From Remembrance to Responsibility: Why the 81st Anniversary of Auschwitz Was Different
When remembrance is no longer enough
There were some minor lapses and missteps — such situations are inevitable and may have caused some individuals to feel offended. I leave this aside, however, as the overall standard of this three-hour event marking the 81st anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz was exceptionally high. Although I was not physically present this year, the broadcast made a profound impression on me.
During a panel discussion held as part of the commemorations, Konstanty Gebert articulated an important thesis: “Museums are safe places. We come to them to see the past in a display case.” This is an immensely significant observation. Museums, as institutions, are for the most part created to bear witness to history. Only rarely do they explicitly engage with the present—and they are certainly not designed to systematically search for parallels between historical facts and current events. By their very nature, this is the task of other actors: research centres, think tanks, analytical institutions, and—more boldly—universities. Museums, in most cases, are simply not built for that kind of work. And yet, in my view, the Auschwitz Museum, for the first time so clearly during the 81st anniversary, demonstrated an aspiration to cross that boundary consciously—to take on such a role, and, with the right support, to carry the responsibility that comes with it. So what made these commemorations distinctive? At least four elements stood out.
1. No politicians. Political speeches have, to a large extent, become hollow. In most cases they serve a clear manipulative purpose. And even if, during an event like the anniversary of Auschwitz’s liberation, this manipulation does not take an overtly aggressive form, what remains is usually a parade of flattened rhetorical formulas that contribute very little. This time, the typical script was absent: presidents and politicians taking the stage, the ritualised protocol unfolding as always. And we should be glad it was. The ceremony was freed from politicians, manipulation, and empty phrases—and I had the impression no one missed them. The space was instead filled with sincere and weighty words spoken by those who mattered most: the Survivors.
2. As always, the Survivors rose to the occasion—they spoke about the present and the future. They did not return to memories for their own sake, but used them to outline a horizon of values that should shape all of us today and tomorrow. And I can only imagine how difficult that must have been. None of us can truly grasp how often—and how intensely—survivors are asked to return, in their minds, to those events. Especially since, for decades, we have asked them to do exactly that: organising meetings with young people and, in a sense, “requiring” them to re-enter the pain again and again.
This time, however, the language was openly anti-war, deeply human, reaching beyond the realm of recollection. And these two elements together created a platform where two essential components could meet: the strong, unmistakable voice of the survivors, and the voices of leaders, intellectuals, and representatives of a “younger” generation—those who today interpret these values and extrapolate them into the reality that surrounds us.
Bernard Offen—whose experience of passing through five camps, and whose lifelong dedication to Holocaust remembrance, give his words a particular gravity—closed this sequence of testimonies in a way that was both deeply emotional and strikingly clear: “Let memory not be a burden—let it become a light that guides us through the darkness.” One has to know Bernard Offen to fully understand how profoundly humanistic this message was. Shaped by the Holocaust as a Jew, he speaks from a Jewish perspective; yet when he speaks about the world around us, he consistently adopts a universal, human perspective.
3. Speeches in the “Sauna” building and the panel discussions. The third element was the form of the ceremony itself—one that broke with the logic of monumental commemoration. Moving the central event into the so-called “Sauna” building—deep in the Birkenau woods—radically changed how words could be spoken and heard. Instead of speeches addressed abstractly “to the world,” there was a focused gathering in a space that still carries the physicality of the camp experience: registration, dehumanisation, and the stripping away of identity. This is not an architecture designed for grand declarations or pathos, but for attentiveness, intimacy, and responsibility. In such a space, there was no need to speak loudly—every sentence carried more weight.
This format was further strengthened by the panel discussions, which—one might say—broke the ritual character of the anniversary. Instead of a one-way message, what emerged was a field of tension between the lived experience of survivors and the reflections of historians, intellectuals, and practitioners working with memory and human rights. In this sense, the anniversary became less a ceremonial rite and more a forum—one in which the past was treated as an obligation, not merely as heritage.
And this is precisely what made the structure of the event both innovative and adequate to its purpose. The 81st anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz was not only a commemoration or a ritual laying of wreaths—it became a living debate, a platform that identifies problems and, at least in outline, attempts to indicate directions for further thinking. And not only in matters directly related to the Holocaust. Perhaps we do not always need pompous, costly commemorations. Perhaps a more intimate gathering, in a space as historically marked as the “Sauna” building at the edge of Birkenau, is fully sufficient.
4. A spirit of responsibility for the future—this was palpable (as far as the online broadcast allowed). The fourth, perhaps most important, experience of these commemorations—emerging as a consequence of the previous three points—was the clear sense that the whole was not merely an introspection into the past. Of course, grief, respect, silence, and an awareness of the scale of the crime were present—one could feel it in every contribution. But at a deeper level, there was a spirit of responsibility for what comes next. In speeches and panel discussions, a recurring theme was that the meaning of preserving this place does not end with remembering what happened here; it is realised in the question of what we are prepared to do today so that the logic of dehumanisation does not return in a new form.
