It's difficult to articulate the profound impact of the past week and the and the lasting impacts it will continue to have on me. I feel privileged to have been part of the young professionals delegation for March of the Living, spending a week immersed in learning, reflection, and prayers for a brighter future.

Our journey began in Krakow, a place I have been before but it came with a wholly unique experience this time. Participating in the International March of the Living, I walked in solidarity with thousands, including Holocaust survivors, from Auschwitz to Birkenau. Along the way, I encountered remarkable individuals: from the Friends of Israel group, comprising non-Jews worldwide with a deep affinity for Jewish culture, to a Muslim woman from Sri Lanka showing solidarity with Israel, to the multitude of Jewish participants honoring their ancestors. This wasn't merely a march to commemorate the Holocaust; it was a collective prayer for those enduring pain and being held hostage, for Jewish students confronting daily antisemitism (including that by pro-Hamas protests on American college campus), and for our struggling communities who are not okay.

After the march, we delved into a day of learning at Auschwitz. I continue to feel moved by the testimony and pain my ancestors endured. If they experienced such hate for years, I can certainly be uncomfortable for a few days of learning. We then went to The Labyrinth, an art installation portraying an Auschwitz survivor confronting his past after  fifty years of silence. As a viewer of this instillation, I could feel his story and the horror he endured. We then journeyed to Majdanek in Lublin, a site that always leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. This camp remains pretty much intact. Finally, we reached Warsaw, where we toured the ghetto and visited Treblinka. 

Whenever I'm in Poland, I'm reminded of the miracle of my existence. Surrounded by 25 young professionals, including second, third, and fourth-generation Holocaust survivors descendants, Jews with no direct connection to the Holocaust, and those simply seeking engagement, I'm struck by the significance of our presence here. This is a victory. The Nazis wanted to exterminate us and we are here. As perhaps the last generation to hear survivors' testimonies firsthand, it's both an honor and a call to action. It's our duty to perpetuate these stories, to bear witness, and to ensure that "never again" becomes a concrete reality. This certainly will not be my last time in Poland, and while the journey is hard, it is necessary. 

This weekend I had an incredible experience in Washington D.C.—honestly, one of the most powerful wekeends I have spent in the capitol. As one of the interns/coordinators for the Cummings and Hillel Program for Holocaust & Genocide Education, I had the privilege of co-planning and leading a cohort of 25 Tufts students to D.C. for a weekend of Holocaust and Genocide education programming. This weekend was a profound journey through history and remembrance as I took on the role of not just an observer, but a guide, facilitating a meaningful experience. The responsibilities that came with this role brought a sense of purpose and gravity to the entire weekend.

We experienced great museum visits at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum and Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture. Alongside these visits, The Edlavitch DC Jewish Community Center (EDCJCC) provided a welcoming space for our cohort’s weekend speaker series. Thank you to 3GDC for coordinating Emanuel "Manny" Mandel (https://www.ushmm.org/remember/holocaust-survivors/volunteers/emanuel-manny-mandel), his daughter, and grandson to join us for a discussion on the Holocaust and generational impacts and thank you to Rouben Paul Adalian (Director of the Armenian National Institute, and a professor at George Washington University and Johns Hopkins University) for teaching our group about the Armenian Genocide. 

This weekend in Washington D.C. transcended the typical educational trip; it became a transformative journey for everyone involved and together we remembered. We remembered the past and used history as a way to be activists. As we return to Tufts, I cannot help but feel a sense of gratitude for being part of an initiative that seeks to educate and empower my peers to be advocates for social justice and Holocaust and Genocide education. The weekend was not just a series of museum visits, site-seeing and lectures; it was a collective journey of learning, reflection, and productive dialogue. 

As I continue to grapple with these challenging topics, the knowledge and insights gained during this weekend will undoubtedly shape my perspectives and actions in the pursuit of a more just and compassionate world that takes into account history. 

