Let me tell you a little story about how I found out that “Bambi” is an allegory for the persecution of Jews in Europe.

​March 2017: I am in a forest in Plesna, Poland. More specifically, I am in a forest in Plesna, Poland, which is also the resting place for 364 Jews who were murdered there. It has just stopped raining, and the forest is a chorus of birdsong. Though I am standing at the foot of a mass grave, I am briefly reminded of the forests in my home state of New Hampshire. It is deeply unsettling.

​July 2017: I am back home in New Hampshire and am watching Disney’s “Bambi”. I am weirdly unsettled by the film. Not for the obvious reason, it is really sad, but because it reminds me of the Holocaust. More specifically, it reminds me of the forest in Plesna, Poland. I tuck this strange thought away and promise never to bring it up because such a connection would undoubtedly be inappropriate to mention to anyone.

​August 2019: I am in Oswiecim, Poland, better known by its German name Auschwitz. It has been a particularly long and emotional day, a day in which my cohort of Holocaust educators has spotted deer in Auschwitz II Birkenau. I’m not sure what makes me think I can tell my friend Natasha about “Bambi” and about Plesna, but I do. She doesn’t tell me I am completely off base. She doesn’t tell me it is weird to think something like that. What she tells me instead is that I am correct. “Oh yeah,” she says. “The author of “Bambi” was a Jewish man who wrote the story as an allegory for the growing threats of antisemitism in Europe before the war”.

​When I tell you I was too stunned to speak, I really mean it. How the heck did I know that without really knowing it?

​This story became my hyperfixation. Google could tell me that yes, Felix Salten, an Austrian Jew, really did write “Bambi: A Life in the Woods” with antisemitism in mind.

We sometimes forget that the Holocaust didn’t just randomly happen. The Germans didn’t invent antisemitism. In fact, they just sort of rebranded hatred that has existed forever and turned it into their own insidious cult.

Antisemitism was so bad in Europe even before the Nazis came to power that it had Jews seriously thinking about their safety in ways that would shape the geopolitical world decades later. It led to the birth of Jewish political movements like Zionism, which argued for a Jewish State in Mandatory Palestine; today, Israel, and Bundism, which sought Jewish strength and safety in Europe.

Salten was a zionist, and “Bambi” reflects this. In his story, there is no safety for deer in the forest. They are trapped. This turned out to be true for the Jews of Europe, too.

The book came out in 1923. And by the time the Nazis came to power ten years later, it was an international hit. Of course, the Nazis hated it. Not just because of the message behind the story- that innocents should not be hunted; that their homes should not be destroyed- but because Felix was a Jew and the story was inherently anti - Nazi. The book was banned, and the author was placed on a shortlist of intellectuals and artists to be targeted for elimination first. Salten fled to Zurich after the annexation of Austria, where he passed away from natural causes in 1945.

​But by 1937, the rights to “Bambi” were already in the hands of a much more famous creative in America, Walt Disney.

​And as we all know, Walt turned “Bambi” into one of the most beloved cartoon characters. And he did so in the middle of the Holocaust.

​Disney had to strip away many of the story’s darker aspects to make it palatable for children. That’s right, folks, the original story by Salten is even more upsetting than the Disney film.

​The film was one of many Disney features that came out during ww2, including “Dumbo”, “Fantasia”, and “Pinocchio”.

​”Bambi” premiered on August 13 of 1942. Three days before, on August 10, 1942, the Jews of Plesna, Poland, were rounded up and shot into that mass grave in the forest. The one that “Bambi” reminded me of. Three days separated these two events from eachother.

​In Europe, 1942 was the most brutal year of killings during the Holocaust. In addition to the gas chambers and crematoria that were roaring across occupied Poland, the Nazis had also deployed mobile killing squads that went into eastern European villages and rounded up every Jew they could find. They were then taken to a remote location in the forest and shot into a massive pit. Those who attempted to run would be chased and hunted through the woods. Oftentimes, their homes and synagogues would be set on fire. If you have seen “Bambi” or read the book, this story might sound familiar. Just replace “Jews” with “deer”.

​For the 364 Jews of Plesna, Poland, the Holocaust happened in a single day. They were among those rounded up and hunter through the forest.

​I’m not sure how I knew that “Bambi” was so deeply connected to the Holocaust. I just knew. What I also know now is that it wasn’t just some sort of strange association I came up with by myself. I also know that the Disney film was certainly not Walt’s own attempt at providing commentary about the plight of Jews in Europe. His company produced many shorts in this era for the war effort, but this feature-length film was certainly not one of them. It was intended to be a sweet, albeit sad, feature film for the whole family to enjoy. And yet, it held up a mirror to events happening halfway across the world.

​You cannot erase Judaism from a Jewish story. The story of “Bambi” is so dark that even pixie dusted with Disney magic, it will always be a film about the Holocaust. Even if its creators never knew it. Even if most people who watch it would never have any idea, I will. And every time I see Bambi, or even a deer at this point, I will think of very different hunters in a very different forest. And a grave marked 364.

What is the purpose of Holocaust education? If you ask a group of people who specialize in it, they will give you a variety of answers: “to combat antisemitism,” “to make never again a reality,” “to teach the warning signs of fascism,” “to demonstrate the end result of hatred”....etc etc.

