You can find a Hebrew version of this blog here.

The Rabbi nearly cried.

Hanukkah Shabbat 2025 was unlike any I had seen at Chabad. The shul was filled beyond capacity. The Rabbi and the congregation were sad, but resolute. There were no tears, only steely-eyed determination to shine light into darkness, even as we mourned the murder of a Chabad rabbi, a ten-year-old child, and thirteen others, and the wounding of many more in the terrorist attack at the Bondi Beach Chabad Hanukkah celebration in Sydney on December 14, 2025.

This weekend, I attended two Chabad gatherings in Miami. I never imagined that Jews would again worry about their safety while celebrating Hanukkah.

And yet, Hanukkah has never been only a story of darkness. It is a story of how light always shines through the darkness.

Once again, we are witnessing the resilience of the Jewish people; and something else just as profound: moments when others step forward to help that light endure.

This Hanukkah, I want to name those people Guardians of the Light. Righteous individuals who, in moments of danger or moral testing, choose to protect human life and dignity. They are not defined by faith or identity, but by choice. Like the oil in the Temple, their courage burns longer than reason would predict.

Over the past days, I’ve shared several reflections exploring both the darkness we are living through and the light that continues to emerge. Each begins in a different place, but all return to the same question: who guards the light when it is most at risk?

Guardians of the Light is a meditation on modern-day righteous gentiles—those who stand between violence and the vulnerable.

Modern Montana Maccabees tells the story of Billings, Montana, where a pastor and an entire town responded to antisemitism not with fear, but with paper menorahs and moral courage.

Light Shines Through the Darkness returns to the opening words of Genesis—“Let there be light”—and reflects on why moral clarity, not silence, is demanded in moments like this.

Remember the Rainbow That Remains reflects on the biblical rainbow as covenant and responsibility, asking what endures after the storm.

Lighting the Menorah in the GCC explores something extraordinary: in the United Arab Emirates and Bahrain, Hanukkah has been illuminated on skylines and in public spaces—a sign of history bending toward hope.

The Infinite Light of the Menorah Shines from the World’s Tallest Building reflects on a historic menorah lighting atop the world’s tallest tower in the UAE, transforming a global landmark into a symbol of Jewish visibility and dignity.

Infinite Light: How the Menorah Can Inspire Peace and Hope looks back to 2015, when King Hamad bin Isa Al Khalifa of Bahrain hosted a Hanukkah celebration and menorah lighting at the Royal Palace—an enduring symbol of coexistence.

Hanukkah does not promise that darkness will vanish. It promises that light is worth lighting anyway.

May we honor those who guard the light. May we multiply it where we can. And may we never underestimate the power of choosing light—especially when it would be easier to look away.

In closing, I want to share a beautiful Hanukkah song that carries this idea not only in words, but in melody: A Symphony of Light.

Chag Hanukkah Sameach.

Menorah lighting at the Chabad Brickel, Rok Family Synagogue. December 20th, 2025.

You can read this blog in Hebrew here.

“Darkness was upon the face of the deep. And God said: Let there be light.”

The tragic terrorist attack and massacre at Chabad Hanukkah celebration in Sydney, Australia, together with the mass shooting at Brown University that targeted a Jewish professor’s exam preparation session, and the murder of a MIT professor in Brookline, Massachusetts are beyond words.

Being part of the Chabad community means no one is distant from the pain. Everyone is either directly connected or one degree removed from the victims and survivors. One of my close friends called me in shock. He and his young daughter had been having lunch on Bondi Beach that day when the area was suddenly locked down, forcing them to hide as events unfolded around them.

In response, I created an art project to express what words could not.

Then I returned to this essay written years ago in the aftermath of another Hanukkah attack. I realized, with sadness and clarity, that its message remains painfully relevant today. The words still matter. But the list has grown.

I felt compelled to add testimony, not as politics or provocation, but as witness. A way of acknowledging how dramatically antisemitism and Jew-hatred have escalated across the world in recent years. In Jewish tradition, testimony matters. To name is to remember. To remember is to refuse erasure.

The Breaking Matzo community mourns each of these tragedies. We pray for the souls of those murdered, for the wounded, and for the families and communities left to carry these unbearable loss. May their memories be a blessing. Such acts of antisemitic violence are morally repugnant and their recurrence demands moral clarity, not silence.

In searching for grounding, I returned to the Torah, to the very first page.

“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. Now the earth was unformed and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep;
and the spirit of God hovered over the face of the waters. And God said: Let there be light. And there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness.”

Light precedes law. Light precedes judgment. Light precedes human argument.

