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Who Owns the Legacy for Holocaust Education?


Professor Lesley Shore
Ontario Institute of Studies in Education,
University of Toronto

(Keynote at an Event for Survivor Families, Educators and the Community hosted by The Second Generation Planning Committee, 2006)

You ask: “Who owns the legacy for Holocaust education?” Please consider another question: “Why, when our survivor community in Toronto is committed, politically aware and involved, has it not lobbied to ensure that Holocaust education is required in all Ontario schools? Why have the same benefactors who have spearheaded campaigns for social justice, the arts, the universities, and hospitals, whose imprint defines cultural life in this city, why have these same activists not championed the cause of public education about the Holocaust?” Yes, it is important to teach your own children. But no, it is not enough to teach your children. Everyone’s children need to learn these lessons. And the teachers of everyone else’s children, as the teachers of your own children, need to learn them first.

Let me share with you some of the things I have learned about other people’s children, both the students who visited the Anne Frank exhibit I brought to our faculty of education last year and the teachers who are my students in the courses I teach about Anne there.

A grade seven girl from a Catholic school asks: “How will this be remembered when all the survivors have died?” She lingers while her classmates head back to their buses after viewing the exhibit. “Who will make sure that this is not forgotten?” Her question catches me off-guard but the intensity of her gaze demands an answer.

“You will,” I tell her, and her eyes open wide to meet mine, tentatively accepting the challenge. “You and your classmates will remember this visit and what you learned here. You will keep this story alive, won’t you?” Holding my gaze, she nods quietly in assent. At almost the same age as Anne was when she wrote her diary, this girl anticipates that part of the responsibility for remembering the Holocaust has become hers.

A grade ten student in a Catholic girls’ school writes a poem “To Anne” which her teacher forwards to me in the weeks after the exhibit. One verse reads:

We watched you being led away
Eyes downcast, we refused to acknowledge your plight
We knew it wasn’t right
Yet better her than me
We let you pay the price

The poet’s name is Selamawit Ghebrehiwot; her friends call her Sel. She is the daughter of parents who came to Canada as refugees from Eritrea shortly before she was born. I believe that Sel will remember.

Joseph and Jessica are also students in the Catholic system. I discourage their teacher from bringing her grade four class to the exhibit. They are young, I tell her; it might be too difficult for them. “No,” she insists, “I know this class.” Like the other younger groups who visit, they come accompanied by some parents. While the students examine the panels of the exhibit, one mother approaches me. “That’s my daughter Jessica over there,” she points to a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl whose serious face reflects the depth of her engagement. “She’s really thinking hard about all of this. Her father is Jewish.”

When we gather to debrief, dark-eyed Jessica shoots her hand up. “Why did Hitler want only people with blond hair and blue eyes?” My answer seems wholly inadequate to her question. But she continues, “Did Hitler have blond hair and blue eyes?” Another hand waves wildly. “Did all the Nazis have blond hair and blue eyes?” “Is it true,” chimes another voice, “that Hitler was Jewish?” “Is it true that they hated the Jews because the Jews had more money than they did?” The questions come faster than I can respond to them.

Some time later Joseph raises his hand. With the wisdom of a philosopher, he speaks slowly and deliberately: “There is nothing logical in this. You are expecting this to make sense, but this makes absolutely no sense at all. Something like this can never make sense.” He shakes his head; his classmates’ agitation is suddenly stilled; they, too, are thinking. I believe that many of them will remember. They are nine years old. I have more confidence in the capacity of the young to remember the Holocaust than I do in many older people I know.

One day I noticed a young man in the exhibit because he spent the whole day there, listening to the students, reading every word on the panels. He was one of our teacher candidates. His classmate recommended the exhibit to him. “Do you know,” he told me, “before today I’d never heard of Anne Frank?” He was anxious to learn more; I gave him articles. He wrote back saying how much he appreciated them and sent me a quote he found about why we can’t ignore the Holocaust, how learning about it transforms us, requires us to be better human beings. His name is Fayaz Noormohammed. We assume that everyone learns about the Holocaust in school. They don’t. This year Fayaz is teaching for the Aga Khan Education Service in Tajikistan. I believe that the Holocaust will inform his teaching.

