Sitting at home in Tel Aviv, less than 24 hours after being in Auschwitz-Birkenau for the March of the Living, I am struggling to fully grasp how the incredible survivors I met – both of the Holocaust and the October 7 massacre – can stand tall and proud as Jews. The striking image of survivors of both Nazi and Hamas persecutions, generations apart, walking together, shoulder-to-shoulder, is one I will never forget.
The contrast between my expectations of how the survivors would respond and how they actually did was both painful and inspiring. Each one had a smile to share, a story to tell, and a pearl of wisdom to pass on. I know certain scars cannot be seen. Behind their smiles, I’m sure they grapple with trauma and pain. Yet every one of them stood with heads held high.
The conversation I had with Moran Stella Yanai, a survivor of Hamas captivity, helped me understand where that unwavering resilience might come from. She told me that every day since her release, she has worked to rebuild her life.
She has endured the most evil and inhumane suffering imaginable, yet she continues to move forward – free from anger. She recognizes that she and the other survivors, along with their families, have a long road to healing, but she refuses to let her captors define the rest of her life. While I have spent more than 550 days enraged at the mere thought of the hostages, she stood strong, on the outskirts of Auschwitz, and told me she will live, design, dance, laugh, and love.
That conversation reminded me of the last time I set foot on Polish soil, 15 years ago. I remember standing in front of the gas chamber at Auschwitz beside Aaron Vegh, the survivor guiding us through the camp, as he returned for the first time since liberation.
I couldn’t understand how Holocaust survivors found the strength to continue living. After saying Kaddish for his sisters, brother, and mother, he did something that made us all ache inside and cry outside – he demanded justice from God for us all. He said that through his suffering, his family should live in peace and happiness.
After that shattering trip, I promised myself I would not return to Poland. At that time, not going back felt like the only way to move forward.
Alas, that promise was one I made before I served in the IDF, before I became a husband and a father, before I understood what true fear feels like. I’ve been scared plenty of times in my lifetime, but I never knew real fear until I had to grab my baby from his crib and run to the bomb shelter to keep him safe from Hamas’s terror.
When October 7 happened, the truth became nauseatingly angering: We failed. Never Again happened again. Horrifyingly, Jews being gunned down in the street, beaten in front of their families, raped by sadistic animals, and burnt alive is not new to our people. We returned to the streets of the Holocaust – but this time, they were the streets of Sderot, Nir Am, Be’eri, and so many others with Hebrew names.
Nazi cattle cars filled with Jews, young and old, morphed into Hamas’s jeeps and trucks filled with Israeli hostages. Ghettos burned to the ground have shape-shifted into Israeli bomb shelters, homes, and army bases. Stories from the Wygoda Forest, that once haunted me, scared me now, echoed in the lived experiences of families and pregnant women throughout our communities.
I felt that the only way to protect my precious son – who is too young to know the hatred that exists in this world - is to do everything I can to ensure we never forget.
That is why I accepted the invitation from the official national delegation to join the March of the Living and returned to the place I once swore I’d never visit again. But as I struggled to remain hopeful about my son’s future, my interactions with the survivors helped me realize something: Things may, in fact, be okay.
Celebrate sanctity of life and historical miracles
Remembering the past is not the only way to move forward.
We must celebrate the sanctity of life and the miracles that have led the Jewish people to where we are today.
My family exists today only because my grandmother was able to board the last legal boat out of Germany in 1938. If she hadn’t, she likely wouldn’t have survived the Holocaust. So I know that living – as simple as it sounds, and as difficult as it can be – is the only way to be a Jew.
The survivors’ strength is a testament to our people’s commitment to standing united, and to facing the truth of what we’ve endured over 3,000 years. And though October 7 will mark our generation like the tattoos marked our ancestors in the Holocaust, I know we will persist because we always have and because we have no choice.
The writer is the executive director of Israel Friends, a nonprofit committed to safeguarding the Jew