[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 148 (2002), Part 12]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages 16630-16631]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]




   CENTRAL NEW JERSEY SHARES A POEM ON FREEDOM BY WORLD TRADE CENTER 
                       VICTIM DAVID SCOTT SUAREZ

                                 ______
                                 

                           HON. RUSH D. HOLT

                             of new jersey

                    in the house of representatives

                     Wednesday, September 11, 2002

  Mr. HOLT. Mr. Speaker, I rise today to share with you excerpts from a 
story that World Trade Center victim David Scott Suarez wrote about two 
hiking trips he had taken several years apart, and a poem he wrote 
about climbing as a metaphor for life and for freedom. David writes 
about freedom, both in terms of the struggle to attain it and the 
unparalleled joy of having it. In a sense, David's story reminds us 
that freedom is not free. It requires hard work and undaunting 
perseverance. Freedom can only be attained when people work, together 
with others, exerting all of the collective strength of the unified 
group, to ascend its peak. One could interpret David's story to say 
that freedom is not even a choice, but rather a requirement for the 
realization of human potential, and that freedom should be our example 
to the world that we shout from the mountaintops.
  David's parents, Ted and Carol Suarez, have so far had his poem 
translated into over 90 languages, including three of the major 
languages spoken in Afghanistan. They offer their son's story and poem 
in hopes that they will show all of the people of the world how much 
they have in common, so that we will always choose to communicate with 
each other rather than fight, and so that their son's death and the 
death of so many others on September 11 will not have been in vain. The 
following are excerpts from ``Return to Freedom'', by David Suarez.
  My legs burned. My heart pounded. A bead of sweat ran down my 
forehead to the tip of my nose. I wiped it off with the back of my 
dirty arm just before it dripped to the ground. The air was cool and 
the wind grew fiercer the higher into the atmosphere we climbed. It 
froze sweat to my skin and blew my hair every which way, occasionally 
stinging my eyes. I looked up past Bob, who was directly in front of 
me, but I could not see our destination. The peak was covered in 
clouds. . . . Hail pelted my raincoat. The trail we'd been hiking 
quickly turned to a swiftly flowing stream. The sky lit up. Thunder 
cracked simultaneously. I began to hear the slow cracking of, not 
thunder but wood. We all turned abruptly. A tree fell across the path 
50 yards behind us, its top shattered and smoking.
  Only nine miles to go, but the weather showed no signs of letting up. 
At night we were going to make camp on top of Mount Philip at 11,711 
feet. . . . It was thirteen miles away and a strenuous climb from where 
we broke camp in the morning. Unfortunately, that day was worse than 
any other had been. Like myself, the other guys in the expedition were 
pretty melancholy. . . . All I could think about was the 40 pound pack 
and the ice covered ground that kept me from moving forward with any 
sort of speed. . . . It continued to storm.
  I trudged on. Stepping one foot in front of the other. . . . If I'd 
had a choice I'd have stopped, but there was no choice. Stopping meant 
hypothermia, which was worse than walking. Hours later, we reached the 
top. My hands were red. The tips of my fingers were almost white; they 
were completely numb. The clouds were so thick I couldn't see more than 
a few feet ahead. Everyone else was in the same condition, some worse. 
. . . There were fourteen of us, only six were able to pitch tents. . . 
. We pitched one after another. I thought each one along the way would 
be my last. Finally we finished and everyone was safe. Then, 
miraculously, the moment our tent was ready for sleep the clouds blew 
away and the warm sun came out. . . .
  That was it, I was the last man standing. I was so excited I started 
to run to the peak. . . . I reached it minutes later. . . . I leaned 
back against the flagpole that stood higher than everything else. A 
smile of contentment crossed my face. I shut my eyes and fell asleep to 
the sound of the American Flag snapping in the wind. I was free.
  Three thousand miles and five years later I was feeling the same 
thing. Freedom, what a strong word it is. Millions of people had died 
in its name. Do people fully understand and appreciate this single 
word? Do I? A month earlier I sat out on the lawn under the shade of a 
tall oak attending my Asian philosophy class. After class I walked past 
a preacher yelling that all of my peers (and myself) were doomed to 
hell. I walked further and saw a stand with pictures of marijuana 
leaves all around, apparently fighting for its legality. I sat down and 
watched a couple walk past hand in hand and smiling. It was July 3. The 
impact of what was occurring before me hit me like a blow. I was living 
the dream that so many had died for. I belonged to a select group of 
people that could enjoy life as it should be enjoyed. In day to day 
life I often didn't realize that. . . . My mind and my talents marked 
the limits of where I could go. No one else dictated them.
  Those thoughts reentered my mind as I climbed to the top of Sugarbush 
Mountain in central Maine. Climbing became a metaphor for life. We were 
almost at the top and the wind was blowing fiercely. We had entered the 
clouds and couldn't see a thing. At one point I opened my jacket and 
leaned into the wind. It supported my weight for awhile. Together we 
reached the top. We raised our hands and screamed loudly for the world 
to hear. We'd conquered this mountain. Although the steep slopes tried 
to keep us down, they couldn't. Although our lives threatened to trap 
us in dull routine, we escaped. We were in charge of our destinies, 
only us. For a moment the clouds cleared. It seemed as if we could see 
the entire world at once. In silence we watched. We were free.

                              You Are Free

                          (By David S. Suarez)

       The air is cool, the sky is dark, your muscles relax, while 
     nature's breath fills your lungs

       You have accomplished your tasks, felt the pain, and 
     endured the pressure, a pressure so immense that you lived to 
     escape

       You have climbed to the very peak of the mountain and now 
     relax on a rock, high above the trees while others sleep

       You are enveloped by nature's beauty for just a moment you 
     abandon your incarcerated body wholly relinquishing your ties 
     to human nature and for only an instant, you become part of 
     God you are free


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