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29 Kislev 5764 - December 24, 2003 | Mordecai Plaut, director Published Weekly
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Home and Family


Chanuka
by Hannah Kafree

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.

 

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