Purim during the Shoah was more than a holiday. It became a quiet act of Jewish resistance, identity, and survival in the face of Nazi persecution.
A holiday of masks, reversals, and political intrigue.
This year, I am sharing two powerful articles in French by my friend Sonia Sarah Lipsyc, published in partnership with the Montreal Holocaust Museum. Sonia explores an often-overlooked aspect of the Shoah: the role of religious resistance during that period. You can read them here:
We are familiar with stories of armed uprisings and resistance fighters. But what does defiance look like when it takes place through prayer? Through ritual? Through the insistence on keeping the Jewish calendar?
Sonia shows how Jews in ghettos and camps across Europe continued to observe Purim under circumstances that would seem almost impossible.
The Nazis did not seek only to kill Jews. They sought to wipe out Jewish life: its memory, its learning, and its identity. In that kind of world, even the smallest religious act became a form of defiance.
Purim is not just a children’s story. The Book of Esther begins with a political argument: “There is a people scattered among us; their laws are different, and they do not quite belong.” (Esther 3:8) We have heard that argument before.
And yet, in the Scroll of Esther, the Megillah, God’s name is never mentioned. What we see instead are royal commands, power struggles, and a climate of fear.
For Jews living through the Shoah, those threats were not symbolic. They were very real.
For many Jews, Purim during the Shoah offered a way to preserve dignity, memory, and faith. Sonia describes how Purim helped many interpret their reality. Some rabbis went further. They said that in those years, simply surviving as a Jew was no small thing. That was the resistance the circumstances demanded. And yet many defied everything to keep their sacred holidays, prayers, and rituals.
What does it mean to choose life when everything around you says die? How do you read Esther and speak about joy in the Warsaw Ghetto? What does faith look like then?
Sonia thanks me at the end of her articles. In truth, I am grateful to her. Her work reminds us that resistance is not always dramatic or visible. Sometimes it is deliberate. Sometimes it is simply refusing to deny who you are.
I invite you to read Sonia’s work in full. It is researched, moving, and unsettling in the best way.
January remembrance always feels heavy to me. January, which coincides with the Hebrew month of Tevet, is not just another month on the calendar. It brings fast days, remembrance, and a reminder to pay attention to how we live.
That is where my mind has been lately.
I have been thinking about how Jewish canonical texts, the Torah, the Talmud, and the many layers of commentary that followed, continue to shape Jewish thought, politics, and the ways we remember, not only as part of our past but as part of how we try to live now.
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks once noted that Hebrew has no exact word for “history.” Instead, it gives us zachor, remember. Not as advice, but as a command: zachor.
The older I get, the more I feel the force of that word.
January Remembrance and the Fast of Tevet
The Tenth of Tevet is known as one of the minor fasts, though I have never liked that phrase very much. Minor makes it sound almost small, and there is nothing small about what these days hold.
These fasts are not mentioned in the Torah itself. They were established later by the Sages and discussed in the Talmud. Each one carries its own history, its own sadness, and its own lesson.
The 10th of Tevet marks the start of the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem in the days of the First Temple.
The Fast of Esther, observed the day before Purim, recalls Esther’s call for the Jewish community to fast for three days before she went to the King of Persia to try to stop Haman’s decree to kill the Jews of Persia on the fourteenth day of Adar (Esther 4:16).
The 17th of Tammuz marks the day the Romans broke through the walls of Jerusalem.
The Fast of Gedaliah, observed the day after Rosh Hashanah, remembers the murder of Gedaliah, the last Jewish governor of Judea after the destruction of the First Temple.
Each of these days tells a different story. But for me, they all point to the same truth: memory is never only about looking back. It asks something of us in the present.
That may be why January feels so full to me. Alongside these fast days, the month also brings civic and global moments of remembrance that ask us to stop and reflect.
In the United States, Martin Luther King Jr. Day is observed on the third Monday of January. On January 27, many nations mark International Holocaust Remembrance Day. These are, of course, very different occasions, rooted in different histories. Still, both ask us to pause, remember, and think about what memory requires of us.
January is also when we begin reading the Book of Exodus in the weekly Sabbath synagogue service. I feel that every year. The story never feels far away. It still feels close. It is the story of an enslaved people freed from slavery in Egypt through God’s guidance and through the courage of three siblings, Moses, Aaron, and Miriam.
January Remembrance in Exodus
When I read the opening chapters of Exodus, I am always struck by how quickly welcome can turn into threat.
The Israelites first came to Egypt in a time of need. Joseph had helped save Egypt from seven devastating years of famine, and his wisdom reached far beyond its borders. For a time, his family was received with honour.
But that did not last.
Then comes one of the most chilling lines in the Torah: “A new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph” (Exodus 1:8).
It is such a short sentence. Yet with that one line, everything changes.
What follows is not oppression all at once, but oppression that builds slowly. Year by year, conditions get worse. What begins as distrust turns into slavery, and over the course of 210 years it becomes something even darker: an order to kill all Hebrew baby boys at birth.