​All are valid answers. But there is one answer educators tend to dance around, and it has a lot to do with politics.

​In the classroom, there are specific guidelines for teaching about the Holocaust. They are in place for good reason; it is a difficult subject that must be handled with care. One of the most important guidelines is to avoid comparisons- whether to past atrocities or current events. Another is to steer clear of partisan political conversations.

​Before I explain why I think these guidelines can be problematic, I want to make something very clear: In the classroom, teachers risk losing their jobs by bringing up politics. Museums risk losing funding if they dare to take certain stances.

​But at the end of the day, these guidelines enforce the idea that Holocaust education shouldn’t alienate people or make them uncomfortable. Specifically by bringing up politics and current events.

​Let’s be real for a second, though. It is impossible to talk about the Holocaust without talking about politics. The Nazi Party was an alt-right fascist political party. The Holocaust was enforced through legislation that came from the top. It was only possible through the silencing of political and other “opponents” to the regime. It is the original and most clear text book case of fascism. It was political, and so too is how we remember it.

​For a long time, republicans and democrats in the United States came together with common goals and understanding when it came to Holocaust education. It was a non-partisan field by nature. We worked together to teach this topic as a historical event that shaped many aspects of the modern world. The general assumption was that human rights matter, and as such, teaching about the Holocaust is important. Duh.

​And then came Donald Trump. For the vast majority of Holocaust educators, the warning signs of fascism within his new version of the republican party were clear as a bell. But there will always be outliers. Those who become irate when the first comparisons between the rise of nazism and Trumpism were made.

​As the world around us changed, as the United States learned to embrace fascism, the rules around Holocaust education have remained stagnant. It remains an apolitical subject, even when immigrants are being disappeared. It remains apolitical when anti LGBTQ legislation is enforced. It remains apolitical when Gaza is being destroyed.

​There is a valid fear that in comparing the Holocaust to current events, people will forget just how bad the Holocaust was, specifically for the biggest victim group, Jewish people. When dealing with a traumatic history that has a lasting effect on a community, it is important to be respectful of certain sensitivities. Is there a line when comparison between sufferings truly becomes offensive? Yes, of course. World events can absolutely just be bad on their own. We don’t always have to bring up the gas chambers. However, often this fear of comparison, especially from big institutions, has nothing to do with deep sensitivity to Holocaust scholarship. It has to do with things like where museum funding comes from, and not wanting to upset donors with big pockets. It has to do with making sure people feel comfortable. The idea is for people to be able to learn about being a bystander while engaging in bystander behavior, but not to think twice about changing said behavior.

​But what if we framed this conversation as connection rather than comparison?

​Remember those educators I talked about who can’t see the writing on the wall? They are still out there. They are in positions of authority, and they see comparisons as a personal attack. Instead of using that feeling of “attack” as a pause for reflection, they continue to push against it.

​After the ICE killings of Renee Good and Alex Pretti, Governor Tim Waltz, a former Holocaust educator, made a public statement comparing Anne Frank’s experience of hiding during the Holocaust to that of modern-day immigrants, also in hiding. The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum took this statement as a deep offense to the memory of the Holocaust and issued the following statement:

​“Anne Frank was targeted and murdered solely because she was Jewish. Leaders making false equivalencies to her experience for political purposes is never acceptable. Despite tension in Minneapolis, exploiting the Holocaust is deeply offensive, especially as antisemitism surges.”

​Now feels like a good time to bring up the fact that USHMM is a federally funded museum. They provide many excellent resources for teachers and the general public, and they also set the tone for Holocaust education in the United States. I support a lot of the work they do, and use their resources all the time. However, in my opinion, this statement seems defensive and quite frankly tone deaf.

​They were not the only museum to make statements, though, in an Instagram post that didn’t get much traction, the much smaller CANDLES museum in Terre Haute Indiana, said the following:

​“...CANDLES is deeply saddened by the death of Alex Pretti and by the fear, pain, and division found in so many communities in our country. CANDLES vision is a world free from prejudice, hatred, and genocide. That vision calls on individuals, institutions, and governments alike to act with respect for human rights- especially in moments of fear or conflict. We call on people of conscience to bear witness, reject dehumanization, and speak with courage and compassion when human dignity is threatened. ….CANDLES will continue to offer educational programs that connect the lessons of the Holocaust to contemporary challenges and help individuals recognize early warning signs of prejudice and violence”.

​I can’t think of a statement that reflects the purpose of Holocaust education more perfectly. Connect, not compare. What a notion.

​Imagine a world where the guidelines of Holocaust education focus on connection and remembrance. Imagine a world where educators can invite productive dialogue among students about the world that led to the Holocaust and the world they live in today?

​I can speak freely about this because I no longer work in the professional field of Holocaust education, but my opinions are shared by many who have been censored or are otherwise afraid or unable to articulate their beliefs.

​Yes, the Holocaust was about antisemitism, it was about hatred, it was about censorship, and it was about racism. It was also about politics. It was about good people turning a blind eye.

​Teachers, scholars, and museums as a whole need to be able to speak about the Holocaust and how it can be used as a frame of reference with full and open honesty if we want to make a true and lasting impact. But under a fascist regime, that is impossible.

​The purpose of Holocaust education is to prevent it from happening again, and in order to do that, we must face its inherently political nature.

