Light in the Dark
Kindling light in the midst of death and despair
It’s been a while since I’ve written. To be honest, my thoughts haven’t felt worth sharing. Instead, I’ve buried my head in the sand of library book upon library book; hiding myself in fantasy worlds rather than processing the world around me.
But Hannukah starts tonight, and we woke up this morning to news of twelve Jews murdered in Australia for celebrating this festival of light. Sadness and anger mixed at the news of this particular violence against my people. “Another holiday stolen,” it said, “just like Sukkot two years ago.” The October 7th attacks aligned with the last day of Sukkot in 2023, the day upon which we were supposed to celebrate the seasons of newness for one final day, and then put it to bed for the rest of the year. But that day was stolen from us. That holiday now colored by the blood that was shed upon it and every day since in Gaza, and across the world.
Growing up, my mother and I always lit our Hannukiah (aka menorah) in the kitchen, usually along the counter but never in the window. I didn’t even know that lighting the lights in the window was the holiday’s tradition until I was older. Upon first learning it I thought “ah, just another tradition that has been watered down through the passing generations,” (aka “just another thing we’ve done wrong,”). But after scrutinizing our family’s joyous celebration of Hannukah against this lost tradition of placing the lights in the window, I realized the deeper meaning behind our hannukiah placement.
My family didn’t place the lights in the window because they were afraid of becoming a target for violence.
Putting the hannukiah in the window tells the world that this house is full of Jews. Historically, that has been a dangerous designation. When I first put these two truths together, I felt only the surge of righteous indignation. “No,” I thought, “not any more. Starting now my lineage will proudly display the lights of the season, of hope, of renewal, in our damn windows and we will do so without shame.”
That was many years ago.
Recently, my child has decided that he loves learning about being Jewish; a delight to this Jewish educator and rabbi’s weary heart. But in this season, I’ve had to start, ever so gently, teaching him about our difference. There aren’t that many of us in the world, and it’s not because Judaism isn’t a wonderful worldview and tradition to claim; but because we’ve simply been killed for it again and again and again and again. How to tell my seven-year-old that in a way that wont scare the life out of his love for his people, or as he puts it, his “kind.”
Tonight, we light the first lights of this festival. A holiday that represents faith and hope and growing light in the darkness. It is a holiday that spans the darkest days of the year - the new moon of winter. The little lights grow every night and we simply enjoy them. Will I place them in my front window this year? I don’t know. Will they shine along the back window, benignly into my garden? I don’t know. But I do know that my heart is bitter with anger this year at having another of our sacred occasions marred by murder.
There is no charge to this missive, no specific call to action. I write it because these words need somewhere to go, and hopefully they mingle with your thoughts and resonate in strength and resistance. It is not easy to be a human right now, Jewish or otherwise. Hatred spreads like an infectious disease, and we must inoculate ourselves against it. Seek to do that, and you will bring more light into the world, no matter how small.