• In Memory of Harry Rozendaal z”l — A Final Act of Remembrance

    on May 8, 2026

    @import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Raleway:wght@300;400;500;600;700&family=Spectral:ital,wght@0,400;0,500;0,600;1,400&display=swap'); .memoriam-page { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; color: #0D1B36; max-width: 800px; margin: 0 auto; padding: 0 20px; } .memoriam-page * { box-sizing: border-box; } /* Top memorial label */ .memoriam-label { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 600; font-size: 11px; letter-spacing: 3px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #0021BE; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 20px; } /* Name and dates */ .memoriam-name { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 300; font-size: 42px; line-height: 1.15; text-align: center; color: #0D1B36; margin: 0 0 8px 0; } .memoriam-hebrew { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; font-style: italic; text-align: center; color: #555; margin: 0 0 6px 0; } .memoriam-dates { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 400; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 1px; color: #666; text-align: center; margin: 0 0 40px 0; } /* Horizontal rule */ .memoriam-rule { width: 60px; height: 2px; background: #0021BE; border: none; margin: 0 auto 40px auto; } /* Hero image area */ .memoriam-hero { margin-bottom: 40px; } .memoriam-hero img { width: 100%; height: auto; display: block; } .memoriam-hero-caption { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; color: #888; margin-top: 10px; line-height: 1.5; text-align: center; } /* Body text */ .memoriam-body p { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.85; color: #2a2a2a; margin: 0 0 24px 0; } .memoriam-body p:first-child::first-letter { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 300; font-size: 58px; float: left; line-height: 0.85; margin: 6px 8px 0 0; color: #0021BE; } /* Pull quote */ .memoriam-quote { border-left: 3px solid #0021BE; margin: 40px 0; padding: 20px 0 20px 30px; } .memoriam-quote p { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 20px; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.7; color: #0D1B36; margin: 0 0 10px 0; } .memoriam-quote .quote-attr { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #888; margin: 0; } /* Photo grid */ .memoriam-photos { display: grid; grid-template-columns: 1fr 1fr; gap: 16px; margin: 40px 0; } .memoriam-photos img { width: 100%; height: auto; display: block; } .memoriam-photos-caption { grid-column: 1 / -1; font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; color: #888; line-height: 1.5; text-align: center; } /* Section heading */ .memoriam-section-heading { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 300; font-size: 22px; color: #0D1B36; margin: 48px 0 20px 0; padding-top: 16px; border-top: 1px solid #ddd; } /* Baruch Dayan Emet footer */ .memoriam-footer { text-align: center; margin: 60px 0 40px 0; padding-top: 40px; border-top: 1px solid #ddd; } .memoriam-footer-text { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; font-style: italic; color: #0D1B36; margin: 0 0 24px 0; } .memoriam-footer-cta { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.7; color: #555; } .memoriam-footer-cta a { color: #0021BE; text-decoration: none; border-bottom: 1px solid #0021BE; } .memoriam-footer-cta a:hover { opacity: 0.7; } /* CJN link */ .memoriam-cjn-link { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: center; margin: 40px 0 0 0; color: #888; } .memoriam-cjn-link a { color: #0021BE; text-decoration: none; border-bottom: 1px solid transparent; } .memoriam-cjn-link a:hover { border-bottom-color: #0021BE; } /* Responsive */ @media (max-width: 600px) { .memoriam-name { font-size: 30px; } .memoriam-body p { font-size: 16px; } .memoriam-photos { grid-template-columns: 1fr; } .memoriam-quote p { font-size: 18px; } } In Memoriam Harry Rozendaal z"l הרי רוזנדאל ז״ל September 1, 1930 — April 22, 2026 Harry Rozendaal speaking to participants on the April 2026 March of the Living in Auschwitz, where his mother was killed. It is with deep sadness that the March of the Living mourns the passing of Harry Rozendaal z"l, a 95-year-old child Holocaust survivor and participant on the 2026 March of the Living, who passed away in Warsaw on April 22, 2026. Harry was born in Rotterdam in 1930. When the Germans invaded the Netherlands in 1940, his father Joop joined the resistance — and was captured, tortured, and executed in December 1942. Just three days after his father's murder, the family was forced to flee and go into hiding. Over the next two years, young Harry was moved between 21 different locations across the Netherlands, separated from his younger brother and sister. His mother, Catherina, was herself a member of the resistance. Harry's last encounter with her came at a safe house in Utrecht in 1943, where she shared with him a letter his father had written from prison, urging her to ensure their children received a Jewish education. Harry carried that charge for the rest of his life. Catherina was later captured, deported to Auschwitz, and murdered. After liberation, Harry learned that both his siblings had survived in hiding. In 1946, members of the Jewish Brigade visited his orphanage, and at 17 he left for British Mandate Palestine, where he joined the Haganah as a Machal volunteer and witnessed the birth of the State of Israel. He later returned to the Netherlands, reunited with his siblings, met his wife Lotty, and in 1958 emigrated to Canada — first to Montreal, then to Toronto. Harry at the 2026 March of the Living with his daughter, Dr. Betty Rozendaal, and son-in-law Sonny Goldstein. His Final Mission For years, Harry had expressed the wish to travel to Poland and say Kaddish for his mother at Auschwitz. COVID and health setbacks delayed his plans, but by 2025 — at 95 years old — he was undeterred. With his daughter, Dr. Betty Rozendaal, and son-in-law Sonny Goldstein by his side, he joined the Toronto March of the Living Adult Delegation. What began as a deeply personal pilgrimage became something far larger. Standing outside the gas chambers at Auschwitz on the delegation's first full day, Harry shared his testimony with hundreds of students, young adults, and adults. He spoke about his childhood, his mother, and his service in Israel's War of Independence — urging his audience to stand proud and never stop fighting for who they are. He not only spoke about his childhood and his mother, but he also spoke about how he went on to fight in the War of Independence, which was incredibly moving, given the climate that we currently live in. Witnee Karp, Director, March of the Living Canada His words moved the entire delegation. One student, Jillian Kivenko, was so inspired that she wrote a poem and turned it into a song, performing it on Shabbat in front of all the survivors and delegations. Harry was beaming. The day after the closing ceremonies, Harry suffered a serious cardiac event and was admitted to a hospital in Warsaw. He passed away on April 22, surrounded by the knowledge that he had fulfilled his lifelong mission — honouring his mother's memory in the very place she was taken from the world. Not only was he able to fulfil his last wish by paying his respects to his mother, he was also able to make a tremendous impact on so many people in his final days. Dori Ekstein, Co-Chair, Adult March of the Living Throughout his life, Harry was a tireless advocate for recognizing the non-Jews who helped Dutch Jews survive the war. He was instrumental in securing Righteous Among the Nations recognition at Yad Vashem for Andres van der Meer, the resistance fighter who once escorted him across a lake to safety in a boat full of German soldiers. Harry is survived by his daughter Betty and son-in-law Sonny Goldstein, his son Ed and wife Genia, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. He was predeceased by his wife Lotty, his brother Dov, and his sister Liselotte. May his memory be a blessing.Baruch Dayan Emet. Honour Harry's legacy and the mission of Holocaust remembrance. Donate to the March of the Living → Read the full obituary in The Canadian Jewish News.