​I will leave you with one final thought: saying that never again applies to immigrants does not make it apply to the Holocaust and Jews any less. Saying never again applies to Gaza doesn’t mean it doesn’t apply to the Bibas family. It does not mean it no longer applies to the 6 million. In fact, it honors them.

​

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I know a thing or two about remains.

​It is an unfortunate story, really, but at one point, I came across human remains of victims of the Holocaust that had been stored in the permanent collection of the museum I work at. How they got there is a story that only leads to more questions.

​But they aren’t there anymore. They were given a proper Jewish funeral and burial.

​When I first found those remains- those people- I went into some version of shock that is reserved for museum professionals only. I knew they shouldn’t be here, but I had no idea what to do with them.

​I spiraled a little bit at first, I will admit. I knew there must be some sort of standard procedure for when this happens. And there is, it just isn’t talked about.

​So I went digging. I called rabbis, I consulted with various experts. I packed the remains up in my car and took them to a local archaeologist who analyzed them. I will spare you most of the details, but they included the approximate temperature at which one of them, a child, had been burned.

​In the end, the solution was rather simple. We treated them like they were any other deceased Jew. I performed the ritual pre-burial rites for the dead with a Rabbi. I read the Eulogy. We recited mourners’ kaddish. And we laid them to rest in the Jewish section of a local cemetery, where they shall remain.

​A shred of dignity for those whose lives and peoplehood were utterly destroyed.

​Is there any dignity in the display of ashes?

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​

When I first found the remains at our museum, I thought we were alone. I had read about another museum or two making such discoveries and doing essentially the same thing I did. But as the story of my discovery spread, I found out that many *many* other museums, big and small alike, have quietly buried their own Holocaust victims.

​It is the right thing to do. Museum ethics clearly rule against the display of human remains in most cases.

​So why then does the Auschwitz Museum and memorial, along with other memorial sites like Majdanek, break this rule?

​I have seen these ashes before. The first time I saw them, I couldn’t quite believe it. I wish I could remember why it is they have chosen to display these nameless victims. Perhaps as evidence. A quick Google search on this topic revealed no answer.

​There is also the hair, a room full of it. More evidence, more remains.

​I understand why the Auschwitz Museum and Memorial would feel compelled to put this evidence on display. It is impossible to deny that much hair.

​But what of the dignity of the victims? Reduced to a swirl of ash or a thick brown braid?

​

Is there a different set of rules for Auschwitz?

​

Part of me thinks there should be. People in Shoah business spend a lot of time tiptoeing around the horror. We don’t want to scare or alienate people. But the Holocaust was f*cking horrific. Are we serving anyone by refusing to say the quiet part out loud? Would the lessons of the Holocaust be better taught by a urn of ashes?

​I’m not sure.

​The remains that were once in my care were a lot more personal than ashes. More easily identifiable. Surely display of these particular remains would have been completely inappropriate.

​Cremation is forbidden in Judaism because the body is supposed to be kept whole. The burning of Jewish bodies during the Holocaust was the ultimate and final act of dehumanization.

​Putting them on display is a continuation of this final act. For these victims, the Holocaust never ended. They are still in Auschwitz, more exposed than if they were naked, on view for thousands to see. Jews don’t even have open casket funerals.

​Of course, with most remains, it is impossible to determine for sure whether or not they belonged to Jewish people or the millions of others who were murdered by the Nazis. But Jews were the largest victim group, and especially at places like Auschwitz, where 1 million jews were murdered, the likelihood of them being Jewish is high.

​No matter what their identities were, they deserve dignity. The majority of ashes at Auschwitz were dumped in nearby rivers and ponds.

​These ashes give the Auschwitz museum and Memorial an opportunity to restore dignity to those who lost everything. I know firsthand what an honor that is.

​So, Auschwitz, if you are reading this, let’s work together to finally end the Holocaust for these people. Let’s lay them to rest.

​I have spent a total of 15 days there. I could show you around if you were to visit with me.

​People wonder about my psychological well-being when they find out how much of my life is dedicated to one of the darkest chapters of human history. They comment on how they could never do it, how their dreams would be riddled with nightmares.

​The reality is that I dream about the Holocaust, specifically Auschwitz, relatively infrequently. Normally, these dreams are not particularly scary or disturbing. In fact, I have only woken up terrified from a dream about the Holocaust 4 times:

1. 2015. I am in the midst of studying for my bachelor’s degree in Holocaust and Genocide Studies. I have never been to Auschwitz. The dream involves being imprisoned in the camp and attempting to evade selection. It is scary until it turns funny- the dream ends with Kim Kardashian pulling up to the Arbeit Macht Frei gate with a tutu for me to wear as a disguise. I escape with her in her limousine. (I am not trying to be funny- that was really my first Holocaust dream)

2. 2017. I am a student in Poland, the night before my first visit to Auschwitz. I do not remember the dream, but I know it is filled with imagery of the infamous camp. I wake in a cold sweat.

3. 2021. I have just begun to post on social media about the Holocaust. I am a Jew in hiding, I am Anne Frank, and then I am trying to hide her, but I cannot move fast enough, and the Gestapo are at my door.

