Holocaust Remembrance Day: From Memory to Triumph, and from Pain to Hope

Holocaust Remembrance Day, for me, is not just a story of the past and of pain—but also a story of victory, of life, of continuity.

My dear and courageous grandmother, Raaya, survived as an only daughter after losing her entire family in the Holocaust. Every year she used to seclude herself alone on this day, carrying in her heart memories and pain that cannot be described. Her story—roots of a family that once was, and could have disappeared.

But out of loss and fear, my parents were born—both born in ‘48, like the State—who met, married, and insisted on bringing light into the world. Despite deep fears, and even though they grew up in an environment where “Jew” was a mark of Cain—and when they immigrated to the Land of Israel, the Jewish state—“Russian” became their label—they chose to grow, to revive, to love.

My parents chose to build here, in the Land of Israel, a large and united family. Eight children—each one a world unto themselves. Thanks to them, we are here today—a huge, embracing, close-knit family, with 17 grandchildren, and this year, for the first time, two of the grandchildren are getting married—a grandson and a granddaughter are the first to spread their wings, and the celebration is doubled.

And alongside my family’s story, I want also to mention my husband’s family—a family that represents the Israeli mosaic in all its beauty. His mother, Hanna, born to a warm and embracing Moroccan family, and his father, Meir, who survived the Holocaust in Poland, immigrated as a teenager to a land completely foreign, built a new life here, and married Hanna. Out of immense pain and never-ending scars, he too chose life—and together they built a wonderful family: four children, 11 grandchildren, and every holiday, gathering, and song—a testimony to the triumph of spirit, to the blending of cultures, and to love that overcomes any label, fear, or past.

The stories of our two families—one from the East, one from the West, meeting together in this country—teach me, anew every day, that it is precisely hardship, difference, distinct tradition, and painful past that make us such a united, strong, and rich people.

Every family photo of ours today is my and our strongest answer to the Nazis and all our enemies, those who seek to harm us. In our family story, I see not only a story of pain, but, above all, a story of victory, of choosing life, of continuity.

In my work with parents and children, I see time and again how pain and fear can become the foundation of strength, of love and of hope. This is our role—not just to remember, but also to teach, to build a new reality: to raise children who know how to see what connects us, to choose empathy and patience, to build a home where everyone feels they belong and are safe.

The value I take from my family’s story is to choose life—to choose connection and unity even through difficulty, to raise a generation that believes things can be different.

On this Holocaust Remembrance Day, we remember—but in the same breath—we choose to repair, to unite, to dream, and to keep moving forward, here, in our country. [For the pictures: A current family photo and a photo of Grandma Raaya z”l, a place of honor and love in our memory and lives]

Every year anew, around Holocaust Remembrance Day, I am called upon to reflect on the issue of “labeling.” My family members throughout their lives in the diaspora were marked as Jews, and when they immigrated here were marked as “Russians”—the difference was always prominent, and it was used to separate, distance, harm.

And today—a new generation in our country. Our children, for the most part, are born into what’s called “mixed marriages”—Ingathering of the Exiles in the most positive sense. There are many traditions, languages, kitchen aromas, melodies, and families from all over the world. The world of our children is rich and blended, full of colors.

And still, the old habit—of labeling the differences first—sometimes hasn’t changed. It’s easy to say “he’s Moroccan,” “she’s Ashkenazi,” “he’s Russian,” “he’s Ethiopian.” Labeling may divide and arrange, but it never really connects.

Our challenge as parents and educators is to give children the tools—not to choose only what sets them apart, but to learn to see what brings them closer, what unites. How do we do that?

Talk at home about different traditions with respect and curiosity. Share family experiences, let children feel that every culture is a treasure. You can prepare dishes from all sides together, tell stories—and always talk about what is shared beyond the differences.

Invite questions and don’t be afraid to talk about difference. When a child asks, “Why does he look different?”—don’t silence and don’t evade, but answer honestly, emphasizing: everyone is different in some way, but we are all much more alike than it seems.

Demonstrate respect and acceptance at home, because personal example is the strongest lesson. How do we speak about “the other”? What do we say about neighbors, friends, relatives? The children first and foremost learn from what they see.

Challenge prejudices. Don’t be afraid to mention that we too—or our parents—were once other, labeled, and we chose not to disappear but to unite.

And finally—to teach the children that the true strength of Israeli society lies exactly in the mixing of all the cultures. The abundance, creativity, warmth, and strength grow when we choose to see what’s similar, and to celebrate what’s different—instead of fearing it.

If we remember what happened when people were labeled—we’ll know how important it is, especially in our generation, to choose differently. To be the parents who teach connection, humanism, joy of life, and kind eyes to all those who are different around us.

That is our victory. That is the real lesson our children will carry forward.

This year, it is especially hard to write about Holocaust remembrance without mentioning our current reality—since October 7th, it seems that the wounds of the past are open again. The terrible attack, the pain, the hatred that returned with incomprehensible cruelty—all of a sudden, at once, flood us with memories and fears we thought we had built resilience against.

Our brothers and sisters in captivity are living proof that hatred of Jews has not vanished—and that even today we are required to show the same resolve and courage. Our soldiers continue to defend, to choose life, and to stand bravely, even when the evil around is great and shattering.

Some say this is a contemporary Holocaust. The comparison is jolting—yet for many families the feelings are similar: anxiety, loneliness, loss, and above all—loss of control. And precisely from that place grows the significance of our choice as parents, educators, as a people—to live differently.

Especially today, in the face of fresh pain, it is important to remember: our victory will not be merely survival—but the choice to continue to raise children who believe in humanity, who choose to see the common ground and what unites, even in dark times.

In this reality, we remember our 59 captives and will not let go until their return, we embrace our soldiers and say thank you, and we pray for the day when our children will grow up in a safe, compassionate, connecting country—and that we will never again label anyone, never stand by, and always choose life.