Published: 16 September 2022
Last updated: 5 March 2024
Invited to speak at a school exhibition at Coffs Harbour, SHARON OFFENBERGER finds the familiar stories from her childhood have new resonance.
“I grew up in the shadow of the Holocaust,” began my speech marking a sunny afternoon in the middle of the school term.
I had been invited to open the Holocaust exhibition at the Anglican school in Coffs Harbour – a regional centre about six hours’ drive north of Sydney. A friendly coastal hub that services locals, sea-changers, and farmers.
“Coffs” is as Aussie as it gets, with pockets (or kangaroo pouches) of multiculturalism. The mid-North Coast of NSW is mostly known for its vibrant turquoise beaches, vibrant blueberries, and vibrant caravan culture. It is not known for its vibrant Jewish community.
But it happens to be where my children go to school.
The Holocaust exhibition was a project of the entire Year 10 cohort, 100-plus kids, who had turned the school library into a makeshift museum comprising carefully researched and creative exhibits.
It was the first time I have been elevated into the Shoah storyteller role, one I am not wholly comfortable with. Having moved from a community of survivors (Melbourne) to a whole country of survivors (Israel), there was simply nothing remarkable about my story.
What I imparted now with some gravitas as “growing up in the shadow of the Holocaust” was, at the time, simply being a Melbourne Jew. It was the simplicity of 1980s Australia superimposed on a roomful of undiagnosed PTSD.
When I moved to Israel, I discovered there was no category of “Melbourne Jew” in the vast lexicon of identities. My upbringing - even my parent’s upbringing - didn’t count. All that mattered was where my grandparents were from. I was called "Polaniya" (Polish, f.) and therefore the butt of jokes about women who were cold and didn’t enjoy sex. There was no status in being the descendant of survivors, that is unless you become a politician.
But it meant I could break the ice by speaking a bissel Yiddish with Haredi leaders in Israel, who were shocked that I was both secular and still able to recite Birkat Hamazon (the prayer after meals) by heart.
Being a Melbourne Jew meant I was well into my thirties before I started throwing away food, rather than returning leftovers on smaller and smaller plates to the fridge until it resembled a petri dish.
A fresh-faced boy with a mullet haircut enthusiastically explained to me that he had been inspired for his work by Art Spiegelman’s graphic novel Maus.
“Growing up in the shadow of the Holocaust” meant one day I would be bequeathed the role of Shoah storyteller, and that day had come.
Earlier this year, a Deakin University survey found almost a quarter of Australians aged 18 or older have little to no knowledge of the Holocaust. It’s not a promising statistic, but not very surprising either. One does not think of Holocaust education as being a priority, especially in the parts of Australia that survivors only drove through on their way up to holidays on the Gold Coast.
As I stood before these kids, I wondered whether 16-year-old regional Australians today would have any capacity to appreciate the enormity of the Holocaust?
It turns out they did.
The teachers told me this was the fourth year of the project but that this time the students had elevated their research to another level. They, too, were obviously proud.
And they should be. How my Israeli kids found their place in a regional Aussie Christian school is a testament – old and new – to the school community. It’s not all wafers and crosses.
A fresh-faced boy with a mullet haircut enthusiastically explained to me that he had been inspired for his work by Art Spiegelman’s graphic novel Maus, and even prouder that the school library had made an exception to let him borrow the book, even though usually they didn’t let it leave the campus.
A girl in sports uniform had sewn, by hand, a life-sized replica of the blue and white striped clothing worn in the camps. Videogames made a strong showing, with three separate Minecraft replications of concentration camps and gas chambers. No-one pronounced Auschwitz correctly.
The kids were keen to show off their knowledge and enormously respectful to the Holocaust survivor’s kid, me, who spoke before them. Then they raced across the library gossiping about who might win the People’s Choice Award.
The kids were keen to show off their knowledge, eager to explain their inspiration and enormously respectful to the Holocaust survivor’s kid (me) who spoke before them.
Then they raced across the library gossiping about who might win the People’s Choice Award (a vote by other students as to who presented the best work). The exhibition was to remain on public display in the library for the next week.
“Thank you for your work to #NeverForget”, I concluded in my speech - and meant it. I was indeed taken back to the dark imagery of Nazis, mass graves and ghettos in the otherwise well-lit library.
I suddenly understood how elderly Holocaust survivors, who have told their stories on repeat for decades, maintained the stamina to have their tragedy acknowledged by young pimply faces.
Main photo: Exhibit at the school exhibition
All photos by Sharon Offenberger