4. 2022. I am in Warsaw. It is the night before my first visit to Treblinka. I am pregnant. The Nazis rip the baby from my belly while I am still alive. There are voices all around me chanting “ All. Most. Jews. All. Most. Jews”. It doesn’t make sense to me until we are on the bus ride home that the voices were reminding me that in Poland, they really did kill almost all of the Jews who lived here. All…Most, Jews.

That last dream shook me to my core. It is the one I think of when people ask me if the Holocaust ever seeps into my dreams.

​But mostly, I do not dream about the Holocaust. I dream about studying the Holocaust. It doesn’t happen all too often, but Auschwitz has become a location my subconscious revisits time and time again.

​Of course, it isn’t the real Auschwitz. My brain has created something different than reality. Oftentimes it is a large barn that has been turned into a museum of dead Jews’ belongings. Other times it is a small town. Sometimes it is an odd sort of diorama, sometimes it is by the ocean. I am always me, there on some sort of study trip. It is not distressing. I am simply doing what I do in real life.

​Sometimes, however, I am in a cemetery. My brain tells me that this cemetery is Auschwitz, though it bears no resemblance to the real thing. It is deep in a beautiful forest. It is always twilight, and I am usually alone. Moss covers everything in a luscious green. There are fireflies, or maybe they are fairies. I am never sure, but I am sure that the forest is alive with a golden light. And I am sure, for whatever reason, that this place is Auschwitz.

​It used to not make any sense to me why Auschwitz had become a forest in my subconscious mind.

​

Until last night.

Last night I dreamt I was on a train (no, not that kind of train, this one was nice) with my partner. We were on our way to Auschwitz. He was asking me how much longer until we were there, and all I told him was “you will know it when you see it”. He saw it, and it was the forest. The cemetery.

​I woke with a start, really having to pee. As I stumbled to the bathroom, I thought to myself about the forest. I found myself wondering, again, why my dream brain has confused a forest for Auschwitz. In my half-asleep state, a thought came to me from the part of my brain that only sometimes speaks up. The thought was your subconscious has created a memorial.

​I was fully awake now. Sitting on the toilet, I gave it a good think. Of course! None of the Jews and thousands of others who were killed at Auschwitz, or anywhere else, got a proper burial. My brain has given them a resting place.

​My grief has to go somewhere. It goes to the forest.

​My “goal” as a Holocaust educator has always been more than just to teach. It has been to actively memorialize and commemorate victims of Nazi atrocities. I can never do that to the full extent that is needed. Nobody can.

​But next time somebody asks me if I dream of Auschwitz, I will tell them about the forest.

Please note: I used AI to generate the images included in the post. Normally I do not use AI in any of my published work, but for the sake of accurately showing you what my dreams look like, I think it was appropriate in this case.

Its literal translation from Hebrew to English is Tikkun - repair, Olam - the world.

It is something we are called as Jews to do. Repair the broken world. It is an awfully big task, but we are not supposed to do it alone.

Those repairs don’t always have to be big. Helping a neighbor, standing up for a social justice cause you believe in, volunteering at your local soup kitchen, or donating to your favorite animal rescue all count as Tikkun Olam.

But there is also a much bigger Tikkun Olam. The one that has to do with war, politics, human suffering…the list goes on. That’s the one I want to talk about today.

At a certain Jewish museum, the phrase Tikkun Olam appears above the entrance to its permanent exhibition about the Holocaust. A reminder to all who enter. Repair the world- yes YOU.

So what does Tikkun Olam have to do with the Holocaust?

A lot, actually.

Where I am going with this is that the world, particularly the Jewish world, has been broken time and time again. For example; the Holocaust. Every time big breaks like this happen, Jews and their allies have had to carefully sew their understanding of life, g-d, safety and humanity, back together piece by piece. This mending is still happening.

But as one repair is made, another tear is happening somewhere else, to someone else.

The world is always putting itself back together.

And Jews have a key role to play as menders. It is what we do.

Last week, I posted an article on Substack about attacks on my social media account. I titled it Witch Hunt. Since writing this piece, the witch hunt has continued, but they have changed targets.

These targets include the Holocaust Museum LA.

The following infographic was posted on their social media:

It didn’t take long for a barrage of hate to fill the comment section. People with zero credentials accused the Museum of:

Holocaust Inversion- comparing Israel/Jews to Nazis

Blood Libel-accusing Jews of killing and using the blood of Christians for ritual purposes since the Middle Ages (modern example- calling Jews baby killers)

Antisemitism: a certain perception of Jews, which may be expressed as hatred toward Jews. Rhetorical and physical manifestations of antisemitism are directed toward Jewish or non-Jewish individuals and/or their property, toward Jewish community institutions and religious facilities.

There were also numerous attempts to get the Museum staff fired.

This barrage of hate was all because this museum dared to say that Judaism requires us to care for the other. All for daring to say what every Holocaust educator knows, that “never again” applies to Jews AND everyone else.

They didn’t say anything about Israel. They didn’t say anything about Gaza. They didn’t say anything about the myriad of specific human rights abuses and genocides going on all over the world. Yet a small but loud group of those who think they know better than the experts told them they were speaking out of turn.

They simply said never again, and were called anti-Semites for it.

Several days later, the post was taken down. Once the post disappeared, a statement of apology to the witch hunters replaced it.

I have it on good authority that the museum staff’s minds were not changed, but rather that they were bullied into submission.

