After the Holocaust, the phrase "Never Again" became the determined vow, not only of the survivors themselves but also fellow Jews throughout the world. This vow, a profound assertion of self-protection, was passed on to their children through efforts to educate them about the Holocaust and to document its history. Today, the phrase has been adopted by the world at large-particularly younger Jews-as a rallying cry to end all genocide. And even across the globe this April, millions of Rwandans sung along to a new gospel song called "Never Again," commissioned especially for the fifteenth commemoration of the Tutsi Genocide in 1994.

Among American Jews, there is an increasing generational rift in the way the phrase is used, a rift that the two of us noticed profoundly as we recently discussed the meaning of this phrase. One of us was born in 1929, coming of age when the atrocities of the Holocaust were at their most palpable and immediate. The other was a freshman in high school when the Hutu majority committed genocide against the Tutsi minority of Rwanda, awakening a broader, Jewish sense of responsibility for the global community.

Those who remember the first cry, "Never Again" for Jews, are reluctant to embrace the second, "Never Again" for all. Those who embrace the second feel less commitment to the vigilance on behalf of Jews that the first vow demands.

That Jews of an older generation guard the language of the Holocaust against use by others stems from fear for Jewish survival. The older generation of Jews, those who lived through the atrocities of the Holocaust, saw the world stand aside as Jews perished in concentration camps. They responded with the resolve to fight anti-Semitism worldwide and to ensure Jewish cultural continuity. But a tragedy of our Holocaust is that humanity has not absorbed the lesson its horrors should have taught. Asserting "Never Again" for all does not mean denying the unprecedented nature of the Holocaust. It means keeping its memory alive in the service of others.

Young American Jews have been active in the fight against genocide-recording survivor testimony in Rwanda, caring for survivors in Cambodia, raising awareness for Darfur. This generation seems unwilling to be aligned with an attitude that privileges Jewish suffering. Having grown up in a country where anti-Semitism is no longer a part of daily life, they are less concerned with the struggle for Jewish survival than with a search for joy and meaning in Judaism. They resist the call for self-protection, and instead focus on the Jewish value of justice and the pursuit of tikkun olam, the repair of the world. This confidence and openness should inspire hope for a newly vibrant Jewish life. But the embrace of the second "Never Again" has also come at the cost of the first. The younger generation tends to gloss over the real dangers that Jews face today, which include the rise of anti-Semitism in Europe and the threat to Israel from a nuclear Iran.

The sage Hillel asked, "If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, who am I?" One might imagine in these two questions a conversation between two generations of Jews. The first, the voice of painful history, argues that survival demands that we act in our own interest. The second probes questions of identity and responsibility. Who are we-as Jews and as human beings-if we look away from the suffering of others?

As two Jews who are passionately invested in the vitality of the Jewish people, our consciences require us to acknowledge the Jewish value of taking responsibility both for our own community and also for any community in need. Jews need to listen to one another, across the generational gap and the political spectrum, if we are to fulfill both promises. On Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, amidst today’s international political turmoil, we should honor both meanings of "Never Again," aiming to unite the Jewish community and uphold a commitment to both promises. With the volatility and violence of today’s political climate, the line that completes Rabbi Hillel’s quote takes on a new urgency, "If not now, when?"

Taylor Krauss, an alumnus of the Bronfman Youth Fellowships in Israel, is the founder of Voices of Rwanda, an organization dedicated to recording and preserving testimonies of Rwandans and to ensuring that their stories inform the world about genocide.

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More recently I have been absorbed in my work as chairman of the Board of Governors of Hillel: the Foundation for Jewish Campus Life.  When I visit campuses, I almost always spend time studying the Bible and Talmud with students, poring over a passage and exploring multiple interpretations.  Part of what is so remarkable about the Talmud is that when it resolves an issue in favor of one opinion, it doesn’t expunge the others.   There is a Talmudic story that after years of divisive disagreement between the schools of the sages Hillel and Shammai, a voice from God calls out to resolve the argument in favor of Hillel, but also to acknowledge the validity of the opposing view, saying: "Both these and these are the words of the living God."

One might see in this respect for opposing views an opening to moral relativism, and an emphasis on contemplation instead of action.  But the Talmud is fundamentally concerned with guiding ethical behavior.  Acknowledging complexity does not mean avoiding action.   This idea is at the foundation of Judaism, and it offers a valuable framework from which to confront the complexity of today’s great moral issues. As we stand at the brink of what could become of a world wide depression, it is difficult to say what should be done to confront crises that include global warming, a nuclear Iran, and the ongoing genocide in Darfur.  But inaction is not an option.  In the words of Rabbi Tarfon in Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of Our Fathers: "You are not required to finish the task, but neither are you free to desist from it."   

