A reflection on Nelson Mandela's Memorial and why I'm choosing to feel Canadian

Last night I went to bed after reading two articles regarding Nelson Mandela's Memorial service in South Africa.  The first was published by The Globe and Mail, and summed up how Canada's current and past Prime Ministers were all traveling together to South Africa, to pay tribute to Mandela.  Together, the mixed political batch wanted to honour the memory of Mandela, what he stood for and what he fought for.  The article focuses on the idea that despite past animosity, these leaders put it aside to reflect on Mandela and the positive force he exerted on our present world.  I smiled as I read the article. It ends with the words of  former Gov. Gen. Michaelle Jean.  She says,  “To see representatives of all political families together going to South Africa to pay tribute to Mandela is totally in the spirit of the man, So I’m proud of us.”

And in that moment, I was proud to be Canadian too.  These leaders aren't enemies, nor were they ever.  But neither were they best friends.  The article isn't a heavy political piece that makes any kind of strong statement, except to show us, that even in death, Mandela is bringing peoples together.   And today, after following the ceremony, we see how true that is.  Obama shaking Raul Castro's hand,  Obama and Bush sharing a plane together, and world leaders, who may never have shared a stage together, all huddled under the rain to pay tribute to Mandela.  

Just as Jean said, it seems fitting and in the spirit of the man.

Yet, as an Israeli, I feel differently.  I feel embarrassed.  Our two leaders: Bibi and Peres, were notably absent.  I can forgive Peres due to age and heath... but Bibi?  Bibi citing that he cannot attend because of monetary issues only makes the entire situation so much worse, especially in light of all of Bibi's recent frivolous spending on ice cream, private jet bathrooms and scented candles.   (There really must be a lot of crap coming out of him)  Which brings me to the second article I read yesterday published in Haaretz by Bradley Burston.  Burston too criticizes Bibi's abrupt decision to not attend the ceremony.   Every decision he makes, sends a message, and for Burston that message is all too clear.  He writes, "His message is clear: My Israel, which spends untold tens of millions on such matters as bolstering and protecting settlement construction during peace negotiations with the Palestinians, or erecting detention facilities for African asylum seekers rather than formulating coherent and just refugee policies, has nothing left over for this man Mandela."

What was it after all that Mandela stood for? Set aside his position on Palestinians and Israel, and look at what he really stood for: justice, peace, and equality for peoples, regardless of colour and race.   He was a man who fought for a better Africa, and a more just word.  Last night, when I was teaching English to a mixed group of Eritrean and Sudanese refugees I was trying to explain to them the meaning of the words "motivation" and "inspiration".  Without my prompting, they just kept saying, "like Nelson Mandela- the peacemaker."  That's who he was.  And in some sense, this memorial was the world tipping their hats to a man who fought for everything each and every person in this world should strive to be.  It's a memorial for the man, but also to his ideals.  To stand by what he stood for, and take responsibility to carry those ideals with us, for our shared futures. We all want to be an inspiration, to motivate.  To make the world around us a better place.  Obama said today at the memorial, "And while I will always fall short of Madiba’s example, he makes me want to be better. He speaks to what is best inside us."  

It was only last night that Israel even put together a "last minute delegation".  I'm happy there was an Israeli presence, but embarrassed that while the world sent it's most important representatives, ours were notably absent.  

Today, I woke up to this article: the Knesset approves Infiltration Prevention Bill.  It's really great to see that while the world is paying tribute to a man who fought for equality and justice, Israel is approving to jail African asylum seekers for up to a year without trial, and stop them from finding employment in Israel. (And as a sidenote- over one 100 million dollars has been allocated for this bill, much more money it would have cost to send Bibi to South Africa today) Our stance is clear, and our message is clearer.  In this sense, Burston's article rings even more true.  Our money is better placed tarnishing justice and equality, rather than standing by world leaders paying tribute to those very ideals.  

