Holocaust Remembrance Day at Blågårds Plads

Today, we gather in a place that holds history in its very stones. Blågårds Plads—where stories of grief and resilience, displacement and belonging, have echoed through the years. Before the Holocaust, this area was known as a gathering place for the city’s jews, a neighborhood filled with life, laughter, and struggle. Now, it is home to many Palestinian refugees, as well as their descendants, home to new layers of displacement and survival, to new stories of grief and hope.

I dag samles vi på et sted, der bærer historien i sine sten. Blågårds Plads— hvor historier om sorg og styrke, fordrivelse og tilhørsforhold har genlydt gennem årene. Før Holocaust var dette område kendt som et samlingssted for byens jøder, et nabolag fyldt med liv, latter og kamp. Nu er det hjem for mange palæstinensiske flygtninge og deres efterkommere, et hjem for nye lag af fordrivelse og overlevelse, for nye historier om sorg og håb.

This square, this Place of the Deepest Grief, is sacred because it holds all of this. It reminds us that history does not live in textbooks or monuments—it lives in us. In the choices we make every day.

Dette torv, denne Dybeste Sorgs Plads, er helligt, fordi det rummer alt dette. Den minder os om, at historien ikke lever i lærebøger eller monumenter—den lever i os. I de valg, vi træffer hver eneste dag.

When I close my eyes, I see Anne Frank—not the smiling girl from the photographs but a shadow of herself, gaunt and starving, whispering words of comfort to her best friend through the barbed wire of Bergen-Belsen. I see my dear friend Salah’s niece Raghad in Gaza, holding her baby brother for the last time, tears streaming down her face as her childhood crumbles into rubble.

I see my grandmother Ulla huddled in the bottom of some fisherman’s boat, in the dark of night, sailing away from her home, from everything she knew. I see hungry children across time, across borders, across stories. And I feel the desperation, the horrifying grief, of history repeating itself. The deep failure of humanity. How we have failed to learn, failed to change.

Når jeg lukker øjnene, ser jeg Anne Frank—ikke den smilende pige fra fotografierne, men en skygge af sig selv, udmagret og sulten, hviskende trøstende ord til sin bedste veninde gennem pigtråden i Bergen-Belsen. Jeg ser min kære ven Salahs niece Raghad i Gaza, holde sin lillebror for sidste gang, med tårerne strømmende ned ad kinderne, mens hendes barndom smuldrer i ruiner.

Jeg ser min bedstemor Ulla krøbet sammen i bunden af en fiskerbåd, i nattens mulm og mørke, sejlende væk fra sit hjem, væk fra alt, hun kendte. Jeg ser sultne børn gennem tiden, på tværs af grænser, gennem historier. Og jeg mærker desperationen, den frygtelige sorg, over historien som gentager sig selv. Den dybe fiasko for menneskeheden. Hvordan vi har fejlet i at lære, fejlet i at forandre os.

The memory of Shoah is stolen, thwarted and weaponized as a call for vengeance, as a justification for more walls, more bombs, more suffering. But to truly remember—to truly honour the dead—we must break this cycle of violence. Let remembrance piece us back together, not tear us further apart. Let it be a call to action, not for division, but for radical compassion and solidarity.

Mindet om Shoah bliver stjålet, forvredet og brugt som våben— som en opfordring til hævn, en begrundelse for flere mure, flere bomber, mere lidelse. Men hvis vi virkelig vil mindes—hvis vi virkelig vil ære de døde—må vi bryde denne voldens cirkel. Lad mindet samle os, ikke splitte os yderligere. Lad det være en opfordring til handling, ikke til splittelse, men til radikal medfølelse og solidaritet.

Today, as we gather in remembrance, I must speak from the depths of my frustration, too. Living in Denmark, I often feel suffocated by a kind of philosemitism—a pretend love of Jews that isn’t really about us at all. It’s a love that sanitizes our history, that lifts up Danish resistance during the Holocaust while refusing to reckon with the antisemitism that remains. A love that calls itself respect while keeping us at arm’s length. Pretending to protect us from their own constructed threats.

I dag, hvor vi samles for at mindes, må jeg også tale fra dybet af min frustration. At leve i Danmark føles ofte som at blive kvalt af en slags filosemitisme—en påstået kærlighed til jøder, der slet ikke handler om os. Det er en kærlighed, der steriliserer vores historie, der hylder dansk modstand under Holocaust, men nægter at konfrontere den antisemitisme, der stadig findes. En kærlighed, der kalder sig respekt, mens den holder os på afstand. Der foregiver at beskytte os mod deres egne konstruerede trusler.

