I did not intend to write about Yom Hashoah this year. Sometimes you feel you’ve said all there is to say. And in the case of the Holocaust, I am really tired of seeing the memories kicked around in the name of political ideology. I cringe when visiting heads of state are taken to Yad Vashem rather than schools for gifted children, places like Neve Shalom and innovative hi-tech companies; I am appalled when I hear that (non-Israeli) Jewish teenagers who don’t know the difference between Genesis and Judges, can’t speak Hebrew and have never heard about the 500 year history of the Jews in Spain are nonetheless able to recite names of concentration camps; and I am disgusted when I read comparisons between the Palestinian-Israeli armed conflict and the death camps. Lately, a lot of people have made me feel like yelling, “Shut up and have some respect, moron.” (Bert has a more intelligent response, here). But I was raised in Canada, so I am polite. Usually.
There’s no denying that we Jews are still grappling with a collective trauma that is visited unto the third generation - and probably beyond. Today, for example, I read about a man who walked into a Tel Aviv tattoo parlor to have his father’s concentration camp number copied onto his own forearm. And right now I’m reading Daniel Mendelsohn’s The Lost, which is reviewed here.
Last year my mother sent over “my library” - 15 boxes of books that I’d collected over the decade I lived in New York and then left behind when I went off gallivanting around the world. As I unpacked them eight years later, it was almost embarrassing to see how many of those books were novels and historical accounts about the Holocaust. Wait, didn’t I have a whole bunch of books on ancient Rome, existentialist philosophy, Baroque music and contemporary architecture? Um, apparently not so much. There I was, thinking that I was this secular, worldly, urban type, but my boxes of books told the truth: From Judtith Kerr’s When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit to Tom Segev’s The Seventh Million, I was just as obsessed and bent over under the burden of memory as the next Jew.
Yesterday afternoon on Rothschild Boulevard I saw another piece of installation art that attempts to address this issue of collective memory. (I’m hoping the artist will replace the turf at some point!).
It is called “Broken Jew: Memory as a Genetic Scar.”


The anonymous artist left the following explanation tied to the railing with a yellow ribbon - to match the yellow star, a replica of the one German and Austrian Jews were forced by the Nazis to wear. Translation below.

BROKEN JEW
(Memory as a Genetic Scar)
Plaster orthopedic mould for the rehabilitation of back problems as a reflection of a society with post-traumatic stress disorder.
The heavy weight of memory on our spine.
Related posts
If you liked my post, feel free to subscribe to my rss feeds




































10 Comments so far (Add 1 more)
on May 1st, 2008 at 3:58 pm
on May 2nd, 2008 at 3:46 am
on May 2nd, 2008 at 12:21 pm
on May 2nd, 2008 at 7:10 pm
on May 2nd, 2008 at 8:45 pm
on May 3rd, 2008 at 4:50 pm
on May 4th, 2008 at 5:14 am
on May 4th, 2008 at 8:42 am
on May 4th, 2008 at 11:55 am
on May 5th, 2008 at 4:43 pm