And that's why today, I'm choosing to feel Canadian.  I'm usually proud of both my countries, proud of the country I was born into, and proud of the country I choose to call home.  Israel has many times over proven it is a beacon of hope, democracy and equality to the world, but other times it has fallen short of such a title.  Today is one of those days.  Today, the Israel I believe in, has embarrassed me.  I've come to terms with Israel's imperfections.  Almost everyday there is a policy, or a person that stands against what I believe Israel should stand for.  Yet, I fight for Israel because at it's core, I believe we are a democracy that wants to be better.  A democracy that is struggling for a future that is just and equal.  That's why today, my I'm proud to be a Canadian: a country which came together in the spirit of Mandela, while Israel stood against it.

75 Years from Kristallnacht: Commemoration and Meaning

On November 9-10th 1938, the largest pogram in Germany broke out on the streets of Nazi Germany and Austria.  Yesterday marked the beginning of the 75th anniversary of the program, otherwise known as Kristallnacht, or "night of broken glass".

Quickly to summarize, Kristallnacht was a government organized pogram against Jews in Germany and Austria. This included mass destruction of Jewish synagogues, businesses and homes. Further, about 30, 000 Jewish men were arrested all across Germany and sent to concentration camps. Up until that point, these camps consisted of political enemies, homosexuals, Jehovah witnesses, Roma and Sinti. Therefore Kristallnacht tipped the balance of inmates, the numbers now reflected a larger number of Jews. Nazi propaganda explained the incident as a “spontaneous outburst of public rage”- in response to the assignation of Ernst vom Rath, a German diplomat in the embassy in Paris.  He was murdered by Herschel Grysnszpan, a 17 year old Jew on November 7^th, 1938 who was angry about the deportation of his parents back to Poland from Germany.  Poland refused to accept his parents, and so they, along with approximately 12,000 other Jews were stranded between the two borders.  

A few things:

First, we know that Kristallnacht was not spontaneous because lists of Jewish men were created by the state in advance.  Nazi SS officers sought out these men between November 9-10th, crossing them off their lists and sending them to concentration camps.  Vom Rath's murder was simply a pretext or catalyst.  

Second, most ordinary Germans did not participate in the pogram.  It was mainly perpetrated by Nazi party members, police officers and the SS.  Most Germans were embarrassed by the pogram.  Unfortunately, not because violence was directed against Jews, but rather because of the mess it left on the streets of Germany.  This is one of the only instances that "messy violence" graced the streets of Germany. (Most of the "dirty work" was done in Poland and Eastern Europe, away from ordinary German eyes)  

Third, this is the first time Jews are arrested for one reason only: because they were Jews.  This to me, signifies a major turning point in the events of the Holocaust.  German Jews prior to the pogram could convince themselves that if they stayed political neutral, and under the radar, they could potentially pass unscathed during Hitler's reign.  After Kristallnacht, Jews saw the real danger of Nazi Germany: you could no longer deny it.  

Last, those Jewish men who were arrested and put into concentration camps, had the option of leaving, IF someone could provide for them, a slip of immigration to another country.  Of course, this was easier said then done, but many men did leave the camps and immigrated out of Germany.  This tells us that the German goal vis-a-via the Jews in 1938, was still unclear.  Murder was not at the top of the list, if immigration was encouraged.   

But, what does Kristallnacht mean? As in, why do we commemorate it every year?   There are many milestones during the Holocaust, but aside from National Holocaust Remembrance day (commemorating the liberation of Auschwitz) and Yom HaShoah (commemorating the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising), this is one of the most popular commemoration dates.

Historically I can tell you this was a turning point for Germany's Jews.  This event made it almost impossible to deny the threat of the Nazis. German Jews, even those most integrated and assimilated, finally began to properly reevaluate their own future and safety in Germany. (Of course, not in a mass murder sense, because who can "guess" that)  However, between 1933 and 1945, I can list you hundreds of other turning points and milestones, that do not get commemorated on a yearly basis.  Why Kristallnacht?

