Prologue
When I presented Part 1 of this essay at our Echoes of Memory writing workshop class, the response from my fellow survivors and our professor was very educational and represented a wide range of perspectives. Since then, I have talked to other survivors and descendants of survivors, and the response was also mixed. I never expected that everyone or even the majority would agree with my take on closure. I fully understand and respect those who lost family members as a result of the Holocaust and never came to a closure. In Part 2, I’ll reflect on some of the comments and try to expound on some of my experiences and thoughts for clarity's sake.
Reflections on Closure, Part 1
Closure has many definitions in dictionaries, as well as professional guidelines where the word is part of the terminology or jargon. In my experience, closure means different things to different individuals. When I hear the question from audience members about my closure concerning my father’s death, I try to find out what motivates the person who is interested in my situation. From the tone and/or facial expressions, sometimes I get the feeling that the person would like to hear, in spite of what happened to my family during the Holocaust, that I am okay, emotionally healthy, and that I have not just survived but that I am also thriving. This is when I can give a positive testimony. My answer to the closure question in Part 1 is based upon this interpretation, which is also very close to what a psychiatrist published on the Psychology Today website:
Closure means finality; a letting go of what once was. Finding closure implies a complete acceptance of what has happened and an honoring of the transition away from what’s finished to something new.
When I came to a type of closure as I described in Part 1, I did not want to imply that I don’t choke up when I read excerpts from postcards my father sent my mother from the military camps where he was a forced laborer. Closure for me does not mean that I have severed the emotional bond I have with my father in spite of having no experience living with him. It only means that I have accepted what happened to him, and I am honoring him daily with my work and testimony at the Museum. I have never forgiven those who took his life. I have never forgotten who he was and what happened to him. At the same time, I do not feel bitter, vengeful, or in emotional distress. I am not a victim of the Holocaust, and I refuse to be a victim of the post-Holocaust era. I am a child survivor of the Holocaust. I am a survivor in every sense of the word.
I can imagine other reasons behind this closure question that survivors are often asked. Another legitimate motivation could be that the questioner is dealing with their own past hurt or tragedy and struggling with closure. The question may imply a desire for an answer that would give hope for a happy ending or some encouragement to move on. A positive response from me might help the questioner find strength and stamina as he or she struggles with personal tragedy.
The question asked by a Holocaust educator, which prompted my reflections on closure, was about if I had ever come to a closure concerning my father’s death, not about closure concerning the Holocaust. While my response to her question is “yes,” there is not, and can never be, closure about the Holocaust for any survivor. There is no closure about the death of six million. There is no closing down my pain or shutting off my feelings when I think of the 1.5 million children who perished, among them approximately 100,000 Hungarian children. I could have been one of these children if it weren’t for my mother’s heroism. These children never had a chance to grow up, pursue their dreams, have families, enjoy the smiles of their children and grandchildren. The current resurgence of antisemitism in the United States and worldwide as well as the accelerated spread of Holocaust denial on the internet keep these wounds open.
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