Currently, being Jewish poses significant challenges, particularly due to the conflict with Hamas, which has fueled a rise in antisemitism, notably on college campuses. This situation has caused a notable sense of fear, pain, and anger. However, attending the United Nations Holocaust Remembrance Day Cememony taught me something— Jews are strong. We have overcome a genocide where six million of our people were killed and we are still here. It may be hard to be Jewish, but it is the challenges that make us stronger. 

Facing the difficulties of being Jewish ultimately contributes to our resilience and strength. I am grateful for the opportunity to have heard distinguished speakers such as Antonio Guterres (UN Secretary-General), Dennis Francis (President of the 78th session of the UN General Assembly), Gilad Erdan (Permanent Representative of Israel to the UN), and Deborah Lipstadt (United States Special Envoy to Monitor and Combat Antisemitism). Their wisdom was enlightening.

Yet, the most impactful moments for me came from Holocaust survivors. While waiting for the ceremony to begin, an older man approached me and asked me to take his picture. I had complimented his tie (it was the Israel flag) and the other man in the picture said "Sami always has the best looks." The name triggered something in my brain, and I began picturing a Holocaust survivor who I had emailed with. Fast forward a few minutes, Sami is thanking me for taking the picture and hands me his card. I look at it. It was the man I had emailed with and who had helped me with a Holocaust project in my AP European History class about three years ago. This was the first time we had met. These full circle moments remind me how powerful connection is. 

Next, during the event, I had the privilege of hearing Christian Pfeil's story. He came all the way from Germany to share the Roma perspective on the Holocaust. Prior to this, I had only ever heard Jewish Holocaust survivors tell their stories. Hearing him speak, reminded me that we don’t have a day dedicated to Roma survivors of the Holocaust, specifically, and tht their stories are just as important. Following Christian's speech, Edith and Selma Tennenbaum, Holocaust survivor sisters, shared their story through musical pieces from their pre-war childhood, offering a glimpse into their lives. Their tale inspires me to embrace my Jewish identity with pride.

It goes without saying that this conference was a lifechanging experience. But, what really stuck with me is how the Jewish community always comes together. While I may be among the last generation to personally know Holocaust survivors, I won’t be the last to share their stories. 

Who knew one week could change a person? In just seven days, my entire outlook on the Holocaust changed. After traveling from Boston to New York, and New York to the world's most complicated airport, London-Heathrow, I finally boarded my last flight from London to Warsaw. Joined by 28 other college students (none of which I knew prior), five rabbis, and our tour educator, the journey began bright and early.

There is something to be said about joining a group of other teens for a week long journey over Spring Break. As I see it, anyone choosing to spend their week off college studying and learning about such a difficult topic, is dedicated to the topic and ensuring change for the future. While we didn't return with a tan from the Bahamas or Florida, it was a rewarding and fulfilling expereince that I think eveyone should consider at some point in their lives. 

Now back to the trip, I'm going to be honest, the sites I saw, on the first day, in Warsaw did not leave me in tears like the rest of the trip would. Upon landing, we saw the Warsaw Ghetto Heroes Monument, the Ghetto Wall Fragments, and the Umschlagplatz. But these sites just stood as the start. Even though, I felt like I should have been emotionally attached to these places, for some reason it did not hit me. Maybe it was the tiredness from traveling all night? Or the fact that I was surrounded by a group of strangers? But, at this point in the trip my life had not changed and these sites felt similar to visiting a museum as a learning experience. 

Then, day two came and no words can do justice to how I felt by the end of this day. After driving for three hours, we arrived at Majdanek. We were in the middle of Lublin-- a large city, like Chicago in ways. Our tour educator, instructed us to look out the window on the drive and we saw a city street was an army base and school. There were restaurants on every corner. Then she said to look the other way and a massive concentration camp filled miles and miles of grass. My stomach ached. We were in a city and there were gas chambers. Concurrently, as I viewed the horror, I witnessed a mother taking her baby on a walk through the camp. I am not looking to shame that mother. I was uncomfortable and slighly confused. Seeing families going about their day and living next to a concentration camp reminds me that this autrocity happened in a city. People knew what was happening and let it happen. 