I think it's because of what Kristallnacht represents within Jewish history (not just modern or Holocaust history) and how it can be utilized today. Kristallnacht says, in a much more tangible sense than other event, that Jews can never be safe on their streets. (outside of Israel)  That every Jew is a potential victim of antisemitism, for one reason only: being Jewish. (religiously, culturally, or accidentally)  Historians attribute approximately 2, 000 deaths to Kristallnacht, (including those in the concentration camps) which in comparison to the overall (6 million) or those in Treblinka, (870, 000) or Auschwitz (1 million) or perpetrated by the Eizengruppen in Eastern Europe (1 million), is a drop in the bucket.  Not to deny that every death isn't meaningful, (because in my opinion, individualizing or humanizing our understanding of the Holocaust through individuals and stories is integral to commemoration) but it reflects how important meaning becomes in commemoration.  "How can we use it" becomes key.  Kristallnacht says, we can politically claim the fragility of Jews or Jewish communities outside of Israel, because even when they think they are safe, or secure, or that antisemitism is a passing phase, we've seen what the potential threat can be.  We can look what happened to those 'well meaning assimilated Jews' and even more powerfully, we can point to what it led to.  Kristallnacht isn't a turning point in the decision towards the Final Solution, but rather Jewish perception of their own position within Germany.  Therefore, within the context of Jewish history, it can be used as another reminder to Jews today, that only within Israel, can we truly be safe, and can we truly be Jews.  Like it or not then, Kristallnacht is the commemoration that says, "no matter how safe, or integrated you think you are, there's always a threat outside of Israel."  It's the model argument for Aliyah and American "illusion" of safety.  (Of course we'll hear, in light of the recent Pew Report)

The question is therefore, what should commemoration be?  Of course this taps into a much larger debate on the bias and influence of commemorations, that is outside the scope of this blog post.  

I will say, the last time I posted about Kristallnacht in this blog, in 2009, I asked people to see Kristallnacht, not by sucking away it's own meaning by using it as a political lesson for an interested future but rather as a tragic event within the Holocaust.  To look at testimony, and stories, with the intent to remember victims of the event, and how it affected their own personal lives.  Alternatively, using it as a larger warning against racism and the dangers of exclusion within our own cities. (rather than only antisemitism)

Yom HaZikaron as an Olah

When the sirens sound through the silence of the night, everyone at the ceremony stands.  Yet, despite the standing, bodies begin to slump forward, their gazes staring holes in the ground.   Minds race as the one minute siren continues to encircle the space around us.  When the sirens stops, it's silent.  The only sound is the wind hitting the plastic blue and white flags that have been strung across the courtyard. 

When people sit back down, their eyes are wet. 

I made Aliyah almost 3 years ago.  This is my third Yom HaZikaron in Israel: only my third.  And every year, I always feel the same: like I'm an imposter.  Like I shouldn't really be here. 

My strongest memory of Remembrance day in Canada is that all the students used to be herded into the school gym- we'd sit quickly on the white plastic chairs that were lined up along our usually empty gym.  Teachers would stand before us and say something about the bravery of our soldiers, some student would recite "In Flanders Field"  and to end it, our music teacher would play "Last Post" on the trumpet- while we stood in our moment of silence.  I never remember feeling emotional.  I remember being happy to be missing class.  It was only something we did- not something we felt.

When I was in University, they would set fake tombstones along the sports fields.  People would come by and lay wreaths.  I would walk through the field, between the stones, thinking.  I have a connection to this day.  My grandfather fought with the Canadian forces in Italy- he was a part of the invasion of Sicily.  He was injured in the war, and sent back to Canada: never the same as he was before.  Yet, I never remember crying on Remembrance day.  I know I have some sense of pride to be Canadian- but I never feel emotional enough to feel it.

But every year on Yom HaZikaron, I cry.  I get sad.  I get emotional.   I cry for soldiers who died before I was born.  I cry for victims of terror I never met.  I cry for soldiers who are fighting today- the 18 year olds I don't even know.  And every year, I feel a sort of shame.  Like my tears aren't real enough- my emotions can't be justified because I'm new: I'm an Olah.  My neighbor who stands beside me, maybe they went to the army, maybe they know someone who died, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.  This is their country from day one.  This is mine from three years ago. 