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  • Statement from Scott Saunders, CEO of International March of the Living, Founder & Chairman of March of the Living UK

    on April 29, 2026

    @import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Raleway:wght@300;400;500;600;700&family=Spectral:ital,wght@0,400;0,500;0,600;1,400&display=swap'); .motl-statement { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; color: #0D1B36; max-width: 800px; margin: 0 auto; padding: 0 20px; } .motl-statement * { box-sizing: border-box; } .motl-statement .label { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 600; font-size: 11px; letter-spacing: 3px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #0021BE; margin-bottom: 20px; } .motl-statement .name { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 300; font-size: 32px; line-height: 1.2; color: #0D1B36; margin: 0 0 6px 0; } .motl-statement .role { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; color: #555; margin: 0 0 30px 0; line-height: 1.6; } .motl-statement .rule { width: 60px; height: 2px; background: #0021BE; border: none; margin: 0 0 30px 0; } .motl-statement .body p { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.8; color: #0D1B36; margin: 0 0 20px 0; } .motl-statement .body p.lede { font-size: 20px; font-weight: 600; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: 24px; } .motl-statement .body p.emphasis { font-weight: 600; } .motl-statement .body p.principle { font-style: italic; font-weight: 500; } .motl-statement .body p.closing { font-weight: 600; margin-top: 4px; padding-top: 20px; border-top: 1px solid #ddd; } Statement Scott Saunders CEO of International March of the Living, Founder & Chairman of March of the Living UK A man hunting Jews in the streets of Golders Green is the reality Jewish communities are facing today. Two people were injured in a stabbing attack that appears to have deliberately targeted Jews in one of London's most visibly Jewish neighborhoods. This follows a surge in threats and attacks against Jewish homes, synagogues, and community spaces across the UK. This is part of a broader pattern unfolding worldwide, with Jews being targeted in the United States, Canada, Australia, and across Europe. Public spaces are becoming points of vulnerability, and visibly Jewish individuals are increasingly at risk. This is what happens when antisemitism is allowed to escalate in plain sight. Jews should not have to hide who they are or change how they live in order to feel safe. Authorities must respond with immediate and visible action — through enforcement, protection, and accountability. The International March of the Living was founded on the principle that "Never Again" is a responsibility. That responsibility applies here and now. We stand with the victims and with the Jewish community in the UK and around the world.