Now I want you to imagine something, have you considered why you buy a pair of shoes? Is it the color, the size, or the style? Do you love shoes? Do you need them? The answer is probably a mix of all of those. Even if you don't think about it, our shoes are what hold us up. They are our foundation and protection. During the Holocaust, the Nazis took that away from every single Jewish person. The first thing I saw at this camp was a room filled with more than several hundred pairs of shoes. I couldn't even begin to count or comprehend what I was seeing. Everything from what was likely a childs first pair of shoes to that of an old man was in this room. And why did the Nazis take the shoes? As a form of dehumanization. 

Time went on and as my group progressed through the camp we found ourselves in the gas chamber. Silence. That was all I could hear. Rabbi Lew, one of our scholars in residence, said "This is the gas chamber. This is where our brothers and sisters were murdered." I could feel the pain of my group members as we stared at the blue residue from the gas that stained the walls and the scratches of people trying to escape their death. I could feel the pain and suffering of all those who perished. At this point all I could do was cry. 

I saw what death looks like. I was able to feel the souls of what could have been my realatives. At Majdanek, there is a pit of 73 tons of human ashes. Within these ashes are fragments of bones. At first, you may not notice it, but if you look close enough the frafments are there. These ashes are the stories and remain of thousands of innocent lives. Each human creates about a handful of ashes when they are cremated. Majdanek houses 73 tons of ashes. I still think, to this day, I don't fully understand what that means. Across from the pit sits a field of what looks like little hills. One day, when the camp was about to be liberated, the Jewish prisoners were forced to dig holes. After the Nazis mocked them, they made them dance in the pits to classical music, and then shot and killed them. 43,000 Jews lost their lives in that spot and I stood there praying for them. Their bodies were taken, but not their souls. I get to be their memory. 

The next morning started early. After a few hours on the bus, we arrived at Belzec, one of the Reinhard Camps. The Reinhard camps had one goal-- to exterminate the Jews. The camp was small. Why? No one had to be housed. Once prisoners got off the cattle cars they were marched to the gas chambers and killed. A "lucky" 2-3 prisoners got an extra week or so of suffering to assist the Nazis in carrying the dead bodies to the ovens. At Belzec were 500,000 victims and 2 survivors. We don't know any of the victims names. Why? Because entire communities were exterminated to the extent that no one could tell their story. 

When we arrived at the train tracks leading into Belzec, my cohort stood in a circle and began to sing Ani Ma'amin. This song holds a special place in my heart and is an inspiring story:

Reb Azriel David Fastag, in the cattle car on his way to death, brought hope to the people around him. He began to hum a quiet tune to the words of Ani Ma'amin, a Jewish prayer. Amid the silence, his song spread from car to car. They knew they were going to be killed but still sang proudly. The Reb, in tears, said, “I will give half of my portion in Olam Habbah (the World to Come) to whoever can take my song to the Modzitzer Rebbe!" Silence. Then, two young men appeared, promising to bring the song to the Rebbe at any cost. One of them climbed upon the other, and finding a small crack in the train's roof broke out a hole from which to escape. Poking his head out under the open sky, he said, "I see the blue heavens above us, the stars are twinkling and the moon, with a fatherly face, is looking at me." "And what do you hear?" asked his companion. "I hear," the young man answered, "the angels on high singing Ani Ma'amin, and it's ascending to the seven firmaments of heaven!" Bidding farewell to their brothers and sisters on the train, the two proceeded to jump off, one after the other. One was killed instantly from the fall. The other survived, taking the memory of the song with him. The song made its way out of the camps. 

At Belzec, we sang the song our ancestors sang. We continued their memory and I am proud of that. There only way out way through the chimney, but I got to leave that day singing their song loudly and full of faith. 