I would love to say that this was a unique incident.

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So. Tikkun Olam. That is what we were talking about. Look back at those images and read what

they are saying, and read between the lines. All I hear is Tikkum Olam Tikkun Olam Tikkun Olam.

But you see, Tikkun Olam has all but disappeared. In the world of Holocaust education, and dare I say, in the greater Jewish world as well.

It happened on October 7th. The loss and sense of fear felt by Jewish communities around the world was irreparable. And Jews everywhere were alone in their suffering. From this broken place, The Big Tikkun Olam, the one where we work together to solve the world's big problems, began to disappear. It always disappears when people are afraid.

Holocaust educators no longer knew how to do their jobs because new questions were asked of us. We were asked to take a stance on a geopolitical event and history that many of us were quite frankly undereducated about. And in our shuffling to come up with an answer, we too lost sight of The Big Tikkum Olam. We too became afraid.

So how do we get it back?

First and foremost, we need to have difficult, even harrowing, conversations in our own Jewish communities. Conversations that allow for differing opinions. Conversations that can breathe space into things. Conversations without finger-pointing, without placing the blame on each other. Even if we do not feel we are ready. Even if the pain still feels fresh.

These conversations must involve non Jews who are committed to combating antisemitism. Because, of course, antisemitism has never been a problem for Jews to solve. Yes, it is our load to bear, but it belongs to the haters.

If we have these conversations, even in our grief and fear, we will repair ourselves. This must happen before we can repair the world.

We have been here before; our world has been broken before. What we do next matters not only for us, but, as the Holocaust Museum in LA so bravely said, for our humanity.

It was a mild success. But it never took off in the crazy way that some platforms do. My life was never changed because of my online presence.  

Until several months ago, I would tell anyone who would listen that social media was the best place to educate the youth about important topics like the Holocaust.  

That opinion has changed. 

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The thing about the truth that people really don’t like is that multiple things can be true at the same time. A silly example: It is true that I love to travel. It is also true that I hate flying. 

Not having a concrete answer makes people uncomfortable. SO much so that, especially on social media, there becomes one BIG truth that people rally behind. Even if there are plot holes. Even if all real evidence points to something else entirely. 

Of course, on another algorithm, there is another group of people rallying behind what they perceive as the truth, which ALSO has plot holes. These two truths are pitted against each other. 

The real truth is, of course, most often in the middle. 

It became clear to me over the summer that I was not telling the whole truth on social media. That I couldn't tell the whole truth on social media. 

To be clear, we aren’t talking about the Holocaust anymore. We are talking about the stuff that knowledge of the Holocaust requires us to pay attention to: Politics, fascism, and genocide. The stuff my audience wanted to hear from me about. 

In June, I was put on blast by another creator for not speaking up enough about a certain current event. 3 million people saw the post. It was liked by over 300,000 people. I had a back-and-forth dialogue with this creator, initially because I was in damage control mode, but then because I realized she was not in fact evil. She was just doing what people do on social media. 

The crazy thing is, if we had met in real life, I think we would have found common ground very quickly. I think we would have even liked each other. We haven’t spoken since, but before my social media exit, I liked a post or two of hers, and she liked a post or two of mine. 

And yet….because of her post, my inbox was full of strangers calling me a hypocrite. Strangers telling me to k*ll myself. It was an unsettling experience. And this wasn’t the first time. 

What was most unsettling about this particular incident, however, was not that this person had twisted my words and accused me of hypocrisy, but rather that this person exposed some truths about my account that I was already struggling with. 

There are no social media accounts that tell the complete truth. Even the most pure and just accounts portray the creator who runs them in a specific way, with strategic lighting and slite of hand. Witchcraft, if you will. 

I am not the first to point out that social media is essentially one witch hunt after another. That cancel culture is a witch hunt. 

I didn’t really realize how true this was, however, until my partner and I saw a production of The Crucible recently. I won’t spoil the plot, but I will remind you of some truths about the Salem Witch Trials: 

1. There was no proof

2. Finger-pointing by young women and powerful men was used to justify the execution of people, mostly women. 

3. Many of those whose end was the rope could have been spared if they had only confessed. But their confession would have been a lie. 

On social media, creators are constantly being picked apart. I can’t tell you the number of apology videos I have seen, often for an accidental offence that lost people not only their following, but also their job. Sometimes, even their safety. 

And then the following week another scandal will happen and everyone will move on. 

It is important to note that less than a month after I was put on blast for not using my platform to speak out in favor of Gaza enough, I was attacked from “the other side” by a self-proclaimed “Holocaust Educator” who was horrified that I had dared to speak out about Gaza and about Trump’s policies *at all*.

And then my enemies really came out of the woodwork. One after another. Mostly sad, uneducated people who are threatened by a woman who knows more than they do. A woman who outshines them and threatens their flimsy notion of the truth. And they were coming from all sides. One side wanted me to speak out in favor of the oppressed. The other side wanted me fired. I will let you guess which side was which, and which side was easier to reason with. 

So I ask you, enemies, which one is it? Am I an evil, rabid Zionazi or a Kapo? Both? Neither? Am I qualified to post on social media about the Holocaust? If not, who is? 

I know you are hoping I will clarify my perspective. I know that you want my confession. You want me to save myself from the rope. Can’t you see that there will always be a rope, no matter what I say? 

