By John Q. Hosedrinker 
Germany’s head of state, Frank-Walter Steinmeier, recently visited the construction site of a Holocaust museum in Thessaloniki, Greece. The museum, which is being built on the grounds of an old railway station from which thousands of Greek Jews were transported to Auschwitz, is due to be completed in 2026. Germany fundraised €10m towards the project. Many, including the president of Thessaloniki’s Jewish community, David Saltiel, have expressed relief that the museum is being built. More than 50,000 people, the majority of whom were Sephardic Jews, were transported from the city to concentration camps during WWII.
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Eighty years after the horrific events that unfolded during the Holocaust, Thessaloniki is finally welcoming the opening of its Holocaust Museum, a place that carries the weight of history on its shoulders. As I contemplate this momentous occasion, I find myself reflecting on both the loss and the legacy of the Jewish community that once thrived in this city. The opening of this museum is not merely a ceremonial honor; it merits recognition as a final stand for remembrance, healing, and understanding in a world that often forgets.
Thessaloniki was once vibrant with Jewish life, its streets echoing with the sounds of Ladino spoken at home, a language cherished by my own ancestors who hailed from these very streets. The city flourished under the Ottoman Empire, a period of diversity that allowed cultures and faiths to intermingle, creating a unique tapestry of community. To think that such rich heritage could vanish in the blink of an eye—reduced to ash and silence by the Nazi onslaught—is a bitter pill to swallow. It is baffling and heart-wrenching to fathom that around 50,000 men, women, and children will forever remain nameless, their stories lost to the horrors of war.
Walking through Thessaloniki today, it is hard to reconcile the beauty of the city with the brutal legacy it encapsulates. The Jewish Museum I visited in 2023 served not just as a repository of history but as a reminder of enduring anti-Semitism that still lurks in our society. To enter that museum flanked by armed guards and metal detectors is a solemn testament to a world that hasn’t fully grappled with its past. It reminds us how far we still have to go to protect minority cultures and ensure they are not merely footnotes in the broader narrative of our history.
The history of my family plays a significant role in my understanding of this tragedy. My great grandfather used every last cent to send his children to safety, not knowing he would never see his family again. Our story is one of survival amidst uncertainty, and uncovering the fate of my family members—who were shipped to Auschwitz and perished within the gas chambers—was both painful and emotionally cathartic. It became a pathway to connect with those lost in time and to ensure their stories are told, even if only in whispers. They deserve to be remembered, just as the entire Jewish community of Thessaloniki deserves to be honored.
It isn’t merely about preserving the past; it is about molding our collective consciousness for a better future. Holocaust museums must serve as conduits for education and empathy, combating indifference and denial that still exists in pockets around the globe. Each time I hear of Holocaust denial, it stings. Denial is an affront to the memories of those who suffered and a chilling reminder that ignorance persists. The reality we live in today, with factions that choose to rewrite or ignore history, amplifies the urgency of places like the Thessaloniki Holocaust Museum. They must stand firm in the face of hatred and provide a space where future generations can witness and learn from the errors of the past.
As this museum opens its doors to the public, I hope it will inspire similar havens of memory and understanding across different cultures and countries, especially in regions where Holocaust education is desperately needed. The stories contained within those walls have the potential to change perceptions and cultivate a deeper sense of empathy—one that recognizes humanity beyond borders and religions.
Visiting this museum with my grandmother, before time takes its toll on her, is a dream of mine. To walk through the halls dedicated to remembrance, to piece together fragments of our family history, is a way to honor the lives cut short and find closure. I do not want them to fade into obscurity; I desire for us to say farewell with the respect and dignity they were denied.
With the restoration of memory comes the responsibility to carry forth the lessons learned. The Holocaust Museum in Thessaloniki is not just a testament to loss; it is a beacon of hope that we may never allow history to repeat itself. In a world where we frequently see the resurgence of intolerance, every story recounted, every name remembered, acts as an anchor to prevent our collective drift into silence. No more shall we forget. No more shall we be indifferent. This museum symbolizes a commitment to remembering those who once breathed life and love in Thessaloniki and to upholding the moral pledge to ensure such tragedies never happen again.