'Tell the world': Holocaust survivors entrust memories to AI
Survivors of the Holocaust have entrusted their memories of the Nazi death camps to artificial intelligence to ensure that generations to come can access recollections of the genocide of six million Jews.
The project at the Museum of Jewish Heritage (MJH) in New York saw 10 survivors undertake interviews on a range of topics to allow future visitors to question their virtual likenesses about their experiences.
Artificial intelligence will be used to interpret questions from members of the public, who will be played a fixed set of pre-recorded responses to "answer" their questions.
"Somebody will survive because we have to tell the world what happened -- and maybe it's us," said Toby Levy, in her 90s, who was born in a region of Poland in 1933 that is now Ukraine.
"I remembered (my father's) words, 'you will be the one who will have to tell the world.' Seventy-five years later, here I am in the United States."
Levy looked at herself on a screen as the technology was demonstrated at the museum, located on Manhattan's southern tip, in view of Ellis Island where many Holocaust survivors first arrived in the United States by sea.
She was among 200 Holocaust survivors who gathered Monday to commemorate the 80th anniversary of the liberation of the Nazi death camp at Auschwitz.
They assembled to watch the live commemoration ceremony in front of the entrance to the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp in Poland, and several denounced the resurgence of anti-Semitic hatred around the world.
- 'Man's inhumanity to man' -
"We all survived," said Levy, who arrived first in New Orleans before building a life in New York. "Let's do our share, what we have to do."
The project will protect the memories of the survivors forever, said Mike Jones, the brains behind the project, a collaboration between the University of Southern California Libraries and the MJH.
"There's a timelessness that it's always going to be important and urgent until the day that there's simply just peace on Earth," he said.
The ten survivors underwent extensive video interviews in the summer of 2024, touching on their childhoods prior to the Holocaust, survival in the camps, and their recollection of liberation and resettlement.
Visitors to the museum or its website can then "converse" with them on screen, and the survivors respond interactively according to the pre-recorded answers.
Alice Ginsburg, born in 1933 in what was then Czechoslovakia, now Hungary, recounted her deportation in 1944 to Auschwitz where she almost died from hunger and forced labor before the camp was liberated on January 27, 1945. She arrived in the United States two years later.
"It's important to publicize it so it should never happen again," she told AFP. "This is man's inhumanity to man."
Eighty years on from the horrors of the Holocaust, Ginsburg said she worried about the increase "of Holocaust deniers, which is a form of anti-Semitism."
Jerry Lindenstraus, who was born in Germany in the early 1930s and has lived in New York since 1953 after exile in Shanghai and South America, said he wanted to speak out "so that we never forget what happened."
"I give talks here to high school students who have no idea what happened," he said.
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Axios
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Once home to the CIA, this tiny Southeast Asia runway was considered ‘the most secret place on Earth'
Deep in the sweltering jungles of central Laos, a 4,500-foot stretch of cracked concrete cuts through the trees — an airstrip without an airport, in a village where many have never been on a plane. But behind its crumbling control tower and bomb-cratered runway lies a hidden chapter of America's Cold War history — a site once known as 'the most secret place on Earth.' The village of Long Tieng sits in central Laos, about 80 miles northeast of the capital, Vientiane. Today, it's a sleepy settlement of a few thousand people who mostly rely on the land to carve out a living. There are a couple of restaurants, two guesthouses and a handful of multipurpose shops selling everything from rice to farming tools made from repurposed bombshell metal — a nod to the village's agricultural roots and wartime past. At the village center lies the airstrip. It no longer serves aircraft, instead now functioning as a kind of outdoor community center: children ride scooters, farmers herd cattle and elderly villagers take early morning strolls before the intense heat engulfs the valley. But 50 years ago, the scene was vastly different. From the 1960s to the early 1970s, Laos played a central role in the United States' fight to stop the spread of communism in Southeast Asia. Long Tieng was the secret headquarters of a US-backed Hmong anti-communist army fighting against the communist Pathet Lao forces, which were supported by the North Vietnamese Army. At its height, tens of thousands of inhabitants — Hmong soldiers, their families, refugees from other parts of Laos, Thai soldiers and a small contingent of American CIA operatives and secret US Air Force pilots, dubbed 'Ravens' — called this place home. It was the heart of the largest paramilitary operation ever conducted by the CIA. 