Rebellion Arises from Hope – Why Remembering Matters Now

Hey,

Today, we’re diving into something heavy—something that affects all of us, even though we’d often rather look away. No romantic pictures, no light-hearted words. This is about politics. About memory. About responsibility. And yes, it’s also about hope. Because without hope, there’s no change. Without hope, there’s no rebellion.

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I know what you’re thinking: “Politics? Not this again.” But hear me out. This could be important.

I’m writing this newsletter on Holocaust Remembrance Day. It’s weighing heavily on me. Today, I want to talk to you about remembering. About denial. About responsibility.

This time, I’m sharing the newsletter in two languages—German and English. Why? Because this isn’t just about us. The past may belong to us, but its warning? That’s universal.

A reminder that crosses borders. A scream: “Pay attention, for f*’s sake.”

The Documentary That Won’t Let Go

A few days ago, I watched a documentary. A young German journalist set out on a journey to uncover the truth: What did his great-grandfather do during the Nazi era? Was he a perpetrator? A follower? A member of the resistance?

In the film, he visits archives, speaks with researchers, and digs into his family history. It’s a story of guilt, denial, and the overwhelming heaviness of questions like these—questions no one wants to ask because the answers often hit too close to home.

I couldn’t look away. At the same time, it hit me hard. Have I ever consciously thought about what my own ancestors did during that time? Were they Nazis? Did they go along with it, bow their heads, and look away? Or—and this feels like wishful thinking—did they resist?

I’d probably know if they had resisted. But the other option? Honestly—I’ve always chosen to ignore it. But now I’m asking myself: Should I?

The journalist, Adrian Oeser, explores these questions deeply in the documentary.

“My great-grandfather was part of the SS. That much I know. But what exactly did he do during the Nazi regime? Was he one of the thousands of murderers who went unpunished after World War II? Or was he ‘just’ a bureaucrat who enabled the system from his desk?”

Oeser doesn’t just search for himself—he’s searching for so many of us who have similar questions and run from the answers. He confronts Germany’s official culture of remembrance, which is carefully choreographed and polished. But alongside it is the silence within families. The unspoken past.

And that silence still hurts.

(Note: While the documentary is insightful, it is only available in German and restricted to German residents.)

The Comfort of Denial

Denial is easy—not just when it comes to our own family histories. We do it all the time.
We look away when people drown in the Mediterranean.
We scroll past posts about racism or sexism.
We tell ourselves: “This isn’t my responsibility.”

But that’s the thing—it is. Denial might feel easier, but it only makes everything worse. Change begins when we confront the discomfort—for ourselves and for those who have no voice.

I’m not writing this to point fingers. I’m writing this because I see myself in it, too. It’s so human to close your eyes. But—and this is the part that hurts—it only makes everything worse.

Translated Song Quote: (...But Alive, “Gray”)

“Two sides, and nothing is black and white.
I’ll never be so sure that I always know better.
And you—you act like you know it all.
Well, f** your dogmas,
Because to me, everything is gray.”*

I feel this most when I think about myself. I used to be more active, more radical, more uncompromising. I marched at protests. I was part of Antifa. I was loud. And today? Today, I’ve grown quieter. Maybe too quiet. The pandemic changed a lot, including me. The fears I’ve carried over the past few years have slowed me down.

But you know what? That can’t be a damn excuse. I can’t expect others to take on the resistance and the work for me. If we all thought like that, we’d already be lost.

That’s why I believe we need to have the conversations we avoid the most. The ones that hurt. The ones that make us uncomfortable. Conversations that might change friendships or cause tension in families. But that’s where it begins.

Because if we don’t talk, if we don’t look, the same thing always happens: Things escalate.

Germany 2025: A Nation at a Crossroads

The German federal election is just around the corner, and I have to ask: Have we truly learned from history? Honestly—I’ve never believed we’ve left the past behind. How could we?

Rostock-Lichtenhagen. Mölln. The NSU. Hanau. (Note: These are sites of far-right violence in Germany over recent decades.) These names sear into memory—not just because of the horrific acts themselves but because of what followed: silence. Looking away. Downplaying.
The victims? Often forgotten.
The perpetrators? Often protected.
And that’s no accident.

Translated Song Quote: Slime, “Schweineherbst” (A German punk band song about neo-fascism in postwar Germany)

“Germany—a country that spits itself out,
An old, brown sludge.
And when I look out the window,
I feel sick from all this hypocrisy.”

