Last Chanukah, sculptor Gerry Judah invited me to his studio to see an incredible piece he had just finished – a ten-foot-tall menorah depicting bombed-out buildings and shattered homes. I didn’t see it as a political piece, mainly because I could have argued that it had an incredibly right-wing, pro-Israel, strength-and-survival message, just the same as one could say it had a very strong left-wing message in support of Gaza and was a memorial to the destruction.
What I saw was something far deeper than any kind of political statement. I saw an entire conversation in front of me. The sculpture transforms the sacred menorah into a brutal architectural elegy to survival, loss, and memory. It invites us to confront the questions Chanukah invites.
I have placed my Chanukiah on my windowsill. Prior to 7 October 2023, I had never questioned this action but have since maintained this practice as an act of defiance. How do I feel “proclaiming the miracle” of our survival? Did the terrifyingly tragic, monstrous event at Heaton Park synagogue or the horrific attack last Sunday in Sydney symbolise our reason to fear outward expressions of our Judaism or do we have to give them no further credence? If these events allow us to be fearful and to change our behaviours then the terrorists were even more successful in their deadly mission.
The chanukiah is a symbol of our defiant survival and a statement to the future, not just to the past. Yet do we worry how it is interpreted by the outside world, what it means to our non-Jewish neighbour? Should our religious expressions need to come with an explanation to others or does that become apologetics in the face of antisemitism?
The origin of Chanukah is an interesting mix of marking an historical moment – that of oppression, war and revival – and a response to assimilation. What does that combination look like in the glare of our candles this year? I hope it makes us stand up more proudly as Jews with our unique practices and rituals. These include wearing a Magen David, seeking out community and giving a joyous, sugary/oily taste to our distinctive practice, which in turn gives our families feel-good memories to hold onto at a time when Jewish life is filled with such strong emotions. Perhaps part of the conversation this year should be how we untangle the politics and the outside world and allow our Jewish practice to remain unsullied and full of warmth and hope for the year ahead.
This year, as you share the lights of the chanukiah in your window and enjoy your latkes and doughnuts and shower gifts on your family during the week of Chanukah, see this as an act of affirming identity, of rejoicing in who you are and play your part in keeping another generation of Jews safe in our difference.
Judah’s Menorah “offers no consolation. It casts no light. Its rubble is not debris — it is testimony. Its brokenness is not despair — it is defiance.”
May your chanukiot be another defiant statement of survival.