From there, the story moves through generations of suffering, and then to the birth of Moses, this Jewish baby boy marked for death, who is instead raised in Pharaoh’s court by Pharaoh’s daughter. We see him witness injustice and try to act, only to realize he cannot change everything by force of will. We follow him as he leaves Egypt for the desert, marries Tzipporah, the daughter of a Midianite priest, and later encounters God at the burning bush.
By then, Moses is no longer young. He is in middle age when he is called to go back, confront Pharaoh, and lead his people out of slavery.
And what follows, the plagues, the struggle with Pharaoh, the exodus itself, has become one of the defining stories about slavery and freedom.
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks writes beautifully about all of this in Covenant and Conversation: A Weekly Reading of the Jewish Bible: Essays on Ethics¹. I keep coming back to his reading because Exodus does not feel far away to me. It feels painfully relevant. It is not only a story about ancient Egypt. It is also a story about what happens when people become cruel, when those in power stop caring what is right, and when ordinary people have to decide whether to go along, speak up, or refuse.
The Quiet Courage of Civil Disobedience
In the opening chapter of Shemot, Rabbi Sacks points to a moment that could easily be overlooked: the story of Shifra and Puah, the midwives ordered by Pharaoh to kill all male Jewish infants at birth.
They refuse.
“The king of Egypt spoke to the midwives, one of whom was named Shiphrah and the other Puah, saying, ‘When you deliver the Hebrew women, look at the birthstool. If it is a boy, kill him; if it is a girl, let her live.’
But the midwives feared God and did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live.
So the king of Egypt summoned the midwives and said to them, ‘Why have you done this thing, letting the boys live?’” (Exodus 1:15–18)
What stays with me every time I read this is how quiet their courage is.
There is no speech. No public protest. No spectacle.
There is only a decision to do what is right in the face of absolute power.
That matters to me because so much of moral life looks like that. Not grand or dramatic. Just a person deciding, often quietly, that they will not go along with evil.
When Conscience Comes Before Power
The Torah does not speak about religion in quite the way we do now. The closest idea may be Yirat Hashem, the fear of God.
What Shifra and Puah understand is simple: Pharaoh has power, but he is not the final authority. Rabbi Sacks suggests that what they do here may be the first recorded act of civil disobedience in history.
Then the story turns darker. Pharaoh orders the Egyptians to throw every Jewish baby boy into the Nile, and this time the people obey. They fear Pharaoh more than they fear God, and in doing so they become participants in genocide.
Joseph Telushkin compares Shifra and Puah to those who rescued Jews during the Holocaust. Those rescuers answered to something higher. Many collaborators did not.
It took until after World War II for Western law to say this plainly. At Nuremberg, “I was only following orders” was no longer accepted as a defense. Some orders are so wrong that obeying them is a crime.
That may be a legal lesson, but it is also a human one. It raises the question of what we do when those in power tell us one thing and conscience tells us another.
January Remembrance and Holocaust Memory
One of the things that moves me most about Exodus is that the story does not end with freedom. Leaving Egypt is only the beginning. The harder part comes after that. How do you build a decent society after slavery? How do you live with freedom once you have it?
That is one reason this story never feels distant to me.
The same question shows up again and again in modern history. Martin Luther King Jr. made that clear in his own way. A law does not become right just because it is written into the legal system, and obeying an unjust law is never a neutral act.
For Jews, remembering the Holocaust is never only about looking back. It is also about telling the truth in the present, especially when people try to blur that truth, reshape it, or deny it altogether.
This year, the Jewish community invited Elisha Wiesel, the son of Elie Wiesel, to preview Soul on Fire, the recent film about his father. In an interview with Susan Schwartz in the Montreal Gazette, Elisha spoke about his father’s legacy and why it still matters now.²
In his 1986 Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech, Elie Wiesel said:
“I have tried to fight those who would forget, because if we forget, we are accomplices. We must always take sides! Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.”
That line has stayed with me for years: “Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.”
Elisha Wiesel was asked what he thought his father would have said about the rise in antisemitism around the world and the drumbeat of Holocaust deniers.
He replied:
“My father clearly articulated that the antisemites will always hate, even if they mask that hate as anti Zionism, as though it were somehow separable from antisemitism.
My father never failed to stand up for Israel, asserting that only Israelis can best decide how to reach their goals of living in peace in an extremely hostile neighbourhood. And lastly, he insisted that we never relinquish our desire to have a positive impact on the world as a whole. He strongly resisted isolationism as a principle.”
Holocaust denial continues to plague us. And the more chaotic the world becomes, the easier it seems for some people to twist history until it barely resembles the truth, or simply to look away.
That is part of why Exodus still feels so close to me. It is not only an ancient story. It speaks to the world we are living in now.
It also reminds me of something we forget too easily: freedom and democracy do not survive on laws and elections alone. They depend on people who are willing to listen to their conscience.
