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I can’t forget what the Nazis did to my family, but I can be grateful to a repentant Germany

(JTA) — Picture a cute-looking, 6 1/2-year-old girl with curly braided hair. She is standing on a sidewalk, on a cold, dreary day in Leipzig, Germany, together with her parents and my wife and me. My granddaughter Vivi is staring intently at a 75-year-old worker, kneeling on the ground. He is digging a hole through the pavers to install several 4” x 4” brass plaques mounted on cement cubes — memorials to relatives who perished at the hands of the Nazis more than 80 years ago.

In February, we traveled 9,500 miles round-trip to dedicate 12 Stolpersteine plaques in memory of relatives I never knew, or even knew I had. (All 16 of my family members would have stood with us that day, but Germany’s airport worker strike canceled the others’ flights.) They were just some of my late father’s aunts, uncles and cousins who were murdered in the Holocaust, and we regarded the ceremony as a pseudo-levaya, a quasi-funeral that would be the final act of respect and farewell Hitler had denied my relatives.

I couldn’t have imagined, 60 years earlier when I first visited Germany, that I would ever return in a spirit approaching forgiveness, or that I’d feel a deep connection to a country that was once synonymous with brutality, pain, humiliation and suffering. 

Stolpersteine, a German word meaning “stumbling block,” refers to a design brilliantly conceived by the non-Jewish German artist Gunter Demnig in the early 1990s. Installed in front of the homes where innocent Jewish victims last freely lived, the brass plaques simply and artistically memorialize, honor and personalize those brutally persecuted. On each plaque are engraved the victim’s name, dates of birth and death. As Demnig once said, “A person is only forgotten when his or her name is forgotten.” Hence, 100,000 of his plaques throughout Europe remind us that Jews are part of a shared history, and a common memory. 

Whether consciously or not, the “stumbling pedestrian” instantly recalls the extraordinary evil unleashed by ordinary people, on once vibrant Jewish communities, and the terrorized Jewish neighbors who lived within them. This evil was driven by a blind loyalty to a gratuitous hatred of “the other,” meaning non-Aryans.  

Who were these relatives I recently memorialized? Recently uncovered documents suggest my relatives were all decent, law-abiding citizens who contributed to Leipzig’s economy, enriched its cultural life and strengthened its social fabric. Sadly, being model citizens did not spare them from torturous fates.

One of those relatives, Elfriede Meyerstein, my paternal grandfather’s sister, was born Feb. 27, 1871 in Breslau. At 20, she came to Leipzig where her husband Menny ran a textile trading company with his family. They lived at the same address for many years. By 1931, after Menny’s death, she lived with her daughter Käthe Huth.

The Nazis, once in power, immediately expropriated Elfriede’s assets, comprising foreign stocks meticulously accumulated by Menny. The Nazi “Ordinance on the Registration of Jewish Assets” of April 26, 1938, forced her to surrender those securities to the state. In 1939, shortly after Kristallnacht on Nov. 9-10, 1938, the Nazis collected a “reimbursement tax” as “atonement,” from Elfriede and the rest of Germany’s Jewish community, for the damage Nazis did that night.

Just prior to her Sept. 19, 1942 deportation to Theresienstadt at age 71, Elfriede was forced to sign a “home purchase agreement,” the Nazis’ final act of expropriation. The document falsely and cynically promised her a “retirement home,” with free lifetime accommodation, food and medical care, but paid for by her, in advance. The Reich Security Main office confiscated 65,000 Reichsmarks ($300,000 in today’s currency). Her “retirement home” was in a ghetto with disastrous hygienic conditions, starvation, and no medical care. Elfriede died one month later.

After considerable soul-searching and three visits to Germany, spaced over 60 years, my attitudes and feelings today, vis a vis Germany and its citizens, are dramatically different from when I first visited in 1966.

Then, I came with unprocessed emotional baggage. In 1939, my father, Ralph Meyerstein, fled Dusseldorf and my mother, Cecily Geyer, fled Dresden, both for England. My paternal grandparents, Alfred and Meta Meyerstein, were deported from Dusseldorf on Nov. 8, 1941, to Minsk, where they were killed. My maternal grandmother, Salcia, was deported to Riga in January 1942; in November 1943 she was sent to Auschwitz and murdered.

My parents met in Ware, a small town north of London, where some German Jews took refuge. They moved to London where they married during the Blitz and we came to the United States in December 1947.