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  • In Memory of Daniel Luz z”l — A Survivor Twice Over

    on April 25, 2026

    @import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Raleway:wght@300;400;500;600;700&family=Spectral:ital,wght@0,400;0,500;0,600;1,400&display=swap'); .memoriam-page { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; color: #0D1B36; max-width: 800px; margin: 0 auto; padding: 0 20px; } .memoriam-page * { box-sizing: border-box; } /* Top memorial label */ .memoriam-label { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 600; font-size: 11px; letter-spacing: 3px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #0021BE; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 20px; } /* Name and dates */ .memoriam-name { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 300; font-size: 42px; line-height: 1.15; text-align: center; color: #0D1B36; margin: 0 0 8px 0; } .memoriam-hebrew { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; font-style: italic; text-align: center; color: #555; margin: 0 0 6px 0; } .memoriam-dates { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 400; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 1px; color: #666; text-align: center; margin: 0 0 40px 0; } /* Horizontal rule */ .memoriam-rule { width: 60px; height: 2px; background: #0021BE; border: none; margin: 0 auto 40px auto; } /* Hero image area */ .memoriam-hero { margin-bottom: 40px; } .memoriam-hero img { width: 100%; height: auto; display: block; } .memoriam-hero-caption { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; color: #888; margin-top: 10px; line-height: 1.5; text-align: center; } /* Body text */ .memoriam-body p { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.85; color: #2a2a2a; margin: 0 0 24px 0; } .memoriam-body p:first-child::first-letter { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 300; font-size: 58px; float: left; line-height: 0.85; margin: 6px 8px 0 0; color: #0021BE; } /* Pull quote */ .memoriam-quote { border-left: 3px solid #0021BE; margin: 40px 0; padding: 20px 0 20px 30px; } .memoriam-quote p { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 20px; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.7; color: #0D1B36; margin: 0 0 10px 0; } .memoriam-quote .quote-attr { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #888; margin: 0; } /* Photo grid */ .memoriam-photos { display: grid; grid-template-columns: 1fr 1fr; gap: 16px; margin: 40px 0; } .memoriam-photos img { width: 100%; height: auto; display: block; } .memoriam-photos-caption { grid-column: 1 / -1; font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; color: #888; line-height: 1.5; text-align: center; } /* Section heading */ .memoriam-section-heading { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 300; font-size: 22px; color: #0D1B36; margin: 48px 0 20px 0; padding-top: 16px; border-top: 1px solid #ddd; } /* Video embed */ .memoriam-video { margin: 40px 0; position: relative; padding-bottom: 56.25%; height: 0; overflow: hidden; } .memoriam-video iframe { position: absolute; top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; border: none; } .memoriam-video-caption { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; color: #888; margin-top: 10px; line-height: 1.5; text-align: center; } /* Baruch Dayan Emet footer */ .memoriam-footer { text-align: center; margin: 60px 0 40px 0; padding-top: 40px; border-top: 1px solid #ddd; } .memoriam-footer-text { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; font-style: italic; color: #0D1B36; margin: 0 0 24px 0; } .memoriam-footer-cta { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.7; color: #555; } .memoriam-footer-cta a { color: #0021BE; text-decoration: none; border-bottom: 1px solid #0021BE; } .memoriam-footer-cta a:hover { opacity: 0.7; } /* Responsive */ @media (max-width: 600px) { .memoriam-name { font-size: 30px; } .memoriam-body p { font-size: 16px; } .memoriam-photos { grid-template-columns: 1fr; } .memoriam-quote p { font-size: 18px; } } In Memoriam Daniel Luz z"l דניאל לוז ז״ל 1934 — April 25, 2026 Daniel Luz lighting a torch at Auschwitz-Birkenau during the 2024 March of the Living. Photo: Courtesy March of the Living It is with deep sadness that the March of the Living mourns the passing of Daniel Luz z"l, a Holocaust survivor and survivor of the October 7 massacre, who passed away on April 25, 2026, at the age of 92. Danny marched with us in 2024 and lit a torch at Birkenau in one of the most powerful moments of that year's ceremony — linking the memory of those who perished in the Holocaust with the memory of those murdered on October 7. A Childhood in Wartime France Daniel was born in France in 1934. When Nazi Germany occupied the country, his family was swept into the machinery of persecution. Daniel, his mother, and his sister were held in one internment camp; his father in another. For four years, the family was separated — Daniel just ten years old. The family survived by what Daniel called a miracle. But ten of his mother's siblings and two of his cousins were not as fortunate. They were murdered at Auschwitz. Building a Life in Israel In 1949, Daniel immigrated to the young State of Israel. "I began to breathe again," he would later say. He lived first on Kibbutz Nirim in the Negev, and in later years made his home at Kibbutz Be'eri. A man known for his bold spirit and irrepressible optimism, Daniel built a full life on the kibbutz — one that he regarded as the ultimate victory over the forces that had tried to destroy his family and his people. Top: Photo by Tomer Shunam Halevi. Bottom: Photo by Ronen Zvulun October 7 On October 6, 2023, Daniel and his neighbours celebrated the 78th anniversary of Kibbutz Be'eri. The next morning, he awoke to sirens and gunfire. Together with his partner Edna, he locked himself in their safe room as Hamas terrorists stormed the kibbutz. Of Be'eri's roughly 1,200 residents, 101 were murdered that day and 30 were abducted. It was mortal fear — more frightening than anything I remember as a child during that war. Daniel Luz Daniel spoke openly about the enduring trauma of that day. He described himself as a Holocaust survivor twice — once from wartime France, and again from Be'eri. In the months that followed, with the kibbutz destroyed and its residents displaced, Daniel moved to a nursing home at Kibbutz Yad Mordechai. Lighting the Torch In May 2024, Daniel travelled with the March of the Living to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where he lit a torch and delivered testimony that moved all who heard it. Standing at the site where his family members were murdered, he spoke with a steady voice and an unshakable conviction: We, the Holocaust survivors, who built a home and a state — our greatest victory over the Nazis and over antisemitism — light this torch in memory of those who perished in the Holocaust, and in memory of those murdered on October 7. Daniel Luz, Auschwitz-Birkenau, May 2024 Shortly before his passing, Daniel lit a torch once more — this time at the annual Holocaust Remembrance Day ceremony at Kibbutz Yad Mordechai. Speaking to those gathered, he said he had not recovered from the events of October 7, and expressed his hope for peace — not for himself, but for his grandchildren. Daniel Luz lighting a torch at Auschwitz-Birkenau, 2024 March of the Living. May his memory be a blessing.Baruch Dayan Emet.   בָּרוּךְ דַּיַּן הָאֱמֶת Honour Daniel's legacy and the mission of Holocaust remembrance. Donate to the March of the Living →