After World War II, many Nazis retained high-ranking positions: judges, teachers, business leaders. Why? They were deemed “valuable” for rebuilding Germany. Valuable. These people judged the very victims they had persecuted. They taught children, shaping the next generation. This denial wasn’t a flaw in the system—it was the system.

And today? The same patterns are reemerging. Hate is becoming acceptable again. Parties like the AfD (Alternative for Germany, a far-right populist party) openly flirt with far-right ideologies. What was once whispered behind closed doors is now said out loud.
It’s as if the past never really passed.

Some people say: “It’s just an opinion.” But it’s not. When people are excluded, dehumanized, or vilified, that’s not an opinion. It’s history repeating itself—history we should have left behind long ago.

And that makes me angry. Angry because I see how quickly people fall for the same traps again. How they believe in simple answers that solve nothing and only deepen divisions. It makes me sad because I know—we should know better.

A Symbol That Cannot Be Misunderstood

Sometimes you hear people say: “Oh, that was just a mistake, nothing more.” But there are moments when you know exactly what you’re seeing.

Elon Musk’s outstretched arm during President Trump’s inauguration was, for me, anything but unclear. Some may try to explain it away as a “Roman salute,” historically speaking—but when it happens in a room full of far-right politicians from around the world, you know what’s being signaled.

Representatives from the German AfD. Giorgia Meloni’s post-fascist party from Italy. Nigel Farage’s Reform Party. It was no coincidence that Musk was among them.

Before this, he had interviewed Alice Weidel, co-leader of the AfD. And just days after the inauguration? He appeared via video at the AfD’s party convention. The message? Crystal clear. A party that openly flirts with far-right ideologies isn’t just being acknowledged—it’s being given the spotlight.

Whether intentional or not, these gestures and platforms carry a symbolism deeply intertwined with Nazism. As the German newspaper Die Zeit bluntly put it: “A Hitler salute is a Hitler salute.” And neo-Nazis see these moments for what they are: confirmation and encouragement.

Translated Song Quote: Slime, “Schweineherbst” (A German punk anthem addressing neo-fascist resurgence)

“But they weren’t hiding in the shadows.
We often saw them walking the streets,
And they greeted you with an outstretched arm.
You just looked away.”

And this is where our responsibility lies. Especially in Germany, we cannot separate these symbols from their history. They’re not isolated events. They’re part of a dangerous chain of gestures, words, and actions, all designed to strengthen the far-right and make it acceptable again.

Musk might claim that the gesture was “just a moment of enthusiasm.” But here’s the reality: far-right populists worldwide seize on that “enthusiasm” to advance their goals. They take such gestures and turn them into tools of hatred.

This is the real danger: These images and gestures aren’t harmless accidents. They’re messages. They signal that the unspeakable can once again be spoken, that hate isn’t just tolerated but accepted. They normalize what should never, ever be normalized.

That’s why we can’t look away. Not this time. Not again.

Looking at the US: History Repeats Itself

It’s not just Germany. I look at the US—and it feels like a punch to the gut. Trump is back in office, wasting no time reopening old wounds just to create new ones:

• Muslim Ban 2.0: Once again, people are being excluded based on religion and country of origin. They’re labeled as “threats” so others can feel safer.
• Attacks on LGBTQ+ rights: New laws strip away the rights of trans and queer people—rights they only recently fought to gain. All of this under the cynical guise of “protecting traditions.”
• Climate action? Not a chance. Fossil fuels are making a comeback while international climate agreements are tossed aside.

Part of me understands how it got to this point. Trump preys on people’s fears: fear of economic decline, fear of losing control, fear of a world changing faster than many can comprehend. He offers simple answers to complex problems—and, honestly, those answers are tempting.

But at the same time, I just don’t get it. How did it come to this? How can someone who lies, divides, and turns people into scapegoats gain so much power? I see the logic, but I can’t grasp it emotionally.

Maybe it’s because it reminds us how fragile we are when we’re afraid. How quickly we choose the easy path when reality feels too overwhelming. But why isn’t history enough of a warning? Why don’t we see where this leads?

What Trump is doing isn’t just an American problem. It’s a global warning. His return proves that populism and nationalism aren’t just surviving—they’re thriving when we fail to actively push back.

