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today, I mourn not only those who died, but all those who will never know Judaism because of the Shoah.
I mourn the world we could have had, the community, the people, the joy, the magic, the heart.
All that was taken from us that we can never rebuild.
I mourn the world we could have had, the community, the people, the joy, the magic, the heart.
All that was taken from us that we can never rebuild.
I mourn for those whose parents and great grand-parents hid their Judaism, or walked away from it, and their children, and their children's children begin to walk up the path that was intentionally shut to keep them safe.
I mourn the languages, the synagogues, the kosher stores, I mourn the communities, the libraries, the homes, I mourn the lives that will never be because of the Shoah.
I mourn the stories, poems, and folktales that will never be uttered, the jokes, the prayers, the rhymes and riddles that will never be heard, I mourn the superstitions, the incantations, the hexes and jinxes that will never again be cast.
My heart aches as I mourn for all that could have been but will never be because of the Shoah.
But as I mourn, I open my arms to the future that we can build together. We hold with us all that we have lost, we keep it with us, we light a candle, and we carry it.
But as I mourn, I open my arms to the future that we can build together. We hold with us all that we have lost, we keep it with us, we light a candle, and we carry it.
I create and hold spaces for all those who wish to return home. All those who have the faintest memory of a folk story they heard at the knee of their great grandparents. For those who seek a home in Judaism, but are afraid. We are here.
This Yom HaShoah, I remember it all. I mourn for each soul taken. Each life lost. Each memory forgotten, each story never spoken aloud.
We mourn, we hold the space, and we continue.
We mourn, we hold the space, and we continue.
