Candles in the Snow
By Elizabeth Khan, Staff Writer

There was an eerie silence over the streets of Manhattan that February evening.  The streets and sidewalks had been covered in two feet of snow, rendering driving a perilous undertaking, and mere walking a tiring chore. So, the usually steady background noise of traffic and people had vanished.  I nearly had the city to myself as I made my way down 10th Street.  I walked with uncertainty, glancing again at the note a friend had sent me: Candlelight Vigil, St. Mark's, 5:30pm on the 17th.  Was it still going to take place?  And if was, how many would brave the unmerciful weather to be there?

I was quite exhausted when I finally reached Second Avenue and my destination, St. Mark's in the Bowery.  To my relief, the doors of the church were open and a warm golden light glowed from within. I went inside, expecting to see an empty church, but no!  There were people there. People from all walks of life, far more than anyone had expected, given the weather that day.

We were all there for the same reason; we all found the imminent war on Iraq morally unacceptable.  "War is real, and it is real bad," a friend of mine had so succinctly written in a letter to me a week before.  I certainly did not want to see thousands of people die for a cause that no one could even seem to name.

As I scanned the people's faces, I saw a familiar one, my friend Henry, a philosophy professor, who had written the letter.  "I am so glad to see you here," he said. After this greeting he hurried away to join the choir that was assembling at the front, and I sat down with the other assembled people. The choir began to sing.  It was gospel, and a very diverse group.  They sang with an infectious zeal.  They were followed by several speakers, vital women and men exercising the dearest liberty a person can possess - one's voice, one's moral conviction.  These were people who had committed their lives to the avoidance of war and death.

When I told a person in my acquaintance of my intention to attend this peace vigil some time before, she responded by saying, "Why bother? What good will it do?"  I wonder this sometimes myself. But when I start to doubt that value of dissent, I consider the alternative.  Sit idly and complacently by, and do absolutely nothing? No. I could never in good conscience do that.  Neither could the other people who had trudged through the snow to St. Mark's that evening; nor the millions of people all over the world who had taken to the streets two days before.  We all looked to a common goal, that of peace and justice.

After the choir performed its last piece, candles were passed out among the people.  We were going to walk to Astor Place.  I wondered how we would keep the candles lit in the snow and gusts of wind.  As one candle after another was lit, filling the church with the soft glow of their light, I met up with Henry again.  He smiled and said, "Elizabeth, I'm so proud of you." I was somewhat puzzled by this.  What was he proud of me for?  What had I done? But even as I had these thoughts, it was still a nice statement to hear, especially after weeks of being called several condescending names for the beliefs that I professed. There were times when I felt very much alone. Henry's words of support helped to change that.

We all left the church and proceeded rather solemnly towards Astor Place.  The wind repeatedly extinguished some candles, but at least one always remained lit to keep the others going, so the light stayed with us.  When we reached Astor Place we formed a circle around the cube sculpture outside Cooper Union, and we sang. "We shall overcome/We shall overcome/We shall overcome someday."  Then a few people, my friend included, went up to the cube sculpture and pushed it, and it turned.  Faster and faster, they ran with it.  Then they stopped, and turned it to spin the other way.  If only we could turn the world around like that, I thought.  But; but we can.  Together we can. We must....

Somebody spoke, "We have reached maybe fifty, maybe more people today.  Now, go and tell more; five more, ten more.  Spread what we have spoken here tonight!"  And I resolved to do so.

We blew out our candles.  I bade farewell to Henry, and we went in opposite directions homewards.  The snow had become softer, and only a few small flakes floated down to the deserted streets.  As I walked back towards 10th Street, I sang quietly to myself:

"Oh deep in my heart
I do believe
We shall overcome someday."