And the consequences? We all feel them. Trump’s politics send a clear message: Division works. Polarization works. Turning people against each other works. And populists around the world—including in Germany—are paying close attention. They see that hate isn’t just tolerated—it’s rewarded.

Sometimes, I feel powerless when I see what’s happening in the US. But then I remind myself: It’s not just about understanding what’s happening. It’s about refusing to accept it.

Our Responsibility: Seeing and Acting

I know how hard it is. Looking away is so much easier—especially when the problems feel overwhelming, making you feel small and think: What difference can I make on my own? But that’s exactly where the mistake lies. It’s not the grand, heroic gestures that make the difference—it’s the small decisions that each of us can make.

Seeing, even when you’d rather look away.
Having an uncomfortable conversation, even when silence would be easier.
Taking a stand, even when it brings criticism.

I’m lucky. In my family or closest circle, I rarely have to face such discussions. But I remember friends who came back exhausted after holidays or family gatherings. They told me about relatives who spent the entire evening spouting racist nonsense—cheap slogans they’d picked up somewhere.

Why does this happen? Often, it’s fear. They talk about some “danger in the country” while living in small towns, far removed from those dangers they claim to see. And then they tell me about the “evil cities,” about supposed threats they believe in, while I’m here, living in one of those cities and not seeing those threats at all.

It makes me angry. Angry at how easily these false narratives are swallowed and passed on. Even angrier that “the others” are always the ones blamed.

But who says the “bad guys” are always the foreigners? Hate, violence, and injustice—they have nothing to do with origin, religion, or skin color. They’re about character. About humanity. About empathy.

And that’s why I believe we can’t stay silent. Silence changes nothing. But talking, acting—that creates the possibility of change.

What Can We Do?

• Support local initiatives: Maybe a project helping refugees or an LGBTQ+ organization fighting for equal rights.
• Attend demonstrations: You don’t have to be at the front, but your presence matters.
• Get politically active: Write to your representatives. Ask them what they’re doing to combat division and hate.

Change rarely begins with grand gestures. It’s the small things that add up. If everyone does something—a conversation, an action, a vote—it creates a movement. One that becomes visible. One that cannot be ignored.

Hope might be fragile, but it’s our strongest tool. As Jyn Erso said in Rogue One: “Rebellion arises from hope.”

And that’s exactly what we need. A rebellion against looking away. A rebellion for those who still have no voice—and for those who will come after us.

We can’t wait for others to do the work. It starts with us. In our conversations. In our choices. Exactly where it’s often hardest.

For the Hearts Still Beating

When I think about all of this—about the past, the present, and what might still come—I feel chaos inside me. Anger. Sadness. Hope. Hope because I believe we still have the strength to make a difference. Hope because I know there are so many people ready to stand up.

I’m not writing this newsletter to tell you that you have to be perfect. Perfect is bullshit. It’s not about always being loud, always being brave, always being strong. But it is about not stopping. Not stopping to look. Not stopping to ask questions. Not stopping to do the right thing, even when it hurts, even when it’s uncomfortable.

What We Can Do

Sometimes, it’s the small things that matter. Things that remind us the past isn’t just numbers or words—it’s people, real lives.

• Visit the Stolpersteine in your city. (Note: Stolpersteine are memorial plaques embedded in sidewalks throughout Europe to commemorate Holocaust victims.) Clean them. Read the names. Try to imagine where these people lived, how they lived.
• Pause at a memorial. When you pass one, stop. Look. Read the names. Don’t let them fade into mere letters on a stone.
• Talk about it. Maybe with a friend, a family member, or someone in your circle. Why does this day matter? Why does it still affect us?

And then, in February, vote. Think carefully about who you’re voting for. Maybe it’s not the party that fits your ideals perfectly, but maybe it’s the one that can prevent hate from growing further. Remember: A vote for a fringe party can indirectly help the far right. Vote while you still can. Because trust me—the others will vote.

Holocaust remembrance isn’t, for me, a silent reflection. It’s a cry. It’s a call to action. A reminder that we must never again allow hate, fear, and division to win.

We all have a choice. Every single day. Even when it feels small. Even when it feels insignificant. But all those small choices add up to something bigger. To something meaningful.

For those who are no longer here.
For those still fighting.
For those who come after us.

And for us, who must decide, here and now, which path we will take. The past may remind us, but it’s hope that drives us forward.

“Rebellion arises from hope.”

That’s our light in the darkness.

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