And what does what I say matter when surely my actions in real life are what really count? 

My platform is gone. My voice has been silenced.  But people don’t realize that behind the scenes, the truth has always been clear to me. I have donated to organizations that support my values. I vote, I call my representatives, I quietly and softly do what I can. 

We have to remember, the best witches were never caught. They knew that to protect their truth, they had to be quiet. They have to be calculated. At least for a while. 

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This morning over smoothies, my partner and I were discussing the importance of truth. He reminded me that “you can do no wrong by telling the truth, even if the truth is inconvenient for some people. But sometimes you have to wait for the right time”. 

I want you to know that in my day-to-day life, I am committed to telling the truth. If a follower were to come up to me in real life and ask me the hard questions, I would give them the hard answers. I have had some difficult conversations personally and professionally over the summer. I remain a dedicated Holocaust educator in my job. 

On Social media, we have the privilege to debate genocide. We have the privilege to debate politics and buy labubus and watch ASMR AI posts to our heart's content. But until those debates are turned into action, until our algorithm stops feeding us what we want….none. Of. It. matters.  ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

In conclusion, I  want you to know that I did not quit social media because I was bullied off my platforms. The truth is that there is a heaviness in thinking about something as dark as the Holocaust all the time. And I am ready to step into the light, a light that was being dimmed by social media. 

I am ready to step into my own truth. And I can’t do that on the internet. 

At least for a while. 

It was like that about 100 years ago too…before the Nazis ruined everything.

People who do not understand history love to talk about gender identity and queer sexuality as though it is a passing craze. People who do understand history know that trans and queer people have always existed.

If people paid attention to history, they would know that history is a mirror. If you look at it long enough, you will see the present as a reflection of the past.

Historians have held up this mirror to the public since Donald Trump first announced he was running for president in June of 2015. We have been reminding people of when and where this rhetoric has popped up before.

Spoiler alert: it’s 1920s Germany.

Have you ever seen the musical Cabaret? It is based on a real time and place. The place that eventually inspired the Kit Kat Klub was called El Dorado, and it was in, you guessed it, Berlin. The plot of Cabaret is inspired by the writings of Christopher Isherwood, a British gay man who lived in Germany during the Weimar Republic.

In Berlin in the 1920s, queerness was celebrated. The club Eldorado was so popular that there were 5 locations. The one Christopher Isherwood frequented was on MotzStrasse, just around the corner from the boarding house where he stayed. It was here that he encountered fabulous drag performances, people of all genders and sexualities, and even the occasional gay Nazi

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Among the people Isherwood ran into was the world-renowned Jewish, German, and gay sexologist named Magnus Hirschfeld, who created the famous Institute for Sexology. His institute was doing things like providing gender affirming healthcare for trans people. The Nazis hated him.

During the 1920s and 30’s, gay sex between men was technically illegal under paragraph 175 of the German criminal code. It just wasn’t regularly enforced until the Nazis came to power.

When they came to power, queer communities were among the first targeted. Homosexuality was seen as being un-German. Queer publications, media, and books were all banned. Club Eldorado was shuttered, along with all other queer spaces. Magnus Hirschfeld’s institute was ransacked and destroyed. Gay men were arrested left and right, and sent to concentration camps where they were labeled with the infamous pink triangle. Queer women who refused to conform were sometimes imprisoned as “asocial” and marked with a black triangle. All in the name of making Germany great again.

The anti trans and queer rhetoric and legislation currently plaguing the United States is not just reminiscent of what happened in 1930’s Germany. It is a clear and poignant reflection, and it is one of many that are staring us directly in the face.

I am not sure much can be done. We may have reached the point of no return. My trans friends are looking for a way out, and I don’t blame them.

What we do in this moment matters deeply. When Hirschfeld’s institute was raided, research on queer healthcare was set back decades. If we are indifferent, we risk a similar setback. We risk losing people.

We are in the middle of an all-too-familiar cycle of oppression. I remain confident that freedom and justice will come out on top…eventually. But at what cost?

Once the war was finally over, those who had not been killed remained largely silent about their experiences and persecution. Homosexuality was still illegal for decades in many European countries.

Queer Berlin slipped into the shadows of memory.

Christopher Isherwood’s stories, like The Last of Mr. Norris and Goodbye to Berlin and eventually the musical smash hit Cabaret became nearly all that was left of the Eldorado.

Nearly.

Today, if you visit the site of Eldorado on Motzstrasse, you will find…a grocery store.

Before you shake your head in disapproval, you will be delighted to find out that though the Nazis did indeed destroy queer Berlin, they could not destroy queerness.

Once the dust settled, the neighborhood gradually came back to life. New generations of queer Germans once again found home in this part of Berlin.

Queer people are still going to the Eldorado, but today, they are bringing home a different type of fruit.

In November of 2024 the Sherwin Miller Museum of Jewish Art held a funeral for remains of Holocaust victims found in our collection. It was the most profound and moving moment of my career.

This is the Eulogy that I shared with those in attendance:

August 10, 1942

The day the Jews of Pleśna Poland perished. They were murdered not by starvation or gas, but by bullets.
The location of their murder was outside of town, but within reach of neighbors who could hear the 364 shots that destroyed the young and old.

