Never again: A promise in peril
It begins, as these things so often do, with silence. The silence of indifference. The silence of neighbors looking the other way. The silence that grows when words — those sharp, insidious little weapons — are left unchecked. Today, on Holocaust Memorial Day, we are called to break that silence. We are called to remember the six million Jews whose lives were stolen by an industrialized hatred so monstrous, so calculated, that its scale still defies comprehension. We are called to remember the others too — the Roma, the disabled, the LGBTQ+ community, political dissidents — all swept into the same abyss.
But remembrance is not enough. To remember without reflection, without action, is to rehearse history without learning from it. And history, as it so often proves, is far less distant than we like to imagine. The Holocaust was not an anomaly, some inexplicable deviation from the norm. It was a consequence — a horrifying culmination of unchecked bigotry, fear, and the moral failures of ordinary people. As much as we might comfort ourselves with the belief that such horrors belong to a different time, the truth is more troubling: the same conditions, the same language of hate echo all too loudly today.
The Holocaust reminds us of a truth we prefer to ignore: civilization is alarmingly fragile. We like to think of ourselves as decent, rational beings, but history shows that decency is all too easily cast aside when fear and hatred take hold. When the Nazis came to power, Germany was one of the most cultured and advanced societies in the world. It had produced Bach, Goethe, Einstein! And yet, it descended into barbarity with horrifying speed.
This should terrify us. For if it could happen there, it could happen anywhere. Indeed, the early warning signs are already flashing. Bigotry, far from being relegated to history, is flourishing in the fertile soil of polarization and populism. Across the globe, authoritarianism is on the rise, and with it comes the demonization of minorities, the erosion of democratic norms, and the unsettling return of “us versus them” politics.
Jews, as ever, find themselves uniquely vulnerable. For centuries, antisemitism has served as the canary in the coal mine of societal decay. When Jews are targeted, it is never long before others follow. Bigotry, you see, is like a fire: it cannot be contained. It spreads, consuming everything in its path.
So what are we to do? How do we honor the memory of the Holocaust in a way that is not mere ritual, but a genuine bulwark against its repetition? First, we must recognize that remembrance is not enough. To remember passively is to do nothing more than curate a museum of tragedy. What we need is active remembrance — a remembrance that challenges, provokes, and insists on action.
We must call out antisemitism wherever we see it, whether it comes cloaked in the language of “anti-Zionism” or parades itself openly in swastikas and hate-filled chants. We must reject the seduction of whataboutism — that insidious little trick that seeks to justify one prejudice by pointing to another. And we must demand that our leaders, our educators, and our institutions confront bigotry, not with platitudes, but with policies, education, and accountability.
And we, as individuals, must never allow ourselves the luxury of indifference. It is easy — so easy — to think that these battles are for others to fight. But history shows us that apathy is the midwife of atrocity. Every time we turn a blind eye to hatred, every time we fail to speak up, we inch closer to the precipice.
The phrase “never again” is not a mere slogan; it is a moral imperative. It is a reminder that we stand on the shoulders of those who suffered and survived, and that we owe them more than memory; we owe them action.
Yes, the Holocaust was a unique and singular horror, but its lessons are universal. They teach us that hatred must be confronted before it takes root, that silence is never neutral, and that humanity’s greatest strength — its capacity for kindness — is also its greatest vulnerability. For kindness, left unguarded, can be overwhelmed by cruelty.
Let us, then, make “never again” not a wistful hope, but a rallying cry. Let it compel us to challenge the bigots, the deniers, and the indifferent. Let it remind us that civilization is a garden, beautiful but requiring constant care, lest it be overrun by the weeds of hatred.
Today, we remember. Tomorrow, we act. Because if the Holocaust teaches us anything, it is that the cost of complacency is too high, and the price of vigilance, though difficult, is one we must always be willing to pay.
Never again — for the victims, for the survivors, and for all of humanity.