Hearing Shlomo Mansour’s story shook me. Shlomo was survivor of the Farhud, the brutal antisemitic pogrom in Iraq. His memories hit painfully close to home—my own grandmother lived through the same nightmare. Two Jewish children, Shlomo and my grandmother, attacked for simply existing. The trauma didn’t end that night. It lived in them forever. What’s even more heartbreaking? His family only found his diary after he passed—after hate finally caught up to him again, decades later. He was just three during the Farhud. He was 85 when he was taken from this world by the same hate. Shlomo’s story is a reminder: antisemitism doesn’t fade. It evolves. And it still kills. May his memory be a blessing 💔
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