I was in my teens when I first became aware of the neo-Nazis in our town. They were terrifying with their bomber jackets, boots, and shaved heads as they marched along our main shopping street. Always in groups. I made sure never to make eye contact, staring at the ground as they walked past. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.
A couple of weeks ago, the BBC published an article about how an ex neo-Nazi became kingmaker. The same people who scared the living daylights out of me as a youth are now leading the second largest political party in Sweden. The same people who, during the ’90s, robbed military guards of their automatic weapons where I grew up, bombed a school during a speech about the Holocaust, and harassed and beat up immigrants. Now, with suits on and polished shoes, they look set to become an influential part of our government. And they keep terrifying me.
In one of her books, Holocaust survivor Hédi Fried wrote:
‘You have to realise each person’s responsibility, both for herself and society, and how dangerous it is to stay quiet.’
I’m not always good at speaking up; I get scared and cowardly hide behind the oldest people in our society (Hédi is 98). The generation that, though they suffered the unimaginable, never gave up on humanity. And, on Yom Kippur five years ago, as the Nazis marched outside the synagogue in Gothenburg, the elderly once again stood up and bore witness to the evil they endured. I realise I need to be better at ensuring their stories are heard, both now and for the future. I wish to be one of many connecting links between generations. They have shared their suffering for us to guard and retell; and we need to protect and nurture their trust and passionate belief in freedom, recognising that each of us is a moral agent, and that in this lies our unique integrity as human beings.