Never Again... What does that actually mean in today's world?

Never Again... What does that actually mean in today's world? This What Makes People Tick? blog post looks at what I learnt about the Holocaust as a child, as a teenager and as an adult; it examines my current views on Judaism and it explains why I believe that it is still vital to educate everyone about the horrors of the Holocaust.

Writing a post earlier this month about The non-Jewish Nanny who educates the world about Judaism, I realised that I also wanted to write about my own history of learning about Judaism. As writing about a sensitive topic like the Holocaust doesn't feel appropriate when also gushing about a young woman's social media pages, I figured that a separate post was in order.

I was born in the early eighties and growing up in Europe, much of what I learnt about Jews and Judaism had to do with the Second World War. Back when I was in primary school in the nineties, we learnt a lot about the War. And back then, my grandparents and many others of their generation, people who actually lived through the war and experienced it as adults, were still alive. Thirty years ago, the war seemed so very long ago and far away to my child's brain, yet my school and my country made an effort to educate us about what happened. 

One of the ways my school ensured that the children learnt about the war was to bring in artifacts from that time. We got to look at things like food-stamps from that time, and at artifacts such as the torches/flashlights without batteries one squeezed to have light during the blackouts. I know that many other things were brought in as well as I remember seeing a display the size of at least two tables, however these two I remember best even now, thirty years on. 

While things like the internet and DVDs weren't around when I was in primary school, we did  have a period each week in which we got to watch videos with the entire class. One of the videos we watched was the story of Anne Frank. We learnt about where she lived, about what her life was like before the Germans invaded, and about what her life was like while she was in hiding. The video we watched, it ended with the Nazis finding the hidden location where Anne Frank and others were hiding. The screen faded not to black, but to white. Yes, we learnt that everyone in the Achterhuis, Anne and her family, as well as the others hiding there, got sent to the camps. We learnt that Anne eventually died in a camp shortly before the end of the War. It made me so sad to learn that.

But for primary school-aged children, there were no real specifics about the camps. It was bad. Many people died. Yes, that much we knew, that much I knew then. But the real horrors, the stories that would have scarred us for life - those lessons came later. The true scale of what happened, of what the Nazis attempted to do, the actual realisation of what happened, of how enormous this Big Bad Thing was, of how many people were murdered simply for being born as one thing instead of another, honestly I am glad that I didn't learn that back in primary school. Because it would have scarred me for life. 

What we did learn was not as scarring, but perhaps just as jarring. Thirty years ago, many who'd lived through the War were still alive and a number of courageous people chose to educate not just adults, but children as well. In my primary school, the folks in charge invited grandparents in to come and speak. To tell about their experiences. And honestly, it was chilling. Heart-breaking. Awe-inspiring. And yes, life-changing. I'm talking about children, primary school-aged children, quiet as mouses listening to a classmate's grandparent speaking about the things they heard, the things they saw, the things they experienced. 

There were no Jewish children in my primary school, and I honestly don't remember anyone coming in to speak about what happened in the concentration camps. These were more general 'this happened to me as a non-Jewish person living in an occupied country, this is what I saw happen on the street as I looked out my bedroom window' kind of stories. I remember sitting in that classroom listening to one grandparent speak, I can't even remember whose grandparent it was honestly, and what has stayed with me all these years is the look in that grandfather's eyes. That haunted look. I remember that he'd pick up his grandchild from school every now and then. My impression of him was that he was a friendly, jovial and kind person. He'd smile and laugh and seemed like quite a carefree person to me. A happy person. Until that time when he stood there in our classroom and told us about what he'd seen, heard, lived through. He was so brave, coming to speak about his experiences. So courageous, choosing to tell a bunch of unruly children about such a serious topic. He shared his story, knowing how important it was that he shared his experiences with us, knowing that what he lived through was something that should never ever be forgotten. Something that should never ever happen again. And while I can't remember now whose grandfather he was, or his name, or even really what he looked like... The one thing I do remember is how in awe I was of the look in his eyes. That haunted look. That haunted look that so contrasted with how I thought of this seemingly happy and carefree person I'd see every so often as school finished and we all rushed out to waiting parents and caregivers. That look on his face, that is what really showed me that what happened during the War wasn't something long ago and far away, but something real, something tangible and recent. 

While primary school taught us about what happened during the War in a general way, I also remember that back then, I saw the War as something long ago and far away. Something that we'd learnt from, something that we, as a society, had overcome and put far behind us. Something that was so alien, so horrible, so senseless, so inhumane and so indescribably HUGE, that everyone everywhere, all around the world, had worked work to ensure that it (or something like it) would never happen ever again. Yes, I truly believed that. Thirty years ago, I was an innocent little girl who truly believed that as a society, we had learnt from THE war and that as human beings, we'd worked together to make aa war as big as that a thing of the past. A thing that would never happen, not ever again.

The concept of Never Again, of ensuring that something like the Holocaust does not happen, ever again, that is something I grew up with. It is a vital part of me, something that shaped me just as much as my mother being my mother shaped me, just as much as my faith in God shaped me, just as much as my language shaped me, just as much as my heritage and my cultural background shaped me. It is ingrained in me. It is a part of me. Growing up as I did, learning about the War from an early age, that helped make Never Again a vital part of who I am. 

While I will never claim to be a saint and will readily admit that I have many faults and character flaws, I do see myself as someone who, overall, chooses to do good and tries to make the world a better place. That doesn't mean I'm nice to everyone I meet, it doesn't mean that I give all my earnings to charity and it certainly doesn't mean that I'm never grumpy or anything of the sort. But, it does mean that I choose good over bad most of the time. It means that most of the time, I try to do what I think, feel and believe is right and just. It means that whenever possible, I will stand in front of a bully and block them from lashing out at someone weaker than they are, even if it means being in the way of their fist or their foot. 

Just today I met a woman who told me about how she'd spent time volunteering in several poor countries and how that had changed her outlook on life. She talked about how there are so, so many things we take for granted that aren't normal to others, using a simple kitchen tap with running water as an example. While theoretically I know that there are places in this world where people are poor and have no access to regular meals, roofs over their heads or running water, it is so easy to forget those who are less fortunate than we are, when we're living our lives. I've never had to go without running water in my life. Not a single day. To think that there are people who've never seen running water as normal... It is so very hard to comprehend. Just as war is. Just as poverty is. Just as famine is. Just as hatred is. Just as the Holocaust is. But just because something is hard to comprehend, just because something seems long ago, or happens somewhere far away, doesn't mean that we can't do anything about it. 

While I can't solve poverty or hunger or 'fix' a war or change how the world looks at certain groups of people by snapping my fingers - there are things I can do. Small things. Tiny things. I can choose to be kind to one person, and then to two. I can choose to speak up when I see someone being bullied. I can choose to give some money to a charity I support and believe in. I can write a blog post about the haunted look I saw in the eye of a kind grandfather I once knew. I can make an effort to let a friend, family member or colleague know that I want to hear their story and listen to what they wish to share with me. I can choose to do one small thing at a time. And honestly, I can only hope that if enough of us do those small and tiny things, one small and tiny thing at a time, that together perhaps we can start to make a difference. That together, one day, perhaps all of us can achieve real and lasting change. Because don't we all want to live in a world where grandparents sharing horror stories of what they went through, saw and experienced when they were young, is truly a thing of the past? Don't we all want to live in a world where Never Again truly and really means Never Again?