The German-issued ID card of Max Israel Meyerstein, the author’s great-uncle, who was murdered by the Nazis in 1942 at the age of 80. (Courtesy Michael Meyerstein)

As an only child, I shouldered much of my parents’ guilt over abandoning their parents, even though it was their parents who, thankfully, had urged them to flee Germany. When retelling their survival story, my eyes still well up with tears, revealing a lifetime of trauma I’ve absorbed on their behalf. That first visit felt almost adversarial in tone. It was I, representing my parents’ personal losses and those of the Jewish people, versus Germany and Germans. I reacted viscerally to hearing guttural Deutsch being spoken. I eyeballed Germans on the street and asked myself: How old are they? Did they commit heinous crimes against my family and my people?

By 2018, when I dedicated a Stolpersteine in my maternal grandmother’s memory, my judgmental attitudes and harsh feelings had softened. Maybe I realized that 75 years later, the ordinary citizen on the street could not be held responsible for the carnage of the Holocaust. Also, working with non-Jewish German volunteers in planning the ceremony showed me their humanity, sensitivity and outright remorse for Nazism’s impact on my family and their German state. Their kindness was an atonement for a past not of their making.

My visit in February shed further light on my evolving relationship with Germany and Germans. Today’s Germany is doing teshuva, or repentance, by strengthening democracy, creating an inclusionary society, responding resolutely to far-right extremism, educating its young about the Holocaust, offering sanctuary to Jews fleeing Russia and Ukraine and being a true friend to the State of Israel. It also is supporting Jewish communal institutions, paying reparations to Israel, to individual victims and their descendants.

My relationship became much more nuanced upon learning that Germany was once home to five generations of my family, as far back as 1760, in the small town of Grobzig where Matthias Nathan Meyerstein was born. On our visit to its mid-17th-century Jewish cemetery, I gazed incredulously at the graves of Meyersteins. I saw schutzbriefen, documents issued by the reigning duke, that assured my ancestors protection, commercial privileges and religious rights. In the old Leipzig Jewish cemetery, I visited 12 relatives’ graves from the 1800s and 1900s, which reflected much about their secure socio-economic status.

Before my retirement, I never knew that Grobzig or Leipzig or other towns were in my family’s history. This discovery led to one conclusion: Unquestionably, 1933 to 1945 was a tragic anomaly in human history, and especially Jewish history. However, I must also gratefully acknowledge the Germany that sustained my family for over 300 years, and Jewish communal life for 1,700 years. 

Nazi Germany’s ill-treatment and intolerance of “the Other” still affects me today as I mourn my relatives’ death. On the other hand, I feel heartened by this sentiment written by a non-Jewish German who funded research about my family: “For me, as I am part of this country and its history, it will be a never-ending task to find ways to deal with this horrible past and most importantly, never to forget,” she wrote.

Navigating this complex relationship with Germany and Germans is intellectually and emotionally messy for Jews. My engagement with “the Other,” however, has been profoundly satisfying.

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The post I can’t forget what the Nazis did to my family, but I can be grateful to a repentant Germany appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.

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How Social Media Got Hamas Casualty Figures Wrong

A Palestinian man points a weapon in the air after it was announced that Israel and Hamas agreed on the first phase of a Gaza ceasefire, in the central Gaza Strip, October 9. Photo: REUTERS/Mahmoud Issa

As the Israel-Hamas ceasefire continues to hold, many analysts have begun examining available data to better understand Hamas’ casualties throughout the war. This is no easy feat, considering Hamas has consistently lied and inflated the civilian casualty figures. The reality of urban warfare provides other challenges for the IDF to count every eliminated terrorist.

Varying numbers regarding Hamas’ casualty figures have been recently touted on social media. But many of them lack sources, or a breakdown of the statistics.

Conversely, some analysts, such as HonestReporting board member Salo Aizenberg, have done an exceptional job at critically analyzing the available casualty numbers.

The Hamas-run Ministry of Health has reported over 70,000 deaths in Gaza, including civilians.

But closer examination of these numbers displays that it also includes an estimated 22,000-25,000 Hamas fighters, around 11,000 natural deaths, and 4,000 casualties caused by internal fighting amongst Gazans. With 1,000 deaths attributed to reporting errors, this suggests that 25,000 casualties were terrorists, and 36,000 were civilians.

One suggestion that has gained momentum on social media suggests that the actual number of Hamas casualties is double this number, at 50,000 combatant deaths.

However, pre-war estimates by the IDF suggest that Hamas had 35,000 combatants. US estimates believe that Hamas recruited 10,000-15,000 new combatants throughout the war. This means that if the IDF had killed 50,000 Hamas terrorists, there would be virtually no Hamas terrorists left — an analysis that is unfortunately not accurate.

The claim of 50,000 eliminated Hamas terrorists is based on an announcement by the Hamas-run Ministry of Social Development of the start of a new program that would provide NIS 500 to the widows of Gazans killed in the war.

