On October 7th, the world shifted in a way that hit too close to home. As the tide of antisemitism has risen sharply since then, I’ve found myself grappling with fears I never thought I’d face in 2025. But today, on International Holocaust Remembrance Day, those fears feel heavier. This day is a stark reminder of the horrors that hatred and silence allowed to unfold just decades ago. For me, it’s also a moment to reflect on what it means to raise two beautiful Jewish daughters, Yael and Diana, in a world that feels increasingly hostile to who we are.
Growing up, I was fortunate. My family’s story—while scarred—gave me a profound sense of identity. My grandparents and great-grandparents had the foresight (or sheer luck) to leave Europe before the Holocaust. They rebuilt their lives in Cuba and Uruguay, far from the atrocities that consumed millions. But even in the relative safety of our lineage, one story lingered like a shadow: the survival of my great-aunt by marriage, Tia Aviva. Her story, and the scars it left on her, shaped my understanding of resilience, remembrance, and the obligation to ensure “Never Again” is more than just a promise.
A Legacy of Fear and Resilience
Tia Aviva’s story is one I’ll never forget. Tia Aviva wasn’t related to me by blood, but through marriage. Her story, though, feels like it’s etched into my DNA. As a nine-year-old, she was thrust into a nightmare when her father, my great-grandfather by marriage, was taken to Auschwitz and murdered. Shortly after, her mother made an impossible choice: to send her and her younger sister into hiding, alone, to evade the Gestapo. Her childhood was stolen by fear and deprivation, spent in constant terror that a knock on the door would mean death. At the war’s end, her life was forever altered, haunted by what she had seen and lost.
Despite her resilience, she never fully escaped those years. Her story, though, wasn’t shared freely. Tia rarely spoke of those years when I was young. But by the time her grandchildren—my cousins—and I reached adulthood, she began to share. She even provided her testimony to
Steven Spielberg’s Shoah Foundation, preserving her story for generations to come.
Her bravery in doing so is as much a testament to her resilience as her survival itself. Hearing it, understanding it, shaped me. It made me vow never to let those lessons fade—not for myself, and not for my children.
Never Forget, Never Again
At 17, just shy of my 18th birthday, I went on March of the Living, a life-altering journey that solidified my commitment to remembrance. Walking the grounds of Auschwitz, the gas chambers felt like a tomb of silence, yet their walls screamed stories of unfathomable pain. I saw the marks—the scratches left by hands clawing for life in the face of death. Those marks haunt me. They are the silent screams of lives cut short, of futures erased. They’re also the loudest reminder of what’s at stake when hatred goes unchecked.
Walking those same paths, I realized that “Never Again” isn’t just a phrase—it’s a mission. It’s a responsibility we all carry to ensure the world remembers, even when it’s easier to forget. It’s a vow to educate, to speak out, and to shield our children from the darkness that tried to consume our ancestors.
The Rise of Antisemitism: A Modern Reckoning
Today, the spike in antisemitic rhetoric and violence is not just numbers in a report—it’s a chilling echo of the past. In the aftermath of October 7th, the vitriol spilled online, on campuses, and even in the streets has been relentless. As Jews, we’re asked to justify our existence and our right to safety—a demand no other people should have to meet. It’s exhausting and heartbreaking and, above all, terrifying.
How do I explain to my girls that, despite everything, we still face this hatred? How do I prepare them for a world that may demand they hide their Jewishness, just as my Tia Aviva had to?
Standing Strong, Teaching Strength
As parents, Mazi and I are determined to raise our girls with pride in their Jewish identity. Judaism, for us, is so much more than a religion—it’s a culture, a history, a legacy of resilience. We light the Shabbat candles with Yael, already teaching her the beauty of our traditions. One day, we’ll tell her why this light matters—that it’s a beacon against the darkness others have tried to impose on us.
It’s also why we speak out. Silence, as history has shown, is dangerous. The world needs to hear our stories—both the triumphs and the horrors—because forgetting is the first step toward repeating. Our heritage is not something to hide but something to celebrate. I share Tia Aviva’s story not for pity, but to remind us all of what’s at stake.
Carrying the Past Into the Future
Every scratch in those gas chamber walls, every word my Tia couldn’t say for decades, and every hateful comment online—they shape who I am and what I stand for. On International Holocaust Remembrance Day, their weight feels heavier, but so does their purpose. They fuel my resolve to fight for a better world—not just for my daughters, Yael and Diana, but for all of us. As Jews, we’ve been here before. And we’re still here.
I’m not naïve. The fight against antisemitism isn’t one we’ll win overnight. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. But as a proud Jew, a father, and a descendant of survivors, I know one thing: we don’t back down. My daughters will grow up knowing their history—not as a burden, but as their foundation. They’ll know that, despite the hatred and the darkness, the light of our people has endured through every attempt to extinguish it. And they will carry that light forward with pride.
Today, we honor the six million lives stolen in the Holocaust and reaffirm our vow: “Never Again.” The greatest act of defiance against hate is not just to remember but to live boldly, to thrive despite it all, and to teach the next generation to do the same. In this way, the legacy of resilience, hope, and humanity that defines us will endure—for my girls, and for all who come after them.
