It was the eighth night of Chanuka and I stopped by a
neighbor. She had ten children and all of their menoras made
as school projects were arranged on top of folded, crinkly
foil that covered the table set near the window. Each round
metal cap glued to a wooden base held a brightly colored
candle. Ninety flickering lights, dancing shadows on the red,
blue, yellow, orange, pink, green and white candles
illuminated the faces of her happy, excited children. The
living room, with its arched domed ceiling and massively
thick, white plastered stone walls, built over one hundred
and fifty years ago, was aglow with a historical presence of
significance, as though the shimmering shadows wished to
speak and tell a story.
*
Who among the Hellenist Jews would have been able to believe
that a handful of determined Jews with their stubborn faith
in Hashem, would defeat the mighty Greek empire, outlasting
them by thousands of years? At the time, it must have seemed
obvious that an informed choice based solely on numerical
statistics would lead one to side with the conquering Greek
culture. A reasonable adult could have intellectually
concluded that we were clearly outnumbered. The Beis
Hamikdash was defiled, the Greeks had overtaken the ancient
world, and our time as an `eternal' people was up! Who could
still cling to the persistent hope that the Jews would
survive this onslaught and go on to cleanse and rededicate
the Holy Temple?
*
Contemplating these slender burning candles, I myself can
hardly believe that I am here in Jerusalem, surrounded by
Jews celebrating a Jewish Holiday, and not still stuck back
in America, where our festival is nearly swallowed up by the
dominating influence of secular and Christian society.
There may have been a lot of Jews in New York, but in my
elementary school, there was less than a handful. The other
three Jewish kids in my class all had X-mas trees. When I
pleaded for one as well, my parents absolutely refused. When
I claimed we could call it a `Chanuka bush,' Mom said that
was ridiculous, it was an X-mas tree in disguise and totally
unacceptable!
Those three others kids -- they got the tree AND Chanuka,
too. Eight gifts, one for each day of the festival. When I
found out this fact and mentioned it to my mother, she said,
"If we buy you kids so many presents, that will become more
important to you than the meaning of Chanuka itself."
I didn't get the gifts, but I got a good answer. I was
impressed, convinced that my parents were well principled, G-
d-fearing Jews.
Around that same season, neighbors starting sporting round
wreaths on their front doors. Every week, when we would drive
to visit my grandma and cousins in Queens, I was on the
lookout to find even one lone domicile that was devoid of
this decoration. Once spotted, I would gleefully shout,
"JEWISH!" My father got a big kick out of this: he would
swing his head around from the driver's seat, give me an
enormous grin and repeat, "Jewish!"
I sensed from my father's pleased reaction that, obviously,
being Jewish was something special and important. In some
definite way, we were different from other people, though the
essential difference remained undefinable for me. Outwardly,
I looked like any other little girl with a ponytail and
freckles, but inside, I had the uncomfortable feeling of
being out of sync with my surrounding society.
One year, my father took us on a trip to Israel to visit
relatives. My baby sister and I got to go, while my brothers
stayed in New York with cousins. I was then the
impressionable age of twelve, and one thing I recall clearly
was our search for a menora. It had to be just the right one:
strong, solid, nearly unbreakable.
We visited a lot of gift shops, not just to buy this
religious item, but to bring back souvenirs of the Holy Land
for our whole family. Finally, in the umpteenth store, we
selected a menora composed of stones of various pastel
shades: green, pink, white, blue and beige. It was a heavy
piece, and in my mind, the added weight symbolized a direct
connection to Jewish history -- Jews were made of tough
material and would last forever.
Returning to America, our new menora was placed in the middle
of the mantelpiece, above the fireplace in the living room.
It stood majestically, its eight arms curving upward,
awaiting the moment when it would light up our home with
meaning. I never did hear, as a child, what exactly the whole
Chanuka story was, but I knew our menora represented
something real.
The only unfortunate aspect to our celebration of the
festival came at the actual moment of candlelighting, when my
brothers and I would begin arguing over who would have the
honor. Imagine my surprise, my first Chanuka in Israel,
discovering that in many families, there was the custom of
having each individual child light his own personal menora!
Witnessing the wonder of the abundance of this inspirational
radiance in the windows of the streets in Yerusholayim was
quite a revelation! And beside the building entrances were
sturdy glass-paned metal boxes that contained small cups of
brightly burning wicks, floating in olive oil, lit by the
head of every household.
My first Chanuka in Israel, winding through the city of
Jerusalem, exploring all the religious neighborhoods, seeking
out the brilliance of hundreds of luminous lights glimmering
in the darkness, was an unforgettable experience. What a
contrast to the paltry light of my childhood Chanukas!
As I've been privileged to continue living in Eretz Yisroel
for many years, on Chanuka I make a point of taking a walking
excursion with my family after candlelighting, to marvel anew
at the sight of the menoras burning brightly in all the
windows of my neighborhood. And as my own family expands, and
each youngster grows mature enough, we add a new menora to
the foil-covered table-top near the window. An individual
child's radiant contribution is of great relevance to all the
Jewish people. Every single child counts.
"We are here! We are here! We are here!" Those ninety leaping
lights sing and proclaim, declaring again and again that each
Jew's additional light has mighty significance.
And we can always have hope. We can know without a doubt, as
we gaze at the illumination created by a bit of burning olive
oil, that there is always Light in the darkness. No matter
how surrounded we are by hostile neighbors, despite the
strength of their numbers, the amount of soldiers in their
armies, the intensity of their hate and bad will towards
us.
"Eternal" means forever.
