April 24, 2025
Yesterday evening marked the beginning of Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. Our Rabbi, Rabbi Levy, was invited—along with other rabbis in Santa Fe—to speak at the Roundhouse, New Mexico’s State Capitol.
In his usual humility, Rabbi Levy didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Oh, I made sure it was in the weekly update. Board members were informed at the most recent meeting, but no special email was sent. Calls were not made.
The ceremony was held at 5:30 PM, after the legislature had adjourned for the day, which meant all the protesters who normally gather every Wednesday had also departed. It was eerily quiet when I approached the building. So much so, that I wondered if I was at the correct entrance.
There had been loud protesters carrying signs depicting blood libel and genocide last January, when I attended a meeting with the governor along with other members of the Jewish Community Relations Committee (JCRC). Walking through a group of people who target you for something they believe your people across the globe are doing—or who hate you simply for existing as a Jew—is ugly. This Yom HaShoah, I was prepared to be incensed by people protesting the Holocaust. How could anyone protest a Remembrance Day for the dead? The same way people can deny the Holocaust ever happened. I breathed a sigh of gratitude and relief not to have to deal with those angry, hate-filled folks.
Jewish clergy, politicians, community activists, and Jewish leaders from Albuquerque and Santa Fe were present. There were many warm greetings and reunions before the service, reminding me just how small New Mexico is.
Six candles, representing the six million Jews killed during the Holocaust, were lit at the start of the ceremony. We recited a line for each candle. One of the first was for the children who never got to live full lives. My friend, whose son died years ago, doubled over in grief at the sound of that. It was as if she had been punched in the gut.
There were various personal stories of loss and of loving Jewish life. Three politicians spoke. One representative shared that she was not Jewish but had been married to a Jewish man—now deceased—and had raised their children with Jewish customs. She told the story of one special Passover when her husband had secretly taught their son to ask one of the four questions in Hebrew. It was a wonderful surprise that caught her off guard, and she fought tears as she told us the story. Judaism had played a meaningful role in her life, and she mourned the relatives on her husband’s side of the family whom she never met. We cried with her.
Rabbi Levertov, the Chabad rabbi, also mentioned cousins he had never met from Russia who perished in the Holocaust. He knew stories of them, and their memories were kept alive.
Mayor Allan Webber spoke, and the first thing he said was—and I’m paraphrasing—“I’m honored to be here as the mayor and as a Jew.” I wish I could say I remembered what came afterward. My mind went to the many times I’ve heard “as a Jew” since October 7. Most of the time, it’s a phrase that precedes criticism of Israel.
There were cantors present, and each had a turn singing. One cantor sang “Eli, Eli,” and we sang along:
My God, My God,
I pray that these things never end—
The sand and the sea,
The rush of the waters,
The crash of the heavens,
The prayer of man.
Rabbi Levy first spoke about Viktor Frankl, the famous Austrian Holocaust survivor, who once shared a space in the camps with a man screaming from nightmares. Frankl debated whether to awaken him from his suffering. He realized the current reality was worse than any nightmare, so he let the man sleep.
Rabbi Levy then shared a very powerful, personal story. His father was a captain in the U.S. Army during WWII. Bernard J. Levy was a mathematician, and it was his job to calculate the trajectory of 14-pound ammunition that had to hit targets over long ranges. Can you imagine doing that under the duress of battle? Mr. Levy was present when Dachau was liberated. Like many others who witnessed such horrific atrocities, he refused to speak about what he had seen. Rabbi Martin pressed and pressed his father for details, but to no avail. All the senior Levy said was that we must do everything in our power to remember the fallen—and make sure this never happens again.
How do we live in a world where people can do such horrific things to others just because they are different? And why? Why do we live in a world where we are targeted for being “other”?
I try to forget that people hate me simply for being Jewish. Some years ago, I was sitting in a veterinarian’s office with my beloved pet, waiting for a procedure that took about half an hour. The vet and I chatted about various things to pass the time. Nothing too personal. Right before I left, this non-Jewish gentleman turned to me and, in a very reverent tone, said, “I’m sorry people hate you for simply being who you are.” It caught me off guard, and I gasped. There was nothing in our conversation to warrant this. We hadn’t been speaking of any form of discrimination, much less antisemitism. And yet there it was. It was as if he had to get it off his chest. He wanted me to know he was aware—and that he knew it wasn’t right. I had tears in my eyes as I left. I don’t know why that hit me so hard or why I remember it so vividly after all these years.
Especially since October 7, I find myself thinking about how much my ancestors had to endure for me to be here. It never ceases to amaze me.
We honor our brothers and sisters and remember them on this day. Half of the Jewish population was eliminated during the Holocaust. Ninety percent of Ladino (Hebreo-Spanish) speakers were killed, making the language nearly extinct. We remember them by telling their stories, crying for them, laughing for them, honoring life.
May their memories always be for a blessing. May their stories be told and preserved. Am Yisrael Chai.