The Israeli flag blowing in the wind creates the only sound echoing through the courtyard.  It's not the flag that stood throughout the streets when I was growing up.  But it's the flag that hung in my home.  It's the flag that hung in my school.  It's the flag that we ran up the flagpole every morning at camp. 

Today, I'm realizing this day isn't about me- and it's never been.  It's not about my neighbor either.  It's about something more.  I may have grown up in Canada, but I've always been connected to this land- to this people.  I realize that the ground below my feet is steeped in their blood.  All year round we tip toe around it, but on Yom HaZikaron, we cry about it- we remember it, we thank it.  On Yom Ha'atzmaut, we celebrate it.  We cry, because we've lost.  But we celebrate because we're here.  We're here-despite it and because of it.  At the Chuppah of a wedding- we smash a glass- remembering the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash.  Even in simcha: we remember.  And so here it is again with Israel- before she turns 65, we bow our heads to the loss, and we remember.  But tonight we will turn our heads up: we'll gaze at the thousands of flags strung around our city- and those flags we've carefully hung from our balcony. 

And this is something I can feel a part of.  This is something I am a part of.  And that's why I'm emotional.  Because at the end, while everyone stands for HaTikva- the Israeli national anthem, and everyone sings the words: I realize I never remembered learning these words.  They are words I've always known.  It's a poem written in 1877- before the declaration of the state of Israel.  It's a poem that reflects the Jewish yearning to return to the Land of Israel; a reality I'm going to celebrate tonight.

As the dust settles: In the aftermath of Pillar of Defense

Last night at about 9:00 pm, Israeli time, after 8 days of rockets being fired into Israel, and Israel targeting Hamas terror sites,  a cease fire was accepted between Israel and Hamas. (Despite Hamas still firing rockets into Israel after the agreed upon time)

Israelis take shelter after a rocket was fire from Gaza

Today, the dust has settled, and quiet has finally been achieved.  The lull has provided a moment for both to step back and see the results of the Operation.  As usual, both sides are claiming victory.  In Gaza, Palestinians crowded the streets in a show of victory, claiming that they brought fear into the hearts of Israelis  and that they "changed the rules of the games" because Israel did not invade Gaza, as they did last time during the 2008-2009 Operation Cast Lead.

Israel is claiming victory because they targeted all possible terror sites within Gaza. 

So who did win?  It was certainly not the citizens of the south of Israel, who for over 8 days have been running in and out of bomb shelters, every time Hamas, and other terrorist groups within Gaza fired a rocket into Israel.  And it was not the citizens of Gaza, who suffered from Israeli targeting, just because Hamas placed their terror sites within civilian populated areas.  A cease-fire is not a peace treaty, and it's not the end of a war, rather- it's a temporary fix in the context of a much larger problem.  And within this temporal moment- no one wins. 

During Operation Cast Lead, which saw more causalities on both sides, there was also a cease-fire.  Just four years later, we have found ourselves in the same situation.  We're participating in a circular dance, that cannot be fixed with a piece of paper that guarantees some quiet, for some time.  Hamas, a classified terrorist group, has no intention of making peace with Israel.  According to Hamas'scharter, the only solution for "peace" is by militant Jihad.  Therefore, Israel has no partner for peace in Gaza.  Therefore, for the past four years, Israel has ignored Hamas.  As long as the number of rockets fired into Israel was kept at a low, Israel ignored it.  Only when the number of rockets escalated last week, did Israel target Ahmad Jabari, the second in command of Hamas's military wing, and began Operation Pillar of Defense.  Between the two Operations, Hamas and other militant groups have had enough time to amass enough rockets, even those big enough to reach both Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.  Will this time be any different?  In another few years, when the number of rockets fired into Israel, reaches an unacceptable level, will Israel begin another Operation?  Is this just more time for Hamas to reload?  

Where is the solution then?  

