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To My Children,
Yom HaShoah — Holocaust Memorial Day — begins tonight. This year, I feel a deep ache in my heart, not only because antisemitism is rising in ways I’ve never experienced in my lifetime, not only because the health of democracy and civil society seem increasingly fragile, not only because the horror of the October 7 massacre and the ongoing captivity of fifty-nine of our Israeli brothers and sisters loom large in my daily consciousness; but also because, for the first time, there will be no survivors present at our annual Yom HaShoah commemoration. I always knew this day would come. They couldn’t live forever. But now that it’s here, I feel an added layer of loss.
By now, I’m sure you know that the Holocaust was one of the greatest tragedies in Jewish — and human — history. Six million Jewish men, women, and children were systematically murdered by the Nazis (may their names be erased). It’s an unfathomable number, an unspeakable tragedy, and an unhealed wound in the Jewish soul.
Out of the wreckage of that awful time, somehow, there was a generation of Jews who survived and rebuilt their lives and Jewish life. They were refugees and victims; they lost everything. Though this took an immense toll on them and their children, they found ways to move forward — rebuilding families, communities, institutions, businesses, and contributing to the arts, scholarship, and the world. We are here because of their resilience and persistence.
Holocaust survivors were ever-present in my Jewish upbringing — in shul, around the seder table, sharing their stories of survival and resilience at school assemblies. They were already older by the time I came of age, but I grew up assuming everyone knew survivors and had heard their stories and the wise, contoured tones of their Yiddish-accented voices.
So what now, when there are no survivors to light the candles?
To remind us to remember?
What responsibilities do we carry now that theirs is a fading generation?
How do we keep the flame of Jewish life alive — the flame they suffered so much to protect — in a world that still tries to extinguish it?
My dear children, I feel blessed to have known survivors. And I feel sadness that they are less present in your lives. My commitment — to them and to you — is to live in a way that honors their legacy. To raise you with an awareness of the immense privilege you enjoy because of their courage, sacrifice, and strength.
And if you see me shed an extra tear when we light the memorial candle this year, you’ll understand why. The world is a little dimmer without them. But through our memory, our lives, and our Jewishness, I pray that their light will endure.
With all my love,
Your Abba
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