In 1995, I ran my first group trip to Poland. I can’t believe that was over thirty years ago.
Whilst in Warsaw, we encountered a group of German teenagers who were there as part of an organisation called ASF. The key word in its name is Sühne. It means ‘atonement’ in German.
ASF was established in 1958 as a means of taking some measure of responsibility for what had happened during the Second World War. The idea was not merely lip service, but action: cleaning up old Jewish cemeteries and helping to restore synagogues. They could not undo what had been done, of course, but they could at least do something tangible to show that they cared.
This was at a time when most Germans wanted to put the past behind them and blame everything on those evil Nazis who had been beamed into Germany from outer space.
Although I would be far less judgmental today, at the time I was cynical. I didn’t believe they were sincere, so I asked two of the participants, a boy and a girl, to speak to my group about their work. At the end, I asked them the following question:
‘You were not alive during the Second World War. Your parents might not even have been alive. Why do you feel any responsibility for something you did not do?’
The boy jumped in with exactly the answer I was looking for. I was right: he felt no responsibility for what had happened. But this was a trip to Poland, fully sponsored by the German government, with plenty of good-looking girls. Why would he not come?
I felt fully vindicated. Same old Germans.
That was until the girl spoke.
She spoke from such a heartfelt place. She said that many people in the group felt as the boy did. She did not. Not at all.
She was a proud German, she explained. But if she wanted to identify as German, she could not pick and choose. Germany was a great nation. But Germany had also done what it had done fifty years earlier, and she felt responsible for that too.
Yes, she could walk away and have nothing to do with Germany. But if she wanted to belong, it was a package deal.
She had wisdom and authenticity way beyond her years, and I felt deeply humbled and found myself crying. I feel tears welling in my eyes as I write this, more than thirty years later.
In a similar vein, we have Tisha B’Av, the fast of Av, beginning tonight. It is a day of mourning for the horrors of Jewish history. And ‘horrors’ is no exaggeration.
As Jews, we have the choice to walk away. But if we do not, then we are choosing to be part of something bigger and greater than ourselves. We share in the joy, but we must also share in the deep pain of our past. The pain is as much a part of our identity as the celebration. It has shaped us and moulded us. It is deeply ingrained in the Jewish soul.
For me, there is no day in the Jewish year on which I feel more connected to my identity.
The pain is visceral, but it is also touching. Pain can be debilitating, but pain can also be uplifting. When I have lost people I loved, I have embraced the pain of that loss as a manifestation of my love for them. And each time, the pain has been my friend. A lifelong friend.
So too with the pain of Jewish history. It is my friend – guiding me, pointing me and calling me towards something greater.
Much as I dislike Tisha B’Av, I love it.
