After Bondi, What Hanukkah Really Means This Year

Before Hanukkah (and before the Bondi Beach massacre), my son asked me what the holiday is really about. Not the gifts, not the latkes, not even the oil that famously lasted eight days. “But what actually happened?” he pressed. He has been learning quite a bit in Hebrew school and pushed me: “How did a tiny group win when everyone thought they couldn’t?”

It’s a question that lands differently this year. I told him the truth: Hanukkah is the story of a small, outmatched community refusing to accept that the world’s hatred and power alignments would dictate their future.

The Maccabees were not the strongest or the most numerous. They weren’t protected by empires or alliances. They persevered because they believed their identity mattered, their way of life mattered, and their freedom to live as Jews mattered. And that conviction — rooted in faith, courage, and stubborn hope — carried them through the impossible.

He listened, nodded, and then asked the question so many Jewish parents have heard this year: “Is it like that now?”

I wish the analogy didn’t fit. My son is growing up in a moment when open antisemitism spreads faster than any ancient decree; when mobs surround synagogues, when Jewish students are told they don’t belong, when the Internet can turn ignorance into global hate in seconds. He sees the hate filled graffiti around our neighborhood. He hears others in the city talk about Israel with a hostility that has nothing to do with policy and everything to do with identity. He watches the news and senses the unease in our home when we talk about safety.

And so the Maccabean story is not abstract. It is a mirror.

For years, many of us lived Jewishly in a way that was proud but cautious — visible but not too visible, present but politely understated. 

So many American Jews assumed America would always be different, that the ancient need for Jewish vigilance was something our generation might finally outgrow. But my son’s question made clear that those days are gone. 

The world has changed, and our children deserve a model of Jewish life rooted not in caution, but in confidence.

The miracle of Hanukkah is not just that oil burned longer than nature allowed — it’s that Jews did. That our people insisted on lighting a flame even when the world around them demanded surrender. They restored the Temple not because victory was assured, but because Jewish life itself was worth defending whether or not anyone else agreed.

This year, the miracle feels less like ancient mythology and more like a living assignment. It reminds us that Jewish endurance has never depended on winning the popularity contest of nations. The Jewish people have always survived — and often thrived — by holding firm in who we are even when the world misunderstands, resents, or maligns us.

That lesson came into sharper focus when I showed my son the famous photograph in Kiel, Germany, in 1931 of a menorah in the window facing the Nazi flag across the street — one family defiantly insisting on light when every force around them demanded fear. He stared at it quietly. Then he looked out our own window, the same window where just weeks ago we saw protesters screaming about Jewish power, Zionism, and Israel with a rage meant to intimidate. They called for Israel’s destruction, the death of his family members living in Israel, and the murder of Jews in America for simply existing. It didn’t matter that this was New York, not 1930s Germany; the message was unmistakable.

So this year we have placed our menorah in the window — not tucked away, not dimmed, not hesitating. It is our declaration of resilience, a statement of presence, and a call to the world that Jewish life will not retreat. We will not cower. We will not waver in our right to be here, to belong, to live openly as Jews in the United States or anywhere else. We are resolute. We are defiant. And we are proud.

Some insist that Jews and Jewish institutions must bend — moderate our commitments, soften our existence, or “balance” our right to safety with demands that erase the legitimacy of Jewish peoplehood itself.

Hanukkah teaches the opposite: Jews do not need to contort ourselves to appease ideologies that deny our very right to endure. We are allowed to exist openly. We are allowed to be strong. We are allowed to defend ourselves and our communities. We are allowed to assert that our story, our dignity, and our continuity matter. We are allowed to be proud of our faith, our history, and our place in the world.

And America, if it means what it says about pluralism, has obligations too. A free society does not ask minorities to hide the parts of themselves others find inconvenient. A healthy democracy protects its citizens especially when they are under threat — not only when they are easy to celebrate. Jewish belonging is not conditional. It is anchored in centuries of contribution to American civic, cultural, scientific, intellectual, and communal life. Our presence strengthens this nation; our resilience is not a provocation but a fulfillment of America’s promise.

When I look at my son, I see why this clarity matters. He deserves a Jewish life lived without apology or fear. He deserves a community that is strong, grounded, and proud. He deserves to inherit a tradition defined not by defensiveness, but by purpose.

So yes, I told him, the story of a small group doing the impossible resonates now. Not because we are powerless, but because the pressures to retreat, disappear, or doubt ourselves have returned with force. The right response — now as then — is illumination; bringing light into the world  

One candle does not drive away all darkness. It simply refuses to let the darkness win uncontested. That is what we are called to do right now: to insist on our visibility, to teach our children pride rather than dread, to speak plainly even when others prefer we whisper, and to bring light and enlightenment to a world that too often chooses shadows.

This year, as my son places our menorah in the window, he will know that he is part of that unbroken chain; that he, too, inherits the responsibility to kindle light in an age that would rather see it dimmed. And that the enduring miracle of our people is not simply that a flame once lasted eight days, but that we are still here, still proud, and still unafraid to light it again.

May that light shine powerfully, proudly, and without fear.

Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.