And most of the time, that does not happen in big public moments. It happens quietly, in the small choices people make when no one is watching and no one is praising them.
What do you do when the state tells you to do the wrong thing?
How does a society lose its moral freedom, and how does it recover it?
What sustains a people across centuries of pressure?
These are some of the questions Rabbi Sacks returns to in his later essays.
The Question January Leaves Me With
These fast days and memorial days matter to me because they force us to face what human beings are capable of and to ask whether we are really paying attention.
As I write this, the news makes it impossible to look away. We are witnessing, in real time, the Iranian people trying to free themselves from the ruthless Islamist regime of the Ayatollahs. In a recent segment of CBC’s The Current, titled “The Push for Justice in Iran,” Matt Galloway interviewed Payam Akhavan about the ongoing human rights catastrophe in Iran and the brutal slaughter of protestors.
The Iranian people are crying out to the world. Who will hear them?
And so January becomes one of those months when everything seems to come together.
The Fast of the Tenth of Tevet.
MLK Day.
International Holocaust Remembrance Day.
And the reality of the present, all pointing to the same question:
What will you do with what you know?
I truly welcome your feedback. And if you would rather share your thoughts privately, you are welcome to email me at askabigail@me.com.
Footnotes:
Sacks, Jonathan. Covenant & Conversation: A Weekly Reading of the Jewish Bible: Essays on Ethics. “Parashat Shemot.”
January 27 is a day observed by many countries worldwide to honour the memory of the Holocaust. On this day, people reflect on the horrors of that time, remember the lives lost, and hear from survivors who are still with us. It serves as a solemn reminder to ensure such atrocities are never forgotten.
One question has haunted me for years: How could this have happened? The brutal murder of the Jewish people between 1941 and 1945, enshrined in German law, remains a tragedy that demands reflection. How could such atrocities unfold in the heart of civilized Europe while the world watched? This question has driven my lifelong commitment to understanding and educating others about these horrors.
In 2016, I spoke at the Essentials of Freedom Conference in Edmonton, where I worked to contextualize antisemitism and hatred toward Jews for a contemporary Canadian audience. This reinforced my belief that remembering the past is not just reflection but also responsibility.
A Personal Pilgrimage to Poland
In 2023, I journeyed to Poland, visiting sites of Jewish destruction such as Auschwitz-Birkenau and Belzec, along with historic Jewish communities in Warsaw, Krakow, Lviv, and rural shtetls. Organized by my synagogue, the pilgrimage was led by Rabbi Reuven Poupko and guide Tzvi Sperber, allowing me to witness the remnants of a thousand-year-old Jewish civilization the Nazis sought to erase.
Standing in these ruins, I felt the weight of history in a way no book or documentary could convey. We were accompanied by a Torah scribe and an unfinished Torah scroll, which we completed as we visited abandoned synagogues across Poland. The journey culminated in a powerful moment when we carried the completed Torah through the gates of Auschwitz, symbolizing the survival of our people and faith—Am Yisrael Chai!
I am thankful to Tzvi Sperber for facilitating the participation of Yosef Lewkowicz, a Polish survivor in his nineties and former Montreal resident. Author of The Survivor: How I Survived Six Concentration Camps and Became a Nazi Hunter, a book I recently purchased, Yosef recounts his survival through six camps and his rescue of over 600 Jewish orphans hidden in monasteries, orphanages, and private homes, ultimately bringing them to Israel. He also played a key role in bringing Nazi figures like Amon Goeth, a sadistic officer portrayed in Schindler’s List, to justice—a testament to the resilience of the Jewish spirit.
Another influential figure is Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, whose musical ministry brought comfort and spiritual renewal to both Jews and non-Jews, especially in the aftermath of the Holocaust. His outreach reached Jewish communities in Poland, Ukraine, and Hungary—places deeply scarred by the destruction of their Jewish populations, often with local complicity. Carlebach’s message of unity extended even to the Vatican, which, for centuries, upheld supersessionist theology and played a role in the persecution of Jews. Since the Second Vatican Council in 1965, the Church has published Nostra Aetate, a declaration seeking to correct its relationship with Judaism and all other religions, rejecting supersessionism.¹
Carlebach’s music continues to serve as a bridge, fostering reconciliation in even the most challenging circumstances. I encourage you to watch the 2008 Religion and Ethics video about his ministry, a powerful testament to the healing power of music and faith.
Holocaust Remembrance: The Stakes and Complexities
On January 27, Holocaust Remembrance Day, I took a moment to reflect on the importance of remembering the Holocaust. Some news outlets have overlooked that Jews were the primary victims, fueling “Holocaust denial.” This distortion attempts to erase the undeniable Jewish connection to the Holocaust and absolve the perpetrators, allowing them to avoid accountability for the systematic annihilation of Jewish men, women, and children.
