Over the years, I’ve often been asked why I write so much about the Holocaust.
My answer has always been simple yet profound: because it matters. Because we must remember. Because we must never forget the depths of evil humanity can sink to. That response is truthful—but it’s not the whole story.
In truth, even I didn’t fully understand why the Holocaust weighs so heavily on my heart. I’m not Jewish. While some members of my family were lost during World War II, most survived. Yet, as I’ve reflected on this over the years, I’ve realized that the shadow of those losses—especially the death of my grandfather—has lingered quietly in my life, shaping me in ways I only came to recognize much later.
I was born more than two decades after the war. By then, the memories of those dark days seemed buried—forgotten by my family, or so I thought. But I eventually learned that the war had never truly left them. The trauma of that era seeped silently into the next generation, a quiet but ever-present specter.
As someone who stands 6’2″ with blue eyes and blonde hair, I can’t help but think how my appearance might have granted me privilege, even protection, if I’d lived during those times. And that thought chills me, for it underscores how arbitrary and cruel the foundations of hatred can be.
So why, then, do I write about the Holocaust?
As a child, I didn’t know any Jewish people—or at least, I thought I didn’t. In reality, I knew more than I realized. There was no visible divide between us. We ate the same sandwiches, watched the same movies, wore the same clothes. Only years later did I remember the first girl I ever had sex with was half Jewish. The day we finally decided to act on the rush of teenage hormones, I noticed, as she was undressing, a necklace with a Star of David resting against her skin. Curious, I asked her about it. She told me her mother was Jewish and had given her the necklace as a gift.
One day, she and her family left, and I never saw her again. Looking back as an adult, I’ve come to understand the significance of that moment. If our story had unfolded just four decades earlier, it might have ended not with a goodbye, but with unimaginable tragedy.
As a teenager, I was like many others—part angel, part devil. I’m ashamed to admit that I sometimes joked about the Holocaust. Those jokes weren’t born of malice, but ignorance—a clumsy defense mechanism to shield myself from the unbearable reality of that history. Even now, I wince at the memory of those words, the guilt of my youthful stupidity still sharp.
It was a history teacher who changed everything for me. She opened my eyes, helping me understand that I was a product of my time, profoundly fortunate to have been born in an era untouched by war or persecution.
As I grew older, I began to see the terrifying randomness of history. The persecution of the Jewish people stemmed from the warped ideology of a small but powerful group. What if they had targeted the Frisians instead? My mother was Frisian, my father from Limburg. If that hatred had taken another shape, another name, I might not even exist.
And that’s why I write.
I write not only to honor the memory of the millions who were brutally murdered, but to confront the dark truth of humanity’s capacity for evil. I write because I can’t escape the gnawing guilt—the knowledge that it could have been me, my family, my people.
To the victims and survivors of the Holocaust, I make this pledge: I will never forget. Though we may be different in some ways, in the ways that truly matter, we are the same.
History of Sorts 
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