Perhaps the solution can be found on the other side of the country: in the West Bank. Just before tensions rose between Hamas and Israel, Palestinian President of the PLO, Mahmoud Abbas, stated in an interview with Israel's Channel 2 on November 1, that as long as he was President, there would be no third Intifada: Palestinians would achieve a two state solution, not through violence, but rather by diplomatic and peaceful means.  Abbas, a refugee from Safed, in the north of Israel, also stated that he would like to return to his hometown, not as a resident, but as a tourist- therefore hinting that he is willing to compromise on the Palestinian Right of Return, a huge point of contention in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In essence Abbas is reaching his hand to Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu.  Instead, Netanyahu looked the other way- down south, where the situation is much simpler to deal with.

For Israel, Gaza is black and white.  There is no negotiating with a terrorist group that is trying to destroy Israel.  There are temporary lulls, but there is no long-term solution that doesn't include complete defeat for Israel, or the re-occupation of Gaza: both options the Israeli government would not consider. So, Israel, destroys it's terrorist cells, and then backs away, so that there is relief from rockets in the South of Israel. Therefore, the circular dance has no way but to continue.  However, the situation in the West Bank is different: the conflict  in relation to the PLO is multicolored: it's layered and complicated.  The PLO is a  potential partner in peace; Israel can talk to the PLO as it has in the past.  Yet, this option means compromise- for both sides.  It means making hard decisions, that are likely to be unpopular.  It means, potentially hurting oneself politically, something that Netanyahu may not be quite ready for, just before an election, or perhaps ever.  

However, if  a two state solution is reached, and the Palestinians finally had self-determination, at least in the West Bank, it would cause Hamas to be irrelevant. It would prove diplomacy and peaceful deliberation is the answer.  International, Israeli and Palestinian pressure could help free the citizens of Gaza from Hamas, and perhaps bring peace there as well.  However, while Israel continues to not turn all their efforts to Abbas and the peace process, Hamas causes both Abbas and the PLO to be irrelevant.  It proves that both diplomacy and peaceful negotiations can do nothing to help the situation.  It reinforces Hamas's argument that violence and Jihad are the only answer- and it continues the cycle of violence and hate.  Therefore, as long as there is no progression in the peace process, we will find ourselves right back where we are today- Israel being attacked by rockets, and Israel going back into Gaza to destroy terrorist cells that will only build themselves back up once there is another cease-fire.

Back to the Old Country Part V: There are still Jews in Poland?

Photo Credit: Alexandria Fanjoy

If Poland to Jews around the world represents one big Jewish cemetery, it goes without saying that for them, Jewish life in Poland is dead. Then, how can there still be Jews in Poland? After the Holocaust, after the 1948 Kielce Pogrom, and after the 1968 Jewish purges? It follows, that there must not be any Jews left in Poland, it only makes sense.

Yet, one thing I discovered in Poland- there are Jews, and even more, it’s not just an old survivor based community- there are young Jews, there are Jewish communities, there are secular Jews and there are religious Jews. There is a rich Jewish community and culture developing in Poland today, something that is incredibly admirable. I was at the Nozyk synagogue in Warsaw for my second Shabbat in Poland, and me and my friend Alexandria were standing in the hallway, when we heard a group of girls behind us, looking like very religious Jews, speaking in Polish together. Polish! They should be talking English, Hebrew, Yiddish, but Polish?

The current Jewish community is carving out their own space within Poland, they are creating a new Jewish culture, that combines elements from the past, but has the mark of a new generation. They are creating Judaism in Poland, a place where even after the darkest chapter in Jewish history, being a Jew was dangerous, and unstable.

Interwar Poland saw the outburst of the Jewish question, and even more than this, the development of the Jewish identity. Jews were playing with concepts of nationality, some that saw Poland as their future, or those whose nationalist feelings turned to Zionism and Palestine. But there were others, Jews who defined themselves purely religiously, those that assimilated, those that wanted to acquire autonomy based on culture. The Jewish question in Poland allowed for incredible Jewish creativity, such creativity that spilled over into America, and now Israel. Yet, the Holocaust decisively killed this Jewish creativity in Poland, and then communism froze any hope of a continuation of the debate. But, in the 70′s when underground independent intellectual groups began to pop up in Poland, a Jewish one started to flourish. Calling themselves the “Jewish flying university“, a mixed group of Poles met. At first, it was awkward, none of them had ever discussed Jewishness in public, some not even admitting their own Jewishness. Many were from assimilated or mixed backgrounds, who knew almost nothing about their Judaism as a religion or culture. But slowely, they began to piece together Jewish past in Poland, and discover who they were, and what kind of future could be for Jews in Poland.