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  • 50 Holocaust survivors from Israel and around the world to lead the 2026 March of the Living alongside survivors of antisemitic shooting attacks from the U.S., UK, and Australia

    on April 13, 2026

    FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Survivors to light torch against antisemitism with U.S. Envoy to Monitor and Combat Antisemitism Rabbi Yehuda Kaploun and Sylvan Adams President of the World Jewish Congress -…

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  • 2026 March of the Living

    on April 13, 2026

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  • Booklet Featuring Biographies of Holocaust Survivors Participating in the 2026 March of the Living

    on April 11, 2026

    2026 Holocaust Survivors Booklet – March of the Living :root { --blue: #0021BE; --yellow: #FDD000; --navy: #0A0F2E; --warm-white: #FAFAF8; --text-dark: #1A1A1A; --text-mid: #4A4A4A; --text-light: #7A7A7A; --border-light: #E8E8E4; } * { margin: 0; padding: 0; box-sizing: border-box; } html { scroll-behavior: smooth; -webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -moz-osx-font-smoothing: grayscale; } body { font-family: 'Spectral', Georgia, serif; background: var(--warm-white); color: var(--text-dark); line-height: 1.6; } /* ─── HERO ─── */ .hero { display: flex; align-items: center; justify-content: center; background: var(--blue); padding: 80px 24px 64px; } .hero-content { text-align: center; max-width: 720px; } .hero-eyebrow { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 600; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 3.5px; text-transform: uppercase; color: var(--yellow); margin-bottom: 20px; display: inline-flex; align-items: center; gap: 12px; } .hero-eyebrow::before, .hero-eyebrow::after { content: ''; width: 32px; height: 1px; background: var(--yellow); opacity: 0.5; } .hero h1 { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 300; font-size: clamp(28px, 5vw, 48px); line-height: 1.2; color: #fff; margin-bottom: 16px; } .hero h1 strong { font-weight: 700; } .hero-subtitle { font-family: 'Spectral', serif; font-style: italic; font-weight: 300; font-size: clamp(16px, 2.2vw, 20px); color: rgba(255,255,255,0.7); line-height: 1.6; max-width: 600px; margin: 0 auto; } /* ─── INTRODUCTION ─── */ .intro { max-width: 720px; margin: 0 auto; padding: 72px 24px 48px; text-align: center; } .intro p { font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.8; color: var(--text-mid); font-weight: 400; } .intro p + p { margin-top: 20px; } .gold-line { display: block; width: 48px; height: 3px; background: var(--yellow); margin: 32px auto; border-radius: 2px; } /* ─── FLIPBOOK SECTION ─── */ .flipbook-section { max-width: 1120px; margin: 0 auto; padding: 0 24px 80px; } .flipbook-container { position: relative; width: 100%; background: #fff; border-radius: 8px; box-shadow: 0 2px 8px rgba(0,0,0,0.04), 0 12px 40px rgba(0,0,0,0.08); overflow: hidden; } .flipbook-header { display: flex; align-items: center; justify-content: space-between; padding: 16px 24px; border-bottom: 1px solid var(--border-light); background: #fff; } .flipbook-label { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 600; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 1.5px; text-transform: uppercase; color: var(--blue); display: flex; align-items: center; gap: 8px; } .flipbook-label svg { width: 18px; height: 18px; } .flipbook-actions { display: flex; gap: 8px; } .btn-open { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 600; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: uppercase; text-decoration: none; color: var(--blue); padding: 8px 16px; border: 1.5px solid var(--blue); border-radius: 100px; transition: all 0.25s ease; display: inline-flex; align-items: center; gap: 6px; } .btn-open:hover { background: var(--blue); color: #fff; } .btn-open svg { width: 14px; height: 14px; } .flipbook-embed { position: relative; width: 100%; padding-bottom: 66%; /* roughly 3:2 aspect for booklet */ background: #f4f4f2; } .flipbook-embed iframe { position: absolute; top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; border: 0; } .flipbook-placeholder { position: absolute; inset: 0; display: flex; flex-direction: column; align-items: center; justify-content: center; gap: 16px; color: var(--text-light); font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.5px; } .flipbook-placeholder svg { width: 48px; height: 48px; opacity: 0.35; } /* ─── CTA BANNER ─── */ .cta-banner { background: var(--blue); padding: 56px 24px; text-align: center; } .cta-banner-inner { max-width: 640px; margin: 0 auto; } .cta-banner h2 { font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 300; font-size: clamp(22px, 3.5vw, 32px); color: #fff; line-height: 1.35; margin-bottom: 8px; } .cta-banner h2 strong { font-weight: 700; } .cta-banner p { font-family: 'Spectral', serif; font-style: italic; font-size: 16px; color: rgba(255,255,255,0.7); margin-bottom: 28px; line-height: 1.6; } .btn-donate { display: inline-block; font-family: 'Raleway', sans-serif; font-weight: 700; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 2px; text-transform: uppercase; text-decoration: none; color: var(--navy); background: var(--yellow); padding: 14px 40px; border-radius: 100px; transition: all 0.25s ease; box-shadow: 0 4px 16px rgba(253,208,0,0.3); } .btn-donate:hover { transform: translateY(-2px); box-shadow: 0 6px 24px rgba(253,208,0,0.45); } /* ─── RESPONSIVE ─── */ @media (max-width: 768px) { .hero { padding: 60px 20px 48px; } .hero-content { padding: 0; } .intro { padding: 56px 20px 40px; } .flipbook-embed { padding-bottom: 75%; } .flipbook-header { flex-direction: column; gap: 12px; align-items: flex-start; } .cta-banner { padding: 48px 20px; } } 2026 March of the Living Biographies of Holocaust Survivors A tribute to the survivors participating in the 2026 March of the Living, preserving their stories for generations to come. A special booklet featuring the personal stories of Holocaust survivors who participated in the 2026 March of the Living. This publication serves both as a tribute and a tool for education, ensuring the survivors' stories endure long after they are gone. It was distributed to the survivors and many of the participants who attended the 2026 March. Interactive Booklet Open Full Screen Help Fund Survivors & Students Your donation supports Holocaust survivors and students participating in the March of the Living, and our ongoing Holocaust education programs. Donate Now

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  • Fifty Holocaust Survivors from Around the World to Lead the 2026 March of the Living

    on April 10, 2026

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  • Alumni Essay Contest Winners: Passing the Torch

