Survivors born of survivors

We’re facing Yom Hashoah as we are waiting for the war to restart, here in Israel.

The sun is beginning to set and we’re driving on the highway on the way home.

We’re being escorted by flags lining the road, in a display of national pride. Tis the season but it feels strange this year.

The thing is for many of us, it’s so hard to have the bandwidth this year to bring our attention to the pain and suffering of the past.

Because it hasn’t stayed in the past.

We are full swing in the middle of another Jewish crisis- different flavors depending on where you are in the world, but the root source is the same.

People who hate Jews are either screaming about it, advocating for it, planning it, or trying to do it.

The childhood of my children has been shaped by their attempts.

The childhood of my grandparents as well.

Are we now survivors born of survivors?

The sky is getting pinker and I’m so tired.

Tired of my heart being broken.

Of senseless death.

Zachor, my grandparents burned into my brain.

Little did they know how their warnings would play out over and over and over.

What was coming down the road for us.

And here we are in the thick of our own story.

And yet, we pause to remember theirs.

To recall its lessons.

To mourn all our nation lost.

To retell our family stories.

To remember them.

To remember who we are.

And to reaffirm our promises to choose life…

And never forget.