In Hope, Not Fear: A Path to Jewish Renaissance, I quote young Jewish leaders who regard their Judaism and their activism as inextricable.  These leaders include Sharon Brous, who founded Ikar, a community in Los Angeles that "stands at the intersection of spirituality and social justice," and Margie Klein, who started Moishe/Kavod House in Boston, where activists gather for Jewish learning, prayer, and culture.  These communities offer the space to tackle the complex question that is so central to Jewish sources: "What is our responsibility in the world?"  And they take to heart the quote from the sage Hillel: "If not now, when?"

As a sidenote, Rabbi Andy Bachman, my co-author Beth Zasloff and I will all be speaking about issues of Jewish ethics and the Jewish community next week, on Wednesday, March 18th, 7:30 pm at Congregation Beth Elohim in Brooklyn. For more info: http://www.congregationbethelohim.org/ 

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One of my nephews became engaged to a non-Jew. He was born a Jew but knew little about Judaism. When his fiancée decided to convert, he decided to join her in study. Before their marriage there was one uneducated Jew; now there are two who are knowledgeable.

My son Adam, who works alongside me in furthering the Jewish renaissance at The Samuel Bronfman Foundation, married "out" some twenty years ago. Cindy, his wonderful wife, was born Catholic. While she did not convert at the time of their marriage, they decided together to raise their children in a Jewish home. They observe Shabbat every week and have given their four children a strong foundation of Jewish knowledge. After years of active participation in a welcoming Jewish community, Cindy chose to convert to Judaism in 2006. It was a choice she made from the heart, when she was ready. Now they are a family of six engaged Jews.

The Jewish communal fear attached to intermarriage is all about the numbers. The first wave of alarm was set off by the report, in the 1990 National Jewish Population Survey, that over half of Jews were marrying non-Jews, and that in only a third of these cases would the children be raised as Jews. I well remember my own shock at these figures, which suggested that the American Jewish population could be loved out of existence.

But as I began to work in Jewish education at Hillel and elsewhere, I came to see the situation differently. In an open society, people from diverse backgrounds will fall in love. The real numbers problem is not that Jews are falling in love with non-Jews, but that they aren’t falling in love with Judaism.

In the two stories I began with, the numbers work. There is also a common denominator, and that is education. In my book, Hope, Not Fear: A Path to Jewish Renaissance, I argue that trying to prevent intermarriage will only alienate young Jews. If we increase the quantity and depth of Jewish education, we will see an increase in the numbers and commitment of Jews, no matter whom they marry.

One might argue that statistics are more convincing than stories, and that while there are exceptions to the rule, the basic math still applies. My response is that I don’t want to see statistics about intermarried families until I see Jewish communities that welcome them with open hearts and without conditions. If these communities offer a Jewish life that is rich in substance and full of joy, both disengaged Jews and their non-Jewish family members will see the value in making Judaism part of their lives.

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The seed was planted in 1994, during one of the trips I made as president of the World Jewish Congress to convince Russia to establish diplomatic relations with Israel and to begin direct flights there. The day was Simchat Torah, the holiday that celebrates reading the end of the Torah and starting it again. Soviet Jews had been free to practice their religion since 1988, but for seventy years prior to that, Jewish ritual and Jewish education had been forbidden. As I was walking to a meeting, I saw literally thousands of Jews chatting as they milled about outside Moscow’s Choral Synagogue. I was amazed to see so many gathered there. How, after years of no religion allowed in the Soviet Union, had Jews kept their faith? What is it about Judaism, I asked myself, that has kept it alive through so much adversity while so many other traditions have disappeared?

On the aircraft on the way home from that trip, I encountered my first passage of Talmud. The text was based on a line in the Torah that states that if an ox kills three people, one must kill the ox. The Torah stops there. But the ox has value-skin, meat and bones-and the question the rabbis of the Talmud explore is who shall get what part of the dead animal. After some pages, the question is answered. At first this seemed rather arcane, but as I thought about it, I realized that all the rabbis were trying to do was to see to it that justice was done. That discovery gave me a pang of pride.

The pride I felt that day was the beginning of a new kind of Jewish life for me. I began to study Jewish texts. I began to observe Shabbat. I began to investigate what I could do to help the many disengaged American Jews to see the value in Judaism. Hope, Not Fear: A Path to Jewish Renaissance is the product of this journey.

Edgar M. Bronfman, author of Hope, Not Fear, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and he’ll be here all week. Stay tuned.

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