Toward the end of the Anne Frank exhibit an email arrived from a teacher at the Islamic Foundations School. She had been at the faculty the previous evening, noticed the exhibit and wondered if she could bring a group of her students. We were completely booked but I didn’t want these students to miss out so I rearranged two other visits to could squeeze this group in. Later that day a woman phoned to ask about the hours for the following day. She introduced herself as Emmy Van Tak and shared her particular reason for visiting this exhibit. As a young woman growing up in Holland, Emmy had been imprisoned for her work in the Dutch underground. Since she planned to arrive at the same time as the students from the Islamic school, I asked her if she would speak to them. It seemed important for this particular group to hear a witness to the Holocaust who was not Jewish. They listened carefully to her riveting recollection of the Nazi era in Holland; tentatively, they asked questions. Their teacher asked for Emmy’s number so that she could invite her to speak back at the school.

At St. Elizabeth’s Catholic high school, Jemille Chu-Morrison, a teacher in my Anne Frank course last year, convinced her principal to allow all the senior students in the school to view the film “Hotel Rwanda” and have first period the following morning to write letters of protest to the UN around their conduct in Darfur. Jemille and a group of her students got the media behind their efforts – they were featured on the BBC, the CBC, in the National Post, on Amnesty International’s website. They delivered 1800 letters from St. Elizabeth students and other students in York Catholic Board directly into the hands of Jan Egeland, UN Secretary for Emergency Relief in Darfur. Canadian ambassador Alan Rock heard they were coming and asked for permission to attend. The students continue to advocate for Darfur through an online petition. All this was inspired by one teacher who learned about the Holocaust through a course on Anne Frank.

As Jews we are taught not to turn away from a moral responsibility. We must remember. But at the same time we are not obliged to complete the task on our own. Let’s keep that in mind as we contemplate who owns the legacy for Holocaust education. Yes, the legacy is yours; first and foremost it is yours. No matter how many books we read or films we watch, nothing brings the Holocaust more clearly into focus than being in the presence of a survivor. You are the living legacy of your parents’ stories. Their experiences live on in and through you no matter where you are along the continuum of accepting responsibility for that. But you do not have to do this alone. There are people out there willing and able to share the work with you. And some of the most passionate among them are very young and not Jewish.

As difficult as their stories were to tell, your parents worried equally for your pain in hearing them. As parents they had even more reason to protect their children. Their own reticence to tell their stories was well matched by society’s reluctance to hear them. In those early post-war years who could have heard those stories without feeling guilty for what they hadn’t done? And who could have told them without feeling guilty for surviving?

In the late forties I was a child growing up in Winnipeg. My father’s family were early Jewish immigrants from Russia who had arrived in the summer of 1882 and slept in tents till the weather turned bad. But I grew up in the South end of the city; we had arrived. My late, dearly beloved parents did not teach me about the Holocaust. Who were they protecting – me or themselves? When, in grade eight, my social studies teacher pinned a swastika on the bulletin board at the back of the classroom while we were studying World War II, and my friends and their parents became enraged, came to the school, met with teacher and principal and insisted it be taken down, my parents and I said nothing, made no fuss, drew no attention to our Jewishness. Expiating my own guilt and theirs, for that moment and others in which not enough was done, for the willed gaps in my own education, for the times in my life where I felt more at home in non-Jewish settings than in Jewish ones, all that surely backgrounds my motivation to do the work I do now.

This reticence to talk about the Holocaust has been and still is mirrored in education. Everyone is guilty. To be human is to be implicated in the story of Holocaust and genocide because Holocaust and genocide now define the human experience. As Yehuda Bauer pointed out in his recent address to the UN, human beings alone among the mammals choose to murder their own kind in large numbers.

In the summer of 2000, Richard Monette, then artistic director of Ontario’s Stratford Festival Theatre, announced that he did not want to “let the twentieth century go by without having something on the Stratford stages about the most important event of the twentieth century – the Holocaust” (Gould, 2002). He chose to represent that event by staging the Diary of Anne Frank. But if the Holocaust was “the most important event of the twentieth century” and I agree that it was, how is it that schools don’t have to teach about it and students don’t have to learn?