And when I think of Zionism, I feel that same bitter frustration. Because what could be more antisemitic than Zionism? What could be a crueler way to rid the West of its Jews than to package displacement as salvation? What could be more sinister than a project that turns the memory of our suffering into a justification for the suffering of others? It feels like the Shoah never ended—it just moved, shifted, found new forms. And the West gets to wash its hands clean, pretending to be decent while we are used as pawns in their bloody game.

Og når jeg tænker på zionismen, føler jeg den samme bitre frustration. For hvad kunne være mere antisemitisk end zionismen? Hvad kunne være en grusommere måde at slippe af med Europas jøder på, end at pakke fordrivelse ind som frelse? Hvad kunne være mere ondsindet end et projekt, der gør vores lidelsers minde til en begrundelse for andres lidelse? Det føles som om, at Shoah aldrig endte—den flyttede bare, skiftede form, fandt nye udtryk. Og Vesten vasker sine hænder rene, mens vi bliver brugt som brikker i deres blodige spil.

To me, this is not the justice my ancestors prayed for. This is not the liberation they died dreaming of. The Holocaust should have taught us that no one is free until we are all free. That a world where any people are in chains is a world where no one is safe.

For mig er dette ikke den retfærdighed, mine forfædre bad for. Det er ikke den befrielse, de døde med drømmen om. Holocaust burde have lært os, at ingen er frie, før vi alle er frie. At en verden, hvor nogen holdes i lænker, er en verden, hvor ingen er trygge.

Blågårds Plads has seen so much pain. But it has also seen so much community. It has been a space where people have come together to resist, to celebrate, to mourn, to dream. And today, we honour this legacy by dreaming into existence a better world.

Blågårds Plads har set så meget smerte. Men den har også set så meget fællesskab. Det har været et sted, hvor folk er kommet sammen for at gøre modstand, for at fejre, for at sørge, for at drømme. Og i dag ærer vi denne arv ved at drømme en bedre verden frem.

A world where every child has the right to grow up safe and free. A world where freedom of movement belongs to all of us, not just the privileged few.

A world where our differences are celebrated, not feared.

A world where we meet each other with open hands, not closed fists.

En verden, hvor ethvert barn har ret til at vokse op i sikkerhed og frihed. En verden, hvor fri bevægelighed tilhører os alle, ikke kun de privilegerede få.

En verden, hvor vores forskelligheder bliver fejret, ikke frygtet.

En verden, hvor vi møder hinanden med åbne hænder, ikke knyttede næver.

I believe in the power of connection. I believe in meeting each other where we are, in sharing what we can, and in respecting the sacredness of what we each hold as our own. I believe in healing—not by erasing the past but by carrying it with us, by letting it guide us towards justice, towards coexistence, towards love.

Jeg tror på forbundethedens kraft. Jeg tror på at mødes, hvor vi er, at dele, hvad vi kan, og at respektere det hellige i det, vi hver især holder som vores eget. Jeg tror på heling—ikke ved at udslette fortiden, men ved at bære den med os, ved at lade den lede os mod retfærdighed, mod sameksistens, mod kærlighed.

Let us grieve together—Jews, Palestinians, refugees, queers, workers, neighbours. Let us feel the weight of our shared history, of the fences and borders that have tried to separate us. And let us dream together, imagining those fences torn down, imagining a world where we all belong.

Lad os sørge sammen—jøder, palæstinensere, flygtninge, queerpersoner, arbejdere, naboer. Lad os mærke vægten af vores fælles historie, af de hegn og grænser, der har forsøgt at skille os ad. Og lad os drømme sammen, forestille os disse hegn revet ned, forestille os en verden, hvor vi alle hører til.

This square holds our stories. Let us honour them by creating a future where no one has to live Anne’s or Raghad’s or Ulla’s story ever again. Let us honour them by holding each other close, by building bridges where others would build walls, by refusing to turn our grief into vengeance.

Dette torv bærer vores historier. Lad os ære dem ved at skabe en fremtid, hvor ingen behøver at leve Annes, Raghads eller Ullas historie igen. Lad os ære dem ved at holde hinanden tæt, ved at bygge broer, hvor andre ville bygge mure, ved at nægte at gøre vores sorg til hævn.

We are here. We remember. We dream.

Vi er her. Vi husker. Vi drømmer.

Thank you.

Tak.