Genocide was nothing one forgot — it was in your bones, in your body, and in your blood.