That evening, though, was the most heartwrenching experience on the journey for me. I walked the steps of hundreds of children whose stories ended at Zbylitowska Gora. Imagine it is dark and it is night. The Nazis come and take your child and they never return. That was reality for many families. In the forest of Zbylitowska Gora, lies the bodies of 800, innocent and helpless kids. This marks the place where parents could not protect their kids any longer. Death was the only outcome. On the night of this autrocity, a child wouldn't stop crying. They were scared like most kids. So what did the Nazis do? The Nazis grabbed the kid by the legs and smashed their head and body against the cement. That child was silenced forever. How about the babies? Babies who couldn't walk were taken into the beds of dump trucks and either buried alive or shot to death. Those 800 kids, would have been my generation's grandparents. But, they were murdered for being Jewish. As a preschool teacher, this was incomprehensible to me. I love the kids in my class with all my heart, and I can't imagine a parent having to hand over their child to Nazi officials to be killed. Standing at this site, in the silence of the night, I could hear the screams of the hundreds of children taken at night and murdered. After experiencing that, I will never be the same. 

The last part of this trip, that I want to touch on, is Auschwitz I and II. The more we understand, the less we know. We come to bear witness, not to feel angry, mad, or sad. We come to be their victory. For those of you, who have never been to Auschwitz, Auschwitz I is like a museum. You enter through the "famous" Arbeit Macht Frei sign and go through barracks which have been transformed into educational exhibitions. 

In one of the barracks, I saw piles and piles of hair, glasses, walkers, etc. Hair is dignity. Glasses provide the ability to see. Walkers provide the ability to walk. The first thing, once again, taken from the prisoners was their humanity. What happens when you can't see or walk? In Nazism, you are useless. You might as well be dead.

Next, Block 10 will be a place that stays in my memory forever. Through the doors of this barrack, was medical testing. A Jewish doctor was forced to assist the Nazis with experiments, including removing the uterus from women to men to see if a male could produce a child with a uterus and if a woman could give birth without her uterus. That Jewish doctor was forced to take part in thir expereiment. He "performed the surgery" and "removed" a Jewish women's uterus. Upon waking up from the surgery, when she found out he was Jewish and listened the the Nazis and brought suffering upon their own people she screamed at him and questioned how someone could do such a thing. He promised her she would be okay, but that didn't help the pain and she didn't believe him. Weeks later, the Nazis found out he had tampered with many of the assigned surgeries and he was hanged to his death right outside the barrack. But this story has a remarkable ending. Years after the Holocaust, the woman, from the anecdote, went to her doctor in pain and confused as to what was wrong with her. The doctor told her she was pregnant. She said that was impossible and told her story. It was then found out that day that the Jewish doctor from Block 10 had tied some knots, and never removed her uterus. He performed a "fake" procedure. Today, that woman is the great-grandmother to 21 Jewish children. To me, this story stands as a testament to the courage and bravery of the doctor and the idea that hope always exists even amid the hardest times. 

Finally, we headed to Auschwitz II to end the day. There, I saw the barracks where my great-grandfather suffered and survived. I heard the words of a Holocaust survivor as I stood outside the place that was his home, not by choice, but by force. I walked through Canada the resting place of thousands of Jewish belongings. I saw massive collections of keys, of people who thought this was going to be temporary, and that they would return home. I walked down the one-way stairs where the only exit was the chimney, but unlike many I exited alive. I saw ponds of ashes. The rain that pours in these ponds today can never evaporate due to the heaviness of the ashes. The water above the ashes represents the final resting place of countless innocent victims, whose lives were cruelly and brutally taken away by the Nazis. The haviness of the ashes is a poignant symbol of the weight of history and the lasting impact of the Holocaust on the world. It stands as a remind that the effects of this tragedy continue to be felt, even decades later. 

At Auschwitz II, one of the saddest places on Earth where over a million people were killed, I still saw hope for the future. Along with 80 or so Jewish boys from a Yeshiva program in Israel we formed a community and sang. Together, through the pain, we wrapped our arms around each other and sang songs in Hebrew, about Judaism, and our Holy Land--Israel. Something our ancestors would be killed for, we did with pride. We chanted and sang our hearts out. We expressed our connection to our heritage, faith, and homeland. This act of defiance and pride in the face of oppression is a powerful reminder, for me, that human spirt can never truly be broken and that even in the darkest of times, there is hope for the future. 

