Around the age of 14, I had this debate going with myself, usually as I walked to school every day, in blustery London weather : Do we uphold traditions and beliefs that we may not be interested in nor abide by anymore, because of a loyalty to those who came before us - to our parents, or grandparents? I always thought so. The portion of my family that perished in the Holocaust were devout, pious Jews. Practising, religious Jews who came from the heim, who spoke fluent German, Russian and Yiddish, who had upheld our rich tradition so steeped in history and love and fear and joy for decades. Who made shabbos every week, who lit candles every friday night and say the same blessings we say today. Who celebrated the same festivals, but who eventually came to live their lives in fear, who suffered because of who they innately were.
They died, but I live. There are thousands of 'me' who never came to be. By the time I entered my school gates, I had often concluded that this was a valid reason to practise my religious, however much I was resenting it that week - that their deaths were somehow in vain if people like me, of my generation or future generations, just abandoned their faith and tradition.
I know now, at 24, this is of course not reason enough. We are forever indebted to our forebears. To my great-grandparents who kept Judaism alive in the most difficult of conditons, long enough to pass it onto their children, to my paternal grandmother who weathered life's most horrendous of challenges, loss and tragedy, who not only survived in the most miraculous of ways but who went on to to build a strong Jewish home. Which brings me to the present day. To my own reasons for carrying it on, for running with the torch.
The photo above is of my maternal great-grandparents who did not perish, but who were already living comfortably in England, who never saw the horrors of Poland or nazi Germany. They too were amazing people who left astounding legacies behind - renowned for their charitable work, for their open home - they often took in refugees and the downtrodden, they had a remarkable reputation. The steps leading up to the golden Aron Kodesh, the holy ark in the synagogue of the famed Ponevezh Yeshivah, are named for them. When I light my candles every Friday at sunset, I do it because in my heart I believe in what I'm doing, in serving G-d through Torah and mitzvot, I connect to Him in my own, personal way, and hadlikat nerot is one of the more beautiful traditions. But I'm also doing it because of my wonderful grandparents and great-grandparents, those who perished and those who survived, entirely because each of them retained their loyalty to yiddishkit despite and often because of the situation and place in life chosen for them.
I often wonder to myself why the world seems such a difficult place to be, why I have been dealt an unfair hand, even though I am truly blessed beyond measure in so many ways, sometimes things just seem too hard. I think of my Bobba, z"l, who survived so much worse, and I know I carry on for her - because she's watching me, keeping an eye on me. As a child and even today I am told I look like her, that I have her hands, her creativity. It is an immeasureable gift to be told you have inherited traits from people you knew only as a child, but who have impacted upon you in countless, tangible ways.
I light my candles once a week in gratitude to Hashem, because He has given me so much. But I continue to do it - I strike that match, wait for the wick to catch, wave my hands 3 times over my candles, cover my eyes, recite the blessing - every single week, only because I have my grandmother right next to me. Peeping over my shoulder, checking the length of my skirt, keeping me in check, reminding me that life can throw much, much worse at us... but we dont give up. Am yisrael chai.