We All Still Walk Between the Shadows and Light Thrown by the Holocaust

The Holocaust, history’s most systematic and industrialized genocide, was a wound so deep it reshaped Jewish consciousness across generations. It redefined the Jewish experience not only in Europe but across the diaspora. It became a prism through which history, morality, and survival are constantly refracted. And yet, in our modern age, particularly amid the conflict between Israel and Gaza, that same trauma seems to echo in contradictory ways, shaping opposing Jewish responses to suffering, violence, and justice.

Some Jews see the legacy of the Holocaust as an unshakable imperative to never allow victimhood again, to be strong, to fight back with overwhelming force, and to ensure the survival of the Jewish people, no matter the moral ambiguity of the means. This mentality, embodied by figures such as Netanyahu and supported by segments of the Israeli political establishment, can justify harsh military action, the siege of Gaza, and what many view as de facto apartheid. For these individuals, “never again” means never again to Jews, and that goal alone becomes sacred enough to excuse extraordinary measures, even those that, in the eyes of much of the world, echo the very tactics once used against Jews.

Others walk a different path. For them, the Holocaust demands a lifelong vigilance against dehumanization, not only when it threatens Jews, but whenever it appears. For these Jews, the memory of the Holocaust instills a moral obligation to oppose injustice wherever it arises, even, and especially, when it is carried out by a Jewish state. Their grief and memory have not become weapons, but warnings. They see Gaza not as a strategic threat, but as a humanitarian disaster, worsened by occupation, blockade, and cycles of revenge. And they believe that the phrase “never again” must extend beyond Jews to all peoples.

Both responses are rooted in the same soil of historic trauma. Both carry emotional truth and moral urgency. But where one response sees power and security as the only redemption for past suffering, the other sees restraint and empathy as the only path to redemption at all.

This division is now tearing at the fabric of Jewish identity. Heated debates play out across dinner tables, synagogues, and social media. Families are divided. Long-held friendships crack. To outsiders, the Jewish world can seem hopelessly fractured, but this fracture is not surprising. When the past is so horrifying, its meaning will always be contested.

We all still walk between the shadows and light thrown by the Holocaust. Some of us walk in fear of that shadow returning, believing that only overwhelming strength can banish it. Others walk in reverence for the light, the reminder of where hatred leads, and the resolve never to follow that path, no matter who the target may be.

The question is not whether Jews should remember the Holocaust, they must. The question is how it is remembered, and what kind of moral compass it leaves behind. Is it a shield? A sword? A mirror?

Until that question is answered, or at least reckoned with honestly, we will remain divided, walking in the space between shadow and light.