At My Bar Mitzvah – And Theirs

At my bar mitzvah, my mother of blessed memory, Rachel Baum, asked that I read a poem from the bimah before Mourner’s Kaddish. The poem, “At My Bar Mitzvah and His,” was written by Rabbi Howard Kahn and published in the Harlow High Holiday Mahzor (1972). He dedicated the poem to the memory of a thirteen-year-old hero of the Warsaw Ghetto Resistance.

As the daughter of two survivors of Auschwitz and the sister of a child who was lost in the Shoah, she felt it was important that I bring them into our special day. Thirty-two years later, at the end of the service for my son Harrison’s Bar Mitzvah, I re-read the poem in memory of my mother, who passed away in 2023, and Harrison read an unfortunate sequel of this poem that we composed together titled, “At My Bar Mitzvah – And Theirs.” You can watch the video recording here. 

At My Bar Mitzvah – And Theirs

By Rabbi David Baum and Harrison Baum
Dedicated to the memory of Kfir and Ariel Bibas, and all the children murdered on October 7th. When I was ten months old, I was cradled in my mother’s arms, safe at home.

When he was ten months old, he was torn from his mother’s embrace, stolen into darkness unknown.

When I was three, my family gathered, and my hair was cut for the first time—an Upsherin, a moment of joy.
When he would have been three, there will be no celebration, no laughter—mostly silence and oys.

When I was four, I ran through the park, my father lifted me high as I soared.
When he was four, he clung to his father in fear, dragged into a nightmare, his life – no more.

When I was a child, my parents tucked me in, whispering bedtime stories of hope.
When he was a child, his parents held him close, whispering prayers in captivity, a horror beyond scope.

When I was a child, I learned of our people’s past—of exile, of suffering, of survival.
When he was a child, he became part of that story, his name written in sorrow and revival.

When I was a child, I dreamt of growing up, of what I would one day become.
When he was a child, his dreams were stolen, his future amounting to none.

Today, I am thirteen—I stand before the Torah surrounded by a loving community
Today, they should be in shul—but they are gone, and today we all stand for them in unity.

At my Bar Mitzvah, I take an oath to live as a Jew.
But they will not have a Bar Mitzvah; they were children murdered because they were born as Jews.

At my Bar Mitzvah, I lift my voice and pray.
But they will not have a Bar Mitzvah, their voices are silenced forever, and despite that, our spirit and strength will never sway.

At my Bar Mitzvah, I wear a tallit over a new suit.
But they will not have a Bar Mitzvah, there is no tallit, no suit—only memory.

At my Bar Mitzvah, my family and friends dance and sing timeless songs.
But they will not have a Bar Mitzvah, their names are etched in stone, their absence felt for very long.

They were taken—but they live within me, within all of us.
Their future was stolen—but their names will never be forgotten.