More than a physical struggle, Hanukkah has always been about our insistence as a Jewish people that the Jewish flame will never completely be extinguished from this earth. Not in North America, not in Europe, and not in Australia. Our Sages understood Hanukkah as not only a military victory but as a spiritual war against those who wished to לְהשַׁכִּיחָם מִתּוֹרָתָךְ, cause us to forget God’s Torah. As Eli Wiesel taught, “All Jews are survivors.”
Tonight, we continue to mourn those killed in the attack on Bondi Beach. Fifteen innocent souls lost to darkness on the first night of Hanukkah. This tragedy is part of the story of Hanukkah and part of the struggle of the Jewish people.
Our response — then, now, and always — is to strengthen our resolve.
As terrible as the attack was, there were heroes who rose up to try and save lives; Ahmed Al Ahmed, the Muslim fruit stand owner who risked his life to wrestle a gun away and was shot in the process. We recall Rabbi Eli Schlanger (z”l) who walked towards the shooters with raised hands to try and end the bloodshed. And let us remember Boris and Sofia Gurman (z”l) who were simply walking in the area. They knew in an instant what was happening when they saw the gunman, and both rushed the terrorist. All of this bought the beachgoers precious minutes to run. Others on the beach covered children not their own with their bodies to protect them. A medic used his shirt to help a wounded policeman. Even in this most difficult of moments, there was courage and light in the darkness.
This Hanukkah is unlike any we have experienced before. Although we mark the same holidays year after year, season after season, they are never the same twice. Why? Because we are not the same people we were a year ago. We have celebrated Hanukkah our entire lives, but each year is unique and new. We connect to it in a new way.
This year, in the words of Rabbi Shay Schachter, we need to ask, “What does this Hanukkah demand of me at this moment in Jewish history? What does it mean to bear light against the darkness?”
How do we respond?
During the days of Hanukkah we are commanded to recite Hallel daily. Hallel is a series of Psalms of praise and thanks. In Psalm 113, the first of the series, we read, “From the rising of the sun in the East to its setting, the name of Adonai is praised.” What does this mean?
In a literal sense, it means from sunrise to sunset, the whole of the day. It could also mean the span of the earth. Others suggest it means we praise God when we feel it’s “מִמִּזְרַח שֶׁמֶשׁ” — when the sun shines on us, when things are great. A bar mitzvah. A birth. A graduation. Those moments when we see the sun coming over the ridge of the mountain, shining on our faces once again.
It is easy to praise Hashem in such moments. All is well, all is good, all is blessed. Now, contrast that with “עַד מְבוֹאוֹ” — a moment when we feel the sun is setting. We may face challenges and situations that we don’t understand or appreciate. Moments when we might ask, “Why is this happening to me? Why have I been brought to this?” The ridge of the mountain is dark now, the sun has slipped below the horizon.
Judaism has always understood that we are to praise Hashem when the sun rises and when the sun sets. When there is light and when there is darkness.
David Mandelbaum, an Israeli Holocaust scholar, has written a series of books which highlight the tremendous courage of the Jewish people during the Shoah in clinging to their faith. In his book about Hanukkah, he recounts stories of emunah that took place during those eight days in what Wiesel calls, “The Kingdom of Night.” I want to share one with you tonight.
Reb Yoseif Hakohen grew up in Salonika. He wrote:
Our entire community was moved from our small, quiet town to Auschwitz. I don’t want to get into the details of every single thing that happened to us there. I can write a whole book on just what happened on one day there. We didn’t have day, we didn’t have night. This was not a life. I came to the following conclusion. And I was very clear about my conclusion. I concluded that it would be better for me to die than to live. I can’t live like this anymore. This is horrible, the pain we are going through, the torment that they are putting us through. I can’t handle it anymore. Now what was I going to do? You understand I was not the only one who had such thoughts. Everybody around me thought the same thing. But I decided that I was going to do something about it. I started walking towards the electric fence. I was just going to electrocute myself. I had enough.
I announced very deliberately, “I’m walking to the fence to end my life.” Suddenly, I heard the sound of a song — people were singing. I froze in my place. Songs in Auschwitz? People are singing? What is this? What do I hear?
Immediately I recognized the words they were singing. It was “Maoz Tzur Yeshuati.” And I realized that today must be Hanukkah and there must be some Jews somewhere who are singing the songs. I realized at the moment I was so disoriented I didn’t know what time of year it was. I had no idea it was Hanukkah. I felt like I was in a trance after I heard this. I followed those voices. I found where those Jews were singing. And I gave up on my original plan and I decided to join those Jews who were singing Maoz Tzur.
When people ask me what saved my life in Auschwitz, I tell them, the singing of Maoz Tzur on Chanukah.
In the darkest places and times, Jewish voices and lights have shone out to the world. Eli Wiesel, writing about the freeing of Refuseniks from the USSR, believed that the world-wide effort of the Jewish community against the Soviets could mean only one thing: victory.
When the Jewish people are unified, we are triumphant. When we splinter and argue, Jerusalem falls. Jewish history is one, Jewish destiny is one. As Wiesel wrote, “Whenever Jews speak up and wherever they tell the Jewish tales of courage and defiance, it is impossible — humanly, historically impossible — not to obtain victory. And for this sense of victory, that we already have, we must all be grateful.”
May this Hanukkah inspire us to recall and tell stories of courage.
May we bring light to the darkest corners no matter how far, how isolated, or how dark.
And may we draw closer to our families, our communities, our people, and our God.