A window stays lit
Someone chose not to look away
Darkness waits outside
Hanukkah is the story of miracles. Some wrought by God, some by human courage, and some by the quiet partnership between the two.
In 167 BCE, Judah the Maccabee led a small, outnumbered Jewish force against the Syrian-Greek empire that sought to erase Judaism from Jewish life and Jewish land. It was a revolt not only against physical domination, but against spiritual erasure. Then there was the second miracle, the oil. A single cruse, enough for one day, burned for eight. Light endured beyond all rational expectation.
We often think of these miracles as ancient history, but there are modern-day Judah the Maccabees among us. Additionally, there are righteous gentiles whose actions, like the oil, allow light to burn far longer than it should.
On December 14, 2025, during the Hanukkah massacre at a Chabad celebration in Sydney, Australia, terror descended in the most literal way. Amid the chaos, one man did not flee. Ahmed El Ahmed ran toward danger. He leapt onto one of the terrorists, wrestled away his weapon, and was shot twice in the process. His body absorbed bullets meant for others. His courage saved lives.
In that moment, Ahmed El Ahmed became a modern-day Judah the Maccabee. Not because he was Jewish, but because he chose humanity. Because he understood, instinctively, that there are moments when the only moral response is to stand between light and darkness.
This was not the first time Hanukkah light was defended by someone outside the Jewish community.
In 1993, in Billings, Montana, Jews were targeted by white supremacists trying to establish an “Aryan homeland.” A Jewish cemetery was desecrated. Bomb threats were made against the synagogue. A brick was thrown through the bedroom window of a five-year-old Jewish boy, aimed directly at the menorah on his windowsill. Police advised the family to take the menorah down. Instead, the community rose up.
Pastor Keith Torney, became the Judah the Maccabee of Billings. Every revolt needs a leader and he understood that silence would only invite more darkness. He rallied churches. Children drew paper menorahs. Families taped them to their windows. The local newspaper printed a full-page menorah for residents to display.
Soon, thousands of homes lit menorahs alongside their Christmas decorations. It was David versus Goliath, fought not with stones, but with crayons and courage. Hate retreated. Light endured.
In November 2025, I traveled to Africa for the first time to attend a Moroccan Jewish wedding. It unfolded over six days, from the henna to the chuppah to Shabbat itself, each moment steeped in joy, ritual, and an unbroken sense of continuity. During the ceremony, the rabbis and the father of the bride paused to publicly thank the King of Morocco for protecting Jews and allowing them to worship openly and without fear.
The gratitude was neither ceremonial nor abstract. During World War II, when the Nazis demanded lists of Jews, the King of Morocco famously replied that there were no Jews in Morocco, only Moroccans. For that refusal, the Vichy regime exiled him for two years. His people revolted. Their king returned.
Sitting at the wedding and hearing those words spoken aloud under the Chuppah by the Rabbi and Father of the Bride, the moment felt both precious and precarious, a reminder of how rare such protection has been in Jewish history and how fragile it can feel even now. As the tragic events of Hanukkah at Bondi Beach in Sydney unfolded, that expression of gratitude—for safety, for dignity, for the simple ability to celebrate openly—took on an even deeper poignancy.
What binds these stories together is not geography or religion. It is choice.
Ahmed El Ahmed chose to run toward danger
Keith Torney chose to multiply light rather than advise concealment
The King of Morocco chose dignity over compliance. Each, in their own way, became a modern-day Maccabee.
And yet, my soul has also been lifted by quieter miracles.
In the days following the Sydney massacre, messages arrived from non-Jewish friends across the world: Bahrain, France, Ghana, India, Japan, Lebanon, Nigeria, the UAE, the United Kingdom, and the United States. Each message mattered. Kindness does not require power or position. It requires awareness. The willingness to say: I see you. I am with you.
The silence, too, speaks. Some are silent out of fear, some out of exhaustion, and some out of indifference. History has taught us that silence is never neutral.
During World War II, more than 29,000 non-Jews risked their lives to save Jews. Today, Jews again find themselves asking who will stand up, who will step forward, and who will look away. The consequences of demonization are no longer theoretical. They are written in blood, in broken families, and in communities forced to grieve while still standing.
Hanukkah teaches us that darkness does not disappear on its own. It is challenged. Sometimes by armies, sometimes by oil, and sometimes by a single person who decides that this is the moment to stand.
Heroes walk among us. Some are loud. Some are hidden. All are needed.
This Hanukkah, may we recognize the modern-day Maccabees. May we honor the righteous gentiles. And may we never underestimate the power of choosing light, especially when it would be easier to look away.
Hanukkah does not ask us to fix the world. It asks us not to abandon it.
This holiday season place a menorah in your window. It can be drawn by a child. It can be printed on paper. It can be imperfect. What matters is the choice to be visible.
When you light a menorah, you are not making a political statement. You are making a human one: that Jews do not stand alone, that faith deserves protection, and that light grows stronger when it is shared.
Light does not argue with darkness. It shines through it. And sometimes, that is miracle enough.
Appendix
Guardians of the Light
In every generation, there are those who become Guardians of the Light. Men and women who rise in moments of danger to protect what is sacred, not because they are commanded, but because they recognize truth when it is threatened.
In the Torah, light is the first act of creation “Let there be light.” It is the foundation of order before law, nation, or power. In the New Testament, light is the moral imperative “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” And in the Qur’an, light is guidance itself “Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth.”
Across these traditions, light is not passive; it must be guarded, carried, and sometimes defended by human hands. Guardians of the Light are defined not by faith or identity, but by choice. The decision to stand between violence and the vulnerable, to protect worship, dignity, and life itself. Like the oil of Hanukkah, their courage may seem insufficient in the moment, yet it burns longer than reason allows, reminding us that history is shaped not only by power, but by those who refuse to let the light go out.
Guardians of the Light do not always carry torches. Sometimes, they turn on a lamp and refuse to turn it off.
Photo Credit: Quincy, my son-in-law, took this photo of Glowworms in New Zealand. Quincy explained “At first we didn’t see (the glowworms) because the sun was just setting and we’d been walking with flashlights, but once we turned the flashlights off and let our eyes adjust, suddenly we realized we were surrounded by these tiny points of light like stars. It was very magical and while not exactly like the candles of the Hanukkah story, it felt meaningful in a similar metaphorical vein”
You can read more about the light of Hanukkah shining through the darkness here.
