Sept. 2025
Jazmin Rymberg

In July, I had the honour of representing Margaret’s Legacy and Hamilton Jewish Federation at the Yad Vashem Seminar for Canadian educators in Berlin, in partnership with the Canadian Society for Yad Vashem and the House of the Wannsee Conference.

Berlin is a city of contradictions—alive with creativity and culture, while burdened with an unshakable past. It is both beautiful and brutal, both vibrant and quiet with memory. Every corner tells a story—sometimes literally. Stolpersteine, or stumbling stones, dot the sidewalks: small brass plaques embedded in the pavement outside homes where Jewish victims of the Holocaust once lived. A name, a date, a fate—each one a reminder that this history is not confined to museums. It lives here.

On a free afternoon, I joined a walking tour called The Rise and Fall of the Nazis. At one point, our Spanish guide, Alexis, turned to us and asked, “How could something so horrible happen somewhere so beautiful?” The street was charming—tree-lined Tiergarten, golden in the late sun. The question stayed with me.

A few days later, while standing on the immaculate grounds of the House of the Wannsee Conference, that overlooks the glassy lake where Nazi officials plotted the Final Solution, Dr. Matthias Haß said something equally haunting:
“Where do we expect evil to happen? In dark, ugly places? But no. It happened right here.”

And that, I think, was the most jarring truth Berlin had to offer: that atrocity doesn’t always look like what we imagine. Sometimes, it wears a well-tailored suit. Sometimes, it sips coffee by the water.

Throughout the two-week seminar, we studied the machinery of genocide, but also the power of memory, the importance of language, and the responsibility of education. We stood in Sachsenhausen, walked through the Jewish quarter, and learned how to teach not just what happened, but how—and why.

Germany is often held up as a model for how to remember and confront atrocity. And in many ways, it is. Memorials are built into the architecture of the country, antisemitism is formally condemned, and public education includes Holocaust curriculum. But while these efforts are significant, the reality is far from idyllic.

At Sachsenhausen, our tour guide Christina shared that, since Oct. 7, 2023, much of her work with student groups has begun to feel senseless. “They refuse to learn about the consequences of hate ... They come here looking for answers to the present, comparing current politics, but they don’t want to listen,” she said. Her words were heavy with disillusionment, echoing a deeper truth: even in places built for remembrance, forgetting—or refusing to confront the past—still happens.

During a panel discussion, one of the panelists bravely shared how their own son had experienced antisemitism at school in Berlin—so much so that he eventually had to be moved to a Jewish high school and later relocated to Israel. This story left the room quiet. It challenged the idea many of us came in with—that Germany had somehow “figured it out.” There is still fear. There is still hate. And while the infrastructure of memory is robust, it doesn’t always protect the people living inside of it.

Still, I was comforted by signs of solidarity throughout the city—the Israeli flags hanging from city buildings, the posters of hostages displayed on walls, and candles laid out in remembrance. These gestures don’t erase the challenges, but they do reflect a kind of public presence that’s vital. 

A highlight was our visit to the Jewish Museum, guided by the brilliant Randi. After touring an exhibit on Jewish contributions to civilization, I turned to my group and said:

“I know there’s a conversation here in Germany about making visits to concentration camps mandatory. But I think this should be mandatory too—seeing how Jewish people have shaped the world. This humanizes us. This celebrates us ... because Holocaust education should also be about Jewish life —our culture, our joy, our brilliance.

The Friday prior, I stepped out to attend a Latino Shabbat service in Kreuzberg-Neukölln, a neighbourhood known for its eclectic energy and buzzing nightlife. Amid the clinking glasses and laughter spilling from bars, a small community gathered quietly to mark 31 years since the AMIA bombing in Buenos Aires. We sang, lit candles, and remembered. And in that unexpected pocket of the city, I felt both the ache of diaspora and the comfort of shared mourning.
In the Bavarian Quarter, we encountered another quiet but powerful memorial: the Places of Remembrance installation. Suspended from lampposts were signs quoting Nazi-era laws that gradually stripped Jews of their rights—“Jews are no longer allowed to keep pets,” “Jews must sit on separate park benches,”—floating against the backdrop of apartment buildings and cafés. It’s a jarring juxtaposition. But that’s the point. These weren’t distant events. They happened in familiar neighborhoods, in ordinary lives. 

The seminar ended with a deeply emotional session called “These Are My Last Words,” led by Anne Lepper of Yad Vashem. Each participant read aloud a final letter, note, or testimony from a Holocaust victim. As we finished, one non-Jewish participant spoke up. “These are just 20 stories we’re reading out,” she said, “but if people could understand that there are six million of these stories, maybe they’d understand more.”

Another insight that resonated with me came from Jordan Rappaport, an education consultant at York Region District School Board, who pointed out that most students’ first exposure to the Jewish community is through the Holocaust, which perpetuates a narrative that the Jewish experience lives and breathes in trauma and victimhood. Instead, he suggested, there needs to be a “continuum of learning.” 

“In Grade 2, we could teach about traditions and celebrations of the Jewish communities of the Middle East and North Africa. In Grade 4, about ancient civilizations ... That way, when students reach Grade 6, they’ve already encountered the breadth and depth of Jewish life,” he said. 

The group bonded in a way that felt almost fated. People of all  backgrounds shared stories and supported each other. Even now, we continue to stay connected in our WhatsApp group. It reminded me that learning and healing happen not just in classrooms or memorials—but through human connection.

This journey began years ago, when I organized the #NoMoreAntisemitism conference in 2022. A Yad Vashem staff member who attended reached out this March and urged me to apply for the seminar, saying, “You should do it. You are perfect for this,” when no one from Hamilton had applied. I am deeply honoured to have represented Hamilton and even more moved by how this journey unfolded.

Caption: Jazmin Rymberg with Marc-Olivier Cloutier, manager of education initiatives at the Azrieli Foundation on the grounds of the House of the Wannsee Conference.