I grew up with the heavy presence of the Holocaust in my life. Not as a distant event, nor as a chapter in history, but as a real, living, breathing, and sometimes suffocating presence.
My parents, like many of their contemporaries, carried the pain on their backs, conveying it with unspoken words and unrelenting looks, in scars that had become an integral part of our family. Amidst it all, I learned one important thing: death is always here, but so is life.
Marking Holocaust Remembrance Day, I remember that the Holocaust did not end with the end of the war. It continued to exist in the hearts of the survivors, in their daily coping, and in the legacy of anxiety and resilience that they passed on to their children.
Being a second generation to the Holocaust isn’t just a label – it’s a reality. It is a way of life in which one understands that survival is not only a matter of luck but also of ingenuity, willpower, and knowing instinctively how to maneuver within the inferno. Then came October 7.
Again, the unimaginable images, again the horrors, again the stories that shook you to the core. And again, the understanding – that here too, this time, those who survived did so thanks to extraordinary resourcefulness and the human ability to cling to life, even when death lurks around each corner.
Holocaust survivors were never viewed in my eyes as victims, but as flesh-and-blood heroes – special people with proven strengths. Not because they were born as such, but because they were pushed to the edge of human capacity – and managed to survive.
But survival is not just a mere act of subsistence; it is not just bread and water, shelter, and oxygen. True survival is the ability to shape meaning out of destruction, to create life out of fracture, and to continue telling the story even when it seems there are no words that can contain the intensity of pain.
Our history, Jewish history, teaches us time and time again that survival is not only a physical continuation but also a spiritual, cultural, and, above all, moral continuation.
Living means creating, innovating, and building a future out of rubble
To live means not only to survive but also to create, to innovate, and to build a future out of the rubble. I grew up surrounded by death, but it was living in the shadow of death that taught me not to fear it.
On the contrary, it was what pushed me to find meaning, to create a new life, and not to succumb to the passivity of loss. I realized that survival is not only something that happens in real time but also after. That our continuity as Jews, as Israelis, as human beings – is a victory in itself.
And in this lies our responsibility, as a society and as individuals, not only to remember but to act. That is why I have chosen to dedicate my life to an occupation that makes life possible even after death.
Through the “biological will,” we allow the continuity of a deceased person by using their genetic material. And, on the other hand, we allow every man and woman to establish a family through the regulation of civil marriage (the “marriage certificate”).
My projects are about exactly this – allowing families to survive and create life, making it possible to turn the unbearable into something from which to grow and live. For death must not bind us, must not stop us in fear. Just as my parents, the Holocaust generation, chose to continue living, we too are committed, as will be the second generation of October 7 survivors, whom we will come to know.
Those who survived the inferno, who came out of darkness, carry with them scars that are not always visible, but they are there. Our responsibility as a society is not only to commemorate the past but also to ensure that survivors and their families receive the support they need.
We must not forget that the Holocaust is not just a distant memory; it is part of us, it is inherent in our identity, in our emotional lexicon, and in the education we impart to our children.
The philosophy of memory is not just a glossing over of the past – it is a moral claim to the future. It requires us not to sink into the sorrow of history but rather to draw inspiration from it by establishing a life that has purpose.
If death is proof of the fragility of existence, then the life that follows is proof of the power of the human will. Being the child of survivors means carrying history, but also allowing it to lead us forward, towards a more meaningful life.
I believe that life after death can be full of meaning, if only we allow it.
That is why I am working to create mechanisms that allow families to cope with the loss and move on, out of a sense of continuity rather than of emptiness. Because when we remember, when we act, we give life real meaning.
The pain is unimaginable, but so is life. Our history is rife with disasters, but it is also full of achievements and rare survival power.
On Holocaust Remembrance Day, I bow my head in remembrance of the dead, but I also look to the future. Because our duty is not only to remember the past – but also to make sure that there is a life after it.
The writer is an attorney, founder of the New Family organization, an expert in fertility and family law, and author of the book In God’s Garden.