All in all, the Nazis tried to kill us, but we are still here. During this trip, even with all the sadness, there was optimism. We celebrated our Judaism. We remembered and honored the lives of millions. And most of all, I got to leave saying that I stand here today as Hitler's worst f*cking nightmare. I am Jewish. I am proud. And, most of all, I am here to stay. 

It has been famously stated that the most remarkable expeditions are those that uncover the answers to questions we never envisioned asking. In the Fall (2023), I made the decision to enroll in this thought-provoking study seminar facilitated by Salem State University on France and Italy during WWII. It turned out to be one of the most memorable experiences. Stepping into an unfamiliar classroom teeming with new faces, I wholeheartedly embraced the commitment to intellectual growth. Notably, this particular seminar possessed a distinctive quality—it catered not only to college students, but to individuals spanning the age spectrum, from fifteen-year-olds to retired adults. Thus, this was not just a journey dedicated to learning about the Second World War and Holocaust, but life itself. 

Upon my arrival in Rome, having familiarized myself with the surroundings, our expedition promptly plunged into a whirlwind of sightseeing. The morning was devoted to an immersion into the historical roots of Jewry in Rome. Within the Great Synagogue of Rome, I fortuitously engaged in a conversation with my tour guide, Yael (who is Jewish like myself). To my astonishment, Yael revealed that Rome, and Italy at large, presently grapples with no pressing issues concerning anti-Semitism. And so, continuing from this enlightening dialogue, we ventured forth to the Catacombs of Callixtus. There, we delved into the depths of the Ardeatine Massacre—a horrific event that unfolded on the 24th of March in 1944, perpetrated by German occupying forces during the Second World War, claiming the lives of 335 innocent Jewish civilians. This mass execution stood as a retaliatory act in response to the Via Rasella attack, an act of resistance carried out by Italian partisans against the SS, resulting in the demise of 35 German soldiers. Standing in this mass grave, my mind wrestles to comprehend how the loss of 35 soldiers, whose mission involved seizing territory not rightfully theirs, could be considered both justifiable and, simultaneously, warrant the sacrifice of 335 innocent lives. The Italians, seeking to counter the SS, detonated a bomb, not with the intention of causing casualties. But because 35 lives were extinguished by this bomb, the SS deemed reprisal necessary. Finally, as we embarked on our journey through Judaism in Italy, we landed in the Jewish quarter. Strikingly, during this expedition, I found myself to be the sole Jewish college student, which has engendered conversations that windened my perspective. While partaking in a Kosher-Dairy meal (for Judaism strictly forbids the mixing of meat and dairy), an incident occurred wherein a glass bottle shattered. In unison, everyone in the resturaunt exclaimed "Mazel Tov." Prior to this encounter, I, like many within the Jewish community, comprehended the significance of breaking the glass as a symbolic act performed during wedding ceremonies beneath the chuppah. However, the underlying reasons for this tradition eluded me until now. Upon conducting further research, I discovered that the unintentional breaking of glass symbolizes the expulsion of evil, hence our joyful exclamation of "Mazel Tov." Needless to say, even as a Jewish woman who is well-versed in Holocaust history and the culture of Jews, a mere single city into this transformative journey, I write this blog astounded by the wealth of knowledge that has enveloped me.

Next, nestled in the picturesque Aix-en-Provence, France, lies the internment camp known as Camp des Milles. Today, July 16th, I had the honor of immersing myself in the knowledge imparted at this memorial site. Unlike the camps I witnessed in Poland, everything here unfolded predominantly in the French language, lending a distinct character to this experience. As I perused the exhibits and absorbed the harrowing testimonials of survivors through videos and imagery, a sort of darkness filled me. Although our audio guide explained that nights within the camp were never silent, I discovered a profound stillness. Alone, I sat in one of the workrooms, resonating with cliché, yet there, I felt the anguish and desperate pleas for help echoing from the depths of my ancestral past. Their presence was there. Reminiscent of my encounters within the crematoriums of Auschwitz and Majdanek, I heard voices. As our tour progressed, we learned of the heart-wrenching separation of children from their parents at the young age of two. Personally, this revelation evoked memories of my great-grandmother Millie, who endured a similar fate, losing her son in what was a very similar manner. The idea that parents were forced to witness their children suffer while powerless left me shattered. 

