My childhood Rabbi survived Auschwitz. I can still remember the day he showed me the number on his arm--a memory, etched in ink. A burning reminder of what he lost. He was a small man, but in my eyes he stood tall. I looked to him, and saw the definition of courage. The number that branded him, branded me. It was etched into my mind, and the impact it had on me would be as permenant as the ink itself.
I promised him, and I promised myself that I would never forget.
Today is Yom HaShoah, and I find myself wondering once again whether I am living a life of honor, in memory of the Six Million. Growing up, there were never any special ceremonies to recognize the day. I always found my own way to observe the day. In my teens, I wrote a story called "Hannah," about a girl's life in the ghetto and camps; it won a short story contest for Jewish Education. In college, I organized a Name Reading Ceremony to commemorate Yom HaShoah. Unto every face, there is a name; I wanted to make sure each name was heard. A small group of friends and strangers read names with me for over an hour. After they left I kept reading, determined to finish the list. As I neared the end the skies opened up; sorrow burst through the clouds, and I let the rain fill my heavy heart. I wept, my tears mingling with raindrops. "We are still here," I cried. "Am Yisrael Chai."
This year, as I walked to school I could see the Old City on the horizon. I felt an overwhelming connection to the land, the people, the language--it was beautiful, but there was a heavy ache in my chest, a reminder of what the day represented. At 10:00 this morning, a siren wailed throughout Israel. Silence spread through the room, and as we stood the voices of the Six Million slayed echoed across the land in a single note. My body absorbed the sound as it became a part of me, pulling the ghosts of a slaughtered generation from deep within my soul. I felt pain, anger, frustration, despair, and confusion. The entire country stood, united, to recognize and remember. To weep together, and then continue living together. It was surreal.
When I decided that the next big step of my life journey would be to go to Israel, I felt elated. My heart had been leading me there for years, and I finally decided to trust that little tug that said "go." I came up with a project--a story about the value of Shabbat in familial life--and got on the plane. I've been in Israel for nearly ten months, and sometimes I just want to quit and go home. But when I remember the child who sat with her Rabbi and asked "Why?", a flame erupts inside my soul. I didn't chose this story. It lives in my bones, and it's begging me to tell it. When something is so deeply a part of the fabric of your own existence, it belongs to you, and you belong to it.
Our childhood experiences shape us into the adults that we become. From the moment I saw the numbers on my Rabbi's arm, I knew my future would involve Israel. I knew it would involve protecting the memory of the Six Million, and I knew that it would involve protecting future generations. Those numbers are etched in my memory, and have followed me in every stage of my life. Something inside of me cannot be stopped.
All roads lead here. I will not let those numbers disappear from my mind.
April 2012
Please accept my apologies for the inadequate video quality. This was recorded two years ago.
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Never before have two words meant more, carried the weight of a nation, lifting us out of war.
Never again, we cry. We are the brothers and sisters, the daughters and sons of those who died.
WE are the echoes of silenced voices that scream to be heard-cries that yell: “I once lived!”
Can you hear them?
I do.
I hear them in the darkness of night, from the warmth of my bed.
I hear them-six million voices resonate in my head.
“Unto every person, there is a name.”
Tell me yours, child. Who were you when you were slain?
Tell me, so that we can share your pain.
What were your hopes? What were your dreams?
What was your life before the screams?
You need to be heard.
The world needs to know…
Tell me, child. How did you go?
"Shema Yisrael Adonai Elohainu, Adonai Echad.
Hear, Oh, Israel. The Lord is our G-d. The Lord is One.
Do not forget me.” She begs, as her prayer echoes in my head.
I swear to her that I will Never Forget.
Never forget.
I will Never Forget.
I will remember, every minute of every day.
I remember each time I pray.
I will teach it to my child, too.
Because I am proud to be a Jew.
Never again, we cry. We are the brothers and sisters, the daughters and sons of those who died.
WE are the echoes of silenced voices that scream to be heard-cries that yell: “I once lived!”
Can you hear them?
I do.
I hear them in the darkness of night, from the warmth of my bed.
I hear them-six million voices resonate in my head.
“Unto every person, there is a name.”
Tell me yours, child. Who were you when you were slain?
Tell me, so that we can share your pain.
What were your hopes? What were your dreams?
What was your life before the screams?
You need to be heard.
The world needs to know…
Tell me, child. How did you go?
"Shema Yisrael Adonai Elohainu, Adonai Echad.
Hear, Oh, Israel. The Lord is our G-d. The Lord is One.
Do not forget me.” She begs, as her prayer echoes in my head.
I swear to her that I will Never Forget.
Never forget.
I will Never Forget.
I will remember, every minute of every day.
I remember each time I pray.
I will teach it to my child, too.
Because I am proud to be a Jew.
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