Over the past few days, something has shifted. Antisemitic attacks in New York. In Australia. In places Jews once believed were settled, safe, civilized. These are not isolated incidents and they are not misunderstandings. They are reminders.
Hatred of Jews does not need a trigger. It does not wait to be invited. And it does not disappear when Jews try harder to be liked, quieter, or morally exemplary.
That reality is uncomfortable, especially for communities that grew up believing the world had moved past this. That education worked. That progress solved it.
The past few days say otherwise and that is why Hanukkah feels different this year.
We like to tell the Hanukkah story as something soft. Candles. Songs. Oil. Miracles. But that version skips the hard truth at the center of it. Hanukkah was not about choosing war. It was about refusing to disappear.
The Maccabees were not seeking power or conquest. They were facing erasure. Assimilate or vanish. Bow or disappear.
They chose neither.
There is a line by Rabbi Meir Kahane that keeps popping into my mind at moments like this: A people that refuses to defend itself invites violence. The Torah does not command Jews to be helpless.
You do not need to agree with Kahane’s politics to understand why that line hits right now. Strip it of the man, and what remains is an older, deeper Jewish truth.
Judaism never taught that holiness means passivity. The Torah never asked Jews to prove morality through suffering. It asked us to protect life, preserve identity, and take responsibility for our survival.
Faith was never meant to replace action. It was meant to guide it.
That idea makes people uncomfortable today. Strength always does. Especially Jewish strength. The world is far more comfortable with Jews as victims than Jews who stand upright and unapologetic. But history is clear. Silence has never kept us safe. Blending in has never stopped hatred. Explaining ourselves has never ended it.
Hanukkah does not celebrate violence. It rejects illusion. It reminds us that light does not survive on intention alone. The light survives because someone is willing to protect it.
What we are seeing now across the world is not new. It is familiar. And pretending otherwise only leaves us unprepared. This moment is forcing clarity. About who we are. About what Jewish ethics actually demand. About the difference between goodness and helplessness.
The candles we light are not just symbols. They are a responsibility. To stay visible. To stay rooted. To stay here.
That call did not fade with history. It is being tested again right now, and we must answer the call.