Since the fall of communism, there has been a slow Jewish revival in Poland. On a Friday night dinner, I sat listening to the Chief Rabbi of Poland Michael Shudrich explain at a community dinner at Nozyk, about the community. He addressed the locals, and also visitors, like myself, who needed a place to eat for Shabbat. He told us of people who were returning to Judaism, who had pretended to be Catholic after the war, because it was safer, but discovered they were Jewish, many through weird customs or a Jewish artifact. He told us of a female who lit candles on Friday night, not knowing why. Someone who never ate milk and meat together. Someone who found books in weird writing in their attic. Jews were slowly discovering Jewish roots, and once discovered, flourished within this identity.

My group visited the JCC in Krakow, and they too boast a Friday night dinner every week. As we sat in the largeJCC, in the middle of the historical neighborhood of Kazimierz, we were told that everyday the JCC signs up new members. People who have discovered that someone in their family was Jewish and who want to be involved with the Jewish community. When we were in Bialystok, we met with the head of the Jewish community, and as she served as coffee and cookies, she explained that her Jewish community regularly meet, and hold cultural events. When we were in Warsaw, we met at “Tel Aviv“, one of the hip kosher restaurants, with a Jewish community leader that told us about Jewish daycare, Jewish trips to Israel, and Jewish cultural groups that meet. She insisted that antisemitism was low, and that for the first time in a long time, Jews were proud to be Jews, and walk proudly on the streets as such. All these people would laugh, if someone were to insist that there are no Jews in Poland, or more that Jewish culture was over in Poland. For them, it’s thriving.

It’s true that the Jewish community in Poland today is small in comparison to what it used to be, however this should not allow us to ignore what is developing there. Perhaps it will never be what it was, but I think that’s ok. It makes me happy to know that there are Jews in Poland. They are carrying on the legacy of the past, and adding something new and special. They may live in a country with concentration and death camps, but they don’t allow this to define who they are, and where they are going. They represent life, and they are following in the Jewish tradition that has defined Jews throughout Jewish history: we can continue, and we can go on; to create and grow.

Back to the Old Country Part IV: Neighbors

A German official at the Jedwabne memorial | Photo Credit: Alexandria Fanjoy

My group traveled to Jedwabne on July 11, 2011. We were not meant to go to Jedwabne; it was not on our original itinerary. We left Warsaw early in the morning, and by the time we pulled into Jedwabne, it was a beautiful day — the first nice day after a week of rain. The sun was shinning hard and the weather was hot. As we all got off the bus, we were silent. For us budding historians, Jedwabne was not just another Polish town. It was a symbol. It was a tragic memory. It was a point of contention. It was an event that challenged collective memory. It was bitterness.

We walked into Jedwabne’s town center, and saw some locals hanging around a bench behind us drinking beer. You could feel the tension as they stared at us. They knew why we were there. Why else would we come? One man came up to our tour leader, and explained in Polish, that the people living here now were good, they had nothing to do with what happened and we shouldn’t judge them.

We were in Jedwabne for the 70th anniversary ceremony of the 1941 pogram. Upon realizing that our trip coincided with the 70th anniversary, we got the opportunity to attend the event. The Germans occupied Jedwabne on June 23, 1941, taking it from Soviet hands. On the morning of July 1oth, 1941, the Polish residents of Jedwabne, violently rounded up the Jews of the town, and after brutally killing some in the streets, trapped the rest in a barn and burned it down. Jedwabne had a Jewish population of 1,600 before the war. 7 Jews survived. Only one lady, Antonina Wyrzykowska saved Jews. Two weeks after liberation, March 1945, locals raided her home and beat her and her family for saving Jews. As a result the Wyrzykowskas left Jedwabne.

