Op-Ed: The ‘Final Solution’ Comment…and the Silence That Followed

By Rep. ANITA BURROUGHS

Recently, Rep. Travis Corcoran (R-Weare) made statewide news, but not in a good way.

He posted on X: We need a final solution for theater kids in politics,” in response to an invitation to a legislative karaoke night hosted by Rep. Jessica Grill, who is Jewish.

For those unfamiliar, the phrase “final solution” was used by Nazi leaders to describe their plan to commit genocide against European Jews.

That’s not a throwaway line. It’s not edgy humor. It’s a phrase with a very specific and horrific meaning.

Speaker Sherman Packard and Minority Leader Alexis Simpson both condemned Corcoran’s statement. But beyond that, there was silence where it mattered most.

There was no public statement from Governor Ayotte or Majority Leader Jason Osborne. No call for accountability. Just silence. And that silence speaks volumes.

This stands in sharp contrast to what happened in 2020. Then-Speaker Steve Shurtleff asked Rep. Richard Komi (D-Manchester) to resign over a social media comment widely viewed as dismissive of survivors of sexual violence. Komi stepped down.

Leadership acted then. Why not now?

Deputy House Speaker Steve Smith has said that meaningful action would require a majority of lawmakers to agree it’s warranted: We can condemn it, but there is nothing we can do about it.”

I disagree.

Republican leadership has tools…if they choose to use them. They could pressure Corcoran to resign or rally their caucus to support expulsion. Leader Osborne has shown, time and again, that he can deliver votes when he wants to.

Short of that, they could at least make clear that this kind of rhetoric has consequences, including the option of supporting a serious primary challenger.

And recent elections show that even “safe” districts aren’t immune to voter backlash. Bobbi Boudman’s victory in a traditionally Republican district (Wolfeboro, Tuftonboro and Ossipee) underscores that point.

So why does this matter?

I’ll answer that personally, as a Jewish member of the New Hampshire House.

My grandfather Max came to the United States alone at age 13 from what is now Poland, fleeing the early threats that would later become the Holocaust. He spoke no English. Years later, much of his family was murdered, some at Auschwitz and Dachau.

Max was one of the kindest men I’ve ever known. We lived in the same two-family home, and I saw him every day growing up.

I never experienced antisemitism until I served in the New Hampshire State House.

Several years ago, two state representatives were brought before the Ethics Committee for posting antisemitic content. One sat across from me on the Commerce Committee. She never apologized and even suggested we should get together because we had so much in common.

No, thank you.

Neither representative faced any serious repercussion for their behavior.

Corcoran’s comment is not an isolated incident. It’s part of a broader pattern, of rhetoric and legislation that seeks to marginalize and demonize others.

And when leadership responds with silence, it sends a message.

Not just to those of us who are directly affected, but to everyone watching.

If there is no accountability from within the State House, then it must come from outside of it.

Vote out state representatives who believe they can act with impunity because they are protected by leadership or insulated by district lines.

Help your community recruit strong candidates from both sides of the aisle who reject the politics of hate and are willing to represent all their constituents, regardless of religion, race, or sexual orientation. And get out and volunteer to help get these candidates elected.  Newly elected representative Bobbi Boudman demonstrated that it can be done. 

Rep. Anita Burroughs
State Rep, Bartlett Carroll 2

Taking Back “Make America Great Again”

You want to make America great again?

Good.
So do I.

But let’s start by being honest about what actually made America great in the first place.

Red baseball cap with the slogan 'Make America Great Again' embroidered in white text.

It wasn’t slogans.
It wasn’t hats.
And it certainly wasn’t loyalty to one man.

America was great because we stood up for what was right—even when it was hard.

We passed laws for moral reasons.
We struck down laws for moral reasons.

We waged a war on poverty—not a war on poor people.

We invested in each other. We cared about our neighbors. We believed that when America succeeded, it was because all of us were pulling in the same direction.

We built big things—dams, highways, universities, research institutions.

We made astonishing technological advances.
We cured diseases.
We explored the universe.

We cultivated the greatest artists, the greatest scientists, and the most dynamic economy the world has ever seen.

We reached for the stars.

And we were able to do those things because we respected knowledge.

We aspired to intelligence.
We didn’t belittle it.
We didn’t fear it.
We didn’t treat education or expertise like some kind of enemy.

And we didn’t scare so easily.

Today, that spirit is under attack.

Donald Trump and the people who enable him have replaced patriotism with grievance. They have turned politics into a loyalty test to one man instead of a commitment to one country.

They mock intelligence.
They undermine truth.
They divide Americans against each other.

And now, once again, they have entangled the United States in another Middle East conflict—one that makes Americans less safe, not more.

That is not strength.

That is recklessness.

The first step in solving any problem is recognizing there is one.

And right now, we have a problem.

America is not the greatest country in the world today—not when we tolerate corruption, cruelty, and ignorance in our leadership.

But here’s the good news:

We can fix it.

Because greatness doesn’t come from slogans. It does not come from rage.
It does not come from lies.
It does not come from bullying the weak, demonizing immigrants, attacking education, or turning patriotism into a costume.

It comes from courage.
From sacrifice.
From intelligence.
From decency.

From citizens who are willing to stand up and say:

We can do better.

If we truly want to make America great again, then the first step is simple.

STOP saying YES to Donald Trump and the politicians who enable him. STOP voting for the unserious members of the GOP whose only goal is to get invited to Mara Lago.

And then let’s get back to the work that actually made this country great in the first place.

