From an eloquent and soul-touching tune, to testaments of moving forward from complex suffering, our executive editor shares demonstrations of the boundless and surprising bravery of which we are all capable.
Each year in New York during the marathon, an intimate gathering of Holocaust survivors come together. A tapestry of memory unfolds, telling the powerful stories of the survivors and the courageous people who protected them.
The lingering pain of a traumatic history can create a sense of helplessness. But, reflecting on her family's suffering during the Holocaust, Sharon Salzberg realizes our redemptive agency in forming the path we take forward.
From our gatherings in Louisville to the ekphrastic poetry for Yom HaShoah, a wealth of reading and exploring this week.
Can there be and should there be Holocaust poetry? A poet investigates the need for memory and retelling through a series of ekphrastic poems for Yom HaShoah.
"The trade of chemist (fortified, in my case, by the experience of Auschwitz), teaches you to overcome, indeed to ignore, certain revulsions that are neither necessary nor congenital: matter is matter, neither noble nor vile, infinitely transformable, and its proximate origin is of no importance whatsoever. Nitrogen is nitrogen, it passes miraculously from the air into plants, from these into animals, and from animals into us; when its function in our body is exhausted, we eliminate it, but it still remains nitrogen, aseptic, innocent."
A balloon flies over Eisenmann Memorial in Berlin. (photo: Danny/Flickr, cc by-nc-sa 2.0)
Our household was a heavy one. I always felt the presence of sadness and loss; those emotions were part of everything that took place in our family, including birthdays and personal achievements. I knew where the sadness and sense of loss came from, to an extent, from stories that Aba (my father Yehoshua) told — and from his writings.
Growing up, I did not want to touch those places where the sadness and loss came from. Ouri, my oldest brother, calls these hard to touch places hamekomot harotetim, “the trembling places” inside of us.
Elie Wiesel dispels the misconception that he forever lost his faith in God after the war. Language becomes holy through prayer.
Saw this over the weekend in the London Times and thought it was worth sharing for those of you who missed it.