This denial aligns with the Nazi regime’s central objective: the eradication of the Jewish people. They built six death camps specifically for the systematic slaughter of Jews, and Hitler’s obsession with their destruction extended beyond Europe to places like Morocco, Iran, and the Middle East. Even at the risk of losing the war and against the advice of his generals, Hitler prioritized extermination over military logistics. He diverted resources necessary for supplying his troops in Russia to ensure that trains continued running to transport Jews to their deaths.
Holocaust Inversion
Holocaust denial continues to plague us, often driven by deliberate efforts to distort historical facts. One particularly troubling trend is “Holocaust Inversion,” in which some falsely accuse Jews and Israelis of behaving like Nazis. This tactic equates Israel’s actions toward Palestinians with Nazi Germany’s treatment of Jews, suggesting that Israel has committed similar atrocities—a claim that distorts both history and morality.
One of the earliest figures to make such a comparison was historian Arnold Toynbee, who argued that Jewish actions during the 1947-48 war resembled Nazi persecution of Jews. In response, Israeli President Chaim Herzog debated Toynbee at the University of Montreal in 1961, emphasizing a key distinction: Israel fought in self-defence during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, whereas Nazi Germany sought the systematic annihilation of Jews—many of whom had been loyal German citizens, even serving in World War I.
These comparisons don’t just twist history—they also overlook some significant differences in how societies are governed and what values they uphold. Jewish teachings stress treating non-Jews with justice and kindness, which is why Israel granted citizenship to Arabs, Christians, and Muslims who stayed after it was established. On the other hand, Islamic history included something called “dhimmi” status, which protected non-Muslims but also came with restrictions like extra taxes and limits on religious freedoms. Understanding history is crucial, but political groups today often manipulate it to stir up conflict.
While much attention is given to Palestinian displacement after 1948, another refugee crisis—one often overlooked—occurred at the same time. Nearly a million Jews were expelled or forced to flee from Arab nations such as Iraq, Egypt, and Libya, where they had lived for centuries. Their homes, businesses, and cultural heritage were erased, yet this historical reality receives little acknowledgment in discussions about Middle Eastern refugees.
The land now known as Israel has deep historical roots in Jewish identity. Following the failed Bar Kokhba revolt in 135 CE, the Romans renamed Judea as Syria Palaestina in an attempt to erase Jewish ties to the land. This was part of a broader Roman policy that included the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, a pivotal event in Jewish history.
Since Israel’s founding in 1948, groups like Hamas, Hezbollah, and the Iranian regime have used Holocaust Inversion as a propaganda tool, falsely equating Israel’s self-defence with Nazi aggression. Iranian leaders have repeatedly denied or downplayed the Holocaust, and Hamas has even accused Israel of “genocide” against Palestinians—a term carefully chosen to distort the historical facts. This kind of distortion not only erases the suffering of Jews but also fuels ongoing hostility toward Israel.
Israel agreed to the 1947 UN partition plan, which suggested separate Jewish and Arab states, but neighbouring Arab countries rejected it and went to war against the new Jewish state. To this day, the conflict remains a complex political and territorial struggle, with some factions advocating for a two-state solution while others reject Israel’s right to exist entirely. Understanding this conflict’s historical and ideological roots is essential to countering misinformation and ensuring that history is not weaponized for political purposes.
The Role of the Allies and Soviet Forces
It’s important to understand the true nature of the ‘liberation’ of Auschwitz. When the Soviets arrived in January 1945, the Nazis had already evacuated most of the prisoners, sending them on death marches to other camps. The Soviet forces didn’t liberate Auschwitz on purpose—they simply came across it, finding it mostly abandoned, with only the haunting remnants of what had happened there.
Stalin’s antisemitism, however, should not be overlooked in the context of Soviet involvement during and after the war. While the Soviet Union presented itself as a liberator, its treatment of Jews was often contradictory. During the war, Stalin strategically used Jews in diplomatic roles to gain support and financial aid from the Jewish American community, even sending Jewish ambassadors to the U.S. to assist with the Soviet war effort. However, after the war, Stalin’s antisemitic policies became more pronounced. There was a major crackdown on the Yiddish language and a growing number of restrictions on Jewish religious practices. Stalin also staged high-profile show trials, with the most notorious being the “doctors’ trials,” where Jewish doctors and artists were falsely accused of treason against the Soviet Union.
In addition to the role of the Nazis, the Allies also failed to prevent or mitigate the suffering of Jews during World War II. By the late 1930s, the Allies were well aware of the Nazi persecution of Jews, even though the full scope of the Holocaust hadn’t yet been revealed. In 1938, President Roosevelt called for the Evian Conference in France, hoping to address the refugee crisis caused by Hitler’s actions. The conference stressed the urgency of the situation, but only a few countries—like the Dominican Republic, the Philippines, and later Cuba—agreed to take in Jewish refugees from Germany.