Building.
Inventing.
Discovering.
Learning.
And taking care of one another.

That is the America worth fighting for.

And that is the America we must build again. 🇺🇸

The Hidden Costs of War: Understanding Personal Sacrifice

Yesterday I wrote When easy victory isn’t easy peace. Here is part 2

The Invisible Cost of War — Who Fights and Who Bears the Burden

When the topic of war comes up in coffee shops, in newsrooms, or on social media, there’s often an unspoken gap between the abstract decisions of policy and the lived realities of service and sacrifice.

We prize technological dominance — drones, precision weapons, unmanned platforms — because they keep our soldiers physically safer. That’s a humane impulse. Yet in doing so, we risk making war feel distant from the lives of most Americans — until it isn’t.

War from a Distance — But Who Faces the Consequences?

One of the most profound effects of America’s All-Volunteer Force is that the duty of war is no longer a shared burden. Instead of a broad cross-section of society feeling the cost of conflict, the military becomes its own community — disproportionately composed of people from smaller towns, rural areas, and families with a tradition of service. 

That dynamic creates a quiet but growing divide:

  • For many Americans, war feels like a distant policy choice.
  • For others, it’s a lived reality — something that shapes their family’s future, their town’s demographics, their community’s hopes and fears.

That’s not just a statistic — it’s a human story. It’s the parent writing letters home, the small-town baker waiting for a son’s return, the neighbor whose family has served generation after generation.

The Psychological Distance of Remote Warfare

We’ve become experts at minimizing danger to our own forces — deploying drones and long-range systems that keep Americans off the ground. But that very safety can make military action feel risk-free to the vast majority of the public. When decisions about war are made in secure rooms thousands of miles from the battlefield, the human weight of those decisions can feel abstract, impersonal, even sanitized.

Two military personnel operating multiple computer screens in a command center, focused on monitoring and controlling various systems.
Major Dusty, 9th Attack Squadron MQ-9 Reaper pilot, and TSgt Trevis, 49th Operations Group MQ-9 sensor operator (last names omitted due to operational security concerns) fly an MQ-9 Reaper training mission from a ground control station on Holloman Air Force Base, N.M., Oct. 3. The Reaper is a multi-functional aircraft that supports both reconnaissance and combat roles. Holloman trains all Air Force MQ-1 Predator and MQ-9 Reaper pilots. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Michael Shoemaker/Released)

That gap — between decision-maker and service member, between civilian majority and military minority — matters. It shapes how society perceives war, how politicians justify it, and how we, as a nation, understand sacrifice.

Re-Centering the Human Story

Let’s bring the narrative of war back to the people who live it:

  • The young recruit from a town with limited job prospects who saw service as a way forward.
  • The parent who wonders whether this deployment will take a child out of a wedding, a graduation, a town celebration.
  • The veteran who carries memories home that no amount of distance or technology could erase.

These are the real stories behind the headlines.

War should never feel like a video game.
It should never feel like an easy choice.
It should always, always feel like a last resort.

Because it changes people — not just places on a map — but hearts, families, communities, futures.

When “Easy” Victory Isn’t Peace — Reflections on Iran and the Peace After War

When “Easy” Victory Isn’t Peace — Reflections on Iran and the Peace After War

There’s something deceptively simple about how we talk about modern war: high-tech instruments, swift strikes, minimal casualties on our side. In the opening weeks of the current conflict with Iran, headlines and political comments have often framed this as a matter of American resolve — a powerful nation using precision weapons to thwart an adversary. 

But it’s worth pausing and asking: what comes after the violence? What happens when the bombing stops?

The Illusion of “Easy” Victory

Our military can destroy an adversary’s infrastructure with firepower unmatched in history. That’s not empty rhetoric — it’s a fact rooted in overwhelming technological advantage. Yet all the weaponized drones, bombs, and missiles can only end one aspect of conflict: the physical threat. They cannot magically build the trust, stability, or political structures that make peace sustainable.

Even in a moment where U.S. and allied strikes have damaged Iranian military capabilities, Iran still retains short-range missiles, drones, and conventional forces that could inflict harm — as analysts have pointed out in recent days. That’s a reminder that a weaker opponent is not a non-threat. And a defeated state from the air is still a society of human beings dealing with loss, fear, and uncertainty.

The Dangers of a Power Vacuum

When a regime weakens or collapses — whether through military pressure or internal upheaval — the world doesn’t instantly become safer. Power vacuums don’t tidy themselves up. Arms don’t disappear into thin air. Structures of governance don’t rebuild on their own. This was starkly evident after interventions in other countries, where the dismantling of existing power structures left behind chaos that no missile could target.

In Iran’s case, years of tension over nuclear development and regional influence didn’t suddenly evaporate. Even if the regime’s upper hierarchy is decimated or its nuclear ambitions delayed, the region remains volatile and people’s lives remain fragile. Compassionate policy must reckon with that.

Beyond Military Metrics

We talk about “operations,” “missions,” “targets hit,” even “success” in purely technical terms — as though human experience falls outside the calculus of war. But peace isn’t measured in how many planes return home. It’s measured in whether families can wake up without fear, whether cities can rebuild, whether neighbors can trust neighbors again.

This moment calls for a deeper conversation: not just about how we project power, but about how we rebuild trust, how we foster resilience, and how we make sure that those who survived don’t spend a generation reliving trauma.

Military might buys quiet — not peace.
Let’s remember that true peace isn’t the absence of bullets and bombs.
It’s the presence of hope.