A non-Jew brought me to understand my own responsibility in teaching about the Holocaust. My dear friend Carole Anne Reed mentored me first by inviting me to teach courses at the UJA Holocaust Centre and then in the now abandoned Diploma Program in Holocaust and Genocide Education (at our faculty of education) that she worked so hard to bring into being. The story of the arrival and abrupt demise of that program is a puzzling one. I will give you my own version of it here. It is by no means the whole story. I tell it so that you can appreciate how difficult it is to bring this agenda forward. I am not suggesting that the challenge of making Holocaust education mainstream is an easy one.

Why would it be any easier to teach about the Holocaust than it is to talk about it? How do we approach it with the proper measure of respect and reasoning and incorporate the difficult realizations about the nature of being human that it implies? No wonder most educators and designers of curriculum have avoided it. In part this has been because education, influenced by the positivist views of John Dewey, has preferred to contemplate human existence as a never-ending spiral of progress, moving always upward towards the light. This pervasive view is perhaps why so many of our youth are completely disconnected from a curriculum that in no way mirrors the pain, violence and disappointment that mark their own young lives.

Considering this context it was remarkable indeed when, some years, ago, a Jewish donor approached the faculty and offered to pledge one and a half million dollars towards a program of Holocaust and Genocide education. His gift was contingent on the university’s agreeing to raise matching funds to ensure the program’s endowment in perpetuity. New program proposals must pass through many administrative levels of approval; in the case of this program, approval was anything but automatic. At the most basic level there was difficulty finding a department to house the program because faculty refused to accept it in their own.

Two years later, when the meeting of faculty council began where the final vote for the acceptance of the program was to be held, there were not enough faculty members present for quorum. This meant that the vote would have to be conducted via email ballot instead. Do I need to tell you that, in the privacy of their own offices, my colleagues might have voted differently than they did when they had to raise their hands in public? Professor Hesh Troper, no stranger to you, went up and down the corridors chasing his colleagues out of their offices and cajoling them into coming to the meeting. People trickled into the room, one at a time. Shortly before the vote came up on the meeting’s agenda, the chair announced, “Oh good, now we have quorum.” The vote was unanimous in favour of the program.

That fall we welcomed the first group of twenty students. Their learning was electric. The graduates of that first cohort went on to take leadership roles in Holocaust education: Joan Shapero and Carson Philips are among them. By the beginning of the second year of their study there were concerns about the continuation of the funding. To match the one and half million dollars pledged by the donor, the two young in-house fund-raisers had managed to raise ten thousand dollars. The donor was, unquestionably, upset. There was new administration in the home department. Negotiations on both sides were tense and acrimonious. The donor withdrew his funding. The department honoured their commitment to the original cohort of students but admitted no more.

Genocide was the defining feature of the twentieth century; will it also define the twenty-first? I ask you to consider how important a program that attempted to understand that was. Thirty-five million people were killed during World War Two alone. More people than live in Canada today died on the heels of Hitler’s heinous dream of genocide. I ask you to think about how we lost this program at an institution that prides itself on being the most prestigious and innovative faculty of education in this country, at the largest university in this country.

The program did not receive the kind of internal support within the larger university community that it needed because of turf wars and territorialism. Some claimed that the courses weren’t academically rigorous enough. That was absolutely untrue. The Faculty of Education serves an entirely different population and speaks to a different need than traditional academic departments like history do. And the ripple effect our young teachers have on the face of education in this province over their long careers as teachers is inestimable. How can there be any argument at all about whether or not we need teachers to learn about the Holocaust? How can we expect teachers to teach about it if they have not learned about it first? Do we find it so easy to understand?

A couple of weeks ago when I was a guest speaker in another professor’s class, she asked me to tell her students about the Holocaust program. My colleague was shocked when I told her that there was no longer any program. As we left the class, she whispered to me, “but I was on the committee that had to approve that program. I fought for it; it wasn’t easy.” She is Catholic, married to a Jew. After the class she sent me information that she had copied from our faculty’s website describing the program; the last sentence reads: “Please note that this program is currently being reviewed and will not be accepting applications until further notice.” Still later she sent another email that announced the convocation date for students in this program. There have been no students in this program for two years.

Last year following the suggestion of a member of my Temple, I spoke to two highly-placed administrators to ask whether the program could be reinstated were new donors to be found. Both, individually, informed me that it was not “on the academic plan,” that it would have to pass through all the levels of academic and administrative approval once again, that its chances of approval would be substantially hampered by the fact that it had already been in place and floundered.

