It is stunning when you hear antisemitism casually tumble from someone’s mouth.

During a recent social visit, I heard an otherwise kind person remark that “they” controlled the banking industry.

I paused, for I instantly caught his meaning. This was not the first time I had heard him make antisemitic comments. I had previously heard him say it’s funny it was Judah who wanted to sell Joseph into slavery because it’s typical for a Jew to want to make money off a situation. That time, I was overhearing a private conversation, so I could not speak up. This time was different.

I stopped him. Piece by piece, I asked short questions until he angrily blurted out “The Jews.”

He was livid. I had questioned his authority, quietly suggesting that his “facts” were not facts. I had forced him to state outright a belief that is only backed up by superstition and prejudice.

Unfortunately, he is a lay-leader in the church that most of the other guests attend. They respect him and believe he knows more than they do.

“The Rockefellers and Rothschilds are well known to be influential in that business,” another guest piped up. The Rockefellers are not Jewish, I explained as calmly as possible, and the Rothschilds have not been in banking for generations.

The group began to murmur that this was not the time nor place to discuss such matters. I begged to differ. What was the proper time and place, I wondered, if not when such a statement is made?

In this season of reflection, I find myself thinking about the moments like this – moments that ask something of us. Ordinary moments when we hear something wrong and have to decide what to do next.

Speaking up is not easy. The other guests at this gathering would clearly rather I had not. All they saw was that I had upset him. They knew I am Jewish, but they simply wanted us all to “play nice.” He’s a “good Christian man,” they tell me, “a good person who helps his mother.”

In the end, in an effort to calm him down, the subject was changed, and I left. I had made an impression, however. One of the women called me after. She hesitantly began to ask me questions. She was open to listening and thanked me, saying she would like to talk to me another time if I would.

Perhaps that is part of what this season asks of us: not that we fix everything, but that we refuse to let hatred pass unchallenged. We may not change the speaker, but we may reach someone else in the room.

The post The Time and the Place appeared first on Teach the Shoah.

Zachor – Remember. This word appears almost 200 times in the Torah.

Over and over again, we are commanded to remember. We are commanded to remember that which makes us holy (the Sabbath). We are commanded to remember that which makes us who we are (the Torah). And we are commanded to remember our history.

We remember. We remember our forefathers and our foremothers. We remember our heroes. We remember our temples and our kingdoms.

At this time of year, we remember Egypt. This 3,000-year-old history is one of the most important stories we tell – a story that shapes us as a people. Every year at Seder, we remind ourselves that we must tell our people’s stories “l’Dor v’Dor,” from generation to generation.

At this time of year, we also remember another event that has shaped us as a people – a much more recent history. A week after Passover ends, we will mark Yom Hashoah, the commemoration of the horrors of the Holocaust.

We remember.

The Holocaust demands that we remember in a different way, however – a global way. The Holocaust did not only re-shape the Jewish people; it re-shaped the world. The Holocaust is one of the most significant events in human history, if only for how it changed how we see ourselves and our behavior.

This was not the first time that one group of people attempted to eradicate another, but it was the first time we recognized genocide for what it was. It was, perhaps, the first time humanity truly reflected on our own behavior as a species and blanched at the unimaginable cruelty we found there.

We may never truly understand how such an atrocity was possible, but we all have a responsibility to remember that it was possible.

We at Teach the Shoah have taken the task of helping the world remember as the central part of our mission.

Over the last 18 months, we have brought college students together with Holocaust survivors to keep these survivors’ memories alive. Each student learns a single survivor’s story. They stand in front of the survivors, and the world, and promise to keep this memory. They promise to share the story for as long as they can.

Most of these students are not Jewish. As they bring these survivors’ stories to communities across the country, they show the world that the Holocaust is a story we all must tell and we all must hear.

Our third cohort of students is preparing to start their journey to become keepers of survivor memories. As we approach both Passover and Yom Hashoah, we feel that we are beginning to fulfill our own promise – to remember l’Dor v’Dor, from generation to generation.

The photo collage shows our Lesaper tellers and survivors – from left to right and top to bottom: Emily Hand & Harry Davids; Henry Slucki & Sarah Dilatush; Sonia Chiappe & Ellie Rubin; Cooper Horton, Eva Brettler, & Libby Holden; Lya Frank & Riley Farco; Matthew Taleghani & Eva Nathanson; Torrie Herrington & Gabriella Karin; Avery Epperson & Henry Slucki; Taylor O’Neil & Gabriella Karin; Rowan Fripp with Monika White & Gitta Morris; Maddi Ruiz & Henry Weil; Eva Nathanson & Brenna Metts.

The post L’Dor v’Dor appeared first on Teach the Shoah.

The post Small Miracles in the Darkest Times appeared first on Teach the Shoah.

The Klausenberger Rebbe, the leader of a Hasidic Jewish community in Poland, was separated from his wife and 11 children upon arrival in Auschwitz Birkenau. Left alone in the world, the Rebbe sat in the barrack, and for the first time in his life, he cried. He had never cried before, but on that first Saturday morning in the barrack in Auschwitz, he cried to G-d: “Why has everything been taken from me?”