Other nations, like Sweden, Shanghai, and Bolivia, also offered limited refuge, but major powers such as the United States, the United Kingdom, and Canada hesitated to open their doors. They pointed to political, economic, and security concerns as reasons for their reluctance. This hesitation, along with the focus on military efforts during the war, only added to the suffering of many Jewish people trying to escape. The failure to take meaningful action at this critical moment allowed the Holocaust to unfold as it did. After the war, many survivors were left to rebuild their lives with little support in displaced persons camps.
Post-War Recovery and the Role of Jewish Organizations
After the war, Holocaust survivors who had lost everything—homes, businesses, and families—were not immediately welcomed by the nations that had fought against the Nazis. Many found themselves trapped in Displaced Persons (DP) camps in Germany and Austria for years, unable to return home or find new countries willing to accept them. With little government assistance, it was primarily Jewish charitable organizations that helped survivors resettle and rebuild their lives. My own family, fleeing Communist Hungary, lived in the Rothschild DP Camp in Vienna for two years before immigrating to Canada. These organizations played a vital role in helping survivors rebuild their lives.
For a realistic account of Jewish recovery after the war, I recommend the documentary Hidden Face, which tells the story of Klausenberger Rebbe, an Auschwitz survivor. After the war, he was in a DP camp and was selected to speak with General Eisenhower during his visit.
Another documentary on post-war recovery is my own Yiddish: A Tale of Survival, which recounts the post-war immigrant stories of three remarkable theatre professionals from three different generations: Shmuel Atzmon of Israel, Bryna Wasserman of Montreal, and Miléna Kartowski-Aïach from Paris.
Remembering the Survivors: Commemorating January 27, 2025
I attended a moving memorial in Montreal where Peter Mansbridge, Canadian journalist and former chief correspondent for CBC News, interviewed George Reinitz, a 92-year-old Hungarian survivor who was deported to Auschwitz at the age of 12. After the war, he immigrated to Canada, built a successful business, and became a national wrestling champion. His journey is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.
I also participated in a Zoom lecture hosted by Lockdown University, which honoured Yehuda Bauer, a Holocaust historian who emphasized the moral guide of three commandments: “Thou shalt not be a perpetrator; thou shalt not be a victim; and thou shalt never, but never, be a bystander.” These words challenge us to stand against injustice and hatred.
A particularly moving moment came when I watched a video message from Frank Lowy, a 94-year-old Holocaust survivor and billionaire. He addressed the Israeli hostages still held in Gaza, offering them hope with a powerful message:
“Here is my message to the hatufim/hostages. I want to give them hope. I have risen from the darkest places in the world, and here I am, at 94, to speak to my friends and family, to speak to them in this holy holy place, in ‘Eretz Yisrael shelanu’—in our Holy Land of Israel. Never Give Up Hope!”
Museums dedicated to recounting the Holocaust have done an excellent job documenting and preserving the records of these historical events. The digitalization of testimonies allows future generations to connect with the firsthand experiences of survivors, preserving their stories and safeguarding them from distortion over time. Museums in cities such as Montreal, Washington, and Jerusalem, among many others, are important reminders of the horrific events that occurred during that period.
Over the past month, the Jewish community has faced the heartbreaking loss of Shira Bibas and her two young children, Kfir, who was nine months old, and Ariel, who was two years old. The trio was brutally kidnapped from their family home in Kibbutz Nir Oz on October 7, a Jewish holiday, and returned in coffins after 500 days of being held as pawns in the Palestinian war against Israel and the Jews. Their tragic deaths serve as a painful reminder of the ongoing violence and suffering inflicted upon innocent lives by genocidal groups like Hamas and Hezbollah.
Recognizing our shared humanity is more important than ever in today’s divided world. But for that to happen, we need to face our history honestly. If we encourage open conversations and exploration of ideas, we can create a society that truly values and celebrates our differences.
It is not enough to remember the Holocaust; we must act. Today, I’m reaffirming my commitment to making sure the lessons of the Shoah stay alive and continue to shape our future. It’s time to have honest conversations and pass those lessons on so we can prevent such horrors from ever happening again.
Throughout history, we’ve been captivated by stories of heroes— remarkable individuals whose courage and selflessness leave an enduring mark on the world. These heroes come from all walks of life, contributing in grand and small ways. Whether legendary warriors or contemporary activists, their legacies remind us that anyone can make a meaningful difference, regardless of their background. Even the most minor actions can ripple through history, shaping the future in ways we might never fully realize.
Modern Heroes
Recently, I’ve been deeply moved by the stories of modern-day heroes like Juan Pujol García. Born in Portugal, his bravery in working as a double agent during World War II is a testament to the power of wit and strategy. Imagine the tension of World War II—nations teetering on the brink, every move crucial.
Pujol’s daring idea to feed false information to the Nazis wasn’t just brave—it was genius. He earned their trust to the point where they sent him on a mission to Britain, believing he was on their side. But Pujol had something else in mind. On English soil, he wove a complex web of lies, creating an entire network of fake English double agents. Can you imagine the nerve it took to pull that off?