    on April 9, 2026

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In advance of the 2026 International March of the Living — taking place this year on Yom HaShoah, April 14 — we invited March alumni from across the generations to reflect on a single question: How did the March of the Living change your life? The response was overwhelming. Hundreds of alumni, from those who marched in the early 1990s to participants who walked just last year, wrote to share their stories. What emerged was not nostalgia, but something far more urgent — a collective testimony to the enduring power of bearing witness. The four winning essays, selected from among hundreds of submissions, span three decades of the March. Yet they share a remarkably common thread: each writer describes a moment when the Holocaust moved from abstraction to inheritance — when history became personal, and remembrance became responsibility. As the generation of survivors continues to diminish, these voices remind us why the March of the Living matters now more than ever. They are the proof that memory, once received, can be carried forward — and that the torch, once passed, continues to burn. Essay One Standing at Auschwitz Changed Me Marching the three kilometers from Auschwitz I to Birkenau reshaped my understanding: the Holocaust was no longer a subject I taught; it was a living inheritance I was responsible for transmitting. Jessica Handler — 2024 March of the Living Alumni My grandfather, Sidney Handler, participated in at least three times on the March of the Living during his lifetime. He did not return to Europe to dwell in death; he returned to bear witness. For him, the March was about continuity. Over time, it also became something deeply personal between us — a shared language of memory, responsibility, and hope. I remember sitting at my grandparents' kitchen table in Newton, Massachusetts, listening to my grandfather speak about an upcoming trip he was leading with the March of the Living. I asked if I could go with him. Gently but firmly, he told me I was not yet prepared for the emotional weight of the March. He assured me, that one day I would go on the March of the Living. Six years later, in 2024, I was leading the Holocaust Museum LA delegation to the march. I did it after earning my master's degree in Holocaust Studies from the University of Haifa, inspired by my grandfather's lifelong commitment to Holocaust education and remembrance. I do not think a Jewish person has ever been so excited to "return" to Poland. The trip was meaningful in countless ways. What struck me most was the realization that I was walking in my grandfather's footsteps — not as a granddaughter holding his hand, but as an educator entrusted with carrying his story, and the stories of other survivors, forward. Standing at Auschwitz changed me. I had studied the Holocaust for years. I knew the documents, the historiography, the testimonies. But walking the three kilometers from Auschwitz I to Birkenau, surrounded by thousands of Jews and allies from around the world, reshaped my understanding. The Holocaust was no longer only a subject I taught; it was a living inheritance I was responsible for transmitting. My grandfather passed away on August 23, 2025. In the months since, I have felt the weight of that in-between space more acutely than ever. The March of the Living has become one of the enduring connectors between us — when he was alive and now after. It is where I feel closest to his voice, to his footsteps, to the promises we made to one another. I am no longer only the granddaughter listening at the kitchen table. I am now part of the generation responsible for safeguarding his memory. Read the Full Article → Left: Jessica Handler with her grandfather Sidney Handler; Right: Leading the Holocaust Museum LA delegation at Auschwitz (Courtesy) Essay Two God Wears a Blue Jacket I came on the March of the Living as a student and returned 20 years later to close a personal circle. Jon Warech — 1998 March of the Living Alumni The March changed my life. It only took three months — well, 20 years and three months. As a Miami high school kid who couldn't afford to do all of the things in life, I was given the choice of going on the Miami March of the Living, a trip to the concentration camps in Poland followed by a week in Israel, or High School in Israel, an entire semester of fun in the sun in the Jewish homeland. I chose Auschwitz. I wanted to be a witness. I wanted to see things firsthand. But, most importantly, I wanted to feel something. I wanted a reason to cry. Even as a 17-year-old, my kind of Judaism was one that tugged at the heartstrings. So, I packed my bags, threw on my blue jacket, and headed on a flight to Warsaw with what at the time felt like the entire Miami community. This year marked the 50th anniversary of the State of Israel, so it was set to be a