March 17, 2017

Today this spot in the world is silent.

If you choose to visit this place, it takes much more planning than a trip to Schindler’s factory or the nearby Auschwitz Museum. Though just east of Kraków, this site is not frequented by those who travel to Poland to visit the sites of the Shoah.

If you choose to visit, you will visit alone.

Upon your arrival, a series of paths into the woods greet you. It will be unclear which you should take because you do not know Polish or Hebrew- and the sign is certainly not in English. So, you will enter the woods blindly, hoping the trees will show you the way.

You will instantly notice that the woods remind you of your childhood. As with all forests, this place possesses a timeless and solitary feeling. It will seem like the most peaceful forest you have encountered. But you will begin to feel that this peace is different than what it should be.

Apprehension will fill you to the point of bursting until suddenly- you have arrived. The concrete slab will appear within moments of your walk. A tombstone like no other. Upon closer examination you will notice that it is marked 364 in bold numbering.

Because you know enough to find this place, you will also know that this is the gravesite of an entire Jewish community. For the 364 people buried here, the Holocaust happened on August 10, 1942, the day that they were taken from their homes to this site and shot. The same trees who witnessed this act now stand as its silent guards.

While here, you will have trouble focusing on the facts. You will not be able to feel the sadness. Your mind will wander and eventually fixate on that number. Trust me when I say that the feelings will come later, as you ponder what today meant. All forests will hold a new meaning for you.

If each day of the year were a person, a year would be buried this mass grave, minus one. 364 people whose names we do not know. A stranger for every day of the year- plus you, the one who will always remember this place.

Today, we are all the 365th person.

March 20th of 2023 was my first day of work at The Sherwin Miller Museum of Jewish Art. I was so excited and honored to be starting my dream job, and to get to know the collection I would now be responsible for.

I went into the job with the understanding that my primary responsibilities would be to curate exhibits focusing on Jewish art and history, and maintain our collection. I never could have imagined that my responsibilities would involve caring for human remains from the Holocaust, and planning a funeral for them.

The journey to get to this moment has been incredibly challenging, it has also been a complete honor. When I discovered human remains in our collection, I immediately began to contact the experts. Rabbis were consulted, museum professionals were spoken with, and an archeologist was brought into the process to give us more information about what we had in our collection.

Who we had in our collection.

I remember sitting in my car in a Freddy’s fast food restaurant parking lot sometime in the spring of 2023, trying to process, I wrote:

“I’m sitting in my car eating frozen custard. I could be thinking about any number of things. But what I am thinking about is what I should say at the funeral I am going to lead for the human remains I found at work. I’m thinking about how I want to get my conversion over with so I can bury some of the 6 million as a Jew. So, I don’t need to look at the box they are in every time I am at work. I never thought I would confront the Holocaust like this. This was the job of liberators. I can now relate to an ounce of the horror they must have felt. The horror of a charred bone.”

That bone, it turns out. Belonged to a 12-year-old. Perhaps a little older, perhaps a little younger. Dr. Miriam Belmaker of the University of Tulsa was able to verify that yes it belonged to a child, and yes, that child was a victim of the crematoria at Auschwitz.

She was also able to verify that at least 5 people are represented in the 47 teeth from Dachau. And that some of them belonged to children.

For a long time, I carried the weight of these remains alone. I felt deeply responsible for their safety and dignity. Dr. Belmaker has shared in carrying the weight.

It wasn’t until late in this process that I found out most other Holocaust museums have had funerals like the one we are having today. At one point it was common for remains to be a part of Museum collections. Museums tend to talk about their collection items that are problematic in hushed voices. Yet we all have them, and as museums, especially small museums review their collections, it is important to talk about them, to normalize these discussions as part of what it means to be a museum that deals with difficult history and wants to operate with dignity.

I have spent all of my adult life striving to bear witness to the Holocaust, and educate others so that we may identify warning signs of fascism and make never again a reality. As a Holocaust educator I often feel as though I am screaming into a void as never again happens again and again and again.

But today we have a rare opportunity to come together as a community and grieve. We have the great honor of laying to rest actual victims of the Shoah.

Today we physically lay to rest the anonymous. We lay to rest portions of the 6 million.
We know nothing about them. We will never know anything about who they were before, and what they witnessed during the Shoah.

Most Shoah victims were scattered to the wind. Today I think of those we know who perished. I think of Czech composer Pavel Haas. I think if Elie Wiesel’s sister Tzipora. I think of the families of those of you here today who carry with you memories of the horror.

We will never know, and yet we know. You who were murdered at Auschwitz. Many of us have walked where you walked. We have seen the last trees that you saw. I have heard your name in the constant restless wind at Birkenau.

You who were murdered at Dachau. We have looked into the eyes of people who were imprisoned in that hell with you. We have read your testimonies, I have held the blanket perhaps one of you wove.

I have counted you. One though 47. I will never forget that. I will never forget how small 47 teeth felt in my hand and how much I grieved for you.

Today Tulsa cries out in mourning for you. We are a city bound to remember and to actively work to combat hatred due to our own history.

Today we do not promise never again, but we hope for it. We vow to work toward it. Today we grieve.

Today we have the highest honor of bestowing some level of peace to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob. To Ruth, Rachel, and Sarah. To Moses. To Tzipora. To 6 million.