As “Agent Garbo,” Pujol didn’t just trick the German High Command once or twice—he did it multiple times, each deception more elaborate than the last. Picture rows of balloon tanks and planes that never took off, all part of his plan to mislead the Germans about the Allies’ next move. His story is a powerful reminder of how one person’s courage and cleverness can truly shape history.
Similarly, when I watched Simone, Woman of the Century, a documentary about Simone Veil, I was struck by her resilience and determination. Veil’s journey began with the innocence of a happy childhood in a secular Jewish family, a stark contrast to the horrors she would later endure. When her family was arrested and deported to Auschwitz during World War II, her world was shattered. Yet, even in the darkest times, Veil’s spirit never broke.
The documentary highlighted the milestones that marked her incredible life. After surviving the concentration camp, she returned to France, where she earned a law degree, raised a family, and embarked on a groundbreaking political career. One moment that particularly resonated with me was her courageous fight to secure legal abortion rights in France—a predominantly Catholic country—demonstrating her unwavering commitment to women’s rights.
As the first president of the European Parliament, Veil’s work to prevent the conflicts that had long plagued Europe reminded me of the power of leadership driven by personal experience and deep conviction. Her life is not just a chapter in history; it’s a source of inspiration for anyone who values justice, equality, and remembrance.
Simone Veil’s story is a poignant reminder of what it means to persevere, to lead, and to ensure that the lessons of the past are never forgotten. Her legacy continues to inspire me, particularly in the ongoing fight for gender equality and the preservation of Holocaust memory, which remains as relevant today as ever.
Celebrating Unsung Heroes
When I think about heroes, I realize many don’t seek recognition. They’re the ones who quietly make a difference, often without expecting anything in return. Their bravery, selflessness, and commitment leave an indelible mark on history. We should celebrate these unsung heroes, learn from their examples, and strive to positively impact the world.
Reflecting on these stories, I’m reminded of the unsung heroes in my life—those who have shown me kindness, stood up for what’s right, or simply been there when I needed them most. They might not make the history books, but their impact on my life is immeasurable.
Who are the heroes in your life? Are there people around you whose quiet acts of courage and kindness have made a difference?
In the quiet moments following International Holocaust Remembrance Day, I find myself reflecting on the profound journey of redemption that the Jewish people have traversed since the liberation of Auschwitz in 1945. This period of reflection brings to light two significant movements from the past seventy years: the establishment of the State of Israel and, perhaps less visibly but equally impactful, the rise of Jewish education.
As I delve into the transformative power of education, I am reminded of the personal stories that transcend borders and beliefs. These stories demonstrate the profound impact that learning can have on our lives. One such story is that of a dear friend from Montreal. Raised Catholic in Quebec, she found a new layer of meaning in her life through weekly Torah study online with a French-speaking Rabbi in Jerusalem. I vividly recall the day she shared with me the joy and anticipation she felt before walking into a synagogue for the first time, eager to connect with Jewish individuals face-to-face. Although she hasn’t converted, this experience has profoundly enriched her life, offering her a spiritual connection she hadn’t expected.
Historical Parallels
Her journey is not just an isolated story of personal growth; it echoes the historical “convivencia” of ninth and tenth-century Spain, a golden era where Judaism, Christianity, and Islam intersected in remarkable harmony. Alton Brooks, a Professor of Religion at USC, describes this period as an extraordinary time when these three religions coexisted with mutual respect. Today, as we witness the growing interest in Jewish texts among diverse communities, it feels like a modern echo of that intellectual and cultural convergence.
This growing engagement with Jewish texts across various communities is not just a Jewish endeavour; it’s a potential pathway to broader redemption in our contemporary world. Just as the convivencia fostered a rich exchange of ideas and cultural enrichment, our modern exploration of Jewish thought can contribute to a deeper understanding and unity among people of different faiths and backgrounds.
Recently, I read Thomas Cahill’s “The Gifts of the Jews: How a Tribe of Desert Nomads Changed the Way Everyone Thinks and Feels.” Cahill, a Roman Catholic scholar, explores the transformative influence of Jewish thought on world history. His comparison of Israel with Greek and Roman civilizations highlights how these interactions led to significant advancements. Despite later claims of ideological superiority, Cahill points to historical periods of peaceful coexistence, such as the Islamic “convivencia” in Spain and the Renaissance.
“The Jews gave us the ‘outside and the inside’—our outlook and inner life. We can hardly get up in the morning or cross the street without being Jewish. We dream dreams and hope Jewish hopes. Most of our best words—in fact, new, adventure, time, history, future, freedom, progress, spirit, faith, hope, justice—are the gifts of the Jews…
Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone. That accomplishment is intergenerational may be the deepest of all Hebrew insights.”²
Cahill’s insights emphasize the importance of embracing diverse perspectives and recognizing the contributions of Jewish thought to our collective intellectual heritage. In an age where division and misunderstanding often prevail, studying Jewish texts provides a vital opportunity for redemption and intellectual enrichment for all.
