I was born shortly after the end of World War II, a third-generation American Jew, and my life has been one of good fortune, blessed by post-war prosperity (mostly for whites), a loving, educated family, and what seemed to be the end of overt antisemitism in the United States. No more lynchings of Jews, no more Father Coughlins or Henry Fords preaching publicly about the danger of Jews. We said, “Never again,” and mostly believed it was true.
Yet the Holocaust has always lurked in the background. I have lived in its shadow, thinking often about the sheer random good luck of being born at a time and in a place where I could live a good life. And often, I ask myself: What would I have done if I had lived in Europe in the 1930s and 1940s?
A very small example: I woke up the other day not feeling well. Nothing awful, just weak and a little nauseous. I was cold, and I didn’t want to get out of bed. And since I am retired and it was snowing, I didn’t have to.
But all I could think about as I burrowed deeper into my comfortable bed was my beloved “adopted mother” Libby, who spent most of her teenage years in a ghetto and then in six Nazi prison camps, starving and cold and sick from typhus and tuberculosis. She knew that all of her family had been murdered and that if she did not get up every morning to break up rocks for roads or go on a forced march in the cold to another camp, she very likely would have been shot. What if I woke up in a camp feeling sick and didn’t want to get up, as I felt the other day in dramatically less severe circumstances? Would I have just given up?
What if, on the other hand, I had been a part of the majority Christian population during that era? I grew up hearing many conversations asking how non-Jews could have turned, almost overnight, against their Jewish neighbors, many of whom had been friends. How could they have watched in silence (or actively collaborated) when people were being arrested, expelled and murdered all around them? What would I have done, knowing that the people being removed from their homes and loaded on trucks in front of my eyes were likely to be killed, and also knowing that if I said anything, I would be arrested. Would I have had the courage to be one of the “righteous among the nations,” those who hid and protected Jews at great risk to their own lives? Or would I have looked the other way, cowered in fear, pretended it wasn’t happening, or rationalized that, after all, they were Jews and not worth the risk?
I am not happy with my answers to these questions. I don’t see myself as strong or courageous enough to keep going as a victim or risk my life as an observer. But I am so grateful that Libby did not give up and encouraged others around her to do the same. She survived to bless us with her joy, love and delightful laughter until she turned 97.
Of course, I would like to think I would not watch in silence while others were persecuted. Here we are, eighty years after the end of the war, and we Americans are watching people being rounded up in their homes and workplaces, arrested and incarcerated and expelled to dangerous situations. And many of us might think, ‘Well, they are criminals, so it’s not too bad.’ Then we learn that many are simply defined as criminals for seeking refuge in the United States.
My grandparents immigrated to the United States from Lithuania at the end of the nineteenth century. At the very same time, the Chinese Exclusion Act made people seeking to enter the US from China into criminals. Were my grandparents and the millions of others who came from Southern and Eastern Europe better people than the Chinese who wished to immigrate? I’m sure they were not. But the laws made it possible for some to enter and create a life for themselves and their families and for my existence to have been a possibility. They were legal; the Chinese were illegal.
In the 1920s, new laws were passed, almost closing the doors entirely to Jews, Italians and other “undesirable” groups. While my life was possible due to one set of immigration laws, members of my family were murdered as a result of a second set. And now millions of people who seek the same promise of America as my grandparents did are being hunted down. These laws are arbitrary, driven by the prejudices and politics of the day. Today’s immigrants are no more criminal than my grandparents were, except for the change in the law.
At the same time, around the world, people are being attacked and forced out of their homes and are living in dire circumstances. Millions in Gaza and Lebanon and tens of thousands of Israelis living under the constant barrage of rockets have lost their homes and despair of returning. Their leaders have betrayed them.
I have to ask myself, “What am I doing now?” and not just speculate about what I would have done in Nazi-run Europe. Am I any different from the “good Germans” who watched in silence or looked away? What happened to “Never again?”
Since the 2024 American election, many people who oppose the new regime are struggling with despair, while others are doing whatever little thing they can to oppose the horrors. I do what I can by supporting organizations that work hard every day to protect democracy, justice and human rights in the US and Israel in particular. These are two countries whose ideals I hold precious, whose people I mostly feel strongly connected to, but whose governments’ actions deeply distress me.
What I do is not nearly enough; alone, I can fall into the trap of feeling hopeless. But when I join in community with others, individuals and groups that refuse to be silent about the hatred and dehumanization and violence tearing our country and world apart, I feel less despair and more hope. I keep my sights set on a more just, more equal, more kind future. I take whatever small steps I can to be a part of the millions of people working to get us there, by calling my elected officials, working for change at both local and national levels, and donating more. I welcome you to join me and the many smart courageous people who are leading the way.
I will always continue to be inspired by Libby’s example, her will to survive and her ability to overcome catastrophe while helping others do the same. And her expressions of joy even in the hardest of times. I hope we all can take a lesson from Libby, getting up each morning, no matter how hard it is, determined to survive another day and thrive over the long term.
Dr. Judith N. Lasker is Professor Emerita of Sociology and Health Medicine and Society at Lehigh University. She earned a B.A. at Brandeis and a Ph.D. at Harvard. Her teaching and research focused primarily on women’s health and global health. She is the author most recently of Hoping to Help; The Promises and Pitfalls of Global Health Volunteering, and is working on a follow-up book called (for now) Parachutes to Partnerships; Global Health Changes Course.
Lasker has two incredible daughters and three gorgeous young grandchildren, one in Israel and two in the US. These three young children are blessed by the spiritual legacies of many generations of rabbis and of their adopted great-grandmother, Libby Golomb, who grew up in Oszmiana, Poland. Lasker has been a supporter of J Street for many years, and she fervently hopes that her children and grandchildren will know a world in which peace and justice (and clean air and water) prevail.