Now I discover that the program isn’t really gone at all, or is it? Or, more properly, why is it still there on the website in name alone? Is it there because some people believe that it’s in the university’s best interests to have it there? Jewish donors, after all, might want to know that the University of Toronto is supportive of their concerns.

When I was invited to bring the Anne Frank exhibit to the university, I approached the same donor who had funded the Holocaust program to ask if he would cover the costs of transporting the exhibit from New York to Toronto. The faculty had agreed to provide space for the exhibit but had no funding for it. Not wanting to step on the toes of the same young fund-raiser who had failed so miserably to raise matching funding for the Holocaust program, I made an appointment with her to tell her that I had approached the donor privately for these funds. At our meeting I lamented the demise of the Holocaust program. She told me quite indignantly that we had no one to blame but ourselves. After all, had we not been responsible for leaking word to the press that one of our department heads had circulated the Association of University Teachers’ petition to boycott Israeli academics? That news had been the kiss of death for Jewish donors, the young fund-raiser explained to me. “No one would go near the program after that.”

I staggered out of her office, stunned by her remarks. I didn’t ask where the other donors were, why she felt that the only possible donors to a program in Holocaust and Genocide education would have to be Jewish. Jews were at the forefront of every social justice initiative in North America; why could we never expect non-Jews to take up Jewish causes in like fashion? A recent Toronto initiative by non-Jews – FAST (Fighting Anti-Semitism Together) - has produced some wonderful new curriculum for which we are abundantly grateful. But there is more to be done with the excellent resources that FAST has produced. We need teachers with experience teaching in non-Jewish settings to teach other teachers how to use them, teachers like the students in my Anne Frank classes.

Kim Bartlett, one of my students, writes about why she chose this course:

Grandpa, as a member of the mechanical/tank unit was assigned concentration camp duty. He was one of the soldiers who had to go into the camps, take photographs; remove evidence, record numbers and bury the dead. It was a horrific duty, one that would plague him with nightmares for the rest of his life. He could never talk about it, even to grandma. She herself had lost her home (bombed) and some of her family, so he might have been protecting her. All I know is, my grandpa was a gentle kind man who couldn’t bear what he saw. As a Christian, he could not believe what humans did to one another. I was raised with this knowledge … I am here because I feel a responsibility to be. I owe it to every person who has had to suffer because of injustices, I owe it to my students so I can find ways to reach them and I owe it to my family to try to find a way to prevent if from happening again. I feel that I too bear witness for others.

Anne Frank was not, as she has frequently been dismissed, “just a little girl in hiding.” Like Joseph and Jessica, like Sel and the students at St. Elizabeth’s, like Kim and Jemille, she knew much more than adults give her credit for and wrote with an honesty many of us have abandoned. Whether we like it or not, Anne remains the best-selling non-fiction writer in the history of publishing and the most well-known witness to the Holocaust. Instead of quibbling about her authenticity as a witness, I have capitalized on her widespread appeal in framing my course and the work I do around it. Were it not for the unprecedented charisma of Anne’s text, I would not have been given permission to teach this course in my particular setting. And without Anne Frank I would have no platform for teaching about the Holocaust and anti-Semitism there at all. With Anne’s diary as an entry point, I can introduce these topics in an academic community that has consistently resisted creating a space for them.

On the strength of the public’s fascination with Anne Frank four thousand people came to our faculty library last year and learned about what the Nazis did. Thirteen hundred school children bore witness in some small way to that history and wrote notes to Anne that said “I am so sorry for what happened to you and your family” and “those things should never happen to the Jews again.” Will it make a difference in the long run? I don’t know. But I am the first to honour the critical part Anne Frank’s writing and Otto Frank’s positioning of his daughter as a universal symbol have played in this.

Nearly 1500 teacher candidates qualify as teachers with us every year; officially, they learn nothing about the Holocaust. In October, after I saw the movie “Paper Clips,” I approached our dean for permission to have continuous showings of the film on January 27th to honour UN International Holocaust Remembrance Day. A non-Jewish colleague who teaches math volunteered to help me with this. In the course of our work together, Ron asked me why none of my Jewish colleagues volunteered to take part. Rose, a black professor who studied and taught in Germany before coming to Toronto, attended one of our noon-hour workshops. “I don’t mean to insult you,” she began, “but is this all we do here to remember the Holocaust? Is this it?” I swallowed hard and told her that this was the first time we had done anything at all to officially memorialize the Holocaust, that this was a beginning. “In Germany,” she continued, “they do much more around this, so much more. It’s very important. And where are my Jewish colleagues?” she asked indignantly. “Where are my Jewish friends who teach in my department?” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her department, whose mandate is to teach about equity issues, was the first to refuse to house the Diploma Program in Holocaust and Genocide education.