Creation does not begin by eliminating darkness, but by distinguishing it. God does not deny the existence of chaos; He insists on moral separation. This is the first act of order in the universe, not force nor dominance, but discernment.

We cannot fully shield ourselves from the darkness that emerges in our world. But each of us can and must choose every day to bring the light of Day One into the world. A light that is not reactive, not defensive, but intrinsically good.

During Hanukkah, the festival of rededication, the menorah takes on even deeper meaning. Its light does not erase darkness. It divides it. It insists on moral distinction. It declares that not everything is relative and not everything is permissible.

We must vigorously divide the light from the darkness.

To light a menorah is not to deny suffering. It is to refuse confusion. It is to say that terror and hatred do not get the final word and that even in moments of grief, clarity matters.

May we be inspired to cast radiant light in the midst of unspeakable darkness. Not because it is easy. Not because it guarantees safety. But because creation itself begins with that choice. and because light, once lit, still matters.

A Record of Tragedy

A chronology of antisemitic violence, intimidation, and moral rupture

This record is not comprehensive. It is not political. It is testimony.

October 27, 2018 — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA

A gunman attacked Shabbat morning services at the Tree of Life synagogue, murdering 11 Jewish worshippers. This remains the deadliest antisemitic attack in American history.

Late November–December 2019 — New York City, USA

A series of assaults against visibly Jewish individuals occurred in public spaces, particularly in Brooklyn, creating fear and insecurity during daily Jewish life in the weeks leading up to Hanukkah.

December 10, 2019 — Jersey City, New Jersey, USA

Two attackers murdered three civilians inside a kosher supermarket and one responding police officer. The attack was treated as targeted antisemitic violence.

December 28, 2019 — Monsey, New York, USA

On the seventh night of Hanukkah, an assailant entered a Hanukkah celebration at the Home of Rabbi Chaim Rottenberg and stabbed multiple guests. Five people were wounded; one victim later died from injuries.

October 7, 2023 — Israel

Hamas carried out a coordinated terrorist assault against Israeli civilians, murdering, raping, and abducting men, women, children, and the elderly. This was the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust and was followed by a global surge in antisemitic incidents.

October–December 2023 — New York City, USA

Multiple assaults against visibly Jewish individuals were reported in public streets and transit systems, contributing to heightened fear within Jewish communities.

November 5, 2023 — Thousand Oaks, California, USA

A Jewish man named  Paul Kessler (69) died from head injuries sustained during a confrontation at opposing demonstrations related to the Israel–Hamas war. His death was ruled a homicide.

October 2023 — Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA

A Jewish student at Harvard Business School was assaulted during protests on campus. Criminal charges were later filed in connection with the incident.

May 21, 2025 — Washington, D.C., USA

A Palestinian terrorist killed an American Jewish woman and her Christian fiancé in front of the Capitol Jewish Museum in Washington D.C. in an antisemitic attack.

June 1, 2025 — Boulder, Colorado, USA

An incendiary attack targeted participants at a pro-Israel gathering. Multiple individuals were injured, including the death of a Holocaust survivor. Karen Diamond (82) later died from her injuries.

October 2025 — Manchester, England

An assault occurred during Yom Kippur services, resulting in fatalities and injuries. The attack traumatized the British Jewish community on Judaism’s holiest day.

November 2025 — Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, USA

The residence of Governor Josh Shapiro was targeted in an arson attack during the Passover season. The incident was investigated amid concerns of antisemitic motivation.

December 2025 — Providence, Rhode Island, USA

A mass shooting occurred at Brown University during an exam preparation session associated with a Jewish professor. Two people were killed and several others wounded.

December 2025 — Brookline, Massachusetts, USA

A MIT professor was murdered in his home near the MIT and Harvard campuses, sending shockwaves through the academic and Jewish communities.

December 2025 — Los Angeles County, California, USA

Gunfire struck a Jewish family’s home during the Hanukkah season. No fatalities were reported, but the incident intensified fear within the local community.

December 14, 2025 — Sydney, Australia

A terrorist attack during a Chabad Hanukkah Celebration resulted in the murder of Jewish civilians, including a Holocaust survivor, and injuries to many others. The attack reverberated across Jewish communities worldwide during the Festival of Light.

Each entry marks a life interrupted, a family shattered, and a community forever changed. To record is to remember. To remember is to refuse erasure. May their memories be a blessing.

You can read more about the light of Hanukkah shining through the darkness here.

You can find a Hebrew version of this blog here.

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.

You can read this blog in Hebrew here.