My Educational Journey
Reflecting on my educational path, I recall a blend of experiences that shaped my identity. Growing up in a religious household, I attended an English Protestant school in Quebec due to the limitations of the education system. Ironically, Protestant schools were more inclusive of all students, while Catholic schools did not accept non-Christian Jewish children.
This dual existence often left me feeling like an outsider. While I spoke English and engaged with English-speaking teachers, my social circle was predominantly Hungarian-Jewish immigrants. The anomaly in my school was the Christian child. My most meaningful connection with an English Protestant was my high school art teacher, Helen Mackey, whose influence lingered with me throughout her life in Montreal.
After graduating early from high school, I briefly attended McGill University but felt disconnected. My dream was to study in Lausanne, Switzerland, but my mother’s insistence on studying in Israel led me to earn my BA from the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.
My Jewish education, woven from various threads—home teachings, synagogue rituals, Sabbath youth groups, Jewish summer camps, and Hebrew afternoon school—has been a journey of discovery. Only recently have I engaged in consistent Hebrew text study through Shiviti, a new Yeshiva for adult women in Jerusalem.
Through my studies, I’ve appreciated the vast range of topics our rabbis explored. Professor Yoram Hazony’s seminar on ‘The Big Questions About Judaism’ highlighted the often-overlooked value of the Hebrew Bible in today’s intellectual climate. This ancient text, rich in metaphors and literary devices, is a treasure trove of ideas.
Education as a Unifying Force
Our canonical texts, examined alongside commentators like Rashi and Maimonides, reveal profound wisdom. Watching the documentary series “Searching for Maimonides, The Great Eagle” deepened my appreciation for this philosopher, revered by multiple faiths, and illustrated the interplay between past and present, text and context.
Education is a unifying force in all its forms—whether through schools, libraries, concerts, or the Internet. It offers opportunities for engagement in the extraordinary tapestry of life. Yet, we must also acknowledge that education alone cannot solve all the world’s problems. Challenges such as inequality, prejudice, and ignorance still persist. However, education remains a crucial foundation for understanding, empathy, and cooperation among diverse communities.
This shared pursuit of knowledge is critical to fostering peace and harmony. Whether within academic institutions or in our homes, pursuing knowledge provides a pathway to redemption and unity. As we confront the challenges of our modern world, let us recognize the transformative power of education—not as a solitary solution but as a vital tool in our collective journey towards a more just and harmonious society.
Walking the Path of Wisdom
As you reflect on the role of education in your own life, consider how you can contribute to this ongoing journey of redemption. Whether through formal study, engaging in dialogue with those from different backgrounds, or simply nurturing a curiosity for the wisdom of the past, we can play a part in building a more connected and understanding world. The path to redemption is not walked alone; it is a shared journey that spans generations and cultures, guided by the light of knowledge and the spirit of learning.
Footnotes
“Convivencia” refers to the coexistence of various religious and cultural groups in medieval Spain. For more information, see Wikipedia, Wikipedia, 2024, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Convivencia.
Cahill, Thomas. The Gifts of the Jews: How a Tribe of Desert Nomads Changed the Way Everyone Thinks and Feels. Nan A. Talese, 1998.
SHIVITI. “SHIVITI: International Women’s Learning Community.” shiviti.org.il, SHIVITI, 2024, shiviti.org.il.
Hazony, Yoram. The Really Big Questions About Judaism. Zoom Seminar Series, 2024.
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks once pointed out an interesting gap in the Hebrew language: there’s no direct word for ‘history.’ Instead, Hebrew emphasizes remembering, captured in the term “Zachor.” This idea runs deep in Jewish teachings, especially in the Torah’s commandments. Two particular commandments stand out: “Zachor et Yom ha Shabbat” – Remember the Sabbath Day, and “Zachor et Amalek” – remember what Amalek did to you. The latter emphasizes the importance of remembering past injustices and the dire consequences of forgetting.
“You shall remember what Amalek did to you when you left Egypt, how he happened upon you and cut off all the stragglers at your rear when you were faint and weary, and he did not fear G-d. So it will be when the Lord your G-d grants you respite from all your enemies around you in the land which the Lord, your G-d, gives you as an inheritance to possess, that you shall obliterate the remembrance of Amalek from beneath the Heavens. You shall not forget!” (Deuteronomy 25:17-19).
You can gain a deeper understanding by listening to an auditory rendition of these verses.
This imperative to remember is not just a spiritual guideline; it is a vital lesson for humanity. The consequences of forgetting are evident when considering figures like Stalin and Hitler or contemporary regimes like The Chinese Communist Party (CCP). Their rise to power illustrates the destructive impact of uncontrolled ambition, manipulation, and cruelty. The Jewish tradition of “Zachor” serves as a crucial reminder that remembering our past is essential to honouring it and protecting our future from similar fates.
