Seis Millones

I just thought some families would gather, a survivor would talk, we'd light candles, and say a prayer remembering everyone who perished in the Holocaust.  But, 800 seats, filled, with more commemorators standing on the fringe of the aisles? I couldn't have expected that.

The community-wide Holocaust Remembrance Ceremony took place at the Conservative synagogue, just behind the large mall down the street. As we approached the synagogue, cars were lining the block near standstill. The parking spilled over into the mall lot.

When we walked through the entrance, I was transported to a surreal oasis of grandiose modern architecture, a grassy area, quiet fountains and hundreds of teenage chileans in matching scarves. The youth groups came out and represented en mass, Hashomer HaTzair and Maccabi HaTzair emblazoned on the backs of their white button-downs.

I got a bunch of cheek kisses and realized it's a little strange all these people put their lips on my face, yet don't ask who I am or what my name is.

Max led me into the synagogue, where the passage toward the main sanctuary had been converted into a black-sheeted tent, the walls lined with photos from the Holocaust era and small yellow lights to guice you. A recording of music and voices set the context, until we entered the two-floored sanctuary. There, I was surrounded by a bold, vibrant melee of Chileans, gathering, remembering, and celebrating that despite tragedy, there exists this wild, spirited community.

The acto included national anthems of Chile and Israel, six candles lit by six survivors, six readings by six community rabbis, a modern dance by young girls, personal poems by madrichim - youth movement counselors, an address from the mayor and another from the Jewish community president, and one survivors tragic story of losing the only family member he had found alive after the war.

I wanted to write something really meaningful and beautiful, something that would bring you to the brink of tears, but I can't. I can't convey what it's like to be in a full 800-person sanctuary that feels somehow like a small family. It's like they grieve together and they celebrate together. Wrinkled survivors clutching the arms of shiny-haired promising chanichim, the youth group future of the community. A slender daughter's hand wipes a grandmother's cheek and stabilizes her shoulder. A man bellowed his story into the microphone, with the most shocking and painful post-war accounts I have ever heard.

And I sat, quiet, watching, listening. Just trying to take it all in, and process, but I think that will take a while longer than a blog.