The Nazis did not kill Jedwabne’s Jews, although they had their part in encouraging and approving the attack. It was the locals, the residents of the town. It was neighbors. Neighbors killing neighbors. And this is what makes Jedwabne so important, so critical. This is why, as we stood in Jedwabne’s town square on July 11, 2011, the residents glared us, and why we felt so uneasy, unsafe almost. Yes, we were there for the anniversary ceremony, but we were also there to judge. By standing there, we were saying, “How could you?”

In May 2000, Polish-American historian Jan Gross published his controversial book “Neighbors“, a book which described the massacre. Information about the Pogram was available before this, but his book brought the subject to the forefront of Polish dialogue. It spurred a Polish-wide discussion and soul searching. Previous beliefs that Poles were only victims during the Nazi war were dissolved. Neighbors showed that Poles were also perpetrators.

The following year, in July 2001, the first commemoration ceremony was conducted in Jedwabne, marking 60 years since the tragedy. Polish President Aleksander Kwasniewski stood in front of a crowd, of Jews and Poles, and apologized on behalf of Poland. He said, “We know with all the certainty that Poles were among the oppressors and assassins. We cannot have any doubts – here in Jedwabne citizens of the Republic of Poland died from the hands of other citizens of the Republic of Poland. It is people to people, neighbors to neighbors who forged such destiny…We are here to make a collective self examination. We are paying tribute to the victims and we are saying – never again… For this crime we should beg the souls of the dead and their families for forgiveness. This is why today, the President of the Republic of Poland, I beg pardon. I beg pardon in my own name and in the name of those Poles whose conscience is shattered by that crime.”

The apology and attendance of many Polish officials was significant. Poles were taking responsibility for the memory, even 60 years after the event. However, the residents of Jedwabne boycotted the event. No one came to the ceremony.

Ten years later, the residents of Jedwabne did not come to the ceremony. As my group moved from the center of town, to the site of the memorial, the atmosphere changed considerably. Attending the ceremony were many government officials, important members of the Catholic clergy, lots of media outlets, the chief Rabbi of Poland, Michael Shudrich and the Israeli ambassador to Poland, Zvi Rav-Ner. Former Prime Minister, Tadeusz Mazowieck read an apology given by current President Bronsilaw Komorowski, following Kwasniewski’s apology from 2001. The event was positive, albeit sad.

Jedwabne does not prove that all Poles are antisemitic, or were all perpetrators in the Holocaust. What it does is complicate history. It turns collective memory from black and white, to multicolour. It’s another chapter in the arduous history of Jews and Poles in Poland. While I stood in front of the monument, that stands on the grave of over 1000 Jews, who were burned to death alive, 70 years ago, I was happy that there was a ceremony for them, that they were remembered. That Poles, once again were apologizing. The Poles today in Poland are not responsible for what their parents or grandparents did during the war. But responsibility still exists- in the memory of the past that is passed down generation to generation. We are all responsible for how memory is remembered and and commemorated.

Israeli ambassador, Rav-Ner reminded the crowd that while we were commemorating the lives of Jews that were killed by their neighbors, there were also diffirent kinds of neighbors in Poland, and that we can’t forget these neighbors either. Neighbors like Wyrzykowska, that saved Jews. Neighbors that risked their own life and the life of their family to save Jews: Ya’ad Vashem has awarded 6, 266 Poles with the title of Righteous among the Nations for risking their own life to save their neighbor, and in many cases, a Jew they didn’t even know. Poles were heroes too.

On September 1, 2011, after I had already returned home to Jerusalem, I read in the news that the memorial had been vandalized. There were swastikas and the words, “they were flammable” and “I don’t apologize” written on it. President Komorowski was quick to condemn the graffiti, and an investigation was quickly set up to investigate the hate crime.

