By Theodore Schill, co-president, Durham University Jewish Society.
Holocaust Memorial Day is often framed as a moment to look back, to remember the six million Jews murdered in the Holocaust alongside the many other victims of Nazi persecution. However, I’ve come to experience the day not only as an act of remembrance, but as a responsibility that lives on in the present day.
For me and a planet of fellow Jews, the Holocaust isn’t some distant historical abstraction. It’s something inherited through family histories defined as much by absence as by presence, stories that we wish in vain had happy endings, relatives whose names appear on plaques but not at dinner tables, and an acute awareness that Jewish life has always existed alongside its own fragility. Even for families spared direct loss, the knowledge of what was possible, and how quickly it could have happened, lingers as a quiet hum in the background of our everyday lives.
On campus, Holocaust Memorial Day invites us to pause in a space usually defined by urgency and debate. Universities thrive on argument, critique, the testing of ideas… yet remembrance asks for something different: attentiveness, humility, and care. It asks us to sit with the fact that the Holocaust didn’t begin with camps and gas chambers; it began with words, exclusionary practices, and the sure, steady erosion of a society’s moral fortitude. That awareness resonates in the present day. At Durham, I have experienced both profound support and moments of discomfort. There are times when I feel I am surrounded by peers who listen, learn, and engage thoughtfully. There are also times when I see firsthand the weight of misunderstanding, when my identity feels hyper-visible, or when I sense the need to choose my words and explanations carefully. In those situations, remembrance becomes not only about the past, but about creating a present in which minority students feel safe to exist as themselves, without having to explain or defend that existence. Jewish students, in particular, often navigate conversations where questions about our identity, our faith, or our heritage intersect with global conflicts in ways that can feel confusing, painful, or misrepresented. History reminds us that oversimplification, misinformation, and blind assumption can have consequences far beyond the classroom or the debate stage. We’ve seen how societies unravel when hatred becomes normalised and when empathy is rationed.
What gives me hope is the small ways remembrance can take shape: not only through ceremony, but through engagement. Small acts can carry real weight. Listening without rushing to respond, asking thoughtful questions, and standing with others facing prejudice are all ways of practicing the responsibility that Holocaust Memorial Day asks of us: to pay attention, act with care, and confront apathy and misinformation wherever they appear.
I don’t observe Holocaust Memorial Day for comfort or easy answers. I observe it as a reminder that vigilance is a daily practice, and that the lessons of history are carried forward through the choices we make: how we speak, how we listen, and how we treat one another when faced with hatred, misunderstanding, or injustice. Holocaust Memorial Day is a moment of mourning, but also a moment of resolve. It calls on us to remember honestly and to ensure that the responsibility of memory informs the present as much as it honours the past. In doing so, we honour not only those who were lost but also the enduring commitment to justice, empathy, and the moral courage to act.
Image credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Lighted_candles_on_dark_background_13.jpg
John's Chronicle 