Stalin’s Ascent to Power: Unraveling the Machinations of a Dictator
The commandment to remember is not merely an intellectual exercise but a call to recognize the recurring dangers of unchecked power, as demonstrated by figures like Josef Stalin. Stephen Kotkin’s in-depth exploration of Stalin’s life, spanning two volumes, provides a clearer understanding of his rise to power. Kotkin utilizes recently released Soviet archives to shed new light on the dictator’s life.
Contrary to the widely held belief that Stalin had a troubled, abusive childhood, Kotkin presents a more intricate narrative. Stalin’s early education in Catholic schools could have led him to pursue a path as a priest. However, he gravitated toward revolutionary Marxism, ultimately becoming an anti-czarist activist. This ideological shift resulted in his exile and imprisonment before the fall of the czarist regime in 1917.
Kotkin’s first volume illuminates that Stalin’s upbringing was not shaped by abuse but rather by his family’s modest means, which influenced his Catholic education. Although he had the potential to become a priest, Stalin’s fascination with Marxist ideas set him on a different path. By the time of the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, he had already been exiled and imprisoned five times by the Czarist police.
Once Lenin came to power, Stalin’s political rise was swift. As Secretary-General of the Communist Party, he took advantage of Lenin’s incapacitation to tighten his grip on power, eliminating rivals and becoming a ruthless autocrat. Stalin’s control over the Communist Party and the Soviet Union was built on manipulation, fear, and violence. His policies, particularly collectivization, led to widespread poverty and the catastrophic Holodomor famine. Kotkin’s meticulous research explains how Stalin became one of the most brutal leaders in history.
These accounts of Stalin serve as a reminder of the Torah’s commandment to remember Amalek, as Stalin’s methods echo similar brutality and disregard for human life. The importance of “Zachor” comes into focus as we reflect on how forgetting history allows such figures to rise.
The Nazis’ Ascent: Hitler’s Chilling Path to Totalitarian Rule
Just as Stalin’s brutality should never be forgotten, the rise of Hitler offers another chilling reminder of what can happen when we ignore the past. The PBS documentary “Rise of the Nazis” provides a vivid account of Hitler’s rise in Germany, showing how a liberal democracy in 1930 transformed into a dictatorship under Hitler by 1934. Hitler, alongside key figures like Göring and Himmler, seized control of national institutions, marking the end of democracy in Germany.
The documentary traces Hitler’s early efforts to gain power, including the failed Beer Hall Putsch in 1923, which led to his imprisonment. It was during this time that Hitler wrote Mein Kampf, promoting twisted ideas of racial inequality and Aryan supremacy—ideas that would shape the horrors of Nazi Germany.
One particularly gripping part of the documentary is the story of Hans Litten, a German lawyer who stood up to Hitler in court. Litten’s bravery exposed Hitler’s violent tendencies, but he paid a heavy price, ending up in Nazi imprisonment and torture. Another key event is the Night of the Long Knives, where Göring and Himmler orchestrated the murder of Ernst Röhm and his stormtroopers. The lesser-known story of Joseph Hartinger, a prosecutor who tried to expose Nazi atrocities, is another chilling reminder of the regime’s moral bankruptcy.
The documentary presents a grim portrayal of how Hitler and his allies prepared the way for one of history’s most tragic periods. It serves as a reminder of the vulnerability of freedom and the swiftness with which authority can become corrupt. This reminder resonates strongly with the Torah’s command to always remember those who prey on the weak.
China Undercover: Unveiling Oppression and Surveillance
As we look to modern times, PBS’s China Undercover brings to light the disturbing reality faced by the Uyghur minority in China’s Xinjiang province. The documentary sheds light on the Chinese Communist Party’s oppressive surveillance state, which uses facial recognition and other invasive technologies to monitor and control Uyghur communities.
The level of surveillance in Xinjiang has led to comparisons with George Orwell’s 1984, where privacy and freedom are almost non-existent. The film highlights the worldwide concern over these human rights violations and emphasizes the importance of the international community taking action.
In a world where privacy is increasingly threatened, China Undercover reminds us that protecting fundamental human rights must remain a priority. The story of the Uyghurs serves as another contemporary example of the Torah’s commandment to “remember” – not just for the sake of the past, but to ensure justice and protection for the oppressed today.
Remembering History for a Safer Future
As we think about figures like Stalin and Hitler and current issues like the persecution of the Uyghurs, it becomes clear how vital it is to learn from our past. History teaches us that unchecked power and a lack of moral responsibility can lead to tremendous suffering.
The Jewish concept of “Zachor” reminds us to stay alert against threats to justice and human dignity. While the Torah’s command to remember Amalek is specific to Jewish tradition, its broader message encourages all of us to defend justice—not out of a desire for revenge, but to protect those vulnerable and create a kinder world.
Remembering isn’t just a passive act; it’s a call to action. It inspires us to promote fairness, equality, and empathy. When we remember, we apply those lessons to help build a brighter future for everyone, no matter their background or beliefs.