I’m still not sure how to feel about Jedwabne. When I stood in the center square of town, I did judge the residents. I know that many of them were young, and that they are probably good people. I don’t blame them for what happened, but I do blame them for not being at the ceremony. I do judge them for not being beside the President, when he says that Poles are sorry. I understand that they have to live with the weight of the memory on their backs, that they will forever be perceived by outsiders as murderers, and barbaric, even though many of their hands are clean of actual murder. But, at the end of the day, the land is tormented, and only when we can look into the eyes of the darkest chapter of our past, can we truly come out with clean hands. I hope that in the future, the brave actions of those that attend the memorial, will be passed to the younger generation of Poles, in Jedwabne and all over Poland.

Back to the Old Conntry Part III: Skeletons from the past

On my first day in Poland, as I sat jet-lagged in the only Kosher restaurant in Krakow, the "Olive Tree", my group leader told us each that we would be taking a day trip in a few days to small formally Jewish towns around Krakow. Only half aware of what was happening, me and my friend Alexandria were given a huge booklet of information, of which we were told we were going to be presenting on a town called Dzialoszyce. My first reaction: how do you even pronounce that?

As me and Alexandria got together to prepare our presentation, we began to leaf through the pages and piece together the past of Dzialoszyce. In 1939, on the even of the second world war Dzialoszyce’s population totaled about 8,000, 80% of that number was Jewish. Today, there are about 1, 100 people who lived there. As we delved into the past, we both noticed that Dzialoszyce was not an unusual town, it was quite what you might imagine a old Jewish town to be. There was the great synagogue, Beit Midrash, Jewish homes, smaller shuls. There were many religious Hasidim, but there was also a few Zionist groups as well. During the Holocaust, the Nazis set up a ghetto. Some Jews escaped, and fought with the partisans in the forest. The Jews were deported to Belzac and Plaszow and then the city was announced Judenrein. After the war some Jews returned, however, there was a flareup of anti-Jewish violence after the war, and these Jews eventually left as well. Today there are no Jews in Dzialoszyce, and the population is one eighth of what it used to be.

The day we set out for Dzialoszyce, it was raining, as usual. We set out and I was excited to see a place that I had researched, to understand it by being there. What did I expect though? I’m not sure. As my bus drove closer, and I started to see the signs for Dzialoszyce, I was getting closer, paying attention to the surrounding. And then, my bus drove into Dziaoszyce, and the first thing that we all see, because there is no way to miss it, is an enormous skeleton: the skeleton of the great synagogue. There it was. Empty, naked and incredibly large, just sitting in the middle of the small city. Our bus stopped in the parking lot adjacent to it. As we all got out, we took in it: the city was small- really just a street, and here it was, it was as though it was the elephant in the room. This big Jewish structure in a tiny Polish city.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. I was taken aback at first. Jews lived here, thousands of Jews. How can I even imagine that? I thought, as I looked on at the tiny population of the current city. And as people went about their business that day, I thought about them. Did they know any Jews? Did they help their Jewish neighbors by giving them food in the ghetto, or providing them with information? Who here hid a Jew? Who cried, as their friends were discriminated against, as their friends were taken away? Who here closed their drapes as the Nazi vans dragged away the Jewish elders to the cemetery, where they shot them, one by one into a mass grave. Who here betrayed a Jew? Who here collaborated? I couldn’t help it. I was standing in front of a skeleton, but every time I closed my eyes, the past illuminated before me and I judged everyone: for what they did, and what they didn’t.

After our presentation, we walked up and down the small road of Dzialoszyce to check it out. I’m pretty sure that this small little city doesn’t get many visitors, so the 11 of us kind of stuck out. People stopped to look at us, especially the elder residents. We smiled back politely. But I couldn’t stop thinking to myself: can they recognize me? Do they know me? This was my first time in Poland, I’d never been to Dzialoszyce. My family is not from Dzialosyce either. It’s not that I thought they’d recognize me as Hailey, but rather as a Jew. Although I do hate stereotypes, I really can’t deny the fact that I look really Jewish: and they knew it, they had to know it.

For me, Dzialoszyce was one of the most interesting places I visited. It is one of the clearest example of Jewish space within Polish land- in an intersection, a meeting point. Many of the small villages we visited that day were the same. An empty synagogue, and no Jews. It’s the clearest example of the Jewish footprint, of what we left behind, when we so hastily left.