May their memories be a blessing.

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I can’t tell you how many people respond with utter shock when, one cocktail in, I say something that has the entire table in tears with laughter.

Ok this might be an exaggeration. Maybe I’m not the next Kristen Wiig, but I love to laugh and I love to make others laugh. I certainly do not take myself too seriously.

I goof around and joke about all sorts of things. Including the Holocaust.

Before you clutch your pearls, let me explain.

When I was 24 years old I traveled to Krakow Poland to complete research for my graduate program. This research included interviewing Holocaust survivors. I was particularly excited to meet one of them. We will call him Barry. We had “mutuals” and I had heard nothing but good things about him.

When Barry arrived for his interview, he was not happy. Fair. I wouldn’t be happy rehashing my Holocaust experience if I was him either. “Alright, let’s get this over with” were his first words to me. I’m sure I blushed and definitely fumbled around getting the camera set up. In my fumbling, he noticed my lilac tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of my dress.

“I like your tattoo,” he remarked, completely deadpan. “It’s a lot different than mine”.

“Shit,” I thought. He was, of course, referring to the number tattooed on his arm that he received at Auschwitz. I didn’t know what to do or how to respond so I changed the subject.

Readers, it wasn’t until about halfway through the interview that I realized he was making a joke. As our conversation went on, I found out that Barry is indeed hilarious. And yes, he jokes about the Holocaust. Specifically about his tattoo, which he refers to as his “phone number”.

He also, it is important to note, could not keep the tears from coming after all these years when he talked about witnessing the gestapo take away his grandmother.

Humor, it turns out, is an excellent coping mechanism. It also turns out, Holocaust survivors joke about what they went though regularly, and not just Barry.

At the time, I didn’t joke about the Holocaust and my own relationship to it. In fact, I thought the very idea was preposterous. That began to change.

The further I dove into Holocaust studies and the world of Holocaust education, the more I began to loosen up.

About a year ago, in a hushed voice among friends and family, I started to refer to myself as “The Star of the Shoah[1]”. Around this time, I was consistently going viral for content I was posting on social media about the Holocaust. Is it just me, or is that pretty dystopian? Is it just me, or is “The Star of the Shoah” not only a funny but actually appropriate nickname for someone in my unique position? It doesn’t poke fun at the Holocaust. It is self-deprecating humor that helps me deal with the fact that my brain in consumed with darkness for at least part of every day.

This dystopian feeling is shared by Holocaust educators all over the world. For example, I am on an email chain that includes legends in the field. Recently one of them referred to the work we do as “Shoah Business” (get it? Like Show business?). Nobody batted an eye.

When I say I joke about the Holocaust, I don’t mean that I joke about the 6 million Jews who perished. No, human suffering is not something to joke about, unless the joke is said by those who actually suffered, and perhaps their descendants.

There is nothing funny about the Holocaust.

There is something funny in visiting Treblinka and then going out for ice cream with friends.

There is something funny about lunch breaks during a conference AT Auschwitz.

There is something funny about burying human remains from the Holocaust and then listening to an episode of the podcast “Call Her Daddy” on the way home.

The juxtaposition of horror to one living a “normal” life is somewhat laughable. It seems strange that the Holocaust is a normal part of my day to day life.

I think if the world knew Holocaust educators didn’t take themselves all that seriously, Holocaust education would appeal to more people. There is comfort in a joke, and I think it is ok if people laugh along with us.

This is why I recommend movies like “Jojo Rabbit” and “The Producers”. Both are controversial due to their humor, but neither poke fun of the Holocaust. They poke fun at Nazis, which in my eyes is something that should always be encouraged. Both were written by Jews.

I recently became the face of a Holocaust denial meme on antisemitic social media pages. When I first was sent this meme, my initial reaction was to laugh. It was executed cleverly. The problem is, the person who created the meme really believes the Holocaust didn’t happen, and that Jews are to blame for all of the problems of the world. Those in the comment section agree.

It is one thing for those who know the subject as much as it can be known to laugh at their tattoo or the fact that their career rests on piles of ashes. Because if we don’t laugh, we cry. It is quite another to use humor to spread antisemitic lies.

Rabbi Steven Greenberg once said “No statement, theological or otherwise should be made that would not be credible in the presence of burning children”. I think this can be applied to humor and the Holocaust as well.

Next time you hear a Holocaust joke, think about what it is actually saying, and who is saying it, and whether or not the joke would offend those little children.

In conclusion, and to lighten the mood, my favorite Holocaust joke is “whenever I meet a pretty Jewish girl, I tell her I think it was more like 7 million”.

It’s ok, you can laugh at that one.

One last thing: This is an opinion piece. Though I am both Jewish and a Holocaust Educator, I certainly do not speak for all Jews or Holocaust Educators, or for that matter any of the institutions I am affiliated with. In the wake of ever-increasing global antisemitism Holocaust educators MUST start engaging with the public about this subject in approachable ways. Humor seems like an adequate place to start.

[1] Shoah: n Hebrew, “shoah” literally means catastrophe. Used as a proper noun, “Shoah” refers to attempts to eradicate the Jewish population of Europe in the 1930s and 1940s by Nazis during and before World War II. The proper noun “Holocaust” is used in the same way. (USC Shoah Foundation)

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