I was there

I was always proud to be a Jew. My grandfather was a Cantor, my mother and Bubby were the caterers at our synagogue. I sang in the children’s choir every Rosh Chodesh at services, I

went to Hebrew school. I loved traditions – my first job was singing in the Yiddish Theatre! At 13, I sang Papirosen and made all the Bubbies and the Zaydes (the elderly Jews) cry.

His silence said so much: the idea that he could vividly still see that little girl, and was so overcome.

It was all so moving - and I WAS THERE.

There’s a new silence now, a different kind of silence.

Silence from my colleagues and friends in the entertainment business. People afraid they’ll lose

followers, people afraid others won’t like them, or it may cost them a gig.

The cost to post on social media (compared to not posting) is so relevant right now. Yes, it may “cost” you some followers, but the real world cost is our kids’ safety at colleges, Jewish lives around the world,...why was it controversial to post for our hostages?? To post indisputable historical facts?

To beg others online to understand we deserve to live!!

Well, I remain UNAFRAID to use my voice. To use all my voices. I care not about losing followers, or having trolls online, people who don’t know me, or know my heart, yelling at me. If asking for the return of my people and praying for peace means I would lose a gig? That means there’d probably be some antisemites at that gig anyway.

I am unafraid to use my voice today because I WAS THERE. I sat in the children’s barracks. I remember the paintings on the walls so vividly. I touched the shoes ripped from my people’s feet. I marched with four thousand strong from Auschwitz to Birkenau - I can picture how it looked, how it felt, the chill in the air, the drizzling rainfall. Holding hands with members of my global mishpacha, each and every one of these beautiful souls alive today because… one of our ancestors survived being hunted.

I was always proud to be a Jew, but never prouder, than on that day, the day of the March. The solidarity, the idea that we are one, that we were one with Hashem, who that day smiled on us by making the rain stop and the sun come out, when we began to sing “Eli Eli” on top of that crematorium. There wasn’t a dry eye. No one could ever deny the Holocaust to me ever again, because I WAS THERE.

I remember every moment of that trip in Poland, both the comforting ones and the challenging ones. I remember stones thrown at our bus. I remember swastikas painted on the bus. I remember Polish teenagers laughing as they tossed cigarette butts into the massive pit of Jewish ashes at Majdanek. I remember the inscription carved in stone at Majdanek saying “Our future is a warning to you.”

But I also remember on Shabbat, we were singing and dancing outside in the courtyard of an ancient synagogue, somehow left standing in the heart of the city, and a very old Polish man, walking painstakingly slowly with his cane, came towards us, his head bowed with age and seemingly some hardships.

He began to cry and our tour guide translated for us that he had said, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen the Jewish people here, and it’s so nice to see them come home”.

It is heartening to note, and should be pointed out as well, that in the years since 1990, one of the largest delegations joining the March each year has been comprised of Polish high school students.

I remember the feeling when we DID come home, when we landed in Eretz Yisrael. It’s an overwhelmingly powerful feeling, on a cellular level of being safe, of being home, of true connection.

I remember all the beautiful places we went, all the beautiful people we met. I remember dancing in the streets of Tel Aviv, being on an army base, floating in the Dead Sea and even having time to visit with my cousins.

I remember EVERYTHING from this trip, this incredibly important trip.

The goal of the March of the Living is to make sure we NEVER FORGET, and NEVER AGAIN.

Well, NEVER AGAIN IS NOW.

The amount of people, my colleagues, my friends, people I once looked up to, people I respected, people I marched with, while their people were being threatened, marginalized communities I have spoken out for in person, at rallies and marches, and posted for them online, raised money for their causes. Because I truly believe we are one. Hating an entire group of people will never make any sense.

And yet now: Silence. Where are they? Why are they afraid to use their voices to speak up for my people. And many Jews, also afraid to speak up for their own people, deafening silence.

Where are the countless women’s organizations we all marched together with? In solidarity against all sexual violence? Believe all women, right? Why don’t you believe mine?

And although their silence is different from Elie Wiesel’s, the message is loud and clear. In Hebrew the word for enough is Maspeek. Maspeek being silent, Maspeek being afraid to use their voice. Maspeek denying the atrocities our people suffered on Oct 7th. Everyone MUST SPEAK!!

If all are afraid to use their voices, if all stay silent while our people are being tortured, stolen, slaughtered, if no one will speak truth, the Jew hating propaganda machine grows, faces no fact checkers, the hostages had no voices, the mourning families, the thousands injured, the hundreds of thousands displaced in Israel, have NO ONE speaking for them. Because it’s hip to hate Jews again.

I get death threats and despicable messages on my social media EVERY single day. The brazenness of today’s Jew haters is mind boggling.

When I go to Comicons, I meet kids clutching their hidden Stars of David and whispering to me,

“Thank you for using your voice to speak up for our people.” Of course I will because I WAS THERE. I saw first-hand what happens when this hate goes unchecked. Unchallenged, when kind, compassionate voices are silenced.

For the founders and supporters of the March of the Living, thank you for empowering me, and kids like I was, and others, and future generations.

For helping others like me to BE THERE.