A Trip Back in Time

Six million lives. Or rather, six million stories. Perhaps six million faces? It seems almost impossible to imagine a number of that enormity, without demeaning the horror of each individual story—without mindlessly categorizing lives into the Wikipedia definition of the word Holocaust.

Today, we can say the word Holocaust casually in a conversation, without a flinch—without hesitation. What does this say about the word? About how we generalize, memorize, and stuff facts into our minds, slowly desensitizing ourselves to such an important topic?

For the past few weeks I have been, you might say, re-sensitizing myself to the subject I have only really covered in a classroom setting. A subject I have read countless books about, studied, and “seen” in museums—but never really processed until now.

It really began on the first Wednesday night in Jerusalem. Wednesday at seven thirty P.M, when my Holocaust Film Class teacher put in the movie Toyland, an excellent short film about two boys during Nazi ruled Germany. Had I watched the film only once, I most likely wouldn’t have been so profoundly moved. But after four or five viewings, I picked up on the subtle nuances and symbolism I needed to discuss in the midterm movie review I wrote for the class.

I continued to learn during last week’s intensive two day Shoah (Holocaust) seminar, organized and carried out by the leaders of Year Course. I signed up for thought provoking classes about Holocaust Art, Anti-Semitism, and memorials/ monuments. I heard a survivor speak, who graciously told her story about fleeing her country and recreating her life someplace new. I watched the touching film Life is Beautiful, finding myself in tears at the movie’s end. Lastly, as a group we visited Yad Va Shem, the world-renowned largest Holocaust Museum.

Though my tour about Holocaust art was informative and fascinating, we spent very little time inside the museum itself. I’ve been through the main museum before, but never alone; and each time, I’ve always felt rushed by the group, unable to focus on the guide’s words. This is what inspired my friend Josh and me to revisit the museum yesterday, on our own time, at our own pace.

The museum intelligently takes you through the events of the Shoah, like following a timeline. You enter in 1933, the year Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany and come out in 1945, when the concentration camps were liberated. When followed closely, the museum has the effect of transporting you back in time; I left the building feeling like an observer of one of the worst calamities in history.

Fast forward a few hours and I am listening to Walter, a survivor of the Kindertransport, speak at the immaculate Shabbat dinner table of a well-known Orthodox family in Jerusalem. In vivid detail he describes saying goodbye to his mother, at the age of fifteen, as he boarded the unsupervised rescue boat in Germany headed for England.

I look around at the thirty or so guests, all equally astounded by Walter and the elaborate four course meal in front of us. The table displays endless amounts of Challah, soup, sushi, chicken, meatballs, dessert platters, wine, and more. I wonder how I’m getting this royal treatment for free, and how I ended up there in the first place. That, in fact, is a story on its own.

Finding a random family to dine at in sounds a bit farfetched to most readers of this post—but to your average resident of Jerusalem, this oddity is commonplace. Thanks to the famous Jeffery Seidel, Year Course participants for years have been wined and dined by generous host families throughout the holy city. He waits by the men’s section at Western Wall, with a list of willing families, usually surrounded by a large group of teenagers looking to experience a true Shabbat dinner.


On Friday afternoon, my roommates and I decide to seize this unique opportunity. Since no public transportation operates on Shabbat, we walk the forty minutes to the old city in our conservative outfits, looking like true Orthodox girls. We sing our way to the Western Wall, helping time pass. When we finally find Jeffery at the crowded Kotel, everything just falls into place. We end up at the beautiful home of the Cohen family, with twenty-something other guests, exchanging stories and insights over a plentiful meal.

During parts of the meal I feel uncomfortable, but in a good way. Their level of observance is something I’m not used to, and their beliefs are quite different from my own. Some of our discussions challenge me—they don’t understand why I study Christianity and Islam, and I don’t understand why I can’t sing in front of men.

In witnessing our differences, a new insight became clear to me: part of experiencing Jerusalem is exploring the different sects of Judaism—and as Jews, we are meant to constantly question, struggle, and “wrestle” with God just as Jacob did.

Interestingly, despite this struggle, last night I felt more connected to my religion, spiritually and historically, than I have in a long time.

I was invited, on a whim, to Shabbat dinner with an family I don't know. I shared my opinions, beliefs, and prayers with these strangers, somehow feeling little inhibitions. By chance, I witnessed a survivor tell his story about his flight from Germany, having read about it just a few hours prior.

The magic of Israel is everything I just described. It is a country united by the sufferings of persecution and exile; by its deeply rooted religious ties; and by it’s ability to bring strangers together to rejoice in the celebration of life.