By February 8, 2026, payments had been made to 19,306 widows, totaling NIS 9.653 million or over three million US dollars.

The Ministry of Social Development further stated that 50,000 widowed families were set to receive these benefits, implying that more than widowed wives would be receiving the payments. This is likely where some analysts misinterpreted Hamas’ statement and took it to mean that for every Hamas terrorist, one wife would receive a payment. However, this payment is not exclusively for the wives of terrorists, and not every Hamas combatant would have been married by the time of his death.

What these numbers do suggest, however, is that claims of unreported casualties are likely to be false. The ability to receive a payment for reporting a death would presumably encourage many Gazans to submit claims of being widowed.

Since the early days of the war, news outlets and influencers on social media have blindly repeated Hamas’ claim that the majority of casualties were women and children. The claim implied that the IDF was specifically targeting both groups.

Beyond this claim not being true — men of combat age account for around 46.7% of total casualties — data from the World Health Organization (WHO) displays that 603,000 children under the age of 10 were vaccinated at the beginning of 2025. This number exceeds the pre-war population of that age group, indicating that the overall population of young children has remained stable or even grown despite the war.

With births being the same as, if not higher than, pre-war numbers, the claims of underreported casualties and casualties disproportionately targeting children fall apart. Despite this data being publicly available and offering important information about the war’s human toll, it has received no attention in media coverage, allowing the misleading child casualty narrative to persist.

These two case studies of terrorist casualty statistics and the reported number of children under 10 during the war highlight the need to analyze all available data with scrutiny. It is not enough to rely on unverified claims about casualty figures. Instead, accurate conclusions must be based on transparent analysis conducted by credible analysts who rely on publicly available data, verifiable sources, and clear methodology. Only through rigorous examination can casualty figures be properly understood, rather than simply repeated without question.

The author is a contributor to HonestReporting, a Jerusalem-based media watchdog with a focus on antisemitism and anti-Israel bias — where a version of this article first appeared.

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We Are Fighting Hate; But Are We Building Jews?

Illustrative: Pennsylvania State Sen. David Argall addressed the more than 300 Jewish-day school students, parents and administrators gathered at the State Capitol in Harrisburg. Photo: Teach PA.

The Super Bowl ad showing a Jewish boy being bullied sparked intense conversation across the Jewish community about how we are investing our resources in the fight against antisemitism, and whether we are approaching the challenge in the right way.

Rising antisemitism has understandably pushed our community into a defensive posture, with enormous resources directed toward monitoring hate, raising awareness, and responding to dangerous rhetoric. Those efforts matter. But the Super Bowl moment also raises a deeper question: if this is what Jewish vulnerability looks like on the biggest stage in America, are we investing enough in what actually makes Jewish children strong?

History shows that by itself, fighting hatred has never been enough to secure the Jewish future. A generation raised primarily to react to antisemitism risks growing up defined by fear instead of by identity. Children need more than protection from hate. They need a strong connection to their own identity and community.

The past few years have been a painful reminder that we cannot rely solely on the outside world to safeguard Jewish life. Partnerships matter, but in moments of crisis, the Jewish community is reminded that our deepest strength has always come from within. That realization is shaping a quiet but meaningful shift in where many leaders and families believe our focus must go. Less looking outward. More building inward.

Investing in Jewish education is not a retreat from the fight against antisemitism. It is a long-term strategy for ensuring that Jewish life does not decline under pressure. You know where Jewish children are not bullied for being Jewish? In Jewish schools. You know where they learn to speak confidently about their heritage, to celebrate their traditions without embarrassment, and to see their identity as a source of pride? In Jewish schools.

In strong Jewish educational environments, children do not just learn history or holidays. They have a sense of belonging. They build friendships rooted in shared identity. They encounter teachers and mentors who model what it means to live Jewishly with confidence. When they later encounter antisemitism online, on campus, or in broader culture, they face it with a foundation of knowledge and self-respect, not confusion or isolation.

Jewish day schools are among the most powerful builders of Jewish identity. These schools answer the question that defensive campaigns cannot: not only “what is antisemitism?” but, “why am I Jewish, and why does it matter?”

At Teach Coalition, this belief shapes our work every day. Teach is the only national Jewish advocacy organization focused solely on expanding access to Jewish education. We work to ensure schools have the resources they need to thrive: funding for STEM, arts and music, transportation, lunches, and critical security support. We support policies that help schools stay strong, enhance quality, and establish new ones. We also help create pathways for families who once believed Jewish education was out of reach to find a place within it.

The impact of this work shows up where it matters most: at home and across communities. Parents describe children coming back singing songs, asking thoughtful questions about the holidays, and bringing a new sense of pride to the Shabbat table. The continuity of the Jewish people relies on Jewish education, which not only shapes students but also strengthens families and builds lasting communal roots.

