reflections on remembrance and democracy
On January 6, 2022, I woke up at 4:00 a.m., finally giving up on sleep after six restless hours of insomniac angst. The day before, I expected to face the anniversary of the Capitol insurrection with reflection and relief – my friends working in the building were OK, the National Guardsmen patrolling my neighborhood kept me safe, the Inauguration concluded without incident. But this year, January 6 was the Groundhog Day of collective trauma: we just entered year three of an ongoing mass-casualty event, and the issue-attention cycle shifted from the Omicron surge to the impending promise of filibustered voting rights bills. Last year, when the Capitol was cleared and the election finally certified, I felt overwhelmed with hope; this year, I logged-in to work, ready to restore trust faith in our sacred, representative government, but feeling as though I was rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.
For the last 9 months, I’ve served as Chief of Staff for the Partnership for American Democracy. I was recruited by the CEO in April 2021 – three months after the Capitol insurrection – to join as the first hire of this new, nonpartisan social venture charged with accelerating democratic renewal. In the middle of a pandemic, I transitioned from a stable and rewarding job influencing antiracism interventions at a large professional services firm to join a brand new nonprofit. The edifice of our democracy was burning, and the virus of authoritarianism felt increasingly existential as the one overwhelming our hospitals. Our nation’s attempt at public health mitigation and my corporate DE&I work were becoming more obscure in the smoke, and I felt no choice but to run into the flames.
My call to fight authoritarianism transcends this moment in American governance. As a third-generation Holocaust survivor, part of what pulls me to this work is the inextricable link between antisemitism and the degradation of democracy. As the Atlantic’s Yair Rosenberg so poignantly put it in his recent response to the hostage crisis at Beth Israel Congregation in Colleyville, Texas, antisemitism is “not merely a social prejudice; it is a conspiracy theory about how the world operates.” The conspiratorial currents that characterize Jews as omnipotent puppeteers of public life means that to be antisemitic is to be anti-democratic. Last January, I was reminded how years before the Holocaust, Hitler, too led an attempted coup that failed to overthrow the government but succeeded in fortifying Nazi propaganda. Last week, I panicked for 11 hours while a gunman, emboldened by the antisemitic rhetoric undeniably reverberating in anarchist threads on 4Chan and Telegram, held my brethren hostage in their house of worship. Every year growing up, my Savta (grandmother) shared her Holocaust story with my class, recalling with unwavering resilience her trauma in Auschwitz; now, every day at work, I fight to stave off the worst outcomes of democratic backsliding undoubtedly capable of similar atrocity. Some days, it feels as though we’ve already failed.
For this reason, I’ve broadened my definition of democracy beyond institutional channels to include interpersonal experiences. Just as my generational trauma implores me to make “Never Again” more than a maxim, so does my Jewish identity remind me that the notion of belonging is as inherent to a thriving democracy as political practices. Biblically, I am commanded to always welcome the stranger; personally, I feel a responsibility not only to befriend but to empathize, understand, and advocate. At work, I strive to model in our team the pluralism and inclusion we aim to achieve beyond our workplace. When so much of our time is spent isolated – physically at the home office, or politically in our own echo chambers – the workplace provides an organic forum for democracy in action. Outside work, I am president of Jewish Women International’s Young Women’s Impact Network, dedicated to women’s empowerment, safety, and economic mobility. I lead a space for social cohesion and affirmation that women’s voices belong in the decisions affecting their futures.
Today is January 27, 2022 – International Holocaust Remembrance Day. It’s been 21 days since the first anniversary of the insurrection, 12 days since the attack on the Colleyville congregation, and 77 years since the liberation of Auschwitz. Whenever and wherever my Savta spoke about the Holocaust, she would end on the same anecdote. “Equilibrium” was one of the first English words Savta read, and its scientific definition was eclipsed to become her enduring philosophy:
“I promised I would live a life in equilibrium. I would remember my past and keep it alive so that future generations would not allow another Holocaust to happen anywhere in the world. But, at the same time, I would live each day to the fullest and enjoy life and try to be happy.”
Today, I recommit to Savta’s pursuit of equilibrium. On International Holocaust Remembrance Day, against the rising twin tides of authoritarianism and antisemitism, I vow to live her legacy. I will dare to be vocal in my Jewish joy even – especially – when doing so is a vulnerability.
If my grandmother’s memory is to be for a blessing – zichrona l’vracha – I’m reminded that maintaining conviction in this uphill battle for democracy is not a professional calling but a moral imperative. I am fully enfranchised by my birthplace, the color of my skin, and my economic status, and this privilege is power if we wield it collectively. Democracy is created in our communities, bolstered in our boardrooms, and modeled in the exchanges of our relationships. I will continue my advocacy in the citadels of government, knowing I belong in our democratic processes. And when I get to the negotiating table, I’ll pull out a chair for someone whose perspective belongs in the design of our democracy but has never before been offered a seat.
