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Jewish festivals occur in a cycle. Each one conjures up associations from different times in our lives. Hanukkah is no exception.
Hanukkah is a festival of opposites. It represents the struggle between light and dark, in both a physical and a spiritual sense. On a personal level, for me as a traveller, it also represents different spheres of the globe, the extremes found in nature, opposing philosophical approaches in my life.
I recall, as a die hard secularist, singing Hanukkah songs in Yiddish. We celebrated the festival as a cultural phenomenon. But, I thought, what impetus is there to celebrate a religious festival if its religious origins are offhandedly discarded as irrelevant? What value has a culture that jettisons its origins? It was the beginning of a process that propelled me to appreciate the importance of my identity’s religious foundation.
I remember, as an idealistic Diaspora Jew, lighting my Hannukia in an Australian forest, on a fallen tree log between my tent and a rushing river. It was the height of summer and, before I could light them, the wax candles had begun to prostrate themselves under the influence of the intense heat of the evening. I moulded the candles back into shape with my hands and prayed that the curious kangaroos watching from a distance were sufficient witnesses for the mitzvah of Pirsumei Nisah.
I have huddled around Hanukkah candles with a handful of Jews in a freezing Korean winter, all seeking to privately express an identity that they suppress in their everyday lives. I have stretched out on my balcony overlooking a coral reef in Thailand, surrounded by candles in empty coke bottles to shield them from the soothing tropical breeze. Passersby were inquisitive, and I answered their questions over a snack of fresh fruit and nuts. The candles act as a neon sign by which I can proudly and openly express self pride and identity, instead of cowering in fear.
Hanukkah is, essentially, a triumph of nationalist spirit. And this is most powerfully felt in Israel. For it was the Maccabees, a small group of Israelis, that ignited the spirit of a generation and continue to drive their descendants today.
Walking along the streets of Jerusalem, where the lights shine from numerous windows, one feels that this is more than just a festival; it is a tangible, ongoing manifestation of the place of Jews and Israel in history, both ancient and modern.
For all her knowledge of Jewish custom, Penelope is not, herself, Jewish. (We once discussed her feelings towards Judaism, but she confessed that she could never convert. For one thing, most ceremonies entail lighting candles or bonfires and, with her flammable fur, she would be prevented from participating in most rituals). Although she has not quite thrown her lot in with the destiny of the Jewish people, she has enormous admiration for our values. Out of respect for me and for the significant import of the occasion, she looked on this week as I prepared the Hanukkah lights, and joined in with the songs that she has heard so often.
(Sidenote: P has this disparaging attitude towards kangaroos and doesn’t think they’re good enough for Pirsumei Nisah. Conversely, she says that Koalas are on a higher spiritual level, thus qualifying them as witnesses for the mitzvah. I must remember to anonymously write to an online “Ask The Rabbi” website about that one…Maybe it will make a difference if she’s been to the mikvah?)
Today, wherever I am and wherever I light my Hanukkah candles, I feel it all: the intense cold and scorching heat; the emptiness of culture without foundation and the fullness of religious heritage; the cowering diaspora existence and a deep sense of national pride, manifested in a modern country in my ancestral Jewish home.
Who would have thought that a minor festival could invoke all of that?
Hanukkah is a festival of opposites. It represents the struggle between light and dark, in both a physical and a spiritual sense. On a personal level, for me as a traveller, it also represents different spheres of the globe, the extremes found in nature, opposing philosophical approaches in my life.
I recall, as a die hard secularist, singing Hanukkah songs in Yiddish. We celebrated the festival as a cultural phenomenon. But, I thought, what impetus is there to celebrate a religious festival if its religious origins are offhandedly discarded as irrelevant? What value has a culture that jettisons its origins? It was the beginning of a process that propelled me to appreciate the importance of my identity’s religious foundation.
I remember, as an idealistic Diaspora Jew, lighting my Hannukia in an Australian forest, on a fallen tree log between my tent and a rushing river. It was the height of summer and, before I could light them, the wax candles had begun to prostrate themselves under the influence of the intense heat of the evening. I moulded the candles back into shape with my hands and prayed that the curious kangaroos watching from a distance were sufficient witnesses for the mitzvah of Pirsumei Nisah.
I have huddled around Hanukkah candles with a handful of Jews in a freezing Korean winter, all seeking to privately express an identity that they suppress in their everyday lives. I have stretched out on my balcony overlooking a coral reef in Thailand, surrounded by candles in empty coke bottles to shield them from the soothing tropical breeze. Passersby were inquisitive, and I answered their questions over a snack of fresh fruit and nuts. The candles act as a neon sign by which I can proudly and openly express self pride and identity, instead of cowering in fear.
Hanukkah is, essentially, a triumph of nationalist spirit. And this is most powerfully felt in Israel. For it was the Maccabees, a small group of Israelis, that ignited the spirit of a generation and continue to drive their descendants today.
Walking along the streets of Jerusalem, where the lights shine from numerous windows, one feels that this is more than just a festival; it is a tangible, ongoing manifestation of the place of Jews and Israel in history, both ancient and modern.
For all her knowledge of Jewish custom, Penelope is not, herself, Jewish. (We once discussed her feelings towards Judaism, but she confessed that she could never convert. For one thing, most ceremonies entail lighting candles or bonfires and, with her flammable fur, she would be prevented from participating in most rituals). Although she has not quite thrown her lot in with the destiny of the Jewish people, she has enormous admiration for our values. Out of respect for me and for the significant import of the occasion, she looked on this week as I prepared the Hanukkah lights, and joined in with the songs that she has heard so often.
(Sidenote: P has this disparaging attitude towards kangaroos and doesn’t think they’re good enough for Pirsumei Nisah. Conversely, she says that Koalas are on a higher spiritual level, thus qualifying them as witnesses for the mitzvah. I must remember to anonymously write to an online “Ask The Rabbi” website about that one…Maybe it will make a difference if she’s been to the mikvah?)
Today, wherever I am and wherever I light my Hanukkah candles, I feel it all: the intense cold and scorching heat; the emptiness of culture without foundation and the fullness of religious heritage; the cowering diaspora existence and a deep sense of national pride, manifested in a modern country in my ancestral Jewish home.
Who would have thought that a minor festival could invoke all of that?
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