Finally, as a society, when learning about the Holocaust, I would argue that it is common for most individuals to claim that when confronted with the study of the Holocaust and other genocides, that they would have acted righteously amidst such circumstances. Potentially asserting that they would never have succumbed to the indoctrination of Nazism and they would have been an upstander. I have always been confused how such behaviors can manifest and Camp des Milles did an excellent job explaining this. Drawing from my minimal exposure to Psychology in High School, one exhibit at the camp explored various American social experiments (such as the line test, prison experiment, and shock test). These studies lay bare the propensity for individuals to conform to the group. Relating these studies to genoicde, I can understand why this conformity would occour especially when presented with perceived benefits intertwined with war and the allure of Hitler's regime (increased rations, financial stability, and an end to the Great Depression). Consequently, it becomes less obscure to conclude that social pressures weighed heavily upon the population, ultimately fostering conformity and allowing Hitler to gain such power. Overall, this profound encounter provided an opportunity for me to bear witness once more and expand my comprehension of the Holocaust under the Vichy Regime.

In conclusion, this transformative journey through Italy and France was an incredible odyssey of learning and self-discovery. It has shown me that the study of history is not merely an intellectual pursuit but a voyage into the depths of the human condition. I have said it once, and I will say it again, bearing witness and seeing sites in person is the best way to learn. Please, take advantage of any opportunity to learn. As I reflect on this remarkable journey, I am reminded that we must continue to seek answers to questions we never envisioned asking, for it is through this exploration that we can strive to create a better, more compassionate world.

"That butterfly was the last one. Butterflies don't live in here, in the ghetto." - 4.6.1942 Pavel Friedmann. These were the words I pondered upon reflecting on my profound encounter with the haunting history of the Theresienstadt Concentration Camp.

It all began during my High School years when I was introduced to the heartrending collection titled 'I Never Saw Another Butterfly: Children's Drawings and Poems from Terezin Concentration Camp.' This book comprised artworks and poetry created by Jewish children who endured unimaginable hardships within the walls of the camp. Their indomitable spirit stayed with me as I embarked on a journey to Terezin, where remnants of 1,500 art pieces adorned the walls, testimony to the creativity of the young souls who once resided in the Ghetto school. The experience was nothing short of remarkable.

Yet, the stark reality of the past lingered, and I found myself confronted with disturbing facts throughout this visit. The agonizing wait endured by new arrivals in never-ending lines (adding up to over 16 hours), the harsh conditions with old Czech WW1 uniforms serving as the prisoners' attire, and the relentless labor, starting as early as 14 years of age, from dawn till dusk, left me deeply shaken. Terezin was not an extermination camp, but the camp claimed numerous lives. Within those desolate walls, unspeakable hardships thrived. The scarcity of showers for women and me (Women got to shower once every 3-4 months. Men got to shower once every 6 months. Jews never got to shower.), and the total deprivation of such basic necessities for Jews, reflected the inhumane treatment that persisted. The overcrowded cells, where scores of Jewish men were crammed together without even a hint of respite, symbolized a harrowing existence. In one cell, on average 70 Jewish Men were forced to live for weeks. They were given no bed, no food, and they were not allowed to talk. When I toured this site, there were 27 people in our group and we filled the cell standing. I can't imagine how almost triple the amount of people could fit. 

As if the darkness of their reality wasn't enough, the camp concealed a deceptive facade. It was a camp meant for deception and propaganda, aimed at portraying a false story of normalcy to international organizations like the Red Cross. I learned of the Red Cross's visit in 1944 and how the camp was transformed temporarily to portray an illusion of a contented community, concealing the grim truth from the world. Kids were playign soccer. Concerts were being had. Parks were filled with family. But behind each of those fake smiles was a person filled with fear. 