monumental March. But, on the first day, I messed the whole thing up. I laughed at the ceremony in Warsaw Ghetto Memorial site. For years I dwelled on that experience. This disappointment would go on to define my life for the next 20 years, until I found closure. Read the Full Story → The 1998 Miami March of the Living delegation at the Western Wall, Jerusalem; Jon Warech (center) with peers in Poland (Courtesy) Essay Three How the March of the Living Changed Me You can study gas chambers. You can read testimony. But stepping inside one erases the distance between history and reality. Stephen B Sokolow — 1994 March of the Living Alumni I went on the March of the Living in 11th grade, in 1994. Until then, I had never left the United States. I was a religious Jewish teenager attending public school, living in two worlds that didn't always intersect — my daily American life and my Jewish identity. I thought I understood who I was. The March changed that permanently. The education leading up to the trip felt less like a high-school program and more like earning a master's degree in Holocaust history. Still, nothing — absolutely nothing — could prepare me for standing in the places themselves. You can study gas chambers. You can read testimony. You can memorize camp layouts. But stepping inside one erases the distance between history and reality. I remember standing there and realizing that this was not a chapter in a book. This was a room where human beings walked in alive and never walked out. Seeing piles of eyeglasses and personal belongings affected me in a way no photograph ever could. Each pair of glasses had belonged to someone who had plans, relationships, arguments, jokes, and routines. Suddenly six million was no longer a number. It was individuals — multiplied beyond comprehension. After the march came the moment that still echoes in my memory. Before our flight from Poland to Israel took off the pilot spoke in Hebrew. He said that we had experienced hell — and now he was taking us home. As he revved the engines and lifted into the sky, the emotional shift was overwhelming. We were leaving death and flying toward life. That week in Israel transformed mourning into continuity. Israel stopped being a concept and became part of our identity. My children have all inherited the education I received from the March — not just facts about the Holocaust, but the responsibility that comes with memory. Read the Full Article → Stephen B Sokolow on the 1994 March of the Living in Poland (Courtesy) Essay Four Between Ashes and Tomorrow How the March of the Living transformed my identity and purpose. Jonathan Thull — 2003 March of the Living Alumni I grew up in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, a small Southern city where Jewish life was quiet and sparse. In my religious school class there were only six of us. Judaism felt important, but distant — something inherited rather than fully lived. I knew about the Holocaust the way many students do: through textbooks, documentaries, and solemn remembrance days. I understood it intellectually, but it remained abstract, almost unimaginable. On the March of the Living, I was no longer one of a handful of Jewish kids in a Southern town. I was immersed in a sea of Jewish peers from around the world — so many of us carrying the same ancient history. For the first time in my life, Jewishness was not a minority identity. Yet we were gathered not for celebration, but to confront the darkest chapter of our people's story. That contrast — vibrant Jewish youth standing in places built for our annihilation — was overwhelming and transformative. On the March of the Living history stopped being history. In a world where some deny or distort the Holocaust, there was no room for doubt there. The march transformed my identity. Judaism was no longer just a religion I practiced occasionally. It was a people I belonged to — a global family bound by history, resilience, humor, memory, and hope. The experience awakened a deep sense of connection and responsibility within me. Standing in the shadow of genocide made the existence of a Jewish state feel not political, but existential — a living answer to the question of survival. To MARCH is to walk through the valley of death. To keep marching afterward — in our communities, our identities, and our choices — is to choose life. In that sense, the March of the Living is not a single event. It is a lifelong journey. And I am still walking. Read the Full Story → Live Broadcasts International March of the Living · Yom HaShoah 2026 Erev Yom HaShoah Program Monday, April 13 🇺🇸 LA11:15 AMPT 🇺🇸 NYC2:15 PMET 🇬🇧 UK7:15 PMBST 🇵🇱 POLAND8:15 PMCEST 🇮🇱 ISRAEL9:15 PMIDT 🇦🇺 SYDNEY4:15 AMAEST Annual March from Auschwitz to Birkenau Tuesday, April 14 🇺🇸 LA5:30 AMPT 🇺🇸 NYC8:30 AMET 🇬🇧 UK1:30 PMBST 🇵🇱 POLAND2:30 PMCEST 🇮🇱 ISRAEL3:30 PMIDT 🇦🇺 SYDNEY10:30 PMAEST

