By Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel
CHULA VISTA, California — On Yom HaShoah, we pause to remember the millions whose lives were extinguished in the Holocaust, their voices silenced by unimaginable atrocities. Their suffering, and the silence that often followed, echoes the biblical narratives of Aaron and Job, two figures whose experiences of profound loss offer a lens through which to contemplate grief, resilience, and the search for meaning in the face of overwhelming tragedy.
In this week’s parsha, we read about Aaron, who lost his sons Nadab and Abihu in a sudden and divine act, and Job, who endured the collapse of his entire world. These experiences resonate deeply with the experiences of Holocaust survivors and their descendants. Their silences—laden with grief, shock, and spiritual disorientation—mirror the weight of trauma borne by those who emerged from the ashes of Auschwitz, Treblinka, and other sites of horror. Yet, within these narratives, we also find the transformative power of speech, a force that can break the chains of silence and pave the way toward healing and renewal.
Aaron’s response to the death of his sons, struck down for offering “strange fire” before God, is captured in the terse phrase, “And Aaron was silent” (Leviticus 10:3). The Hebrew word used here, dummah, carries a depth that transcends mere quietness. It is a silence pregnant with grief, embodying astonishment, numbness, and a haunting sense of lifelessness.
This silence is not stoic acceptance but a visceral reaction to a loss so profound that words fail. The biblical text offers no glimpse into Aaron’s inner turmoil. Did he wrestle with guilt, perhaps recalling his role in the Golden Calf incident? Did he perceive this tragedy as divine retribution? The narrator leaves these questions unanswered, inviting us to read between the lines and imagine the storm of emotions beneath Aaron’s mute exterior. In contrast, Moses, Aaron’s brother, offers words of divine purpose: “Through those near to me I will be sanctified; in the sight of all the people I will obtain glory” (Lev. 10:3). Moses does not condemn the impulsive actions of Nadab and Abihu but frames their deaths as part of a sacred act, a moment of divine sanctification. Yet Aaron remains silent, his response a stark counterpoint to Job’s vocal anguish.
Job’s suffering, unlike Aaron’s, is marked by an initial silence that soon gives way to a torrent of words. When calamity strips him of his children, wealth, and health, Job sits in stunned silence, scraping his sores with a potsherd. But this silence is not enduring. As his pain deepens, Job finds his voice, cursing the day of his birth in a poetic outpouring of despair:
God damn the day I was born!
and the night that forced me from the womb
On that day—let there be darkness;
let it never have been created;
let it sink back into the void.
Let chaos overpower it;
let black clouds overwhelm it;
let the sun be plucked from the sky . . . .
Job 3:3-5 (Stephen Mitchell’s translation)[1]
Job’s words are raw, unfiltered, and defiant, directed not only at his own existence but also at the God who seems to have abandoned him. Unlike Aaron, who receives a divine visitation that punctuates his silence, Job grapples with God’s enigmatic absence. His silence threatens his very being, but his speech—his refusal to remain mute—becomes the first step toward wrestling with his suffering and seeking vindication.
The silences of Aaron and Job, though distinct, share a common thread: they reflect the disorientation and terror that accompany profound loss. Those who have endured trauma know this silence intimately. It is a cage, a stone-like state that strips away the ability to communicate and leaves the sufferer feeling severed from life itself. Holocaust survivors, like my father who lost his family in Auschwitz, often carried this silence. The horrors they witnessed and endured were too vast, too diabolic, to be articulated. Their children, the second generation, grew up under the shadow of this silence, often too fearful or confused to ask their parents to share their stories.
This silence was not merely an absence of words but a spiritual wound, a barrier to prayer and connection with a God who seemed absent in the gas chambers and crematoria. As Martin Buber poignantly asked, “How is a life with God still possible in a time in which there is an Auschwitz?” The estrangement from the Divine, the hiddenness of God’s presence, becomes unbearable for those who have felt abandoned. Belief may persist, but the ability to speak to God, to hear His word, or to call upon Him as a people is a staggering challenge.
This spiritual trauma is not unique to Holocaust survivors. It extends to all who have faced profound loss, like a member of my congregation who lost her father, husband, and son within a few short years. Her son, a vibrant 26-year-old, collapsed and died of a heart attack moments after winning a golf tournament held in memory of his father. The cause was traced to an excessive amount of ephedrine in his blood, a cruel twist that compounded her grief. Thrust into a sorrow of Jobian proportions, she found herself unable to pray or find solace in the synagogue’s sanctuary. Her silence was not defiance but a natural response to a world that seemed to have collapsed under the weight of loss. Who could blame her? Any encounter with such evil makes faith, and even the language of faith, feel impossibly distant.
Yet, within the biblical narratives and the experiences of survivors, we find a counterpoint to silence: the redemptive power of speech. Speech is not merely a tool for communication; it is a cornerstone of human connection and a marker of our humanity. From Genesis, where God’s spoken word brings the world into being, to Adam’s naming of the animals, speech is intertwined with creation and relationship. For trauma victims, silence can feel like death, a stagnation that stifles healing. The act of lamentation, deeply rooted in Jewish tradition, offers a pathway out of this prison. The courage to voice pain, to wrestle with difficult questions, and to confront despair is a communal as well as an individual act. It is through speech that Job begins his transformative journey, directing his anger not only at God but also at the indifferent community that fails to comfort him. His words, though steeped in anguish, mark the beginning of his renewal.
For Holocaust survivors and their descendants, breaking the silence has been a vital step toward healing. The second generation, once hesitant to probe their parents’ past, has increasingly sought to preserve their stories through testimony, literature, and commemoration. These acts of speech—whether in the form of memoirs, oral histories, or Yom HaShoah ceremonies—are not just historical records but spiritual acts of resurrection. They reclaim the voices silenced by the Nazis and affirm the resilience of the Jewish people. Similarly, in our personal lives, voicing our pain can invite divine revelation and deepen our faith. The Psalmist, no stranger to suffering, declares, “For God alone, my soul waits in silence; from Him comes my salvation” (Psalm 62:1). This waiting is not passive but an active yearning for restoration, a hope that speech can bridge the chasm between despair and redemption.
On Yom HaShoah, we honor the memory of those who perished and those who survived by refusing to let silence have the final word. The stories of Aaron and Job remind us that suffering, though isolating, is a shared human experience. Their silences, heavy with grief and disorientation, speak to the trauma of the Holocaust and its enduring impact. But their stories also point to the power of speech to heal, to connect, and to renew. As we light candles, recite Kaddish, and share the testimonies of survivors, we engage in a collective act of lamentation and hope. We dare to articulate our pain, to confront the hiddenness of God, and to seek a restoration of His presence. In doing so, we affirm that even in the face of unimaginable loss, the human spirit, like Job’s voice and Aaron’s silent faith, can endure and rise again.
[1] Stephen Mitchell, The Book of Job (London: Kyle Cathie Limited, 1989), 13.
*
Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel is spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California.