Barely a few weeks ago, we didn’t just remember the Exodus. We were asked to see ourselves as though we had left Egypt. Lirot et atzmo, to imagine it as part of us.
This line has always called out to me. It is a reminder that: Memory isn’t passive in Judaism. It’s active, alive, arriving. Memory creates a kind of pressure in us. An ongoing request from the past on our present.
Today is Yom HaShoah, and we’re asked to remember again.
But not in the soft, distant sense. We light candles. We say names. We hold silence. We do what we can to make memory real.
This kind of remembering is costly. It doesn’t just tell us what happened. It reflects part of who we are, a bit of history carried forward, tucked away in our hearts.
On Moed Katan 22a, in the Talmud, in the context of visiting a mourner, we learn:
Rav Anan asks: [If those who came to console the mourner] had stirred to stand up to leave but did not [actually] stand up [and leave,] what is their status?
In this scenario, one you may have experienced, getting up to leave people we care about is difficult. We stand up and wander towards the door, trying to say goodbye. After a while, we find ourselves continuing to talk but never leaving.
The rabbis were familiar with this moment.
It is good to see that we’re still the same people we ever were.
And this feeling is the moment we’re holding now.
The people the rabbis were talking about are us. We want to stay close to each other. Not just those with us right now in our homes or communities. But those we remember and carry with us. Whose belongings we pass down, whose stories we repeat, and whose humanity and wisdom we continue to draw from.
The rabbis didn’t know how to resolve this tension either. The response to the question is teiku, meaning “the matter stands unresolved.”
So what is this? What is this kind of memory that sticks with us?
This kind of memory is not just a spiritual idea.
It’s a form of resistance.
A refusal to let history become forgotten.
To let people remain statistics.
To reject a future that seeks to repeat it.
It is a memory that asks something of us.
We remember them.
Zichronam livracha.
May their memories remain blessings for us.