My Son Is Teaching the Holocaust

As antisemitism spreads across the globe, one teacher’s classroom reminds us why truth, memory, and moral courage matter more than ever.

My son Max teaches at a public high school in Florida. This year, he is teaching Holocaust Studies to a classroom of students, none of whom are Jewish.

As his father, I cannot begin to express how proud I am of him.

Not simply because he is a teacher, a profession I deeply respect. Not simply because he is helping young people understand one of the darkest chapters in human history.

But because, at this particular moment, teaching the truth about the Holocaust is itself an act of resistance against hatred.

We are living in troubling times.

Lies about Jews, about Jewish history, and about the Holocaust are spreading with astonishing speed. Antisemitic conspiracy theories, once relegated to the fringes of society, circulate freely across social media. Historical facts are deliberately twisted. The murder of six million Jews is minimized, distorted, or denied outright.

Behind much of this misinformation are people who know exactly what they are doing.

They are not simply confused about history. They are purposeful agitators who exploit ignorance, manipulate legitimate grievances, and turn political anger into hatred of Jews.

They understand something dangerous: repeat a lie often enough, dress it in the language of moral certainty, and eventually some people will accept it as truth.

We have seen this before.

Before the Nazis could systematically murder six million Jews, they had to convince millions of ordinary people that Jews were somehow responsible for society’s problems. They used propaganda, conspiracy theories, manufactured grievances, and relentless repetition to transform prejudice into public acceptance of persecution.

The Holocaust did not begin with the gas chambers.

It began with words. With lies. With the gradual erosion of empathy. With the normalization of hatred.

And that is why what my son is doing matters so profoundly.

Max stands before high school students who are growing up in an information environment unlike anything previous generations have experienced. Their phones deliver an endless stream of opinions, videos, accusations, and supposed facts. Increasingly, it takes little effort to manufacture convincing falsehoods and spread them to millions.

How are teenagers supposed to distinguish truth from manipulation?

How do they recognize antisemitism when it is disguised as political commentary, historical revisionism, or righteous indignation?

How do they learn that an entire people cannot be held collectively responsible for the actions of individuals or governments?

Education must provide some of those answers.

And that is what Max is doing.

He is not merely teaching dates, names, and events. He is giving his students the historical knowledge to question what they are told, examine evidence, and recognize the mechanisms by which hatred takes hold.

He is teaching them that the Holocaust was not a myth, a metaphor, or an exaggeration.

It was a meticulously documented historical reality in which six million Jewish men, women, and children were murdered.

They had names. They had families. They had dreams, professions, friendships, and futures.

They were human beings whose lives were stolen.

And no amount of propaganda, political rhetoric, or manufactured controversy can change that truth.

There is something especially powerful about a Jewish teacher sharing this history with a non-Jewish classroom.

These students have no personal connection to the Jewish story. They have never known a Holocaust survivor. They were born into a world where the Holocaust exists in textbooks, museums, films, and digital archives.

But now they have a teacher who understands that this history is not simply an academic subject.

It is part of the story of his own people.

And through his teaching, it becomes part of his students’ understanding of humanity.

I hope they come to recognize that the Holocaust was not inevitable. It required choices. Choices made by leaders, institutions, neighbors, collaborators, and bystanders.

And I hope they begin to understand that history is shaped not only by those who commit evil, but also by those who challenge it—or fail to.

We sometimes speak of Holocaust education as an obligation to the dead.

It certainly is.

But I believe it is equally an obligation to the living.

Because the danger is not simply that future generations will forget what happened.

The greater danger is that they will be persuaded to believe something that never happened, while dismissing the truth of what did.

That is the battlefield on which historical memory now finds itself.

And it is a battlefield fought not only in public discourse and on social media, but also in the minds of young people still learning how to understand the world.

Against that backdrop, the work of a teacher takes on extraordinary significance.

I do not imagine that Max can change every student’s mind or inoculate an entire generation against prejudice. No teacher can.

But perhaps a student will remember his lessons when confronted with an antisemitic conspiracy theory.

Perhaps another will think twice before sharing a hateful accusation.

Perhaps someone who once regarded Jewish suffering as distant history will recognize the humanity of

people being targeted today.

And perhaps one student, confronted with a crowd shouting something cruel and untrue, will have the courage to say, “That’s not what happened.”

We may never know.

Teaching is an act of faith in the future. The lessons planted today may not reveal their importance for years.

Max cannot erase antisemitism. He cannot silence every agitator, correct every lie, or undo the hatred that has again found such a receptive audience.

But he can stand before his students and tell them the truth.

And he does.

As his father, that means more to me than I can adequately express.

I am proud of his choice to teach. I am proud of his willingness to confront difficult history. I am proud that he understands education is not merely the transfer of information, but the cultivation of judgment, empathy, and moral responsibility.

Most of all, I am proud that he is helping defend the truth at a time when so many are working to undermine it.

The last generation of Holocaust survivors is slowly leaving us. Soon, no one will be left who can say, “I was there.”

The responsibility will pass to historians, educators, families, and future generations.

It will pass to people like my son.

And perhaps this is what gives me the greatest hope.

While others use words to inflame hatred, Max is using words to illuminate history.

While others distort the past, he is helping preserve it.

While others seek to divide humanity, he is helping young people recognize what happens when we surrender our common humanity.

What Max is doing goes far beyond teaching history. He is helping young people understand the consequences of hatred, the importance of compassion, and the courage it takes to stand up for what is right.

But what touches me most is knowing that the little boy I once held in my arms has grown into a man of such kindness, courage, and compassion. A man who cares deeply about the world and the people in it, who stands by his convictions, and who understands that even one person can make a difference in the lives of others.

I have been proud of you at every stage of your life, Max, but this pride is different. It comes from seeing the goodness in your heart become something you share so generously with others.

A father hopes to teach his son what it means to be a good man. What he never quite expects is how much his son will one day teach him.

I love you, Max. And of all the words I have written in my lifetime, none could ever fully express how much you mean to me or how deeply proud I am of the man you have become.