This is what the director of the Auschwitz Museum, Piotr Cywiński, spoke about in his address, pointing to the fundamental role of experience and memory. Yet it was not only the content of his words that mattered. He spoke with an unusual freedom—within the limits of what the director of Auschwitz can allow himself on such a solemn day. I had the personal impression that the weight of political pressure had lifted from him. A year earlier, during the massive gathering at the Auschwitz Memorial, the most important leaders and presidents of the world were present. I attended those commemorations and remember the feeling of taking part in something monumental—yet, despite its scale, it did not leave me with a clear intellectual message.
This time it was different. What Piotr Cywiński said carried real significance: that the experience of the past and the work of memory should function today as a warning, as points of reference in dangerous and unstable moments. This statement is opening because, in my view, it shifts the emphasis toward something I have been arguing for for many years: the preventive dimension of Holocaust education, and of understanding what the Holocaust actually teaches.
Memory—and the conclusions we draw from the past—should sensitise us to a moral duty to react when the first warning signs appear. The experience of those events allows us—or at least should allow us—to recognise more accurately the symptoms of an approaching crime: social and political processes that lead, with grim logic, toward genocide. Both experience and memory are, in this sense, irreplaceable.
In my view, it is precisely on the basis of experience and memory that we should develop a set of norms and principles—something like a code of conduct for times of crisis and transition, when populist solutions begin to outweigh responsibility. The past teaches us where certain socio-political processes lead. It is worth noting that similar work has long been carried out by the community around Gregory Stanton, the author of the concept of the ten stages of genocide, whose organisation Genocide Watch monitors contemporary conflicts worldwide through that lens.
An immensely important voice, of course, was the pessimistic voice of Konstanty Gebert, who spoke bluntly of a colossal and fundamental failure. A failure in the sense that “never again” today essentially means only this: never again will Jews be exterminated by Germans. There is no broader, universal conclusion—and we, as a community, have not drawn sufficient lessons from that experience.
Gebert’s pessimism did not ruin the atmosphere of the event. On the contrary, it painfully reminds us how much still remains to be done. We are not at the end of the road when it comes to knowledge and understanding of the Holocaust. We are not even halfway.
Against this backdrop, the composition of the panel took on particular significance: Konstanty Gebert, Jacek Stawiski, David Silberklang from Yad Vashem, and Museum staff—Paweł Sawicki, Piotr Setkiewicz, and Igor Bartosik. This combination made it possible to address, at once, strictly historical issues, the transmission of survivors’ testimony, the challenges of digitalisation and AI, and the problem of fake content and disinformation in the online space. In other words, it was a three-hour session that approached—remarkably comprehensively—the problems that Holocaust education faces today.
This shift—from contemplation of the past toward reflection on the present and the future—means that this year’s commemorations can be treated as a turning point. The Auschwitz Museum not only reminded us of what happened here; it also suggested that it has the right—and perhaps the duty—to speak on contemporary issues: the language of hatred, dehumanising propaganda, violence against minorities, and manipulation of history. In this sense, the 81st anniversary was not merely another “round number,” but a clear signal: the memory of Auschwitz is maturing into an active point of reference, not only a museum display case. That is why one can feel that we were not present at yet another commemoration, but at the opening of a new chapter in how this place speaks to the rest of the world.
No—the role of the Auschwitz Museum is not to point a finger at specific aspects of contemporary reality. It is not its task to make blunt comparisons or to formulate direct accusations by claiming that the dehumanisation of people in the camp and pre-camp era is the same as the dehumanisation of particular ethnic groups today. Nor is it the Museum’s role to map mechanisms leading to genocide and say: here is the analogy, and here is the warning sign—although Konstanty Gebert did not avoid such comparisons. But the Museum allowed itself something else: to create an intellectual architecture for thinking about these parallels in a general way. What is more, it used an extraordinarily strong message conveyed by the survivors: be brave. And I will repeat, recalling the words of Bernard Offen, whom I have the honour to know personally: “Let this history and my experience be a light, not a burden.”
In this sense, the Museum went far beyond its traditionally understood mandate. And personally, I am glad it allowed itself to cross that boundary. At the same time, I feel this is a sign of our times: perhaps we have reached the limit of “normality,” and institutions that should guard universal values, the values of our civilisation, and rigorous analysis of socio-political processes—are failing. The Auschwitz Museum, though it was not created for that purpose, is stepping into this role, and doing so convincingly. But what the Museum has done does not relieve anyone else of responsibility—on the contrary, it is an impetus for all of us to act, to deepen and specify this discussion about the condition of our societies and Western civilisation.
This specificity is necessary today. We must move from general statements to concrete ones. Why? Because I am convinced that many issues of fundamental importance are understood differently in Jewish and non-Jewish communities. The phrase “never again” itself is now interpreted in radically different ways by different circles. This deepening of reflection may take place with the participation of the Auschwitz Museum—or beyond it. What matters most is the impulse. And here I want to emphasise once again: the 81st anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz was spectacular, exceptional, and deeply memorable.
Dr. Jerzy Wójcik
| Holocaust Memorial Partnership | Auschwitz Virtual Tour |
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