Aaron Lieberman sat in the waiting room of the police station, his heart heavy with a mix of dread and anger. He clutched the letter of guarantee in his trembling hands, the paper crumpling slightly under the pressure of his grip. His son, David, a university student, had been arrested during an anti-Israel protest on campus. Aaron knew David’s passion for justice and human rights, but never imagined it would lead to this.
As he waited, Aaron’s mind drifted back to his own youth. He remembered visiting the concentration camps with his grandfather, a Holocaust survivor. The memories were etched into his soul: the barbed wire fences, the barracks, the oppressive atmosphere that seemed to choke the very air. His grandfather had spoken little, but the pain in his eyes spoke volumes.
Now, sitting in the station, Aaron felt an eerie familiarity creeping over him. The building was old, the walls gray and cracked, the lighting dim and flickering. The air was thick with the smell of damp concrete and something else—something that made his skin crawl. It was a smell he had never forgotten, the scent of fear and despair.
A stern-looking officer approached him, snapping him out of his reverie. “Mr. Lieberman, you can come with me,” she said, her voice cold and emotionless. Aaron stood up, his legs shaky as he followed her down a long, narrow hallway. The walls seemed to close in around him, and he could almost hear the echoes of his grandfather’s whispered prayers.
They stopped in front of a heavy iron door. The officer unlocked it and gestured for him to enter. Inside, the room was bare, except for a single wooden table and two chairs. David sat on one side of the table, his hands cuffed, his eyes wide with fear. Aaron’s heart broke at the sight of his son, but as he stepped into the room, something else caught his attention.
The walls were lined with metal hooks, some still holding ragged strips of fabric—remnants of past prisoners, perhaps. The floor was stained, and the air was suffocatingly thick. The atmosphere was hauntingly similar to the barracks he had seen at the camps. Aaron’s breath caught in his throat as a wave of nausea washed over him.
“Sit down,” the officer ordered. Aaron complied, trying to steady his nerves. As he looked at David, he saw not just his son, but the countless faces of those who had suffered before him. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks—this place, this moment, was a twisted reflection of the horrors his grandfather had endured.
“Mr. Lieberman,” the officer began, “your son was involved in an illegal protest. We’re prepared to release him on your guarantee, but understand that this is a serious matter.”
Aaron barely heard her. His mind was racing, the weight of history pressing down on him. He felt as if he were reliving his grandfather’s past, the same fear, the same helplessness. But this time, it was his son who was at the mercy of a system that seemed all too familiar.
He signed the letter with a shaking hand, barely able to see through the tears that blurred his vision. As the officer uncuffed David and led him out of the room, Aaron stayed behind for a moment, his eyes fixed on the hooks on the wall.
“Never again,” he whispered to himself, a vow as much as a plea. He would not let the shadows of the past consume his son, nor would he allow history to repeat itself.
But as he left the station, the weight of those shadows lingered, a haunting reminder that the horrors of the past were never truly gone. They were always there, lurking just beneath the surface, ready to emerge in the unlikeliest of places.
Columbia University president resigns after Gaza protests turmoil
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