Where are our Jewish colleagues indeed? Does their avoidance stem, as my own might well have, from an internalized anti-Semitism? Is this what prevents them from advocating for Jewish issues in their non-Jewish working world? If Jews will not take up this cause, can we expect others to embrace it? Surely we need to approach this problem by naming it a problem if we ever hope to break down these resistances and realize the potential our collaborative teaching about the Holocaust might reveal. If we have avoided the enormity of the challenges before the Danish cartoons, we can no longer refuse to see the seriousness of the issues that need addressing. All the stakeholders in Holocaust education: the survivor community, the UJA, the Canadian Jewish Congress, the teachers of teachers, must set aside our niggling differences of opinion - yes, we Jews are a disputatious people, the legacy of our Talmudic heritage – to speak as one and keep our focus on the bigger picture.

Roxanne, who watched “Paper Clips” with her class here, commented: “No one wants to learn from history because no one wants to remember it.” Many students asked me why it had taken the United Nations sixty years to recognize Holocaust Remembrance Day. There were students who resisted the lessons of this film by focusing on what they perceived as hypocrisy around the valorization of America’s freedoms. Where I teach, the word “oppression” has become synonymous with “Palestinian.” The fires of a barely suppressed anti-Semitism fueled by anti-Zionism and anti-Americanism are burning strong. I was shocked when my non-Jewish colleague reported hearing that some students labeled “Paper Clips” Jewish propaganda. I have since come to realize that that is exactly why it must be shown to beginning teachers. That there are beginning teachers who believe that a film about the making of a Holocaust memorial in small-town Tennessee is Jewish propaganda is a measure of how important this work is. Talking about the Holocaust, bringing that bigoted reaction into the discussion, is where we must begin. I drag that barely veiled anti-Semitism out of the woodwork and onto the table so that we can look at it, take it apart, expose it for what it is, remember where it leads, and try to alter such attitudes inch by inch.

Last November I attended the opening session of a three-day conference at the our celebrated Munk Centre for International Relations called “Notes from the Field: Prospects and Challenges for Canadian Research in Middle East and Islamic Studies post 9/11.” It was jointly sponsored by a host of departments within our university, SSHRC (the most important source of Canadian academic funding), Dalhousie, University of Alberta and Simon Fraser University, the Canadian Consortium on Human Security and the Canadian Committee of Middle East Studies in North America. Sessions on Sunday were closed to the public. I wondered how Mr. Munk, whose mother was interned in Auschwitz, would have felt about the words uttered in his centre that afternoon.

Since 9/11 there have been forty new academic appointments in Middle Eastern scholarship at Canadian universities alone. Middle Eastern scholarship, I learned, defines the Middle East as a place that does not include Israel, except as an irritation. There was no mention of the boycott of Israeli academics by the Association of University Teachers. No reference was made to the then recent remarks by Iran’s President calling for the elimination of Israel.

In the session devoted to “Middle East Studies in the US post 9/11,” I listened as four American academics exercised their academic freedom to denounce academic policing by the “powerful Jewish lobby groups” in Washington who want to silence free thought by punishing programs that fail to display ‘balance’ - a code word for attempting to present Israel’s point of view. This from a professor who was, I am quite sure, Jewish by birth. There were, in one and half hours, at least ten separate references made to powerful Jewish lobby groups, pro-Israeli think tanks and the nefarious influence of Jewish money. Imagine my surprise when the last professor on the panel lamented that she was “very irritated by her ‘brothers’ who don’t fund because really the money speaks.” Perhaps her brothers’ money is tied up teaching and promoting hatred.

During the question period a professor asked if it was permissible to take a critical attitude towards some things that were happening in the Middle East because she felt very guilty about “airing her dirty linen in public.” At the break I approached her, told her what I taught, gave her my card and indicated that I would be happy to dialogue with her if she were open to this. She was speechless. I haven’t heard from her.

