A visit to Poland showed me that 'never again' is no longer a promise

I wasn’t truly a Jew until I visited Poland.

I do not have any direct family connection to anyone who directly suffered or was killed at the hands of the Nazis — and, as I have learnt, the rest of the world. My great-grandfather on my father’s side was Polish but moved to England before the First World War, and my mother’s family is Moroccan. I don’t know much about any other family lineage.

I went to Poland because I felt it was the right time for me to bear witness to the horrors and atrocities that the Jewish people endured in Europe in the last century.

I was inspired to join the trip primarily because it was being led by Tzvi Sperber and Rabbi Levene. I can honestly say this trip has changed my life, and I am deeply thankful to these phenomenal educators that G-d has blessed us with.

Those who managed to survive the camps (and I am really unsure how anyone did) survived for the most selfless of reasons: to ensure the continuity of the Jewish people.

When you witness even a tiny glimpse of how Jews suffered for so many years—before, during, and after the Holocaust—you can’t begin to imagine why anyone would want to survive. I find myself asking: why would mothers whose crying children were cruelly torn away from their embrace want to go on living? Why would fathers, who recognised their dead wife and child in a mass grave whilst being forced to sort through bodies, want to live to see another day? What for? No one survived for themselves — the pain would have been too great. They survived because they knew they had to, as Jews. Jew helped Jew to survive. They shared their blankets; they shared their bread.

The unimaginable strength of survivors who managed to rebuild their lives after experiencing the depths of real hell is a godly strength, given to them as Jews. They survived for the continuity of our story. I thank them from the bottom of my heart.

The abundance of sickening stories retold to us by Tzvi, the places of death we visited, the sheer evil of it all — how could this have happened? Why did the world turn its back on us? Where was humanity? It all sounds far too familiar.

Today, we buried the remains of Jews who were gassed on buses and then taken to Chelmno, where their bodies were burnt. We picked up tiny fragments of their bones – even teeth – which fill the ground in an open expanse of forest, a place of death. Today, people walk their dogs there. There is now a cycle path running alongside mass graves filled with Jews. We screamed out our own Hebrew names so they could hear that we were there for them and then recited Kaddish.

There are countless mass graves across all of Poland.

We visited ghettos and heard stories from before and after the Holocaust — stories of indignity and inhumanity. There are countless more stories we’ll never know, too many to tell. Today, we stood at the grave of four Bnei Akiva chanichim who were murdered by Poles in 1946, a year after the liberation of the death camps, simply because they were Jewish.

Looking back at yesterday, I feel that I was only half the Jew of who I am today.

Today, I have a deeper understanding of who I am. I’ve lived in the golden era of being Jewish. I’ve lived my whole life proudly wearing a Magen David, openly identifying with my religion, attending a Jewish school, and sending my kids to Jewish schools—all without a second thought. All my friends are Jewish. Sometimes it feels like our lives are one endless, joyous Jewish celebration. Our privileges are endless.

Until 7 October, I could never have imagined that changing—not in my lifetime, or in my children’s. But now I realise: my era is a blip in history. Our history is one of persecution — of hatred for the Jews. It’s a cycle, and it’s coming back. We were all born into a time when the world felt guilty for what they had allowed to happen to us. We were given Israel. We’ve been allowed to live as regular citizens across the world, to be educated, to be successful, to add value to society. But how long will that last?

As time passes—as survivors die, as generations grow unfamiliar with the stories of the Holocaust, as it all becomes something merely read about in school history books (if the curriculum allows)—Jewish hatred grows; their voices start to drown ours out.

As Jews, we all have a duty: to bear witness to the horrors, to try to grasp even a fraction of what Jews in Europe endured, so that our brothers and sisters know they are not alone. We need our children—and their children, and theirs after them—to never stop visiting our family, to never stop reciting Kaddish over the mass graves of Jews. Otherwise, we risk it happening again. And this incredible community, this family, this blessing, will cease to exist.

Israel isn’t a luxury — it’s a necessity. There has never been a more important time to come together, to share our blankets, to educate our children, and to go on our own journey of reflection and of Jewish identity.

Never again is now.

Alessandra Corin, a dedicated mother of 3, is currently studying to become a nutritionist and regularly volunteers for Gift, most recently supporting IDF widows and their children.