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  • Standing at Auschwitz changed me

    on April 8, 2026

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Jessica Handler 2024 March of the Living Alumnus Before my Bat Mitzvah, I remember sitting at my grandparents' kitchen table in Newton, Massachusetts, listening to my grandfather, Sidney Handler, speak about an upcoming trip he was leading with the March of the Living. He described the journey with a gravity reserved for this subject alone: first to Vilna, Poland—his birthplace, now Vilnius, Lithuania—then to Poland, and finally to Israel. Vilna was where his childhood was stolen. Poland was where his father, Hirsch, and older brother, Berel, were murdered at Stutthof. Israel was where his surviving cousin—and the next generations of our family—rebuilt their lives, and where Jewish life continued. I asked if I could go with him. Gently but firmly, he told me I was not yet prepared for the emotional weight of the March. But then he made me a promise: when I turned eighteen, he would take me to Vilna. And one day, he assured me, I would go on the March of the Living. My grandfather participated in at least three Marches during his lifetime. He did not return to Europe to dwell in death; he returned to bear witness. For him, the March was about continuity. Over time, it also became something deeply personal between us—a shared language of memory, responsibility, and hope. On my eighteenth birthday, my phone rang. He and my mother had been secretly planning a trip. We were going to Vilna the following month. He had kept his promise. Walking beside him through the streets of Vilnius—past Subačiaus Street, where he had been imprisoned in the HKP labor camp; through the remnants of the Vilna Ghetto; and to Ponary, where tens of thousands of Jews were murdered, including my great-great-grandparents and so many aunts, uncles, and cousins—I began to understand what it meant to inherit memory. I was not simply learning history; I was stepping into it. Still, I held him to his other promise: that one day, I would go on the March. Left: Jessica Handler with her grandfather Sidney Handler; Right: Leading the Holocaust Museum LA delegation at Auschwitz (Courtesy) Six years later, I earned my Master's degree in Holocaust Studies from the University of Haifa, inspired by my grandfather's lifelong commitment to Holocaust education and remembrance and having developed my own deep passion for this work. I soon landed my dream job at Holocaust Museum LA. In my first year on staff, the museum began partnering with the March of the Living and sending its own delegation. I shared with my supervisor that I had never been—that participating in the March was something I had always hoped to do. The following year, she told me I would be leading the museum's delegation. I do not think a Jewish person has ever been so excited to "return" to Poland. The trip was meaningful in countless ways. What struck me most was the realization that I was walking in my grandfather's footsteps—not as a granddaughter holding his hand, but as an educator entrusted with carrying his story, and the stories of other survivors, forward. On the day of the March, we were given paddles on which to write the names of those we were marching for. I wrote Hirsch and Berel Rejzewski—my grandfather's father and brother. Their lives were cut short at Stutthof. They have no graves for us to visit. Yet on that day, their names were carried through Auschwitz-Birkenau by their great-granddaughter. Standing at Auschwitz changed me. I had studied the Holocaust for years. I knew the documents, the historiography, the testimonies. But walking the three kilometers from Auschwitz I to Birkenau, surrounded by thousands of Jews and allies from around the world, reshaped my understanding. The Holocaust was no longer only a subject I taught; it was a living inheritance I was responsible for transmitting. To stand between memory and the future is to occupy a fragile and sacred space. It is to hold the stories of those who survived and those who were murdered, and to decide—every day—how they will be told. It is to translate trauma into testimony, and testimony into education. It is to ensure that remembrance does not calcify into ritual, but remains urgent and alive. My grandfather passed away on August 23, 2025. In the months since, I have felt the weight of that in-between space more acutely than ever. The March of the Living has become one of the enduring connectors between us—when he was alive and now after. It is where I feel closest to his voice, to his footsteps, to the promises we made to one another. I am no longer only the granddaughter listening at the kitchen table. I am now part of the generation responsible for safeguarding his memory. The March of the Living is often described as a bridge—from Auschwitz to Birkenau, from destruction to rebirth, from exile to Israel. But I have come to understand it as something even more personal. It is the bridge between my grandfather's voice and my own. Between his childhood in Vilna and the classrooms where I now teach in Los Angeles. Between the names of Hirsch and Berel and the students who now carry their memory forward. To stand between memory and the future is not a passive act. It demands courage—the courage to return to places of devastation, the courage to teach in a world where antisemitism persists, the courage to affirm that Jewish life not only survived but continues. When my grandfather promised that I would go on the March one day, he was not simply making travel plans. He was entrusting me with a responsibility. I have walked the path from Auschwitz to Birkenau. I have stood in Vilna where he once stood. And now, in my work and in my life, I carry forward what he carried before me. Memory is not the opposite of the future. It is its foundation. ← Back to All Essays