The Holocaust is a breaking point in the relationship between humanity and the Divine. How can one continue to believe in a Righteous G-d who cares about the Children of Israel, the Jewish people, in the darkness that follows this horror?

After hours of the Rebbe’s crying, a man walked into the barrack. He brought bread with jam so that the Rebbe would have something to eat that was somehow kosher. With this act of kindness to give him strength, the Rebbe found he could carry on. This was an act of G-d, he thought, taking and giving.

The Rebbe held onto that belief. He was sent with the other men in his barrack to forced labour – pulling concrete and stones up a hill. One day, halfway up the hill, the Rebbe fell. All the men knew that if he did not get up, he would be beaten to death. The men around him began to wonder where they would bury him. But the Rebbe got up.

As they continued up the hill, one of the men asked the Rebbe, “Will you still say, ‘You chose us from all the people’?” The Rebbe answered, “Maybe I did not say that with intent until today, but now, I will say it with even more intent. If I was not a Jew, maybe I would be that Nazi officer.”

……..

On Yom Kippur, three months after liberation, the Klausenberger Rebbe expressed the anger and grief that encompassed everyone who had passed through the darkness.

“Ashamnu – Did we sin? Bagadnu – Were we unfaithful?… Were we, G-d forbid, unfaithful to G-d and fail to remain loyal to him? Gazalnu – did we steal? From whom did we steal in Auschwitz and Mühldorf? … Maradnu – We rebelled? Against whom? We rebelled against you, Master of the Universe?…  This Vidui (confession) was not written for us.” He closed his machzor [holiday prayer book].

“But,” he thundered anew, “we are guilty of sins that are not written in the machzor… How many times did many of us pray, ‘Master of the Universe, I have no more strength, take my soul so I will not have to recite Modeh Ani (morning prayer) anymore’?… We must ask the Almighty to restore our faith and trust in Him. ‘Trust in G-d forever.’… Pour your hearts out to Him.” (Yom Kippur 1945 Fährenwald DP Camp, Germany)

The Rebbe knew that somehow, they must rebuild Jewish life, even in the aftermath of the horror of the Holocaust. Perhaps most especially in its aftermath.

On the evening of that same Yom Kippur, the Rebbe had sat in his room in the Displaced Persons (DP) camp, getting ready for his first Day of Atonement as a free man. A knock on his door took him away from his thoughts.

A girl stood outside his door crying. “Why are you crying?” the Rebbe asked her. “What is wrong?”

“It is the evening of Yom Kippur and my parents are dead,” she told him. “Who will bless me before the fast? What do I do? My father used to bless me before the fast began until he was killed by them….”

The Rebbe put his hand on her head and blessed her. The girl left the Rebbe’s room, and within minutes a queue of children stood outside his room waiting for their blessing. Later in his life, the Rebbe said, “I had 11 children who were killed in the gas chambers, but in the DP camp, I had, within one day, 80 children.”

……..

On that same Yom Kippur, General Eisenhower, the leader of the American forces in Europe, came to visit the DP camp. He wanted to see what was being done to restore Jewish life. Everyone from the DP camp gathered to listen. A long table was set up for the dignitaries. The American delegation agreed that the Rebbe could speak first, but they had conditions: he could not mention G-d; he could not talk about the Holocaust, only about the return to life; and he must speak briefly.

The delegation came to the DP camp and took their places at the long table. As the Rebbe walked over to greet General Eisenhower, he picked up a Tallit (a prayer shawl). He said the blessing for wearing the Tallit, mentioning G-d in the process. The first rule broken.

The Rebbe turned to the people. That they had all been saved, he told them, that they had been through the Shoah and saved by G-d, that they were still alive, meant there was a purpose and a mission in this world. It meant that they had a purpose in living. The people listening wept, feeling for the first time that they could cry. There was nothing left to say.

In spite of his having broken every rule the Americans set for him, the Rebbe’s speech moved the General. “What can I do for you?” the General asked. The Rebbe replied, “Today is Yom Kippur. In four days, we will start Sukkot. Could you get for us the four species (the four plants necessary for the rituals of Sukkot)? That is all we need now.” The General had the four species flown out from Rome to the DP camp.

……..

The Rebbe went on to visit other DP camps, collecting the broken people and bringing them back to life with conversation, with tears, and with the conviction that there is a point to living. With the certainty that there is a purpose in restoring the emuna (belief) in G-d.

The Holocaust was indeed a breaking point in the relationship between humanity and the Divine. There were many who asked the question, how can one continue to believe in a Righteous G-d in the darkness that follows this horror? Some lost their faith in the Almighty and found they could not get it back. In the midst of the questions, the Klausenberger Rebbe’s ability to believe and bring hope and life back to his community was a light in the darkness.

As we confront violence, injustice, and both personal and global crises — in new forms and old —many of us are again asking how we reconcile belief in goodness or a higher purpose with the suffering that exists in the world. The resilience shown by the Klausenberger Rebbe serves as a powerful reminder that even in the darkest times, it is possible to find hope, rebuild communities, and sustain faith. The Rebbe’s example challenges us to consider how we, too, can strive to find hope and believe in a better future.

The post Lessons from the Kausenberger Rebbe appeared first on Teach the Shoah.