Search

This is not going to be a sad story, I promise. But it does start out with the process of going through my parents’ condo after their passing.

Growing up in rural Massachusetts, Judaism held a much different context in my life than it does now. Until college, I did Judaism, mimicking the motions of being a "good Jew." I didn't combine milk and meat in my house because my father told me not to.

"They know people died but nobody tells them about the worlds that were lost."

As the son of Holocaust survivors, I ruled out the possibility of ever visiting a concentration camp. Doing so would be emotionally off the charts.

Yom HaShoah is typically a somber time to reflect, and for me personally, to be angry at the world. Last year, however, was different.