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  • How the March of the Living Changed Me

    on April 8, 2026

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You can read testimony. But stepping inside one erases the distance between history and reality. Stephen B Sokolow 1994 March of the Living Alumnus I went on the March of the Living in 11th grade, in 1994. Until then, I had never left the United States. I was a religious Jewish teenager attending public school, living in two worlds that didn't always intersect — my daily American life and my Jewish identity. I thought I understood who I was. The March changed that permanently. The preparation alone was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The education leading up to the trip felt less like a high-school program and more like earning a master's degree in Holocaust history. Our teachers, Gene and Miles, were extraordinary. They did not simply teach dates, names, and events — they built a narrative of human beings, communities, and a civilization that once lived and breathed. By the time we left, I could practically draw blueprint maps of the camps from memory. I was in awe of both of them before the trip, and even more so during it. They didn't just transmit information; they transmitted responsibility. Still, nothing — absolutely nothing — could prepare me for standing in the places themselves. Stephen B Sokolow on the 1994 March of the Living in Poland (Courtesy) You can study gas chambers. You can read testimony. You can memorize camp layouts. But stepping inside one erases the distance between history and reality. I remember standing there and realizing that this was not a chapter in a book. This was a room where human beings walked in alive and never walked out. Seeing piles of eyeglasses and personal belongings affected me in a way no photograph ever could. Each pair of glasses had belonged to someone who had plans, relationships, arguments, jokes, and routines. Suddenly six million was no longer a number. It was individuals — multiplied beyond comprehension. Another unexpected experience was the security presence. Israeli security teams guarded us closely everywhere we went. At the time, I had never been to Israel and had never really interacted with Israelis. Yet I became friends with the agent assigned to our group, Erez. He wasn't just a guard — he was a protector, someone whose job existed because Jews must never again be defenseless. For the first time, I felt the difference between remembering Jewish history and living Jewish continuity. Then came the moment that still echoes in my memory. Before our flight from Poland to Israel took off, the pilot spoke in Hebrew. He said that we had experienced hell — and now he was taking us home. As he revved the engines and lifted into the sky, the emotional shift was overwhelming. We were leaving death and flying toward life. I had never been to Israel, and honestly, my imagination was simple: deserts and camels. That changed instantly. As we flew along the coastline in the early morning hours, I was stunned by the beauty of the land. The Mediterranean shimmered beside cities full of light. I was overtaken by a feeling I didn't expect — belonging. When I stepped off the plane, something inside me settled. I knew immediately that I never wanted to leave. That week in Israel transformed mourning into continuity. We commemorated Yom HaZikron together with the entire country — sirens sounding, people standing still, a nation remembering as one body. Soon after, we danced in the streets with strangers celebrating Yom HaAtzmaut. I had never experienced a place where grief and joy existed side by side as parts of the same story. It was the clearest expression of Jewish survival I had ever seen: from ashes to independence within days. The impact of the March did not end with the trip. In 2011, we made aliyah. Although circumstances eventually brought us back to the United States, we still see ourselves as connected to the land and intend to return. Israel stopped being a concept and became part of our identity. My children have all inherited the education I received from the March — not just facts about the Holocaust, but the responsibility that comes with memory. The lessons of the March feel even more relevant today. I learned that Jewish history is not only something to study; it is something to carry forward. The experience reshaped how I see my role in the world — as part of a people who endured destruction yet chose life, rebuilding, and continuity. I am deeply grateful to the March of the Living for giving me that understanding. It didn't simply teach me about the past. It gave me a direction for the future — one rooted in memory, responsibility, and belonging. ← Back to All Essays

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