I voiced my concerns in a tactful email to the conference organizer which I sent and resent three times. He did not reply. Last fall we hosted a program jointly with the Department of Jewish Studies and the Department of Middle Eastern Studies. An Israeli academic spoke about his experiences working with Israeli and Palestinian educators on a history textbook to be used in both Israeli and Palestinian schools. No one from the Department of Middle Eastern Studies attended. Apparently there is an unwritten rule at the university that many factions can co-exist only as long as they stick to their own turf. There is no intention of dialogue across difference. If the forty newly appointed Canadian scholars in Middle Eastern studies (and who knows how many more such appointments there have been in the US?) enter this field on a footing rooted in a critical attitude aimed only toward Zionism and Israel, there will be dire consequences for the Jewish people. I am sure of it. Yes, we have our work cut out for us.

Our survivor community is known world-wide for its leadership. I am asking you to lead again. Advocate for Holocaust education vigorously, tirelessly, unapologetically, proudly, move it to the very top of your agenda, and ensure that it has a permanent place at all levels of public education. I believe that you can do this. For years my chosen sister Margie Levitt has asked me to speak here but I didn’t think I had anything to tell you. This year I knew there were things you needed to hear. Now think, feel, predict, remember and in the words of Holocaust poet Paul Celan “hear deep in/ with your mouth.” Hear so you can speak out, shout, organize, resist, and insist on working towards this goal. And put your money behind it. Ensure that the very university programs and departments you support with your funding are not in fact preaching hate against you. Use your energy and your money to teach everyone’s children better things.

On January 27th, addressing the UN assembly, Yehuda Bauer reminded the UN that we are the people who gave the Ten Commandments, the moral foundation of Western civilization, to the world. He wanted to add three more commandments: “thou shalt not be a perpetrator; thou shalt not be a victim; and thou shalt never, but never, be a bystander.” I would add one more to his list: “and thou shalt teach thy children.”

We teach our children best by our example. The survivor community has long established meaningful ties with the Rwandan community; survivors have joined the public outcry against the genocide in Darfur. Turn your attention now to greater Africa. Stephen Lewis maintains, and I agree with him, that HIV/AIDS is the greatest crisis in the world today, that “this is a different, but analogous, holocaust” (2005, 107).

My youngest daughter is just completing a Canadian International Development Agency-funded internship in Nigeria. Nigeria has a population of 131 million people. The third largest group of people in the world living with HIV/AIDS are Nigerian. Cross River State, where my daughter lives and works, has the highest percentage of these people within its borders. People travel from all over the state to come for their medication. Journeys are arduous. The roads are not roads as we know them; passage is regularly blocked by armed guards who must be bribed. Poverty is everywhere. Anti-retroviral drugs are powerful medications which can only be taken with food. The patients who travel to the hospice where my daughter volunteers are malnourished and impoverished.

Their government refuses to provide money to feed them so that they can take the medication which is available at no charge and which will prolong their lives. Add to this desperate situation the recent arrival of bird flu in north-eastern Nigeria. Many Nigerian tribes lack any form of reliable communication with the outside world. They will not understand why they have to kill their chickens. Without this source of nourishment even more Nigerians will starve than are starving now. For some time now Stephen Lewis has been warning us that Africa is a powder-keg waiting to explode. Avian flu is the match that has now been lit. Radical Islam will be waiting to pick up the pieces of that vast continent.

How many millions of Nigerians will die before the world intervenes? Will you and I be counted among the bystanders? Or, anticipating this outcome, will we together lead a campaign to help Nigerians? What does it really mean to say “never again”? Does that mean “never again for us but we can turn a blind eye to the suffering of others?” I don’t think so.

Who owns the legacy for Holocaust education? We all do and we need, all of us, across whatever boundaries that have previously separated us, to unite now and do everything we can to change the face of education here, in our own country, to combat the virulent ignorance of anti-Semitism. And we must stretch our hands across the globe to Africa so that we are not, in this generation, no better than the Poles and Germans and French and Americans and British and Canadians who knew, and did so little to help.

In this work we can remember and be guided by the words of Rabbi Hillel in Pirkei Avot: If I am not for myself, then who will be for me? And when I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when? (1:14)

References

Gould, A. (2002). “My Experience with Anne Frank.” Invited lecture, delivered for OISE/UT course “Anne Frank in Life and Death,” Toronto. July 29, 2002.