WE ARE ALL SURVIVORS

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I often think about the fact that I’m a survivor.

Not in the dramatic, Hollywood sense. I didn’t dodge bullets or hide in a cellar for two years. But still — the word fits. My very existence is a miracle, wrapped in layers of survival stories that, honestly, should never have had happy endings.

My father was born in Nazi Germany. After Kristallnacht, when things turned dark — and they turned dark very fast — his parents managed to escape with him. He was just a year old. Had they stayed even a little longer, it’s almost certain my father and his parents would have been swept up, like so many others, into the inferno of the Holocaust. His grandparents — my great-grandparents — weren’t so lucky. They never made it out. They were murdered in the camps.

My mother’s story is even more hair-raising. She was born right in the middle of the war, in 1941, in Nazi-occupied Holland. A non-Jewish couple had the courage — the unbelievable courage — to take her in as a newborn and raise her as their own, risking everything. Her parents spent two-and-a-half years hidden behind a closet in a sympathetic gentile friend’s home. But again, their parents and countless relatives weren’t as fortunate. They perished. Murdered by the Nazis.

So I grew up knowing — feeling — that I am here because of a few miraculous turns. I am a survivor.

And that brings me to Parshas Shemini.

In Shemini, we read about one of the most incredible moments in Jewish history: the inauguration of the Mishkan. The Divine Presence, the Shechinah itself, was descending into the world! It was Rosh Chodesh Nissan — there was music, there was joy, there was an overwhelming sense of spiritual excitement.

And then — tragedy. Two of Aharon’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, bring a “foreign fire” into the sanctuary, and they are instantly struck down.

In the aftermath, the Torah tells us: “Moshe spoke to Aharon and to Elazar and Itamar, his surviving sons.” Hanosarim. The ones who remained. The survivors.

Rashi points out something chilling: Elazar and Itamar weren’t just the lucky ones who were left standing. No. They were supposed to die, too. The decree was hanging over them — a consequence of Aharon’s involvement in the Golden Calf. It was only because of Moshe’s fervent prayer that half the decree was canceled, and they were spared.

Which means that Elazar and Itamar were survivors in the truest sense. Not because they were better. Not because they were smarter. Simply because God, in His infinite mercy, gave them another chance.

Rav Dov Zev Weinberger, in his Shemen HaTov, says something so powerful. When we say “survivors,” we usually think about those who made it through the Holocaust — through the ghettos, the camps, the hiding places. And of course, their survival is a miracle beyond comprehension.

But it’s a mistake to think that only they are survivors.

Every Jew alive today — every single one — is a survivor. Hitler didn’t just want to destroy the Jews of Europe. He wanted to wipe out every Jew, everywhere. We were all in his crosshairs. Had he succeeded — and he came far too close — no matter where we lived — Britain, America, Australia, South Africa — we would have been next.

So if we are here, it’s not because we were out of reach. It’s because God, in His kindness, allowed us to survive.

We are Elazar and Itamar. The decree was on us, too. But somehow, we were spared.

And that’s why I want to talk about October 7th.

After Simchas Torah 2023, everything changed. The barbarism we witnessed — the slaughter, the kidnappings, the sheer cruelty — reminded us, in the most horrifying way, that the forces of Amalek are alive and well. And yet, here we are. We survived. Make no mistake: if those terrorists had their way, every one of us would be dead.

Which means that you and I, and every Jew today, are hanosarim. The surviving ones.

And just like Elazar and Itamar couldn’t just go back to life as usual, we can’t either.

Survivors don’t just survive. They live with purpose. They know they were spared for a reason.

And so each of us has to ask: What am I meant to do with this life I’ve been given? How can I honor those who weren’t given the same chance? How can I take the miracle of survival and turn it into a mission?

It doesn’t have to be grand. It just has to be real. More Torah. More mitzvos. More acts of kindness. More connection to Hashem. That’s the first level.

And then there’s the broader scale: standing up for Israel, fighting antisemitism, ensuring that no Jew feels abandoned or alone.

Because if you’re here — if you survived — it means God is counting on you.

We are all survivors. And we all have a job to do.

Don’t let it go to waste.

(This article is partly based on a shiur given by Rabbi Yissocher Frand in 2024)