One incident during the tour remains etched in my memory, a distressing reminder of the necessity for education and respect when it comes to the Holocaust and Genocide. A couple chose to pose, smiling, and pointing towards the gas chambers in a deeply offensive act. It served as a poignant reminder that even amidst history's darkest chapters, humanity's sensitivity and empathy must not waver. With this blog, I have made it my mission to educate. I hope one day people will understand, even if it wasn't purposful, that taking such pictures is not right. 

Nonetheless, the journey concluded on a beautiful note. A butterfly, a symbol of resilience and hope, fluttered into my path, reassuring me of my belongingness and the watchful gaze of my ancestors.

Contemplating the incomprehensible depths of human cruelty and the unfathomable horrors of genocide, I embarked on a profound journey to Berlin, a city that holds historical significance as the starting point of the Holocaust. 

At the Topography of Terror, a museum and memorial site, I delved into the rise of Hitler and the Nazi Party. Within the former headquarters of the Gestapo, I explored the insidious methods that fueled Hitler's ascent to power – violence, terror, and manipulative modern-day propaganda. Hitler's ability to connect with people and harness their enthusiasm allowed for the rapid growth of his destructive ideology. Eichmann's trial revealed the unquestioning obedience to Hitler's orders, illustrating the terrifying extent of blind loyalty.

In the heart of the city, the areas of terror were purposefully left visible to the public, intending to intimidate and instill fear. This included concentration camps, labor camps, killing sites, among much more. The notion that people might have denied knowing about the existence of the camps in films and books feels implausible, given the publicity of the genocide. I remained baffled by the idea that anyone could be ignorant to the Holocaust during the time, especially in Germany.

The Holocaust remains a deeply disturbing chapter in history, with one aspect that particularly haunts me being the targeted attacks against disabled individuals. The killings, often called "Mercy Killings," were supposedly carried out for the greater good of society. Before being killed, people with disabilities were punished and tortured- this often included sterilization. Over 300,000 people lost their lives to the Nazis Euthanasia Program (T-2). Reading the story of six-year-old Hildegard, a young girl who entered Wittenau sanatorium due to epilepsy left me in tears. Diagnosed with "idiocy", she was transferred to Görden State Clinic and then killed. The date of her murder is unknown. But, what we do know, is that she was killed for her epilepsy. As I continue to grapple with the horrors of the past, I am at a loss with how someone could commit such heinous acts, especially against innocent children. The bloodshed and trauma inflicted by the Nazis raises unanswerable questions about the human capacity for evil and the persistence of such atrocities over an extended period.

Keeping with my interest in the T-2 Program, on my Third Reich and Hitler walking tour throughout Berlin, we landed at the memorial for disabled people during the Holocaust. It was written that the goal of the program was to release idiotic people from their misfortunes. This wasn't a punishment, but a liberation. Regrettably, the true nature of the program unfolded with heart-wrenching tales of young souls boarding deceptive ambulances, disguised as charitable aids, only to find themselves victims of a cruel fate – either being killed or subjected to inhumane research. Moving on from this somber site, our path led us to the "Murdered Jews of Europe Memorial." This place left an overwhelming impact on my heart and mind. An expanse of bricks formed an intricate and seemingly endless maze, a powerful representation of the magnitude of the tragedy that unfolded during the Holocaust. The tour eventually concluded at the infamous bunker where Hitler met his end. Standing there, I experienced a surge of emotions, a mixture of pain and anger. How was it possible for him to evade justice? Why did he get to choose when to end his life, when so many Jews were denied that? This is a thought that will always fill my mind. 