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It pulled me into a world I'd never known — a hidden Cold War battleground on the sidelines of the Vietnam War. Watching old, grainy newsreels of reporters wandering around the base only deepened my fascination. Somewhere along the way, I realized I needed to see Long Tieng with my own eyes. Before long, I find myself in Vientiane with an old college friend who I've convinced to come along for an adventure and Mr. Pao — the only driver I could find with a car suitable for the journey. Pao says he used to work at the mines near Long Tieng and is familiar with the area, though he admits he's only visited the village once before. Several tour companies organize trips, but the number of tourists that visit Long Tieng still pales in comparison to Laos' major tourist destinations like Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng. 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At one point, our driver glances back and warns us that if we get a flat tire out here, we'll likely be stuck for a long time — maybe hours. There's no phone signal. We nod silently and keep going. As we approach Long Tieng, the rough dirt road suddenly gives way to smooth pavement. Cresting the final mountain pass, we expect to glimpse the airstrip — but thick smoke shrouds the valley, limiting visibility to a few hundred meters. Descending into the village as the sun sets, there's little sign that 30,000 people once lived here. Family farms now occupy land once filled with barracks and command centers. Military convoys have long been replaced by scooters and cattle. We stay in a guesthouse next to the airstrip. It's barebones — a wooden bed and a single creaky fan that spins with little effect. There's no air conditioning, and the humid air hangs heavy and unmoving. It's hard to sleep — not just because of the heat, but because I can't stop thinking about what this place had once been. The next morning, we walk down the center of the airstrip as the sun rises over the valley. Once one of the busiest runways in the world, it now lies silent. Tall grass sprouts from potholes left by artillery strikes. The crumbling control tower is only half its original height, and the hangars at the far end sit abandoned — rusting reminders of a war long past. As I walk along its length, I notice the absence of signposts, statues or any form of commemoration. Despite the airstrip's historical importance, there's nothing to mark it. Among those who operated out of Long Tieng during the war were the Ravens, a secret group of active-duty Air Force pilots who volunteered to serve in Laos. Their primary role was to act as forward air controllers (FACs), flying low behind enemy lines to identify and mark targets for US Air Force bombers. 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Through a translation app, the man warns us not to touch anything — some might still be live. Upstairs, a single wooden desk and chair have been placed near a panoramic window facing the airstrip. I sit down, imagining General Vang Pao and CIA officers in this very spot, directing B-52 bombing runs on communist strongholds. The war — so vast, so devastating — had largely been coordinated from this small, simple room. It was almost impossible to reconcile the scale of the conflict with the modesty of this setting. We climb up to the roof. From there, the view stretches across the old airstrip and into the mountains that once shielded Long Tieng from attack. Today, the village is quiet. A few people walk slowly down the main road. Stray dogs nap in the sun. It's hard to believe that tens of thousands of people once lived here. Today, the impacts of the intense US bombing campaign on Laos are still being felt. Of the 270 million sub-munitions dropped on the country, an estimated 30% did not detonate, according to the Mines Advisory Group (MAG). These unexploded ordnances continue to kill, injure and hinder development across the country, according to MAG. Around the hills of Long Tieng, villagers still rarely venture off established roads and trails to avoid unexploded munitions. Full US-Laos relations were restored in 1992 and since 1995, the US has invested more than $390 million in a Conventional Weapons Destruction program aimed at addressing the legacy of the war. However, questions remain about future US funding of explosive ordinance clearance in Southeast Asia following the Trump administration's widespread suspension of foreign aid. 'I fell in love with Laos,' says Hansen. 'I look back on my time as exciting and a place where I could immerse myself in the culture. I was fulfilling a purpose where I knew I was accomplishing something that was needed.' Back in Long Tieng, children riding scooters zoom past my friend and me, their tires bumping over the broken concrete that once launched warplanes into the sky. I now understand why the community gravitates toward the airstrip whenever they can: it's one of the few open spaces cleared of unexploded ordnance. A rare place where children can play without fear of becoming another casualty of a war that ended 50 years ago. The legacy of a secret conflict — barely remembered back in the United States.
San Francisco Chronicle
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Pink Triangle towers over S.F. as beacon of hope in face of rising intolerance
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