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If you imagine it, and you don't have to imagine very hard, you can hear crying. The wind whistles, even wails in the trees, like women in mourning. Branches creak, like the backs of hard worked men breaking under their labors. The sounds every step makes, like the slap of their feet against the pavement. These are the subtle, quiet voices of the atrocity.

Yet for all this, it seems a peaceful place now, for some. Others weep, break down, sob, wail and cry out, kneeling on the hard, sweat stained ground.

Is the place at peace and only we who are horrified? Or do we project the peace of our prosperity onto a land in protest against its use? God creates, man destroys; God consecrates, man defiles; he breaks all things under the weight of the evil of his will; but see, God makes all things new.

See the hair, shaved from the heads of women. It is gray now, like a grandmothers. It was loved once; stroked, kissed by a lover, combed by a sister or friend, petted by a mother, ruffled by a carefree father. No more. Now it is a rug.

See the suitcases. Those suitcases were the hope of the Jews. If you pack, you eventually unpack at home again. Not so for thousands upon thousands of these. It was fruitless.

Leave, sigh, look at your friend and laugh nervously, affected, and glad to leave. Its not out of place; you'll be normal by supper. But don't forget...