The next day, during my visit to the Jewish Museum, I unexpectedly discovered a place of beauty and inspiration, but like many sites it was lined with pain. The Axis of the Holocaust (one of the three main exhibits) led me to the Holocaust Tower, where a profound silence enveloped me. When you open this large door, the walls slope gently upward and end with an empty space 24 meters tall. There, I sat in silence. I didn’t know how to feel. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. It was essentially pitch black. I embraced the uncertainty. Once I left this room, I continued walking and read the preface of a book of names: “This memorial book gives back their names, and thus their human dignity, to the people who were murdered. It is at the same time a memorial and a reminder that each and every human life has a name and a singular story." Names are dignity and the Nazis took that. By reading their names, I gave back some dignity.

The journey through the museum's various sections, like the Garden of Exile and the Memory Void, further illustrated the trials faced by Jewish people throughout history. Throughout Jewish history we have lost so much, but we continue to persevere. The Garden of Exile was a special experience; As you walk through it, you begin lose your balance because all its lines run at odd angles: the ground, the columns, and even the cobblestones. The artist wrote that: "Exile meant rescue and safety, but also uncertainty. The refugees often had difficulties gaining a foothold in a foreign country." In this exhibit I had trouble walking. I was falling and I had to keep getting back up barrier after barrier, but alas, I made it through. In keeping with the significance of the museum, the Memoriy Void was supurb. "The architect Daniel Libeskind created empty shafts in several parts of the building. These 'voids' extend vertically through every level of the museum building and represent destruction, loss, and absence. This one, the 'Memory Void,' contains an installation by the Israeli artist Menashe Kadishman titled Shalekhet, or Fallen Leaves. More than 10,000 faces made of heavy metal cover the floor. He has dedicated them to all innocent victims of war and violence." To think that the room only represented 10,000 lives lost, and that in the Holocaust alone, six million Jewish lives were lost is incomprehensible to me. 

However, amid the devastation, the future of Judaism shines with art, music, and the enduring spirit of resilience and success. As I exited the museum I saw the success of my people. I saw that although the world may not always support our people, we succeed. We overcome.

In the end, my visit to Berlin and these meaningful sites left me with more questions than answers. The darkness of the past juxtaposed with the strength of the present and the potential of the future urges me to continue learning and taking action. 

Three days have passed since I bid farewell to Normandy, France, an unforgettable journey marked by visits to the pristine beaches, the Caen Memorial Center, numerous cemeteries, and the sacred grounds that American war heroes walked. This post stands apart from my previous writings, as it brought to light two profound revelations: (1) like seen in previous posts, the evil of Hitler and the Nazi regime, and (2) new to me, the bravery of those not directly impacted to stand up for what was right. 

Within this world, there exist two types of individuals: those who champion righteousness and those who perpetrate wrongs. At the Caen Memorial Center, I discovered that being anti-fascist didn’t prevent people from performing acts that surprise us. Just because someone says or thinks they are against something, doesn’t mean they will act on those feelings, which is why the war grew to the magnitude it did. The derstruction of the Jews was Adolf Hitler’s prophecy. His prophecy was Genocide. He targeted all Jews, even children who weren’t guilty of anything, but being born. In France alone 11,400 children were deported over the course of the war. But only 200 teens returned when the war ended.  This tragic outcome was a consequence of conformity and a willingness to obey Hitler's commands, rather than standing up to him. 

However, the war eventually reached its end through the liberating efforts of Allied forces. One momentous event was 'D-Day' on June 6, 1944, when the Allied forces executed the most extensive invasion in warfare history. Known as Operation 'Overlord,' these landings on the shores of Normandy marked the commencement of a lengthy and costly campaign to free north-west Europe from Nazi occupation. My visit to these historic beaches, cemeteries, and memorials brought history to life, allowing me to feel the trepidation faced by young soldiers, who confronted unimaginable challenges. As I retraced the steps of the revered soldier Dick Winters, a notable figure from the "Band of Brothers" series, I was both humbled by his bravery and moved by the hardships endured by countless young soldiers.

Normandy taught me a fundamental lesson: when confronted with difficult choices, I aspire to be an upstander and do what is right. I take immense pride in my Jewish heritage, honoring my ancestors who resisted and survived during one of history's darkest chapters. Likewise, I am proud to be an American and a citizen of a nation that played a significant role in putting an end to this tragic era.