They were there. Every Monday to Friday a wall separated my grandfather and his two coworkers, a few feet divided the 6th floor of the AMIA building every single day of 1994 till that Monday. July 18, 9:54, 30 years ago, there was no 6th floor anymore. It wasn't there, my grandpa's office was nothing but pieces of cement in the ground. They weren’t there, the two people who worked just a few meters away from him were killed, fatal victims of terrorism. He wasn't there that day, he was less than a thousand miles away sleeping after using some holiday/PTO, he woke up to a call, and took the first ticket back.

I wasn't there but I grew up with this story, I repeat it every year, I repeat it so much that my friends know it by now. I am here now, and every year a new detail is made public to me even if my Zeide is getting older every day. This year, I learned who he shared a floor with, Cristian Degtiar, who also was a student at a school he worked at a couple of years prior. He isn't here but Cristian’s story sounded familiar to me, it was like I had heard it not long ago. The following day at my congregation, where I work preparing future b'nai mitzvot, came a lady whose uncle died in a terrorist attack. Her name is Gisela Avruj and her uncle is Cristian, the same man who shared the 6th floor with my grandpa 30 years ago. The same man neither Gisela nor my grandpa saw again after the attack. 

We were there and here, as Jews we continue living, we remember since memory doesn't paralyze us, it mobilizes us. It's the reason why thousands volunteered for hours on end, why every Jewish Argentinian over 40 remembers where they were that day. They were there, and many of my friends' parents went down to help. To save some of the thousands of books in AMIA’s historical library, guard the doors, or pick up what was left of the building. They all remember the silence made when they wanted to hear if a victim was under the debris.

I am here because they all remember; they raised us to care. We go to AMIA every July 17th as the youth of Buenos Aires, coming together without distinction. Differences are thrown out the door, and we stand to see what our peers have worked on. I am there, in the same place 30 years later, as we read every victim's name. Eighty-five names, as if they were taking roll call. We say "here," even if they have been dead for 30 years. Nobody has forgotten them; the youth remembers. The youth plans programs to teach younger kids, we make flyers and video content, and we educate. We do what the youth has always done: we fight for what we believe in.

We will always be here. The Jewish people have that superpower, we are resilient. Try telling a Jewish person to give up, that this is the end. We know that we decide when the end is and that day will never come, it didn't come after the holocaust, it didn't come after October 7th, and it will never approach us. We know that being resilient needs to come with shared memory, from generation to generation.

I have never been to AMIA's sixth floor. I never will but I know that every single one of them worked to make a better planet, a better community, and I and everybody shall try to do the same. It boils down to this; Somebody made it possible for us so that we can continue with it for future generations.