At various points throughout the year, I find myself quietly asking: What does my Judaism mean to me? What is the true depth of my connection to it? These questions don’t arise from doubt – I am Jewish, proudly and permanently. But rather, they emerge from a desire to understand how my faith, identity, and history intertwine in the present.
My Jewish upbringing, like many of my generation, was steeped in memory – specifically, the memory of survival. My Bubbie, a Holocaust survivor, would tell me often that my very existence was an act of defiance against those who tried to destroy us. I was born, she’d say, to repopulate the world. To reclaim what was stolen from her, from us, from the Jewish people.
That burden of legacy is heavy, but it is also sacred.
Wednesday night, as we gathered for the Twin Cities Jewish Community Yom HaShoah service, that legacy came into sharp focus. Sitting in the sanctuary, the familiar yet haunting sound of the shofar filled the space, a sea of notes washing over us, sending chills down my spine as it always does. But this year, something felt different.
This year marks the 80th anniversary of liberation – liberation from unimaginable pain, from persecution, from hatred. Yet, even as we honor freedom, we feel the creeping weight of time. With each passing year, we have fewer survivors to light the candles, to share their voices, to bear living witness. It’s estimated that by 2032, fewer than 100,000 Holocaust survivors will remain worldwide. That reality is sobering, and it underscores just how urgent our responsibility has become.
Elissa Kalman and the author, Seth Togal — both descendents of Holocaust survivors — at the community Yom HaShoah Commemoration. (Ethan Roberts/JCRC)
I was privileged to co-chair this year’s planning committee and host one of six or seven Zikaron BaSalon sessions held across our community. Our gathering was small — nine of us in total, including me — but that intimacy created a space for deep, honest conversation. I shared my Bubbie’s story of survival, guiding the group through her journey, and concluded by playing a four-minute audio recording of her own voice. Her words were steady as she described the moment she was saved during a death march, thanks to her first husband, who risked everything to help her and others survive. Her voice only broke with emotion at the end, as she proclaimed, “…and we were liberated!”
What followed was a powerful exchange of reflections. Unlike me, none of the other participants had grown up with Holocaust survivors in their immediate families. We spoke about how that shaped our individual relationships to the Holocaust—how for some it became more personal over time through education or community.
We explored how we, as adults, talk about the Holocaust now—to our children, our friends, and within our broader circles. With fewer survivors each year, we wondered how Holocaust remembrance will evolve. How will we honor and preserve these stories when they are no longer firsthand accounts, but history passed from generation to generation? How do we keep the weight of this legacy alive, ensuring it never fades into abstraction?
One participant, a student from Heilicher Minneapolis Jewish Day School and a friend of my daughter, shared her experience visiting Yad Vashem with her class. Her insights reminded us of the importance of witnessing, of seeing and feeling history in a way that books and lectures cannot always convey.
We also asked ourselves how the events of October 7th might shape future Holocaust education. Just as the Holocaust was once framed in the shadow of the Russian pogroms—often remembered now only through stories like Fiddler on the Roof—we wondered whether today’s tragedies would become the context in which our children and grandchildren come to understand the Holocaust.
The conversation reminded me that remembrance is not passive — it’s living, evolving, and deeply tied to our own willingness to carry it forward.
Throughout the Yom HaShoah service, we heard from the Rabbi, the executive director and president of the JCRC, and were moved by the choirs’ voices – both youth and adult – lifting prayers into the air.
But the voices that resonated most deeply were those who carried the memories: children of camp liberators, survivors, and those honored for their commitment to education.
One such voice, this year’s Leo Weiss recipient, opened his remarks with words that stayed with me: “I’m accepting an award that shouldn’t have needed to be.” He spoke honestly about his initial fear of backlash, of criticism, yet stood firm in his dedication to teaching Holocaust history. His courage, like that of so many, reminds us that remembrance is not passive – it’s a responsibility.
As Elie Wiesel once said, “Whoever listens to a witness becomes a witness, so those who hear us, those who read us must continue to bear witness for us.” This is now our task.
I counted only eight survivors who stood at the front of the sanctuary to light the candles this year. Eight. Each flame a testament to resilience, yet also a call to action for us, the next generations. What will we do when their light no longer burns beside us?
For me, the answer is rooted in memory, but also in presence. In showing up. In telling their stories. In asking ourselves what it means to be Jewish, not just because of survival, but because of purpose.
And yet, when I hear the shofar, I don’t need the answer. I remember. I feel. I am.
As a child of survivors, one forced labor and one extermination camp survivor, I was incredibly moved by this Yom HaShoah. There was special tribute to a middle school teacher from Orono who spoke movingly about his ongoing role with young people in his classes. There was talk also by children of liberators with visuals, and music, and of course the sounds of the shofrot. The work that went into this remembrance by Meira Besikof and her team are very special. This was the BEST EVER!