The project In Living Memory was born from a flash of inspiration, but it unfolded at its own pace — a rhythm I had to learn to follow.
It transformed me as much as I brought it into being.
That initial spark deepened over twenty years of reflection, travel, and maturation — a long journey nourished by the search for meaning, integrity, and legitimacy.
The project took shape the day my eldest son, Samuel, was entrusted with one of three judaïca belonging to a Jewish couple who had disappeared during the war — and, with that object, the duty of remembrance.
That day, I understood that memory is not a possession; it is a responsibility.
From that realization came the idea of recreating the boxes and offering them as Bar Mitzvah gifts — tangible vessels of memory carrying the legacy of those whose voices were silenced.
These three objects, entrusted to my grandparents and marked by loss, became far more than relics: they became a question, and gradually, a calling.
But one question persisted: by what right — I, who am not Jewish — could I tell such a story?
When I shared this dilemma with several rabbis, Rabbi Floriane Chinsky told me a midrash:
when God offered the Torah to the nations of the world, they all refused, finding its burden too heavy to bear.
Then He turned to the Jewish people.
But in her interpretation, the nations, filled with remorse, said:
“Accept it, and we will help you carry it.”
Then she looked at me and said:
“With this project, you are helping us carry the Torah.”
Those words moved me deeply.
I never understood them as an authorization, but as an invitation to responsibility.
That day, I realized that my role was not to carry the Torah, but to help those who carry it preserve its light — not through imitation, but through alliance.
Not through belonging, but through fidelity to meaning.
From that moment, the project began to take form.
It was necessary to find the right shape, the right materials, the right artisans — those capable of uniting hand and spirit.
It became another journey, one of research, experimentation, and encounters.
From Morocco to Israel, from France to the United States, I met women and men of all faiths — Jewish, Christian, and Muslim — whose words and insights nourished this path.
And it was in Essaouira, the former Mogador, that I found the meeting place of matter and spirit: artisans able to give life to these boxes with humility and reverence.
Working with Muslim artisans to restore life to Jewish objects once entrusted to Catholics felt like witnessing history heal itself — a silent dialogue between the three great religions that share a common root, each bringing its own light to the work of remembrance.
Yet another question remained: how could I sustain this project without betraying its sacred essence?
The answer came slowly, by transforming memory into life.
The proceeds are donated to a humanitarian organization in Israel that supports victims of terrorism and helps them rebuild their lives.
In this way, In Living Memory became more than a tribute; it became an act — a refusal of silence and of hatred.
A way of standing, humbly but firmly, against antisemitism — not through words or declarations, but through action, creation, and transmission.
By celebrating the beauty and resilience of the Jewish people, and by weaving bonds between cultures, the project does not seek to close history, but to mend its fractures.
It reminds us that remembrance is not about guilt, but about responsibility — and that every gesture of preservation is, in itself, an act of resistance.
Today, In Living Memory stands as the fruit of a shared journey — an act of transmission, a gesture of repair, and a message of hope.
It connects peoples, memories, and generations.
It honors those who are gone and supports those who live on.
The Torah is heavy — not only for the Jewish people, but for all humanity, for it teaches memory, justice, and dignity.
Our duty, whether believers or not, is not to claim it as our own, but to protect its light, each in our own way.
This is how In Living Memory was born: not from possession, but from alliance — from the will to walk beside those who carry the memory, so that its light may never fade.
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