Survivors of the Shoah, President Rivlin, Your Majesties, Your
Excellencies, Ladies and Gentlemen,
It is a particular honour, although one of the most solemn kind,
to be present here today, and, on behalf of the United Kingdom to commemorate
all those so tragically lost in the Shoah.
To come to this sacred place, Yad Vashem – “A Memorial and a
Name” – is to be faced with that for which no name, no words and no language
can ever possibly do justice.
The magnitude of the genocide that was visited upon the Jewish
people defies comprehension and can make those of us who live in the shadow of
those indescribable events feel hopelessly inadequate.
The scale of the evil was so great, the impact so profound, that
it threatens to obscure the countless individual human stories of tragedy, loss
and suffering of which it was comprised. That is why places like this, and
events like this, are so vitally important.
For many of you here, and for Jewish people across the globe,
those stories are your stories: whether you witnessed and somehow endured the
appalling barbarity of the Holocaust personally; or whether it touched your
lives through the experience of your loved ones, or through the loss of
parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts or other family you were never able to
know. But we must never forget that they are also our story: a story of
incomprehensible inhumanity, from which all humanity can and must learn.
For that an evil cannot be described does not mean that it cannot be
defeated. That it cannot be fully understood, does not mean that it
cannot be overcome.
And so it is of particular significance that we should gather
here, in Israel, where so many of those who survived the Holocaust sought and
found refuge, and built a new future for themselves and this country.
In the same way, it has been a singular privilege, throughout my
life, to have met so many Holocaust survivors who were welcomed to the United
Kingdom and who began new lives there, contributing immeasurably to the welfare
of our country, and the world, in the years that followed.
I have such inspiring memories of remarkable people such as
Anita Lasker-Wallfisch, who somehow survived both Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen
before moving to Britain after the war. There, as a wonderfully talented
cellist, she co-founded the English Chamber Orchestra, of which I am proud to
have been Patron for the past forty-three years.
On her arm she bears the number by which tyranny had sought to
make her less than human. Yet, through her music, she reminds us of the
greatest beauty of which we are capable. Over the years, she has shared
her story bravely and powerfully, determined that some good might come from the
unspeakable evil she endured and overcame. From the horror, she brought
harmony, healing and hope.
Just as each life lost in the Shoah stands for all the millions
who died, each inspirational story such as that of Anita Lasker-Wallfisch,
stands for the strength of spirit, the unparalleled courage, the determined
defiance, of the very best of humanity when confronted with the very worst.
For my own part, I have long drawn inspiration from the selfless
actions of my dear grandmother, Princess Alice of Greece, who in 1943, in
Nazi-occupied Athens, saved a Jewish family by taking them into her home and
hiding them.
My grandmother, who is buried on the Mount of Olives, has a tree
planted in her name here at Yad Vashem, and is counted as one of the Righteous
among the Nations – ḥasidei ummot ha`olam – a fact which gives me, and my
family, immense pride.
Ladies and Gentlemen, almost a lifetime has passed since the
horror of the Holocaust unfolded on the European continent, and those who bore
witness to it are sadly ever fewer. We must, therefore, commit ourselves
to ensuring that their stories live on, to be known and understood by each
successive generation.
Anita Lasker-Wallfisch has said: “there is a risk that the Holocaust
will be placed under a glass bubble just like the Napoleonic Wars or the Thirty
Years War. But if we don’t make the connection between memories of past
atrocities and the present, there isn’t any point to it.”
She is, it seems to me, absolutely right. The Holocaust
must never be allowed to become simply a fact of history: we must never cease
to be appalled, nor moved by the testimony of those who lived through
it. Their experience must always educate, and guide, and warn us.
The lessons of the Holocaust are searingly relevant to this day.
Seventy-five years after the Liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau, hatred and
intolerance still lurk in the human heart, still tell new lies, adopt new
disguises, and still seek new victims.
All too often, language is used which turns disagreement into
dehumanisation. Words are used as badges of shame to mark others as
enemies, to brand those who are different as somehow deviant. All too
often, virtue seems to be sought through verbal violence. All too often,
real violence ensues, and acts of unspeakable cruelty are still perpetrated
around the world against people for reasons of their religion, their race or
their beliefs.
Knowing, as we do, the darkness to which such behaviour leads,
we must be vigilant in discerning these ever-changing threats; we must be
fearless in confronting falsehoods and resolute in resisting words and acts of
violence. And we must never rest in seeking to create mutual
understanding and respect. We must tend the earth of our societies so that the
seeds of division cannot take root and grow. And we must never forget
that every human being is be-tselem Elokim, “in the image of God,” and even a
single human life is ke-olam malei, “like an entire universe.”
The Holocaust was an appalling Jewish tragedy, but it was also a
universal human tragedy, and one which we compound if we do not heed its
lessons.
On this day, in this place, and in memory of the millions who
perished in the Shoah, let us recommit ourselves to tolerance and respect; and
to ensuring that those who lived through this darkness will forever, as in the
words of the prophet Isaiah, be “a light unto the nations,” to guide the
generations that follow.