The Super Bowl ad reminded us how exposed a Jewish child can feel. The real answer is making sure more Jewish children grow up surrounded by confidence, community, and pride. That work is happening every day in Jewish schools, supported by educators, families, and groups such as ours, who work to keep those schools strong and accessible. This is the future worth investing in.

Sydney Altfield is CEO, Teach Coalition.

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Inclusion Isn’t About Being the Same

An empty classroom. Photo: Wiki Commons.

“Same.” That’s what the two-year-old proudly proclaims when she wanders, cloppity clop, into the kitchen wearing her mother’s good heels and expensive jewelry. It’s also what the teenager is attempting to achieve when shopping for a new outfit or schoolbag, and what the business executive might have in mind when he orders the new luxury SUV that some of his colleagues were talking about in the office lounge. We have “made it,” it seems, when we are just like everyone else. It is that innate drive to achieve sameness that all too often diverts limited resources away from helping individuals to maximize their potential while still taking note of and honoring their differences.

This drive for sameness underlies so much in life: applied behavioral analysis, corrective surgeries, even a handicap in a round of golf — it’s all about leveling the playing field. The problem, however, with chasing the unattainable, is that it is a recipe for burnout, disappointment, and existential crises. 

In the world of learning disabilities, neurodivergence, genetic conditions, and a host of other differences, there is a disproportionate focus on being the “same.” While I can’t seem to put my finger on the “why,” there has certainly been an uptick, of late, of children and teens with very pronounced differences being shoe-horned into more mainstream learning environments. This happens despite the oft-mentioned idea in the world of education that we can’t “force a round peg into a square hole.” That thinking, however, is generally limited  to children who exhibit mild or less overt differences. Kids who need a little something extra: extra time on a test, extra attention from the teacher or paraprofessional staff, extra recess, or extra incentives. “Don’t let their differences be the cause of their slipping between the cracks of institutionalized education and development,” goes the rationale: acknowledge their unique needs and address those needs. 

But somehow, when the needs are indeed significant and overt; when the differences put their host in danger of being “othered,” then we do the opposite: we try to make them fit in, almost at all costs. Tremendous resources are invested in this group. Many of those resources are government sponsored, while others come from parents in the form of tuition or private therapies. Another significant source is philanthropic dollars. In addition to funding for these efforts, volunteerism plays a meaningful role in making “others” be “the same.”  

This approach does not and cannot work. As Australian disability advocate Stella Young quipped in her viral TED talk, “No amount of smiling at a flight of stairs has ever made it turn into a ramp.” The reality is that many students with learning or developmental differences are provided significant supports and adaptations to allow them to function within parameters specifically designed for people who are not like them. Eventually and necessarily, many of those supports disappear leaving so many of these individuals lost and frustrated, as they are unprepared to engage properly and independently with a world that runs counter to their unique experience.

To be sure, there are many ways in which certain kinds of support can, should, and are appropriately maintained in what we might call the real world, but these tend to be in the form of physical accessibility. A business is mandated to provide wheelchair access, for example, and options for the hearing and visually impaired are very commonplace. But to rewire a business or society for those who experience and process it differently is virtually impossible. 

Fear not: it really doesn’t have to be this way. If we engage all individuals from a place of acceptance and understanding, we can normalize not being “normal.” After all, isn’t that how teams work? The running back doesn’t have to be a lineman and there will only be one quarterback. And that’s fine. Sure, it can be uncomfortable to be different, but at the same time…does it really have to be?  

A student of mine, a fellow by the name of Meir, was once asked by a group of high school girls what it is like for him to have Down Syndrome. Without missing a beat, Meir replied: “Some people are tall and some people are short, some people are fat and some people are skinny, and I have Down Syndrome.” As simple as that. Differences are just…different. 

February is designated as JDAIM — Jewish Disability Awareness and Inclusion Month — specifically because February, with its 28 days (and sometimes 29), is the month that is not like the others. And that’s just fine for February. We need to realize that acceptance and inclusion doesn’t refer to fixing the “problem” or ignoring the difference. Telling or even silently suggesting to a fish that it is safe on land, would not bode well for the fish. As a matter of fact, that very thought is a fairy tale — one we know as Disney’s “The Little Mermaid.”

Rather, we all need to look differences right in the eye and welcome their uniqueness into our mostly mainstream world. We need to encourage those who are different to embrace their struggles and differences, and we need to be ready to do the same — with open arms and open minds. 

Avi Ganz is the program director of the Elaine and Norm Brodsky Yeshivat Darkaynu, a division of Ohr Torah Stone, which offers a unique year-in-Israel program for young adults with special needs.

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